“It is,” said the other grimly. “But before you go, I want to tell you something of the Reckaviles. It will save you hunting it up. They are a queer lot. This one was the last of his line, and people who know, say it is a very good thing. The Reckaviles always said there was a curse on them, set there by an old witch or something of that sort, but less charitable folk say there was madness in the family, and they are probably nearer the truth.
“There was one in the Eighteenth Century who had been a leader in the Medmenham orgies, and was found stark dead in the Abbey with no marks on him. There was another who lost everything he had in one night’s sitting at White’s, and left the room smiling like a fiend. He retired to a strip of woodland on the South Coast where Portham now stands, and built himself a ramshackle house. It was half of rubble and half brick, and he designed it himself, with a complete disregard to sanitation or comfort. There with what supplies of brandy he had saved from the wreck of his fortunes, he drank himself to death in a dignified way, timing his last seizure with his final bottle and apologising to his wife for the trouble he was giving.
“The father of the last Reckavile ran away with a draper’s wife, and then challenged him to fight for the lady. The draper applied for police protection, and divorce, and got both. Reckavile married the woman, and was finally drowned when returning from abroad, and his body was washed ashore near the castle.
“I gather that the family fortunes were at about rock bottom, when a speculative builder, who chanced that way, saw possibilities of a bungalow town, on the foreshore, without the irk of a town council, and interfering inspectors. The last Reckavile found himself in funds, and wandered abroad. I could tell you much more, some of it such deeds as can only be hinted at, but this will suffice.”
Fletcher lay back in his chair, lost in thought.
“What a family!” was his comment, but to himself he said “I wonder why he has told me all this,” and he looked at the shrewd face of the famous detective, which remained inscrutable.
“And now the last of the line has come to a tragic end,” said Sinclair musingly “so I suppose the Curse has worked out.”
“Curse?” said the other startled, “you don’t believe in the Curse, sir, do you?”
Sinclair looked at him.
“Oh, I don’t know, there are many things we are finding out about now, which our fathers scoffed at,” was his reply.