THE MYSTERY OF THE RAVENSPURS
A ROMANCE AND DETECTIVE STORY OF THIBET AND ENGLAND.
BY
FRED M. WHITE,
Author of "The Crimson Blind," "The Corner House," Etc.
ILLUSTRATIONS AND COVER DESIGN BY
ANDRE CH. DE TAKACS.
NEW YORK:
J. S. OGILVIE PUBLISHING COMPANY,
57 ROSE STREET.
COPYRIGHT 1911, BY
J. S. OGILVIE PUBLISHING COMPANY.
[Illustration: And inside that dark circle there came a face, a dark
Eastern face, with awful eyes, filled with agony and rage and pain.
--Page 110.]
THE MYSTERY OF THE RAVENSPURS
CHAPTER I
THE SHADOW OF A FEAR
A grand old castle looks out across the North Sea, and fishermen toiling
on the deep catch the red flash from Ravenspur Point, as their
forefathers have done for many generations.
The Ravenspurs and their great granite fortress have made history
between them. Every quadrangle and watch-tower and turret has its legend
of brave deeds and bloody deeds, of fights for the king and the glory of
the flag. And for five hundred years there has been no Ravenspur who has
not acquitted himself like a man. Theirs is a record to be proud of.
Time has dealt lightly with the home of the Ravenspurs. It is probably
the most perfect mediæval castle in the country. The moat and the
drawbridge are still intact; the portcullis might be worked by a child.
And landwards the castle looks over a fair domain of broad acres where
the orchards bloom and flourish and the red beeves wax fat in the
pastures.
A quiet family, a handsome family, a family passing rich in the world's
goods, they are strong and brave--a glorious chronicle behind them and
no carking cares ahead.
Surely, then, the Ravenspurs should be happy and contented beyond most
men. Excepting the beat of the wings of the Angel of Death, that comes
to all sooner or later, surely no sorrow dwelt there that the hand of
time could fail to soothe.
And yet over them hung the shadow of a fear.
No Ravenspur had ever slunk away from any danger, however great, so long
as it was tangible; but there was something here that turned the
stoutest heart to water, and caused strong men to start at their own
shadows.
For five years now the curse had lain heavy on the house of Ravenspur.
It had come down upon them without warning; at first in the guise of a
series of accidents and misfortunes, until gradually it became evident
that some cunning and remorseless enemy was bent upon exterminating the
Ravenspurs root and branch.
There had been no warning given, but one by one the Ravenspurs died
mysteriously, horribly, until at last no more than seven of the family
remained. The North-country shuddered in speaking of the ill-starred
family. The story had found its way into print.
Scotland Yard had taken the case in hand; but still the hapless
Ravenspurs died, mysteriously murdered, and even some of those who
survived had tales to unfold of marvelous escapes from destruction.
The fear grew on them like a hunting madness. From first to last not one
single clue, however small, had the murderers left behind. Family
archives were ransacked and personal histories explored with a view to
finding some forgotten enemy who had originated this vengeance. But the
Ravenspurs had ever been generous and kind, honorable to men and true to
women, and none could lay a finger on the blot.
In the whole history of crime no such weird story had ever been told
before. Why should this blow fall after the lapse of all these years?
What could the mysterious foe hope to gain by this merciless slaughter?
And to struggle against the unseen enemy was in vain.
As the maddening terror deepened, the most extraordinary precautions
were taken to baffle the assassin. Eighteen months ago the word had
gone out for the gathering of the family at the castle. They had come
without followers or retainers of any kind; every servant had been
housed outside the castle at nightfall, and the grim old fortress had
been placed in a state of siege.
They waited upon themselves, they superintended the cooking of their own
food, no strange feet crossed the drawbridge. When the portcullis was
raised, the most ingenious burglar would have failed to find entrance.
At last the foe was baffled; at last the family was safe. There were no
secret passages, no means of entry; and here salvation lay.
Alas for fond hopes! Within the last year and a half three of the family
had perished in the same strange and horrible fashion.
There was Richard Ravenspur, a younger son of Rupert, the head of the
house, with his wife and boy. Richard Ravenspur had been found dead in
his bed, poisoned by some lemonade; his wife had walked into the moat in
the darkness; the boy had fallen from one of the towers into a stone
quadrangle and been instantly killed.
The thing was dreadful, inexplicable to a degree. The enemy who was
doing this thing was in the midst of them. And yet no stranger passed
those iron gates; none but Ravenspurs dwelt within the walls. Eye looked
into eye and fell again, ashamed that the other should know the
suspicions racking each poor distracted brain.
And there were only seven of them now--seven pallid, hollow-cheeked
wretches, almost longing for the death they dreaded.
There was Rupert Ravenspur, the head of the family, a fine, handsome,
white-headed man, who had distinguished himself in the Crimea and the
Indian Mutiny. There was his son Gordon who some day might succeed him;
there was Gordon's wife and his daughter Vera. Then there was Geoffrey
Ravenspur, the orphan son of one Jasper Ravenspur, who had fallen under
the scourge two years before.
And also there was Marion Ravenspur, the orphan daughter of Charles
Ravenspur, another son who had died in India five years before of
cholera. Mrs. Charles was there, the child of an Indian prince, and from
her Marion had inherited the dark beauty and soft glorious eyes that
made her beloved of the whole family.
A strange tale surely, a hideous nightmare, and yet so painfully
realistic. One by one they were being cut off by the malignant
destroyer, and ere long the family would be extinct. It seemed
impossible to fight against the desolation that always struck in the
darkness, and never struck in vain.
Rupert Ravenspur looked out from the leads above the castle to the open
sea, and from thence to the trim lawns and flower beds away to the park,
where the deer stood knee-deep in the bracken.
It was a fair and perfect picture of a noble English homestead, far
enough removed apparently from crime and violence. And yet!
A deep sigh burst from the old man's breast; his lips quivered. The
shadow of that awful fear was in his eyes. Not that he feared for
himself, for the snows of seventy years lay upon his head, and his
life's work was done.
It was others he was thinking of. The bright bars of the setting sun
shone on a young and graceful couple below coming towards the moat. A
tender light filled old Ravenspur's eyes.
Then he started as a gay laugh reached his ears. The sound caught him
almost like a blow. Where had he heard a laugh like that before? It
seemed strangely out of place. And yet those two were young, and they
loved one another. Under happier auspices, Geoffrey Ravenspur would some
day come into the wide acres and noble revenues, and take his cousin
Vera to wife.
"May God spare them!" Ravenspur cried aloud. "Surely the curse must burn
itself out some time, or the truth must come to light. If I could only
live to know that they were happy!"
The words were a fervent prayer. The dying sun that turned the towers
and turrets of the castle to a golden glory fell on his white, quivering
face. It lit up the agony of the strong man with despair upon him. He
turned as a hand lay light as thistledown on his arm.
"Amen with all my heart, dear grandfather," a gentle voice murmured. "I
could not help hearing what you said."
Ravenspur smiled mournfully. He looked down into a pure young face,
gentle and placid, like that of a madonna, and yet full of strength. The
dark brown eyes were so clear that the white soul seemed to gleam behind
them. There was Hindoo blood in Marion Ravenspur's veins, but she bore
no trace of the fact. And, out of the seven surviving members of that
ill-fated race, Marion was the most beloved. All relied upon her, all
trusted her. In the blackest hour her courage never faltered; she never
bowed before the unseen terror.
Ravenspur turned upon her almost fiercely.
"We must save Vera and Geoffrey," he said. "They must be preserved. The
rest of us are as nothing by comparison. The whole future of our race
lies with those two young people. Watch over them, Marion; shield Vera
from every harm. I know that she loves you. Swear that you will protect
her from every evil!"
"There is no occasion to swear anything," Marion said, in her clear,
sweet voice. "Dear, don't you know that I am devoted heart and soul to
your interests? When my parents died, and I elected to come here in
preference to returning to my mother's people, you received me with open
arms. Do you suppose that I could ever forget the love and affection
that have been poured upon me? If I can save Vera she is already saved.
But why do you speak like this to-day?"
Ravenspur gave a quick glance around him.
"Because my time has come," he whispered hoarsely. "Keep this to
yourself, Marion, for I have told nobody but you. The black assassin is
upon me. I wake at nights with fearful pains at my heart--I cannot
breathe. I have to fight for my life, as my brother Charles fought for
his two years ago. To-morrow morning I may be found dead in my bed--as
Charles was. Then there will be an inquest, and the doctors will be
puzzled, as they were before."
"Grandfather! You are not afraid?"
"Afraid! I am glad--glad, I tell you. I am old and careworn, and the
suspense is gradually sapping my senses. Better death, swift and
terrible, than that. But not a word of this to the rest, as you love
me!"