Scarhaven Keep by J. S. Fletcher (best value ebook reader TXT) 📕

crept along the back of the hedge until he came to a point opposite the nearest angle of the tower. And suddenly he gave a great cry⁠—human enough this time!⁠—and the three young men rushing forward found him standing by the body of a roughly-clad man in whom Copplestone recognized the one-eyed odd-job man of the Admiral’s Arms. XXVIII The Footprints

The man was lying face downwards in the grass and weeds which clustered thickly at the foot of the hedgerow, and on the line of rough, weatherbeaten neck which showed between his fur cap and his turned-up collar there was a patch of dried blood. Very still and apparently lifeless he looked, but Vickers suddenly bent down, laid strong hands on him and turned him over.

“He’s not dead!” he exclaimed. “Only unconscious from a crack on his skull. Gilling!⁠—where’s that brandy you brought?⁠—hand me the flask.”

Zachary Spurge watched in silence as Vickers and Gilling busied themselves in reviving the stricken man. Then he quickly pulled Copplestone’s sleeve and motioned him away from the group.

“Guv’nor!” he muttered. “There’s been foul play here⁠—and all along of them nine boxes⁠—that I’ll warrant. Look you here, guv’nor⁠—Jim’s been dragged to where we found him⁠—dragged through this here gap in the hedge and flung where he’s lying. See⁠—there’s the plain marks, all through the grass and stuff. Come on, guv’nor⁠—let’s see where they lead.”

The marks of a heavy, inanimate body having been dragged through the wet grass were evidence enough, and Copplestone and Spurge followed them to a corner of the old tower where they ceased. Spurge glanced round that corner and uttered a sharp exclamation.

“Just what I expected!” he said. “Leastways, what I expected as soon as I see Jim a-lying there. Guv’nor, the stuff’s gone!”

He drew Copplestone after him and pointed to a corner of the weed-grown courtyard where a cavity had been made in the mass of fallen masonry and the stones taken from it lay about just as they had been displaced and thrown aside.

“That’s where the nine boxes were,” he continued. “Well, there ain’t one of ’em there now! Naught but the hole where they was! Well⁠—this must ha’ been during the early morning⁠—after I left Jim to go into Norcaster. And of course him as put the stuff there must be him as fetched it away⁠—Chatfield. Let’s see if there’s footmarks about, guv’nor.”

“Wait a bit,” said Copplestone. “We must be careful about that. Move warily. We’d better do it systematically. There’d have to be some sort of a trap, a vehicle, to carry away those chests. Where’s the nearest point of that road you spoke of?”

“Up there,” replied Spurge, pointing to a flanking bank of heather. “But they⁠—or him⁠—wasn’t forced to come that way, guv’nor. He⁠—or them⁠—could come up from that cove down yonder. It wouldn’t surprise me if that there yacht⁠—the Pike, you know⁠—had turned on her tracks and come in here during the night. It’s not more than a mile from this tower down to the shore, and⁠—”

At that moment Vickers called to them, and they went back to find Jim Spurge slowly opening his eyes and looking round him with consciousness of his company. His one eye lightened a little as he caught sight of Zachary, and the poacher bent down to him.

“Jim, old man!” he said soothingly. “How are yer, Jim? Yer been hit by somebody. Who was it, Jim?”

“Give him a drop more brandy and lift him up a bit,” counselled Gilling. “He’s improving.”

But it needed more than a mere drop of brandy, more than cousinly words of adjuration, to bring the wounded man back to a state of speech. And when at last he managed to make a feeble response, it was only to mutter some incoherent and disjointed sentences about and being struck down from behind⁠—after which he again relapsed into semi-unconsciousness.

“That’s it guv’nor,” muttered Spurge, nudging Copplestone. “That’s the ticket! Struck down from behind⁠—that’s what happened to him. Unawares, so to speak, I can reckon of it up⁠—easy. They comes in the darkness⁠—after I’d left him here. He hears of ’em, as he says, a-moving about. Then he no doubt starts moving about⁠—watching ’em, as far as he can see. Then one of ’em gives him this crack on the skull⁠—life preserver if you ask me⁠—and down he goes! And then⁠—they drag him in here and leaves him. Don’t care whether he’s a goner or not⁠—not they! Well, an’ what does it prove? That there’s been more than one of ’em, guv’nor. And in my opinion, where they’ve come from is⁠—down there!”

He pointed down the glen in the direction of the sea, and the three young men who were considerably exercised by this sudden turn of events and the disappearance of the chests, looked after his outstretched hand and then at each other.

“Well, we can’t stand here doing nothing,” said Gilling at last. “Look here, we’d better divide forces. This chap’ll have to be removed and got to some hospital. Vickers!⁠—I guess you’re the quickest-footed of the lot⁠—will you run back to High Nick and tell that chauffeur to bring his car round here? If Sir Cresswell and the police are there, tell them what’s happened. Spurge⁠—you go down the glen there, and see if you can see anything of any suspicious-looking craft in that bay you told us of. Copplestone, we can’t do any more for this man just now⁠—let’s look round. This is a queer business,” he went on when they had all departed, and he and Copplestone were walking towards the tower. “The gold’s gone, of course?”

“No sign of it here, anyway,” answered Copplestone, leading him into the ruinous courtyard and pointing to the cavity in the fallen masonry. “That’s where it was placed by Chatfield, according to Zachary Spurge.”

“And of course Chatfield’s removed it during the night,” remarked Gilling. “That message which Sir Cresswell read us must have been all wrong⁠—the Pike’s come south and she’s been somewhere about⁠—maybe been