In the Dark Night
Fletcher was satisfied with his day’s work. He returned to the _Black
Horse_ tired and hungry. Here at any rate were clues in abundance if
he could only piece them together.
After a substantial meal he wrote out his report for Sinclair, and
having smoked a contemplative pipe, he sought his landlord.
He found him also smoking, and in a surly mood, but with the aid of
spirituous liquid he was able to thaw his reserve.
It appeared that business was slack, and he spent a great part of his
time at his old trade of fishing. Only when Fletcher tried to work the
conversation round to the affair at Reckavile Castle, the landlord
shut up like an oyster.
As the night advanced, however, he became a little more communicative.
A second bottle had been opened, from which the landlord helped
himself liberally, and Fletcher with caution. The night had turned
rough, and the wind was rising. Fletcher listened for a moment, and
then said:
“Do you get many wrecks round these parts?” and knocked out his pipe
against the old fireplace.
“I don’t recall as ther’s ben one for nigh on thirty year,” said the
other helping himself to another drink. “That were when old Reckavile
came home.”
Fletcher pricked up his ears and waited.
“’E were mad, like ’em all,” continued the landlord “and ’e swore ’e
would land, weather or no. ’E’d come over from France in a ’urry. ’E
raved and swore, and wouldn’t go to Port like a sensible man.
“The Skipper ’e was a Frenchy, and Reckavile ’eld a pistol to ’is
’ead, and told ’im to put ’im ashore. They launched a boat somehow,
but it overturned as any sensible man would ’a known. ’Ow the rest got
ashore I don’t know. They all sat in this very room shivering and
chatting in their lingo, but Lord Reckavile ’e was washed ashore that
night.”
Fletcher waited; a sudden gust of wind swept round the inn, and smoke
blew into the room.
“There was a fine to do,” the landlord continued “but ’e was the only
one drownded, and they being foreigners it was ’ushed up. The Ketch
was a total wreck, and the crew were sent ’ome.”
“What about his wife?”
A cunning look came into the man’s eyes. “Oh! She was up at the
castle; the new Lord Reckavile was born that very night.”
“And that was how long ago?” said Fletcher.
“Thirty-two year come next March,” said he.
“Then Lord Reckavile was about thirty-two when he was murdered?” he
slipped out unwarily.
The landlord darted him a look of suspicion.
“I dunno nothin’ about that. I ’ad no dealings with this one,” he said
and kicked the fire savagely.
Without another word he finished his drink and departed.
Fletcher could not sleep; either the wind or the problem kept him
awake. At last he rose and went to the table for matches; he would
read, but at the window he paused. The curtains did not meet, and
through the crack he could see a faint light in the roadway outside.
He gently drew it back, and below he could dimly make out a muffled
figure standing by the door, holding a ship’s lantern.
The door opened cautiously as he watched and another figure in
oilskins came out whom he had no difficulty in recognising as the
landlord.
Without a word they turned and went into the night.
Fletcher waited. What should he do? He had not come prepared for
midnight expeditions in the rain, and it was a wild night. At last his
sense of adventure got the better of him, and hastily dressing, he
slipped downstairs, and seized his greatcoat from the peg in the hall.
As he approached the front door, a voice called over the bannisters.
“Who’s there?”
“It is only I . . . Mr. Fletcher,” said he, feeling a fool.
He saw the vision of Mrs. Southgate in very negligee costume, leaning
over the stairs, and behind her a dim suggestion of a domestic and
felt some explanation was called for.
“I thought I heard a noise, and came to see what it was,” he said
lamely. He felt far from being a hero with these two females watching
him, and the worst part was that he was quite sure they were really
laughing at him, under the guise of being frightened.
Mrs. Southgate spoke.
“Oh! I expect you heard my ’usband going out a-fishing. ’E always
tries ’is luck about this time. But Lord, ’ow you did frighten me, Mr.
Fletcher! You see when my ’usband goes it’s so lonely, and what with
the storm, and the neighbours not being too respectable.”
“Quite so,” said he irritably, to shut her up, and he made his way to
his room.
“A pretty detective you are,” he said bitterly to himself as he
slipped into bed.
The morning was bright and clear, and the storm had abated.
As he wandered out of the house the first sight which met him was the
innkeeper, hanging out a damp net to dry. For a change he greeted him
with a smile.
“Mornin’ sir,” he said “we ’ad a rough night; my missus says you was
scared in the night. Lord, no one would come to my place; I expect you
’eard me a-goin’ out.”
“Had any luck?” said Fletcher, knowing quite well, even as a townsman,
that the night was far too rough for fishing.
“Pretty fair, sir, pretty fair.”
The conversation was interrupted by the appearance of Brown striding
towards the inn. Fletcher cast a shrewd look towards the innkeeper,
but he was quite unperturbed.
The constable saluted. “May I have a word with you, sir?” he said.
“Come inside,” replied Fletcher with an angry look.
Once within the room he shut the door, and turned on Brown.
“You damned fool, what do you mean by coming here and saluting, after
what I told you. You’ve fairly messed things up.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” said the constable abashed, taking off his helmet.
“I never thought of it. I wanted to come and tell you the news.”
“Go on then.”
“Well, sir, you told me to watch the castle; I didn’t like the job,
but I walked round, and about one o’clock I saw a light inside. You
know what a rough night it was, and it fairly gave me the creeps, but
I thought I had to do my duty, so I opened the front door, and crept
to the library where the light was. My hair was fairly lifting on my
head.
“When I got to the door, there I saw two men bending over the desk,
and a lantern between them.”
“Did you recognise them?”
Brown looked confused.
“No, sir, they were too cunning for me. As I crept forward I fell
right over on my face. They had stretched a wire across the doorway.
When I got up the light was gone, and so were they, and the window
open.”
In spite of his annoyance Fletcher laughed.
“Stick to your duties as a village constable, Brown,” he said, “you
will never make a detective. Well what happened?”
“I gave chase,” said the rueful constable, “but it was no good, the
night was too wild. So I thought I’d better come and see you before
reporting it to Sergeant Andrews who is my Chief here.”
Fletcher ignored him for a moment, and took a turn up and down the
room.
He glanced at the window and saw the innkeeper, still hanging out his
nets.
“All right, Brown,” he said at last “the mischief is done, but I can’t
stay here any more. You’d better make a report for Andrews. You saw
nothing else?”
“Nothing appeared to have been touched, and they had left nothing
behind. I examined the desk, but it seems to have been intact; you
know, sir, it has already been searched.”
Fletcher dismissed him, and turned to his correspondence and
breakfast.
A letter from the bank manager at Ashstead contained the numbers of
the missing bank notes for which he had telephoned. He put it in his
pocket. Then a thought came to him, and he rang the bell.
“I am afraid I must get back to London to-day,” he said to the
innkeeper’s wife. “Please let me have my bill.”
“I am sorry sir,” she said, “I ’ope as ’ow it’s not because of you
being frightened in the night, sir.”
There was a note of raillery in the voice which was most galling.
He made no answer, and in due course an illiterate scrawl was brought
which indicated by its total that piracy still ran in the blood of
these people. Fletcher produced a ten pound note; it was a long shot
but worth trying.
“Could you oblige me with change?” he said.
“I’ll see, sir,” said the woman, and retired.
He saw her call her husband, and a colloquy took place.
Presently she reappeared; on the plate was a five pound note and some
loose silver. This was not the type of house where five pound notes
are flung about, so when the door was shut he produced his letter.
With a thrill he saw by the number that it was one of the missing
notes. Then a doubt came; surely these people were not quite so simple
as that; all their conduct was against it.
He rang the bell, for the time for further disguise had passed.
“Can you tell me,” he said sternly, “where you got this note?”
The woman gave a baffling look of innocent surprise.
“I don’t know, sir, I’ll ask my husband.”
She returned with the innkeeper, who had the same air of innocence.
“That note, sir, we doesn’t ’ave notes ’ere as a rule, but I changed
this for young Mr. Sefton, the medico from the Bungalows. ’E ’ad some
food ’ere t’other day.”
There was nothing more to be done here, so taking his bag, he
departed, but he had not gone far towards Bungalow Town, where he was
determined to stay, when he was met by Sergeant Andrews with startling
news.