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

him much. The Squire was mortally afraid of his man. That was certain⁠—as certain as that they were there. He stood, a picture of vexation and indecision, glancing furtively at Chatfield, then at Audrey, and evidently hating to be asked to take a side.

“Confound it all, Chatfield!” he suddenly burst out. “Why don’t you mind what you’re saying? It’s all very well, Audrey, but you shouldn’t have come along here⁠—especially with strangers. The fact is, I’m so upset about this Oliver affair that I’m going to have a thorough search and examination of the Keep and the ruins, and, of course, we can’t allow anyone inside the grounds while it’s going on. You should have kept to Chatfield’s orders⁠—”

“And since when has a Greyle of Scarhaven kept to a servant’s orders?” interrupted Audrey, with a sneer that sent the blood rushing to the Squire’s face. “Never!⁠—until this present regime, I should think. Orders, indeed!⁠—from an agent! I wonder what the last Squire of Scarhaven would have said to a proposition like that? Mr. Copplestone⁠—you’ve punished that bad old man quite sufficiently. Will you open the gate for me⁠—and we’ll go on our way.”

The girl spoke with so much decision that Copplestone moved away from Chatfield, who struggled to his feet, muttering words that sounded very much like smothered curses.

“I’ll have the law on you!” he growled, shaking his fist at Copplestone. “Before this day’s out, I’ll have the law!”

“Sooner the better,” retorted Copplestone. “Nothing will please me so much as to tell the local magistrates precisely what you said to your master’s kinswoman. You know where I’m to be found⁠—and there,” he added, throwing a card at the agent’s feet, “there you’ll find my permanent address.”

“Give me my walking stick!” demanded Chatfield.

“Not I!” exclaimed Copplestone. “That’s mine, my good man, by right of conquest. You can summon me, or arrest me, if you like, for stealing it.”

He opened the wicket gate for Audrey, and together they passed through, skirted the walls of the ruins, and went away into the higher portion of the woods. Once there the girl laughed.

“Now there’ll be another row!” she said. “Between master and man this time.”

“I think not!” observed Copplestone, with unusual emphasis. “For the master is afraid of the man.”

“Ah!⁠—but which is master and which is man?” asked Audrey in a low voice.

Copplestone stopped and looked narrowly at her.

“Oh?” he said quietly, “so you’ve seen that?”

“Does it need much observation?” she replied. “My mother and I have known for some time that Marston Greyle is entirely under Peter Chatfield’s thumb. He daren’t do anything⁠—save by Chatfield’s permission.”

Copplestone walked on a few yards, ruminating.

“Why!” he asked suddenly.

“How do we know?” retorted Audrey.

“Well, in cases like that,” said Copplestone, “it generally means that one man has a hold on the other. What hold can Chatfield have on your cousin? I understand Mr. Marston Greyle came straight to his inheritance from America. So what could Chatfield know of him⁠—to have any hold?”

“Oh, I don’t know⁠—and I don’t care⁠—much,” replied Audrey, as they passed out of the woods on to the headlands beyond. “Never mind all that⁠—here’s the sea and the open sky⁠—hang Chatfield, and Marston, too! As we can’t see the Keep, let’s enjoy ourselves some other way. What shall we do?”

“You’re the guide, conductress, general boss!” answered Copplestone. “Shall I suggest something that sounds very material, though? Well, then, can’t we go along these cliffs to some village where we can find a nice old fishing inn and get a simple lunch of some sort?”

“That’s certainly material and eminently practical,” laughed Audrey. “We can⁠—that place, along there to the south⁠—Lenwick. And so, come on⁠—and no more talk of Squire and agent. I’ve a remarkable facility in throwing away unpleasant things.”

“It’s a grand faculty⁠—and I’ll try to imitate you,” said Copplestone. “So⁠—today’s our own, eh? Is that it?”

“Say until the middle of this afternoon,” responded Audrey. “Don’t forget that I have a mother at home.”

It was, however, well past the middle of the afternoon when these two returned to Scarhaven, very well satisfied with themselves. They had found plenty to talk about without falling back on Marston Greyle, or Peter Chatfield, or the event of the morning, and Copplestone suddenly remembered, almost with compunction, that he had been so engrossed in his companion that he had almost forgotten the Oliver mystery. But that was sharply recalled to him as he entered the Admiral’s Arms. Mrs. Wooler came forward from her parlour with a mysterious smile on her good-looking face.

“Here’s a billet-doux for you, Mr. Copplestone,” she said. “And I can’t tell you who left it. One of the girls found it lying on the hall table an hour ago.” With that she handed Copplestone a much thumbed, very grimy, heavily-sealed envelope.

IX Hobkin’s Hole

Copplestone carried the queer-looking missive into his private sitting room and carefully examined it, back and front, before slitting it open. The envelope was of the cheapest kind, the big splotch of red wax at the flap had been pressed into flatness by the summary method of forcing a coarse-grained thumb upon it; the address was inscribed in ill-formed characters only too evidently made with difficulty by a bad pen, which seemed to have been dipped into watery ink at every third or fourth letter. And it read thus:

“The young gentleman staying at The Admiral⁠—Private”

The envelope contained nothing but a scrap of paper obviously torn from a penny cash book. No ink had been used in transcribing the two or three lines which were scrawled across this scrap⁠—the vehicle this time was an indelible pencil, which the writer appeared to have moistened with his tongue every now and then, some letters being thicker and darker than others. The message, if mysterious, was straightforward enough. “Sir,” it ran, “if so be as you’d like to have a bit of news from one as has it, take a walk through Hobkin’s Hole tomorrow morning and look out for Yours truly⁠—Him as writes this.”

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