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Updated: August 9, 2024
"There's no need for alarm. Do you care to go up, Mr. Gilling?" The pseudo-curate accepted the invitation readily, and he and Copplestone entered the turret. They had climbed half its height before Copplestone spoke. "Well?" he whispered. "What do you think?" "It may be accident," muttered Gilling. "It mayn't." "You think he might have been what? thrown down?"
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.
He would land at Falmouth from the Araconda about October 5th. Probably there is some trace of him at Falmouth. He no doubt stayed a night there. Anyway, somebody must go to Falmouth and make inquiries. You'd better go, Gilling, and at once. While you're away your partner had better resume his search for the man we know as the Squire.
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.
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.
And now you know all I can tell you, gentlemen, and as I understand there's some mystery about Chatfield and that he's disappeared, happen you'll know how to put two and two together. And if I'm of any use " "Spurge," said Gilling. "How far is it to this Reaver's Glen or, rather to that peel tower?" "Matter of eight or nine miles, guv'nor, over the moors," replied Spurge.
Copplestone watched his companion make his way round to the place from which it was only too evident Oliver must have fallen. Gilling went slowly, carefully inspecting every yard of the moss and lichen-covered stones. Once he paused some time and seemed to be examining a part of the parapet with unusual attention.
The two cars met and stopped alongside each other, and Sir Cresswell, with one sharp glance at the rough bandage which Vickers had fastened round Jim Spurge's head, rapped out a question. "Gone!" replied Gilling, with equal brusqueness. "Came in a motor, during the night, soon after Zachary Spurge left Jim. They hit him pretty hard over his head and left him unconscious.
Copplestone hurried out into the garden and signalled to the pseudo-curate, who came hurrying across from the quay. One glance at him showed Copplestone that something had happened. "Gad! I thought I should never attract your attention!" said Gilling hastily. "Been making eyes at you for ten minutes. I say Greyle's off!" "Off!" exclaimed Copplestone. "How do you mean off?"
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