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

Gilling⁠—yet awhile at any rate. However, he had news which there was no harm in communicating.

“Marston Greyle,” he said, presently, “or his agent, Peter Chatfield, or both, in common agreement, are already doing something to solve the mystery⁠—so far as Greyle’s property is concerned. They’ve closed the Keep and its surrounding ruins to the people who used to be permitted to go in, and they’re conducting an exhaustive search⁠—for Bassett Oliver, of course.”

Gilling made a grimace.

“Of course!” he said, cynically. “Just so! I expected something of that sort. That’s all part of a clever scheme.”

“I don’t understand you,” remarked Copplestone. “How⁠—a clever scheme?”

“Whitewash!” answered Gilling. “Sheer whitewash! You don’t suppose that either Greyle or Chatfield are fools?⁠—I should say they’re far from it, from what little I’ve heard of ’em. Well⁠—don’t they know very well that Marston Greyle is under suspicion? All right⁠—they want to clear him. So they close their ruins and make a search⁠—a private search, mind you⁠—and at the end they announce that nothing’s been found⁠—and there you are! And⁠—supposing they did find something⁠—supposing they found Bassett Oliver’s body⁠—What is it?” he asked suddenly, seeing Copplestone staring hard across the sands at the opposite quay. “Something happened?”

“By Gad!⁠—I believe something has happened!” exclaimed Copplestone. “Look there⁠—men running down the hillside from the Keep. And listen⁠—they’re shouting to those fellows on the other quay. Come on across! Will it be out of keeping with your invalid pose if you run?”

Gilling answered that question by lightly vaulting the wall and dropping to the sands beneath.

“I’m not an invalid in my legs, anyhow,” he answered, as they began to splash across the pools left by the recently retreated tide. “By George!⁠—I believe something has happened, too! Look at those people, running out of their cottages!”

All along the south quay the fisherfolk, men, women, and children, were crowding eagerly towards the gate of the path by which Bassett Oliver had gone up towards the Keep. When Copplestone and his companion gained the quay and climbed up its wall they were pouring in at this gate, and swarming up to the woods, all talking at the top of their voices. Copplestone suddenly recognized Ewbank on the fringe of the crowd and called to him.

“What is it?” he demanded. “What’s happened?”

Ewbank, a man of leisurely movement, paused and waited for the two young men to come up. At their approach he took his pipe out of his mouth, and inclined his head towards the Keep.

“They’re saying something’s been found up there,” he replied. “I don’t know what. But Chatfield, he’s sent two men down here to the village. One of ’em’s gone for the police and the doctor, and t’other’s gone to the Admiral, looking for you. You’re wanted up there⁠—partiklar!”

XI Beneath the Brambles

By the time Copplestone and the pseudocurate had reached the plateau of open ground surrounding the ruins it seemed as if half the population of Scarhaven had gathered there. Men, women and children were swarming about the door in the curtain wall, all manifesting an eager desire to pass through. But the door was strictly guarded. Chatfield, armed with a new oak cudgel stood there, masterful and lowering; behind him were several estate labourers, all keeping the people back. And within the door stood Marston Greyle, evidently considerably restless and perturbed, and every now and then looking out on the mob which the fast-spreading rumour had called together. In one of these inspections he caught sight of Copplestone, and spoke to Chatfield, who immediately sent one of his bodyguard through the throng.

“Mr. Greyle says will you go forward, sir?” said the man. “Your friend can go in too, if he likes.”

“That’s your clerical garb,” whispered Copplestone as he and Gilling made their way to the door. “But why this sudden politeness?”

“Oh, that’s easy to reckon up,” answered Gilling. “I see through it. They want creditable and respectable witnesses to something or other. This big, heavy-jowled man is Chatfield, of course?”

“That’s Chatfield,” responded Copplestone. “What’s he after?”

For the agent, as the two young men approached, ostentiously turned away from them, moving a few steps from the door. He muttered a word or two to the men who guarded it and they stood aside and allowed Copplestone and the curate to enter. Marston Greyle came forward, eyeing Gilling with a sharp glance of inspection. He turned from him to Copplestone.

“Will you come in?” he asked, not impolitely and with a certain anxiety of manner. “I want you to⁠—to be present, in fact. This gentleman is a friend of yours?”

“An acquaintance of an hour,” interposed Gilling, with ready wit. “I have just come to stay at the inn⁠—for my health’s sake.”

“Perhaps you’ll be kind enough to accompany us?” said Greyle. “The fact is, Mr. Copplestone, we’ve found Mr. Bassett Oliver’s body.”

“I thought so,” remarked Copplestone.

“And as soon as the police come up,” continued Greyle, “I want you all to see exactly where it is. No one’s touched it⁠—no one’s been near it. Of course, he’s dead!”

He lifted his hand with a nervous gesture, and the two others, who were watching him closely, saw that he was trembling a good deal, and that his face was very pale.

“Dead!⁠—of course,” he went on. “He⁠—he must have been killed instantaneously. And you’ll see in a minute or two why the body wasn’t found before⁠—when we made that first search. It’s quite explainable. The fact is⁠—”

A sudden bustle at the door in the wall heralded the entrance of two policemen. The Squire went forward to meet them. The prospect of immediate action seemed to pull him together and his manner changed to one of assertive superintendence of things.

“Now, Mr. Chatfield!” he called out. “Keep all these people away! Close the door and let no one enter on any excuse. Stay there yourself and see that we are not interrupted. Come this way now,” he went on, addressing the policemen and the two favoured spectators.

“You’ve found him, then, sir?” asked the police sergeant in a thick