A GRAND OLD CASTLE LOOKS out across the North Sea, and the fishermen toiling on the deep catch the red flash from Ravenspur Point as their forefathers have done for many generations.
The Ravenspurs and their great granite fortress have made history between them. Every quadrangle and watch-tower and turret has its legend of brave deeds and bloody deeds, of fights for the king and the glory of the flag. And for five hundred years there has been no Ravenspur who has not acquitted himself like a man. Theirs is a record to be proud of.
Time has dealt lightly with the home of the Ravenspurs. It is probably the most perfect mediaeval castle in the country. The moat and the drawbridge are still intact; the portcullis might be worked by a child. And landwards the castle looks over a fair domain of broad acres where the orchards bloom and flourish and the red beeves wax fat in the pastures.
A quiet family, a handsome family, a family passing rich in the world’s goods, they are strong and brave—a glorious chronicle behind them, and no carking cares ahead.
Surely, then, the Ravenspurs should be happy and contented beyond most men. Excepting the beat of the wings of the Angel of Death, that comes to all sooner or later, surely no sorrow dwelt there that the hand of time could fail to soothe.
And yet over them hung the shadow of a fear.
No Ravenspur had ever slunk away from any danger, however great, so long as it was tangible; but there was something here that turned the stoutest heart to water, and caused strong men to start at their shadows.
For five years now the curse had lain heavy on the house of Ravenspur.
It had come down upon them without warning; at first in the guise of a series of accidents and misfortunes, until gradually it became evident that some cunning and remorseless enemy was bent upon exterminating the Ravenspurs root and branch.
There had been no warning given, but one by one the Ravenspurs died mysteriously, horribly, until at last no more than seven of the family remained. The North country shuddered in speaking of the ill-starred family. The story had found its way into print.
Scotland Yard had taken the case in hand, but still the hapless Ravenspurs died, mysteriously murdered, and even some of those who survived had tales to unfold of marvellous escapes from destruction.
The fear grew on them like a haunting madness. From first to last not one single clue, however small, had the murderers left behind. Family archives were ransacked and personal histories explored with a view to finding some forgotten enemy who had originated this vengeance. But the Ravenspurs had ever been generous and kind, honorable to men and true to women, and none could lay a finger on the blot.
In the whole history of crime no such weird story had ever been told before. Why should this blow fall after the lapse of all these years? What could the mysterious foe hope to gain by this merciless slaughter? And to struggle against the unseen enemy was in vain.
As the maddening terror deepened, the most extraordinary precautions were taken to baffle the assassin. Eighteen months ago the word had gone out for the gathering of the family at the castle. They had come without followers or retainers of any kind; every servant had been housed outside the castle at nightfall, and the grim old fortress had been placed in a state of siege.
They waited upon themselves, they superintended the cooking of their own food, no strange feet crossed the drawbridge. When the portcullis was raised, the most ingenious burglar would have failed to find entrance. At last the foe was baffled; at last the family was safe. There was no secret passages, no means of entry; and here salvation lay.
Alas, for fond hopes! Within the last year and a half three of the family had perished in the same strange and horrible fashion.
There was Richard Ravenspur, a younger son of Rupert, the head of the house, with his wife and boy. Richard Ravenspur had been found dead in his bed poisoned by some lemonade; his wife had walked into the moat in the darkness; the boy had fallen from one of the towers into a stone quadrangle and been instantly killed.
The thing was dreadful, inexplicable to a degree. The enemy who was doing this thing was in the midst of them. And yet no stranger passed those iron gates; none but Ravenspurs dwelt within the walls. Eye looked into eye and fell again, ashamed that the other should know the suspicions racking each poor distracted brain.
And there were only seven of them now, who almost longed for the death they dreaded.
There was Rupert Ravenspur, the head of the family, a fine, handsome, white-headed man, who had distinguished himself in the Crimea and the Indian Mutiny. There was his son Gordon who some day might succeed him; there was Gordon’s wife and his daughter Vera. Then there was Geoffrey Ravenspur, the orphan son of one Jasper Ravenspur, who had fallen under the scourge two years before.
And also there was Marian Ravenspur, the orphan daughter of Charles Ravenspur, another son who had died in India five years before of cholera. Mrs. Charles was there, the child of an Indian prince, and from her Marion had inherited the dark beauty and soft, glorious eyes that made her beloved of the whole family.
A strange tale surely, a hideous nightmare, and yet so painfully realistic. One by one they were being cut off by the malignant destroyer, and ere long the family would be extinct. It seemed impossible to fight against the desolation that always struck in the darkness, and never struck in vain.
Rupert Ravenspur looked out from the leads above the castle to the open sea, and from thence to the trim lawns and flower-beds away to the park, where the deer stood knee-deep in the bracken.
It was a fair and perfect picture of a noble English homestead, far enough removed apparently from crime and violence. And yet!
A deep sigh burst from the old man’s breast; his lips quivered. The shadow of that awful fear was in his eyes. Not that he feared for himself, for the snows of seventy years lay upon his head, and his life’s work was done.
It was others he was thinking of. The bright bars of the setting sun shone on a young and graceful couple below coming towards the moat. A tender light filled old Ravenspur’s eyes.
Then he started as a gay laugh reached his ears. The sound caught him almost like a blow. Where had he heard a laugh like that before? It seemed strangely out of place. And yet those two were young, and they loved one another. Under happier auspices, Geoffrey Ravenspur would some day come into the wide acres and noble revenues, and take his cousin Vera to wife.
“May God spare them!” Ravenspur cried aloud. “Surely the curse must burn itself out some time, or the truth must come to light. If I could only live to know that they were to be happy!”
The words were a fervent prayer. The dying sun that turned the towers and turrets of the castle to a golden glory fell on his white, quivering face. It lit up the agony of the strong man with despair upon him. He turned as a hand lay light as thistledown on his arm.
“Amen with all my heart, dear grandfather,” a gentle voice murmured. “I could not help hearing what you said.”
Ravenspur smiled mournfully. He looked down into a pure, young face, gentle and placid, like that of a madonna, and yet full of strength. The dark brown eyes were so clear that the white soul seemed to gleam behind them. There was Hindoo blood in Marion Ravenspur’s veins, but she bore no trace of the fact. And out of the seven surviving members of that ill-fated race, Marion was the most beloved. All relied upon her, all trusted her. In the blackest hour her courage never faltered; she never bowed before the unseen terror.
Ravenspur turned upon her almost fiercely.
“We must save Vera and Geoffrey,” he said. “They must be preserved. The whole future of our race lies with those two young people. Watch over them, Marion; shield Vera from every harm. I know that she loves you. Swear that you will protect her from every evil!”
“There is no occasion to swear anything,” Marion said in her clear, sweet voice. “Dear, don’t you know that I am devoted heart and soul to your interests? When my parents died, and I elected to come here in preference to returning to my mother’s people, you received me with open arms. Do you suppose that I could ever forget the love and affection that have been poured upon me? If I can save Vera she is already saved. But why do you speak like this to-day?”
Ravenspur gave a quick glance around him.
“Because my time has come,” he whispered hoarsely. “Keep this to yourself, Marion, for I have told nobody but you. The black assassin is upon me. I wake at nights with fearful pains at my heart—I cannot breathe. I have to fight for my life, as my brother Charles fought for his two years ago. To-morrow morning I may be found dead in my bed—as Charles was. Then there will be an inquest, and the doctors will be puzzled, as they were before.”
“Grandfather! You are not afraid?”
“Afraid! I am glad—glad, I tell you. I am old and careworn, and the suspense is gradually sapping my senses. Better death, swift and terrible, than that. But not a word of this to the rest, as you love me!”
THE HOUR WAS GROWING LATE, and the family were dining in the great hall. Rupert Ravenspur sat at the head of the table, with Gordon’s wife opposite him. The lovers sat smiling and happy side by side. Across the table Marion beamed gently upon the company. Nothing ever seemed to eclipse her quiet gaiety; she was the life and soul of the party. There was something angelic about the girl as she sat there clad in soft, diaphanous white.
Lamps gleamed on the fair damask, on the feathery daintiness of flowers, and on the lush purple and gold and russet of grapes and peaches. From the walls long lines of bygone Ravenspurs looked down—fair women in hoops and farthingale, men in armor. There was a flash of color from the painted roof.
Presently the soft-footed servants would quit the castle for the night, for under the new order of things nobody slept in the castle excepting the family. Also, it was the solemn duty of each servitor to taste every dish as it came to the table. A strange precaution, but necessary in the circumstances.
For the moment the haunting terror was forgotten. Wines red and white gleamed and sparkled in crystal glasses. Rupert Ravenspur’s worn, white face relaxed. They were a doomed race, and they knew it; yet laughter was there, a little saddened, but eyes brightened as they looked from one to another.
By and bye the servants began to withdraw. The cloth was drawn in the old-fashioned way, a long row of decanters stood before the head of the house and was reflected in the shining, brown polished mahogany. Big log fires danced and glowed from the deep ingle-nooks; from outside came the sense of the silence.
An aged butler stood before Ravenspur with a key on a salver.
“I fancy that is all, sir,” he said.
Ravenspur rose and made his way along the corridor to the outer doorway. Here he counted the whole of the domestic staff carefully past the drawbridge, and then the portcullis was raised. Ravenspur Castle and its inhabitants were cut off from the outer world. Nobody could molest them till morning.
And yet the curl of a bitter smile was on Ravenspur’s face as he returned to the dining-hall. Even in the face of these precautions two of the garrison had gone down before the unseen hand of the assassin. There was some comfort in the reflection that the outer world was barred off, but it was futile, childish, in vain.
The young people, with Mrs. Charles, had risen from the table and had gathered on the pile of skins and cushions in one of the ingle-nooks. Gordon Ravenspur was sipping his claret and holding a cigar with a hand that trembled.
Hardy man as he was, the shadow lay upon him also; indeed, it lay upon them all. If the black death failed to strike, then madness would come creeping in its track. Thus it was that evening generally found the family all together. There was something soothing in the presence of numbers.
They were talking quietly, almost in whispers. Occasionally a laugh would break from Vera, only to be suppressed with a smile of apology. Ravenspur looked fondly into the blue eyes of the dainty little beauty whom they all loved so dearly.
“I hope I didn’t offend you, grandfather,” she said.
In that big hall voices sounded strained and loud. Ravenspur smiled.
“Nothing you could do would offend me,” he said. “It may be possible that a kindly Providence will permit me to hear the old roof ringing with laughter again. It may be, perhaps, that that is reserved for strangers when we are all gone.”
“Only seven left,” Gordon murmured.
“Eight, father,” Vera suggested. She looked up from the lounge on the floor with the flicker of the wood fire in her violet eyes. “Do you know I had a strange dream last night. I dreamt that Uncle Ralph came home again. He had a great black bundle in his arms, and when the bundle burst open it filled the hall with a gleaming light, and in the centre of that light was the clue to the mystery.”
Ravenspur’s face clouded. Nobody but Vera would have dared to allude to his son Ralph in his presence.
For over Ralph Ravenspur hung the shadow of disgrace—a disgrace he had tried to shift on to the shoulders of his dead brother Charles, Marion’s father. Of that dark business none knew the truth but the head of the family. For twenty years he had never mentioned his erring son’s name.
“It is to be hoped that Ralph is dead,” he said harshly.
A sombre light gleamed in his eyes. Vera glanced at him half-timidly. But she knew how deeply her grandfather loved her, and this gave her courage to proceed. “I don’t like to hear you talk like that,” she said. “It is no time to be harsh or hard on anybody. I don’t know what he did, but I have always been sorry for Uncle Ralph. And something tells me he is coming home again. Grandfather, you would not turn him away?”
“If he were ill, if he were dying, if he suffered from some grave physical affliction, perhaps not. Otherwise—”
Ravenspur ceased to talk. The brooding look was still in his eyes; his white head was bent low on his breast.
Marion’s white fingers touched his hand caressingly. The deepest bond of sympathy existed between these two. And at the smile in Marion’s eye Ravenspur’s face cleared.
“You would do all that is good and kind,” Marion said. “You cannot deceive me; oh, I know you too well for that. And if Uncle Ralph came now!”
Marion paused, and the whole group looked one to the other with startled eyes. With nerves strung tightly like theirs, the slightest deviation from the established order of things was followed by a feeling of dread and alarm. And now, on the heavy silence of the night, the great bell gave clamorous and brazen tongue.
Ravenspur started to his feet.
“Strange that anyone should come at this time of night,” he said. “No, Gordon, I will go. There can be no danger, for this is tangible.”
He passed along the halls and passages till he came to the outer oak. He let down the portcullis.
“Come into the light,” he cried, “and let me see who you are.”
A halting, shuffling step advanced, and presently the gleam of the hall lantern shone upon the face of a man whose features were strangely seamed and scarred. It seemed as if the whole of his visage had been scored and carved in criss-cross lines until not one inch of uncontaminated flesh remained.
His eyes were closed; he came forward with fumbling, outstretched hands, as if searching for some familiar object. The features were expressionless, but this might have been the result of those cruel scars. But the whole aspect of the man spoke of dogged, almost pathetic, determination.
“You look strange and yet familiar to me,” said Ravenspur. “Who are you, and whence do you come?”
“I know you,” the stranger replied in a strangled whisper. “I could recognise your voice anywhere. You are my father.”
“And you are Ralph, Ralph, come back again!”
There was horror, indignation, surprise in the cry. The words rang loud and clear, so loud and clear that they reached the dining-hall and brought the rest of the party hurrying out into the hall.
Vera came forward with swift, elastic stride. With a glance of shuddering pity at the scarred face she laid a hand on Ravenspur’s arm.
“My dream,” she whispered. “It may be the hand of God. Oh, let him stay!”
“There is no place here for Ralph Ravenspur,” the old man cried.
The outcast still fumbled his way forward. A sudden light of intelligence flashed over Gordon as he looked curiously at his brother.
“I think, sir,” he said, “that my brother is suffering from some great affliction. Ralph what is it? Why do you feel for things in that way?”
“I must,” the wanderer replied. “I know every inch of the castle. I could find my way in the darkest night over every nook and corner. Father, I have come back to you. I was only to come back to you if I were in sore need or if I were deeply afflicted. Look at me! Does my face tell you nothing?”
“Your face is—is dreadful. And as for your eyes, I cannot see them.”
“You cannot see them,” Ralph said in that dreadful, thrilling, strangled whisper, “because I have no sight; because I am blind.”
Without a word Ravenspur caught his unhappy son by the hand and led him to the dining-hall, the family following in awed silence.
THE CLOSE CLUTCH OF THE silence lay over the castle like the restless horror that it was. The caressing drowsiness of healthy slumber was never for the hapless Ravenspurs now. They clung round the Ingle-nook till the last moment; they parted with a sigh and a shudder, knowing that the morrow might find one face missing, one voice silenced for ever.
Marion alone was really cheerful; her smiling face, her gentle courage were as the cool breath of the north wind to the others. But for her they would have gone mad with the haunting horror long since.
She was one of the last to go. She still sat pensive in the ingle, her hands clasped behind her head, her eyes gazing with fascinated astonishment at Ralph Ravenspur.
In some strange, half-defined fashion it seemed to her that she had seen a face scarred and barred like that before. And in the same vague way the face reminded her of her native India.
It was a strong face, despite the blight that suffering had laid upon it. The lips were firm and straight, the sightless eyes seemed to be seeking for something, hunting as a blind wolf might have done. The long, slim, damp fingers twitched convulsively, feeling upwards and around as if in search of something.
Marion shuddered as she imagined those hooks of steel pressed about her throat choking the life out of her.
“Where are you going to sleep?” Ravenspur asked abruptly.
“In my old room,” Ralph replied. “Nobody need trouble about me. I can find my way about the castle as well as if I had my eyes. After all I have endured, a blanket on the floor will be a couch of down.”
“You are not afraid of the family terror?”
Ralph laughed. He laughed hard down in his throat, chuckling horribly.
“I am afraid of nothing,” he said; “If you only knew what I know you would not wish to live. I tell you I would sit and see my right arm burnt off with slow fire if I could wipe out the things I have seen in the last five years! I heard of the family fetish at Bombay, and that was why I came home. I prefer a slumbering hell to a roaring one.”
He spoke as if half to himself. His words were enigmas to the interested listeners; yet, wild as they seemed, they were cool and collected.
“Some day you shall tell us your adventures,” Ravenspur said not unkindly, “how you lost your sight, and whence came those strange disfigurements.”
“That you will never know,” Ralph replied. “Ah! there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in our narrow and specious philosophy. There are some things it is impossible to speak of, and my trouble is one of them. Only to one man could I mention it, and whether he is alive or dead I do not know.”
Marion rose. The strangely-uttered words made her feel slightly hysterical. She bent over Ravenspur and kissed him fondly. Moved by a strong impulse of pity, she would have done the same by her uncle Ralph, but that he seemed to divine her presence and her intention. The long, slim hands went up.
“You must not kiss me, my child,” he said. “I am not fit to be touched by pure lips like yours. Good-night.”
Marion turned away, chilled and disappointed. She wondered why Ralph spoke like that, why he shuddered at her approach as if she had been an unclean thing. But in that house of singular happenings one strange matter more or less was nothing.
“The light of my eyes,” Ravenspur murmured. “After Vera, the creature I love best on earth. What should we do without her?”
“What, indeed?” Ralph said quietly. “I cannot see, but I can feel what she is to all of you. Good-night, father, and thank you.”
Ravenspur strode off with a not unkindly nod. As a matter of fact, he was more moved by the return of the wanderer and his evident sufferings and misfortunes than he cared to confess. He brooded over these strange things till at length he lapsed into troubled and uneasy slumber.
The intense gripping silence deepened. Ralph Ravenspur still sat in the ingle with his face bent upon the glowing logs as if he could see, and as if he were seeking for some inspiration in the sparkling crocus flame.
Then without making the slightest noise, he crept across the hall, feeling his way along with his fingertips to the landing above.
He had made no idle boast. He knew every inch of the castle. Like a cat he crept to his room, and there, merely discarding his coat and boots, he took a blanket from the bed.
Into the corridor he stepped and then, lying down under the hangings of Cordova leather, wrapped himself up cocoon fashion in his blanket and dropped into a sound sleep. The mournful silence brooded, the rats scratched behind the oaken panelled walls.
Then out of the throat of the darkness came a stifled cry. It was the fighting rattle made by the strong man suddenly deprived of the power to breathe.
Again it came, and this time more loudly, with a ring of despair in it. In the dead silence it seemed to fill the whole house, but the walls were thick, and beyond the corridor there was no cognisance of anything being in the least wrong.
But the man in the blanket against the arras heard it, and struggled to his feet. A long period of vivid personal danger had sharpened his senses. His knowledge of woodcraft enabled him to locate the cry to a yard.
“My father,” he whispered. “I am only just in time.”
He felt his way rapidly, yet noiselessly, along the few feet between his resting-place and Ravenspur’s room. Imminent as the peril was, he yet paused to push his blanket out of sight As he came to the door of Ravenspur’s room the cry rose higher. He stooped, and then his fingers touched something warm.
“Marion,” he said; “I can catch the subtle fragrance of your hair.”
The girl swallowed a scream. She was trembling from head to foot with fear and excitement. It was dark, the cry from within was despairing, the intense horror of it was dreadful.
“Yes, yes,” she whispered hoarsely. ‘"I was lying awake and I heard it. And that good old man told me today that his time was coming. I—I was going to rouse the house. The door is locked.”
“Do nothing of the sort. Stand aside.”
The voice was low but commanding. Marion obeyed mechanically. With great strength and determination Ralph flung himself against the door. At the second assault the rusty iron bolt gave and the door flew open.
Inside, Ravenspur lay on his bed. By his bedside a night light cast a feeble, pallid ray. There was nobody in the room besides Ravenspur himself. He lay back absolutely rigid, a yellow hue was over his face like a painted mask, his eyes were wide open, his lips twisted convulsively. Evidently he was in some kind of cataleptic fit, and his senses had not deserted him.
He was powerless to move, and made no attempt to do so. The man was choking to death; and yet his limbs were rigid. A sickly, sweet odor filled the room and caused Ralph to double up and gasp for breath. It was as if the whole atmosphere were drenched with a fine spray of chloroform. Marion stood in the doorway like a fascinated white statue of fear and despair.
“What is it?” she whispered. “What is that choking smell?”
Ralph made no reply. He was holding his breath hard. There was a queer, grinning smile on his face as he turned towards the window.
The fumbling, clutching, long hands rested for a moment on Ravenspurs forehead, and the next moment there was a sound of smashing glass, as with his naked fists Ralph beat in the lozenge-shaped windows.
A quick, cool draught of air rushed through the room, and the figure of on the bed ceased to struggle.
“Come in,” said Ralph. “There is no danger now.”
Marion entered. She was trembling from head to foot; her face was like death.
“What is it? What is it?” she cried. “Uncle Ralph, do you know what it is?”
“That is a mystery,” Ralph replied. “There is some fiend at work here. I only guessed that the sickly odor was the cause of the mischief. You are better, sir?”
Ravenspur was sitting up in bed. The color had come to his lips; he no longer struggled to breathe.
“I am all right,” he said. His eye beamed affectionately on Marion. “Ever ready and ever quick, child, you saved my life from that nameless horror.”
“It was Uncle Ralph,” said Marion. “I heard your cry, but Uncle Ralph was here as soon as I was. And it was a happy idea of his to break the window.”
“It was that overpowering drug,” said Ravenspur. “What it is and where it came from must always remain a mystery. This is a new horror to haunt me—and yet there were others who died in their beds mysteriously. I awoke to find myself choking; I was stifled by that sweet smelling stuff; I could feel that my heart was growing weaker. But go, my child; you will catch your death of cold. Go to bed.”
With an unsteady smile Marion disappeared. As she closed the door behind her, Ravenspur turned and grasped his son’s wrist fiercely.
“Do you know anything of this?” he demanded. “You are blind, helpless; yet you were on the spot instantly. Do you know anything of this I say?”
Ralph shook his head.
“It was good luck,” he said. “And how should I know anything? Ah! a blind man is but a poor detective.”
Yet as Ralph passed to his strange quarters, there was a queer look on his face. The long, lean claws were crooked as if they were fastened about the neck of some enemy, some foe to the death.
“The hem of the mystery,” he muttered. “Patience, and prudence, and the day shall come when I shall have it by the throat, and such a lovely throat too!”
THERE WAS NOTHING ABOUT THE house to distinguish it from its stolid and respectable neighbors. It had a dingy face, woodwork painted a dark red, with the traditional brass knocker and bell-pull. The windows were hung with curtains of the ordinary type, the venetian blinds were half-down, which in itself is a sign of middle-class respectability. In the centre of the red door was a small brass plate bearing the name of Dr. Sergius Tchigorsky.
Not that Dr. Tchigorsky was a medical practitioner in the ordinary sense of the word. No neatly-appointed ‘pill-box’ ever stood before 101; no patient ever passed the threshold.
Tchigorsky was a savant and a traveller to boot; a man who dealt in strange and out-of-the-way things; and the interior of his house would have been a revelation to the top-hatted, frock-coated doctors and lawyers and city men who elected to make their home in Brant-street W.
The house was crammed with curiosities and souvenirs of travel from basement to garret. A large sky-lighted billiard-room at the back of the house had been turned into a library and laboratory combined.
And here, when not travelling, Tchigorsky spent all his time, seeing strange visitors from time to time, Mongolians, Hindoos, natives of Thibet—for Tchigorsky was one of the three men who had penetrated to the holy city of Lassa, and returned to tell the tale.
The doctor came into his study from his breakfast, and stood ruminating, rubbing his hands before the fire. In ordinary circumstances he would have been a fine man of over six feet in height.
But a cruel misfortune had curved his spine, while his left leg dragged almost helplessly behind him, his hands were drawn up as if the muscles had been cut and then knotted up again.
Tchigorsky had entered Lassa five years ago as a god who walks upright. When he reached the frontier six months later he was the wreck he still remained. And of those privations and sufferings Tchigorsky said nothing. But there were times when his eyes gleamed and his breath came short, and he pined for the vengeance yet to be his.
As to his face, it was singularly strong and intellectual. Yet it was disfigured with deep seams checkered like a chessboard. We have seen something like it before, for the marks were identical with those that disfigured Ralph Ravenspur and made his face a horror to look upon.
A young man rose from the table where he was making some kind of an experiment. He was a fresh-colored Englishman, George Abell by name, and he esteemed it a privilege to call himself Tchigorsky’s secretary.
“Always early and always busy,” Tchigorsky said. “Is there anything in the morning papers that is likely to interest me, Abel?”
“I fancy so,” Abell replied thoughtfully. “You are interested in the Ravenspur case?”
A lurid light leapt into the Russian’s eyes. He seemed to be strangely moved. He paced up and down the room, dragging his maimed limb after him.
“Never more interested in anything in my life,” he said. “You know as much of my past as any man, but there are matters, experiences unspeakable. My face, my ruined frame! Whence come these cruel misfortunes? That secret will go down with me to the grave. Of that I could speak to one man alone, and I know not whether that man is alive or dead.”
Tchigorsky’s words trailed off into a rambling, incoherent murmur. He was far away with his own gloomy and painful thoughts. Then he came back to earth with a start. He stood with his back to the fireplace, contemplating Abell.
“I am deeply interested in the Ravenspur case, as you know,” he said. “A malignant fiend is at work yonder—a fiend with knowledge absolutely supernatural. You smile! I myself have seen the powers of darkness doing the bidding of mortal man. All the detectives in Europe will never lay hands upon the destroyer of the Ravenspurs. And yet, in certain circumstances, I could.”
“Then, in that case, sir, why don’t you?”
“Do it? I said in certain circumstances. I have part of a devilish puzzle; the other part is in the hands of a man who may be dead. I hold half of the banknote; somebody else has the other moiety. Until we can come together, we are both paupers. If I can find that other man, and he has the nerve and the pluck he used to possess, the curse of the Ravenspurs will cease. But, then, I shall never see my friend again.”
“But you might solve the problem alone.”
“Impossible. That man and myself made a most hazardous expedition in search of dreadful knowledge. That formula we found. For the purposes of safety, we divided it. And then we were discovered. Of what followed I dare not speak; I dare not even think.
“I escaped from my dire peril, but I cannot hope that my comrade was so fortunate. He must be dead. And without him I am as powerless as if I knew nothing. I have no proof. Yet I know quite well who is responsible for those murders at Ravenspur.”
Abell stared at his chief in astonishment. He knew Tchigorsky too well to doubt the evidence of his simple word. The Russian was too strong a man to boast.
“You cannot understand,” he said. “It is impossible to understand without the inner knowledge that I possess, and even my knowledge is not perfect. Were I to tell the part I know I should be hailed from one end of England to the other as a madman. I should be imprisoned for malignant slander. But if the other man turned up—if only the other man should turn up!”
Tchigorsky broke into a rambling reverie again. When he emerged to mundane matters once more he ordered Abell to read the paragraph relating to the latest phase of the tragedy of the lost Ravenspur.
“It runs,” said Abell. “‘Another Strange Affair at Ravenspur Castle. The mystery of this remarkable case still thickens. Late on Wednesday night Mr. Rupert Ravenspur, the head of the family, was awakened by a choking sensation and a total loss of breath. On attempting to leave his bed, the unfortunate gentleman found himself unable to move.
“‘He states that the room appeared to be filled with a fine spray of some sickly, sweet drug or liquid that seemed to act upon him as chloroform does on a subject with a weak heart. Mr. Ravenspur managed to cry out, but the vapor held him down, and was slowly stifling him—”
“Ah!” Tchigorsky cried. “Ah! I thought so. Go on!”
His eyes were gleaming; his whole face glistened with excitement.
“‘Providentially the cry reached the ears of another of the Ravenspurs. This gentleman burst open his father’s door, and noticing the peculiar, pungent odor, had the good sense to break a window and admit air into the room.
“‘This prompt action was the means of saving the life of the victim, and it is all the more remarkable because Ravenspur, a blind gentleman, who, had just returned from foreign parts.’”
A cry—a scream, broke from Tchigorsky’s lips. He danced about the room like a madman. For the time being it was impossible for the astonished secretary to determine whether this was joy or anguish.
“You are upset about something, sir,” he said.
Tchigorsky recovered himself by a violent effort that left him trembling like a reed swept by the wind. He gasped for breath.
“It was the madness of an overwhelming joy!” he cried. “I would cheerfully have given ten years of my life for this information. Abell, you will have to go to Ravenspur for me to-day.”
Abell said nothing. He was used to these swift surprises.
“You are to see this Ralph Ravenspur, Abell,” continued Tchigorsky. “You are not to call at the castle; you are to hang about till you get a chance of delivering my message unseen. The mere fact that Ralph Ravenspur is blind will suffice for a clue to his identity. Look up the timetable!”
Abell did so. He found a train to land him at Biston Junction, some ten miles from his destination. Half an hour later he was ready to start. From an iron safe Tchigorsky took a small object and laid it in Abell’s hand.
“Give him that,” he said; “You are simply to say, ‘Tchigorsky—Danger,’ and come away, unless Ralph Ravenspur desires speech with you. Now go, and as you value your life do not lose that casket.”
It was a small brass box no larger than a cigarette-case, rusty and tarnished, and covered with strange characters, evidently culled from some long-forgotten tongue.
A SENSE OF EXPECTATION, AN uneasy feeling of momentous event about to happen, hung over the doomed Ravenspurs. For once, Marion appeared to feel the strain. Her face was pale, and though she strove hard to regain the old gentle gaiety, her eyes were red and swollen with weeping.
All through breakfast she watched Ralph in strange fascination. He seemed to have obtained some kind of hold over her. Yet nothing could be more patient, dull and stolid than the way in which he proceeded with his meal. He appeared to dwell in an unseen world of his own; the stirring events of the previous night had left no impression on him whatever.
For the most part, they were a sad and silent party. The terror that walked by night and day was stealing closer to them; it was coming in a new and still more dreadful form. Accident or the intervention of Providence had averted a dire tragedy. But it would come again.
Ravenspur made light of the matter. He spoke of the danger as something past. Yet it was impossible wholly to conceal the agitation that filled him. He saw Marion’s pale, sympathetic face; he saw the heavy tears in Vera’s eyes, and a dreadful sense of his absolute impotence came upon him.
“Let us forget it,” he said, almost cheerfully. “Let us think no more of the matter. No doubt, science can explain the new mystery.”
“Never,” Ralph said, in a thrilling whisper. “Science is powerless here.”
The speaker’s sightless eyes were turned upwards; he seemed to be thinking aloud rather than addressing the company generally. Marion turned as if something had stung her.
“Uncle Ralph knows something that he conceals from us,” she cried.
Ralph smiled. Yet he had the air of one who is displeased with himself.
“I know many things that are mercifully concealed from pure natures like yours,” he said. “But as to what happened last night, I am as much in the dark as any of you. Ah! if I were not blind!”
A strained silence followed. One by one the company rose until the room was deserted, save for Ralph, Ravenspur and his nephew Geoffrey. The handsome lad’s face was pale, his lips quivered.
“I am dreadfully disappointed, uncle,” he observed.
“Meaning from your tone that you are disappointed with me, Geoff. Why?”
“Because you spoke at first as if you understood things. And then you professed to be as ignorant as the rest of us. Oh, it is awful! I—I would not care so much if I were less fond of Vera than I am. I love her; I love her with my whole heart and soul. If you could only see the beauty of her face you would understand.
“And yet when she kisses me goodnight, I am never sure that it is not for the last time. I feel that I must wake up presently to find that all is an evil dream. And we can do nothing, nothing, nothing but wait and tremble, and—die.”
Ralph had no reply; indeed there was no reply to this passionate outburst. The blind man rose from the table and groped his way to the door with those long hands that seemed to be always feeling for something like the tentacles of an octopus.
“Come with me to your grandfather’s room,” he said. “I want you to lend me your eyes for a time.”
Geoffrey followed willingly.
The bedroom was exactly as Ravenspur had quitted it, for as yet the housemaid had not been there.
“Now look round you carefully,” said Ralph. “Look for something out of the common. It may be a piece of rag, a scrap of paper, a spot of grease, or a dab of some foreign substance on the carpet. Is there a fire laid here?”
“No,” Geoffrey replied. “The grate is a large, open one. I will see what I can find.”
The young fellow searched minutely. For some time no reward awaited his pains. Then his eyes fell upon the hearthstone.
“I can only see one little thing,” he said.
“In a business like this, there are no such matters as little things,” Ralph replied. “A clue that might stand on a pin’s point often leads to great results. Tell me what it is that attracts your attention.”
“A brown stain on the hearthstone. It is about the size of the palm of one’s hand. It looks very like a piece of glue dabbed down.”
“Take a knife and scrape it up,” said Ralph. He spoke slowly and evidently under excitement well repressed. “Wrap it in your handkerchief and give it to me. Has the stuff any particular smell?”
“Yes,” said Geoffrey. “It has a sickly, sweet odor. I am sure that I never smelt anything like it before.”
“Probably not. There, I have no further need of your services, and I know that Vera is waiting for you. One word before you go—you are not to say a single word to a soul about this matter; not a single soul, mind. And now I do not propose to detain you any longer.”
Geoffrey retired with a puzzled air. When the echo of his footsteps had died away, Ralph rose and crept out upon the leads. He was shivering with excitement; there was a look of eager expectation, almost of triumph, on his face.
He felt his way along the leads until he came to a group of chimneys, about the centre one of which he fumbled with his hands for some time.
Then the look of triumph on his face grew more marked and stronger.
“Assurance doubly sure,” he whispered. His voice croaked hoarsely with excitement. “If I had only somebody here whom I could trust! If I told anybody here whom I suspected they would rise like one person, and hurl me into the moat. And I can do no more than suspect. Patience, patience, and yet patience.”
From the terrace came the sounds of fresh young voices. They were those of Vera and Geoffrey talking almost gaily as they turned their steps towards the granite cliffs. For the nerves of youth are elastic, and they throw off the strain easily.
They walked along side by side until they came to the cliffs. Here the rugged ramparts rose high with jagged indentations and rough hollows. There were deep cups and fissures in the rocks where a regiment of soldiers might lie securely hidden. For miles the gorse was flushed with its golden glory.
“Let us sit down and forget our troubles,” said Geoffrey. “How restful the time if we could sail away in a ship, Vera, away to the ends of the earth, where we could hide ourselves from this cruel vendetta and be at peace. What use is the Ravenspur property to us when we are doomed to die?”
Vera shuddered slightly, and the exquisite face grew pale.
“They might spare us,” she said, plaintively. “We are young, and we have done no harm to anybody. And yet I have not lost all faith. I feel certain that Heaven above us will not permit this hideous slaughter to continue.”
She laid her trembling fingers in Geoffrey’s hand, and he drew her close to him and kissed her.
“It seems hard to look into your face and doubt it, dearest,” he said. “Even the fiend who pursues us would hesitate to destroy you. But I dare not, I must not, think of it. If you are taken away I do not want to live.”
“Nor I either, Geoff. Oh, my feelings are similar to yours!”
The dark, violet eyes filled with tears, the fresh breeze from the sea ruffled Vera’s fair hair and carried her sailor-hat away up the cliff. It rested, perched upon a gorse-bush overhanging one of the ravines or cups in the rock. As Geoffrey ran to fetch the hat he looked over.
A strange sight met his astonished gaze. The hollow might have been a small stone quarry at some time. Now it was lined with grass and moss, and in the centre of the cup, which had no fissure or passage of any kind, two men were seated bending down over a small shell or gourd placed on a fire of sticks.
In ordinary circumstances there would have been nothing strange in this, for the sight of peripatetic hawkers and tinkers along the cliffs was not unusual.
From the shell on the ground a thick vapor was rising. The smell of it floated on the air to Geoffrey’s nostrils. He reeled back almost sick and faint with the perfume and the discovery he had made. For that infernal stuff had exactly the same smell as the pungent drug which had come so near to destroying the life of Rupert Ravenspur only a few hours before.
Here was something to set the blood tingling in the veins and the pulses leaping with a mad excitement. From over the top of the gorse Geoffrey watched with all his eyes. He saw the smoke gradually die away; he saw a small mass taken from the gourd and carefully stowed away in a metal box. Then the fire was kicked out, and all traces of it were obliterated.
Geoffrey crept back to Vera, trembling from head to foot. He had made up his mind what to do. He would say nothing of this strange discovery to Vera; he would keep it for Ralph Ravenspur’s ears alone. Ralph had been in foreign parts, and might understand the enigma.
Meanwhile, it became necessary to get out of the Asiatics’ way. It was not prudent for them to know that a Ravenspur was so close. Vera looked into Geoffrey’s face, wondering.
“How pale you are!” she said. “And how long you have been!”
“Come and let us walk,” said Geoffrey. “I—I twisted my ankle on a stone, and it gave me a twinge or two. It’s all right now. Shall we see if we can get as far as Sprawl Point and back before luncheon?”
Vera rose to the challenge. She rather prided herself on her powers as a walker. The exercise caused her to glow and tingle, and all the way it never occurred to her how silent and abstracted Geoffrey had become.
WHEN RALPH RAVENSPUR REACHED THE basement, his whole aspect had changed. For the next day or two he brooded about the house, mainly with his own thoughts for company. He was ubiquitous. His silent, catlike tread carried him noiselessly everywhere. He seemed to be looking for something with those sightless eyes of his; those long fingers were crooked as if about the throat of the great mystery.
He came into the library where Rupert Ravenspur and Marion were talking earnestly. He dropped in upon them as if he had fallen from the clouds. Marion started and laughed.
“I declare you frighten me,” she said. “You are like a shadow—the shadow of one’s conscience.”
“There can be no shadow on yours,” Ralph replied. “You are too pure and good for that. Never, never will you have cause to fear me.”
“All the same, I wish you were less like a cat,” Ravenspur exclaimed petulantly, as Marion walked smilingly away. “Anybody would imagine that you were part of the family mystery. Ralph, do you know anything?”
“I am blind,” Ralph replied doggedly. “Of what use is a blind man?”
“I don’t know. They say when one sense is lost the others are sharpened. And you came home so mysteriously; you arrived at a critical moment for me; you were at my door at the time when help was sorely needed. Again, when you burst my door open you did the only thing that could have saved me.”
“Common-sense, sir. You were stifling, and I gave you air.”
Ravenspur shook his head. He was by no means satisfied.
“It was the common-sense that is based upon practical experience. And you prowl about in dark corners; you wander about the house in the dead of night. You hint at a strange past; but as to that past you are dumb. For Heaven’s sake, if you know anything, tell me. The suspense is maddening.”
“I know nothing, and I am blind,” Ralph repeated. “As to my past, that is between me and my Maker. I dare not speak of it. Let me go my own way, and do not interfere with me. And whatever you do or say, tell nobody—nobody, mind—that you suspect me of knowledge of the family trouble.”