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.