She looked at him with innocent blue eyes. She was evidently not the sort that takes offence or sees an insult in a man looking at her.
He led the conversation round with practiced skill to the crime, but her brows clouded over.
“Yes,” she said, “it upset us terribly. It was horrible and you know the castle itself suggests some dreadful crime. It is so broken down and uncared for.”
“I suppose they have no idea in the village as to who the murderer could be?” he asked.
“All the villagers—what few there are of them in the winter, are convinced that it had something to do with the Reckavile Curse.”
“You don’t believe that?”
“I don’t know, it was all so mysterious, but my brother laughs at it; you know he was called in when it occurred. He is almost a qualified doctor.”
“I saw something about it in the papers,” he said evasively.
“I believe he saw more than the stupid detective did. He told me nothing, but he hinted at things once or twice.”
Fletcher thought he had better get off dangerous ground for the present. His companion was charming, and seemed to have no objection to talking. In a short time he was possessed of all the facts about the Seftons, and Portham-on-Sea.