Tragedy at Ravensthorpe
by J. J. Connington
Published February, 1928 by Grosset & Dunlap (New York)
Copyright, 1927, 1928, by Little, Brown, and Company
CONTENTS
I. The Fairy Houses
II. Mr. Polegate’s Sense of Humour
III. The Theft at the Masked Ball
IV. The Chase in the Woods
V. Sir Clinton in the Museum
VI. Mr. Foss’s Explanation
VII. What Was in the Lake
VIII. The Murder in the Museum
IX. The Muramasa Sword
X. The Shot in the Clearing
XI. Underground Ravensthorpe
XII. Chuchundra’s Body
XIII. The Otophone
XIV. The Second Chase in the Woods
XV. Sir Clinton’s Solution
NOTE
The characters, places, and events described in this book are entirely
imaginary and have no connection, either direct or indirect, with any
real persons, places, or events.
CHAPTER I
The Fairy Houses
“Got fixed up in your new house yet, Sir Clinton?” asked Cecil
Chacewater, as they sauntered together up one of the paths in the
Ravensthorpe grounds. “It must be a bit of a change from South
Africa—settling down in this backwater.”
Sir Clinton Driffield, the new Chief Constable of the county, nodded
affirmatively in reply to the question.
“One manages to be fairly comfortable; and it’s certainly been less
trouble to fit up than it would have been if I’d taken a bigger place.
Not that I don’t envy you people at Ravensthorpe,” he added, glancing
round at the long front of the house behind him. “You’ve plenty of
elbow-room in that castle of yours.”
Cecil made no reply; and they paced on for a minute or more before Sir
Clinton again spoke.
“It’s a curious thing, Cecil, that although I knew your father so
well, I never happened to come down here to Ravensthorpe. He often
asked me to stay; and I wanted to see his collection; but somehow we
never seemed able to fix on a time that suited us both. It was at the
house in Onslow Square that I always saw you, so this is all fresh
ground to me. It’s rather like the irony of fate that my first post
since I came home should be in the very district I couldn’t find time
to visit when your father was alive.”
Cecil Chacewater agreed with a gesture.
“I was very glad when I saw you’d been appointed. I wondered if you’d
know me again after all that time; but I thought we’d better bring
ourselves to your notice in case we could be of any help
here—introduce you to people, and all that sort of thing, you know.”
“I hardly recognized you when you turned up the other day,” Sir
Clinton admitted frankly. “You were a kiddie when I went off to take
that police post in South Africa; and somehow or other I never seem to
have run across you on any of my trips home on leave. It must have
been ten years since I’d seen you.”
“I don’t wonder you didn’t place me at once. Ten years makes a lot of
difference at my advanced age. But you don’t look a bit changed. I
recognized you straight off, as soon as I saw you.”
“What age are you now?” asked Sir Clinton.
“About twenty-three,” Cecil replied. “Maurice is twenty-five, and
Joan’s just on the edge of twenty-one.”
“I suppose she must be,” Sir Clinton confirmed.
A thought seemed to cross his mind.
“By the way, this masked ball, I take it, is for Joan’s
coming-of-age?”
“You got an invitation? Right! I’ve nothing to do with that part of
the business.” Then, answering Sir Clinton’s inquiry: “Yes, that’s so.
She wanted a spree of some sort; and she generally gets what she
wants, you know. You’ll hardly know _her_ when you see her. She’s shot
up out of all recognition from the kid you knew before you went away.”
“She used to be pretty as a school-girl.”
“Oh, she hasn’t fallen off in that direction. You must come to this
show of hers. She’ll be awfully pleased if you do. She looks on you as
a kind of unofficial uncle, you know.”
Sir Clinton’s expression showed that he appreciated the indirect
compliment.
“I’m highly flattered. She’s the only one of you who took the trouble
to write to me from time to time when I was out yonder. All my
Ravensthorpe news came through her.”
Cecil was rather discomfited by this reminder. He changed the subject
abruptly.
“I suppose you’ll come as Sherlock Holmes? Joan’s laid down that every
one must act up to their costume, whatever it is; and Sherlock
wouldn’t give you much trouble after all your detective experience.
You’d only have to snoop round and pick up clues and make people
uncomfortable with deductions.”
Sir Clinton seemed amused by the idea.
“A pretty programme! Something like this, I suppose?” he demanded, and
gave a faintly caricatured imitation of the Holmes mannerisms.
“By Jove, you know, that’s awfully good!” Cecil commented, rather
taken aback by the complete change in Sir Clinton’s voice and gait.
“You ought to do it. You’d get first prize easily.”
Sir Clinton shook his head as he resumed his natural guise.
“The mask wouldn’t cover my moustache; and I draw the line at shaving
that off, even in a good cause. Besides, a Chief Constable can’t go
running about disguised as Sherlock Holmes. Rather bad taste, dragging
one’s trade into one’s amusements. No, I’ll come as something quite
unostentatious: a pillar-box or an Invisible Man, or a spook,
probably.”
“I forgot,” Cecil hastened to say, apologetically, “I shouldn’t have
asked you about your costume. Joan’s very strong on some fancy
regulation she’s made that no one is to know beforehand what anyone
else is wearing. She wants the prize awarding to be absolutely
unbiased. So you’d better not tell me what you’re going to do.”
Sir Clinton glanced at him with a faint twinkle in his eye.
“That’s precisely what I’ve been doing for the last minute or two,” he
said, dryly.
“What do you mean?” Cecil asked, looking puzzled. “You haven’t told me
anything.”
“Exactly.”
Cecil was forced to smile.
“No harm done,” he admitted. “You gave nothing away.”
“It’s a very useful habit in my line of business.”
But Sir Clinton’s interest in the approaching masked ball was
apparently not yet exhausted.
“Large crowd coming?” he asked.
“Fairish, I believe. Most of the neighbours, I suppose. We’re putting
up a few people for the night, of course; and there are three or four
visitors on the premises already. It should be quite a decent show. I
can’t give you even rough numbers, for Joan’s taken the invitation
side of the thing entirely into her own hands—most mysterious about
it, too. Hush! Hush! Very Secret! and all that kind of thing. She
won’t even let us see her lists for fear of making it too easy to
recognize people; so she’s had to arrange the catering side of the
thing on her own as well.”
“She always was an independent kind of person,” Sir Clinton
volunteered.
Cecil took no notice of the interjection.
“If you ask me,” he went on, “I think she’s a bit besotted with this
incognito notion. She doesn’t realize that half the gang can be
spotted at once by their walk, and the other half will give themselves
away as soon as they get animated and begin to jabber freely. But it’s
her show, you know, so it’s no use any one else butting in with
criticisms and spoiling her fun before it begins.”
Sir Clinton nodded his assent; but for a moment or two he seemed to be
preoccupied with some line of thought which Cecil’s words had started
in his mind. Suddenly, however, something caught his eye and diverted
his attention to external things.
“What’s that weird thing over there?” he asked. As he spoke, he
pointed to an object a little way off the path on which they were
standing. It was a tiny building about a yard in height and a couple
of yards or more in length. At the first glance it seemed like a
bungalow reduced to the scale of a large doll’s house; but closer
inspection showed that it was windowless, though ventilation of a sort
appeared to have been provided. A miniature door closed the entrance,
through which a full-grown man could gain admittance only by lying
flat on the ground and wriggling with some difficulty through the
narrow opening provided.
“That?” Cecil answered carelessly. “Oh, that’s one of the Fairy
Houses, you know. They’re a sort of local curiosity. No matter where
you are, you’ll find one of them within a couple of hundred yards of
you, anywhere in the grounds.”
“Only in the grounds? Aren’t there any outside the estate?” inquired
Sir Clinton. “At the first glance I took it for some sort of
archæological affair.”
“They’re old enough, I dare say,” Cecil admitted, indifferently. “A
century, or a century and a half, or perhaps even more. They’re purely
a Ravensthorpe product. I’ve never seen one of them outside the
boundary.”
Sir Clinton left the path and made a closer examination of the tiny
hut; but it presented very few points of interest in itself. Out of
curiosity, he turned the handle of the door and found it moved easily.
“You seem to keep the locks and hinges oiled,” he said, with some
surprise.
Pushing the door open, he stooped down and glanced inside.
“Very spic and span. You keep them in good repair, evidently.”
“Oh, one of the gardeners has the job of looking after them,” Cecil
explained, without showing much interest.
“I’ve never seen anything of the sort before. They might be Picts’
dwellings, or something of that kind; but why keep them in repair?
And, of course, they’re not prehistoric at all. They’re comparatively
modern, from the way they’re put together. What are they?”
“Ask me another,” said Cecil, who seemed bored by the subject.
“They’re an ancestral legacy, or an heirloom, or a tenant’s
improvement, or whatever you like to call it. Clause in the will each
time, to provide for them being kept in good repair, and so forth.”
Sir Clinton seemed to prick up his ears when he heard of this
provision, though his tone showed only languid interest when he put
his next inquiry.
“Anything at the back of it all? It seems a rum sort of business.”
“The country-people round about here will supply you with all the
information you can believe about it—and a lot you’re not likely to
swallow, too. By their way of it, Lavington Knoll up there”—he pointed
vaguely to indicate its position—“was the last of the fairy
strongholds hereabouts; and when most of the fairies went away, a few
stayed behind. But these didn’t care much for the old Knoll after
that. Reminded them of past glories and cheery company too much, I
suppose; and so they made a sort of treaty with an ancestor of ours.
He was to provide houses for them, and they were to look after the
general prosperity side of Ravensthorpe.”
Sir Clinton seemed amused by Cecil’s somewhat scornful summary.
“A case of ‘Farewell rewards and fairies,’ it seems, Cecil.”
Then, half to himself, he hummed a few lines of Corbet’s song:
Witness those rings and roundelayes
Of theirs, which yet remaine;
Were footed in queene Maries dayes
On many a grassy playne.
But since of late Elizabeth . . .
“Do you go as far back as Elizabeth, here at Ravensthorpe, by any
chance, Cecil?”
“So far as the grounds go, yes. The house was partly destroyed in
Cromwell’s time; and some new bits were built on in place of the old
stuff. But there’s a lot of the old part left yet, in quite good
repair.”
Sir Clinton still seemed interested in the compact with the Fairies.
“Was there any penalty clause in the contract about these Houses?
There’s usually some drawback to these affairs—like the Luck of
Edenhall, for instance.”
“There used to be some legend or other that unless the Fairies found
their houses always in good order, the Family Curse would come home to
roost, one-time. No one believes in that sort of stuff nowadays; but
it’s kept alive by this clause that’s put into every will—a kind of a
family custom, you know, that no one cares to be the first to break.
If you call it a damned old wives’ tale, I shan’t blame you.”
Sir Clinton could not be sure whether Cecil’s indifference in the
matter was natural or assumed; but in any case he thought it tactful
to pursue the subject no further. Closing the door of the Fairy House
again, he made his way back to the path where his companion was
waiting for him.
As the Chief Constable rejoined him, Cecil looked round the horizon
with feeble interest.
“Not much else to show you, I’m afraid,” he said. Then, with an
after-thought: “Care to see rather a good view? The best one
hereabouts is just up above us—through the wood here—if you think it
worth the trouble of the climb. It’s not very far. We’ve plenty of
time before lunch.”
Sir Clinton acquiesced, and they began to mount a further slope in the
path which now led them up through a sparse pine-wood.
“There seems to be a good sound foundation to this path,” the Chief
Constable commented, as they walked on.
“There used to be a carriage-drive, at one time, leading up to the
top. I suppose the old birds used to drive up here and sit out having
tea and admiring the view on fine days. But it’s been neglected for
long enough. Hardly any one goes up to the top now, except once in a
blue moon or else by accident.”
Sir Clinton gave a nod of acquiescence.
“Any one can see the path’s hardly ever used.”
“Just beyond this brow,” Cecil explained as they moved on, “there’s an
old quarry cut in the further side of the hill. It’s a very old place,
rather picturesque nowadays. Most of the stone for Ravensthorpe came
from it in the old days, and during the rebuilding. After that, the
quarry dropped out of use gradually; and finally some one had the
notion of letting water in at the foot of it and having a sort of
model lake there, with the cliff of the quarry at one end of it. We’re
making for the top of the cliff by going this way; and when you get
out of the wood into the open, you’ll find rather a good outlook over
the country.”
A short walk took them through the rest of the pine-wood. On the
further side they came into a belt of open ground beyond which, on a
slight eminence, a little spinney blocked part of the view.
“That’s where we’re making for,” Cecil explained. “The best view-point
is on the other side of these trees. The old birds, a century back,
chose it carefully and did some laying out at the top; so I suppose
they must have been keen on the place.”
As they approached the spinney, Sir Clinton noticed a fence running
down from each side of it. Cecil followed the direction of the Chief
Constable’s glance.
“That’s barbed wire,” he pointed out. “The spinney’s at the top of the
quarry; but there’s a bad drop down towards the hollow on either
side—a dangerous bit, practically precipitous—and so the wire was put
up to prevent any one wandering near the edge and tripping over.”
Cutting through the fringe of trees, they emerged at the top of the
cliff. Here the ground had been levelled and paved. Along the
precipice, a marble balustrade had been erected as a safeguard.
Further back, a curved tier of marble seats faced the view; and here
and there in the line rose pedestals carrying life-sized marble
statues which faced out towards the gulf.
“This is really very elaborate,” Sir Clinton commented. “Evidently
your ancestors liked the view, if they took so much trouble to put up
this affair.”
He moved across the paved space, leaned on the balustrade, and looked
down into the depths.
“I don’t wonder you fenced that in with barbed wire on each side,” he
said. “It’s a nasty drop down there—well over a fifty-foot fall at
least.”
“It’s nearer a hundred, really,” Cecil corrected him. “The height’s a
bit deceptive from here. And a fall into that pool would be no joy, I
can tell you! It’s full of sharp spikes of rock jutting up from the
bottom. You’d get fairly well mauled if you happened to drop on any of
them. You can’t see them for that green stuff in the water; but
they’re all present and correct under the surface.”
Sir Clinton looked down at the weed-grown little lakelet. The dense
green fronds gave the water an unpleasant appearance; and in some tiny
backwaters the surface was covered with a layer of scum.
“Why don’t you get all that stuff cleared out?” he demanded. “It looks
rather beastly. Once you got rid of it you could stock the pool with
trout or perch, easily enough. I see there’s some flow of water
through it from a spring at the east end.”
Cecil seemed to have no interest in the suggestion.
“If you want some fishing,” he said, “we’ve got quite a decent stream
that runs through another part of the grounds. This place used to be
kept in good order; but since the war and all that, you know, the fine
edge has been rather off things hereabouts. It’s in a bad state, right
enough. Just a frog-pond.”
“Is the water deep?” Sir Clinton inquired.
“Oh, ten to fifteen feet in parts. Quite deep just in front of the
cave at the bottom of the cliff below here. We used to have great
times playing robbers and so forth when we were kids. There’s our old
raft at the far end. It was well tarred and I see it’s still afloat.
It was the only way of getting at the cave-mouth, you see.”
He dismissed the subject.
“Suppose we sit down for a while.”
Sir Clinton followed him to one of the marble benches. Before them,
the view of the Ravensthorpe grounds stretched out, closed on the
horizon by a line of woodland. In the foreground, beyond a fence at
the end of the lake, sheep were grazing on some meadow-land.
“One of your ancestors?” inquired Sir Clinton, nodding towards the
nearest statue. “Or merely Phœbus Apollo?”
Cecil turned to glance at the statue.
“I think I’d back your second choice,” he said. “If it was an
ancestor, it must have been one of the ancient Britons. It’s a bit
short of clothes for anything later than that; and even for an ancient
Briton it seems a trifle undressed. No woad, you know.”
He took out his cigarette-case, offered it to Sir Clinton, and then
began to smoke. Sir Clinton seemed to be admiring the view in front of
him for a few minutes; but when he spoke again it was evident that
something more than scenery had been in his mind.
“I’m not altogether easy in my mind over this masked ball of Joan’s.
Speaking as a Chief Constable responsible for the good behaviour of
the district, Cecil, it seems to me that you’re running some risks
over it. A dance is all very well. You know all your guests by
headmark and no one can get in on false pretences. But once you start
masks, it’s a different state of affairs altogether.”
Cecil made no comment; and Sir Clinton smoked in silence for a time
before continuing:
“It’s this craze of Joan’s for anonymity that seems to me to open the
door to all sorts of things. I take it that there’ll be no announcing
of individual guests, because of this incognito stunt of hers. But
unfortunately that means you’ll have to admit any one who chooses to
present himself as Winnie-the-Pooh or Felix the Cat or Father
Christmas. You don’t know who he is. You can’t inquire at the start.
Anybody might get in. Considering the amount of good portable stuff
there is in the collection at Ravensthorpe, do you think it’s quite
desirable to have no check whatever on your guests?”
Cecil seemed struck by this view of the case.
“I never thought of that,” he said. “I suppose we ought to have issued
uniform entrance-tickets, or something of that sort; but the thing
never crossed any of our minds. Somehow, it seems a bit steep to take
precautions against people when one’s inviting them to one’s house.”
“It’s not _invited_ guests I’m thinking about,” Sir Clinton hastened
to explain more definitely. “This affair must have been talked about
all over the countryside. What’s to hinder some enterprising thief
dressing up as a tramp and presenting himself along with the rest?
He’d get in all right. And once he was inside, he might be tempted to
forget the laws of hospitality and help himself. Then, if he made
himself scarce before the unmasking at midnight, he’d get clean away
and leave no trace. See it?”
Cecil nodded affirmatively; but to Sir Clinton’s slight surprise he
did not appear to be much perturbed on the subject. The Chief
Constable seemed to see an explanation of this attitude.
“Perhaps, of course, you’re shutting up the collections for the
evening.”
Cecil shook his head.
“No. Joan insists on having them on view—all of them. It’s a state
occasion for her, you know; and she’s determined to have all the best
of Ravensthorpe for her guests. What she says goes, you know. If she
can’t get her own way by one road she takes another. It’s always
easier to give in to her at once and be done with it. She has such a
way of making one feel a beast if one refuses her anything; and yet
she never seems to get spoiled with it all.”
Sir Clinton seemed rather taken aback by the news about the
collections.
“Well, it’s your funeral, not mine, if anything does happen,” he
admitted.
“Maurice’s—not mine,” Cecil corrected him with a touch of bitterness
which Sir Clinton failed to understand at the moment.
“I’ve nothing to do with Ravensthorpe nowadays,” Cecil went on, after
a pause. “I live there, that’s all. The whole affair went to
Maurice—lock, stock, and barrel—when my father died. I’ve really no
more right in these grounds than you have. I might be kicked out any
day.”
Sir Clinton was puzzled by Cecil’s tone. It was only natural that
Ravensthorpe should go down into the hands of Maurice, since he was
the elder brother. There could be no particular grievance in that. And
yet Cecil’s voice had betrayed something deeper than a mere mild
resentment. The asperity in his last remark had been unmistakable.
For a few minutes Cecil remained silent, staring moodily out at the
landscape. Sir Clinton refrained from interrupting his thoughts. The
matter certainly had excited his curiosity; but until Cecil chose to
say more, there seemed to be no reason for intruding into the private
affairs of the Ravensthorpe household. Even the privileges of an old
friend did not seem to Sir Clinton a sufficient excuse for probing
into family matters.
But the Chief Constable, without any voluntary effort, had the gift of
eliciting confidences without soliciting them. Cecil’s brooding came
to an end and he turned round to face his companion.
“I suppose I’ve said either too much or too little already,” he began.
“I don’t see why I shouldn’t tell you about the affair. It’s nearly
common talk as it is, and you’re sure to hear something about it
sooner or later. You may as well get it first-hand and be done with
it.”
Sir Clinton, having solicited no confidence, contented himself with
merely listening, without offering any vocal encouragement.
“You knew my father well,” Cecil went on, after a short pause in which
he seemed to be arranging his ideas in some definite order. “He was
one of the best, if you like. No one would say a word against him—it’s
the last thing I’d think of doing myself, at any rate.”
Sir Clinton nodded approvingly.
“The bother was,” Cecil continued, “that he judged every one by
himself. He couldn’t understand that any one might not be as straight
as he always was. He never made an allowance for some kinds of human
nature, if you see what I mean. And, another thing, he had a great
notion of the duties of the head of the family. He took them pretty
seriously and he looked after a lot of people who had no claim on him,
really, except that they belonged to the clan.”
“He was always generous, I know,” Sir Clinton confirmed. “And he
always trusted people. Sometimes, perhaps, he overdid it.”
Cecil made a gesture of agreement and continued:
“He overdid it when he drew up his will. Maurice, of course, was bound
to be the next head of the family, once my father had gone; so my
father took it for granted that things would go on just the same. The
head of the family would run the show with an eye to the interests of
the rest of us, and all would be right on the night. That was the
theory of the business, as my father saw it; and he drafted his will
on that basis.”
Cecil sat up suddenly and flung away his cigarette with a vehemence
which betrayed the heat of his feelings.
“That was the theory of the business, as I said. But the practice
wasn’t quite so satisfactory. My father left every penny he had to
Maurice; he left him absolutely every asset; and, of course,
Ravensthorpe’s entailed, so Maurice got that in the normal course.
Joan, my mother, and myself, were left without a farthing to bless
ourselves with. But there was a suggestion in the will—not a legally
binding thing, but merely a sort of informal direction—that Maurice
was to look after us all and give us some sort of income each. I
suppose my father hardly thought it worth while to do more than that.
Being the sort of man he was, he would rely implicitly on Maurice
playing the game, just as he’d have played the game himself—had played
it all his life, you know.”
Sir Clinton showed no desire to offer any comment; and in a moment or
two Cecil went on once more:
“Last year, there was nothing to complain about. Maurice footed our
bills quite decently. He never grumbled over our expenses. Everything
seemed quite sound. It never crossed my mind to get things put on a
business footing. In fact, you know, I’d hardly have had the nerve to
suggest anything of the sort. It would have looked a bit grasping,
wouldn’t it?”
Cecil glanced inquiringly at Sir Clinton, but the Chief Constable
seemed averse from making any comment at this stage. Cecil took his
case from his pocket and lit a fresh cigarette before continuing his
story.
“You don’t remember Una Rainhill, I suppose?”
Sir Clinton shook his head.
“She’s a sort of second cousin of ours,” Cecil explained. “Probably
you never came across her. Besides, she’d hardly be out of the nursery
when you went off to South Africa. Well, she’s grown up now—just about
a year or two younger than Joan. You’ll see her for yourself. She’s
staying with us just now for this coming-of-age of Joan’s.”
Sir Clinton had no great difficulty in guessing, behind Cecil’s
restraint, his actual feelings about the girl. His voice gave him away
if the words did not.
“No use making a long story of it, is there?” Cecil continued. “Both
Maurice and I wanted Una. So did a good many others. But she didn’t
want Maurice. She was quite nice about it. He’d nothing to complain of
in that way. He got no encouragement from her at all. But he wouldn’t
take ‘no’ for an answer. He was really extra keen, and I think he
overdid it instead of making the best of a bad business. And finally
he realized that it was me that he was up against. Una and I aren’t
officially engaged, or anything like that—you’ll see why in a
moment—but it’s a case of two’s company and three’s none; and Maurice
knows he’s Number Three.”
There was more than a tinge of rancour in Cecil’s voice when he came
to this last sentence. Sir Clinton raised his eyebrows slightly. He
did not quite admire this malevolence on the part of the successful
lover against his defeated rival. Cecil apparently noticed the slight
change in the Chief Constable’s expression.
“Wait a minute,” he said. “You haven’t heard it all yet. Before I go
on, just bear in mind that there was plenty of money for all of us in
the family. My father always took it for granted that I’d have enough
to keep me. He’d never thought of my going into business. I’ve got
some sort of turn for writing; and I think he hoped that I’d make some
kind of name as an author. And, of course, with what I supposed was an
assured income behind me, I haven’t hurried much in the way of
publishing my stuff. I could afford to let it lie—or so I thought.”
A slight gesture of Sir Clinton showed his approval of this outlook on
authorship. It seemed to him that Cecil at his age could hardly have
much to tell the world that it didn’t know already; but he had no
intention of expressing any such discouraging views.
“You see how it is,” Cecil continued. “As things stand, I haven’t the
ghost of a chance of earning a decent income for years and years. And
that was the weak joint that Maurice saw and went for—damn him! He
took it upon himself to tell me that I was here more or less on
sufferance. He’d been generous in the past—he actually reminded me of
that!—but he didn’t see how he was to continue to subsidize me
indefinitely. You see his game? If he couldn’t have Una himself, he’d
take care that I shouldn’t have her either. Damned dog-in-the-manger!
That’s a nice sort of brother for you! I wonder what his father would
think about him if he knew of this trick.”
He pitched away the stub of his unfinished cigarette as though with it
he could rid himself of some of his feeling.
“Of course there was friction—I’m putting it mildly—but there was no
open row. My mother’s not in good health and I couldn’t afford to have
her worried over my affairs. So we settled down to some sort of armed
neutrality, although the thing’s more or less evident to most people.
That’s what I meant when I said I might be kicked out any day. It’s
only a question of time, it seems to me. He still thinks that if I
were out of the way he’d have a chance with Una; and sooner or later I
expect him to give me an express-ticket into the wide world. I’m
trying to get some sort of job; but so far I haven’t succeeded in
lighting on anything that seems to offer the slightest prospects. It’s
no pleasure to stay here on sufferance, I can tell you.”
Now that Sir Clinton had received Cecil’s unsolicited confidences, he
hardly knew what to do with them. After all, he reflected, he had
heard only one side of the story; and it was scarcely fair to judge
the case on the strength of an _ex-parte_ statement. It was not quite
the Ravensthorpe which he had expected, he admitted ruefully to
himself as he bent his efforts to bringing Cecil back to normal again.
Money and a girl: the two things that seemed to lie behind most
troubles—and even crimes, as he knew from experience. It seemed an
unkind Fate that had forced these two factors to the front in an
environment where trouble of the kind was the last that might have
been expected. One never knew what this sort of thing might lead to in
the end.
“I’d like to have a look at your father’s collections some time or
other,” he said at last, to change the subject, when he had succeeded
in getting Cecil into a somewhat cooler frame of mind. “I saw a good
many of the things in London from time to time, as he bought them; but
there must be a lot here at Ravensthorpe that will be new to me.
Anything your father bought will be worth looking at. He had wonderful
taste.”
Rather to his vexation, Sir Clinton found that he had only shifted the
conversation from one sore point to another.
“If you want to see anything,” Cecil snapped, “you’d better pay your
visit as soon as you can arrange it. Maurice is going to sell the
lot.”
Sir Clinton was completely taken aback by this news.
“Sell the stuff? What on earth would he want to do that for? He’s got
all the money he needs, surely.”
Cecil dissociated himself from any connection with the matter.
“No business of mine, now. Maurice can do as he likes. Of course, I
hate the idea of all these things of my father’s being sold off when
there seems no need for it; but it’s not my affair. The Maurice boy
isn’t all we thought him; and since he’s come into Ravensthorpe, he
seems to think of very little else but money and how to get more of
it. Anything for the dibs, it appears.”
“But surely he isn’t selling everything. He might get rid of some
minor things; but he’ll hardly break up the whole collection.”
“Every damned thing, Sir Clinton. Why at this very moment he’s got a
Yankee agent—a man Foss—staying at Ravensthorpe and chaffering for the
star pieces of the collections: the Medusa Medallions.”
Sir Clinton shook his head.
“They must be fresh acquisitions since my day. I’ve never even heard
of them.”
“Ever see the picture of Medusa in the Uffizi Gallery? It’s attributed
to Leonardo da Vinci; but some people say it’s only a student’s copy
of the original Leonardo which has disappeared. It seems my father
came across three medallions with almost exactly the same Medusa on
one side and a figure of Perseus on the reverse. And what’s more, he
was able to get documentary proof that these things were really
Leonardo’s own work—strange as it seems. The thing’s quite admitted by
experts. So you can imagine that these Medusas are quite the star
pieces in the museum. And Maurice calmly proposes to sell them to
Kessock, the Yank millionaire; and Kessock has sent this man Foss over
here to negotiate for them.”
“It seems rather a pity to part with them,” Sir Clinton said,
regretfully.
“Maurice doesn’t feel it so,” Cecil retorted, rather bitterly. “He got
a friend of mine, Foxy Polegate, to make him electrotypes of them in
gold—Foxy’s rather good at that sort of thing for an amateur—and
Maurice thinks that the electrotypes will look just as well as the
originals.”
“H’m! Cenotaphs, I suppose,” Sir Clinton commented.
“Quite so. In Memoriam. The real things being buried in the U.S.A.”
Cecil paused for a moment and then concluded:
“You can imagine that none of us like this damned chandlering with
these things that my father spent so much thought over. It’s enough to
make him turn in his grave to have all his favourites scattered—and
just for the sake of Maurice’s infernal miserliness and greed for
cash.”
Sir Clinton rose from his seat and took a last glance at the view
before him.
“What about moving on now?”
Cecil agreed; and they retraced their steps towards the pine-wood. As
they entered the spinney, Sir Clinton noticed another of the Fairy
Houses set back among the trees at a little distance from the path.
“Another of those things?”
Rather to his surprise, Cecil moved over to examine the little
edifice, and bending down opened the door and glanced inside.
“The Fairy’s not at home at present,” he said, standing aside to let
Sir Clinton look in.
Something in Cecil’s voice forced itself on the attention of the Chief
Constable. The words seemed to be pointless; but in the tone there was
an ill-suppressed tinge of what might almost have been malicious glee
at some unexplained jest. Sir Clinton was too wary to follow up this
track, wherever it might lead to. He did not quite like the expression
on Cecil’s face when the remark was made; and he sought for some
transition which would bring them on to a fresh subject.
“You must have some curiosities in Ravensthorpe itself, if parts of it
are as old as they seem to be. Any priest’s holes, or secret passages,
or things of that sort?”
“There are one or two,” Cecil admitted. “But we don’t make a show of
them. In fact, even Joan doesn’t know how to get into them. There’s
some sort of ‘Mistletoe Bough’ story in the family: a girl went into
one of the passages, forgot how to work the spring to get out again,
lost her nerve apparently, and stayed there till she died. It so
happened that she was the only one of the family in the house at the
time, so there was no one to help her out. Since then, we’ve kept the
secret of the springs from our girls. No use running risks.”
“And even Joan hasn’t wheedled it out of you?”
“No, not even Joan. Maurice and I are the only ones who can get into
these places.”
Sir Clinton evidently approved of this.
“Short of opening the passages up altogether, that seems the best
thing to do. One never knows one’s luck. By the way, in an old place
like this you ought to have a stock of family legends. You’ve got
these Fairy Houses. Is there anything else of general interest?”
Cecil seemed to have recovered something of his normal good humour;
and his face betrayed almost a grin of amusement as he replied:
“Oh, yes! We’ve got a family ghost—or so the country-folk say. I’ve
never come across it myself; but it’s common talk that the family
spectre is a White Man who walks in the woods just before the head of
the family dies. All rot, you know. Nobody believes in it, really. But
it’s quite an old-established tradition round about here.”
Sir Clinton laughed.
“You certainly don’t seem to take him very seriously. What about
Family Curses? Are you well supplied?”
“You’d better apply to Maurice if you’re keen on Family Curses. He
seems to have specialized in that branch, if you ask me.”