“Quite, and I turned the chair over—there was a deep depression underneath on the soft carpet, and for another thing, the blood was dry, in most places, I passed my hands over the stains—though some was not …” he added musingly.
“Let’s have another drink,” said Fletcher to hide his excitement.
Chapter VII.
In the Dark Night
Fletcher was satisfied with his day’s work. He returned to the Black Horse tired and hungry. Here at any rate were clues in abundance if he could only piece them together.
After a substantial meal he wrote out his report for Sinclair, and having smoked a contemplative pipe, he sought his landlord.
He found him also smoking, and in a surly mood, but with the aid of spirituous liquid he was able to thaw his reserve.
It appeared that business was slack, and he spent a great part of his time at his old trade of fishing. Only when Fletcher tried to work the conversation round to the affair at Reckavile Castle, the landlord shut up like an oyster.
As the night advanced, however, he became a little more communicative. A second bottle had been opened, from which the landlord helped himself liberally, and Fletcher with caution. The night had turned rough, and the wind was rising. Fletcher listened for a moment, and then said:
“Do you get many wrecks round these parts?” and knocked out his pipe against the old fireplace.
“I don’t recall as ther’s ben one for nigh on thirty year,” said the other helping himself to another drink. “That were when old Reckavile came home.”