Scarhaven Keep, J. S. Fletcher [best short books to read .txt] 📗

if I’d known how ill he was, I shouldn’t. What I understood⁠—and mind you, I don’t say they wilfully deceived me, for I don’t think they did⁠—what I understood was that the young man simply wanted a real good rest. But he was evidently a deal worse than what even Dr. Valdey thought. He’d stopped at Dr. Valdey’s surgery while Mr. Chatfield went to see about rooms, and they moved him from there straight in here. And as I say, he was a deal worse than they thought, much worse, and the doctor had to be fetched to him more than once during the afternoon. Still Dr. Valdey himself never said to me that there was any immediate danger. But that’s neither here nor there⁠—the young fellow died that night.”

“That night!” exclaimed Gilling, “the night he came here?”

“Very same night,” assented Mrs. Salmon. “Brought in here about two in the afternoon and died just before midnight⁠—soon after Miss Chatfield came in from the theatre. Went very suddenly at the end.”

“Were you present?” asked Copplestone.

“I wasn’t. Nobody was with him but Mr. Chatfield⁠—Miss Chatfield was getting her supper down here,” replied Mrs. Salmon. “And I was busy elsewhere.”

“Was there an inquest then?” inquired Gilling.

“Oh, no!” said Mrs. Salmon, shaking her head. “Oh, no!⁠—there was no need for that⁠—the doctor, ye see, had been seeing him all day. Oh, no⁠—the cause of death was evident enough, in a way of speaking. Heart.”

“Did they bury him here, then?” asked Gilling.

“Two days after,” replied Mrs. Salmon. “Kept everything very quiet, they did. I don’t believe Miss Chatfield told any of the theatre people⁠—she went to her work just the same, of course. The old gentleman saw to everything⁠—funeral and all. I’ll say this for them⁠—they gave me no unnecessary trouble, but still, there’s trouble that is necessary when you’ve death in a house and a funeral at the door, and they ought to have given me something for what I did. But they didn’t, so I considered it very mean. Mr. Chatfield, he stayed two days after the funeral, and when he left he just said that his daughter would settle up with me. But when she came to pay she added nothing to my bill, and she walked out remarking that if her father hadn’t given me anything extra she was sure she shouldn’t. Shabby!”

“Very shabby!” agreed Gilling. “Well, you won’t find my clients quite so mean, ma’am. But just a word⁠—don’t mention this matter to anybody until you hear from me. And as I like to give some earnest of payment here’s a banknote which you can slip into your purse⁠—on account, you understand. Now, just a question or two: Did you hear the young man’s name?”

The landlady, whose spirits rose visibly on receipt of the banknote, appeared to reflect on hearing this question, and she shook her head as if surprised at her own inability to answer it satisfactorily.

“Well, now,” she said, “it may seem a queer thing to say, but I don’t recollect that I ever did! You see, I didn’t see much of him after he once got here. I was never in his room with them, and they didn’t mention his name⁠—that I can remember⁠—when they spoke about him before me. I understood he was a relative⁠—cousin or something of that sort.”

“Didn’t you see any name on the coffin?” asked Gilling.

“I didn’t,” replied Mrs. Salmon. “You see, the undertaker fetched him away when him and his men brought the coffin⁠—the next day. He took charge of the coffin for the second night, and the funeral took place from there. But I’ll tell you what⁠—the undertaker’ll know the name, and of course the doctor does. They’re both close by.”

Gilling took names and addresses and once more pledging the landlady to secrecy, led Copplestone away.

“That’s the end of another chapter,” he said when they were clear of that place. “We know now that Marston Greyle died there⁠—in that very house, Copplestone!⁠—and that Peter Chatfield was with him. That’s fact!”

“And it’s fact, too, that the daughter knows,” observed Copplestone in a low voice.

“Fact, too, that Addie Chatfield was in it,” agreed Gilling. “Well⁠—but what happened next? However, before we go on to that, there are three things to do in the morning. We must see this Dr. Valdey, and the undertaker⁠—and Marston Greyle’s grave.”

“And then?” asked Copplestone.

“Stiff, big question,” sighed Gilling. “Go back to town and report, I think⁠—and find out if Swallow has discovered anything. And egad!⁠—there’s a lot to discover! For you see we’re already certain that at the stage at which we’ve arrived a conspiracy began⁠—conspiracy between Chatfield, his daughter, and the man who’s been passing himself off as Marston Greyle. Now, who is the man? Where did they get hold of him? Is he some relation of theirs? All that’s got to be found out. Of course, their object is very clear, Marston Greyle, the real Simon Pure, was dead on their hands. His legal successor was his cousin, Miss Audrey. Chatfield knew that when Miss Audrey came into power his own reign as steward of Scarhaven would be brief. And so⁠—but the thing is so plain that one needn’t waste breath on it. And I tell you what’s plain too, Copplestone⁠—Miss Audrey Greyle is the lady of Scarhaven! Good luck to her! You’ll no doubt be glad to communicate the glad tidings!”

Copplestone made no answer. He was utterly confounded by the recent revelations and was wondering what the mother and daughter in the little cottage so far away in the grey north would say when all these things were told them.

“Let’s make dead certain of everything,” he said after a long pause. “Don’t let’s leave any loophole.”

“Oh, we’ll leave nothing⁠—here at any rate,” replied Gilling, confidently. “But you’ll find in the morning that we already know almost everything.”

In this he was right. The doctor’s story was a plain one. The young man was very ill indeed when brought to him, and though he did not anticipate so early or sudden an end, he was not surprised when death