by W E Johns
“I considered that possibility but dismissed it because I couldn’t see how it could hook up with The Curse, with the raven, or Charles’ last words. I can’t make sense of this raven. I’ve never seen one about here, yet how is it one is always heard when death is about to strike? To suggest that the only time a raven arrives in the vicinity is when a member of my family is about to die is stretching coincidence too far, anyway, for my credulity. Yet the alternative is it must in some way be associated with The Curse. I can’t accept that, either. There was a time when everyone believed in witchcraft, wizardry, black magic, and all that sort of mumbo-jumbo; and there’s no doubt some people practised it. But surely not now. Even if the black arts, as they were called, were practised here in the Middle Ages, their effects, if any, could hardly have survived to this day and age. I think we can forget all that sort of rot.”
“Have you any reason to suppose that black magic ever was practised here?” asked Biggles. “I’m not putting that forward as a theory,” he added quickly, “but merely as a matter of curiosity.”
Leo looked a little uncomfortable. “It’s hardly worth repeating, and I certainly wouldn’t take it seriously, but as a matter of fact there is an old family legend about how The Curse came to be laid on the house.”
“We might as well hear it.”
“Never having paid any attention to it I’m not entirely sure of the details, but here it is for what it’s worth. The story is that not long after the Landavilles took over Ringlesby Hall, the previous owners having been dispossessed by Henry VII, a man arrived here with a letter for Sir Leofric Landaville. The man was a queer-looking individual—such people always are—in the garb of a monk. Having delivered the letter into the hands of Sir Leofric the monkish postman miraculously disappeared. That again is all in accord with tradition.” Leo smiled cynically.
“What was in the letter?”
“Something to the effect that the House of Landaville had had a curse laid on it by bell, book and candle, so that while they remained in occupation here every heir to the estate would be struck down by the Wrath of God. I don’t know the exact wording. I don’t know what my ancestors thought of it—”
“But it doesn’t worry you?” interposed Biggles.
“Not a bit.”
“It seems to have worked.”
“Rubbish! My dear fellow, this is 1961. I’m not prepared to believe that what has happened here was the result of spells and incantations muttered by the light of a full moon over a witch’s brew of toads’ entrails, vipers’ venom and bats’ blood.”
“What happened to this letter?”
“I have no idea.”
“Could it have been kept?”
“It might have been. I’ve never looked for it. There are a lot of musty old documents in the family chest. I know that because we had to take out the Charter to get it photographed when we were claiming abatement of some of the clauses about being compelled to live here, as I told you. I wouldn’t part with the original. That’s the only time I’ve seen the Charter. I couldn’t read it. It’s part in Latin and part in what I imagine to be Norman French. But there are experts at this sort of thing at the Public Record Office who can decipher such stuff.”
“Tell me, Leo; what happens to this place if you don’t get married? I mean, should you die without children. Have you any relatives?”
“As far as I know, not one. If I die without issue, as the lawyers put it, the estate would revert to the Crown.”
“What would the Crown do with it?”
“I’ve never inquired. I imagine the National Trust might take it over as an Historical Monument. If they didn’t I suppose it would come into the market like any other property.”
“To come back to this letter invoking The Curse on the house. Do you happen to know if it was signed by anyone?”
“No. As I say, if we still have it I’ve never seen it.”
“Did your father, or perhaps grandfather, ever refer to it?”
“Not in my hearing. I’d say they felt the same as I do about it. It’s been a sort of skeleton in the cupboard, best forgotten. Would you, if you owned the house, abandon it on account of some trumped-up nonsense concocted nearly 500 years ago?”
“No. I don’t think I would. But if I were in your place I’d take more interest in its medieval associations if only as a matter of curiosity.”
“You’re not saying that you think an old piece of parchment could have any possible connexion with what happened to my brother, and previous members of my family?” Leo looked surprised.
“Of course not. But I’m trying to keep an open mind about the whole business. If this unpleasant letter is still in existence I’d like to have a look at it. Will you see if you can find it?”
“Why?”
“There’s just a possibility that it might reveal a clue as to what’s been going on.”
“You can look for it yourself if that will give you any satisfaction.”
“Very well. I’ll do that.”
Leo glanced at the window, darkening as the sun sank. “It’s a bit late to start on a job like that today. You’ll need plenty of daylight. Why not come down tomorrow and stay a day or two instead of running to and fro between here and London? We’re not short of rooms. I could get Falkner to fix you up with beds. You could then browse over the contents of the family chest for as long as you liked.”
“I’ll accept that offer. I’d also like to have a look at the place where your brother died.”
“I’ll show you the exact spot.”
“Good. In that case we’ll be getting back to town. You can expect us back tomorrow morning.”
They went out, and the police car was soon on its way back to London.
“Well, and what do you make of that?” asked Bertie, when they had turned out of the overgrown drive on to the main road.
“Not much,” replied Biggles. “All I can say is, it’s the queerest tale I’ve heard for many a long day. I’m not surprised Leo finds himself bogged down in a mixture of superstition and coincidence.”
“You believe these deaths are coincidence?”
“We’ve either got to accept that, or say as many generations of murderers as there have been Landavilles, have been at work here. That’s just as hard, if not harder, to believe. You see what I mean! If these deaths were murders they couldn’t have been committed by the same man. To make myself clear, the man who killed Leofric Landaville in the eighteenth century must have been dead for more than 100 years when Charles Landaville was shot in the park. This is going to take some sorting out.”
“You intend to have a go at it?”
“Definitely. The thing has got me fascinated. If we’re dealing with murder, and Leo is convinced of it, we come up against a brick wall as soon as we ask ourselves the usual first question.”
“The motive.”
“Exactly. Yet if it’s murder there must be one. Where are we going to find it?”
“Where are you going to start looking?”
“That’s what I’m going to think about,” returned Biggles, succinctly. “The answer must be somewhere, and I shan’t sleep o’ nights unless I find it.”
“Could this be the work of a madman?”
“Oh, have a heart, Bertie. Over the last four and a half centuries some twenty Landavilles have come to a sticky end. I’m prepared to admit that in every generation over that period there may have been a lunatic panting to murder someone; but why should it always be a Landaville? Tell me that.”
“Sorry, old boy, I’m afraid I can’t.”
“That’s what I thought,” concluded Biggles.
CHAPTER IV
SO IT WAS MURDER
THE following day dawned with the weather still perfect and the police car was early on its return visit to the New Forest. Naturally, the conversation between Biggles and Bertie was confined almost entirely to the extraordinary tale they had been told by the owner of the ancient manor house of Ringlesby.
“I suppose you’ve been thinking a lot about it,” said Bertie.
“Thinking about it! I couldn’t sleep for thinking about it. Such a fantastic story would keep anyone awake.”
“Have you made anything of it?”
“No; that is, not much. But one or two points have occurred to me.”
“Such as?”
“For one thing, these three stars Charles Landaville spoke about a moment before he died. They must mean something. Yesterday I was inclined to take them literally, but thinking it over I’ve decided that might be a mistake. He could have used the term in the figurative sense. The words three stars are sometimes used as an adjective to indicate something of exceptional quality. For instance, travel books talk of three star hotels and restaurants. There are various products which are claimed to be three star. Brandy, for instance. We shall have to keep these stars in mind from every possible angle.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes. I’ve given a lot of thought to this alleged murder of Leo’s brother. It was done with a point two-two rifle. To kill a person with a rifle of such small calibre suggests to me two things. First, for such a weapon to be effective the range would have to be short. Secondly, the man who used it against Charles must have been a first-class marksman. It’s unlikely that a bullet anywhere except in the heart or brain would be fatal. If murder was intended absolute accuracy of aim would have been essential. That means the murderer, if in fact there was one, must have had plenty of confidence in his shooting.”
“Which implies ample practice.”
“Exactly. It was vital that Charles should be killed on the spot. It would have been no use hitting him in the arm or the leg, for instance, because he might have got back to the house; and had he done that he would have talked. He might have sent for the police.”
“Does this mean you’re convinced it was murder?”
“By no means. But if it was it should be possible to find the murderer. On the other hand, if by some incredible chance the whole thing is a matter of coincidence we should be wasting our time looking for a murderer. In that case the thing could go on, and nothing we could do would stop it. We can only deal with facts, not fantasies.”
“If it is murder it might be a good thing to cruise round the district with our eyes and ears open.”
“I intend to do that. There’s always a chance that the man who shot Charles, assuming it wasn’t an accident, could be a local with a grudge against him. Of course, the argument against that is, it might happen once; not over and over again. That would bring us back to coincidence, and that I find hard to entertain. There are one or two questions I shall have to ask Leo. A woman comes into the picture, if only in the background. His girl friend. On a job like this one can’t afford to ignore anything, however irrelevant it may seem. How much does the girl know about all this? If she knows all that Leo has told us what does she think of it? Women have a thing called intuition, a sort of sixth sense, which sometimes hits the nail on the head.”
So the conversation continued, with breaks of silence, until the car turned into the drive and bumped its way over the drive to the front of the Hall.
Leo may have been watching for them, for he appeared at a window and called: “Be with you in a minute.”
Biggles, who had stopped at the front door, while he was waiting looked up at the shield that leaned over it. “Somebody seems to have hacked that about,” he remarked. And when Leo came out, now in an old pair of tweed trousers and open-necked shirt, he said, pointing at the shield: “Did that once carry your family crest?”
“I’ve no idea,” replied Leo.
“Has it always been like that?”
“As far as I can remember. Why?”
“It looks to me as if it had been deliberately defaced.”
“That might well be. Cromwell’s troopers may have done it knowing we’d fought on the other side. They may have been dedicated men but they were terrible vandals. They hated anything that looked like a carving and knocked it down. They knocked the heads off the saints in the parish church. As far as this shield is concerned I don’t think it could have been our armorial bearings or some indication would have remained, even if it hadn’t been kept in repair. Our arms, when we used them, were sable, a bend argent with a rose gules stalked vert.”
Biggles smiled. “Would you mind saying that in plain English? I’ve never taken a course of heraldry.”
“A black shield with a silver band across it carrying a red rose with a green stalk. No doubt the rose had something to do with the red rose of Lancaster, Henry VII tracing his descent from that House.”
“Thanks. Not that I’m much the wiser.”
“Have you made anything of my problem?” inquired Leo.
“It’s a bit early to talk about solutions. This is likely to be a slow business. But there are one or two questions I’d like to ask you. They are chiefly concerned with recent events.”
“Go ahead. I’ll give you all the help I can.”
“Had Charles any enemies? Can you think of anyone who had cause to wish him ill?”
“No one. Charles was a quiet, unassuming chap. He seldom went away. I can’t imagine him even having a quarrel with anyone. Had that happened I’m pretty sure he would have mentioned it to me. He never did.”
“Do you mind if I ask a more personal question?”
“Not at all.”
“This lady you would like to marry. Who is she?”
“Her name’s Diana Mortimore. She may look in later. This is the day she goes into the town and she sometimes drops in on the way to see if I want anything.”
“So she lives near here?”
“On the next estate, about five miles away. Her father is Sir Joshua Mortimore, the banker, but Diana has money in her own right. It was left to her by her mother.”
“Are you actually engaged?”
“No. I’ve told you why.”
“Have you told her what you told us yesterday?”
“You mean—about The Curse?”
“Yes.”
“No, I have not. I wouldn’t want her to think I’m crazy.”
“Good. Then I advise you not to tell her. Does anyone else know about it?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“Then keep quiet about it. Don’t mention it to a soul. For one thing, if the story leaked out you’d be pestered with newspaper reporters. That’s understandable. You can imagine the headlines. We don’t want anything like that.”
“I certainly do not.”
“And don’t tell anyone what we’re doing here. If anyone should ask just say we’re a couple of old friends who happened to look in. I’d rather no one knew what we were really doing.”
“I understand.”
“Fine. Then let’s get on. The first thing I want to be certain of is that your brother was murdered, so let’s have a look at the spot where it happened. Have you still got the rifle?”
“Of course.”
“Then you might fetch it and we’ll take it along with us. You might put one or two cartridges in your pocket although I don’t think I shall need them.”
Leo went into the house, soon to reappear with the light rifle in his hand, and with him leading the way the party set off across the rough ground heading for a spinney made up of silver birches, firs and one or two Scots pines.
“Tell me,” said Biggles as they walked. “Was Charles a good shot?”
“Excellent. He seldom missed anything he shot at. Mind you, he disliked wounding anything so he seldom fired unless he was sure of a kill. The spinney in front of us used to swarm with rabbits but I’m afraid the myxomatosis has wiped out most of them. Still, there are a few, apparently those that were immune from the disease.”
Reaching the objective Leo walked a little way along the fringe and stopped. “This is the place,” he said.
“Can you picture the scene exactly as it was when you found Charles lying here?”
“
I’m not likely to forget it. I shall see it for as long as I live.”
“Could you demonstrate just how he was lying?”
“Certainly, if you think that is really necessary.”
“It is, or I wouldn’t be asking you to do it. I want to reconstruct everything just as it happened. I know what you believe, and I’m not doubting your sincerity, but unless I can satisfy myself that this was really and truly murder there will always be a doubt in my mind that it could have been an accident. Will you please lie down in the position in which Charles was lying when you arrived?”
Leo arranged his feet, and then, moving like a swimmer in deep water, allowed his body to fall forward.
“Now the rifle.”
“Thanks.” Biggles considered the position, and having looked up and down, went on: “All right. You can get up.”
Leo got to his feet.
Biggles continued. “Now then. Of the two shots you heard fired that day Charles must have fired the first. Obviously he couldn’t have fired after he himself had been struck. The question is, what did he shoot at? You say he was a first-class shot, so let us assume he hit what he fired at, because in that case the remains of the creature, which we’ll presume was a rabbit, should still be where it died. According to you Charles was lying here, head pointing this way.” Biggles pointed. “Because a person struck by a bullet falls forward he must have been facing in this direction when the bullet that hit him was fired. Let’s see if there’s anything left of the creature he killed. It’s a long time since it happened but there may be some remains. Mind where you’re putting your feet.”
So saying, his eyes on the ground, Biggles started walking very slowly along the edge of the coppice. The others did the same, and they had covered perhaps twenty yards in this way when Leo exclaimed: “Here it is! Or this may have been it.” He pointed to the mummified remains of a rabbit, no more than a flat piece of grey fur wrapped round some bones through which the new grass had grown.
“I suppose to find the bullet would be hoping for too much,” said Biggles. “That would depend on where it struck. If it was a soft part of the body like the stomach it would of course go clean through and into the ground; but a bone might stop it.”