“Now, Brown, I want you to tell me fairly, your opinion of the whole thing, because you have been here from the beginning.”
A sudden change came over the constable, and he glanced round uneasily, a look of fear in his eyes.
“I don’t know, sir,” he said, “I don’t think his Lordship was killed by any living man.”
“Nonsense, what on earth do you mean? You don’t believe in spooks, do you?” said Fletcher contemptuously.
“Well, it’s very queer, the villagers say …”
“Oh! I see, you’ve been talking in the village, and heard all about the Reckavile Curse, and that sort of thing; let’s have common sense.”
“We heard them talking quite plain,” the constable replied. “Reckavile and the Other, and when we broke in there was Lord Reckavile dead, and It had gone.”
“It? Don’t talk like that, it’s foolish,” but in spite of his words Fletcher felt a cold shiver; the place was eerie.
“I don’t like it, sir, there are queer tales about, and the Reckaviles were a very rum lot.”
“Enough of this,” said the other impatiently. “I wanted clues or anything suggestive, and you give me ghosts.”