Chapter XIV.
A Vision of the Night
The news that Halley and Ena were engaged was the last straw to Fletcher. One thing was now firm in his mind, to find out the truth of the whole matter, and not to fail in this at any rate, for failure was intolerable after all the indignities he had suffered.
In spite of his common-sense mind, he began to have a feeling that something not altogether natural had played a hand in the affair.
There was the mysterious “Other Man” who obtruded himself at every turn, elusive and vague, but always felt.
The man who had talked with Reckavile, and whose voice Brown had sworn was Halley’s. The man who had been in the library with one who, he was morally certain, was Southgate. The one who had appeared to him in the library under such strange circumstances, and the man with a bleeding wound who had been bandaged up by Sefton.
At every turn he was met by this mysterious individual. Was there anything in this Curse theory after all? Surely we had outgrown these ideas!
There was only one thing to do; for some unexplained reason attempts had been made to get into the library after the murder. What was the object? And had that object been accomplished?
The queer old man, the memory of whom sent a cold shudder down his back, had done nothing, and the supposed burglars had been disturbed, but had they tried to come again?
Here was evidently the key to the mystery.
Fletcher made up his mind that he would spend his nights in the room, and stake all on this chance.
For nights he watched, a tortured man. He sat in the dark, and tried to reconstruct the scene. Here was Lord Reckavile talking to—someone. Then there was a sudden attack—but by whom? Reckavile or the other. By the evidence Reckavile was the aggressor, but nothing could alter the fact that a knife was sticking in his ribs.
His mind turned in a curious way to the round leather object found on the dead man. What was it, and had it any bearing on the crime?
There were signs of the coming dawn, and a very dim light was filtering into the room, for the blinds were not drawn, when very faintly a slight jarring noise came to his ears; someone was approaching through the Hall. He silently slid behind the sofa, and lay there clutching the powerful electric torch which he had brought with him. The sounds grew louder and there was a creak of a board, then he heard a whisper which told him that more than one person was approaching. His senses were strained to catch the slightest indication as to who the visitors might be. He was convinced now that they were standing close to him. He could hear rapid breathing, but no other sound broke the silence. Now was the time for action. This time he had come armed, and holding his revolver in the right hand, he rose to his feet and switched on the torch.
Utter amazement kept him spellbound. Close to the old desk, and bending over it were two men, who rose and faced him at the sudden flood of light. The one was his mysterious visitor, the old man who had appeared before, but strange as this was, the sight of the other is what filled him with astonishment, for this was no other than Sinclair, his own Chief at Scotland Yard.
“Who is that?” asked Sinclair shading his eyes from the glare of the torch.
Fletcher advanced. “I am Fletcher, sir. But what on earth are you doing here?”
With all his sense of respect, there was a note of suspicion in his voice, at which Sinclair laughed heartily.
“Oh! we are not committing a burglary,” he said “but as things were hanging fire, I thought I had better come down and have a look at matters for myself.”
“And may I ask,” said Fletcher rather annoyed that his Chief had come without informing him, “who is that with you?”
The old detective seemed to hesitate for a moment.
“Giles I be,” said the old man, with a senile chuckle, and Fletcher recalled that he had used exactly the same words on the former occasion. Was the place really haunted, and were these two figments of his own brain?
“Why didn’t you tell me that you were coming down, sir?” he said to Sinclair.
“To tell you the truth, I did not know myself until this afternoon, but something has happened which led me to intervene in the case. I was pretty certain of the true solution from the very first.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand even now. You say you are not committing a burglary, sir,” said Fletcher, and stopped.
The old man drew himself up with some dignity, and said in a very different voice.
“As the castle belongs to me I do not think we need discuss that; if anyone is unlawfully intruding, it is you.”
He turned on an electric lamp, though the dawn shed a ghostly light into the room.
Sinclair broke the silence.
“I think we had better have a round-table conference. We wanted to make the final discovery first, but as things have gone so far, we had better have all the cards on the table.”
“But I don’t understand,” said Fletcher “if you know everything, who was the murderer, and who is this—gentleman?”
“As to the first question,” said Sinclair impatiently, “there is no doubt about that, and as to the other, you shall know. Now go off, and ask these people to come here at ten o’clock punctually. Remember, you have not done too well in this case, so I rely on you to carry out these instructions. You will ’phone for Sergeant Andrews and Brown. Use my name. Then you must get Southgate and Giles, and Mr. Sefton and his sister.” He looked at the old man, who nodded.
“Giles must come and tidy the place a bit and arrange a conference room. Everything hangs on that. Don’t forget. At ten o’clock.”
Fletcher went out like a man in a dream: What on earth was the meaning of it all? Even now he was as much in the dark as ever. Why this conference and who among those invited was the murderer? Also why had the very man of all others whom he suspected still, Halley, been omitted. Or, stay, was it because Sinclair had already got Halley? The thought thrilled him.
At any rate he had a job of work to do.
Thanks to old Giles’ efforts the library was transformed when the strange party began to arrive, and it looked more like a Board Room, with a large table and chairs set round it.
The police representatives were the first to arrive, as nonplussed as Fletcher, and feeling rather aggrieved that such a man as Sinclair should have acted without telling them anything.
This drew them together, and Fletcher, Andrews and Brown seated themselves at one end of the table, and waited. Jack Sefton and his sister came next, the latter nervous and rather pale. She gave a formal bow to the other men and with her brother took the opposite end of the long table.
The genial Southgate, who had obviously prepared himself for the meeting with refreshment from his cellar, entered and greeted the others with a cheery good morning. He looked at Fletcher, and laughed.
“Young man,” he said “you’ll ’ave a ’igh old time in a moment,” and he slapped his leg.
Giles had been hovering about, making things comfortable, and was quite the old butler again, but all waited for the principal figure. It seemed as though the whole thing had been staged for effect.
The door opened and Sinclair entered accompanied by the old man whom Fletcher had seen, and they took their seats in astonished silence.
There was one vacant chair, which Fletcher supposed was reserved for Halley.
“He’s late,” said Sinclair looking at his watch.
“I think I hear someone, sir,” said Giles, going to the door.
“Mr. Cook,” Giles announced, and the house agent came in and smiled nervously at the company.
“Take a seat, Mr. Cook,” said Sinclair. “Now I think we are all here. We are going to piece together this mystery.”
The others looked at the house agent in astonishment. What was he doing in this gathering? Their speculations were interrupted by Sinclair who spoke slowly and with a solemn tone in his voice.
“This has been a problem of some difficulty and I am not going to disguise the fact that at one time it nearly baffled the authorities. Now it is quite clear.”
“It may be to you, sir,” said Fletcher “but to me it is as dark as ever.”
A flicker of a smile came to Sinclair’s grim face.
“Perhaps you would like to ask a question or two?” he asked.
“Who was talking with Lord Reckavile in this room when the murder took place?” said Fletcher.
“No one, at least no living thing.”
“How did the other man escape from the room?”
“He did not escape, there was no other man.”
“Had the Reckavile Curse anything to do with the crime?”
“Yes, everything.”
“Did it kill him?”
“Yes,” said Sinclair solemnly.
“This is absurd,” said Fletcher impatiently, “I don’t believe in bogies.”
“Go on,” said Sinclair imperturbably.
“I suppose you will say Lord Reckavile committed suicide?”
“In one sense, yes.”
“Then he was not murdered?”
“Oh yes he was, and …” Sinclair leaned forward in his chair and said slowly: “The murderer is in the room at the present moment.”
There was utter silence, except for the breathing of those present. The room seemed to grow dark, and the air became oppressive. Those round the table looked at each other with horror and suspicion in their eyes, and a vague shadowy something seemed to be gathering in the room.
Ena shuddered. Where was her lover? Why was he not there of all people, when he had actually been accused of the crime?
Was there something in the Curse after all, and some unseen visitant hovering about them?
She could bear it no longer, and in a strained voice asked:
“Where is Mr. Halley, Mr. Sinclair, and why is he not here?”
“Mr. Halley does not exist,” then hastily as he saw the girl’s face. “Don’t be alarmed, Miss Sefton, he never did exist.”
Doubts as to Sinclair’s sanity began to fill the minds of the others.
“But why all this mystery, sir? If you know all about it, why not tell us?” asked Fletcher.
“I did not say I knew all about it. Well as no one seems disposed to speak, we had better get on with the story, eh Lord Reckavile?” He turned to the old man beside him.
An exclamation of astonishment, mixed with superstitious terror came to those present. Giles reeled and turned ashen, while the breath soughed between his teeth, and his eyes bulged from his head. He was standing behind the old man. Sinclair saw him.
“Oh, I am sorry Giles, you should not have been standing, come and sit down, no I insist, it was too bad keeping you standing all this time,” and he conducted the old servant to a chair. “Are you feeling better now?”
“Yes, thank you, sir,” he answered faintly.
The strange old man addressed as Lord Reckavile deliberately took hold of his hair and beard and removed them disclosing the face of Halley, looking grotesque enough with patches of grease paint where the hair had not covered his face, and white eyebrows which he pulled off with difficulty.
“Well I’m damned,” said Fletcher and hastily apologised to Ena.
“I give it up,” said Sefton.
Ena’s eyes were fixed on Halley. An awful suspicion was gathering in her mind that he too was a detective in disguise and had been acting a part, perhaps with her, but she dismissed it as unworthy.
Sinclair was speaking. “I had hoped for a final link in the chain, but since we have not got it I am going to ask Lord Reckavile to tell us his story. It is a long one, but you will find it interesting I think.”
“Lord Reckavile …?” began Fletcher.
“Wait,” said Sinclair “you shall know the truth now.”