Fletcher pricked up his ears and waited.
“ ’E were mad, like ’em all,” continued the landlord “and ’e swore ’e would land, weather or no. ’E’d come over from France in a ’urry. ’E raved and swore, and wouldn’t go to Port like a sensible man.
“The Skipper ’e was a Frenchy, and Reckavile ’eld a pistol to ’is ’ead, and told ’im to put ’im ashore. They launched a boat somehow, but it overturned as any sensible man would ’a known. ’Ow the rest got ashore I don’t know. They all sat in this very room shivering and chatting in their lingo, but Lord Reckavile ’e was washed ashore that night.”
Fletcher waited; a sudden gust of wind swept round the inn, and smoke blew into the room.
“There was a fine to do,” the landlord continued “but ’e was the only one drownded, and they being foreigners it was ’ushed up. The Ketch was a total wreck, and the crew were sent ’ome.”
“What about his wife?”
A cunning look came into the man’s eyes. “Oh! She was up at the castle; the new Lord Reckavile was born that very night.”
“And that was how long ago?” said Fletcher.
“Thirty-two year come next March,” said he.
“Then Lord Reckavile was about thirty-two when he was murdered?” he slipped out unwarily.