The Castle by the Sea/Chapter 1

T was on the evening of the fifth of May, just before the day had fully declined into twilight, that I got my first sight of Norroy Castle. I had taken a fly at the distant station of Arncombe, and, to the accompaniment of the friendly driver's gossip, had rattled along the country roads and down the little inlet for a few miles to Southington, when we made almost a full right wheel and began to climb the hill. At this stage, owing to the lessening of the clatter and the dwindling of the noise of the water, my man and I got on terms of even closer intimacy. He leaned back to explain to me points of the scenery, and to indicate features of interest, as he was no doubt wont to do to tourists. I was not a tourist, but I certainly had the neighborhood as much at heart as any bird of passage. It was to be my environment for some three months; and I stood up occasionally and looked about me.

We were rising slowly but surely now, and below, the darkling inlet had become a romantic channel of fancies to my mind. I was glad I had taken Norroy Castle; glad, too, I had taken it on trust; for this was my inaugural visit, and I had, so to say, bought a pig in a poke. However, it was only for the summer, and already I was enchanted by my indiscretion. Indiscretion! I thought, and laughed. Why, it was only so that Romance got her chance; it was dull reason that went jog-trot through a humdrum life. As well be chained to a desk, as well keep your stall in the Augean stable of full cities, as well—

My mind, poising on the wings of this fine welcome, had got thus far, when the driver's voice broke upon its raptures.

"Sir Gilbert—he hasn't been down here since he was a boy; has n't been here since he came in for the title. Can't abide it, they say. It's dull for him, maybe, after London."

I think he was still speculating in his slow mind if I were a tourist; yet my luggage (for I had brought a few small bags with me) must have puzzled him. I had no doubt that he wondered if the gentleman were on a visit to the housekeeper.

I made no answer, thus brought down to mere fact; and he continued, "'Ere's the top of the hill, and the gate."

I stood up again, and, as the carriage crawled up the last steps of the ascent, looked back once more. The estuary wavered in twilight, from Amcombe, which was hidden by the curving shores, to the hamlet at the foot of the water. Only the roofs of Southington village, a couple of miles below us, witnessed to human habitation. And then my eyes went seaward—ah, in a vast surprise.

The prospect took my breath. I had been gazing backward and downward upon prettiness, the narrow winding waters, the wooded shores, the comely, crowded picture of the English landscape. Now my vision fared forward and outward. The waters of the Channel roared out yonder; the wind came off it with a savor like strong wine; the sparkle sprang in my eyes, in my face, in my heart. This was Norroy Castle; this was my home. And here was I, trundling along in a ragged old cab, like that visitor to the housekeeper. The scene gave me heart; it inspired me. If I were to write anywhere I could write here, within sound and smell of that fragrant-blown sea. Oh, it was worth living for, that early May evening, with the lights fading in heaven, and the darkling estuary, and the kindling water of the Channel. I drew in my breath and gave thanks. What a fool was this Sir Gilbert Norroy who had visited so glorious a place only a few times since boyhood! What a barbarian! What a Goth! I cried in my heart, and as I did so my eyes were arrested by a man who was watching me from a little distance.

He was a good-looking fellow, dressed rather scrupulously in a costume of the tourist order, which concluded most decorously with a Homburg hat; and he was smoking a cigar.

"These be the gates, sir," remarked my affable driver again. It was before the gates that the stranger was standing, and his face caught my curious gaze even before I regarded the threshold of my new domain. It was a handsome face, as I have said, the moustache silky and drooping, the eyes soft and languid, the white countenance characterized by something almost effeminate. His manners were good, for his gaze dwelled on me and went by in the fashion of good-breeding.

"One of them visitors at Southington, sir," commented my driver, as we rolled through the gateway into the gravelled track. I paid no heed, for I was occupied now with the park. What were all the strangers of Christendom to me beside my park?

The drive trailed in a pleasant old-fashioned sweep through limes of immemorial age, and entered, after a brief but glorious career of this kind, a shrubbery of rhododendrons in full bud, of laurels, of fragrant syringas, and of opening lilac. The cloud of shrubbery made a little darkness of the twilight; and then we came out into the open again, where the sward, studded with trees, led down towards the sea. And here was my second stranger,—but this time of quite another character. It was a slim, tall girl, of an exquisite promise of ripeness, but of years too early for that maturity which should some day be her glory. She was wandering upon the sward, and, like the stranger at the gates, cast on me a glance, well-bred like his, but of a delicacy and shyness that was eloquent of her sex. I had the rudeness to turn in my seat and watch her after we had passed, until I lost the last glimpse of her slender white figure vanishing into the shrubbery.

Once more my domain claimed my attention, and now with louder voice; for we were drawing up to the Castle.

Norroy Castle was a small building, of considerable antiquity, and of admirable repair. The ravages of time and conquest were not visible on its seemly face, which was presented to the brawling sea that lay only a few hundred yards away. The garden declined towards this with flower beds and shrubberies, and interspersed lawns and walks; but I could not discern in the twilight in what style they had been kept. Beyond, the sea stormed at the pale in which this castle stood, but the slow slopes went down to it in tranquil greenery. Upon the further side, as far as I could make out, there was a rise in the grounds, and sea-fowl screamed in the air above low cliffs. I had entered into my kingdom, and pronounced it good. I was now to enter also into the Castle itself.

The oaken door, giving upon the gravel, was opened by a stolid man of middle age in the conventional dress of a butler. It seemed to me that he stared and stood for an unnecessarily long time ere he spoke.

"Mr. Brabazon, sir," he asked.

"Yes, and you are Jackman?" I returned, for that was the name of the housekeeper I had received from the solicitors.

"Yes, sir," he said formally, and stepping briskly over the threshold, set to work on my packages.

I entered, after paying the fly-man, and found myself in a hall of fair size, lighted with a swinging lamp of cathedral glass, which revealed, out of the darkness, a gallery above my head. Here a woman's voice greeted me, and I assumed the owner to be Mrs. Jackman. "We did not expect you till to-morrow, sir," she said, with some timidity of manner.

"I changed my mind," I explained. "Did my boxes come?"

"Yes, sir; this morning," she answered, and bustled away on some feminine errand, maybe connected with cooking.

I was waiting on my friend, Jackman, who now appeared with his hands full of my small kits, but instinctively I turned to follow the woman.

"Not that way, sir," said the butler hastily, almost blocking my path in his anxiety lest I should go wrong. "It goes to the kitchen apartments, sir," he explained deferentially. I waited till he indicated the door which I was permitted to pass, and then entered. It was a small room, brightly lighted, and a wood fire burned in the open grate. I had a sense of a smell of tobacco, and tobacco none too fragrant at that; and I concluded that Mr. Jackman had been caught unawares by my inopportune arrival. But I had made up my mind. This room was for me.

It was lightly furnished, and the corners were squared off on two sides, so as to give an irregular shape to it. The window, which was mullioned, looked on a little sward of its own betwixt projecting buttresses of the building, and thence across the gravel drive to the more spacious lawn beyond. Night by this time had swallowed the garden and the woods, but out of that deepening darkness the fret of the ocean beat upon my ears quite pleasantly.

"This is where I should like my meals, Jackman," I said to the waiting butler.

"Certainly, sir," said he, after a momentary pause, and again there was a pause before he went on. "Mrs. Jackman prepared the west wing rooms, sir, in case you should want them."

"Weil, I 'll have a look round," I said amiably. "Meanwhile this will do very well. What's off that way?"

"There's a morning-room giving to the garden, sir," said he, "and the old staircase to the first floor."

"And my bedroom?" I inquired.

"Mrs. Jackman prepared the west wing rooms, sir," he repeated respectfully. "I thought you might like them all handy. They 're on the ground floor together."

"Very well," I assented. "I 've no doubt they will suit me," and so dismissed him to his duties.

The long day in the air had made me agreeably tired, and I was hungry, so that after the necessary preparations I was glad to sup and rest. I took some pleasure in exploring the route to my bedroom, which I did under Jackman's guidance, and by the light of two candles. We passed through a lofty room with covered furniture, into a short passage, and thence into a fine large chamber which fronted the west, and which, I gathered, was designed for my use as a drawing-room. Close to it was my bedroom, rather too large and rather too lofty, and, I thought, rather too cold. But as I changed into other clothes, I was aware that there were delightful possibilities in its dignity, if not in its prospect.

As I was finishing my toilet, I heard a step on the stone passage without, which at first I took to be Jackman's; but it passed and died away and I heard no more of it. Yet, as I opened the door to return, the sound of a creaking above reached me. The wind darted down the cold alley of stone and sent my flame guttering; and, shading it with my open palm, I picked my way back through the silent chambers to my cosy dining-room. Here I forgot everything save the satisfaction of my appetite.

The fire burned cheerfully, and a late spring wind snapped about the mullions. Mrs. Jackman, a thin, bright-eyed woman, entered in order to make my acquaintance, I am sure. She professed herself anxious to learn if I were comfortable, and, speaking with a soft country burr, hoped I should "like myself." Not so, I was certain, would the immaculate, armor-plated Jackman speak. Mrs. Jackman made an approach to conversing; Jackman could only answer. But it was the woman's opportunity, and she made the most of it. I learned, among other things, that she rejoiced Sir Gilbert had let at last; that the house had not been kept up for years, not since Sir Edmund died; that Sir Gilbert had been a stranger to it since he was a boy; that Jackman and she had lived in London a good deal in Sir Gilbert's service; and that Sir Gilbert was twenty-nine and unmarried. I gathered on the way through this that any princess would be fortunate if she should be chosen by Sir Gilbert. It was altogether a pretty exhibition of the feudal temper.

When she retired, my thoughts went to the bag in which I had stowed some favorite books, and I opened it. A flagon of whiskey was on the table, my pipe was at my elbow, and I had a choice volume to hand. I was exceedingly peaceful, but somehow I did not read. Migration is unsettling to the mind, which settles down with reluctance after the disturbance of its roots. A mass of papers, inserted at the last moment in this particular bag, turned itself out on the carpet, and an illustrated weekly took my eye. It was one of an earlier date, which had furnished my introduction to Norroy Castle. With some curiosity, after the accomplished fact, I found the advertisement—of "an old castle to let furnished for the summer months."

I wondered now why I had been induced to write. Such lures by agents are none too uncommon. Anyway, I was here, and in possession. Perhaps it had been the notion of the environing sea, or of the quietude; or was it the transient flash of some romantic feeling? At least the place promised well for my writing, and if I could not finish my "Studies in Earth in this retreat, they would probably forever remain a beautiful dream.

Do you know that officialism of business? How it wearies, aggravates, and incenses the ordinary decent man? "Yours of the 3rd ult..." "Your esteemed order..." "Our best services..." Well, I was assured that I should find the house in every way commodious and desirable. But what maggot was in the red head of the clerk who ought to have known better, when he hinted about the ghost? Perhaps under that rigid exterior he had a soul, some imagination, or a sense of humor. Perhaps it was even a shrewd and oily attempt to clinch a "deal," and he had read something in my eyes. They are the eyes of thirty something, but I pray they are yet romantic. Anyway, the ghost emerged from the shadows and exhibited itself momentarily in the garish light of Pall Mall. Then it disappeared.

"There's said to be a ghost in the Castle."

Perhaps, after all, it was mere banality, but I believe it did rivet the bargain. And here I was with the Castle on my hands, and the Norroy ghost, if so be tradition spoke correctly. Why, I had forgotten to ask Mrs. Jackman about it! Never mind, the fire soothed, and the tobacco also. I did not want to move. My eyes fell again on the book I had not read, and I remembered something else that the red-headed clerk had mentioned,—"a fine library and picture-gallery." It had slipped my memory.

Jackman entered at the moment to inquire if I needed anything more that night, and I tackled him.

"Yes, sir," he said, with his punctilious interval of pause, as if he would make sure I had done talking. "The library is up-stairs, sir, left wing—over your rooms, sir. The picture-gallery and library are one."

I love old libraries; and I would go on my travels in this. I ruminated over glass and pipe till the loud voice ' of the bracket clock stirred me from dreams. It struck ten, and, as I have said, I was tired. Plainly, it should be my duty as well as my pleasure to go to bed; and I went.

I slipped into a slumber, very light and easy, out of which and into which I drifted again and again without any feeling of discomfort or restlessness. I awoke and heard the rain that beat on the westward windows; I heard steps upon the flagged passageway; I thought 1 heard voices. But nothing of that sort troubled me; it was a whisper that did that. It is odd how the lesser noise provokes the sleeper, while the voice of cannon in his ear or thunder in heaven would pass almost unremarked. I sat up, listening.

Was it the wind that whispered in the draughty passage, or was it a human voice I lit the candle and, looking at my watch, found it was between twelve and one. No one should be about at such an hour. I got up, went to the door and hearkened; and now I thought I heard a footstep in the distance. The house was enveloped in silence. I opened the door; then followed a thin but distinct clatter of some object falling on stone, and on that an objurgation. I hesitated no longer. This could hardly be Jackman, and, if it were, he must be taught the first duties of a servant. With the candle in my hand, I went down the passage in the direction of the sound.

As I walked, it seemed to me that the noise retreated; certain crepitations came out of the darkness ahead, which was all the greater darkness because of my light. I turned into the morning-room on the trail, now raised to a pitch of some excitement. A foot, as I could have sworn, stumbled not a dozen paces away. I ran forward.

"Who is that." I cried.

Even as I did so, the ghost emerged in my mind. But ghosts do not stumble on stairs; and that was what had happened. Nor do ghosts carry pencils, so far as I know, and it was a pencil I picked up. Jackman had spoken of the old staircase, and now I nearly ran into it. It rose to the first floor from an ante-chamber, behind the morning-room, and I almost caught the pencil, as it rolled from stone to stone. It was the second time that pencil had been dropped, I was sure, for the same clink saluted my ears.

I went up the staircase as swiftly as I could, and thought in that moment I had a glimpse of the intruder. But just then the candle went out, caught, as I supposed, by some blast along the upper corridor. Feet sounded now shamelessly before me, as some one ran for it. I was following, but was grabbed sharply by the shoulder and held from behind with two arms. I wrestled with my assailant at a disadvantage, and for some minutes there was audible only the noise of the struggle. Then, with an effort, I threw off my adversary.

"Help!" he cried, as he sprawled.

Why should a burglar cry for help in the house of his victim? I lit a match and peered down. It was Jackman!

"The devil!" I ejaculated.

"The burglar!" he panted.

I grinned. It was too ridiculous, that we should have been destroying each other, while the invader got safely away. But had he? I assisted Jackman to his feet.

"Never mind. He's gone this way. What rooms are these?" I asked hurriedly.

"The—the library!" he puffed out. "But—but he can't be there."

"Oh, well, we 'll see," I threw at him, as I strode quickly don the corridor.

It was not quite true that he could not be in the library, but it was certainly true that he might be in one of a dozen places. Four doors opened from the corridor towards the front of the Castle, and here were as many hiding-places as rooms. I was conscious of Jackman panting behind me, and then I gained the library. The door was wide open, giving promise of the quarry; and the first gleam of the candle on the walls told me where I was. It was a long chamber, stretching, I gathered, along the whole reach of the west wing on this floor; and faces in paint stared stiffly down upon me as I thus roughly intruded on their quiet. That quiet had endured in some cases for centuries, but I paid no heed to this haughty greeting, and moved among the bookcases with my detective light. Darkness lurked in all like an ambuscade, and shadows leaped out at me. The shifting blackness in which that gallery lay enveloped started into life and walked with me. I peered, and heard Jackman's heavy breathing over my shoulder.

"Are we looking for a ghost, Jackman?" said I.

"I—I don't know, sir," he panted, and added: "There is a ghost, sir."

"And he carries pencils," I commented; and came at the word to a pause.

We had reached one of the huge marble fireplaces half-way down the room, and my candle disclosed something upon the bare floor. I stooped and picked it up.

"What—what—?" chattered Jackman's teeth over my shoulder, and he put forward a hand as if he would have grabbed it.

"No," said I, "we 've no time;" and I pushed on swiftly.

In the bays of the library no thief skulked, and the candle flashing about the room revealed no one. We reached the north wall at last, which I perceived to be fronted with oak up to the height of ten feet. An ancient handle caught my eye, suggesting a door.

"What's this?" I asked Jackman.

"The strong-room," said he, promptly.

I tried the handle, twisted it and tugged at it.

"It's locked?" I asked.

"The key is in possession of Sir Gilbert, sir," he answered.

I meditated; there was no chance of concealment here then, but the discovery supplied perhaps a motive. However, that would wait. The urgent matter was to catch the thief. Jackman had gone to a window.

"This is open, sir," he called. "He must have got out this way."

I joined him. The windows were casements, and sure enough one had been cast adrift from its moorings, and swung lightly to and fro. I gazed down into the darkness.

"It must be thirty feet," I said. "Not impossible. Let's explore the other side."

Jackman's respectful voice urged reasons why the villain must have escaped this way, but I paid no heed. I crossed to the other corner, where the window looked forth on a courtyard, and then noticed a door in the north wall. It was ajar, and I pushed it wider, disclosing a closet of oak, which was empty. But a darker shadow in the floor took my eye, and I went in. Before me a narrow stone staircase descended to the ground floor. I had just made this discovery when, for the second time, my candle went out abruptly.

I uttered an exclamation of annoyance, and turned, for I could have sworn that the draught had not come from below. I groped in the candlestick, but to my chagrin could not find the box of matches. It must have fallen, I thought, that time I had been struggling with Jackman; and then, of a sudden, I remembered that I had used it to light the candle afterwards. But anyhow, it had gone, slipping somewhere during our reconnoitre, no doubt. I carried nothing of course in my pajamas; but Jackman was properly clothed, and I called to him.

"Have you any matches?" I called.

There was silence, during which I conceived him to be fumbling in his pockets, and then he spoke.

"Sorry, sir; no, sir."

I ejaculated my disappointment tersely. "Never mind," said I, "we must go down all the same. Where does this lead?"

"Into the western passage, sir," he returned, "near your rooms."

I dropped down as lightly as I could, and Jackman's heavier weight punctuated the silence. Certainly it would give my burglar notice, for all the world as if it were policeman's boots that stamped on the stone. Presently, I touched the lower floor, and put out my hand, groping till I grazed a wall. It took me several minutes to find a door, but at last I succeeded, and, feeling along a passageway, we painfully progressed.

"Where are we now?" I asked at last.

"Back in the room you dined in, sir," said Jackman.

"Good Lord! I give it up!" I remarked in despair.

There was the sound of a match crackling, and a spurt of fire issued from Jackman's fingers. "Why, man, you have matches!" I cried.

"Just got them from the mantelpiece, sir," he explained. He lit my candle, and we surveyed each other.

"It's no go, Jackman," I said with resignation. "We 're done. By the way, what is kept in the strong room."

"The family plate, sir, and the gold service presented to Sir Craven in 1772, and the Norroy jewels."

"Ah!" I said significantly. "Well, we are not worth much as detectives, Jackman, and I think we may take it our man has vanished, and go to bed."

"Yes, sir," agreed the butler.

We parted, and I sought my room. But I was thoroughly awake and likely to remain so. So I flung myself on the bed, and took out of my pajamas pocket the object I had picked up in the library. It was a black note-book, such as might be purchased at any stationer's shop for a few pence. There was no mark on it to indicate ownership, and only the name of a stationer in Kensington in tiny type in one corner. But what puzzled me was the contents. Only some three or four pages had been used, and these were covered in a scrawling male hand, as if it were written by an uneducated, or semi-educated person.

"Madona and child," I made out, and beneath, "Coregio."

"Storm—Claude...."

"Lady Claire Norroy—Reynolds," and this was starred heavily thus—*

"Pilage of Sain—Sant—San Sebastion." The writer had made several attempts to arrive at accuracy here.

I gazed at the pages in perplexity, and also in disappointment. They seemed merely to contain a list of pictures, which was hardly in keeping with the property of a thief. Was there, after all, any connection between the pencil, which obviously did belong to the intruder, and this book? At any rate, there was no clue here. And when I had come to this conclusion, rather sadly, I remembered the dark staircase. An impulse urged me to take my light and inspect it forthwith.

I traced my way along the passage until I came to a door which must have admitted us on our backward journey. Beyond was the staircase for certain, winding upward. But what interested me more was another door, fronting the staircase; and this I examined. To my surprise it was unlocked, and when I turned the handle, a rush of cool air streamed in. My light glimmered on the gravel of the courtyard. This door gave access to the safe and empty night.

It was plain at last how the burglar had escaped. I locked the door and went back to my room; and, satisfied thus far with my elucidation of the mystery, I slowly found the sleep for which I resolutely composed myself.