Tragedy at Ravensthorpe

by

J. J. Connington

New York

Grosset & Dunlap

Published February, 1928

Copyright, 1927, 1928, by Little, Brown, and Company

Contents

Note

The characters, places, and events described in this book are entirely imaginary and have no connection, either direct or indirect, with any real persons, places, or events.

CHAPTER I.
The Fairy Houses

“Got fixed up in your new house yet, Sir Clinton?” asked Cecil Chacewater, as they sauntered together up one of the paths in the Ravensthorpe grounds. “It must be a bit of a change from South Africa—settling down in this backwater.”

Sir Clinton Driffield, the new Chief Constable of the county, nodded affirmatively in reply to the question.

“One manages to be fairly comfortable; and it’s certainly been less trouble to fit up than it would have been if I’d taken a bigger place. Not that I don’t envy you people at Ravensthorpe,” he added, glancing round at the long front of the house behind him. “You’ve plenty of elbow-room in that castle of yours.”

Cecil made no reply; and they paced on for a minute or more before Sir Clinton again spoke.

“It’s a curious thing, Cecil, that although I knew your father so well, I never happened to come down here to Ravensthorpe. He often asked me to stay; and I wanted to see his collection; but somehow we never seemed able to fix on a time that suited us both. It was at the house in Onslow Square that I always saw you, so this is all fresh ground to me. It’s rather like the irony of fate that my first post since I came home should be in the very district I couldn’t find time to visit when your father was alive.”

Cecil Chacewater agreed with a gesture.

“I was very glad when I saw you’d been appointed. I wondered if you’d know me again after all that time; but I thought we’d better bring ourselves to your notice in case we could be of any help here—introduce you to people, and all that sort of thing, you know.”

“I hardly recognized you when you turned up the other day,” Sir Clinton admitted frankly. “You were a kiddie when I went off to take that police post in South Africa; and somehow or other I never seem to have run across you on any of my trips home on leave. It must have been ten years since I’d seen you.”

“I don’t wonder you didn’t place me at once. Ten years makes a lot of difference at my advanced age. But you don’t look a bit changed. I recognized you straight off, as soon as I saw you.”

“What age are you now?” asked Sir Clinton.

“About twenty-three,” Cecil replied. “Maurice is twenty-five, and Joan’s just on the edge of twenty-one.”

“I suppose she must be,” Sir Clinton confirmed.

A thought seemed to cross his mind.

“By the way, this masked ball, I take it, is for Joan’s coming-of-age?”

“You got an invitation? Right! I’ve nothing to do with that part of the business.” Then, answering Sir Clinton’s inquiry: “Yes, that’s so. She wanted a spree of some sort; and she generally gets what she wants, you know. You’ll hardly know her when you see her. She’s shot up out of all recognition from the kid you knew before you went away.”

“She used to be pretty as a school-girl.”

“Oh, she hasn’t fallen off in that direction. You must come to this show of hers. She’ll be awfully pleased if you do. She looks on you as a kind of unofficial uncle, you know.”

Sir Clinton’s expression showed that he appreciated the indirect compliment.

“I’m highly flattered. She’s the only one of you who took the trouble to write to me from time to time when I was out yonder. All my Ravensthorpe news came through her.”

Cecil was rather discomfited by this reminder. He changed the subject abruptly.

“I suppose you’ll come as Sherlock Holmes? Joan’s laid down that every one must act up to their costume, whatever it is; and Sherlock wouldn’t give you much trouble after all your detective experience. You’d only have to snoop round and pick up clues and make people uncomfortable with deductions.”

Sir Clinton seemed amused by the idea.

“A pretty programme! Something like this, I suppose?” he demanded, and gave a faintly caricatured imitation of the Holmes mannerisms.

“By Jove, you know, that’s awfully good!” Cecil commented, rather taken aback by the complete change in Sir Clinton’s voice and gait. “You ought to do it. You’d get first prize easily.”

Sir Clinton shook his head as he resumed his natural guise.

“The mask wouldn’t cover my moustache; and I draw the line at shaving that off, even in a good cause. Besides, a Chief Constable can’t go running about disguised as Sherlock Holmes. Rather bad taste, dragging one’s trade into one’s amusements. No, I’ll come as something quite unostentatious: a pillar-box or an Invisible Man, or a spook, probably.”

“I forgot,” Cecil hastened to say, apologetically, “I shouldn’t have asked you about your costume. Joan’s very strong on some fancy regulation she’s made that no one is to know beforehand what anyone else is wearing. She wants the prize awarding to be absolutely unbiased. So you’d better not tell me what you’re going to do.”

Sir Clinton glanced at him with a faint twinkle in his eye.

“That’s precisely what I’ve been doing for the last minute or two,” he said, dryly.

“What do you mean?” Cecil asked, looking puzzled. “You haven’t told me anything.”

“Exactly.”

Cecil was forced to smile.

“No harm done,” he admitted. “You gave nothing away.”

“It’s a very useful habit in my line of business.”

But Sir Clinton’s interest in the approaching masked ball was apparently not yet exhausted.

“Large crowd coming?” he asked.

“Fairish, I believe. Most of the neighbours, I suppose. We’re putting up a few people for the night, of course; and there are three or four visitors on the premises already. It should be quite a decent show. I can’t give you even rough numbers, for Joan’s taken the invitation side of the thing entirely into her own hands—most mysterious about it, too. Hush! Hush! Very Secret! and all that kind of thing. She won’t even let us see her lists for fear of making it too easy to recognize people; so she’s had to arrange the catering side of the thing on her own as well.”

“She always was an independent kind of person,” Sir Clinton volunteered.

Cecil took no notice of the interjection.

“If you ask me,” he went on, “I think she’s a bit besotted with this incognito notion. She doesn’t realize that half the gang can be spotted at once by their walk, and the other half will give themselves away as soon as they get animated and begin to jabber freely. But it’s her show, you know, so it’s no use any one else butting in with criticisms and spoiling her fun before it begins.”

Sir Clinton nodded his assent; but for a moment or two he seemed to be preoccupied with some line of thought which Cecil’s words had started in his mind. Suddenly, however, something caught his eye and diverted his attention to external things.

“What’s that weird thing over there?” he asked. As he spoke, he pointed to an object a little way off the path on which they were standing. It was a tiny building about a yard in height and a couple of yards or more in length. At the first glance it seemed like a bungalow reduced to the scale of a large doll’s house; but closer inspection showed that it was windowless, though ventilation of a sort appeared to have been provided. A miniature door closed the entrance, through which a full-grown man could gain admittance only by lying flat on the ground and wriggling with some difficulty through the narrow opening provided.

“That?” Cecil answered carelessly. “Oh, that’s one of the Fairy Houses, you know. They’re a sort of local curiosity. No matter where you are, you’ll find one of them within a couple of hundred yards of you, anywhere in the grounds.”

“Only in the grounds? Aren’t there any outside the estate?” inquired Sir Clinton. “At the first glance I took it for some sort of archæological affair.”

“They’re old enough, I dare say,” Cecil admitted, indifferently. “A century, or a century and a half, or perhaps even more. They’re purely a Ravensthorpe product. I’ve never seen one of them outside the boundary.”

Sir Clinton left the path and made a closer examination of the tiny hut; but it presented very few points of interest in itself. Out of curiosity, he turned the handle of the door and found it moved easily.

“You seem to keep the locks and hinges oiled,” he said, with some surprise.

Pushing the door open, he stooped down and glanced inside.

“Very spic and span. You keep them in good repair, evidently.”

“Oh, one of the gardeners has the job of looking after them,” Cecil explained, without showing much interest.

“I’ve never seen anything of the sort before. They might be Picts’ dwellings, or something of that kind; but why keep them in repair? And, of course, they’re not prehistoric at all. They’re comparatively modern, from the way they’re put together. What are they?”

“Ask me another,” said Cecil, who seemed bored by the subject. “They’re an ancestral legacy, or an heirloom, or a tenant’s improvement, or whatever you like to call it. Clause in the will each time, to provide for them being kept in good repair, and so forth.”

Sir Clinton seemed to prick up his ears when he heard of this provision, though his tone showed only languid interest when he put his next inquiry.

“Anything at the back of it all? It seems a rum sort of business.”

“The country-people round about here will supply you with all the information you can believe about it—and a lot you’re not likely to swallow, too. By their way of it, Lavington Knoll up there”—he pointed vaguely to indicate its position—“was the last of the fairy strongholds hereabouts; and when most of the fairies went away, a few stayed behind. But these didn’t care much for the old Knoll after that. Reminded them of past glories and cheery company too much, I suppose; and so they made a sort of treaty with an ancestor of ours. He was to provide houses for them, and they were to look after the general prosperity side of Ravensthorpe.”

Sir Clinton seemed amused by Cecil’s somewhat scornful summary.

“A case of ‘Farewell rewards and fairies,’ it seems, Cecil.”

Then, half to himself, he hummed a few lines of Corbet’s song:

Witness those rings and roundelayes

Of theirs, which yet remaine;

Were footed in queene Maries dayes

On many a grassy playne.

But since of late Elizabeth . . .

“Do you go as far back as Elizabeth, here at Ravensthorpe, by any chance, Cecil?”

“So far as the grounds go, yes. The house was partly destroyed in Cromwell’s time; and some new bits were built on in place of the old stuff. But there’s a lot of the old part left yet, in quite good repair.”

Sir Clinton still seemed interested in the compact with the Fairies.

“Was there any penalty clause in the contract about these Houses? There’s usually some drawback to these affairs—like the Luck of Edenhall, for instance.”

“There used to be some legend or other that unless the Fairies found their houses always in good order, the Family Curse would come home to roost, one-time. No one believes in that sort of stuff nowadays; but it’s kept alive by this clause that’s put into every will—a kind of a family custom, you know, that no one cares to be the first to break. If you call it a damned old wives’ tale, I shan’t blame you.”

Sir Clinton could not be sure whether Cecil’s indifference in the matter was natural or assumed; but in any case he thought it tactful to pursue the subject no further. Closing the door of the Fairy House again, he made his way back to the path where his companion was waiting for him.

As the Chief Constable rejoined him, Cecil looked round the horizon with feeble interest.

“Not much else to show you, I’m afraid,” he said. Then, with an after-thought: “Care to see rather a good view? The best one hereabouts is just up above us—through the wood here—if you think it worth the trouble of the climb. It’s not very far. We’ve plenty of time before lunch.”

Sir Clinton acquiesced, and they began to mount a further slope in the path which now led them up through a sparse pine-wood.

“There seems to be a good sound foundation to this path,” the Chief Constable commented, as they walked on.

“There used to be a carriage-drive, at one time, leading up to the top. I suppose the old birds used to drive up here and sit out having tea and admiring the view on fine days. But it’s been neglected for long enough. Hardly any one goes up to the top now, except once in a blue moon or else by accident.”

Sir Clinton gave a nod of acquiescence.

“Any one can see the path’s hardly ever used.”

“Just beyond this brow,” Cecil explained as they moved on, “there’s an old quarry cut in the further side of the hill. It’s a very old place, rather picturesque nowadays. Most of the stone for Ravensthorpe came from it in the old days, and during the rebuilding. After that, the quarry dropped out of use gradually; and finally some one had the notion of letting water in at the foot of it and having a sort of model lake there, with the cliff of the quarry at one end of it. We’re making for the top of the cliff by going this way; and when you get out of the wood into the open, you’ll find rather a good outlook over the country.”

A short walk took them through the rest of the pine-wood. On the further side they came into a belt of open ground beyond which, on a slight eminence, a little spinney blocked part of the view.

“That’s where we’re making for,” Cecil explained. “The best view-point is on the other side of these trees. The old birds, a century back, chose it carefully and did some laying out at the top; so I suppose they must have been keen on the place.”

As they approached the spinney, Sir Clinton noticed a fence running down from each side of it. Cecil followed the direction of the Chief Constable’s glance.

“That’s barbed wire,” he pointed out. “The spinney’s at the top of the quarry; but there’s a bad drop down towards the hollow on either side—a dangerous bit, practically precipitous—and so the wire was put up to prevent any one wandering near the edge and tripping over.”

Cutting through the fringe of trees, they emerged at the top of the cliff. Here the ground had been levelled and paved. Along the precipice, a marble balustrade had been erected as a safeguard. Further back, a curved tier of marble seats faced the view; and here and there in the line rose pedestals carrying life-sized marble statues which faced out towards the gulf.

“This is really very elaborate,” Sir Clinton commented. “Evidently your ancestors liked the view, if they took so much trouble to put up this affair.”

He moved across the paved space, leaned on the balustrade, and looked down into the depths.

“I don’t wonder you fenced that in with barbed wire on each side,” he said. “It’s a nasty drop down there—well over a fifty-foot fall at least.”

“It’s nearer a hundred, really,” Cecil corrected him. “The height’s a bit deceptive from here. And a fall into that pool would be no joy, I can tell you! It’s full of sharp spikes of rock jutting up from the bottom. You’d get fairly well mauled if you happened to drop on any of them. You can’t see them for that green stuff in the water; but they’re all present and correct under the surface.”

Sir Clinton looked down at the weed-grown little lakelet. The dense green fronds gave the water an unpleasant appearance; and in some tiny backwaters the surface was covered with a layer of scum.

“Why don’t you get all that stuff cleared out?” he demanded. “It looks rather beastly. Once you got rid of it you could stock the pool with trout or perch, easily enough. I see there’s some flow of water through it from a spring at the east end.”

Cecil seemed to have no interest in the suggestion.

“If you want some fishing,” he said, “we’ve got quite a decent stream that runs through another part of the grounds. This place used to be kept in good order; but since the war and all that, you know, the fine edge has been rather off things hereabouts. It’s in a bad state, right enough. Just a frog-pond.”

“Is the water deep?” Sir Clinton inquired.

“Oh, ten to fifteen feet in parts. Quite deep just in front of the cave at the bottom of the cliff below here. We used to have great times playing robbers and so forth when we were kids. There’s our old raft at the far end. It was well tarred and I see it’s still afloat. It was the only way of getting at the cave-mouth, you see.”

He dismissed the subject.

“Suppose we sit down for a while.”

Sir Clinton followed him to one of the marble benches. Before them, the view of the Ravensthorpe grounds stretched out, closed on the horizon by a line of woodland. In the foreground, beyond a fence at the end of the lake, sheep were grazing on some meadow-land.

“One of your ancestors?” inquired Sir Clinton, nodding towards the nearest statue. “Or merely Phœbus Apollo?”

Cecil turned to glance at the statue.

“I think I’d back your second choice,” he said. “If it was an ancestor, it must have been one of the ancient Britons. It’s a bit short of clothes for anything later than that; and even for an ancient Briton it seems a trifle undressed. No woad, you know.”

He took out his cigarette-case, offered it to Sir Clinton, and then began to smoke. Sir Clinton seemed to be admiring the view in front of him for a few minutes; but when he spoke again it was evident that something more than scenery had been in his mind.

“I’m not altogether easy in my mind over this masked ball of Joan’s. Speaking as a Chief Constable responsible for the good behaviour of the district, Cecil, it seems to me that you’re running some risks over it. A dance is all very well. You know all your guests by headmark and no one can get in on false pretences. But once you start masks, it’s a different state of affairs altogether.”

Cecil made no comment; and Sir Clinton smoked in silence for a time before continuing:

“It’s this craze of Joan’s for anonymity that seems to me to open the door to all sorts of things. I take it that there’ll be no announcing of individual guests, because of this incognito stunt of hers. But unfortunately that means you’ll have to admit any one who chooses to present himself as Winnie-the-Pooh or Felix the Cat or Father Christmas. You don’t know who he is. You can’t inquire at the start. Anybody might get in. Considering the amount of good portable stuff there is in the collection at Ravensthorpe, do you think it’s quite desirable to have no check whatever on your guests?”

Cecil seemed struck by this view of the case.

“I never thought of that,” he said. “I suppose we ought to have issued uniform entrance-tickets, or something of that sort; but the thing never crossed any of our minds. Somehow, it seems a bit steep to take precautions against people when one’s inviting them to one’s house.”

“It’s not invited guests I’m thinking about,” Sir Clinton hastened to explain more definitely. “This affair must have been talked about all over the countryside. What’s to hinder some enterprising thief dressing up as a tramp and presenting himself along with the rest? He’d get in all right. And once he was inside, he might be tempted to forget the laws of hospitality and help himself. Then, if he made himself scarce before the unmasking at midnight, he’d get clean away and leave no trace. See it?”

Cecil nodded affirmatively; but to Sir Clinton’s slight surprise he did not appear to be much perturbed on the subject. The Chief Constable seemed to see an explanation of this attitude.

“Perhaps, of course, you’re shutting up the collections for the evening.”

Cecil shook his head.

“No. Joan insists on having them on view—all of them. It’s a state occasion for her, you know; and she’s determined to have all the best of Ravensthorpe for her guests. What she says goes, you know. If she can’t get her own way by one road she takes another. It’s always easier to give in to her at once and be done with it. She has such a way of making one feel a beast if one refuses her anything; and yet she never seems to get spoiled with it all.”

Sir Clinton seemed rather taken aback by the news about the collections.

“Well, it’s your funeral, not mine, if anything does happen,” he admitted.

“Maurice’s—not mine,” Cecil corrected him with a touch of bitterness which Sir Clinton failed to understand at the moment.

“I’ve nothing to do with Ravensthorpe nowadays,” Cecil went on, after a pause. “I live there, that’s all. The whole affair went to Maurice—lock, stock, and barrel—when my father died. I’ve really no more right in these grounds than you have. I might be kicked out any day.”

Sir Clinton was puzzled by Cecil’s tone. It was only natural that Ravensthorpe should go down into the hands of Maurice, since he was the elder brother. There could be no particular grievance in that. And yet Cecil’s voice had betrayed something deeper than a mere mild resentment. The asperity in his last remark had been unmistakable.

For a few minutes Cecil remained silent, staring moodily out at the landscape. Sir Clinton refrained from interrupting his thoughts. The matter certainly had excited his curiosity; but until Cecil chose to say more, there seemed to be no reason for intruding into the private affairs of the Ravensthorpe household. Even the privileges of an old friend did not seem to Sir Clinton a sufficient excuse for probing into family matters.

But the Chief Constable, without any voluntary effort, had the gift of eliciting confidences without soliciting them. Cecil’s brooding came to an end and he turned round to face his companion.

“I suppose I’ve said either too much or too little already,” he began. “I don’t see why I shouldn’t tell you about the affair. It’s nearly common talk as it is, and you’re sure to hear something about it sooner or later. You may as well get it first-hand and be done with it.”

Sir Clinton, having solicited no confidence, contented himself with merely listening, without offering any vocal encouragement.

“You knew my father well,” Cecil went on, after a short pause in which he seemed to be arranging his ideas in some definite order. “He was one of the best, if you like. No one would say a word against him—it’s the last thing I’d think of doing myself, at any rate.”

Sir Clinton nodded approvingly.

“The bother was,” Cecil continued, “that he judged every one by himself. He couldn’t understand that any one might not be as straight as he always was. He never made an allowance for some kinds of human nature, if you see what I mean. And, another thing, he had a great notion of the duties of the head of the family. He took them pretty seriously and he looked after a lot of people who had no claim on him, really, except that they belonged to the clan.”

“He was always generous, I know,” Sir Clinton confirmed. “And he always trusted people. Sometimes, perhaps, he overdid it.”

Cecil made a gesture of agreement and continued:

“He overdid it when he drew up his will. Maurice, of course, was bound to be the next head of the family, once my father had gone; so my father took it for granted that things would go on just the same. The head of the family would run the show with an eye to the interests of the rest of us, and all would be right on the night. That was the theory of the business, as my father saw it; and he drafted his will on that basis.”

Cecil sat up suddenly and flung away his cigarette with a vehemence which betrayed the heat of his feelings.

“That was the theory of the business, as I said. But the practice wasn’t quite so satisfactory. My father left every penny he had to Maurice; he left him absolutely every asset; and, of course, Ravensthorpe’s entailed, so Maurice got that in the normal course. Joan, my mother, and myself, were left without a farthing to bless ourselves with. But there was a suggestion in the will—not a legally binding thing, but merely a sort of informal direction—that Maurice was to look after us all and give us some sort of income each. I suppose my father hardly thought it worth while to do more than that. Being the sort of man he was, he would rely implicitly on Maurice playing the game, just as he’d have played the game himself—had played it all his life, you know.”

Sir Clinton showed no desire to offer any comment; and in a moment or two Cecil went on once more:

“Last year, there was nothing to complain about. Maurice footed our bills quite decently. He never grumbled over our expenses. Everything seemed quite sound. It never crossed my mind to get things put on a business footing. In fact, you know, I’d hardly have had the nerve to suggest anything of the sort. It would have looked a bit grasping, wouldn’t it?”

Cecil glanced inquiringly at Sir Clinton, but the Chief Constable seemed averse from making any comment at this stage. Cecil took his case from his pocket and lit a fresh cigarette before continuing his story.

“You don’t remember Una Rainhill, I suppose?”

Sir Clinton shook his head.

“She’s a sort of second cousin of ours,” Cecil explained. “Probably you never came across her. Besides, she’d hardly be out of the nursery when you went off to South Africa. Well, she’s grown up now—just about a year or two younger than Joan. You’ll see her for yourself. She’s staying with us just now for this coming-of-age of Joan’s.”

Sir Clinton had no great difficulty in guessing, behind Cecil’s restraint, his actual feelings about the girl. His voice gave him away if the words did not.

“No use making a long story of it, is there?” Cecil continued. “Both Maurice and I wanted Una. So did a good many others. But she didn’t want Maurice. She was quite nice about it. He’d nothing to complain of in that way. He got no encouragement from her at all. But he wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer. He was really extra keen, and I think he overdid it instead of making the best of a bad business. And finally he realized that it was me that he was up against. Una and I aren’t officially engaged, or anything like that—you’ll see why in a moment—but it’s a case of two’s company and three’s none; and Maurice knows he’s Number Three.”

There was more than a tinge of rancour in Cecil’s voice when he came to this last sentence. Sir Clinton raised his eyebrows slightly. He did not quite admire this malevolence on the part of the successful lover against his defeated rival. Cecil apparently noticed the slight change in the Chief Constable’s expression.

“Wait a minute,” he said. “You haven’t heard it all yet. Before I go on, just bear in mind that there was plenty of money for all of us in the family. My father always took it for granted that I’d have enough to keep me. He’d never thought of my going into business. I’ve got some sort of turn for writing; and I think he hoped that I’d make some kind of name as an author. And, of course, with what I supposed was an assured income behind me, I haven’t hurried much in the way of publishing my stuff. I could afford to let it lie—or so I thought.”

A slight gesture of Sir Clinton showed his approval of this outlook on authorship. It seemed to him that Cecil at his age could hardly have much to tell the world that it didn’t know already; but he had no intention of expressing any such discouraging views.

“You see how it is,” Cecil continued. “As things stand, I haven’t the ghost of a chance of earning a decent income for years and years. And that was the weak joint that Maurice saw and went for—damn him! He took it upon himself to tell me that I was here more or less on sufferance. He’d been generous in the past—he actually reminded me of that!—but he didn’t see how he was to continue to subsidize me indefinitely. You see his game? If he couldn’t have Una himself, he’d take care that I shouldn’t have her either. Damned dog-in-the-manger! That’s a nice sort of brother for you! I wonder what his father would think about him if he knew of this trick.”

He pitched away the stub of his unfinished cigarette as though with it he could rid himself of some of his feeling.

“Of course there was friction—I’m putting it mildly—but there was no open row. My mother’s not in good health and I couldn’t afford to have her worried over my affairs. So we settled down to some sort of armed neutrality, although the thing’s more or less evident to most people. That’s what I meant when I said I might be kicked out any day. It’s only a question of time, it seems to me. He still thinks that if I were out of the way he’d have a chance with Una; and sooner or later I expect him to give me an express-ticket into the wide world. I’m trying to get some sort of job; but so far I haven’t succeeded in lighting on anything that seems to offer the slightest prospects. It’s no pleasure to stay here on sufferance, I can tell you.”

Now that Sir Clinton had received Cecil’s unsolicited confidences, he hardly knew what to do with them. After all, he reflected, he had heard only one side of the story; and it was scarcely fair to judge the case on the strength of an ex-parte statement. It was not quite the Ravensthorpe which he had expected, he admitted ruefully to himself as he bent his efforts to bringing Cecil back to normal again. Money and a girl: the two things that seemed to lie behind most troubles—and even crimes, as he knew from experience. It seemed an unkind Fate that had forced these two factors to the front in an environment where trouble of the kind was the last that might have been expected. One never knew what this sort of thing might lead to in the end.

“I’d like to have a look at your father’s collections some time or other,” he said at last, to change the subject, when he had succeeded in getting Cecil into a somewhat cooler frame of mind. “I saw a good many of the things in London from time to time, as he bought them; but there must be a lot here at Ravensthorpe that will be new to me. Anything your father bought will be worth looking at. He had wonderful taste.”

Rather to his vexation, Sir Clinton found that he had only shifted the conversation from one sore point to another.

“If you want to see anything,” Cecil snapped, “you’d better pay your visit as soon as you can arrange it. Maurice is going to sell the lot.”

Sir Clinton was completely taken aback by this news.

“Sell the stuff? What on earth would he want to do that for? He’s got all the money he needs, surely.”

Cecil dissociated himself from any connection with the matter.

“No business of mine, now. Maurice can do as he likes. Of course, I hate the idea of all these things of my father’s being sold off when there seems no need for it; but it’s not my affair. The Maurice boy isn’t all we thought him; and since he’s come into Ravensthorpe, he seems to think of very little else but money and how to get more of it. Anything for the dibs, it appears.”

“But surely he isn’t selling everything. He might get rid of some minor things; but he’ll hardly break up the whole collection.”

“Every damned thing, Sir Clinton. Why at this very moment he’s got a Yankee agent—a man Foss—staying at Ravensthorpe and chaffering for the star pieces of the collections: the Medusa Medallions.”

Sir Clinton shook his head.

“They must be fresh acquisitions since my day. I’ve never even heard of them.”

“Ever see the picture of Medusa in the Uffizi Gallery? It’s attributed to Leonardo da Vinci; but some people say it’s only a student’s copy of the original Leonardo which has disappeared. It seems my father came across three medallions with almost exactly the same Medusa on one side and a figure of Perseus on the reverse. And what’s more, he was able to get documentary proof that these things were really Leonardo’s own work—strange as it seems. The thing’s quite admitted by experts. So you can imagine that these Medusas are quite the star pieces in the museum. And Maurice calmly proposes to sell them to Kessock, the Yank millionaire; and Kessock has sent this man Foss over here to negotiate for them.”

“It seems rather a pity to part with them,” Sir Clinton said, regretfully.

“Maurice doesn’t feel it so,” Cecil retorted, rather bitterly. “He got a friend of mine, Foxy Polegate, to make him electrotypes of them in gold—Foxy’s rather good at that sort of thing for an amateur—and Maurice thinks that the electrotypes will look just as well as the originals.”

“H’m! Cenotaphs, I suppose,” Sir Clinton commented.

“Quite so. In Memoriam. The real things being buried in the U.S.A.”

Cecil paused for a moment and then concluded:

“You can imagine that none of us like this damned chandlering with these things that my father spent so much thought over. It’s enough to make him turn in his grave to have all his favourites scattered—and just for the sake of Maurice’s infernal miserliness and greed for cash.”

Sir Clinton rose from his seat and took a last glance at the view before him.

“What about moving on now?”

Cecil agreed; and they retraced their steps towards the pine-wood. As they entered the spinney, Sir Clinton noticed another of the Fairy Houses set back among the trees at a little distance from the path.

“Another of those things?”

Rather to his surprise, Cecil moved over to examine the little edifice, and bending down opened the door and glanced inside.

“The Fairy’s not at home at present,” he said, standing aside to let Sir Clinton look in.

Something in Cecil’s voice forced itself on the attention of the Chief Constable. The words seemed to be pointless; but in the tone there was an ill-suppressed tinge of what might almost have been malicious glee at some unexplained jest. Sir Clinton was too wary to follow up this track, wherever it might lead to. He did not quite like the expression on Cecil’s face when the remark was made; and he sought for some transition which would bring them on to a fresh subject.

“You must have some curiosities in Ravensthorpe itself, if parts of it are as old as they seem to be. Any priest’s holes, or secret passages, or things of that sort?”

“There are one or two,” Cecil admitted. “But we don’t make a show of them. In fact, even Joan doesn’t know how to get into them. There’s some sort of ‘Mistletoe Bough’ story in the family: a girl went into one of the passages, forgot how to work the spring to get out again, lost her nerve apparently, and stayed there till she died. It so happened that she was the only one of the family in the house at the time, so there was no one to help her out. Since then, we’ve kept the secret of the springs from our girls. No use running risks.”

“And even Joan hasn’t wheedled it out of you?”

“No, not even Joan. Maurice and I are the only ones who can get into these places.”

Sir Clinton evidently approved of this.

“Short of opening the passages up altogether, that seems the best thing to do. One never knows one’s luck. By the way, in an old place like this you ought to have a stock of family legends. You’ve got these Fairy Houses. Is there anything else of general interest?”

Cecil seemed to have recovered something of his normal good humour; and his face betrayed almost a grin of amusement as he replied:

“Oh, yes! We’ve got a family ghost—or so the country-folk say. I’ve never come across it myself; but it’s common talk that the family spectre is a White Man who walks in the woods just before the head of the family dies. All rot, you know. Nobody believes in it, really. But it’s quite an old-established tradition round about here.”

Sir Clinton laughed.

“You certainly don’t seem to take him very seriously. What about Family Curses? Are you well supplied?”

“You’d better apply to Maurice if you’re keen on Family Curses. He seems to have specialized in that branch, if you ask me.”

CHAPTER II.
Mr. Polegate’s Sense of Humour

“How time flies!” said Joan Chacewater, in mock despondency. “To-night I’m in my prime. To-morrow I shall be twenty-one, with all my bright youth behind me. Five years after that, I shall quite possibly be married to Michael here, if I’m still alive and he hasn’t died in the meantime. Then I shall sit o’ nights darning his socks in horn-rimmed spectacles, and sadly recalling those glad days when I was young and still happy. It’s dreadful! I feel I want to cry over it. Give me something to cry into, Michael; I seem to have mislaid my bag.”

Michael Clifton obligingly held out a handkerchief. Joan looked at it disparagingly.

“Haven’t you anything smaller than that? It discourages me. I’m not going to cry on a manufacturing scale. It wouldn’t be becoming.”

Una Rainhill laid her cigarette down on the ash-tray beside her.

“If you’re going to be as particular as that, Joan, I think I’d be content with a gulp or two of emotion or perhaps a lump in the throat. Cheer up! You’ve one more night before the shadows fall.”

“Ah, there it is!” said Joan, tragically. “You’re young, Una, and you never had any foresight, anyway. But I can see it all coming. I can see the fat ankles”—she glanced down at her own slim ones—“and the artificial silk stockings at three-and-eleven the pair; because Michael’s business will always be mismanaged, with him at the head of it. And I’ll have that red nose that comes from indigestion; because after Michael ends up in bankruptcy, we won’t be able to keep a maid, and I never could cook anything whatever. And then Michael will grow fat, and short of breath and bald . . .”

“That’ll be quite enough for the present,” interrupted the outraged Michael. “I’m not so sure about letting you marry me at all, after that pleasant little sketch.”

“If you can’t drop those domineering ways of yours, Michael, I shall withdraw,” Joan warned him, coldly. “You can boss other people as much as you choose; I rather like to see you doing it. But it doesn’t go with me, remember. If you show these distressing signs of wanting your own way, I shall simply have to score you off my list of possibles. And that would no doubt be painful to both of us—to you, at any rate.”

“Oh, to both of us, to both of us, I’m sure. I wouldn’t dream of contradicting you, Joan. Where would you be, if the only serious candidate dropped out? Anything rather than that.”

“Well, it’s a blessing that one man seems to have some sense,” Joan admitted, turning to the others. “One can’t help liking Michael, if it’s only for the frank way he acknowledges when he’s in the wrong. Skilful handling does a lot with the most unpromising material, of course.”

Cecil leaned over in his chair and peered athwart the greenery which surrounded the nook in the winter-garden in which they were sitting.

“There’s Foxy wandering round.”

He raised his voice:

“Are you looking for us, Foxy? We’re over here.”

Foxton Polegate’s freckled face, surmounted by a shock of reddish hair, appeared at the entrance to their recess.

“Been hunting about for you,” he explained as he sat down. “Couldn’t make out where you’d got to.”

He turned to Joan.

“Dropped across this evening on important business. Fact is, I’ve lost my invitation-card and the book of words. Didn’t read it carefully when it came. So thought I’d drop over and hear what’s what. Programme, I mean, and all that sort of thing, so there’ll be no hitch.”

Una leaned over and selected a fresh cigarette from the box.

“You’re hopeless, Foxy,” she pronounced. “One of these memory courses is what you need badly. Why not treat the thing as a practical joke instead of in earnest? Then you’d have no difficulty. Jokes are the only things you ever seem to take seriously.”

“Epigrams went completely out before you were born, Una,” Foxy retorted. “Don’t drag ’em from their graves at this hour of the century. And don’t interrupt Joan in her instructions to the guest of the evening. Don’t you see she’s saying ’em over nervously to herself for fear she forgets ’em?”

“There’s a bit too much of the harassed nursemaid about you, Foxy, with all your ‘don’ts,’ ” Joan broke in. “Now take your stylus and tablets and jot this down carefully, for I won’t repeat it under a shilling a page. Here’s the programme. Ten p.m.: Arrival of distinguished guests. (They’re all distinguished, except you, Foxy.) Brilliant and animated conversation by those who can manage it; the rest can listen intelligently. (You may try listening, Foxy, if it isn’t too much of a strain.) The cloak-room, picture-gallery, museum, and poultry-yard will be thrown open for inspection by the public absolutely free of charge. It won’t cost you a cent. Bridge-tables will be provided for the curiosities who don’t dance. Dancing will begin straightway and will be continued up to 11.45, when the judges will take their seats. As soon as they are comfortable, the march-past will start. All guests must present themselves at this without fail, Foxy. At five minutes to twelve the identity of the prize-winners will be disclosed. When midnight strikes, all guests will remove their masks, even at the cost of shocking the company in some cases. Dancing will then be resumed and will continue into the dewy dawn. And that’s how it will take place according to plan.”

“There’s just one point,” said Foxy, hesitatingly. “Are the prizes portable things, or shall I have to hire a van to take mine away with me?”

“I shouldn’t worry a bit about that, Foxy,” said Una, comfortingly. “We’ve decided to keep the prizes in the family, you see. Joan gets one, because it will be her birthday. I get the other for the best female costume. Cecil, Maurice, and Michael are going to toss odd-man for the two men’s prizes. So you can come as a Teddy Bear without pockets if you like. It won’t be of any consequence. You’ll have nothing to carry away.”

“Can’t say fairer than that,” Foxy admitted. “Always liked that plain, straightforward way of doing things myself.”

A recollection of his talk with Sir Clinton passed across Cecil Chacewater’s mind, and without reflection he communicated it to the others:

“By the way, Sir Clinton seemed a trifle worried over this affair. He pointed out to me that some scallywag might creep in amongst the guests and play Old Harry in the museum if he got the chance.”

Just at this moment, Maurice Chacewater passed along the alley in the winter-garden from which the nook opened.

“Maurice!” Joan called to her brother. “Come here for a moment, please.”

Maurice turned back and entered the recess. He seemed tired; and there was a certain hesitancy in his manner as though he were not quite sure of himself. His sister made a gesture inviting him to sit down, but he appeared disinclined to stay.

“What’s the trouble?” he asked, with a weary air.

“Cecil’s been suggesting that it’s hardly safe to leave the collections open to-morrow night, in case a stranger got in with a mask on. Hadn’t we better have some one to stay in the museum and look after them?”

“Cecil needn’t worry his head,” Maurice returned, ignoring his brother. “I’m putting one of the keepers on to watch the museum.”

He turned on his heel and went off along the corridor. Foxy gazed after him with a peculiar expression on his face.

“Maurice looks a bit done-up, doesn’t he?” he finally said, turning back towards the group about him. “He hasn’t been quite all right for a while. Seems almost as if he expected a thunderbolt to strike him any minute, doesn’t he? A bit white about the gills and holding himself in all the time.”

Before any one could reply to this, Joan rose and beckoned to Michael.

“Come along, Michael. I’ll play you a hundred up, if you like. There’ll be no one in the billiard-room.”

Michael Clifton rose eagerly from his chair and followed her out. Foxy looked after them.

“As an old friend of the family, merely wanting to know, are those two engaged or not? They go on as if they were and as if they weren’t. It’s most confusing to plain fellows like me.”

“I doubt if they know themselves,” said Una, “so I’d advise you not to waste too much brain-matter over it, Foxy. What do boys of your age know about such things?”

“Not much, not much, I admit. Cupid seems to pass me by on his rounds. Perhaps it’s the red hair. Or maybe the freckles. Or because I’m not the strong, talkative sort like Michael. Or just Fate, or something.”

“I expect it’s just Something, as you say,” Una confirmed in a sympathetic tone. “That seems, somehow, to explain everything, doesn’t it?”

“As it were, yes,” retorted Foxy. “But don’t let the fact that you’ve ensnared Cecil—poor chap—lead you into putting on expert airs with me. Betrays inexperience at once, that. Only the very young do it.”

His face lighted up.

“I’ve just thought of something. What a joke! Suppose we took the Chief Constable’s tip and engineered a sham robbery to-morrow night? Priceless, what? Carry it through in real good style. Make Maurice sit up for a day or two, eh? Do his liver good if he’d something to worry about.”

Cecil’s face showed indecision.

“I shouldn’t mind giving Maurice a twinge or two just to teach him manners,” he confessed. “But I don’t see much in the notion as it stands, Foxy. Maurice is posting a keeper in the museum, you know; and that complicates things a bit. The keeper would spot any of us tampering with things. He knows us all as well as his own brother.”

“Not in fancy dress, with a mask on, dear boy. Don’t forget that part of it.

‘Fancy me in fancy dress,

Fancy me as Good Queen Bess!’ ”

he hummed softly. “Only I don’t think I’ll come as Good Queen Bess, after all.”

Cecil knitted his brows slightly and seemed to be considering Foxy’s idea.

“I wouldn’t mind giving Maurice a start,” he admitted half-reluctantly. “And your notion might be good enough if one could work it out properly. Question is, can you? Suppose you suddenly make a grab for some of the stuff. The keeper’ll be down on you like a shot. He’ll yell for help; and you’ll be pinched for a cert. before you could get away. There doesn’t seem to be anything in it, Foxy.”

“Hold on for a minute. I’ll see my way through it.”

Foxy took a cigarette, lighted it, and seemed to cogitate deeply over the first few puffs.

“I’ve got it!” he announced. “It’s dead easy. Suppose one of us grabs the keeper while the other helps himself to the till? We could easily knock out the keeper between us and get off all right without an alarm being raised.”

Cecil shook his head.

“No, I draw the line at using a sand-bag or a knuckle-duster on our own keeper. That’s barred, Foxy. Think again.”

“There’s aye a way,” Foxy assured him sententiously. “Give me another jiffy or two. This is how it goes. We mustn’t knock out the keeper. We mustn’t be recognized. We’ve got to get away scot-free, or the joke would be on us. These the conditions?”

Cecil nodded.

“This is where pure genius comes in,” Foxy announced with pride. “How does one recognize any one? By looking at ’em. So if the keeper can’t look at us, he won’t recognize us. That’s as sound as Euclid, if not sounder.”

“Well?” asked Una, joining in the conversation.

“Well, he won’t recognize us if the place is dark, then,” explained Foxy, triumphantly. “All we have to do is to get the light in the room switched off, and the thing’s as good as done.”

“That seems to hit the mark,” Cecil agreed. “But that makes it a three-handed job, you know: one to grab the keeper; one to snaffle the stuff; and one to pull out the fuse of the museum light from the fuse-box. Where’s our third man?”

Una leaned forward eagerly.

“I’ll do that part for you! I’d like to make Maurice sit up. He hasn’t been very nice to me lately; and I want to pay him out just a little.”

“Nonsense, Una,” Cecil interrupted. “You can’t be mixed up in a joke of this sort. There’s almost bound to be a row after it. It doesn’t matter in my case; Maurice has his knife into me anyway, you know. But there’s no need for you to be getting your fingers nipped.”

Una brushed the suggestion aside.

“What can Maurice do to me even if he does find out? I’ve nothing to do with him. And, besides, how is he going to find out anything about it? I suppose you’ll just keep the things for a day or two and then return them by some way that he can’t trace. He’ll never know who did it, unless we let it out ourselves. And we mustn’t let it out, of course.”

Foxy nodded his agreement. Cecil was longer in his consideration; but at last he seemed to fall in with the arrangement.

“Well, so long as Una’s name isn’t mixed up in it, Foxy, I’m your man. It’s a silly caper; but I’m not above going into it for the sport of vexing my good brother.”

“Right!” said Foxy, with relief. “Now the next article: What’s the best thing to go for? It must be portable, of course.”

Cecil pondered for a moment; then, as a thought struck him, he laughed.

“Here’s the game. It may be news to you, Foxy, but my good brother is taking steps to sell off our collections.”

Foxy was quite plainly staggered by this news.

“All the stuff your father got together? Surely not! Well, that’s the limit!”

“Quite,” confirmed Cecil. “I’d prevent it if I could; but he’s got the whip-hand, and that’s all there is to it.”

Foxy seemed still slightly incredulous.

“Why, your Governor loved that stuff as it were a child! And Maurice doesn’t need the money he’ll get for it. It’s . . . it’s shameful! My word! If I were in your shoes, Cecil, I believe I’d really steal the stuff instead of only pretending to grab it.”

“I’m sorely tempted,” said Cecil, half-grimly. “Now here’s the point. It seems Maurice has got into touch with Kessock, the Yank millionaire. Kessock wants to buy the Medusa Medallions—the very thing my father set most store by in the whole lot. Kessock’s sent over an agent of his—this fellow Foss who’s staying here just now—to settle up the business, see to the genuineness of the things, and so forth. I’ve nothing against Foss. He’s only doing his job and he seems all right. I don’t like some of his American manners; but that’s neither here nor there. The point is, the deal’s just going to be closed. Now if we lift these medallions, won’t Maurice look an extra-sized ass?”

“Absoluto!” said Foxy. “I see what you’re after. We lift ’em. Foss wants ’em at once. He can’t get ’em. P’raps the deal’s off—for the time at least. And Maurice looks a prize ape.”

“Yes,” Cecil snapped, angrily. “That’ll perhaps teach him a lesson.”

Una Rainhill had been thinking while this last part of the conversation had been going on.

“There’s one thing you haven’t provided against, Foxy,” she pointed out. “Suppose you manage everything as you’ve arranged. Even if you get clear away from the museum, there’s almost certain to be some one in the passage outside who’ll see you rush out. And then the game would be up. It’s not enough to dowse the light in the museum. You’ll need to put all the house lights out as well.”

“That’s sound,” Foxy agreed at once. “That means that you’ll need to pull out the main switch instead of just the fuse of the museum. It’s an even easier job, with no chance of a mistake in it. And what a spree it’ll be. The whole shop will be buzzing like an overturned hive! It’ll be great sport. And, of course, there’ll be such a wild confusion before they get the lights on again, that we’ll come out of it absolutely O.K. All we have to do is to saunter quietly out of the museum and help to restore order among the rabble in the dark. By the time the lights go on again, we’ll be anywhere it suits us to be. That’s a master-stroke of yours, Una. Couldn’t be bettered.”

Cecil glanced at his wrist-watch.

“Time’s getting on, Foxy. We’ve sketched the general idea, but we must get this thing down to dots now. Everything will depend on synchronizing things exactly. We can’t afford to leave affairs to the last moment; for we mustn’t be seen together, you know, to-morrow night.”

Foxy nodded assent and pulled out a notebook.

“Here it is, then,” he declared. “I’ll make three copies—one for each of us—and we can burn ’em once we’ve memorized ’em later on. Now, first of all, we can’t start our game too early. That’d be a mistake. Let ’em all get well mixed up in dancing and so forth, before we begin operations.”

Cecil and Una assented to this at once.

“Midnight’s the limit at the other end,” Foxy pointed out. “Can’t afford to wait for the unmasking, for then the keeper would know us and remember we’d been in the museum when the thing happened.”

His fellow-conspirators made no objection.

“In between those limits, I think this would be about right,” Foxy proposed. “First of all, we set our three watches to the same time. Better do it now, for fear of forgetting.”

When this had been done, he continued:

“At 11.40 Una goes to the main switch. You’ll have to show her where it is, Cecil, either to-night or to-morrow morning. At 11.40, also, Cecil and I wander independently into the museum. I remember quite well where the medallions are kept.”

“Wait a moment,” interrupted Cecil. “Just remember that the three real medallions and your three electrotypes are lying side by side in the glass case. The real medallions are in the top row; your electros are the bottom row.”

Foxy made a note of this and then went on:

“Your business, Cecil, will be to mark down the keeper. Get so near him that you can jump on him for certain the very instant the lights go out. Make sure you can get his hands or his wrists at the first grab. You mustn’t fumble it or you’ll shipwreck the whole caboodle.”

“I’ll manage it all right,” Cecil assured him.

“In the meantime I’ll be stooping over the medallion case, looking at the stuff, with something in my hand to break the glass. I’ll have a thick glove, so as not to get cut with the edges when I put my hand in.”

“That’s sound,” said Cecil, “I hadn’t thought of the splinters.”

“Blood would give us away at once,” Foxy pointed out. “Now comes the real business. At a quarter to twelve precisely Una pulls out the switch. As soon as the light goes, Cecil jumps on the keeper while I smash the glass of the case and grab the top row of the medallions. After that, we both cut for the door and mingle with the mob. And remember, not a word said during the whole affair. Our voices would give us away to the keeper.”

He scribbled two extra copies of his time-table and handed one of these to each of the other conspirators.

“Now, for my sake, don’t botch this business,” he added. “I’ve played a joke or two in my time, but this is the best I’ve ever done, and I don’t want it spoiled by inattention to details. It’ll be worth all the trouble to see Maurice’s face when he finds what’s happened.”

CHAPTER III.
The Theft at the Masked Ball

“I’m thankful I took my wings off,” said Ariel, leaning back in her chair with a soft sigh of satisfaction. “You’ve no notion how much you long to sit down when you know you daren’t do it for fear of crushing the frames of these things. It’s not tiredness; it’s simply tantalization.”

She turned her eyes inquisitively on the bearded figure of her partner.

“I wonder who you’re supposed to be?” she mused. “You ought to have a ticket, with a costume like that. I can’t guess who you imagine you are—or who you really are, for that matter.”

Her companion showed no desire to enlighten her on the last point.

“ ‘My quaint Ariel, hark in thine ear,’ ” he quoted, but she failed to recognize the tones of his voice.

“Oh, now I see! We did ‘The Tempest’ one year at school. So you’re Prospero, are you? Well, don’t let’s begin by any misunderstandings. If you think you’re entitled to act your part by ordering me about, you’re far mistaken. My trade union positively refuses to permit any overtime.”

“I’ve left my book and staff in the cloak-room,” Prospero confessed, laughingly, “otherwise, malignant spirit . . .”

“ ‘That’s my noble master!’ ” quoted Ariel, ironically. “Prospero was a cross old thing. I suppose you couldn’t even throw in a bit of conjuring to keep up appearances? It’s almost expected of you.”

Prospero looked cautiously round the winter-garden in which they were sitting.

“Not much field here for my illimitable powers,” he grumbled disparagingly, “unless you’d like me to turn Falstaff over there into a white rabbit. And that would startle his partner somewhat, I’m afraid, so we’d better not risk it.”