Kitabı oku: «Scarhaven Keep», sayfa 9

CHAPTER XVII
THE OLD PLAYBILL

Gilling's cheerful optimism was the sort of desirable quality that is a good thing to have, but all the optimism in the world is valueless in face of impregnable difficulty. And the difficulty of tracing Chatfield and his sick companion in a city the size of Bristol did indeed seem impregnable when Gilling and Copplestone had been attacking it for twenty-four hours. They had spent a whole day in endeavouring to get news; they had gone in and out of hotels until they were sick of the sight of one; they had made exhaustive inquiries at the railway station and of the cabmen who congregated there; nobody remembered anything at all about a big, heavy-faced man and a man in his company who seemed to be very ill. And on the second night Copplestone intimated plainly that in his opinion they were wasting their time.

"How do we even know that they ever came to Bristol?" he asked, as he and Gilling refreshed themselves with a much needed dinner. "The Falmouth landlord saw Chatfield take tickets for Bristol! That's nothing to go on! Put it to yourself in this way. Greyle may have found even that journey too much for him. They may, in that case, have left the train at Plymouth—or at Exeter—or at Taunton: it would stop at each place. Seems to me we're wasting time here—far better get nearer more tangible things. Chatfield, for instance. Or, go back to town and find out what your friend Swallow has done."

"Swallow," replied Gilling, "has done nothing so far, or I should have heard. Swallow knows exactly where I am, and where I shall be until I give him further notice. Don't be discouraged, my friend—one is often on the very edge of a discovery when one seems to be miles away from it. Give me another day—and if we haven't found out something by tomorrow evening I'll consult with you as to our next step. But I've a plan for tomorrow morning which ought to yield some result."

"What?" demanded Copplestone, doubtfully.

"This! There is in every centre of population an official who registers births, marriages, and deaths. Now we believe the real Marston Greyle to be dead. Let us suppose, for argument's sake, that he did die here, in Bristol, whither he and Chatfield certainly set off when they left Falmouth. What would happen? Notice of his death would have to be given to the Registrar—by the nearest relative or by the person in attendance on the deceased. That person would, in this case, be Chatfield. If the death occurred suddenly, and without medical attendance, an inquest would have to be held. If a doctor had been in attendance he would give a signed certificate of the cause of death, which he would hand to the relatives or friends in attendance, who, in their turn, would have to hand it to the Registrar. Do you see the value of these points? What we must do tomorrow morning is to see the Registrar—or, as there will be more than one in a place this size—each of them in turn, in the endeavour to find out if, early in October, 1912, Peter Chatfield registered the death of Marston Greyle here. But remember—he may not have registered it under that name. He may, indeed, not have used his own name—he's deep enough for anything. That however, is our next best chance—search of the registers. Let's try it, anyway, first thing in the morning. And as we've had a stiff day, I propose we dismiss all thought of this affair for the rest of the evening and betake ourselves to some place of amusement—theatre, eh?"

Copplestone made no objection to that, and when dinner was over, they walked round to the principal theatre in time for the first act of a play which having been highly successful in London had just started on a round of the leading provincial theatres. Between the second and third acts of this production there was a long interval, and the two companions repaired to the foyer to recuperate their energies with a drink and a cigarette. While thus engaged, Copplestone encountered an old school friend with whom he exchanged a few words: Gilling, meanwhile strolled about, inspecting the pictures, photographs and old playbills on the walls of the saloon and its adjacent apartments. And suddenly, he turned back, waited until Copplestone's acquaintance had gone away, and then hurried up and smacked his co-searcher on the shoulder.

"Didn't I tell you that one's often close to a thing when one seems furthest off it!" he exclaimed triumphantly. "Come here, my son, and look at what I've just found."

He drew Copplestone away to a quiet corner and pointed out an old playbill, framed and hung on the wall. Copplestone stared at it and saw nothing but the title of a well-known comedy, the names of one or two fairly celebrated actors and actresses and the usual particulars which appear on all similar announcements.

"Well?" he asked. "What of this?"

"That!" replied Gilling, flicking the tip of his finger on a line in the bill. "That my boy!"

Copplestone looked again. He started at what he read.

Margaret Sayers…….MISS ADELA CHATFIELD.

"And now look at that!" continued Gilling, with an accentuation of his triumphal note. "See! These people were here for a fortnight—from October 3rd to 17th—1912. Therefore—if Peter Chatfield brought Marston Greyle to Bristol on October 6th, Peter Chatfield's daughter would also be in the town!"

Copplestone looked over the bill again, rapidly realizing possibilities.

"Would Chatfield know that?" he asked reflectively.

"It's only likely that he would," replied Gilling. "Even if father and daughter don't quite hit things off in their tastes, it's only reasonable to suppose that Peter would usually know his daughter's whereabouts. And if he brought Greyle here, ill, and they had to stop, it's only likely that Peter would turn to his daughter for help. Anyway, Copplestone, here are two undoubted facts:—Chatfield and Greyle booked from Falmouth for Bristol on October 6th, 1912, and may therefore be supposed to have come here. That's one fact. The other is—Addie Chatfield was certainly in Bristol on that date and for eleven days after it."

"Well—what next?" asked Copplestone.

"I've been thinking that over while you stared at the bill," answered Gilling. "I think the best thing will be to find out where Addie Chatfield put herself up during her stay. I daresay you know that in most of these towns there are lodgings which are almost exclusively devoted to the theatrical profession. Actors and actresses go to them year after year; their owners lay themselves out for their patrons—what's more, your theatrical landlady always remembers names and faces, and has her favourites. Now, in my stage experience, I never struck Bristol, so I don't know much about it, but I know where we can get information—the stage door-keeper. He'll tell us where the recognized lodgings are—and then we must begin a round of inquiry. When? Just now, my boy!—and a good time, too, as you'll see."

"Why?" asked Copplestone.

"Best hour of the evening," replied Gilling with glib assurance. "Landladies enjoying an hour of ease before beginning to cook supper for their lodgers, now busy on the stage. Always ready to talk, theatrical landladies, when they've nothing to do. Trust me for knowing the ropes!—come round to the stage door and let's ask the keeper a question or two."

But before they had quitted the foyer an interruption came in the shape of a shrewd-looking gentleman in evening dress, who wore his opera hat at a rakish angle and seemed to be very much at home as he strolled about, hands in pockets, looking around him at all and sundry. He suddenly caught sight of Gilling, smiled surprisedly and expansively, and came forward with outstretched hand.

"Bless our hearts, is it really yourself, dear boy!" exclaimed this apparition. "Really, now? And what brings you here—God bless my soul and eyes—why I haven't seen you this—how long is it, dear boy!"

"Three years," answered Gilling, promptly clasping the outstretched hand.

"But what are you doing here—boss, eh?"

"Lessee's manager, dear boy—nice job, too," whispered the other. "Been here two years—good berth." He deftly steered Gilling towards the refreshment bar, and glanced out of his eye corner at Copplestone. "Friend of yours?" he suggested hospitably. "Introduce us, dear boy—my name is the same as before, you know!"

"Mr. Copplestone, Mr. Montmorency," said Gilling. "Mr. Montmorency, Mr. Copplestone."

"Servant, sir," said Mr. Montmorency. "Pleased to meet any friend of my friend! And what will you take, dear boys, and how are things with you, Gilling, old man—now who on earth would have thought of seeing you here?"

Copplestone held his peace while Gilling and Mr. Montmorency held interesting converse. He was sure that his companion would turn this unexpected meeting to account, and he therefore felt no surprise when Gilling, after giving him a private nudge, plumped the manager with a direct question.

"Did you see Addie Chatfield when she was here about a year ago?" he asked. "You remember—she was here in Mrs. Swayne's Necklace—here a fortnight."

"I remember very well, dear boy," responded Mr. Montmorency, with a judicial sip at the contents of his tumbler. "I saw the lady several times. More by token, I accidentally witnessed a curious little scene between Miss Addie and a gentleman whom Nature appeared to have specially manufactured for the part of heavy parent—you know the type. One morning when that company was here, I happened to be standing in the vestibule, talking to the box-office man, when a large, solemn-faced individual, Quakerish in attire, and evidently not accustomed to the theatre walked in and peered about him at our rich carpets and expensive fittings—pretty much as if he was appraising their value. At the same time, I observed that he was in what one calls a state—a little, perhaps a good deal, upset about something. Wherefore I addressed myself to him in my politest manner and inquired if I could serve him. Thereupon he asked if he could see Miss Adela Chatfield on very important business. Now, I wasn't going to let him see Miss Addie, for I took him to be a man who might have a writ about him, or something nasty of that sort. But at that very moment, Miss Addie, who had been rehearsing, and had come out by the house instead of going through the stage door, came tripping into the vestibule and let off a sharp note of exclamation. After which she and old wooden-face stepped into the street together, and immediately exchanged a few words. And that the old man told her something very serious was abundantly evident from the expression of their respective countenances. But, of course, I never knew what it was, nor who he was, dear boy—not my business, don't you know."

"They went away together, those two?" asked Gilling, favouring Copplestone with another nudge.

"Up the street together, certainly, talking most earnestly," replied Mr. Montmorency.

"Ever see that old chap again?" asked Gilling.

"I never did, dear boy,—once was sufficient," said Mr. Montmorency, lightly. "But," he continued, dropping his bantering tone, "are these questions pertinent?—has this to do with this new profession of yours, dear boy? If so—mum's the word, you know."

"I'll tell you what, Monty," answered Gilling. "I wish you'd find out for me where Addie Chatfield lodged when she was here that time. Can it be done? Between you and me, I do want to know about that, old chap. Never mind why, now—I will tell you later. But it's serious."

Mr. Montmorency tapped the side of his handsome nose.

"All right, my boy!" he said. "I understand—wicked, wicked world! Done? Dear boy, it shall be done! Come down to the stage door—our man knows every landlady in the town!"

By various winding ways and devious passages he led the two young men down to the stage door. Its keeper, not being particularly busy at that time, was reading the evening newspaper in his glass-walled box, and glanced inquiringly at the strangers as Mr. Montmorency pulled them up before him.

"Prickett," said Mr. Montmorency, leaning into the sanctum over its half-door and speaking confidentially. "You keep a sort of register of lodgings don't you, Prickett? Now I wonder if you could tell me where Miss Adela Chatfield, of the Mrs. Swayne's Necklace Company stopped when she was last here?—that's a year ago or about it. Prickett," he went on, turning to Gilling, "puts all this sort of thing down, methodically, so that he can send callers on, or send up urgent letters or parcels during the day—isn't that it, Prickett?"

"That's about it, sir," answered the door-keeper. He had taken down a sort of ledger as the manager spoke, and was now turning over its leaves. He suddenly ran his finger down a page and stopped its course at a particular line.

"Mrs. Salmon, 5, Montargis Crescent—second to the right outside," he announced briefly. "Very good lodgings, too, are those."

Gilling promised Mr. Montmorency that he would look him up later on, and went away with Copplestone to Montargis Crescent. Within five minutes they were standing in a comfortably furnished, old-fashioned sitting-room, liberally ornamented with the photographs of actors and actresses and confronting a stout, sharp-eyed little woman who listened intently to all that Gilling said and sniffed loudly when he had finished.

"Remember Miss Chatfield being here!" she exclaimed. "I should think I do remember! I ought to! Bringing mortal sickness into my house—and then death—and then a funeral—and her and her father going away never giving me an extra penny for the trouble!"

CHAPTER XVIII
THE LIE ON THE TOMBSTONE

Gilling's glance at his companion was quiet enough, but it spoke volumes. Here, by sheer chance, was such a revelation as they had never dreamed of hearing!—here was the probable explanation of at least half the mystery. He turned composedly to the landlady.

"I've already told you who and what I am," he said, pointing to the card which he had handed to her. "There are certain mysterious circumstances about this affair which I want to get at. What you've said just now is abundant evidence that you can help. If you do and will help, you'll be well paid for your trouble. Now, you speak of sickness—death—a funeral. Will you tell us all about it?"

"I never knew there was any mystery about it," answered the landlady, as she motioned her visitors to seat themselves. "It was all above-board as far as I knew. Of course, I've always been sore about it—I'd a great deal of trouble, and as I say, I never got anything for it—that is, anything extra. And me doing it really to oblige her and her father!"

"They brought a sick man here?" suggested Gilling.

"I'll tell you how it was," said Mrs. Salmon, seating herself and showing signs of a disposition to confidence. "Miss Chatfield, she'd been here, I think, three days that time—I'd had her once before a year or two previous. One morning—I'm sure it was about the third day that the Swayne Necklace Company was here—she came in from rehearsal in a regular take-on. She said that her father had just called on her at the theatre. She said he'd been to Falmouth to meet a relation of theirs who'd come from America and had found him to be very ill on landing—so ill that a Falmouth doctor had given strict orders that he mustn't travel any further than Bristol, on his way wherever he wanted to go. They'd got to Bristol and the young man was so done up that Mr. Chatfield had had to drive him to another doctor—one close by here—Dr. Valdey—as soon as they arrived. Dr. Valdey said he must go to bed at once and have at least two days' complete rest in bed, and he advised Mr. Chatfield to get quiet rooms instead of going to a hotel. So Mr. Chatfield, knowing that his daughter was here, do you see, sought her out and told her all about it. She came to me and asked me if I knew where they could get rooms. Well now, I had my drawing-room floor empty that week, and as it was only for two or three days that they wanted rooms I offered to take Mr. Chatfield and the young man in. Of course, 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 bank-note 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 bank-note, 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 came, and had of course, no difficulty about giving the necessary certificate. Just as plain was the undertaker's account of his connection with the affair—a very ordinary transaction in his eyes. And having heard both stories, there was nothing to do but to visit one of the adjacent cemeteries and find a certain grave the number of which they had ascertained from the undertaker's books. It was easily found—and Copplestone and Gilling found themselves standing at a new tombstone, whereon the monumental mason had carved four lines:—

MARK GREY

BORN APRIL 12TH, 1884

DIED OCTOBER 6TH, 1912

AGED 28 YEARS.

"Short, simple, eminently suited to the purpose," murmured Gilling as the two turned away. "Somebody thought things out quickly and well, Copplestone, when this poor fellow died. Do you know I've been thinking as we walked up here that if Bassett Oliver had never taken it into his head to visit Scarhaven that Sunday this fraud would never have been found out! The chances were all against its ever being found out. Consider them! A young man who is an absolute stranger in England comes to take up an inheritance, having on him no doubt, the necessary proofs of identification. He's met by one person only—his agent. He dies next day. The agent buries him, under a false name, takes his effects and papers, gets some accomplice to personate him, introduces that accomplice to everybody as the real man—and there you are! Oh, Chatfield knew what he was doing! Who on earth, wandering in this cemetery, would ever connect Mark Grey with Marston Greyle?"

"Just so—but there was one danger-spot which must have given Chatfield and his accomplices a good many uneasy hours," answered Copplestone. "You know that Marston Greyle actually registered in his own name at Falmouth and was known to the land lord and the doctor there."

"Yes—and Falmouth is three hundred miles from London and five hundred from Scarhaven," replied Gilling dryly. "And do you suppose that whoever saw Marston Greyle at Falmouth cared two pins—comparatively—what became of him after he left there? No—Chatfield was almost safe from detection as soon as he'd got that unfortunate young fellow laid away in that grave. However we know now—what we do know. And the next thing, now that we know Marston Greyle lies behind us there, is to get back to town and catch the chap who took his place. We'll wire to Swallow and to Petherton and get the next express."

Sir Cresswell Oliver and Petherton were in conference with Swallow at the solicitor's office when Gilling and Copplestone arrived there in the early afternoon. Gilling interrupted their conversation to tell the result of his investigations. Copplestone, watching the effect, saw that neither Sir Cresswell nor Petherton showed surprise. Petherton indeed, smiled as if he had anticipated all that Gilling had to say.

"I told you that I knew the Greyle family solicitors," he observed. "I find that they have only once seen the man whom we will call the Squire. Chatfield brought him there. He produced proofs of identification—papers which Chatfield no doubt took from the dead man. Of course, the solicitors never doubted for a moment that he was the real Marston Greyle!—never dreamed of fraud: Well—the next step. We must concentrate on finding this man. And Swallow has nothing to tell—yet. He has never seen anything more of him. You'd better turn all your attention to that, Gilling—you and Swallow. As for Chatfield and his daughter, I suppose we shall have to approach the police."

Copplestone presently went home to his rooms in Jermyn Street, puzzled and wondering; And there, lying on top of a pile of letters, he found a telegram—from Audrey Greyle. It had been dispatched from Scarhaven at an early hour of the previous day, and it contained but three words—Can you come?