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152 pages

English

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Fans of golden-era mysteries will delight in J. S. Fletcher's Scarhaven Keep, a tightly plotted page-turner set in a coastal region of northern England. A young actor and theater manager has gone missing, and several of his friends and business associates set out to track him down. The trail leads to nearby Scarhaven, where the details of a nefarious plot begin to be revealed.

Informations

Publié par	The Floating Press
Date de parution	01 mai 2014
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781776535910
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0134€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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SCARHAVEN KEEP
* * *
J. S. FLETCHER

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Scarhaven Keep First published in 1922 Epub ISBN 978-1-77653-591-0 Also available: PDF ISBN 978-1-77653-592-7 © 2013 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
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Chapter I - Wanted at Rehearsal Chapter II - Grey Rock and Grey Sea Chapter III - The Man Who Knew Something Chapter IV - The Estate Agent Chapter V - The Greyle History Chapter VI - The Leading Lady Chapter VII - Left on Guard Chapter VIII - Right of Way Chapter IX - Hobkin's Hole Chapter X - The Invalid Curate Chapter XI - Beneath the Brambles Chapter XII - Good Men and True Chapter XIII - Mr. Dennie Chapter XIV - By Private Treaty Chapter XV - The Cablegram from New York Chapter XVI - In Touch with the Missing Chapter XVII - The Old Playbill Chapter XVIII - The Lie on the Tombstone Chapter XIX - The Steam Yacht Chapter XX - The Courteous Captain Chapter XXI - Marooned Chapter XXII - The Old Hand Chapter XXIII - The Yacht Comes Back Chapter XXIV - The Torpedo-Boat Destroyer Chapter XXV - The Squire Chapter XXVI - The Reaver's Glen Chapter XXVII - The Peel Tower Chapter XXVIII - The Footprints Chapter XXIX - Scarvell's Cut Chapter XXX - The Greengrocer's Cart Chapter XXXI - Ambassadress Extraordinary
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 therenewal of old acquaintance. For at any rate forty-six weeks of thefifty-two, theatrical companies came and went at Norcaster with unfailingregularity. The company which presented itself for patronage in the firstweek of April in one year was almost certain to present itself again inthe corresponding week of the next year. Sometimes new faces came withit, but as a rule the same old favourites showed themselves for a goodmany years in succession. And every actor and actress who came toNorcaster knew Jerramy. He was the first official person encountered onentering upon the business of the week. He it was who handed out thelittle bundles of letters and papers, who exchanged the first greetings,of whom one could make useful inquiries, who always knew exactly whatadvice to give about lodgings and landladies. From noon onwards ofMondays, when the newcomers began to arrive at the theatre for thecustomary one o'clock call for rehearsal, Jerramy was invariably employedin 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 alwaysculminated in a hearty handshake and genial greeting from the great manof the company, who, of course, after the fashion of magnates, alwaysturned up at the end of the irregular procession, and was not seldom latefor the fixture which he himself had made.
At a quarter past one of a certain Monday afternoon in the course of asunny October, Jerramy leaned over the half-door of his sanctum inconversation with an anxious-eyed man who for the past ten minutes hadhung about in the restless fashion peculiar to those who are waiting forsomebody. 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 aneighbouring church almost as often; he had several times gone up thedark passage which led to the dressing-rooms, and had come back againlooking more perplexed than ever. The fact was that he was the businessmanager of the great Mr. Bassett Oliver, who was opening for the week atNorcaster in his latest success, and who, not quite satisfied with theway in which a particular bit of it was being played called a specialrehearsal for a quarter to one. Everything and everybody was ready forthat 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, hewas a very martinet as regarded rule, precision and system; moreover, healways did what he expected each member of his company to do. Thereforehis non-arrival, his half hour of irregularity, seemed all the moreextraordinary.
"Never knew him to be late before—never!" exclaimed the businessmanager, impatiently pulling out his watch for the twentieth time. "Notin 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 athis old quarters—the 'Angel.' But I haven't seen him; neither hadRothwell—we've both been too busy to call there. I expect he came on tothe '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 ahalt. But instead of the fine face and distinguished presence of Mr.Bassett Oliver, he found himself confronting a young man who looked likea well-set-up subaltern, or a cricket-and-football loving undergraduate;a somewhat shy, rather nervous young man, scrupulously groomed, andneatly 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 anappointment 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 somestage-struck youth who had probably persuaded the good-natured actor togive him an interview. His expression changed, however; as he glanced atthe card which the young man handed over, and he started a little andheld out his hand with a smile.
"Oh!—Mr. Copplestone?" he exclaimed. "How do you do? My name'sStafford—I'm Mr. Oliver's business manager. So he made anappointment with you, did he—here, today? Wants to see you aboutyour play, of course."
Again he looked at the newcomer with a smiling interest, thinkingsecretly that he was a very youthful and ingenuous being to have writtena play which Bassett Oliver, a shrewd critic, and by no means easy toplease, had been eager to accept, and was about to produce. Mr. RichardCopplestone, seen in the flesh, looked very young indeed, and veryunlike anything in the shape of a professional author. In fact he verymuch reminded Stafford of the fine and healthy young man whom one seeson the playing fields, and certainly does not associate with pen andink. That he was not much used to the world on whose edge he just thenstood Stafford gathered from a boyish trick of blushing through the tanof 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'dgone out for the day, you know—gone out early. So I didn't find it untilI got back to my rooms late at night. I got the next train I could fromKing'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 knowwhere—" Just then another man came hurrying down the passage from thedressing-rooms, calling the business manager by name.
"I say, Stafford!" he exclaimed, as he emerged on the street. "This is aqueer 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 readyfor him as usual yesterday, but he never came. They've neither seen norheard of him. Did you see him yesterday?"
"No!" replied Stafford. "I didn't. Never seen him since last thingSaturday night at Northborough. He ordered this rehearsal for one—no, aquarter to one, here, today. But somebody must have seen him yesterday.Where's his dresser—where's Hackett?"
"Hackett's inside," said the other man. "He hasn't seen him either, sinceSaturday night. Hackett has friends living in these parts—he went off tosee them early yesterday morning, from Northborough, and he's only justcome. So he hasn't seen Oliver, and doesn't know anything about him; heexpected, of course, to find him here."
Stafford turned with a wave of the hand towards Copplestone.
"So did this gentleman," he said. "Mr. Copplestone, this is ourstage-manager, Mr. Rothwell. Rothwell, this is Mr. Richard Copplestone,author of the new play that Mr. Oliver's going to produce next month. Mr.Copplestone got a wire from him yesterday, asking him to come here todayat one o'clock, He's travelled all night to get here."
"Where was the wire sent from?" asked Rothwell, a sharp-eyed,keen-looking man, who, like Stafford, was obviously interested in the newauthor's boyish appearance. "And when?"
Copplestone drew some letters and papers from his pocket and selectedone. "That's it," he said. "There you are—sent off from Northborough atnine-thirty, yesterday morning—Sunday."
"Well, then he was at Northborough at that time," remarked Rothwell."Look here, Stafford, we'd better telephone to Northborough, to hishotel. The 'Golden Apple,' wasn't it?"
"No good," replied Stafford, shaking his head. "The 'Golden Apple' isn'ton the 'phone—old-fashioned place. We'd better wire."
"Too slow," said Rothwell. "We'll telephone to the theatre there, and askthem to step across