Scarhaven Keep

by J. S. Fletcher

  Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Mary Meehan and PGDistributed Proofreaders

  SCARHAVEN KEEP

  BY J.S. FLETCHER

  1922

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER

  I WANTED AT REHEARSAL II GREY ROOK AND GREY SEA III THE MAN WHO KNEW SOMETHING IV THE ESTATE AGENT V THE GREYLE HISTORY VI THE LEADING LADY VII LEFT ON GUARD VIII RIGHT OF WAY IX HOBKIN'S HOLE X THE INVALID CURATE XI BENEATH THE BRAMBLES XII GOOD MEN AND TRUE XIII MR. DENNIE XIV BY PRIVATE TREATY XV THE CABLEGRAM FROM NEW YORK XVI IN TOUCH WITH THE MISSING XVII THE OLD PLAYBILL XVIII THE LIE ON THE TOMBSTONE XIX THE STEAM YACHT XX THE COURTEOUS CAPTAIN XXI MAROONED XXII THE OLD HAND XXIII THE YACHT COMES BACK XXIV THE TORPEDO-BOAT DESTROYER XXV THE SQUIRE XXVI THE REAVER'S GLEN XXVII THE PEEL TOWER XXVIII THE FOOTPRINTS XXIX SCARVELL'S CUT XXX THE GREENGROCER'S CART XXXI AMBASSADRESS EXTRAORDINARY

  CHAPTER I

  WANTED AT REHEARSAL

  Jerramy, thirty years' stage-door keeper at the Theatre Royal, Norcaster,had come to regard each successive Monday morning as a time for therenewal of old acquaintance. For at any rate forty-six weeks of thefifty-two, theatrical companies came and went at Norcaster with unfailingregularity. The company which presented itself for patronage in the firstweek of April in one year was almost certain to present itself again inthe corresponding week of the next year. Sometimes new faces came withit, but as a rule the same old favourites showed themselves for a goodmany years in succession. And every actor and actress who came toNorcaster knew Jerramy. He was the first official person encountered onentering upon the business of the week. He it was who handed out thelittle bundles of letters and papers, who exchanged the first greetings,of whom one could make useful inquiries, who always knew exactly whatadvice to give about lodgings and landladies. From noon onwards ofMondays, when the newcomers began to arrive at the theatre for thecustomary one o'clock call for rehearsal, Jerramy was invariably employedin hearing that he didn't look a day older, and was as blooming as ever,and sure to last another thirty years, and his reception alwaysculminated in a hearty handshake and genial greeting from the great manof the company, who, of course, after the fashion of magnates, alwaysturned up at the end of the irregular procession, and was not seldom latefor the fixture which he himself had made.

  At a quarter past one of a certain Monday afternoon in the course of asunny October, Jerramy leaned over the half-door of his sanctum inconversation with an anxious-eyed man who for the past ten minutes hadhung about in the restless fashion peculiar to those who are waiting forsomebody. 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 aneighbouring church almost as often; he had several times gone up thedark passage which led to the dressing-rooms, and had come back againlooking more perplexed than ever. The fact was that he was the businessmanager of the great Mr. Bassett Oliver, who was opening for the week atNorcaster in his latest success, and who, not quite satisfied with theway in which a particular bit of it was being played called a specialrehearsal for a quarter to one. Everything and everybody was ready forthat 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, hewas a very martinet as regarded rule, precision and system; moreover, healways did what he expected each member of his company to do. Thereforehis non-arrival, his half hour of irregularity, seemed all the moreextraordinary.

  "Never knew him to be late before--never!" exclaimed the businessmanager, impatiently pulling out his watch for the twentieth time. "Notin all my ten years' experience of him--not once."

  "I suppose you've seen him this morning, Mr. Stafford?" inquired Jerramy."He's in the town, of course?"

  "I suppose he's in the town," answered Mr. Stafford. "I suppose he's athis old quarters--the 'Angel.' But I haven't seen him; neither hadRothwell--we've both been too busy to call there. I expect he came on tothe 'Angel' from Northborough yesterday."

  Jerramy opened the half-door, and going out to the end of the passage,looked up and down the street.

  "There's a taxi-cab coming round the corner now," he announced presently."Coming quick, too--I should think he's in it."

  The business manager bustled out to the pavement as the cab came to ahalt. But instead of the fine face and distinguished presence of Mr.Bassett Oliver, he found himself confronting a young man who looked likea well-set-up subaltern, or a cricket-and-football loving undergraduate;a somewhat shy, rather nervous young man, scrupulously groomed, andneatly attired in tweeds, who, at sight of the two men on the pavement,immediately produced a card-case.

  "Mr. Bassett Oliver?" he said inquiringly. "Is he here? I--I've got anappointment with him for one o'clock, and I'm sorry I'm late--my train--"

  "Mr. Oliver is not here yet," broke in Stafford. "He's late,too--unaccountably late, for him. An appointment, you say?"

  He was looking the stranger over as he spoke, taking him for somestage-struck youth who had probably persuaded the good-natured actor togive him an interview. His expression changed, however; as he glanced atthe card which the young man handed over, and he started a little andheld out his hand with a smile.

  "Oh!--Mr. Copplestone?" he exclaimed. "How do you do? My name'sStafford--I'm Mr. Oliver's business manager. So he made anappointment with you, did he--here, today? Wants to see you aboutyour play, of course."

  Again he looked at the newcomer with a smiling interest, thinkingsecretly that he was a very youthful and ingenuous being to have writtena play which Bassett Oliver, a shrewd critic, and by no means easy toplease, had been eager to accept, and was about to produce. Mr. RichardCopplestone, seen in the flesh, looked very young indeed, and veryunlike anything in the shape of a professional author. In fact he verymuch reminded Stafford of the fine and healthy young man whom one seeson the playing fields, and certainly does not associate with pen andink. That he was not much used to the world on whose edge he just thenstood Stafford gathered from a boyish trick of blushing through the tanof his cheeks.

  "I got a wire from Mr. Oliver yesterday--Sunday," replied Mr.Copplestone. "I ought to have had it in the morning, I suppose, but I'dgone out for the day, you know--gone out early. So I didn't find it untilI got back to my rooms late at night. I got the next train I could fromKing's Cross, and it was late getting in here."

  "Then you've practically been travelling all night?" remarked Stafford."Well, Mr. Oliver hasn't turned up--most unusual for him. I don't knowwhere--" Just then another man came hurrying down the passage from thedressing-rooms, calling the business manager by name.

  "I say, Stafford!" he exclaimed, as he emerged on the street. "This is aqueer thing!--I'm sure there's something wrong. I've just rung up the'Angel' hotel. Oliver hasn't turned up there! His rooms were all readyfor him as usual yesterday, but he never came. They've neither seen norheard of him. Did you see him yesterday?"

  "No!" replied Stafford. "I didn't. Never seen him since last thingSaturday night at Northborough. He ordered this rehearsal for one--no, aquarter to one, here, today. But somebody must have seen him yesterday.Where's his dresser--where's Hackett?"

  "Hackett's inside," said the other man. "He hasn't seen him either, sinceSaturday night. Hackett has friends living in these parts--he went off tosee them early yesterday morning, from Northborough, and he's only justcome. So he hasn't seen Oliver, and doesn't know anything about him; heexpected, of course, to find him here."

  Stafford turned with a wave of the hand towards Copplestone.

  "So did this gentleman," he said. "Mr. Copplestone,
this is ourstage-manager, Mr. Rothwell. Rothwell, this is Mr. Richard Copplestone,author of the new play that Mr. Oliver's going to produce next month. Mr.Copplestone got a wire from him yesterday, asking him to come here todayat one o'clock, He's travelled all night to get here."

  "Where was the wire sent from?" asked Rothwell, a sharp-eyed,keen-looking man, who, like Stafford, was obviously interested in the newauthor's boyish appearance. "And when?"

  Copplestone drew some letters and papers from his pocket and selectedone. "That's it," he said. "There you are--sent off from Northborough atnine-thirty, yesterday morning--Sunday."

  "Well, then he was at Northborough at that time," remarked Rothwell."Look here, Stafford, we'd better telephone to Northborough, to hishotel. The 'Golden Apple,' wasn't it?"

  "No good," replied Stafford, shaking his head. "The 'Golden Apple' isn'ton the 'phone--old-fashioned place. We'd better wire."

  "Too slow," said Rothwell. "We'll telephone to the theatre there, and askthem to step across and make inquiries. Come on!--let's do it at once."

  He hurried inside again, and Stafford turned to Copplestone.

  "Better send your cab away and come inside until we get some news," hesaid. "Let Jerramy take your things into his sanctum--he'll keep an eyeon them till you want them--I suppose you'll stop at the 'Angel' withOliver. Look here!" he went on, turning to the cab driver, "just you waita bit--I might want you; wait ten minutes, anyway. Come in, Mr.Copplestone."

  Copplestone followed the business manager up the passage to adressing-room, in which a little elderly man was engaged in unpackingtrunks and dress-baskets. He looked up expectantly at the sound offootsteps; then looked down again at the work in hand and went silentlyon with it.

  "This is Hackett, Mr. Oliver's dresser," said Stafford. "Been withhim--how long, Hackett?"

  "Twenty years next January, Mr. Stafford," answered the dresser quietly.

  "Ever known Mr. Oliver late like this?" inquired Stafford.

  "Never, sir! There's something wrong," replied Hackett. "I'm sure of it.I feel it! You ought to go and look for him, some of you gentlemen."

  "Where?" asked Stafford. "We don't know anything about him. He's not cometo the 'Angel,' as he ought to have done, yesterday. I believe you're thelast person who saw him, Hackett. Aren't you, now?"

  "I saw him at the 'Golden Apple' at Northborough at twelve o'clockSaturday night, sir," answered Hackett. "I took a bag of his to his roomsthere. He was all right then. He knew I was going off first thing nextmorning to see an uncle of mine who's a farmer on the coast between hereand Northborough, and he told me he shouldn't want me until one o'clocktoday. So of course, I came straight here to the theatre--I didn't callin at the 'Angel' at all this morning."

  "Did he say anything about his own movements yesterday?" asked Stafford."Did he tell you that he was going anywhere?"

  "Not a word, Mr. Stafford," replied Hackett. "But you know his habits aswell as I do."

  "Just so," agreed Stafford. "Mr. Oliver," he continued, turning toCopplestone, "is a great lover of outdoor life. On Sundays, when we'retravelling from one town to another, he likes to do the journey bymotor--alone. In a case like this, where the two towns are not very farapart, it's his practice to find out if there's any particular beautyspot or place of interest between them, and to spend his Sunday there. Idaresay that's what he did yesterday. You see, all last week we were atNorthborough. That, like Norcaster, is a coast town--there's fifty milesbetween them. If he followed out his usual plan he'd probably hire amotor-car and follow the coast-road, and if he came to any place that wasof special interest, he'd stop there. But--in the usual way ofthings--he'd have turned up at his rooms at the 'Angel' hotel here lastnight. He didn't--and he hasn't turned up here, either. So where is he?"

  "Have you made inquiries of the company, Mr. Stafford?" asked Hackett."Most of 'em wander about a bit of a Sunday--they might have seen him."

  "Good idea!" agreed Stafford. He beckoned Copplestone to follow him onto the stage, where the members of the company sat or stood about ingroups, each conscious that something unusual had occurred. "It's reallya queer, and perhaps a serious thing," he whispered as he steered hiscompanion through a maze of scenery. "And if Oliver doesn't turn up, weshall be in a fine mess. Of course, there's an understudy for his part,but--I say!" he went on, as they stepped upon the stage, "Have any of youseen Mr. Oliver, anywhere, since Saturday night? Can anybody tellanything about him--anything at all? Because--it's useless to deny thefact--he's not come here, and he's not come to town at all, so far as weknow. So--"

  Rothwell came hurrying on to the stage from the opposite wings. Hehastened across to Stafford and drew him and Copplestone a little aside.

  "I've heard from Northborough," he said. "I 'phoned Waters, the managerthere, to run across to the 'Golden Apple' and make inquiries. The'Golden Apple' people say that Oliver left there at eleven o'clockyesterday morning. He was alone. He simply walked out of the hotel. Andthey know nothing more."