The Reckavile Horror
The constable had gone. Being off duty, he had volunteered to fetch
Fletcher’s bag from the station, while he remained as he said to ‘get
the atmosphere of the place.’ A large fire had been kindled, and the
room certainly looked more cheerful, but Fletcher wanted to damp down
the feeling of uneasiness which the surroundings had aroused. He was
sure this was a straightforward problem, if he could only get a clue
to start with. He wandered round the room, pausing to listen to the
wind, which had now risen to a gale. The boughs of the trees, which
had grown close to the house, were scraping against the windows, as if
trying to get in, and all the timbers were groaning and creaking in
desire to tell him something. He shook himself; this would never do,
he would have a look at the books as he was getting morbid.
Someone had said that a man can be known by his books, but here was a
catholicity of choice, books on science, art, history, and novels. He
picked out volumes, but his mind was still on the strange noises all
over the house.
At last he found a leather-bound book without title and idly opened
it. To his surprise the writing inside was in manuscript; the ink
faded, but by the spelling he judged it was not of very ancient date.
It was called _Tales of the Reckaviles_.
As he turned the pages and read the horrors recorded there, he first
wondered that these things could have happened, and then that anyone
should have set himself in cold blood to write them out.
He came to a tale which arrested his attention. It was called _How the
Curse Came_, and was one of the milder stories:
A certain Sir Hugh Reckavile was a very evil knight. He feared
neither God nor Devil. He was shunned by all men of good repute and
consorted with vile men, cutthroats and worse. This knight had
conceived a great desire for the young wife of the Lord of Glarne,
though he had a wife and children of his own, and nothing would stay
his purpose. As he was revelling with his companions, as his custom
was, he took a dreadful oath that he would that night carry off the
lady from her room in the Tower, and staked his soul on the venture,
calling down a Curse on his family if he lost. His companions tried
to dissuade him, but he would have none of their advice, and rode
off. There was one at the table not all besotted in crime, who
mounted and rode fast and hard, and came to the Castle before him,
and told the Lord of Glarne.
When Sir Hugh came to the Tower, he saw a fair damsel beckoning him
from her high window, who was a maid dressed as the lady, and he
essayed to climb the wall. They who had laid the trap looked to see
him fall, but he came at the window, where men were waiting who
bound him fast. For three days they left him there and then one was
sent to see how he fared, returned all of a sweat, saying that he
had heard Sir Hugh talking with One who told him of his damnation,
and that a perpetual Curse would be laid on his family.
That night there were howlings and dreadful crying heard. The next
morning Sir Hugh lay on the grass, thrown from the window by no
mortal hand, and his face was stamped with horror unspeakable. And
so it is in life, for thus by the impious act of trafficking with
the Devil, this evil man brought a Curse upon his innocent family
which abides even to this day.
Fletcher got thus far. “Pooh!” he said, “it’s the usual stuff one
finds in these old chronicles, still it throws a light on the
Reckaviles.”
He dropped the book from his hand, and in doing so happened to glance
behind him.
The green baize door was slowly opening.
For a moment Fletcher sat where he was, rigid, with every nerve on a
stretch. All the stories he had ever heard of vampires and devils
gathered round him. The next his common sense and courage rose to his
aid, and he stood up, not without an effort, and faced round. He
clapped his hand to his pocket, but he was unarmed.
For want of a better weapon he seized the poker and waited. The door
was opening in little jerks, not smoothly; then a hand came round the
corner, a hand wrapped in a bandage, or some white fabric, and
clutched the door. Then, very slowly, a face appeared, a vacant
dead-looking face, surrounded by a mass of white hair streaked with
yellow.
Without a word or sound there came into the room, an old bent man.
Fletcher waited; man or ghost, here was no formidable antagonist.
Suddenly light dawned on him, and he could almost have laughed.
“Why of course,” he said, “I suppose you are Giles?”
The old man remained rooted to his place by the door, and then in a
high piping voice, said, “Giles I be, and who be you?”
“I suppose I ought to tell you, I am a friend of Brown the constable,
and I am waiting for him.”
It was most awkward, as he had wished to remain unknown in his true
character, but the old man looked nearly an idiot.
At that moment a loud knock was heard, which came as a relief to
Fletcher.
“That must be Brown,” he said.
“I’ll go and let ’ee in,” said the old man, and turned without a
sound.
“That’s a good thing,” thought Fletcher, “but I must warn the
constable to keep his mouth shut.”
A sound of steps came along the hall, and Brown came in, dripping wet.
“Sorry to have been so long, sir,” he said putting down the bag.
“I am very glad to see you,” said Fletcher, “old Giles let you in, I
suppose?”
Brown looked at him in surprise, “Giles? No, the door was open, I
forgot we did not fasten it. I left Giles at Stevens’ cottage just
now.”
“But, he’s just been here, not a minute ago, I have been talking to
him. He came to see who was here.”
“Giles, sir, you must have been mistaken. What was he like?”
“An old, white-haired man, with a white beard.”
The constable looked blankly at him. “That’s not Giles, sir. You must
have been dreaming.”
“Nonsense, he came in through that door not five minutes ago.”
“What did you say he was like?”
Fletcher repeated the description minutely and Brown’s face took on a
look of horror.
“Oh Lord, sir! That was an old Reckavile, the father of the one who
was drowned.”
“Nonsense,” said Fletcher sharply, “don’t talk that rot.”
“Come and see, sir,” said he, and his voice shook.
They went into the hall with a lamp, and Brown pointed with a shaking
finger to a portrait on the wall. There, gazing at them with a
sardonic smile, was Fletcher’s visitor, clear and unmistakable.
A cold, numb feeling gathered round his heart, but Fletcher realised
that he must keep his nerve at all costs.
“You must be right, I have been dreaming,” he said in a voice he tried
to make light. “Well, I am very tired, let’s shut the place up, and
get off.”
Brown looked at him uneasily. “Very good, sir, I shan’t be sorry,” he
said. “The night’s bad outside, but it’s worse here,” and he glanced
round the hall, where shadows flickered from the lamplight.
The fire was nearly out, so they left it, and locking up, made their
way through the rank vegetation, damp and unwholesome.
With a sigh of relief Fletcher emerged from the woods, and skirted the
shore to the little fishing village of Portham, now in complete
darkness.
“That’s the _Black Horse_, sir,” said Brown pointing to a dark mass.
“Now look here, Brown, I want to impress on you that I am here to find
out all I can, and no one must know what I am or they will be
suspicious of me. You understand?”
“Certainly, sir.”
“And you must not call me ‘sir,’ at all. I am just an old friend of
yours, what shall we say, on a holiday after an illness. Now, goodbye,
I will go to the place alone; they know I am coming?”
“Yes, I booked the room as you told me to.”
Fletcher waited till the constable had gone, and then went to the
door, and knocked. After some time a light showed inside, and the door
was opened. The landlord, a black-looking, shock-headed man with
streaks of grey in his hair, stood in the doorway. “Good-evening,”
said Fletcher, “my name is Fletcher. I have booked a room here.”
The landlord, Southgate, eyed him with suspicion, and muttered
something about waiting up for him, but Fletcher was used to dealing
with all classes of men, and quickly summed his host up. With
apologies for his lateness, which he put down to having lost his way
in the storm, he asked mine host whether he would join him with some
liquid refreshment, and suggested whiskey; he himself was quite done
up, and too tired for food.
Having closed and locked the door, the landlord conducted him into an
old dirty room, black with smoke, which had a wonderful old fireplace
whereon a fire was burning, and black beams in the ceiling. A cloth
was spread on the table on which was cold beef and bread.
Soon they were sitting by the fire discussing hot grog, which the
landlord prepared with practiced skill. He was the descendant of a
long line of smugglers, and was not slow in telling Fletcher what he
thought about the bungalow town, and its inhabitants.
Fletcher was too tired for conversation, but determined to get on good
terms with Southgate the landlord, and so they gossipped on till he
felt himself nodding, and with a “good-night” to the landlord, retired
for the night.