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

come to the conclusion that the higher part of the island was the most likely point from which to attract attention. He came steadily forward, a big, lumbering figure in the light mist, and Vickers as he went on to meet him eyed him with a lively curiosity, wondering what secrets lay carefully locked up in the man’s heart and what happened on the Pike that made its captain or its owner bundle Chatfield out of it like a box of bad goods for which there was no more use. And as he speculated, they met, and Vickers saw at once that the old fellow’s mood had changed during the night. An atmosphere of smug oiliness sat upon Chatfield in the freshness of the morning, and he greeted the young solicitor in tones which were suggestive of a chastened spirit.

“Morning, Mr. Vickers,” he said. “A sweetly pretty spot it is that we find ourselves in, sir⁠—nevertheless, one’s affairs sometimes makes us long to quit the side of beauty, however much we would tarry by it! In plain words, Mr. Vickers, I want to get out o’ this. And I’ve been looking round, and my opinion is that the best thing we can do is to start as big a fire as we can find stuff for on yon bluff and keep a-feeding on it. In the meantime, while you’re considering of that, I’ll burn something of my own⁠—I’m weary.”

He dropped down on a convenient boulder of limestone, settled his big frame comfortably, and producing a pipe and a tobacco pouch, proceeded to smoke. Vickers himself took another boulder and looked inquisitively at his strange companion. He felt sure that Chatfield was up to something.

“You say ‘we’ now,” he remarked suddenly. “Last night you said you didn’t want to have anything to do with us. We were to keep to ourselves, and⁠—”

“Well, well, Mr. Vickers,” broke in Chatfield. “One says things at one time that one wouldn’t say at another, you know. Facts is facts, sir, and Providence has made us companions in distress. I’ve naught against you⁠—nor against the girl⁠—as for t’other young man, he’s of a interfering nature⁠—but I forgive him⁠—he’s young. I don’t bear no ill will⁠—things being as they are. I’ve had time to reflect since last night⁠—and I don’t see no reason why Miss Greyle and me shouldn’t come to terms⁠—through you.”

Vickers lighted his own pipe, and took some time over it.

“What are you after, Chatfield?” he asked at length. “Something, of course. You say you want to come to terms with Miss Greyle. That, of course, is because you know very well that Miss Greyle is the legal owner of Scarhaven, and that⁠—”

Chatfield waved his pipe.

“I don’t!” he answered, with what seemed genuine eagerness. “I don’t know naught of the sort. I tell you, Mr. Vickers, I do not know that the man what we’ve known as the Squire of Scarhaven for a year gone by is not the rightful Squire⁠—I do not! Fact, sir! But”⁠—he lowered his voice, and his sly eyes became slyer and craftier⁠—“but I won’t deny that during this last week or two I may have had my suspicions aroused, that there was something wrong⁠—I don’t deny that, Mr. Vickers.”

Vickers heard this with amazement. Young as he was, he had had various dealings with Peter Chatfield, and he had an idea that he knew something of him, subtle old fellow though he was, and he believed that Chatfield was now speaking the truth. But, in that case, what of Copplestone’s revelation about the Falmouth and Bristol affair and the dead man? He thought rapidly, and then determined to take a strong line.

“Chatfield!” he said. “You’re trying to bluff me. It won’t do. Things are known. I know ’em! I’ll be candid with you⁠—the time’s come for that. I’ll tell you what I know⁠—it’ll all have to come out. You know very well that the real Marston Greyle’s dead. You were with him when he died. What’s more, you buried him at Bristol under the name of Mark Grey. Hang it all, man, what’s the use of lying about it?⁠—you know that’s all true!”

He was watching Chatfield’s big face keenly, and he was astonished to see that his dramatic impeachment produced no more effect than a slightly superior smile. Instead of being floored, Chatfield was distinctly unimpressed.

“Aye!” he said, reflectively. “Aye, I expected to hear that. That’s Copplestone’s work, of course⁠—I knew he was some sort of detective as soon as I got speech with him. His work and that there Sir Cresswell Oliver’s as is making a mountain out of a molehill about his brother, who, of course, broke his neck quite accidental, poor man, and of that London lawyer⁠—Petherton. Aye⁠—aye⁠—but all the same, Mr. Vickers, it don’t alter matters⁠—nohow!”

“Good heavens, man, what do you mean?” exclaimed Vickers, who was becoming more and more mystified. “Do you mean to tell me⁠—come, come, Chatfield, I’m not a fool! Why⁠—Copplestone has found it all out⁠—there’s no need to keep it secret, now. You were with Marston Greyle when he died⁠—you registered his death as Marston Greyle⁠—and⁠—”

Chatfield laughed softly and gave his companion a swift glance out of one corner of his right eye.

“And put another name on a bit of a tombstone⁠—six months afterwards, what?” he said quietly. “Mr. Vickers, when you’re as old as I am, you’ll know that this here world is as full o’ puzzles as yon sea’s full o’fish!”

Vickers could only stare at his companion in speechless silence after that. He felt that there was some mystery about which Chatfield evidently knew a great deal while he knew nothing. The old fellow’s coolness, his ready acceptance of the Bristol facts, his almost contemptuous brushing aside of them, reduced Vickers to a feeling of helplessness. And Chatfield saw it, and laughed, and drawing a pocket flask out of his garments, helped himself to a tot of spirits⁠—after which he good-naturedly offered like refreshment to Vickers. But Vickers shook his head.

“No, thanks,” he said. He continued to