Scarhaven Keep

"Well?" he whispered. "What do you think?"

"It may be accident," muttered Gilling. "It—mayn't."

"You think he might have been—what?—thrown down?"

"Might have been caught unawares, and pushed over. Let's see what there is up above, anyway."

The stair in the turret, much worn, but comparatively safe, and lighted by loopholes and arrow-slits, terminated in a low arched doorway, through which egress was afforded to a parapet which ran completely round the inner wall of the Keep. It was in no place more than a yard wide; the balustrading which fenced it in was in some places completely gone, a mere glance was sufficient to show that only a very cool-headed and extremely sure-footed person ought to traverse it. Copplestone contented himself with an inspection from the archway; he looked down and saw at once that a fall from that height must mean sure and swift death: he saw, too, that Greyle had been quite right in saying that the sudden plunge of Oliver's body through the leafy screen far beneath had made little difference to the appearance of that screen as seen from above. And now that he saw everything it seemed to him that the real truth might well lie in one word—accident.

"Coming round this parapet?" asked Gilling, who was looking narrowly about him.

"No!" replied Copplestone. "I can't stand looking down from great heights. It makes my head swim. Are you?"

"Sure!" answered Gilling. He took off his heavy overcoat and handed it to his companion. "Mind holding it?" he asked. "I want to have a good look at the exact spot from which Oliver must have fallen. There's the gap—such as it is, and it doesn't look much from here, does it?—in the green stuff, down below, so he must have been here on the parapet exactly above it. Gad! it's very narrow, and a bit risky, this, when all's said and done!"

Copplestone watched his companion make his way round to the place from which it was only too evident Oliver must have fallen. Gilling went slowly, carefully inspecting every yard of the moss and lichen-covered stones. Once he paused some time and seemed to be examining a part of the parapet with unusual attention. When he reached the precise spot at which he had aimed, he instantly called across to Copplestone.

"There's no doubt about his having fallen from here!" he said. "Some of the masonry on the very edge of this parapet is loose. I could dislodge it with a touch."

"Then be careful," answered Copplestone. "Don't cross that bit!"

But Gilling quietly continued his progress and returned to his companion by the opposite side from which he had set out, having thus accomplished the entire round. He quietly reassumed his overcoat.

"No doubt about the fall," he said as they turned down the stair. "The next thing is—was it accidental?"

"And—as regards that—what's to be done next?" asked Copplestone.

"That's easy. We must go at once and wire for Sir Cresswell and old Petherton," replied Gilling. "It's now four-thirty. If they catch an evening express at King's Cross they'll get here early in the morning. If they like to motor from Norcaster they can get here in the small hours. But—they must be here for that inquest."

Greyle was talking to Chatfield at the foot of the Keep when they got down. The agent turned surlily away, but the Squire looked at both with an unmistakable eagerness.

"There's no doubt whatever that Oliver fell from the parapet," said Copplestone. "The marks of a fall are there—quite unmistakably."

Greyle nodded, but made no remark, and the two made their way through the still eager crowd and went down to the village post-office. Both were wondering, as they went, about the same thing—the evident anxiety and mental uneasiness of Marston Greyle.

CHAPTER XII

GOOD MEN AND TRUE

Copplestone saw little of his bed that night. At seven o'clock in the evening came a telegram from Sir Cresswell Oliver, saying that he and Petherton were leaving at once, would reach Norcaster soon after midnight, and would motor out to Scarhaven immediately on arrival. Copplestone made all arrangements for their reception, and after snatching a couple of hours' sleep was up to receive them. By two o'clock in the morning Sir Cresswell and the old solicitor and Gilling—smuggled into their sitting-room—had heard all he had to tell about Zachary Spurge and his story.

"We must have that fellow at the inquest," said Petherton. "At any cost we must have him! That's flat!"

"You think it wise?" asked Sir Cresswell. "Won't it be a bit previous? Wouldn't it be better to wait until we know more?"

"No—we must have his evidence," declared Petherton. "It will serve as an opening. Besides, this inquest will have to be adjourned—I shall ask for that. No—Spurge must be produced."

"If Spurge comes into Scarhaven," observed Copplestone, "he'll be promptly collared by the police. They want him for poaching."

"Then they can get him when the proceedings are over," retorted the old lawyer, dryly. "They daren't touch him while he's giving evidence and that's all we want. Perhaps he won't come?—Oh he'll come all right if we make it worth his while. A month in Norcaster gaol will mean nothing to him if he knows there's a chance of that reward or something substantial out of it at the end of his sentence. You must go out to this retreat of his and bring him in—we must have him. Better go very early in the morning.

"I'll go now," said Copplestone. "It's as easy to go by night as by day." He left the other three to seek their beds, and himself slipped quietly out of the hotel by one of the ground-floor windows and set off in a pitch-black night to seek Spurge in his lair. And after sundry barkings of his shins against the rocks and scratchings of his hands and cheeks by the undergrowth of Hobkin's Hole he rounded the poacher out and delivered his message.

Spurge, blinking at his visitor in the pale light of a guttering candle, shook his head.

"I'll come, guv'nor," he said. "Of course. I'll come—and I'll trust to luck to get away, and it don't matter a deal if the luck's agen me—I've done a month in Norcaster before today, and it ain't half a bad rest-cure, if you only take it that way. But guv'nor—that old lawyer's making a mistake! You didn't ought to have my bit of evidence at this stage. It's too soon. You want to work up the case a bit. There's such a thing, guv'nor, in this world as being a bit previous. This here's too previous—you want to be surer of your facts. Because you know, guv'nor nobody'll believe my word agen Squire Greyle's. Guv'nor—this here inquest'll be naught but a blooming farce! Mark me! You ain't a native o' this part—I am. D'you think as how a Scarhaven jury's going to say aught agen its own Squire and landlord? Not it! I say, guv'nor—all a blooming farce! Mark my words!"

"All the same, you'll come?" asked Copplestone, who was secretly of Spurge's opinion. "You won't lose by it in the long run."

"Oh, I'll be there," responded Spurge. "Out of curiosity, if for nothing else. You mayn't see me at first, but, let the lawyer from London call my name out, and Zachary Spurge'll step forward."

There was abundant cover for Zachary Spurge and for half-a-dozen like him in the village school-house when the inquest was opened at ten o'clock that morning. It seemed to Copplestone that it would have been a physical impossibility to crowd more people within the walls than had assembled when the coroner, a local solicitor, who was obviously testy, irritable, self-important and afflicted with deafness, took his seat and looked sourly on the crowd of faces. Copplestone had already seen him in conversation with the village doctor, the village police, Chatfield, and Marston Greyle's solicitor, and he began to see the force of Spurge's shrewd remarks. What, of course, was most desired was secrecy and privacy—the Scarhaven powers had no wish that the attention of all the world should be drawn to this quiet place. But outsiders were there in plenty. Stafford and several members of Bassett Oliver's company had motored over from Norcaster and had succeeded in getting good places: there were half-a-dozen reporters from Norcaster and Northborough, and plain-clothes police from both towns. And there, too, were all the principal folk of the neighbourhood, and Mrs. Greyle and her daughter, and, a little distance from Audrey, alert and keenly interested, was Addie Chatfield.

It needed very little insight or observation on the part of an intelligent spectator to see how things were going. The twelve good men and true, required under the provisions of the old statute to form a jury, were all of them either Scarhaven tradesmen or Scarhaven householders or labourers on the estate. Their countenances, as they took their seats under the foremanship of a man whom Copplestone already knew as Chatfield's under-steward, showed plainly that they regarded the whole thing as a necessary formality and that they were already prepared with a verdict. This impression was strengthened by the coroner's opening remarks. In his opinion, the whole affair—to which he did not even refer as unfortunate—was easily and quickly explained and understood. The deceased had come to the village to look round—on a Sunday be it observed—had somehow obtained access to the Keep, where, the ruins being strictly private and not open to the public on any consideration on Sunday, he had no right to be; had indulged his curiosity by climbing to the top of the ancient tower and had paid for it by falling down from that terrible height and breaking his neck. All that was necessary was for them to hear evidence bearing out these facts—after which they would return a verdict in accordance with what they had heard. Very fortunately the facts were plain, and it would not be necessary to call many witnesses.

Sir Cresswell Oliver turned to Copplestone who sat at one side of him, while Petherton sat on the other.

"I don't know if you notice that Greyle isn't here?" he whispered grimly. "In my opinion, he doesn't intend to show! We'll see!"

Certainly the Squire was not in the place. And there were soon signs that those who conducted the proceedings evidently did not consider his presence necessary. The witnesses were few; their examinations was perfunctory; they were out of the extemporised witness-box as soon as they were in it. Sir Cresswell Oliver—to give formal identification. Mrs. Wooler—to prove that the deceased man came to her house. One of the foremen of the estate—to prove the great care with which the Squire had searched for traces of the missing man. One of the estate labourers—to prove the actual finding of the body. The doctor—to prove, beyond all doubt, that the deceased had broken his neck.

The coroner, an elderly man, obviously well satisfied with the trend of things, took off his spectacles and turned to the jury.

"You have heard everything there is to be heard, gentlemen," said he. "As I remarked at the opening of this inquest, the case is one of great simplicity. You will have no difficulty in deciding that the deceased came to his death by accident—as to the exact wording of your verdict, you had better put it in this way:—that the deceased Bassett Oliver died as the result—"

Petherton, who, noticing the coroner's deafness, had contrived to seat himself as close to his chair of office as possible, quietly rose.

"Before the jury consider any verdict," he said in his loudest tones, "they must hear certain evidence which I wish to call. And first of all—is Mr. Marston Greyle present in this room?"

The coroner frowned, and the Squire's solicitor turned to Petherton.

"Mr. Greyle is not present," he said. "He is not at all well. There is no need for his presence—he has no evidence to give."

"If you don't have Mr. Greyle down here at once," said Petherton, quietly, "this inquest will have to be adjourned for his attendance. You had better send for him—or I'll get the authorities to do so. In the meantime, we'll call one or two witnesses,—Daniel Ewbank!—to begin with."

There was a brief and evidently anxious consultation between Greyle's solicitor and the coroner; there were dark looks at Petherton and his companions. Then the foreman of the jury spoke, sullenly.

"We don't want to hear no Ewbanks!" he said. "We're quite satisfied, us as sits here. Our verdict is—"

"You'll have to bear Ewbank and anybody I like to call, my good sir," retorted Petherton quietly. "I am better acquainted with the law than you are." He turned to the coroner's officer. "I warned you this morning to produce Ewbank," he said. "Now, where is he?"

Out of a deep silence a shrill voice came from the rear of the crowd.

"Knows better than to be here, does Dan'l Ewbank, mister! He's off!"

"Very good—or bad—for somebody," remarked Petherton, quietly. "Then—until Mr. Marston Greyle comes—we will call Zachary Spurge."

The assemblage, jurymen included, broke into derisive laughter as Spurge suddenly appeared from the most densely packed corner of the room, and it was at once evident to Copplestone that whatever the poacher might say, no one there would attach any importance to it. The laughter continued and increased while Spurge was under examination. Petherton appealed to the coroner; the coroner affected not to hear. And once more the foreman of the jury interrupted.

"We don't want to hear no more o' this stuff!" he said. "It's an insult to us to put a fellow like that before us. We don't believe a word o' what he says. We don't believe he was within a mile o' them ruins on Sunday afternoon. It's all a put-up job!"

Petherton leaned towards the reporters.

"I hope you gentlemen of the press will make a full note of these proceedings," he observed suavely. "You at any rate are not biassed or prejudiced."

The coroner heard that in spite of his deafness, and he grew purple.

"Sir!" he exclaimed. "That is a most improper observation! It's a reflection on my position, sir, and I've a great mind—"

"Mr. Coroner," observed Petherton, leaning towards him, "I shall hand in a full report concerning your conduct of these proceedings to the Home Office tomorrow. If you attempt to interfere with my duty here, all the worse for you. Now, Spurge, you can stand down. And as I see Mr. Greyle there—call Marston Greyle!"

The Squire had appeared while Spurge was giving his evidence, and had heard what the poacher alleged. He entered the box very pale, angry, and disturbed, and the glances which he cast on Sir Cresswell Oliver and his party were distinctly those of displeasure.

"Swear him!" commanded Petherton. "Now, Mr. Greyle—"

But Greyle's own solicitor was on his legs, insisting on his right to put a first question. In spite of Petherton, he put it.

"You heard the evidence of the last witness?—Spurge. Is there a word of truth in it?"

Marston Greyle—who certainly looked very unwell—moistened his lips.

"Not one word!" he answered. "It's a lie!"

The solicitor glanced triumphantly at the Coroner and the jury, and the crowd raised unchecked murmurs of approval. Again the foreman endeavoured to stop the proceedings.

"We regard all this here as very rude conduct to Mr. Greyle," he said angrily. "We're not concerned—"

"Mr. Foreman!" said Petherton. "You are a foolish man—you are interfering with justice. Be warned!—I warn you, if the Coroner doesn't. Mr. Greyle, I must ask you certain questions. Did you see the deceased Bassett Oliver on Sunday last?"

"No!"

"I needn't remind you that you are on your oath. Have you ever met the deceased man in your life?"

"Never!"

"You never met him in America?"

"I may have met him—but not to my recollection. If I did, it was in such a casual fashion that I have completely forgotten all about it."

"Very well—you are on your oath, mind. Where did you live in America, before you succeeded to this estate?"

The Squire's solicitor intervened.

"Don't answer that question!" he said sharply. "Don't answer any more. I object altogether to your line," he went on, angrily, turning to Petherton. "I claim the Coroner's protection for the witness."

"I quite agree," said the Coroner. "All this is absolutely irrelevant. You can stand down," he continued, turning to the Squire. "I will have no more of this—and I will take the full responsibility!"

"And the consequences, Mr. Coroner," replied Petherton calmly. "And the first consequence is that I now formally demand an adjournment of this inquest, sine die."

"On what grounds, sir?" demanded the Coroner.

"To permit me to bring evidence from America," replied Petherton, with a side glance at Marston Greyle. "Evidence already being prepared."

The Coroner hesitated, looked at Greyle's solicitor, and then turned sharply to the jury.

"I refuse that application!" he said. "You have heard all I have to say, gentlemen," he went on, "and you can return your verdict."

Petherton quietly gathered up his papers and motioned to his friends to follow him out of the schoolroom. The foreman of the jury was returning a verdict of accidental death as they passed through the door, and they emerged into the street to an accompaniment of loud cheers for the Squire and groans for themselves.

"What a travesty of justice!" exclaimed Sir Cresswell. "That fellow Spurge was right, you see, Copplestone. I wish we hadn't brought him into danger."

Copplestone suddenly laughed and touched Sir Cresswell's arm. He pointed to the edge of the moorland just outside the school-yard. Spurge was disappearing over that edge, and in a moment had vanished.

CHAPTER XIII

MR. DENNIE

Amongst the little group of actors and actresses who had come over from Norcaster to hear all that was to be told concerning their late manager, sat an old gentleman who, hands folded on the head of his walking cane, and chin settled on his hands, watched the proceedings with silent and concentrated attention. He was a striking figure of an old gentleman—tall, distinguished-looking, handsome, with a face full of character, the strong lines and features of which were further accentuated by his silvery hair. He was a smart old gentleman, too, well and scrupulously attired and groomed, and his blue bird's-eye necktie, worn at a rakish angle, gave him the air of something of a sporting man rather than of a follower of Thespis. His fellow members of the Oliver company seemed to pay him great attention, and at various points of the proceedings whispered questions to him as to an acknowledged authority.

This old gentleman, when the inquest came to its extraordinary end and the crowd went out murmuring and disputing, separated himself from his companions and made his way towards Mrs. Greyle and her daughter, who were quietly setting out homewards. To Audrey's surprise the two elders shook hands in silence, and inspected each other with a palpable wistfulness of look.

"And yet it's twenty-five years since we met, isn't it?" said the old gentleman, almost as if he were talking to himself. "But I knew you at once—I was wondering if you remembered me?"

"Why, of course," responded Mrs. Greyle. "Besides, I've had an advantage over you. I've seen you, you know, several times—at Norcaster. We go to the theatre now and then. Audrey—this is Mr. Dennie—you've seen him, too."

"On the stage—on the stage!" murmured the old actor, as he shook hands with the girl. "Um!—I wonder if any of us are ever really off it! This affair, for instance—there's a drama for you! By the-bye—this young Squire—he's your relation, of course?"

"My nephew-in-law, and Audrey's cousin," replied Mrs. Greyle. Mr. Dennie, who had walked along with them towards their cottage, stopped in a quiet stretch of the quay, and looked meditatively at Audrey.

"Then this young lady," he said, "is next heir to the Greyle estates, eh? For I understand this present Squire isn't married. Therefore—"

"Oh, that's something that isn't worth thinking about," replied Mrs. Greyle hastily. "Don't put such notions into the girl's head, Mr. Dennie. Besides, the Greyle estates are not entailed, you know. The present owner can do what he pleases with them—besides that, he's sure to marry."

"All the same," observed Mr. Dennie, imperturbably, "if this young man had not been in existence, this child would have succeeded, eh?"

"Why, of course," agreed Mrs. Greyle a little impatiently. "But what's the use of talking about that, my old friend! The young man is in possession—and there you are!"

"Do you like the young man?" asked Mr. Dennie. "I take an old fellow's privilege in asking direct questions, you know. And—though we haven't seen each other for all these years—you can say anything to me."

"No, we don't," replied Mrs. Greyle. "And we don't know why we don't—so there's a woman's answer for you. Kinsfolk though we are, we see little of each other."

Mr. Dennie made no remark on this. He walked along at Audrey's side, apparently in deep thought, and suddenly he looked across at her mother.

"What do you think about this extraordinary story of Bassett Oliver's having met a Marston Greyle over there in America?" he asked abruptly. "What do people here think about it?"

"We're not in a position to hear much of what other people think," answered Mrs. Greyle. "What I think is that if this Marston Greyle ever did meet such a very notable and noticeable man as Bassett Oliver it's a very, very strange thing that he's forgotten all about it!"

Mr. Dennie laughed quietly.

"Aye, aye!" he said. "But—don't you think we folk of the profession are a little bit apt to magnify our own importance? You say 'Bless me, how could anybody ever forget an introduction to Bassett Oliver!' But we must remember that to some people even a famous actor is of no more importance than—shall we say a respectable grocer? Marston Greyle may be one of those people—it's quite possible he may have been introduced, quite casually, to Oliver at some club, or gathering, something-or-other, over there and have quite forgotten all about it. Quite possible, I think."

"I agree with you as to the possibility, but certainly not as to the probability," said Mrs. Greyle, dryly. "Bassett Oliver was the sort of man whom nobody would forget. But here we are at our cottage—you'll come in, Mr. Dennie?"

"It will only have to be for a little time, my dear lady," said the old actor, pulling out his watch. "Our people are going back very soon, and I must join them at the station."

"I'll give you a glass of good old wine," said Mrs. Greyle as they went into the cottage. "I have some that belonged to my father-in-law, the old Squire. You must taste it—for old times' sake."

Mr. Dennie followed Audrey into the little parlour as Mrs. Greyle disappeared to another part of the house. And the instant they were alone, he tapped the girl's arm and gave her a curiously warning look.

"Hush, my dear!" he whispered. "Not a word—don't want your mother to know! Listen—have you a specimen—letter—anything—of your cousin, the Squire's handwriting? Anything so long as it's his. You have? Give it to me—say nothing to your mother. Wait until tomorrow morning. I'll run over to see you again—about noon. It's important—but silence!"

Audrey, scarcely understanding the old man's meaning, opened a desk and drew out one or two letters. She selected one and handed it to Mr. Dennie, who made haste to put it away before Mrs. Greyle returned. He gave Audrey another warning look.

"That was what I wanted!" he said mysteriously. "I thought of it during the inquest. Never mind why, just now—you shall know tomorrow."

He lingered a few minutes, chatting to his hostess about old times as he sipped the old Squire's famous port; then he went off to the little station, joined Stafford and his fellow actors and actresses, and returned with them to Norcaster. And at Norcaster Mr. Dennie separated himself from the rest and repaired to his quiet lodgings—rooms which he had occupied for many years in succession whenever he went that way on tour—and once safely bestowed in them he pulled out a certain old-fashioned trunk, which he had owned since boyhood and lugged about wherever he went in two continents, and from it, after much methodical unpacking, he disinterred a brown paper parcel, neatly tied up with green ribbon. From this parcel he drew a thin packet of typed matter and a couple of letters—the type script he laid aside, the letters he opened out on his table. Then he took from his pocket the letter which Audrey Greyle had given him and put it side by side with those taken from the parcel. And after one brief glance at all three Mr. Dennie made typescript and letters up again into a neat packet, restored them to his trunk, locked them up, and turned to the two hours' rest which he always took before going to the theatre for his evening's work.