Brown looked at him uneasily. “Very good, sir, I shan’t be sorry,” he said. “The night’s bad outside, but it’s worse here,” and he glanced round the hall, where shadows flickered from the lamplight.
The fire was nearly out, so they left it, and locking up, made their way through the rank vegetation, damp and unwholesome.
With a sigh of relief Fletcher emerged from the woods, and skirted the shore to the little fishing village of Portham, now in complete darkness.
“That’s the Black Horse, sir,” said Brown pointing to a dark mass.
“Now look here, Brown, I want to impress on you that I am here to find out all I can, and no one must know what I am or they will be suspicious of me. You understand?”
“Certainly, sir.”
“And you must not call me ‘sir,’ at all. I am just an old friend of yours, what shall we say, on a holiday after an illness. Now, goodbye, I will go to the place alone; they know I am coming?”
“Yes, I booked the room as you told me to.”
Fletcher waited till the constable had gone, and then went to the door, and knocked. After some time a light showed inside, and the door was opened. The landlord, a black-looking, shock-headed man with streaks of grey in his hair, stood in the doorway. “Good-evening,” said Fletcher, “my name is Fletcher. I have booked a room here.”
The landlord, Southgate, eyed him with suspicion, and muttered something about waiting up for him, but Fletcher was used to dealing with all classes of men, and quickly summed his host up. With apologies for his lateness, which he put down to having lost his way in the storm, he asked mine host whether he would join him with some liquid refreshment, and suggested whiskey; he himself was quite done up, and too tired for food.