Portham-on-Sea
Fletcher was up early, and after a good breakfast, set out to walk to
Bungalow Town. The day was clear, and the events of the night before
appeared less sombre, in the light of the morning. Of course, there
must be some logical and common-sense explanation for it all. He had
all the papers connected with the inquest, and there were several
people he wanted to see.
The walk did him good, and his mind was clear when he rounded the
headland and came in sight of the bungalows. It was indeed a hideous
place. At one end was an unfinished row of gaunt shops of which only a
few had been opened. The builder had made some attempt at decoration
by planting two rows of palms in tubs along the road, which gave the
place a bizarre appearance. The first building he came to was a large
corrugated iron bungalow, styled the Club, which all bungalow dwellers
were invited to join for a small subscription according to a notice
board. It had a withered tennis court, a bathing shed, and a license,
and in the summer the place was much patronised. Fletcher made his way
along the muddy road, to where a large board bore the legend “Estate
Office.”
Entering he found a little, short-sighted man with sandy hair getting
thin. He looked up wearily as Fletcher came in.
“Mr. Cook, I believe?” said the latter.
“That is my name,” said he, and waited.
“I came to ask you what bungalows you have for sale?” said Fletcher
with that disregard for truth, which seems to be permitted to
detectives.
Soon they were deeply engrossed with plans and photos. Fletcher worked
the conversation round by easy stages to the subject of the murder,
and found little difficulty in getting Cook to talk.
“It’s not been a bad thing for us,” he said, “it’s given the place a
splendid advert. Pictures were in the papers, and quite a lot of
people have been down here.”
“I suppose you knew Lord Reckavile quite well?” said Fletcher knowing
how the flattery would please.
“I can hardly say that, but I used to take his ground rents to him;
when he came back he would send for me. He was a queer customer, and
allowed me to collect all the rents till he came to England, and then
pay him in cash. He said he went off so suddenly that it was useful.”
“Well, that’s plausible enough,” said the other.
“I had paid over quite a large sum to him on the very day he was
murdered.”
Fletcher looked up quickly.
“Really! I did not see . . .” and then stopped.
Luckily Cook was not taking much notice.
“I read the account of the affair,” Fletcher continued, “but I did not
see that mentioned.”
“I did not see that much could be gained by saying anything,” said
Cook, showing some signs of confusion.
“That’s most interesting,” said Fletcher casually, “what did you pay
him in?”
“Well, of course, I do not keep the money here, but I always bank it
at Ashstead. When he wanted paying I drew it out.”
“Ah! Then the bank manager would have the number of the notes?”
“Of course, they were five and ten pound notes; he entered them all in
his book. I did not keep a record.”
Fletcher felt he was asking too many questions.
“What do you think about it?” he said, leaning back in his chair.
“I believe he was afraid of something. He was always running off
abroad, and back again, like a man hunted by something.”
“You mean the Curse?” said Fletcher in irony.
“Exactly,” said Cook gravely.
“Mr. Cook, you don’t tell me that as a man of the world you believe in
that superstition, especially after what you have told me about the
money!”
“Don’t misunderstand me,” said the other, “the villagers will tell you
something outside the pale, but I have it in mind that there is
something much more tangible; something connected with the past,
perhaps, and I am not at all sure that that ruffian Southgate at the
_Black Horse_ does not know a bit about it. He came here the other day
wanting to buy a bungalow, and I am sure he never made the money out
of that old pub of his.”
After talking on general matters for a few minutes, Fletcher took his
leave.
As he made his way along the road deep in thought, he was aware of two
people coming to meet him. They were conversing in eager tones, and
did not notice him. One of the two was Miss Sefton, the other a tall
good-looking young man with light hair.
Fletcher greeted them and was introduced to Jack Sefton by his sister.
He was quick to notice that there was a restless worried look about
the man, as though his nerve had gone. They turned together and walked
along the foreshore.
“What do you think of this place, Mr. Fletcher?” said Ena.
Before he could reply Sefton had intervened.
“It’s a rotten show,” he said, “and you will be bored to death before
long. I am sick of it already.”
Ena looked at her brother as though surprised at his tone, but he
stopped and said bitterly:
“You see, beggars can’t be choosers, and my sister and I are compelled
to live in this God-forsaken hole until the visitors come, and then I
suppose we shall be kicked out.”
It was a strange outburst to a mere stranger.
“Come and see our bungalow,” said the girl hastily, and they walked on
in silence.
When they arrived at the house, Fletcher was surprised to find a very
charming bungalow, with a central lounge, from which the other rooms
opened, tastefully furnished, and very pleasant after the desolate
appearance outside, where most of the bungalows were shut up for the
winter.
“What a charming little place,” he said, “I could enjoy a holiday here
very well.”
He saw a look of gratitude on the girl’s face, but Sefton said, “A
holiday, yes. But supposing you were condemned to live here all the
year round, you would find it different.” He glanced round as though
looking for something, and then sprang to his feet. “Come and see our
Club,” he said with a harsh laugh.
“Have you got a Club here then?”
“Oh! It is called a Club,” he replied, “it is a sort of tin shanty,
but we can get a decent drink there, and one can talk.”
Fletcher was surprised at his manner, but one glance at his eyes
showed him that there was a devil biting him. With apologies to Ena,
whose company he preferred to that of her brother, he made his way to
the bungalow referred to, and was soon deep in conversation. After
all, duty came before pleasure, and he was down here to find the
solution to the problem, not to talk to a pretty girl.
“Yes,” said Sefton in answer to a question, “I was mixed up with this
business. When I got there the man was as dead as mutton—it did not
require much skill to tell that; it is a curious thing too . . .”
“What?” said Fletcher quite casually.
Sefton seemed to take a decision.
“Well, I don’t mind telling you, but I didn’t see any point in telling
the police. It was most curious, but I did not want to be accused of
sensationalism. You know the chairs in the room had been overturned,
as though there had been a struggle, there was blood on some of them,
and on the floor. Well, I have enough medical knowledge to know that
the clean stab which killed the man could not have caused all that
amount of blood.”
“You mean. . . ?” said Fletcher.
“I mean,” said the other, leaning forward, “that the blood came from
the assailant whoever he was. It was impossible to have come from
Reckavile.”
“That is interesting,” said Fletcher.
There was a pause, then Sefton went on.
“That is not all. Of course, this is only between ourselves.”
“Of course,” said Fletcher.
“If you read the reports you will appreciate what I am going to say. I
bent down to examine one of the overturned armchairs, the constable
was holding the light and it shone full on the chair. Stretched from
the leg to the floor there was a spider’s web—a fully formed one.”
“Are you quite sure?” asked Fletcher.
“Quite, and I turned the chair over—there was a deep depression
underneath on the soft carpet, and for another thing, the blood was
dry, in most places, I passed my hands over the stains—though some was
not . . .” he added musingly.
“Let’s have another drink,” said Fletcher to hide his excitement.