Scarhaven Keep - J. S. Fletcher (phonics reading books TXT) 📗

“I want to see what I’m dealing with. Come out, now!”

The unseen laughed again, moved away from his screen, and presently showed himself on the edge of the shelf of rock. And Copplestone found himself staring at a queer figure of a man⁠—an undersized, quaint-looking fellow, clad in dirty velveteens, a once red waistcoat, and leather breeches and gaiters, a sort of compound between a poacher, a gamekeeper, and an ostler. But quainter than figure or garments was the man’s face⁠—a gnarled, weather-beaten, sea-and-wind-stained face, which, in Copplestone’s opinion, was honest enough and not without abundant traces of a sense of humour.

Copplestone at once trusted that face. He swung himself up by the nooks and crannies of the rock, and joined the man on his ledge.

“Well?” he said. “You’re the chap who sent me that letter? Why?”

“Come this way, guv’nor,” replied the brown-faced one. “Well talk more comfortable, like, in my parlour. Here you are!”

He led Copplestone along the ridge behind the bushes, and presently revealed a cave in the face of the overhanging limestone, mostly natural, but partly due to artifice, wherein were rude seats, covered over with old sacking, a box or two which evidently served for pantry and larder, and a shelf on which stood a wicker-covered bottle in company with a row of bottles of ale.

The lord of this retreat waved a hospitable hand towards his cellar.

“You’ll not refuse a poor man’s hospitality, guv’nor?” he said politely. “I can give you a clean glass, and if you’ll try a drop of rum, there’s fresh water from the stream to mix it with⁠—good as you’ll find in England. Or, maybe, it being the forepart of the day, you’d prefer ale, now? Say the word!”

“A bottle of ale, then, thank you,” responded Copplestone, who saw that he had to deal with an original, and did not wish to appear standoffish. “And whom am I going to drink with, may I ask?”

The man carefully drew the cork of a bottle, poured out its contents with the discrimination of a bartender, handed the glass to his visitor with a bow, helped himself to a measure of rum, and bowed again as he drank.

“My best respects to you, guv’nor,” he said. “Glad to see you in Hobkin’s Hole Castle⁠—that’s here. Queer place for gentlemen to meet in, ain’t it? Who are you talking to, says you? My name, guv’-nor⁠—well-known hereabouts⁠—is Zachary Spurge!”

“You sent me that note last night?” asked Copplestone, taking a seat and filling his pipe. “How did you get it there⁠—unseen?”

“Got a cousin as is odd-job man at the Admiral’s Arms,” replied Spurge. “He slipped it in for me. You may ha’ seen him there, guv’nor⁠—chap with one eye, and queer-looking, but to be trusted. As I am!⁠—down to the ground.”

“And what do you want to see me about?” inquired Copplestone. “What’s this bit of news you’ve got to tell?”

Zachary Spurge thrust a hand inside his velveteen jacket and drew out a much folded and creased paper, which, on being unwrapped, proved to be the bill which offered a reward for the finding of Bassett Oliver. He held it up before his visitor.

“This!” he said. “A thousand pound is a vast lot o’ money, guv’nor! Now, if I was to tell something as I knows of, what chances should I have of getting that there money?”

“That depends,” replied Copplestone. “The reward is to be given to⁠—but you see the plain wording of it. Can you give information of that sort?”

“I can give a certain piece of information, guv’nor,” said Spurge. “Whether it’ll lead to the finding of that there gentleman or not I can’t say. But something I do know⁠—certain sure!”

Copplestone reflected awhile.

“Ill tell you what, Spurge,” he said. “I’ll promise you this much. If you can give any information I’ll give you my word that⁠—whether what you can tell is worth much or little⁠—you shall be well paid. That do?”

“That’ll do, guv’nor,” responded Spurge. “I take your word as between gentlemen! Well, now, it’s this here⁠—you see me as I am, here in a cave, like one o’ them old eremites that used to be in the ancient days. Why am I here! ’Cause just now it ain’t quite convenient for me to show my face in Scarhaven. I’m wanted for poaching, guv’nor⁠—that’s the fact! This here is a safe retreat. If I was tracked here, I could make my way out at the back of this hole⁠—there’s a passage here⁠—before anybody could climb that rock. However, nobody suspects I’m here. They think⁠—that is, that old devil Chatfield and the police⁠—they think I’m off to sea. However, here I am⁠—and last Sunday afternoon as ever was, I was in Scarhaven! In the wood I was, guv’nor, at the back of the Keep. Never mind what for⁠—I was there. And at precisely ten minutes to three o’clock I saw Bassett Oliver.”

“How did you know him?” demanded Copplestone.

“ ’Cause I’ve had many a sixpenn’orth of him at both Northborough and Norcaster,” answered Spurge. “Seen him a dozen times, I have, and knew him well enough, even if I’d only viewed him from the the-ayter gallery. Well, he come along up the path from the south quay. He passed within a dozen yards of me, and went up to the door in the wall of the ruins, right opposite where I was lying doggo amongst some bushes. He poked the door with the point of his stick⁠—it was ajar, that door, and it went open. And so he walks in⁠—and disappears. Guv’nor!⁠—I reckon that’ud be the last time as he was seen alive!⁠—unless⁠—unless⁠—”

“Unless⁠—what?” asked Copplestone eagerly.

“Unless one other man saw him,” replied Spurge solemnly. “For there was another man there, guv’nor. Squire Greyle!”

Copplestone looked hard at Spurge; Spurge returned the stare, and nodded two or three times.

“Gospel truth!” he said. “I kept where I was⁠—I’d reasons of my own. May be eight minutes or so⁠—certainly not ten⁠—after Bassett Oliver walked in there, Squire Greyle walked out. In a hurry, guv’nor. He come