At the Castle
Fletcher was not one to let the ground get weedy under his feet.
Leaving his bag at the railway station, he made his way on foot to
Reckavile Castle.
It was a wet afternoon, and dusk was coming on when he got within
sight of the building. Traces of flower-beds and garden plants showed
through the tangle of growth, like the ruins of an old civilisation,
giving the place an air of desolation. The castle was a depressing
structure, massive and dim and the wet dripped ceaselessly from the
trees. Time had covered the building in parts with ivy, and on the
rest of the walls green patches of lichen grew like a disease.
The blind upper windows looked like dead eyes, and in spite of his
cheery nature, Fletcher shuddered as a figure stepped suddenly from
the shadow without noise.
“Who’s that?” said Fletcher in a louder tone than he intended.
“Brown, sir, I suppose you are Mr. Fletcher?”
The latter felt a sense of relief; the constable was a stalwart
ex-guardsman.
“What are you doing out here in the wet?” he asked shaking the other
by the hand.
“To tell the truth, sir, I don’t like the place, and I thought I would
wait here; we cleared the Giles out after the murder, and locked it
up.”
He produced a great key, and led the way to the front door.
It was a massive portal surmounted by carved stone work, now green and
crumbling. The hall was square and lofty, with a great open fireplace,
cheerless and empty. The last light of the dying afternoon showed
portraits on the walls, and a staircase leading upwards.
“I’ll get a light,” said the constable, and stamped off to the kitchen,
returning with a lamp which threw a bright light on the walls and
timbered ceiling.
“That’s better,” said Fletcher, “this place is confoundedly damp.”
“There were only two rooms used by the Giles,” said Brown, setting
down the lamp, “the kitchen and a bedroom next to it, but they always
kept Lord Reckavile’s rooms ready, as they never knew when he was
coming back. He only used his library, and a bedroom on the ground
floor. All the rest of the house is shut up, and full of rotting
furniture.”
“Let’s have a look at the library then,” Fletcher said, and the
constable led the way. Everything had been left untouched; the
battered door still hung loose, and inside the furniture had been
tossed and thrown about.
“There’s where the body was, lying over the sofa, and you can see the
stains of blood on the floor and the armchair.”
Fletcher examined the dark marks of ill omen.
“Everything is just as it was. I made a careful list,” said Brown.
“There is the wireless, a four valve set, and this is his desk, a very
old one I should say, and that cabinet contains what they call a
dictaphone, though I call it a gramaphone. His Lordship was very keen
on these things. Here is a sketch I made, very rough I am afraid,” and
he handed it to Fletcher.
It was a comfortable room, in contrast with the rest of the house; the
furniture was good, and rows of books in shelves gave it a homely
look.
“You found no trace of anyone when you entered?” asked Fletcher.
“There’s no doubt about that, sir,” was the reply. “When old Giles and
I came in there was no sign of the murderer, and the whole place has
been searched. There are no secret passages or trapdoors, such as one
reads of in books.”
“Any finger prints?”
“No, sir, or foot marks either. Sergeant Andrews is pretty smart at
that sort of thing; he had the dagger examined.”
“Someone who knew what he was about evidently,” said Fletcher.
The other looked at him queerly, without a word.
“Was anything else found which could throw a light on the subject?”
“No, sir, we have all the exhibits here; after the inquest I took
charge of them.”
He went to a side table and removed a cloth. Neatly laid out were
various objects. There was a case containing a few pound notes, some
letters, a cigarette case, and silver match box, and a passport. There
was also a well-worn, leather object which caught the detective’s eye.
It was round, and looked as though it had been made to hold a golf
ball.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“No one seems to know,” said the constable, “it’s a puzzle.”
Fletcher picked up a letter case.
“Where did this come from?” he said.
“That was lying on the floor,” said Brown.
Inside was a faded miniature of a very beautiful girl, and a young
boy, and in faint letters “Mother and Roy,” and a date some twenty
years before.
“Lord Reckavile when a child, with his mother, I suppose,” said Brown.
Fletcher took it to the lamp. The boy had sad sweet features, almost
Italian.
“Is there a portrait of Lord Reckavile anywhere?” he asked.
“Yes, sir, in the hall,” and Brown led the way with the lamp.
Paintings of Reckaviles looked down from the walls. Fletcher had
imagination, and he could see the latent madness in their eyes, but
there was more. They could be capable of great deeds or great sins; he
could picture a Reckavile doing a stupendous act of heroism or a vile
thing which would blanch the cheek.
His thoughts were interrupted by Brown.
“That’s the last of them, sir,” he said pointing to a portrait of
recent date. Fletcher looked at a handsome ascetic face, wherein was
cruelty and lust, but a pride which nothing could daunt.
“And who is that?” said he pointing to a stout lady of mature charms.
“That was his mother, the last Lady Reckavile, but that was before my
time. She used to live here; since her death the house has been shut
up, most of the year.”
Fletcher was still holding the miniature in his hands; he looked at
the portrait on the wall and then at the other, and was about to
speak, but the bovine face of the constable stopped him.
Instead he said, after a pause, “About those poachers, Brown, I
understand you saw some in the woods a few days before the murder?”
“Yes, and I mentioned it to Stevens. I did not see them close enough
to recognise them. There were two. Stevens told me to come up and see
Lord Reckavile about it, the very day the murder took place.”
“I see. Well, let’s have a look at the house, bring the lamp.”
They passed into the rooms on the ground floor, and as they opened the
doors they were met with a damp, musty smell as from a vault.
Everything was in ruin and decay and dust was heavy over all.
There was a great dining room, with hanging chandeliers, which had
witnessed many a midnight orgie, now silent and given to the moth.
The drawing room was bare, haunted only by the ghosts of past
Reckaviles, and so on in the upper rooms, where gaunt fourposters and
faded hangings showed within, with dimly seen bedroom furniture.
In one of these a picture fell with a crash, waking the echoes of the
house. It had been hanging by a thread which the opening of the door
had snapped.
“I’ve seen enough,” said Fletcher with a shiver. “I suppose the whole
house has been searched?”
“Every corner, sir, it’s all the same. It doesn’t look as though
anyone had been into the rooms for years.”
They returned to the library, where Fletcher walked to the wireless
set, and turned the switch.
“It’s no good, sir, it’s out of order, we’ve tried it. The valves
light all right, but something’s wrong; Giles says it hasn’t worked
since Lord Reckavile came back this last time.”
“I must have a look at it,” said Fletcher. “I’m rather fond of these
things.”
“The gramaphone works, we have tried the records,” said Brown, “so the
other ought to.”
Fletcher smiled at his knowledge of scientific matters, then faced him
squarely.
“Now, Brown, I want you to tell me fairly, your opinion of the whole
thing, because you have been here from the beginning.”
A sudden change came over the constable, and he glanced round
uneasily, a look of fear in his eyes.
“I don’t know, sir,” he said, “I don’t think his Lordship was killed
by any living man.”
“Nonsense, what on earth do you mean? You don’t believe in spooks, do
you?” said Fletcher contemptuously.
“Well, it’s very queer, the villagers say . . .”
“Oh! I see, you’ve been talking in the village, and heard all about
the Reckavile Curse, and that sort of thing; let’s have common sense.”
“We heard them talking quite plain,” the constable replied. “Reckavile
and the Other, and when we broke in there was Lord Reckavile dead, and
It had gone.”
“It? Don’t talk like that, it’s foolish,” but in spite of his words
Fletcher felt a cold shiver; the place was eerie.
“I don’t like it, sir, there are queer tales about, and the Reckaviles
were a very rum lot.”
“Enough of this,” said the other impatiently. “I wanted clues or
anything suggestive, and you give me ghosts.”
But before that night was over, even Fletcher was shaken.