Scarhaven Keep

At a quarter past one of a certain Monday afternoon in the course of a sunny October, Jerramy leaned over the half door of his sanctum in conversation with an anxious-eyed man who for the past ten minutes had hung about in the restless fashion peculiar to those who are waiting for somebody. He had looked up the street and down the street a dozen times; he had pulled out his watch and compared it with the clock of a neighbouring church almost as often; he had several times gone up the dark passage which led to the dressing rooms, and had come back again looking more perplexed than ever. The fact was that he was the business manager of the great Mr. Bassett Oliver, who was opening for the week at Norcaster in his latest success, and who, not quite satisfied with the way in which a particular bit of it was being played called a special rehearsal for a quarter to one. Everything and everybody was ready for that rehearsal, but the great man himself had not arrived. Now Mr. Bassett Oliver, as every man well knew who ever had dealings with him, was not one of the irregular and unpunctual order; on the contrary, he was a very martinet as regarded rule, precision and system; moreover, he always did what he expected each member of his company to do. Therefore his non-arrival, his half hour of irregularity, seemed all the more extraordinary.

He soon found that the valley resolved itself into a narrow and rocky defile. The stream, level at first, soon came tumbling down amongst huge boulders; the path disappeared; out of the oaks and alder high cliffs of limestones began to lift themselves. The morning was unusually dark and grey, even for October, and as leaves, brown and sere though they were, still clustered thickly on the trees, Copplestone quickly found himself in a gloom that would have made a nervous person frightened. He also found that his forward progress became increasingly difficult. At the foot of a tall cliff which suddenly rose up before him he was obliged to pause; on that side of the stream it seemed impossible to go further. But as he hesitated, peering here and there under the branches of the dwarf oaks, he heard a voice, so suddenly, that he started in spite of himself.

“Guv’nor!”

Copplestone looked around and saw nothing. Then came a low laugh, as if the unseen person was enjoying his perplexity.

“Look overhead, guv’nor,” said the voice. “Look aloft!”

Copplestone glanced upward, and saw a man’s head and face, framed in a screen of bushes which grew on a shelf of the limestone cliff. The head was crowned by a much worn fur cap; the face, very brown and seamed and wrinkled, was ornamented by a short, well-blackened clay pipe, from the bowl of which a wisp of blue smoke curled upward. And as he grew accustomed to the gloom he was aware of a pair of shrewd, twinkling eyes, and a set of very white teeth which gleamed like an animal’s.

“My best respects to you, guv’nor,” he said. “Glad to see you in Hobkin’s Hole Castle⁠—that’s here. Queer place for gentlemen to meet in, ain’t it? Who are you talking to, says you? My name, guv’nor⁠—well-known hereabouts⁠—is Zachary Spurge!”

“You sent me that note last night?” asked Copplestone, taking a seat and filling his pipe. “How did you get it there⁠—unseen?”

“Got a cousin as is odd-job man at the Admiral’s Arms,” replied Spurge. “He slipped it in for me. You may ha’ seen him there, guv’nor⁠—chap with one eye, and queer-looking, but to be trusted. As I am!⁠—down to the ground.”

“And what do you want to see me about?” inquired Copplestone. “What’s this bit of news you’ve got to tell?”

Zachary Spurge thrust a hand inside his velveteen jacket and drew out a much folded and creased paper, which, on being unwrapped, proved to be the bill which offered a reward for the finding of Bassett Oliver. He held it up before his visitor.

“This!” he said. “A thousand pound is a vast lot o’ money, guv’nor! Now, if I was to tell something as I knows of, what chances should I have of getting that there money?”

“That depends,” replied Copplestone. “The reward is to be given to⁠—but you see the plain wording of it. Can you give information of that sort?”

“I can give a certain piece of information, guv’nor,” said Spurge. “Whether it’ll lead to the finding of that there gentleman or not I can’t say. But something I do know⁠—certain sure!”

There was little need for the three deeply interested listeners to look long at the letters⁠—one glance was sufficient to show even a careless eye that the hand which had written one of them had certainly not written the other two. The letter which Audrey had handed to Mr. Dennie was penned in the style commonly known as commercial⁠—plain, commonplace, utterly lacking in the characteristics which are supposed to denote imagination and a sense of artistry. It was the sort of caligraphy which one comes across every day in shops and offices and banks⁠—there was nothing in any upstroke, downstroke or letter which lifted it from the very ordinary. But the other two letters were evidently written by a man of literary and artistic sense, possessing imagination and a liking for effect. It needed no expert in handwriting to declare that two totally different individuals had written those letters.

“And now,” observed Mr. Dennie, breaking the silence and putting into words what each of the others was vaguely feeling, “the question is⁠—what does all this mean? To start with, Marston Greyle is a most uncommon name. Is it possible there can be two persons of that name? That, at any rate, is the first thing that strikes me.”

“It is not the first thing that strikes me,” said Mrs. Greyle. She took up the typescript which the old actor had brought in his packet, and held its title page significantly before him. “That is the first thing that strikes me!” she exclaimed. “The Marston Greyle who sent this to Bassett Oliver said according to your story⁠—that he sprang from a very old family in England, and that this is a dramatization of a romantic episode in its annals.

The agent suddenly turned his big fat face towards the three young people, with such an expression of craven fear on it that the sardonic jest which Copplestone was about to voice died away on his lips. Chatfield’s creased cheeks and heavy jowl had become white as chalk; great beads of sweat rolled down them; his mouth opened and shut silently, and suddenly, as he raised his hands and wrung them, his knees began to quiver. It was evident that the man was badly, terribly afraid⁠—and as they watched him in amazed wonder his eyes began to search the shore and the cliffs as if he were some hunted animal seeking any hole or cranny in which to hide. A sudden swelling of the light wind brought the steady throb of the oncoming engines to his ears and he turned on Vickers with a look that made the onlookers start.

“For goodness sake, Mr. Vickers!” he said in a queer, strained voice. “For heaven’s sake, let’s get ourselves away! Mr. Vickers⁠—it ain’t safe for none of us. We’d best to run, sir⁠—let’s get to the other side of the island. There’s caves there⁠—places⁠—let’s hide till something comes from the other islands, or till these folks goes away⁠—I tell you it’s dangerous for us to stop here!”

“We’re not afraid, Chatfield,” replied Vickers. “What ails you! Why man, you couldn’t be more afraid if you’d murdered somebody! What do you suppose these people want? You, of course. And you can’t escape⁠—if they want you, they’ll search the island till they get you. You’ve been deceiving us, Chatfield⁠—there’s something you’ve kept back. Now, what is it? What have they come back for?”