Collected works of j s f.., p.329
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 329
Nesta interrupted her mother.
“Does any one know the terms of that will?” she asked, looking at Eldrick. “Tell me! — if you know. Hush!” she went on, as Mrs. Mallathorpe tried to speak again. “I will know!”
“Yes!” answered Eldrick. “Esther Mawson knows them. She read the will carefully. She told Prydale just now what they were. With the exception of three legacies of ten thousand pounds each to your mother, your brother, and yourself, John Mallathorpe left everything he possessed to the town of Barford for an educational trust.”
“Then,” asked Nesta quietly, as she made a peremptory sign to her mother to be silent, “we — never had any right to be here — at all?”
“I’m afraid not,” replied Eldrick.
“Then of course we shall go,” said Nesta. “That’s certain! Do you hear that, mother? That’s my decision. It’s final!”
“You can do what you like,” retorted Mrs. Mallathorpe sullenly. “I am not going to be frightened by anything that Esther Mawson says. Nor by what you say!” she continued, turning on Eldrick. “All that has got to be proved. Who can prove it? What can prove it? Do you think I am going to give up my rights without fighting for them? I shall swear that every word of Esther Mawson’s is a lie! No one can bring forward a will that doesn’t exist. And what concern is it of yours, Mr. Eldrick? What right have you?”
“You are quite right, Mrs. Mallathorpe,” said Eldrick. “It is no concern of mine. And so — —”
He turned to the door — and as he turned the door opened, to admit the old butler who looked apologetically but earnestly at Nesta as he stepped forward.
“A Mrs. Gaukrodger wishes to see you on very particular business,” he murmured. “She’s been waiting some little time — something, she says, about some papers she has just found — belonging to the late Mr. John Mallathorpe.”
Collingwood, who was standing close to Nesta, caught all the butler said.
“Gaukrodger!” he exclaimed, with a quick glance at Eldrick. “That was the name of the manager — a witness. See the woman at once,” he whispered to Nesta.
“Bring Mrs. Gaukrodger in, Dickenson,” said Nesta. “Stay — I’ll come with you, and bring her in myself.”
She returned a moment later with a slightly built, rather careworn woman dressed in deep mourning — the woman in black whom they had seen crossing the park — who looked nervously round her as she entered.
“What is it you have for me, Mrs. Gaukrodger?” asked Nesta. “Papers belonging to the late Mr. John Mallathorpe? How — where did you get them?”
Mrs. Gaukrodger drew a large envelope from under her cloak. “This, miss,” she answered. “One paper — I only found it this morning. In this way,” she went on, addressing herself to Nesta. “When my husband was killed, along with Mr. John Mallathorpe, they, of course, brought home the clothes he was wearing. There were a lot of papers in the pockets of the coat — two pockets full of them. And I hadn’t heart or courage to look at them at that time, miss! — I couldn’t, and I locked them up in a box. I never looked at them until this very day — but this morning I happened to open that box, and I saw them, and I thought I’d see what they were. And this was one — you see, it’s in a plain envelope — it was sealed, but there’s no writing on it. I cut the envelope open, and drew the paper out, and I saw at once it was Mr. John Mallathorpe’s will — so I came straight to you with it.”
She handed the envelope over to Nesta, who at once gave it to Eldrick. The solicitor hastily drew out the enclosure, glanced it over, and turned sharply to Collingwood with a muttered exclamation.
“Good gracious!” he said. “That man Cobcroft was right! There was a duplicate! And here it is!”
Mrs. Mallathorpe had come nearer. The sight of the half sheet of foolscap in Eldrick’s hands seemed to fascinate her. And the expression of her face as she came close to his side was so curious that the solicitor involuntarily folded up the will and hastily put it behind his back — he had not only seen that expression but had caught sight of Mrs. Mallathorpe’s twitching fingers.
“Is — that — that — another will?” she whispered. “John Mallathorpe’s?”
“Precisely the same — another copy — duly signed and witnessed!” answered Eldrick firmly. “What you foolishly did was done for nothing. And — it’s the most fortunate thing in the world, Mrs. Mallathorpe, that this has turned up! — most fortunate for you!”
Mrs. Mallathorpe steadied herself on the edge of the table and looked at him fixedly. “Everything’ll have to be given up?” she asked.
“The terms of this will will be carried out,” answered Eldrick.
“Will — will they make me give up — what we’ve — saved?” she whispered.
“Mother!” said Nesta appealingly. “Don’t! Come away somewhere and let me talk to you — come!”
But Mrs. Mallathorpe shook off her daughter’s hand and turned again to Eldrick.
“Will they?” she demanded. “Answer!”
“I don’t think you’ll find the trustees at all hard when it comes to a question of account,” answered Eldrick. “They’ll probably take matters over from now and ignore anything that’s happened during the past two years.”
Again Nesta tried to lead her mother away, and again Mrs. Mallathorpe pushed the appealing hand from her. All her attention was fixed on Eldrick. “And — and will the police give me — now — what they found on that woman?” she whispered.
“I have no doubt they will,” replied Eldrick. “It’s — yours.”
Mrs. Mallathorpe drew a sigh of relief. She looked at the solicitor steadily for a moment — then without another word she turned and went away — to find Prydale.
Eldrick turned to Nesta.
“Don’t forget,” he said in a low voice, “it’s a terrible blow to her, and she’s been thinking of your interests! Leave her alone for a while — she’ll get used to the altered circumstances. I’m sorry for her — and for you!”
But Nesta made a sign of dissent.
“There’s no need to be sorry for me, Mr. Eldrick,” she answered. “It’s a greater relief than you can realize.” She turned from him and went over to Mrs. Gaukrodger who had watched this scene without fully comprehending it. “Come with me,” she said. “You look very tired and you must have some tea and rest awhile — come now.”
Eldrick and Collingwood, left alone, looked at each, other in silence for a moment. Then the solicitor shook his head expressively.
“Well, that’s over!” he exclaimed. “I must go back and hand this will over to the two trustees. But you, Collingwood — stay here a bit — if ever that girl needs company and help, it’s now!”
“I’m stopping,” said Collingwood.
He remained for a time where Eldrick left him; at last he went down to the hall and out into the gardens. And presently Nesta came to him there, and as if with a mutual understanding they walked away into the nearer stretches of the park. Normandale had never looked more beautiful than it did that afternoon, and in the midst of a silence which up to then neither of them had cared to break, Collingwood suddenly turned to the girl who had just lost it.
“Are you sure that you won’t miss all this — greatly?” he asked. “Just think!”
“I’d rather lose more than this, however fond I’d got of it, than go through what I’ve gone through lately,” she answered frankly. “Do you know what I want to do?”
“No — I think not,” he said. “What?”
“If it’s possible — to forget all about this,” she replied. “And — if that’s also possible — to help my mother to forget, too. Don’t think too hardly of her — I don’t suppose any of us know how much all this place — and the money — meant to her.”
“I’ve got no hard thoughts about her,” said Collingwood. “I’m sorry for her. But — is it too soon to talk about the future?”
Nesta looked at him in a way which showed him that she only half comprehended the question. But there was sufficient comprehension in her eyes to warrant him in taking her hands in his.
“You know why I didn’t go to India?” he said, bending his face to hers.
“I — guessed!” she answered shyly.
Then Collingwood, at this suddenly arrived supreme moment, became curiously bereft of speech. And after a period of silence, during which, being in the shadow of a grove of beech-trees which kindly concealed them from the rest of the world, they held each other’s hands, all that he could find to say was one word.
“Well?”
Nesta laughed.
“Well — what?” she whispered.
Collingwood suddenly laughed too and put his arm round her.
“It’s no good!” he said. “I’ve often thought of what I’d to say to you — and now I’ve forgotten all. Shall I say it all at once!”
“Wouldn’t it be best?” she murmured with another laugh.
“Then — you’re going to marry me?” he asked.
“Am I to answer — all at once?” she said.
“One word will do!” he exclaimed, drawing her to him.
“Ah!” she whispered as she lifted her face to his. “I couldn’t say it all in one word. But — we’ve lots of time before us!”
THE END
Scarhaven Keep (1920)
Scarhaven Keep was serialised in the Sydney Morning Herald throughout the summer of 1918 and published in book form in Britain in the summer of 1920 and in the USA two years later.
Famous actor Bassett Oliver, a martinet for punctuality, fails to turn up for a rehearsal he himself called. Eventually, his body is found inside the tower of Scarhaven Keep. Copplestone, a young playwright, becomes interested in the case and stays at Scarhaven to look for clues. There he meets the poor relations of the rich squire, one of whom is pretty, young and female. Suspicions are aroused that the squire committed the murder and is not what he seems…
As with so many of Fletcher’s detective stories, Scarhaven Keep garnered a good reaction from the critics. The El Paso Times said, “Anyone who likes detective stories will enjoy this book. All kinds of usual and unusual elements enter — chests of gold, kidnapping and marooning. It’s full of thrill from start to finish and there is never a moment when the interest wavers”; whilst the Sheffield Daily Independent described it as, “A good racy mystery story with all the elements of a popular success” The Edinburgh Evening News said:
“Some new and unusual features are embodied in the plot…Complications arise owing to a case of misplaced identity and this adds greatly to the interest of the book. The characterisation is capital, the picture of the estate agent being especially well-penned, while the incident staged on an island in the Orkneys will be greatly appreciated by the average reader.”
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVII
CHAPTER XVIII
CHAPTER XIX
CHAPTER XX
CHAPTER XXI
CHAPTER XXII
CHAPTER XXIII
CHAPTER XXIV
CHAPTER XXV
CHAPTER XXVI
CHAPTER XXVII
CHAPTER XXVIII
CHAPTER XXIX
CHAPTER XXX
CHAPTER XXXI
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 the renewal of old acquaintance. For at any rate forty-six weeks of the fifty-two, theatrical companies came and went at Norcaster with unfailing regularity. The company which presented itself for patronage in the first week of April in one year was almost certain to present itself again in the corresponding week of the next year. Sometimes new faces came with it, but as a rule the same old favourites showed themselves for a good many years in succession. And every actor and actress who came to Norcaster knew Jerramy. He was the first official person encountered on entering upon the business of the week. He it was who handed out the little bundles of letters and papers, who exchanged the first greetings, of whom one could make useful inquiries, who always knew exactly what advice to give about lodgings and landladies. From noon onwards of Mondays, when the newcomers began to arrive at the theatre for the customary one o’clock call for rehearsal, Jerramy was invariably employed in 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 always culminated in a hearty handshake and genial greeting from the great man of the company, who, of course, after the fashion of magnates, always turned up at the end of the irregular procession, and was not seldom late for the fixture which he himself had made.
At a quarter past one of a certain Monday afternoon in the course of a sunny October, Jerramy leaned over the half-door of his sanctum in conversation with an anxious-eyed man who for the past ten minutes had hung about in the restless fashion peculiar to those who are waiting for somebody. 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 a neighbouring church almost as often; he had several times gone up the dark passage which led to the dressing-rooms, and had come back again looking more perplexed than ever. The fact was that he was the business manager of the great Mr. Bassett Oliver, who was opening for the week at Norcaster in his latest success, and who, not quite satisfied with the way in which a particular bit of it was being played called a special rehearsal for a quarter to one. Everything and everybody was ready for that 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, he was a very martinet as regarded rule, precision and system; moreover, he always did what he expected each member of his company to do. Therefore his non-arrival, his half hour of irregularity, seemed all the more extraordinary.
“Never knew him to be late before — never!” exclaimed the business manager, impatiently pulling out his watch for the twentieth time. “Not in 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 at his old quarters — the ‘Angel.’ But I haven’t seen him; neither had Rothwell — we’ve both been too busy to call there. I expect he came on to the ‘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 a halt. But instead of the fine face and distinguished presence of Mr. Bassett Oliver, he found himself confronting a young man who looked like a well-set-up subaltern, or a cricket-and-football loving undergraduate; a somewhat shy, rather nervous young man, scrupulously groomed, and neatly 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 an appointment 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 some stage-struck youth who had probably persuaded the good-natured actor to give him an interview. His expression changed, however; as he glanced at the card which the young man handed over, and he started a little and held out his hand with a smile.
“Oh! — Mr. Copplestone?” he exclaimed. “How do you do? My name’s Stafford — I’m Mr. Oliver’s business manager. So he made an appointment with you, did he — here, today? Wants to see you about your play, of course.”
Again he looked at the newcomer with a smiling interest, thinking secretly that he was a very youthful and ingenuous being to have written a play which Bassett Oliver, a shrewd critic, and by no means easy to please, had been eager to accept, and was about to produce. Mr. Richard Copplestone, seen in the flesh, looked very young indeed, and very unlike anything in the shape of a professional author. In fact he very much reminded Stafford of the fine and healthy young man whom one sees on the playing fields, and certainly does not associate with pen and ink. That he was not much used to the world on whose edge he just then stood Stafford gathered from a boyish trick of blushing through the tan of 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’d gone out for the day, you know — gone out early. So I didn’t find it until I got back to my rooms late at night. I got the next train I could from King’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 know where—” Just then another man came hurrying down the passage from the dressing-rooms, calling the business manager by name.
“I say, Stafford!” he exclaimed, as he emerged on the street. “This is a queer 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 ready for him as usual yesterday, but he never came. They’ve neither seen nor heard of him. Did you see him yesterday?”
