CHAPTER XVI
IN TOUCH WITH THE MISSING
Sir Cresswell Oliver took the cablegram from Petherton and read it overslowly, muttering the precise and plain wording to himself.
"Don't you think, Petherton, that we had better get a clear notion of ourexact bearings?" he said as he laid it back on the solicitor's desk."Seems to me that the time's come when we ought to know exactly where weare. As I understand it, the case is this--rightly or wrongly we suspectthe present holder of the Scarhaven estates. We suspect that he is notthe rightful owner--that, in short, he is no more the real Marston Greylethan you are. We think that he's an impostor--posing as Marston Greyle.Other people--Mrs. Valentine Greyle, for example--evidently think so,too. Am I right?"
"Quite!" responded Petherton. "That's our position--exactly."
"Then--in that case, what I want to get at is this," continued SirCresswell. "How does this relate to my brother's death? What's theconnection? That--to me at any rate--is the first thing of importance. Ofcourse I have a theory. This, that the impostor did see my brother lastSunday afternoon. That he knew that my brother would at once know thathe, the impostor, was not the real Marston Greyle, and that thediscovery would lead to detection. And therefore he put him out of theway. He might accompany him to the top of the tower and fling him down.It's possible. Do you follow me?"
"Precisely," replied Petherton. "I, too, incline to that notion, thoughI've worked it out in a different fashion. My reconstruction of what tookplace at Scarhaven Keep is as follows--I think that Bassett Oliver metthe Squire--we'll call this man that for the sake of clearness--when heentered the ruins. He probably introduced himself and mentioned that hehad met a Marston Greyle in America. Then the Squire saw theprobabilities of detection--and what subsequently took place was mostlikely what you suggest. It may have been that the Squire recognizedBassett Oliver, and knew that he'd met Marston Greyle; it may have beenthat he didn't know him and didn't know anything until Bassett Oliverenlightened him. But--either way--I firmly believe that Bassett Olivercame to his death by violence--that he was murdered. So--there's the casein a nutshell! Murdered!--to keep his tongue still."
"What's to be done, then?" asked Sir Cresswell as Petherton tapped thecablegram.
"The first thing," he answered, "is to make use of this. We now know thatthe real Marston Greyle--who certainly did live in St. Louis, where hisfather had settled--left New York for England to take up his inheritance,on September 28th, 1912, and booked a passage to Falmouth. He would landat Falmouth from the _Araconda_ about October 5th. Probably there issome trace of him at Falmouth. He no doubt stayed a night there. Anyway,somebody must go to Falmouth and make inquiries. You'd better go,Gilling, and at once. While you're away your partner had better resumehis search for the man we know as the Squire. You've two good clues--thefact that he visited the Fragonard Club and that particular tobacconist'sshop. Urge Swallow to do his best--the man must be kept in sight. See toboth these things immediately."
"Swallow is at work already," replied Gilling. "He's got good help, too,and his failure yesterday has put him on his mettle. As for me, I'll goto Falmouth by the next express. Let me have that cablegram."
"I'll go with you," said Copplestone. "I may be of some use--and I'minterested. But," he paused and looked questioningly at the oldsolicitor. "What about the other news we brought you?" he asked. "Aboutthis sale of the estate, you know? If this man is an impostor--"
"Leave that to me," replied Petherton, with a shrewd glance at SirCresswell. "I know the Greyle family solicitors--highly respectablepeople--only a few doors away, in fact--and I'm going round to have aquiet little chat with them in a few minutes. There will be no sale!Leave me to deal with that matter--and if you young men are going toFalmouth, off you go!"
It was late that night when Copplestone and Gilling arrived at thisfar-off Cornish seaport, and nothing could be done until the followingmorning. To Copplestone it seemed as if they were in for a difficulttask. Over twelve months had elapsed since the real Marston Greyle leftAmerica for England; he might not have stayed in Falmouth, might not haveheld any conversation with anybody there who would recollect him! howwere they going to trace him? But Gilling--now free of his clericalattire and presenting himself as a smart young man of the professionalclasses type--was quick to explain that system, accurate and definitesystem, would expedite matters.
"We know the approximate date on which the _Araconda_ would touch here,"he said as they breakfasted together. "As things go, it would be fromOctober 4th to 6th, according to the quickness of her run across theAtlantic. Very well--if Marston Greyle stayed here, he'd have to stay atsome hotel. Accordingly, we visit all the Falmouth hotels and examinetheir registers of that date--first week of October, 1912. If we find hisname--good! We can then go on to make inquiries. If we don't find anytrace of him, then we know it's all up--he probably went straight away bytrain after landing. We'll begin with this hotel first."
There was no record of any Marston Greyle at that hotel, nor at the nexthalf-dozen at which they called. A visit to the shipping office of theline to which the _Araconda_ belonged revealed the fact that she reachedFalmouth on October 5th at half-past ten in the evening, and that thename of Marston Greyle was on the list of first-class passengers.Gilling left the office in cheery mood.
"That simplifies matters," he said. "As the _Araconda_ reached here latein the evening, the passengers who landed from her would be almostcertain to stay the night in Falmouth. So we've only to resume our roundof these hotels in order to hit something pertinent. This is plain andeasy work, Copplestone--no corners in it. We'll strike oil before noon."
They struck oil at the very next hotel they called at--an old-fashionedhouse in close proximity to the harbour. There was a communicativelandlord there who evidently possessed and was proud of a retentivememory, and he no sooner heard the reason of Gilling's call upon him thanhe bustled into activity, and produced the register of the previous year.
"But I remember the young gentleman you're asking about," he remarked, ashe took the book from a safe and laid it open on the table in his privateroom. "Not a common name, is it? He came here about eleven o'clock of thenight you've mentioned--there you are!--there's the entry. Andthere--higher up--is the name of the man who came to meet him. He camethe day before--to be here when the _Araconda_ got in."
The two visitors, bending over the book, mutually nudged each other astheir eyes encountered the signatures on the open page. There, in thehandwriting of the letters which Mr. Dennie had so fortunately preserved,was the name Marston Greyle. But it was not the sight of that whichsurprised them; they had expected to see it. What made them both thrillwith the joy of an unexpected discovery was the sight of the signatureinserted some lines above it, under date October 4th. Lest they shouldexhibit that joy before the landlord, they mutually stuck their elbowsinto each other and immediately affected the unconcern of indifference.
But there the signature was--_Peter Chatfield_. Peter Chatfield!--theyboth knew that they were entering on a new stage of their quest; that thefact that Chatfield had travelled to Falmouth to meet the new owner ofScarhaven meant much--possibly meant everything.
"Oh!" said Gilling, as steadily as possible. "That gentleman came to meetthe other, did he? Just so. Now what sort of man was he?"
"Big, fleshy man--elderly--very solemn in manner and appearance,"answered the landlord. "I remember him well. Came in about five o'clockin the afternoon of the 4th just after the London train arrived--andbooked a room. He told me he expected to meet a gentleman from New York,and was very fidgety about fixing it up to go off in the tender to the_Araconda_ when she came into the Bay. However, I found out for him thatshe wouldn't be in until next evening, so of course he settled down towait. Very quiet, reserved old fellow--never said much."
"Did he go off on the tender next night?" asked Gilling.
"He did--and came back with this other gentleman and his baggage--thisMr. Greyle," answered the landlord. "Mr. Chatfield h
ad booked a room forMr. Greyle."
"And what sort of man was Mr. Greyle?" inquired Gilling. "That's reallythe important thing. You've an exceptionally good memory--I can see that.Tell us all you can recollect about him."
"I can recollect plenty," replied the landlord, shaking his head. "As forhis looks--a tallish, slightly-built young fellow, between, I should say,twenty-five and twenty-eight. Stooped a good bit. Very dark hair andeyes--eyes a good deal sunken in his face. Very pale--good-looking--goodfeatures. But ill--my sakes! he was ill!"
"Ill!" exclaimed Gilling, with a glance at Copplestone. "Really ill!"
"He was that ill," said the landlord, "that me and my wife never expectedto see him get up that next morning. We wanted them to have a doctor butMr. Greyle himself said that it was nothing, but that he had some hearttrouble and that the voyage had made it worse. He said that if he tooksome medicine which he had with him, and a drop of hot brandy-and-water,and got a good night's sleep he'd be all right. And next morning heseemed better, and he got up to breakfast--but my wife said to me that ifshe'd seen death on a man's face it was on his! She's a bit of apersuasive tongue, has my wife, and when she heard that these twogentlemen were thinking of going a long journey--right away to the farnorth, it was, I believe--she got 'em to go and see the doctor first, forshe felt that Mr. Greyle wasn't fit for the exertion."
"Did they go?" asked Gilling.
"They did! I talked, myself, to the old gentleman," replied the landlord."And I showed them the way to our own doctor--Dr. Tretheway. And as aresult of what he said to them, I heard them decide to break up theirjourney into stages, as you might term it. They left here for Bristolthat afternoon--to stay the night there."
"You're sure of that?--Bristol?" asked Gilling.
"Ought to be," replied the landlord, with laconic assurance. "Iwent to the station with them and saw them off. They booked toBristol--anyway--first class."
Gilling looked at his companion.
"I think we'd better see this Dr. Tretheway," he remarked.
Dr. Tretheway, an elderly man of grave manners and benevolent aspect,remembered the visit of Mr. Marston Greyle well enough when he had turnedup its date in his case book. He also remembered the visitor's companion,Mr. Chatfield, who seemed unusually anxious and concerned about Mr.Greyle's health.
"And as to that," continued Dr. Tretheway, "I learnt from Mr. Greyle thathe had been seriously indisposed for some months before setting out forEngland. The voyage had been rather a rough one; he had suffered muchfrom sea-sickness, and, in his state of health, that was unfortunate forhim. I made a careful examination of him, and I came to the conclusionthat he was suffering from a form of myocarditis which was rapidlyassuming a very serious complexion. I earnestly advised him to take asmuch rest as possible, to avoid all unnecessary fatigue and allexcitement, and I strongly deprecated his travelling in one journey tothe north, whither I learnt he was bound. On my advice, he and Mr.Chatfield decided to break that journey at Bristol, at Birmingham, and atLeeds. By so doing, you see, they would only have a short journey eachday, and Mr. Greyle would be able to rest for a long time at a stretch.But--I formed my own conclusions."
"And they were--what?" asked Gilling.
"That he would not live long," said the doctor. "Finding that he wasgoing to the neighbourhood of Norcaster, where there is a most excellentschool of medicine, I advised him to get the best specialist he couldfrom there, and to put himself under his treatment. But my impression wasthat he had already reached a very, very serious stage."
"You think he was then likely to die suddenly?" suggested Gilling.
"It was quite possible. I should not have been surprised to hear of hisdeath," answered Dr. Tretheway. "He was, in short, very ill indeed."
"You never heard anything?" inquired Gilling.
"Nothing at all--though I often wondered. Of course," said the doctorwith a smile, "they were only chance visitors--I often havetrans-atlantic passengers drop in--and they forget that a physician wouldsometimes like to know how a case submitted to him in that way hasturned out. No, I never heard any more."
"Did they give you any address, either of them?" asked Copplestone,seeing that Gilling had no more to ask.
"No," replied the doctor, "they did not. I knew of course, from whatthey told me that Mr. Greyle had come off the _Araconda_ the nightbefore, and that he was passing on. No--I only gathered that they weregoing to the neighbourhood of Norcaster from the fact that Mr. Greyleasked if a journey to that place would be too much for him--he saidwith a laugh, that over there in the United States a journey of fivehundred miles would be considered a mere jaunt! He was very plucky,poor fellow, but--"
Dr. Tretheway ended with a significant shake of the head, and his twovisitors left him and went out into the autumn sunlight.
"Copplestone!" said Gilling as they walked away. "That chap--the realMarston Greyle--is dead! That's as certain as that we're alive! And nowthe next thing is to find out where he died and when. And by George,that's going to be a big job!"
"How are you going to set about it?" asked Copplestone. "It seems as ifwe were up against a blank wall, now."
"Not at all, my son!" retorted Gilling, cheerfully. "One step at atime--that's the sure thing to go on, in my calling. We've found out alot here, and quickly, too. And--we know where our next step lies.Bristol! Like looking for needles in a bundle of hay? Not a bit of it.If those two broke their journey at Bristol, they'd have to stop at anhotel. Well, now we'll adjourn to Bristol--bearing in mind that we're onthe track of Peter Chatfield!"