Paintings of Reckaviles looked down from the walls. Fletcher had imagination, and he could see the latent madness in their eyes, but there was more. They could be capable of great deeds or great sins; he could picture a Reckavile doing a stupendous act of heroism or a vile thing which would blanch the cheek.
His thoughts were interrupted by Brown.
“That’s the last of them, sir,” he said pointing to a portrait of recent date. Fletcher looked at a handsome ascetic face, wherein was cruelty and lust, but a pride which nothing could daunt.
“And who is that?” said he pointing to a stout lady of mature charms.
“That was his mother, the last Lady Reckavile, but that was before my time. She used to live here; since her death the house has been shut up, most of the year.”
Fletcher was still holding the miniature in his hands; he looked at the portrait on the wall and then at the other, and was about to speak, but the bovine face of the constable stopped him.
Instead he said, after a pause, “About those poachers, Brown, I understand you saw some in the woods a few days before the murder?”
“Yes, and I mentioned it to Stevens. I did not see them close enough to recognise them. There were two. Stevens told me to come up and see Lord Reckavile about it, the very day the murder took place.”
“I see. Well, let’s have a look at the house, bring the lamp.”
They passed into the rooms on the ground floor, and as they opened the doors they were met with a damp, musty smell as from a vault. Everything was in ruin and decay and dust was heavy over all.