It was a queer collection of shanties, dumped down without plan or method; some were of wood or corrugated iron, some old Army huts, and others made of railway carriages. They straggled in two irregular lines along the foreshore, and between them was an apology for a road.
By the time the train arrived at Portham Junction Fletcher had received an invitation to call on the Seftons. As he had arranged to meet the local constable at the castle, he reluctantly parted with his companion and turned his mind to the grim problem before him.
Chapter IV.
At the Castle
Fletcher was not one to let the ground get weedy under his feet. Leaving his bag at the railway station, he made his way on foot to Reckavile Castle.
It was a wet afternoon, and dusk was coming on when he got within sight of the building. Traces of flower-beds and garden plants showed through the tangle of growth, like the ruins of an old civilisation, giving the place an air of desolation. The castle was a depressing structure, massive and dim and the wet dripped ceaselessly from the trees. Time had covered the building in parts with ivy, and on the rest of the walls green patches of lichen grew like a disease.
The blind upper windows looked like dead eyes, and in spite of his cheery nature, Fletcher shuddered as a figure stepped suddenly from the shadow without noise.
“Who’s that?” said Fletcher in a louder tone than he intended.
“Brown, sir, I suppose you are Mr. Fletcher?”
The latter felt a sense of relief; the constable was a stalwart ex-guardsman.
“What are you doing out here in the wet?” he asked shaking the other by the hand.