Scarhaven Keep by J. S. Fletcher (snow like ashes series .txt) 📗

sure knowledge tell me exactly what she is. She's a class H. boat built last year—oil fuel—turbines—runs up to thirty knots—and she's doing 'em, too, just now! Come on, Copplestone—more stuff on this fire!"

"I don't think we need be uneasy," said Copplestone. "Miss Greyle thinks that her mother will have raised a hue and cry after the Pike. This torpedo thing is probably looking round for us. She—what's that?"

The sudden sharp crack of a gun came across the calm surface of the sea, and the watchers turning from their fire towards the black object in the distance saw a cloud of white smoke drifting away from it.

"Hooray!" shouted Vickers. "She's seen our smoke-pillar! Shove more on, just to let her know we understand. Saved!—this time, anyway."

Half-an-hour later, a spick and span and eminently youthful-looking naval lieutenant raised his cap to the three folk who stood eagerly awaiting his approach at the edge of the surf.

"Miss Greyle? Mr. Vickers? Mr. Copplestone?" he asked as he sprang from his boat and came up. "Right!—we're searching for you—had wireless messages this morning. Where's the pirate, or whatever he is?"

"Somewhere away to the southward," answered Vickers, pointing into the haze. "He was here two hours ago—but he's about as fast as they make 'em, and he's good reason to show a clean pair of heels. However, we've ample grounds for believing him to have gone due south again. Where are you from?"

"Got the message off Dunnett Head, and we'll run you to Thurso," replied the rescuer, motioning them to enter the boat. "Come on—our commander's got some word or other for you. What's all this been?" he went on, gazing at Audrey with youthful assurance as they moved away from the shore. "You don't mean to say you've actually been kidnapped?"

"Kidnapped and marooned," replied Vickers. "And I hope you'll catch our kidnapper—he's got a tremendous amount of property on him which belongs to this lady, and he'll make tracks for the other side of the Atlantic as soon as he gets hold of some more which he's gone to collect."

The lieutenant regarded Audrey with still more interest. "Oh, all right," he said confidently. "He'll not get away. I guess they've wirelessed all over the place—our message was from the Admiralty!"

"That's Sir Cresswell's doing," said Copplestone, turning to Audrey. "Your mother must have wired to him. I wonder what the message is?" he asked, facing the lieutenant. "Do you know?"

"Something about if you're found to tell you to get south as fast as possible," he answered. "And we've worked that out for you. You can get on by train from Thurso to Inverness, and from Inverness, of course, you'll get the southern express. Well put you off at Thurso by two o'clock—just time to give you such lunch as our table affords—bit rough, you know. So you've really been all night on that island?" he went on with unaffected curiosity. "What a lark!"

"You'd have had an opportunity of studying character if you'd been with us," replied Vickers. "We lost a fine specimen of humanity two hours ago."

"Tell about it aboard," said the lieutenant. "We'll be thankful—we've been round this end-of-everywhere coast for a month and we're tired. It's quite a Godsend to have a little adventure."

Copplestone had been right in surmising that Sir Cresswell Oliver had bestirred himself to find him and his companions. They were presently shown his message. They were to get to Norcaster as quickly as possible, and to wire their whereabouts as soon as they were found. If, as seemed likely, they were picked up on the north coast of Scotland, they were to ask at Inverness railway station for telegrams. And to Inverness after being landed at Thurso they betook themselves, while the torpedo-boat destroyer set off to nose round for the Pike, in case she came that way back from wherever she had gone to.

Copplestone came out of the station-master's office at Inverness with a couple of telegrams and read their contents over to his companions in the dining-room to which they adjourned.

"This is from Mrs. Greyle," he said. "'All right and much relieved by wire from Thurso. Bring Audrey home as quick as possible.' That's good! And this—Great Scott! This is from Gilling! Listen!—'Just heard from Petherton of your rescue. Come straight and sharp Norcaster. Meet me at the "Angel." Big things afoot. Spurge most anxious see you. Important news. Gilling.' So things have been going on," he concluded, turning the second telegram over to Vickers. "I suppose we'll have to travel all night?"

"Night express in an hour," replied Vickers. "We shall make Norcaster about five-thirty tomorrow morning."

"Then let us wire the time of our arrival to Gilling. I'm anxious to know what has brought him up there," said Copplestone. "And we'll wire to Mrs. Greyle, too," he added, turning to Audrey. "She'll know then that you're absolutely on the way."

"I wonder what we're on the way to?" remarked Vickers with a grim smile. "It strikes me that our recent alarms and excursions will have been as nothing to what awaits us at Norcaster."

What did await them on a cold, dismal morning at Norcaster was Gilling, stamping up and down a windswept platform. And Gilling seized on Copplestone almost before he could alight from the train.

"Come to the 'Angel' straight off!" he said. "Mrs. Greyle's there awaiting her daughter. I've work for you and Vickers at once—that chap Spurge is somewhere about the 'Angel,' too—been hanging round there since yesterday, heavy with news that he'll give to nobody but you."

CHAPTER XXV THE SQUIRE

Such of the folk of the "Angel" hotel—a night porter, a waiter, a chamber-maid—as were up and about that grey morning, wondered why the two old gentlemen who had arrived from London the day before should rise from their beds to hold a secret and mysterious conference with the three young ones who, with a charming if tired-looking young lady, drove up before the city clocks had struck six. But Sir Cresswell Oliver and Mr. Petherton knew that there was no time to be lost, and as soon as Audrey had been restored to and carried off by her mother to Mrs. Greyle's room, they summoned Vickers and Copplestone to a private parlour and demanded their latest news. Sir Cresswell listened eagerly, and in silence, until Copplestone described the return of the Pike; at that he broke his silence.

"That's precisely what I feared!" he exclaimed. "Of course, if she's been hurriedly repainted and renamed, she stands a fair chance of getting away. Our instructions to the patrol boats up there are to look for a certain vessel, the Pike—naturally they won't look for anything else. We must get the wireless to work at once."

"But there's this," said Copplestone. "They certainly fetched old
Chatfield to make him hand over the gold! They won't go away without
that! And he said that he'd hidden the gold somewhere near Scarhaven.
Therefore, they'll have to come down this coast to get it."

"Not necessarily," replied Sir Cresswell, with a knowing shake of the head. "You may be sure they're alive to all the exigencies of the situation. They could do several things once they'd got Chatfield on board again. Some of them could land with him at some convenient port and make him take them to where he's hidden the money; they could recapture that and go off to some other port, to which the yacht had meanwhile been brought round. If we only knew where Chatfield had planted that money—"

"He said near Scarhaven, unmistakably," remarked Vickers.

"Near Scarhaven!" repeated Sir Cresswell, laughing dismally. "That's a wide term—a very wide one. Behind Scarhaven, as you all know, are hills and moors and valleys and ravines in which one could hide a Dreadnought! Well, that's all I can think of—getting into communication with patrol boats and coastguard stations all along the coast between here and Wick. And that mayn't be the least good. Somebody may have escorted Chatfield ashore after they left you yesterday, brought him hereabouts by rail or motor-car, and the yacht may have made a wide detour round the Shetlands and be now well on her way to the North Atlantic."

"But in that case—the money?" asked Copplestone.

"They would get hold of the money, take it clean away, and ship it from Liverpool, or Glasgow, or—anywhere," replied Sir Cresswell. "You may be sure they've plenty of resources at command, and that they'll work secretly. Of course, we must keep a look out round about here for any sign or reappearance of Chatfield, but, as I say, this country is so wild that he and his companions can easily elude observation, especially as they're sure to come by night. Still, we must do what we can, and at once. But first, there are one or two things I want to ask you young men—you said, Mr. Vickers, that Chatfield solemnly insisted to you that he did not know that the man who had posed as Marston Greyle was not Marston Greyle?"

"He did," replied Vickers, "and though Chatfield is an unmitigated old scoundrel, I believe him."

"You do!" exclaimed Gilling, who was listening eagerly. "Oh, come!"

"I do—as a professional man," answered Vickers, stoutly, and with an appealing glance at his brother solicitor. "Mr. Petherton will tell you that we lawyers have a curious gift of intuition. With all Chatfield's badness, I do really believe that the old fellow does not know whether the man we'll call the Squire is Marston Greyle or not! He's doubtful—he's puzzled—but he doesn't know."

"Odd!" murmured Sir Cresswell, after a minute's silence. "Odd! Very, very odd! That shows that there's still some extraordinary mystery about this which we haven't even guessed at. Well, now, another question—you got the idea that some one else was aboard the yacht?"

"Some one other than Andrius—in authority—yes!" answered Vickers. "We certainly thought that."

"Did you think it was the man we know as the Squire?" asked Sir
Cresswell.

"We had a notion that he might be there," replied Vickers, with a glance at Copplestone. "Especially after what happened to Chatfield. Of course, we never saw him, or heard his voice, or saw a sign of him. Still, we fancied—"

Sir Cresswell rose from his chair and motioned to Petherton.

"Well," he said, "I think you and I, Petherton, had better complete our toilets, and then give a look in at the authorities here and find out if anything has been received by wireless or from the coastguard stations about the yacht. In the meantime," he added, turning to Vickers and Copplestone, "Gilling can tell you what's been going on in your absence—you'll learn from it that our impression is that the Squire, as we call him, was on the Pike with you."

The two elder men went away, and Copplestone turned to Gilling.

"What have you got?" he asked eagerly. "Live news!"

"Might have been livelier and more satisfactory," answered Gilling, "if it hadn't been for the factor which none of us can help—luck! We tracked the Squire."

"You did?" exclaimed Copplestone. "Where?"

"When I said we I should have said Swallow," continued Gilling. "You remember that afternoon of our return from Bristol, Copplestone? It seems ages away now, though as a matter of time it's only four days ago!—Well, that afternoon Swallow, who had had two or three more keeping a sharp look out for the Squire, got a telephone message from one of 'em saying that he'd tracked his man to the Fragonard Club. I'd gone home to my chambers, to rest a bit after our adventures at Bristol and Falmouth, so Swallow had to act on his own initiative. He set off for the Fragonard Club, and outside it met his man. This particular man had been keeping a watch for days on that tobacconist's shop in Wardour Street. That afternoon he suddenly saw the Squire leave it, by a side door. He followed him to the Fragonard Club, watched him enter; then he himself turned into a neighbouring bar and telephoned to Swallow. The Squire was still in the Fragonard when Swallow got there: from that time he kept a watch. The Squire remained in the Club for an hour—"

"Which proves," interrupted Copplestone, "that he's a member, and that I ought to have followed up my attempt to get in there."

"Well, anyway," continued Gilling, "there he was, and thence he eventually emerged, with a kit-bag. He got into a taxi, and Swallow heard him order its driver to go to King's Cross. Now Swallow was there alone—and he had just before that met his man scooting round to see if there was a rear exit from the Fragonard, and