THE LIE ON THE TOMBSTONE
Gilling's glance at his companion was quiet enough, but it spoke volumes.
Here, by sheer chance, was such a revelation as they had never dreamed of
hearing!--here was the probable explanation of at least half the mystery.
He turned composedly to the landlady.
"I've already told you who and what I am," he said, pointing to the card
which he had handed to her. "There are certain mysterious circumstances
about this affair which I want to get at. What you've said just now is
abundant evidence that you can help. If you do and will help, you'll be
well paid for your trouble. Now, you speak of sickness--death--a funeral.
Will you tell us all about it?"
"I never knew there was any mystery about it," answered the landlady, as
she motioned her visitors to seat themselves. "It was all above-board as
far as I knew. Of course, I've always been sore about it--I'd a great
deal of trouble, and as I say, I never got anything for it--that is,
anything extra. And me doing it really to oblige her and her father!"
"They brought a sick man here?" suggested Gilling.
"I'll tell you how it was," said Mrs. Salmon, seating herself and showing
signs of a disposition to confidence. "Miss Chatfield, she'd been here, I
think, three days that time--I'd had her once before a year or two
previous. One morning--I'm sure it was about the third day that the
_Swayne Necklace_ Company was here--she came in from rehearsal in a
regular take-on. She said that her father had just called on her at the
theatre. She said he'd been to Falmouth to meet a relation of theirs
who'd come from America and had found him to be very ill on landing--so
ill that a Falmouth doctor had given strict orders that he mustn't travel
any further than Bristol, on his way wherever he wanted to go. They'd got
to Bristol and the young man was so done up that Mr. Chatfield had had to
drive him to another doctor--one close by here--Dr. Valdey--as soon as
they arrived. Dr. Valdey said he must go to bed at once and have at least
two days' complete rest in bed, and he advised Mr. Chatfield to get quiet
rooms instead of going to a hotel. So Mr. Chatfield, knowing that his
daughter was here, do you see, sought her out and told her all about it.
She came to me and asked me if I knew where they could get rooms. Well
now, I had my drawing-room floor empty that week, and as it was only for
two or three days that they wanted rooms I offered to take Mr. Chatfield
and the young man in. Of course, if I'd known how ill he was, I
shouldn't. What I understood--and mind you, I don't say they wilfully
deceived me, for I don't think they did--what I understood was that the
young man simply wanted a real good rest. But he was evidently a deal
worse than what even Dr. Valdey thought. He'd stopped at Dr. Valdey's
surgery while Mr. Chatfield went to see about rooms, and they moved him
from there straight in here. And as I say, he was a deal worse than they
thought, much worse, and the doctor had to be fetched to him more than
once during the afternoon. Still Dr. Valdey himself never said to me that
there was any immediate danger. But that's neither here nor there--the
young fellow died that night."
"That night!" exclaimed Gilling, "the night he came here?"
"Very same night," assented Mrs. Salmon. "Brought in here about two in
the afternoon and died just before midnight--soon after Miss Chatfield
came in from the theatre. Went very suddenly at the end."
"Were you present?" asked Copplestone.
"I wasn't. Nobody was with him but Mr. Chatfield--Miss Chatfield was
getting her supper down here," replied Mrs. Salmon. "And I was busy
elsewhere."
"Was there an inquest then," inquired Gilling?"
"Oh, no!" said Mrs. Salmon, shaking her head. "Oh, no!--there was no need
for that--the doctor, ye see, had been seeing him all day. Oh, no--the
cause of death was evident enough, in a way of speaking. Heart."
"Did they bury him here, then?" asked Gilling.
"Two days after," replied Mrs. Salmon. "Kept everything very quiet, they
did. I don't believe Miss Chatfield told any of the theatre people--she
went to her work just the same, of course. The old gentleman saw to
everything--funeral and all. I'll say this for them--they gave me no
unnecessary trouble, but still, there's trouble that is necessary when
you've death in a house and a funeral at the door, and they ought to have
given me something for what I did. But they didn't, so I considered it
very mean. Mr. Chatfield, he stayed two days after the funeral, and when
he left he just said that his daughter would settle up with me. But when
she came to pay she added nothing to my bill, and she walked out
remarking that if her father hadn't given me anything extra she was sure
she shouldn't. Shabby!"
"Very shabby!" agreed Gilling. "Well, you won't find my clients quite so
mean, ma'am. But just a word--don't mention this matter to anybody until
you hear from me. And as I like to give some earnest of payment here's a
bank-note which you can slip into your purse--on account, you understand.
Now, just a question or two:--Did you hear the young man's name?"
The landlady, whose spirits rose visibly on receipt of the bank-note,
appeared to reflect on hearing this question, and she shook her head as
if surprised at her own inability to answer it satisfactorily.
"Well, now," she said, "it may seem a queer thing to say, but I don't
recollect that I ever did! You see, I didn't see much of him after he
once got here. I was never in his room with them, and they didn't mention
his name--that I can remember--when they spoke about him before me. I
understood he was a relative--cousin or something of that sort."
"Didn't you see any name on the coffin?" asked Gilling.
"I didn't," replied Mrs. Salmon. "You see, the undertaker fetched him
away when him and his men brought the coffin--the next day. He took
charge of the coffin for the second night, and the funeral took place
from there. But I'll tell you what--the undertaker'll know the name, and
of course the doctor does. They're both close by."
Gilling took names and addresses and once more pledging the landlady to
secrecy, led Copplestone away.
"That's the end of another chapter," he said when they were clear of that
place. "We know now that Marston Greyle died there--in that very house,
Copplestone!--and that Peter Chatfield was with him. That's fact!"
"And it's fact, too, that the daughter knows," observed Copplestone in a
low voice.
"Fact, too, that Addie Chatfield was in it," agreed Gilling. "Well--but
what happened next? However, before we go on to that, there are three
things to do in the morning. We must see this Dr. Valdey, and the
undertaker--and Marston Greyle's grave."
"And then?" asked Copplestone.
"Stiff, big question," sighed Gilling. "Go back to town and report, I
think--and find out if Swallow has discovered anything. And egad! there's
a lot to discover! For you see we're already certain that at the stage at
which we've arrived a conspiracy began--conspiracy between Chatfield, his
daughter, and the man who's been passing himself off as Marston Greyle.
Now, who is the man? Where did they get hold of him? Is he some relation
of theirs? All that's got to be found out. Of course, their object is
very clear, Marston Greyle, the real Simon Pure, was dead on their hands.
His legal successor was his cousin, Miss Audrey. Chatfield knew that when
Miss Audrey came into power his own reign as steward of Scarhaven would
be brief. And so--but the thing is so plain that one needn't waste breath
on it. And I tell you what's plain too, Copplestone--Miss Audrey Greyle
is the lady of Scarhaven! Good luck to her! You'll no doubt be glad to
communicate the glad tidings!"
Copplestone made no answer. He was utterly confounded by the recent
revelations and was wondering what the mother and daughter in the little
cottage so far away in the grey north would say when all these things
were told them.
"Let's make dead certain of everything," he said after a long pause.
"Don't let's leave any loophole."
"Oh, we'll leave nothing--here at any rate," replied Gilling,
confidently. "But you'll find in the morning that we already know almost
everything."
In this he was right. The doctor's story was a plain one. The young man
was very ill indeed when brought to him, and though he did not anticipate
so early or sudden an end, he was not surprised when death came, and had
of course, no difficulty about giving the necessary certificate. Just as
plain was the undertaker's account of his connection with the affair--a
very ordinary transaction in his eyes. And having heard both stories,
there was nothing to do but to visit one of the adjacent cemeteries and
find a certain grave the number of which they had ascertained from the
undertaker's books. It was easily found--and Copplestone and Gilling
found themselves standing at a new tombstone, whereon the monumental
mason had carved four lines:--
MARK GREY
BORN APRIL 12TH, 1884
DIED OCTOBER 6TH, 1912
AGED 28 YEARS.
"Short, simple, eminently suited to the purpose," murmured Gilling as the
two turned away. "Somebody thought things out quickly and well,
Copplestone, when this poor fellow died. Do you know I've been thinking
as we walked up here that if Bassett Oliver had never taken it into his
head to visit Scarhaven that Sunday this fraud would never have been
found out! The chances were all against its ever being found out.
Consider them! A young man who is an absolute stranger in England comes
to take up an inheritance, having on him no doubt, the necessary proofs
of identification. He's met by one person only--his agent. He dies next
day. The agent buries him, under a false name, takes his effects and
papers, gets some accomplice to personate him, introduces that accomplice
to everybody as the real man--and there you are! Oh, Chatfield knew what
he was doing! Who on earth, wandering in this cemetery, would ever
connect Mark Grey with Marston Greyle?"
"Just so--but there was one danger-spot which must have given Chatfield
and his accomplices a good many uneasy hours," answered Copplestone. "You
know that Marston Greyle actually registered in his own name at Falmouth
and was known to the land lord and the doctor there."
"Yes--and Falmouth is three hundred miles from London and five hundred
from Scarhaven," replied Gilling dryly. "And do you suppose that whoever
saw Marston Greyle at Falmouth cared two pins--comparatively--what became
of him after he left there? No--Chatfield was almost safe from detection
as soon as he'd got that unfortunate young fellow laid away in that
grave. However we know now--what we do know. And the next thing, now that
we know Marston Greyle lies behind us there, is to get back to town and
catch the chap who took his place. We'll wire to Swallow and to
Petherton and get the next express."
Sir Cresswell Oliver and Petherton were in conference with Swallow at the
solicitor's office when Gilling and Copplestone arrived there in the
early afternoon. Gilling interrupted their conversation to tell the
result of his investigations. Copplestone, watching the effect, saw that
neither Sir Cresswell nor Petherton showed surprise. Petherton indeed,
smiled as if he had anticipated all that Gilling had to say.
"I told you that I knew the Greyle family solicitors," he observed. "I
find that they have only once seen the man whom we will call the Squire.
Chatfield brought him there. He produced proofs of identification--papers
which Chatfield no doubt took from the dead man. Of course, the
solicitors never doubted for a moment that he was the real Marston
Greyle!--never dreamed of fraud: Well--the next step. We must concentrate
on finding this man. And Swallow has nothing to tell--yet. He has never
seen anything more of him. You'd better turn all your attention to that,
Gilling--you and Swallow. As for Chatfield and his daughter, I suppose we
shall have to approach the police."
Copplestone presently went home to his rooms in Jermyn Street, puzzled
and wondering; And there, lying on top of a pile of letters, he found a
telegram--from Audrey Greyle. It had been dispatched from Scarhaven at an
early hour of the previous day, and it contained but three words--_Can
you come?_