The Curse of the Reckaviles

by

Walter S. Masterman

Contents

Then, very slowly, a face appeared, a vacant dead-looking face surrounded by a mass of white hair streaked with yellow.

Book I.
The Curse

Chapter I.
The “Final”

The Final for the Hospital Cup was being fought out between Guys and Barts, and the usual crowd of joyful medicos were making their way to the ground, dressed in every fantastic garb, ringing bells and waving hideous ear-splitting rattles. The crowd watched good humouredly, as here a coster’s cart passed with donkey and “Bill” and “Liza,” here the ex-Kaiser with carrots behind his ears, and Joan of Arc and Humpty-Dumpty, and clowns with balloons and Dilly and Dally, and the rest. The police had seen it all before, and shepherded them along with firmness and good temper.

The ground was in a state of pandemonium till the whistle blew, when silence fell on the spectators, as the teams got down to serious work.

Each was well balanced, but contained particular stars, the darlings of their supporters; here was Histon the international wing “three,” who had scored the only try for England in that great tussle with Ireland, and Blackett the Scottish forward whose name was terror.

Not least among them was Sefton, now in his last year, who was in the running for his International Cap, on the left wing, a deadly straight runner, who might easily win the match if properly fed by his centre. And so they ran through the names, and weighed the chances, while thirty young Britons in the pride of perfect fitness strove for the mastery, as many of them had fought in the Great War, with a single purpose, to win or perish as became them.

Half time came with no score, and the rattles clattered like machine guns, and the hooters hooted, and drums beat.

Then the struggle became fierce and desperate. Time after time the grand Barts pack went through with a rush, only to be stopped by the intrepid Jacks, at full back, who hurled himself on the ball regardless of life and limb, or so it seemed to the more tender of the crowd.

Time and again a passing movement on the old Welch lines, en echelon, with perfect timing nearly let the Guys’ “threes” in, but still the lines were uncrossed. Histon had tried his dangerous drops, and all but won between the posts, and Sefton with his marvellous pace had run right through, to be tackled magnificently by Barron the full back, and so the tide had veered amidst the wildest excitement on the part of the spectators.

Time was running out, and many a looker-on glanced at his watch expecting a replay, when Guys’ scrum half “sold the dummy,” and cross kicked. Sefton’s inside took it superbly, and ran straight. There was one chance, and young Sefton took it, crossing inside, he took a pass at full speed, and raced in between the posts, in a scene of wild shouting and every noise that could be made.

The match was over, and Sefton was carried shoulder high to the Pavilion, in a never to be forgotten moment of triumph.

A glorious sense of exhilaration filled him. This was a fitting ending to his career, he hoped later to get his degree, but what was that compared to having won the cup.

In the dressing room his hand was nearly wrung off, as he got rid of the mud of the match.

His one regret was that his sister Ena, who had promised to come to the match, had not put in an appearance, and the thought of this disturbed him in an unaccountable manner.

As he came from the dressing room, one of the doctors met him, with a grave face, which gave him a sense of impending disaster, and drew him into a small side room.

“I am sorry to say, Sefton, I have some very bad news for you. This telegram came during the match, and we did not like to give it to you then. I opened it in case I could answer it for you.”

The words were terrible enough when Sefton read them:

“Come at once Father dying. Ena.”

In the silence of the room, the shouting and cheering outside could be heard, and a great feeling of bitterness came over Sefton at the contrast between the happy throng outside, and his own misery. He wanted to run out and tell them to stop. It was unseemly to cheer when his father was dying. Then he turned on the doctor angrily.

“Why did you not give me this at once? I suppose you thought I would leave the ground. Now I may get there too late.”

The doctor laid his hand on his shoulder kindly.

“No my boy, but there was only ten minutes to go, and knowing how keen you were on the match, we thought you would rather we kept it for that short time.”

“Forgive me, the news has upset me. Of course if I had got it then we should not have won, it was selfish of me.”

“I have a taxi here all ready for you,” said the doctor, and he led Sefton out by the back way, and put him inside.

“I will tell the others,” he said.

The misery of the journey Sefton never forgot.

He knew his father had been in failing health for some time, but had not expected any sudden failure.

Sefton’s Mother was dead, and his young sister had only left school the summer before to look after the house.

It was an ugly bleak house in Finchley that the doctor occupied, too big and poorly furnished, for he had never made a success of his practice, being far too much occupied with research. When his wife had been in full health, he had taken in one or two patients who were on the borderline of insanity, and treated them himself, but his wife’s breakdown in health put a stop to this source of income, and if she had known it, of brilliant discovery.

When Sefton arrived, and had got rid of the taxi, he was met by Ena, on whose face were marks of tears.

“Oh I am so glad you’ve come, father had been asking for you, the doctor has just left but is coming back.”

“How is father?” he asked.

“Bad, very bad I am afraid. He had a heart attack, quite suddenly, after lunch, and I thought he had died, but he rallied. Of course, I could not leave him, and wired for you.”

Jack Sefton went straight in to his father. There had never been much love lost between these two, for the doctor had been engrossed in some research work, and did not seem to understand his son, or take any interest in his career except to urge him on to get qualified. Perhaps he knew his own days were numbered.

He was propped up with pillows and looked ghastly, with a blue tinge about his face.

“I can’t talk much, Jack,” he said slowly “and I know the next attack will be the end, but I must have a word with you alone. I am afraid I have some bad news to tell you, the fact is I have neglected my business so much lately that the practice has gone to pieces. And I have been so careless in collecting accounts that I have had to dip into the little sum I had stored away for you and Ena. I am afraid there is little left.” He sighed.

A feeling of bitterness came to Jack. “Do you mean that we shall be penniless,” then he realised what this meant “that I shall have to leave the hospital without qualifying.”

“I am afraid so, my boy, unless you can borrow …”

“Borrow, who could I borrow from? Why could you not have told me before?”

“I was afraid to, and I had hoped to have made some money.”

Jack turned away with a movement of impatience.

“Don’t be angry with me now, Jack. I shall not be here much longer, and I have tried my best. And I have something I must tell you before I go, come here. It is less strain for me to whisper.”

The doctor spoke earnestly, and Jack bent over him while he told what had to be said. At intervals, Jack gave him teaspoonfuls of brandy, for he was weakening. When he had finished he lay back and closed his eyes. “Better fetch Ena,” he said in a tired voice. Jack went out quickly and summoned the girl who came in dry-eyed and anxious. Jack telephoned in haste for the doctor, but before he arrived the end had come, and Jack and his sister were left to face the world alone.

The days that followed were full of wretchedness for the young people. There was the funeral, and the settling up, when Jack found that things were worse than even his father had thought. The house was only rented and this was behind, and there were debts to be met, even Ena’s last school bill being still unpaid.

Then he went to see the Hospital authorities, who were very kind as far as sympathy went, but adamant with regard to the future. Fees were owing already, and it would be impossible for him to go on for the next two terms to complete, unless payments were made. They were very sorry but the rules were strict. Perhaps he could find work, and later come back and complete his course, and so on.

Jack came away in utter dejection, to the house from which most of the furniture had been removed, and which they had to vacate the next day with nowhere to go.

The one bright star was Ena, who faced the situation with splendid bravery, and refused to despair.

When Jack came in, she met him with a cheery smile, and listened to his story with sympathetic interest.

“You poor boy,” she said, “you must feel it very much, but perhaps some day in the near future, things may get better, and you will be able to get qualified.”

Jack felt ashamed of his despair in face of her pluck.

“I have tried everything, but apart from becoming a professional in the Northern Union, if I was good enough, I can’t see any hope. How do we stand?”

She knew what he meant, as she it was who had gone through the accounts, and settled the bills, as soon as the lawyers had done their part and taken their heavy toll.

“We shan’t have much, dear, about fifty pounds I reckon, perhaps a little more, couldn’t you possibly manage on that?”

“Impossible, and you have to live as well, remember,” and he smiled at her. “No, there is only one thing. If I can get away to some quiet place, I may be able to do something, there is just a chance. Father told me a secret before he died, and there may be something in it, or it may be that his brain was weakening, and that he was imagining things.”

She looked at him questioningly, but understood he did not wish to say anything further.

And then the post brought a letter from a school friend of Ena’s, one of the few with whom she had kept in contact. It was to say that her parents had a summer bungalow at Portham-on-Sea, which they did not use in the winter, and that if the Seftons cared to make use of it they were quite welcome. The key was with the agent, and so on.

“There,” said Ena gaily, “I told you something would turn up.”

“Where is this Portham, I’ve never heard of it?”

“It’s on the South Coast, my friend has often told me of it, shall we go there?”

“I suppose so, we haven’t much choice, but I should imagine it’s pretty bad this weather. We can’t stay here, so had better try.”

“Oh! let’s get away from here,” said Ena, in a voice which showed how the strain was telling on her.

Jack came round and put his arm round her. “Poor old girl, you have had a wretched time, and all the worry has come on you; let’s get out of it.”

There was little to pack, and the same afternoon saw them on their way to Portham Junction, and as the dreary bungalow town opened before them, hideous and forbidding, their hearts sank within them. Even Ena’s spirits were damped, and she clung to Jack for a moment.

“I’m afraid, I don’t know why,” she said, “but I feel as though we were going into a black tunnel, ever so deep and long.”

“Never mind, dear,” he said to reassure her “as long as there’s an opening the other end.”

So Fate plays havoc with our lives.

Chapter II.
The Coming of the Stranger

Ena Sefton was returning from the local grocer, who carried on a desperate, and fortuitous existence during the winter months, hoping to reap a harvest in the summer. The place now was derelict, like a show when the season has finished, and the few inhabitants wandered round like the survivors of a plague.

Some of the bungalows had wooden shutters nailed over the windows to save the glass, and looked like houses of the dead. Others showed through the uncurtained windows dim suggestions of deck chairs, and furniture covered with sheets. Pebbles and sand covered the verandas, and pools of discoloured water stood in the rutted road.

There was no symmetry or order about the bungalows; some more pretentious than others, showed marks of distinction, such as a ship in full sail over the roof, as a wind-vane, or a conservatory where languid flowers and shrubs waited for the spring. These were the aristocrats of Bungalow Town. Nestling between two such, would come a chubby democrat, quite unashamed of his appearance, made of two railway carriages with a pent roof over them, and a notice stating that “This Desirable Bungalow” was “to be Let Furnished.”

In the summer all alike would be crowded with happy people, but now they were ruinous and depressing.

Ena made her way down the road, stopping now and then as a fierce blast struck her and a blinding spindrift nearly choked her.

Progress was difficult against the wind bitter with salt and driven sand, carrying a heavy shopping basket. The stranger almost collided with her, and drew on one side with apologies. He glanced at the girl, and then politely asked if he might carry the basket, and with quiet insistence took it from her.

“The storm is very bad just here between the bungalows,” he said. “I will come with you for a little way if I may.”

With his cultured tone there was a note of determination, and Ena was glad of his help, besides being amused at his presumption. He walked beside her regardless of the pools of water, sheltering her from the worst of the storm, till they came to her bungalow, which was all dark and forbidding.

“This is where we live,” she said “but my brother is evidently not back yet; won’t you come in and wait for the rest of the storm to blow over, he cannot be long.”

“My name is Halley,” said the man, bowing slightly. “I am staying here for a short time, but I think I had better get back; I shall have the wind behind me, you see.”

Ena glanced at him, and noticed in the dim light that he was tall and fragile-looking.

“Are you afraid of coming in?” she asked with a mocking laugh, “or is it merely a question of convention?”

“Neither, Miss …” he began.

“Sefton is my name … Ena Sefton, and my brother’s name is Jack.”

Her manner was refreshing and he judged her very young.

“I will certainly do so if you ask me in that way, but an invitation in these circumstances is often a matter of form, to be refused like a dinner invitation when one knows there is nothing to eat.”

They both laughed, and Ena opened the door. Her life was so lonely that she was rather enjoying the chance of talking to one who was evidently a gentleman.

He carried the basket in for her, helped her light a lamp, and an oil stove, which had gone out and had been smoking horribly.

“My brother will be back soon, and you must let me make you a cup of tea. You see there is something to eat from the weight of the basket.” He saw a merry smile come to her mouth, and a pair of trusting blue eyes looked into his.

Soon they were sitting over the oil stove, now giving out a welcome heat, and had started to thaw.

“I wonder where Jack can have got to?” she said. “He went out for a walk some time ago.”

Halley thought to himself “And left you to carry the supplies,” but he left the remark unsaid.

“He has taken lately to these long walks, and I find it rather lonely. I would like you to see him.”

“I shall be delighted,” answered Halley, amused at her naïve manner. “I am a stranger here, perhaps the air will do me good.”

She glanced at him, and thought he looked ill, though straight and very handsome. She imagined he had suffered in health or through some secret sorrow, and her girlish fancy was already building a romantic past round him.

The silence was becoming awkward. Outside the rain was streaming from the roof, and the wind moaned with sullen fury.

“How do you like this place?” she asked, to say something.

“It is quiet, and suits me, but …”

“What?”

He glanced at her. “Well, this horrible murder at the castle has rather upset things.”

She gave a nervous shudder. “It has upset us all. I get quite frightened, my brother is out so much, and I sit here and listen to the wind, and imagine all sorts of things.”

“You poor girl!” he said so gently that it took all the familiarity from the remark.

“The villagers, what there are of them, declare there is a curse on the Reckaviles,” she said and shivered.

“You don’t believe that?”

“I don’t know, I went and looked at the castle—it’s a dreary place, and one can picture anything happening there.”

He glanced at her anxiously, this morbid conversation must stop before he went: he heartily cursed the brother for leaving this sweet little creature alone.

“May I smoke?” he asked to change the talk.

“Why, certainly,” she said, and bit her tongue with vexation as she realised she had nothing to offer, but Halley produced his case.

“You don’t?” he asked offering it to her.

“No, that’s not one of my vices,” she laughed.

“Do you know I am so glad; I suppose I am old-fashioned, but I can never get used to girls smoking, especially young girls.”

“I’m twenty-one,” she said bridling.

“I beg your pardon, Miss Sefton, I was not thinking of any special case.”

She did not know whether to be annoyed or not, so changed the conversation.

“The wireless set is our only amusement, but I am afraid it is out of order.”

He walked across and examined it.

“It is a very good set, but there is something wrong. May I have an examination?”

“It is not ours you know; it belongs to the house, we only have the use of it while we are here.”

She watched him under the lamplight, his keen alert face and deft fingers suggested the artist. He fixed the ear phones to his head and began juggling with screws and wires in skillful manner. Ena watched him with the fascination a novice always feels for the expert, till the boiling kettle drew her to her duties with the teapot.

Halley removed the ear phones, and switched on the loud speaker, when a faint sound of music came forth.

“There is something wrong,” he said, “but I think I can put it right for you, if you will allow me to come again.”

“Why, certainly, but come and have a cup of tea now.”

They were soon sitting like old friends over the oil stove, discussing the place, and again she resorted to the gruesome crime which had fallen on the village—the murder of Lord Reckavile in his castle. Seeing that she was bent on discussing it he let her have her way.

“Did you ever see him?” he asked quietly.

“No, you know he very seldom came here. He had only been back from abroad quite a short time. It is altogether a mystery, but you know they say there is a curse on the family. No one will go near the castle now, even in the daytime, and you could not get anyone in the village to go there at night for any sum of money.”

“He was stabbed, wasn’t he? I read the bare account of the inquest.”

“Yes, in the back, and there was no one in the room,” she glanced uneasily round the lounge, and listened to the breaking of the waves and the wash of the sea outside.

His anger rose against her brother for leaving her alone, and though he knew he had no right to presume on her invitation, he stayed on as long as he possibly could.

At last he rose.

“I must really go,” he said. “I will come round and put your set right, and perhaps I can see your brother then.”

“Thank you so much. It has been so good of you to keep me company,” and there was a wistful look in her eyes.

She came with him to the door, and as he opened it a blast of the storm struck them, making the lamp flare up. Halley reeled against the door-post with a quick gasp of pain.

“What is the matter?” she asked anxiously.

“Nothing, just a touch of giddiness, an old wound which troubles me sometimes.”

She watched him down the rough road, bending with the fierce gale, and came in with a sigh.

Halley was as good as his word. He came the next evening with a parcel under his arm. All day Ena had been looking forward with pleasure to seeing him. She had told Jack of the chance meeting, which news he had received in a surly manner.

“We can’t afford to entertain, you know, Ena, and I don’t like people seeing our penury.”

“I am sorry,” she said. “I thought it would be a man friend for you, and Mr. Halley does not seem the kind of man who wants entertaining as you call it.”

“From your description he seems a sort of wandering artist fellow, and I hate that type. I don’t know that I care to see him much.”

“But Jack, you must. He cannot come here and find you out again, and he is coming to put the wireless set right. You know you would like to have it working.”

“Oh, is he?” said Jack. “Well, I can tell you what is wrong with it, it wants a new high tension battery, which costs about a sovereign, and we can’t afford it.”

Ena started—she wondered if Halley had found that out.

“You will come home won’t you, Jack?” she pleaded.

“I don’t know, Ena. I’ll try, but I can’t be certain.”

There was a shifty look in his eyes which she did not like, but he jumped up abruptly and left her without further discussion.

When Halley came the storm had gone, and the moon was shining on the water. He had quite a boyish appearance and came in with a cheerful smile. Ena greeted him with pleasure, but felt a sense of shame at Jack’s absence again.

“I am sorry to call so late, Miss Sefton,” he said “but I have been away all day, and I thought there was more chance of seeing your brother—besides it will be better for the wireless.”

“Jack promised to be in,” she said doubtfully. “He should have been here before now.”

He placed his parcel on the little table, and undid the wrapper, and she saw with misgiving what was inside.

“You have not got a new battery?” she asked, and her colour rose.

“Yes, I thought perhaps that was the trouble,” and he proceeded to fix it.

She was annoyed. It was taking a mean advantage of their poverty and she resented it, but what could she say? Offer to pay for it? That would be an insult again. She feared what Jack would say knowing how sensitive he was on this point.

“You should not have done that,” she said weakly.

“It is nothing, Miss Sefton. It is too good a set to be idle.”

But there was a feeling of restraint between them which he noticed. The adjustment made, he turned on the switch, and tuned in. A burst of music filled the room, and conversation was unnecessary.

The evening was delightful, and he stayed on giving her the best from the different programmes. At nine-thirty came the news bulletin, and weather forecast, and after that an announcement. She caught the words “Portham Junction” and heard Mr. Halley give a quick intake of breath.

Then came the stony words. “I will repeat.” “Missing from Home, Frederic Summers, Bank Manager from Tunbridge Wells, since January 20th. Aged 40. Tall, clean-shaven, dark. Last seen at Portham Junction carrying a hand-bag. He had gone on a week’s holiday, and his friends have heard no news of him since that date.” And then followed the usual request for information.

Ena looked up, and their eyes met.

“It appears to be one of those mysterious disappearances which baffle the police,” he said in level tones.

“But it’s so near to this place, and coming after the—other thing,” she said and stopped.

“There’s no need for alarm,” said he “it may be a simple case of loss of memory, or some natural explanation.”

“Of course, but this place is so lonely, and Jack is out so much.”

“You must tell him, and ask him to come in earlier, but forgive me, I have no right to talk like that.” He spread out his hands in apology, and she for a moment was reminded of something not quite English. There was just a touch of the alien, not menial, but rather belonging to the Age of Chivalry, which lives on in remote places.

“We must arrange a definite meeting,” he said. “You see, although this place is small, and quite unconventional, I cannot come here to see you. You understand that.”

“Of course, you are right. I will tell him when he comes in.”

Chapter III.
The End of the Line

“I want you to go to Portham-on-Sea, to take up the Reckavile murder, Fletcher,” said Chief Inspector Sinclair.

Fletcher was a youngster in the Service, with quick restless eyes, and an alert face; it was a great opportunity for him.

“I thought they would have to call us in, sir,” he said with a smile.

“It’s about time, too,” growled the older man “there’s the deuce of a fuss over the affair, not that the man was worth much, but he was a peer of the Realm, and a member of the House of Lords, though I don’t suppose he ever saw the inside of the building.”

“I thought perhaps you …” began Fletcher.

“Oh, I’ve got too much on hand already,” interrupted the other. “Besides it will give you a chance, and I know you younger men think I am getting too old for the work.”

There was a grim smile on the face of the old detective, as he noticed a guilty blush which Fletcher tried to hide.

“Well, just sit down and I will give you the main facts as they are known, though you have probably read the newspaper accounts.”

Fletcher nodded.

“Portham itself is a tiny fishing village, and the nearest station is Portham Junction, about two miles off. In the last few years there has grown up a bungalow town, about five miles to the west along the coast. This has been called Portham-on-Sea. Between these two is a wooded headland, and in these woods is situated Reckavile Castle. You will be able to see all this on the spot.

“Now for the crime. On January 14th last, Reckavile returned from one of his periodical journeys abroad. There is no one living at the castle except an old servant, Giles, and his wife, and most of it is permanently shut up. The whole place has run to seed, and there is only a track to the lodge where a gamekeeper of sorts, named Stevens, lives alone.

“On 20th January, at about 7 p. m. the village constable, John Brown, called to see Lord Reckavile about some alleged poachers, who had been hanging about the woods. He thought them poachers at the time, but in view of what has occurred, they may have had more sinister intentions. I suppose Giles and Brown stopped gossiping, and probably drinking the Reckavile beer, and then the servant went to tell his master.

“You must follow this carefully now. He came running back to Brown, saying he could get no answer, and that something was wrong as he heard sounds of quarrelling, though he had admitted no one to the house. He was white and trembling, and very agitated. He almost dragged the constable along, and when they reached the library door, they could distinctly hear two people talking. There were two doors, an outer one of oak, and an inner one of green baize. The constable has been thoroughly examined, though he is not very intelligent, I am afraid. He says they distinctly heard Reckavile say ‘Never, never, only over my dead body!’ The other replied ‘I only want justice and my right.’ They seemed to be angry. There was a confused noise, a sound of a blow, a horrible cry, and then silence.

“They waited a moment and knocked, but there was no answer; there was a heavy oak chair in the hall, and with this they battered down the door. The room was in a state of wild confusion—I use the constable’s words—the furniture overturned, and splashes of blood on the floor and chairs.

“Lord Reckavile was lying across the sofa, face downwards, and an ugly knife was sticking in his ribs. The room was empty, and Brown stayed there while Giles went for help. There is no doctor nearer than five miles off, so the gamekeeper rode off to the village to telephone for the doctor and the police at Ashstead, the nearest town.

“Outside the house, Giles met a certain Mr. Sefton, who was out for a walk. While he was not a qualified doctor, I believe he was a medical student, and Giles thought he might be of some service, so brought him in. He was able to pronounce the man dead—without a doubt.

“That is all. Here are the papers containing the account of the inquest, and of our confidential examinations. The best thing for you to do is to get on to the spot.”

Fletcher had produced a large pocket book, and taken notes. He now turned to them and read them through.

“May I ask a question or two, sir?” he said.

“Certainly,” said Sinclair “I should like you to do so, it will show what you are made of.”

“You say there was no one in the room. Is that absolutely certain?”

“The constable, as I told you, is rather a stupid person, but he never left the room after they burst open the door, and it was only a few minutes after that Giles returned with Sefton.”

“What about means of exit?” said Fletcher scanning his notes.

“A thorough search was made, first by the constable and the others, and afterwards by Sergeant Andrews from Ashstead. The windows were securely fastened, and there was no other door, and no trap doors or secret panels that can be found.”

“The door was locked, where was the key?” asked Fletcher again.

His Chief gave a chuckle. “Good!” he said, “there was no key found.”

“One last question, sir. What was the weapon?”

“An old dagger, with a thin blade. The waistcoat had been torn back, and the blade driven in between the ribs from the back, and had penetrated the heart. It had been cleverly done and seemed to show a knowledge of anatomy, but we must not jump to conclusions.”

“This is a tough nut, sir.”

“It is,” said the other grimly. “But before you go, I want to tell you something of the Reckaviles. It will save you hunting it up. They are a queer lot. This one was the last of his line, and people who know, say it is a very good thing. The Reckaviles always said there was a curse on them, set there by an old witch or something of that sort, but less charitable folk say there was madness in the family, and they are probably nearer the truth.

“There was one in the Eighteenth Century who had been a leader in the Medmenham orgies, and was found stark dead in the Abbey with no marks on him. There was another who lost everything he had in one night’s sitting at White’s, and left the room smiling like a fiend. He retired to a strip of woodland on the South Coast where Portham now stands, and built himself a ramshackle house. It was half of rubble and half brick, and he designed it himself, with a complete disregard to sanitation or comfort. There with what supplies of brandy he had saved from the wreck of his fortunes, he drank himself to death in a dignified way, timing his last seizure with his final bottle and apologising to his wife for the trouble he was giving.

“The father of the last Reckavile ran away with a draper’s wife, and then challenged him to fight for the lady. The draper applied for police protection, and divorce, and got both. Reckavile married the woman, and was finally drowned when returning from abroad, and his body was washed ashore near the castle.

“I gather that the family fortunes were at about rock bottom, when a speculative builder, who chanced that way, saw possibilities of a bungalow town, on the foreshore, without the irk of a town council, and interfering inspectors. The last Reckavile found himself in funds, and wandered abroad. I could tell you much more, some of it such deeds as can only be hinted at, but this will suffice.”

Fletcher lay back in his chair, lost in thought.

“What a family!” was his comment, but to himself he said “I wonder why he has told me all this,” and he looked at the shrewd face of the famous detective, which remained inscrutable.

“And now the last of the line has come to a tragic end,” said Sinclair musingly “so I suppose the Curse has worked out.”

“Curse?” said the other startled, “you don’t believe in the Curse, sir, do you?”

Sinclair looked at him.

“Oh, I don’t know, there are many things we are finding out about now, which our fathers scoffed at,” was his reply.

Fletcher gathered up the papers and went out on his quest, and managed to leap into the carriage as the train was moving, nearly falling over a young girl who was the sole occupant of the compartment, and hastily apologised.

“I hope I did not hurt you,” he said.

“Not at all,” she answered with a bright smile “but I was afraid you were going to slip between the carriage and the platform; it’s dangerous getting into trains like that you know.”

He was amused at the serious fashion in which she rebuked him. A glance at her showed him that she had a pretty face and a smart figure, and was neatly but plainly dressed.

On the floor was a letter which she had dropped, and stooping, he picked it up, and with his quick, trained eyes instinctively read the name—‘Miss Ena Sefton.’ As he handed it to her, ‘Sefton … Sefton …’ he said to himself. Where had he heard that name? Of course, the medical student who had been called in to see the dead Lord Reckavile. It was an uncommon name, and the train was going to Portham Junction. What a strange coincidence if …

“My name is Fletcher,” he said, for he had no reason to conceal his identity. “I wonder if by chance you know Portham-on-Sea.”

“Why certainly,” she replied “I live there at present, with my brother. Are you going there?”

“Yes,” he said “I am staying there a few days. It’s a sort of bungalow town, isn’t it?”

“You’ll find it terribly dull in the winter. Of course, in the summer it’s different,” she said.

“Oh, I want to be quiet and have a rest,” he replied. “I am sure I shall not find it dull,” and he glanced at the girl.

She looked at him with innocent blue eyes. She was evidently not the sort that takes offence or sees an insult in a man looking at her.

He led the conversation round with practiced skill to the crime, but her brows clouded over.

“Yes,” she said, “it upset us terribly. It was horrible and you know the castle itself suggests some dreadful crime. It is so broken down and uncared for.”

“I suppose they have no idea in the village as to who the murderer could be?” he asked.

“All the villagers—what few there are of them in the winter, are convinced that it had something to do with the Reckavile Curse.”

“You don’t believe that?”

“I don’t know, it was all so mysterious, but my brother laughs at it; you know he was called in when it occurred. He is almost a qualified doctor.”

“I saw something about it in the papers,” he said evasively.

“I believe he saw more than the stupid detective did. He told me nothing, but he hinted at things once or twice.”

Fletcher thought he had better get off dangerous ground for the present. His companion was charming, and seemed to have no objection to talking. In a short time he was possessed of all the facts about the Seftons, and Portham-on-Sea.

It was a queer collection of shanties, dumped down without plan or method; some were of wood or corrugated iron, some old Army huts, and others made of railway carriages. They straggled in two irregular lines along the foreshore, and between them was an apology for a road.

By the time the train arrived at Portham Junction Fletcher had received an invitation to call on the Seftons. As he had arranged to meet the local constable at the castle, he reluctantly parted with his companion and turned his mind to the grim problem before him.

Chapter IV.
At the Castle

Fletcher was not one to let the ground get weedy under his feet. Leaving his bag at the railway station, he made his way on foot to Reckavile Castle.

It was a wet afternoon, and dusk was coming on when he got within sight of the building. Traces of flower-beds and garden plants showed through the tangle of growth, like the ruins of an old civilisation, giving the place an air of desolation. The castle was a depressing structure, massive and dim and the wet dripped ceaselessly from the trees. Time had covered the building in parts with ivy, and on the rest of the walls green patches of lichen grew like a disease.

The blind upper windows looked like dead eyes, and in spite of his cheery nature, Fletcher shuddered as a figure stepped suddenly from the shadow without noise.

“Who’s that?” said Fletcher in a louder tone than he intended.

“Brown, sir, I suppose you are Mr. Fletcher?”

The latter felt a sense of relief; the constable was a stalwart ex-guardsman.

“What are you doing out here in the wet?” he asked shaking the other by the hand.

“To tell the truth, sir, I don’t like the place, and I thought I would wait here; we cleared the Giles out after the murder, and locked it up.”

He produced a great key, and led the way to the front door.

It was a massive portal surmounted by carved stone work, now green and crumbling. The hall was square and lofty, with a great open fireplace, cheerless and empty. The last light of the dying afternoon showed portraits on the walls, and a staircase leading upwards.

“I’ll get a light,” said the constable, and stamped off to the kitchen, returning with a lamp which threw a bright light on the walls and timbered ceiling.

“That’s better,” said Fletcher, “this place is confoundedly damp.”

“There were only two rooms used by the Giles,” said Brown, setting down the lamp, “the kitchen and a bedroom next to it, but they always kept Lord Reckavile’s rooms ready, as they never knew when he was coming back. He only used his library, and a bedroom on the ground floor. All the rest of the house is shut up, and full of rotting furniture.”

“Let’s have a look at the library then,” Fletcher said, and the constable led the way. Everything had been left untouched; the battered door still hung loose, and inside the furniture had been tossed and thrown about.

“There’s where the body was, lying over the sofa, and you can see the stains of blood on the floor and the armchair.”

Fletcher examined the dark marks of ill omen.

“Everything is just as it was. I made a careful list,” said Brown. “There is the wireless, a four valve set, and this is his desk, a very old one I should say, and that cabinet contains what they call a dictaphone, though I call it a gramaphone. His Lordship was very keen on these things. Here is a sketch I made, very rough I am afraid,” and he handed it to Fletcher.

It was a comfortable room, in contrast with the rest of the house; the furniture was good, and rows of books in shelves gave it a homely look.

“You found no trace of anyone when you entered?” asked Fletcher.

“There’s no doubt about that, sir,” was the reply. “When old Giles and I came in there was no sign of the murderer, and the whole place has been searched. There are no secret passages or trapdoors, such as one reads of in books.”

“Any finger prints?”

“No, sir, or foot marks either. Sergeant Andrews is pretty smart at that sort of thing; he had the dagger examined.”

“Someone who knew what he was about evidently,” said Fletcher.

The other looked at him queerly, without a word.

“Was anything else found which could throw a light on the subject?”

“No, sir, we have all the exhibits here; after the inquest I took charge of them.”

He went to a side table and removed a cloth. Neatly laid out were various objects. There was a case containing a few pound notes, some letters, a cigarette case, and silver match box, and a passport. There was also a well-worn, leather object which caught the detective’s eye. It was round, and looked as though it had been made to hold a golf ball.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“No one seems to know,” said the constable, “it’s a puzzle.”

Fletcher picked up a letter case.

“Where did this come from?” he said.

“That was lying on the floor,” said Brown.

Inside was a faded miniature of a very beautiful girl, and a young boy, and in faint letters “Mother and Roy,” and a date some twenty years before.

“Lord Reckavile when a child, with his mother, I suppose,” said Brown.

Fletcher took it to the lamp. The boy had sad sweet features, almost Italian.

“Is there a portrait of Lord Reckavile anywhere?” he asked.

“Yes, sir, in the hall,” and Brown led the way with the lamp.

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.

There was a great dining room, with hanging chandeliers, which had witnessed many a midnight orgie, now silent and given to the moth.

The drawing room was bare, haunted only by the ghosts of past Reckaviles, and so on in the upper rooms, where gaunt fourposters and faded hangings showed within, with dimly seen bedroom furniture.

In one of these a picture fell with a crash, waking the echoes of the house. It had been hanging by a thread which the opening of the door had snapped.

“I’ve seen enough,” said Fletcher with a shiver. “I suppose the whole house has been searched?”

“Every corner, sir, it’s all the same. It doesn’t look as though anyone had been into the rooms for years.”

They returned to the library, where Fletcher walked to the wireless set, and turned the switch.

“It’s no good, sir, it’s out of order, we’ve tried it. The valves light all right, but something’s wrong; Giles says it hasn’t worked since Lord Reckavile came back this last time.”

“I must have a look at it,” said Fletcher. “I’m rather fond of these things.”

“The gramaphone works, we have tried the records,” said Brown, “so the other ought to.”

Fletcher smiled at his knowledge of scientific matters, then faced him squarely.

“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.”