CHAPTER IV
THE ESTATE AGENT
Copplestone had kept a sharp watch on Marston Greyle and his cousin whenthey walked off, and he had seen that they had parted at a point a littlefarther along the shore road--the man turning up into the wood, the girlgoing forward along the quay which led to the other half of the village.He quickened his pace and followed her, catching her up as she came to apath which led towards the old church. At the sound of his hurrying stepsshe turned and faced him, and he saw in the light of a cottage lamp thatshe still looked troubled and perplexed.
"Forgive me for running after you," said Copplestone as he went up toher. "I just wanted to say that I'm sorry about--about that little scenedown there, you know. Your cousin misunderstood Mr. Stafford--whatStafford meant was that--"
"I saw what Mr. Stafford meant," she broke in quickly. "I'm sorry mycousin didn't see it. It was--obvious."
"All the same, Stafford put it rather--shall we say, brusquely," remarkedCopplestone. "Of course, he's terribly upset about Oliver'sdisappearance, and he didn't consider the effect of his words. And it wasrather a surprise to hear that Oliver had known some man of yourcousin's name over there in America, wasn't it?"
"And that Mr. Oliver should mysteriously disappear just after making suchan announcement," said Audrey. "That certainly seems very surprising."
The two looked at each other, a question in the eyes of each, andCopplestone knew that the trouble in the girl's eyes arose from inabilityto understand what was already a suspicious circumstance.
"But after all, that may have been a mere coincidence," he hastened tosay. "Let's hope things may be cleared. I only hope that Oliver hasn'tmet with an accident and is lying somewhere without help. I'm going toremain here for the night, however, and Stafford will come back early inthe morning and go more thoroughly into things--I suppose there'll haveto be a search of the neighbourhood."
They had walked slowly up a path on the side of the cliff as they talked,and now the girl stopped before a small cottage which stood at the end ofthe churchyard, set in a tree-shaded garden, and looking out on the bay.She laid her hand on the gate, glancing at Copplestone, and suddenly shespoke, a little impulsively.
"Will you come in and speak to my mother?" she said. "She was a greatadmirer of Mr. Oliver's acting--and she knew him at one time. She will beinterested--and grieved."
Copplestone followed her up the garden and into the house, where she ledthe way into a small old-fashioned parlour in which a grey-haired woman,who had once been strikingly handsome, and whose face seemed to thevisitor to bear traces of great trouble, sat writing at a bureau. Sheturned in surprise as her daughter led Copplestone in, but her mannerbecame remarkably calm and collected as Audrey explained who he was andwhy he was there. And Copplestone, watching her narrowly, fancied that hesaw interest flash into her eyes when she heard of Bassett Oliver'sremark to the fisherman. But she made no comment, and when Audrey hadfinished the story, she turned to Copplestone as if she had alreadysummed up the situation.
"We know this place so well--having lived here so long, you know," shesaid, "that we can make a fairly accurate guess at what Mr. Oliver mightdo. There seems no doubt that he went up the path to the Keep. Accordingto Mr. Marston Greyle's statement, he certainly did not go to the house.Well, he might have done one of two other things. There is a path whichleads from the Keep down to the beach, immediately opposite the big rockswhich you have no doubt seen. There is another path which turns out ofthe woods and follows the cliffs towards Lenwick, a village along thecoast, a mile away. But--at that time, on a Sunday afternoon, both pathswould be frequented. Speaking from knowledge, I should say that Mr.Oliver cannot have left the woods--he must have been seen had he done so.It's impossible that he could have gone down to the shore or along thecliffs without being seen, too--impossible!"
There was a certain amount of insistence in the last few words whichpuzzled Copplestone--also they conveyed to him a queer suggestion whichrepulsed him; it was almost as if the speaker was appealing to him to usehis own common-sense about a difficult question. And before he could makeany reply Mrs. Greyle put a direct inquiry to him.
"What is going to be done?"
"I don't know, exactly," answered Copplestone. "I'm going to stay herefor the night, anyway, on the chance of hearing something. Stafford iscoming back in the morning--he spoke of detectives."
He looked a little doubtfully at his questioner as he uttered the lastword, and again he saw the sudden strange flash of unusual interest inher eyes, and she nodded her head emphatically.
"Precisely!--the proper thing to do," she said. "There must have beenfoul play--must!"
"Mother!" exclaimed Audrey, half doubtfully. "Do you really think--that?"
"I don't think anything else," replied Mrs. Greyle. "I certainly don'tbelieve that Bassett Oliver would put himself into any position of dangerwhich would result in his breaking his neck. Bassett Oliver never leftScarhaven Wood!"
Copplestone made no comment on this direct assertion.
Instead, after a brief silence, he asked Mrs. Greyle a question.
"You knew Mr. Oliver--personally?"
"Five and twenty years ago--yes," she answered. "I was on the stagemyself before my marriage. But I have never met him since then. I haveseen him, of course, at the local theatres."
"He--you won't mind my asking?" said Copplestone, diffidently, "he didn'tknow that you lived here?"
Mrs. Greyle smiled, somewhat mysteriously.
"Not at all--my name wouldn't have conveyed anything to him," sheanswered. "He never knew whom I married. Otherwise, if he met some onenamed Marston Greyle in America he would have connected him with me, andhave made inquiry about me, and had he known I lived here, he would havecalled. It is odd, Audrey, that if your cousin met Mr. Oliver over therehe should have forgotten him. For one doesn't easily forget a man ofreputation--and Mr. Oliver was that of course!--and on the other hand,Marston Greyle is not a common name. Did you ever hear the name before,Mr. Copplestone?"
"Only in connection with your own family--I have read of the Greyles ofScarhaven," replied Copplestone. "But, after all, I suppose it is notconfined to your family. There may be Greyles in America. Well--it's allvery queer," he went on, as he rose to leave. "May I come in tomorrow andtell you what's being done?--I'm sure Stafford means to leave no stoneunturned--he's tremendously keen about it."
"Do!" said Mrs. Greyle, heartily. "But the probability is that you'll seeus out and about in the morning--we spend most of our time out of doors,having little else to do."
Copplestone went away feeling more puzzled than ever.
Now that he was alone, for the first time since meeting Audrey Greyle onthe beach, he was able to reflect on certain events of the afternoon inuninterrupted fashion. He thought over them as he walked back towards the"Admiral's Arms." It was certainly a strange thing that Bassett Oliver,after remarking to the fisherman that he had known a Mr. Marston Greylein America, and hearing that the Squire of Scarhaven had been in thatcountry, should have gone up to the house saying that he would call onthe Squire and should never have been seen again. It was certainlystrange that if this Marston Greyle, of Scarhaven, had met Bassett Oliverin America he should have completely forgotten the fact. Bassett Oliverhad a considerable reputation in the United States--he was, in fact, morepopular in that country than in his own, and he had toured in theprincipal towns and cities across there regularly for several years. Tomeet him there was to meet a most popular celebrity--could any man forgetit? Therefore, were there two men of the name of Marston Greyle?
That was one problem--closely affecting Oliver's disappearance. The otherhad nothing to do with Oliver's disappearance--nevertheless, itinterested Richard Copplestone. He was a young man of quick perceptionand accurate observation, and his alert eyes had seen that the Squire ofScarhaven occupied a position suggestive of power and wealth. The housewhich stood beneath the old Keep was one of size and importance, the sortof place which could only b
e kept up by a rich man--Copplestone's glancesat its grounds, its gardens, its entrance lodge, its entire surroundingshad shown him that only a well-to-do man could live there. How came it,then, that the Squire's relations--his cousin and her mother--lived in asmall and unpretentious cottage, and were obviously not well off asregards material goods? Copplestone had the faculty of seeing things at aglance, and refined and cultivated as the atmosphere of Mrs. Greyle'sparlour was, it had taken no more than a glance from his perceptive eyesto see that he was there confronted with what folk call genteel poverty.Mrs. Greyle's almost nun-like attire of black had done duty for a longtime; the carpet was threadbare; there was an absence of those littletouches of comfort with which refined women of even modest means love tosurround themselves; a sure instinct told him that here were two womenwho had to carefully count their pence, and lay out their shillings withcaution. Genteel, quiet poverty, without doubt--and yet, on the otherside of the little bay, a near kinsman whose rent-roll must run to a fewthousands a year!
And yet one more curious occasion of perplexity--to add to the other two.Copplestone had felt instinctively attracted to Audrey Greyle when he mether on the sands, and the attraction increased as he walked at her sidetowards the village. In his quiet unobtrusive fashion he had watched herclosely when they encountered the man whom she introduced as her cousin;and he had fancied that her manner underwent a curious change whenMarston Greyle came on the scene--she had seemed to become constrained,chilled, distant, aloof--not with the stranger, himself, but with herkinsman. This fancy had become assurance during the conversation whichhad abruptly ended when Greyle took offence at Stafford's brusque remark.Copplestone had seen a sudden look in the girl's eyes when the fishermanrepeated what Oliver had said about meeting a Mr. Marston Greyle inAmerica; it was a look of sharply awakened--what? Suspicion?apprehension?--he could not decide. But it was the same look which hadcome into her mother's eyes later on. Moreover, when the Squire turnedhuffily away, taking his cousin with him, Copplestone had noticed thatthere was evidently a smart passage of words between them after leavingthe little group on the quay, and they had parted unceremoniously, theman turning on his heel up a side path into his own grounds and the girlgoing forward with a sudden acceleration of pace. All this madeCopplestone draw a conclusion.
"There's no great love lost between the gentleman at the big house andhis lady relatives in the little cottage," he mused. "Also, around thegentleman there appears to be some cloud of mystery. What?--and has itanything to do with the Oliver mystery?"
He went back to the inn and made his arrangements with its landlady, whoby that time was full to overflowing with interest and amazement at thestrange affair which had brought her this guest. But Mrs. Wooler had eyesas well as ears, and noticing that Copplestone was already looking wearyand harassed, she hastened to provide a hot dinner for him, and torecommend a certain claret which in her opinion possessed remarkablerevivifying qualities. Copplestone, who had eaten nothing for severalhours, accepted her hospitable attentions with gratitude, and he wasenjoying himself greatly in a quaint old-world parlour, in closeproximity to a bright fire, when Mrs. Wooler entered with a countenancewhich betokened mystery in every feature.
"There's the estate agent, Mr. Chatfield, outside, very anxious to have aword with you about this affair," she said. "Would you be for having himin? He's the sort of man," she went on, sinking her tones to a whisper,"who must know everything that's going on, and, of course, having theposition he has, he might be useful. Mr. Peter Chatfield, Mr. Greyle'sagent, and his uncle's before him--that's who he is--Peeping Peter, theycall him hereabouts, because he's fond of knowing everybody's business."
"Bring him in," said Copplestone. He was by no means averse to having acompanion, and Mrs. Wooler's graphic characterization had awakened hiscuriosity. "Tell him I shall be glad to see him."
Mrs. Wooler presently ushered in a figure which Copplestone's dramaticsense immediately seized on. He saw before him a tall, heavily-builtman, with a large, solemn, deeply-lined face, out of which looked apair of the smallest and slyest eyes ever seen in a human being--queer,almost hidden eyes, set beneath thick bushy eyebrows above which rosethe dome of an unusually high forehead and a bald head. As for the restof him, Mr. Peter Chatfield had a snub nose, a wide slit of a mouth, anda flabby hand; his garments were of a Quaker kind in cut and hue; hewore old-fashioned stand-up collars and a voluminous black stock; in onehand he carried a stout oaken staff, in the other a square-crownedbeaver hat; altogether, his mere outward appearance would have gainednotice for him anywhere, and Copplestone rejoiced in him as a character.He rose, greeted his visitor cordially, and invited him to a seat by thefire. The estate agent settled his heavy figure comfortably, and made acareful inspection of the young stranger before he spoke. At last heleaned forward.
"Sir!" he whispered in a confidential tone. "Do you consider this here amatter of murder?"
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