Chapter V.
The Reckavile Horror
The constable had gone. Being off duty, he had volunteered to fetch Fletcher’s bag from the station, while he remained as he said to ‘get the atmosphere of the place.’ A large fire had been kindled, and the room certainly looked more cheerful, but Fletcher wanted to damp down the feeling of uneasiness which the surroundings had aroused. He was sure this was a straightforward problem, if he could only get a clue to start with. He wandered round the room, pausing to listen to the wind, which had now risen to a gale. The boughs of the trees, which had grown close to the house, were scraping against the windows, as if trying to get in, and all the timbers were groaning and creaking in desire to tell him something. He shook himself; this would never do, he would have a look at the books as he was getting morbid.
Someone had said that a man can be known by his books, but here was a catholicity of choice, books on science, art, history, and novels. He picked out volumes, but his mind was still on the strange noises all over the house.
At last he found a leather-bound book without title and idly opened it. To his surprise the writing inside was in manuscript; the ink faded, but by the spelling he judged it was not of very ancient date.
It was called Tales of the Reckaviles.
As he turned the pages and read the horrors recorded there, he first wondered that these things could have happened, and then that anyone should have set himself in cold blood to write them out.
He came to a tale which arrested his attention. It was called How the Curse Came, and was one of the milder stories:
A certain Sir Hugh Reckavile was a very evil knight. He feared neither God nor Devil. He was shunned by all men of good repute and consorted with vile men, cutthroats and worse. This knight had conceived a great desire for the young wife of the Lord of Glarne, though he had a wife and children of his own, and nothing would stay his purpose. As he was revelling with his companions, as his custom was, he took a dreadful oath that he would that night carry off the lady from her room in the Tower, and staked his soul on the venture, calling down a Curse on his family if he lost. His companions tried to dissuade him, but he would have none of their advice, and rode off. There was one at the table not all besotted in crime, who mounted and rode fast and hard, and came to the Castle before him, and told the Lord of Glarne.
When Sir Hugh came to the Tower, he saw a fair damsel beckoning him from her high window, who was a maid dressed as the lady, and he essayed to climb the wall. They who had laid the trap looked to see him fall, but he came at the window, where men were waiting who bound him fast. For three days they left him there and then one was sent to see how he fared, returned all of a sweat, saying that he had heard Sir Hugh talking with One who told him of his damnation, and that a perpetual Curse would be laid on his family.
That night there were howlings and dreadful crying heard. The next morning Sir Hugh lay on the grass, thrown from the window by no mortal hand, and his face was stamped with horror unspeakable. And so it is in life, for thus by the impious act of trafficking with the Devil, this evil man brought a Curse upon his innocent family which abides even to this day.
Fletcher got thus far. “Pooh!” he said, “it’s the usual stuff one finds in these old chronicles, still it throws a light on the Reckaviles.”
He dropped the book from his hand, and in doing so happened to glance behind him.
The green baize door was slowly opening.
For a moment Fletcher sat where he was, rigid, with every nerve on a stretch. All the stories he had ever heard of vampires and devils gathered round him. The next his common sense and courage rose to his aid, and he stood up, not without an effort, and faced round. He clapped his hand to his pocket, but he was unarmed.
For want of a better weapon he seized the poker and waited. The door was opening in little jerks, not smoothly; then a hand came round the corner, a hand wrapped in a bandage, or some white fabric, and clutched the door. Then, very slowly, a face appeared, a vacant dead-looking face, surrounded by a mass of white hair streaked with yellow.
Without a word or sound there came into the room, an old bent man. Fletcher waited; man or ghost, here was no formidable antagonist.
Suddenly light dawned on him, and he could almost have laughed.
“Why of course,” he said, “I suppose you are Giles?”
The old man remained rooted to his place by the door, and then in a high piping voice, said, “Giles I be, and who be you?”
“I suppose I ought to tell you, I am a friend of Brown the constable, and I am waiting for him.”
It was most awkward, as he had wished to remain unknown in his true character, but the old man looked nearly an idiot.
At that moment a loud knock was heard, which came as a relief to Fletcher.
“That must be Brown,” he said.
“I’ll go and let ’ee in,” said the old man, and turned without a sound.
“That’s a good thing,” thought Fletcher, “but I must warn the constable to keep his mouth shut.”
A sound of steps came along the hall, and Brown came in, dripping wet. “Sorry to have been so long, sir,” he said putting down the bag.
“I am very glad to see you,” said Fletcher, “old Giles let you in, I suppose?”
Brown looked at him in surprise, “Giles? No, the door was open, I forgot we did not fasten it. I left Giles at Stevens’ cottage just now.”
“But, he’s just been here, not a minute ago, I have been talking to him. He came to see who was here.”
“Giles, sir, you must have been mistaken. What was he like?”
“An old, white-haired man, with a white beard.”
The constable looked blankly at him. “That’s not Giles, sir. You must have been dreaming.”
“Nonsense, he came in through that door not five minutes ago.”
“What did you say he was like?”
Fletcher repeated the description minutely and Brown’s face took on a look of horror.
“Oh Lord, sir! That was an old Reckavile, the father of the one who was drowned.”
“Nonsense,” said Fletcher sharply, “don’t talk that rot.”
“Come and see, sir,” said he, and his voice shook.
They went into the hall with a lamp, and Brown pointed with a shaking finger to a portrait on the wall. There, gazing at them with a sardonic smile, was Fletcher’s visitor, clear and unmistakable.
A cold, numb feeling gathered round his heart, but Fletcher realised that he must keep his nerve at all costs.
“You must be right, I have been dreaming,” he said in a voice he tried to make light. “Well, I am very tired, let’s shut the place up, and get off.”
Brown looked at him uneasily. “Very good, sir, I shan’t be sorry,” he said. “The night’s bad outside, but it’s worse here,” and he glanced round the hall, where shadows flickered from the lamplight.
The fire was nearly out, so they left it, and locking up, made their way through the rank vegetation, damp and unwholesome.
With a sigh of relief Fletcher emerged from the woods, and skirted the shore to the little fishing village of Portham, now in complete darkness.
“That’s the Black Horse, sir,” said Brown pointing to a dark mass.
“Now look here, Brown, I want to impress on you that I am here to find out all I can, and no one must know what I am or they will be suspicious of me. You understand?”
“Certainly, sir.”
“And you must not call me ‘sir,’ at all. I am just an old friend of yours, what shall we say, on a holiday after an illness. Now, goodbye, I will go to the place alone; they know I am coming?”
“Yes, I booked the room as you told me to.”
Fletcher waited till the constable had gone, and then went to the door, and knocked. After some time a light showed inside, and the door was opened. The landlord, a black-looking, shock-headed man with streaks of grey in his hair, stood in the doorway. “Good-evening,” said Fletcher, “my name is Fletcher. I have booked a room here.”
The landlord, Southgate, eyed him with suspicion, and muttered something about waiting up for him, but Fletcher was used to dealing with all classes of men, and quickly summed his host up. With apologies for his lateness, which he put down to having lost his way in the storm, he asked mine host whether he would join him with some liquid refreshment, and suggested whiskey; he himself was quite done up, and too tired for food.
Having closed and locked the door, the landlord conducted him into an old dirty room, black with smoke, which had a wonderful old fireplace whereon a fire was burning, and black beams in the ceiling. A cloth was spread on the table on which was cold beef and bread.
Soon they were sitting by the fire discussing hot grog, which the landlord prepared with practiced skill. He was the descendant of a long line of smugglers, and was not slow in telling Fletcher what he thought about the bungalow town, and its inhabitants.
Fletcher was too tired for conversation, but determined to get on good terms with Southgate the landlord, and so they gossipped on till he felt himself nodding, and with a “good-night” to the landlord, retired for the night.