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

The only consolation she had was that you and Copplestone were with Miss Greyle. Well, first thing next morning Swallow and Mrs. Greyle set every possible means to work. They went to the police⁠—they wired to places up the coast and down the coast to keep a look out⁠—and Swallow also wired full particulars to Sir Cresswell Oliver, with the result that Sir Cresswell went to the naval authorities and got them to set their craft up north to work. Having done all this, and finding that he could be of no more service at Scarhaven, Swallow returned to town to see me and to consult. Now, of course, we were in a position by then to approach that Fragonard Club⁠—”

“Ah!” exclaimed Copplestone. “Just so!”

“The man, whoever he is, had been there an hour on the day Swallow and his man tracked him,” continued Gilling. “Therefore, something must be known of him. Swallow and I, armed with certain credentials, went there. And⁠—we could find out next to nothing. The hall porter there said he dimly remembered such a gentleman coming in and going upstairs, but he himself was new to his job, didn’t know all the members⁠—there are hundreds of ’em⁠—and he took this man for a regular habitué. A waiter also had some sort of recollection of the man, and seeing him in conversation with another man whom he, the waiter, knew better, though he didn’t know his name. Swallow is now moving everything to find that man⁠—to find anybody who knows our man⁠—and something will come of it, in the end⁠—must do. In the meantime I came down here with Sir Cresswell and Mr. Petherton, to be on the spot. And, from your information, things will happen here! That hidden gold is the thing⁠—they’ll not leave that without an effort to get it. If we could only find out where that is and watch it⁠—then our present object would be achieved.”

“What is the present object?” asked Copplestone.

“Why,” replied Gilling, “we’ve got warrants out against both Chatfield and the Squire for the murder of Bassett Oliver!⁠—the police here have them in hand. Petherton’s seen to that. And if they can only be laid hands on⁠—What is it?” he asked turning to a sleepy-eyed waiter who, after a gentle tap at the door, put a shock head into the room. “Somebody want me?”

“That there man, sir⁠—you know,” said the waiter. “Here again, sir⁠—stable yard, sir.”

Gilling jumped up and gave Copplestone a look.

“That’s Spurge!” he muttered. “He said he’d be back at daybreak. Wait here⁠—I’ll fetch him.”

XXVI The Reaver’s Glen

Zachary Spurge, presently ushered in by Gilling, who carefully closed the door behind himself and his companion, looked as if his recent lodging had been of an even rougher nature than that in which Copplestone had found him at their first meeting. The rough horseman’s cloak in which he was buttoned to the edge of a red neckerchief and a stubbly chin was liberally ornamented with bits of straw, scraps of furze and other odds and ends picked up in woods and hedgerows. Spurge, indeed, bore unmistakable evidence of having slept out in wild places for some nights and his general atmosphere was little more respectable than that of a scarecrow. But he grinned cheerfully at Copplestone⁠—and then frowned at Vickers.

“I didn’t count for to meet no lawyers, gentlemen,” he said, pausing on the outer boundaries of the parlour, “I ain’t a-goin’ to talk before ’em, neither!”

“He’s a grudge against me⁠—I’ve had to appear against him once or twice,” whispered Vickers to Copplestone. “You’d better soothe him down⁠—I want to know what he’s got to tell.”

“It’s all right, Spurge,” said Copplestone. “Come⁠—Mr. Vickers is on our side this time; he’s one of us. You can say anything you like before him⁠—or Mr. Gilling either. We’re all in it. Pull your chair up⁠—here, alongside of me, and tell us what you’ve been doing.”

“Well, of course, if you puts it that way, Mr. Copplestone,” replied Spurge, coming to the table a little doubtfully. “Though I hadn’t meant to tell nobody but you what I’ve got to tell. However, I can see that things is in such a pretty pass that this here ain’t no one-man job⁠—it’s a job as’ll want a lot o’ men! And I daresay lawyers and suchlike is as useful men in that way as you can lay hands on⁠—no offence to you, Mr. Vickers, only you see I’ve had experience o’ your sort before. But if you are taking a hand in this here⁠—well, all right. But now, gentlemen,” he continued dropping into a chair at the table and laying his fur cap on its polished surface, “afore ever I says a word, d’ye think that I could be provided with a cup o’ hot coffee, or tea, with a stiff dose o’ rum in it? I’m that cold and starved⁠—ah, if you’d been where I been this last twelve hours or so, you’d be perished.”

The sleepy waiter was summoned to attend to Spurge’s wants⁠—until they were satisfied the poacher sat staring fixedly at his cap and occasionally shaking his head. But after a first hearty gulp of strongly fortified coffee the colour came back into his face, he sighed with relief, and signalled to the three watchful young men to draw their chairs close to his.

“Ah!” he said, setting down his cup. “And nobody never wanted aught more badly than I wanted that! And now then⁠—the door being shut on us quite safe, ain’t it, gentlemen?⁠—no eavesdroppers?⁠—well, this here it is. I don’t know what you’ve been a-doing of these last few days, nor what may have happened to each and all⁠—but I’ve news. Serious news⁠—as I reckons it to be. Of⁠—Chatfield!”

Copplestone kicked Vickers under the table and gave him a look.

“Chatfield again!” he murmured. “Well, go on, Spurge.”

“There’s a lot to go on with, too, guv’nor,” said Spurge, after taking another evidently welcome drink. “And I’ll try to put it all in order, as it were⁠—same as if