Joseph Smith Fletcher

Ravensdene Court

Warsaw 2022

Contents

CHAPTER I. THE INN ON THE CLIFF

CHAPTER II. RAVENSDENE COURT

CHAPTER III. THE MORNING TIDE

CHAPTER IV. THE TOBACCO BOX

CHAPTER V. THE NEWS FROM DEVONPORT

CHAPTER VI. SECRET THEFT

CHAPTER VII. YELLOWFACE

CHAPTER VIII. WAS IT A WOMAN?

CHAPTER IX. THE ENLARGED PHOTOGRAPH

CHAPTER X. THE YELLOW SEA

CHAPTER XI. THE FIVE CONCLUSIONS

CHAPTER XII. NETHERFIELD BAXTER

CHAPTER XIII. THE SPOILS OF SACRILEGE

CHAPTER XIV. SOLOMON FISH

CHAPTER XV. MR. JALLANBY—SHIP BROKER

CHAPTER XVI. THE PATHLESS WOOD

CHAPTER XVII. HUMFREY DE KNAYTHVILLE

CHAPTER XVIII. THE PLUM CAKE

CHAPTER XIX. BLACK MEMORIES

CHAPTER XX. THE POSSIBLE REASON

CHAPTER XXI. THE CHINESE GENTLEMAN

CHAPTER XXII. RED DAWN

CHAPTER XXIII. THE FOURTH CHINAMAN

CHAPTER XXIV. THE SILK CAP

CHAPTER XXV. CLEAR DECKS

CHAPTER I

THE INN ON THE CLIFF

According to an entry in my book of engagements, I left London for Ravensdene Court on March 8th, 1912. Until about a fortnight earlier I had never heard of the place, but there was nothing remarkable in my ignorance of it, seeing that it stands on a remote part of the Northumbrian coast, and at least three hundred miles from my usual haunts. But then, towards the end of February, I received the following letter which I may as well print in full: it serves as a fitting and an explanatory introduction to a series of adventures, so extraordinary, mysterious, and fraught with danger, that I am still wondering how I, until then a man of peaceful and even dull life, ever came safely through them.

“Ravensdene Court, near Alnwick

Northumberland

February 24, 1912

“Dear Sir,

“I am told by my friend Mr. Gervase Witherby of Monks Welborough, with whom I understand you to be well acquainted, that you are one of our leading experts in matters relating to old books, documents, and the like, and the very man to inspect, value, and generally criticize the contents of an ancient library. Accordingly, I should be very glad to secure your valuable services. I have recently entered into possession of this place, a very old manor-house on the Northumbrian coast, wherein the senior branch of my family has been settled for some four hundred years. There are here many thousands of volumes, the majority of considerable age; there are also large collections of pamphlets, manuscripts, and broadsheets–my immediate predecessor, my uncle, John Christopher Raven, was a great collector; but, from what I have seen of his collection up to now, I cannot say that he was a great exponent of the art of order, or a devotee of system, for an entire wing on this house is neither more nor less than a museum, into which books, papers, antiques, and similar things appear to have been dumped without regard to classification or arrangement. I am not a bookman, nor an antiquary; my life until recently has been spent in far different fashion, as a Financial Commissioner in India. I am, however, sincerely anxious that these new possessions of mine should be properly cared for, and I should like an expert to examine everything that is here, and to advise me as to proper arrangement and provision for the future. I should accordingly be greatly obliged to you if you could make it convenient to come here as my guest, give me the benefit of your expert knowledge, and charge me whatever fee seems good to you. I cannot promise you anything very lively in the way of amusement in your hours of relaxation, for this is a lonely place, and my family consists of nothing but myself and my niece, a girl of nineteen, just released from the schoolroom; but you may find some more congenial society in another guest of mine, Mr. Septimus Cazalette, the eminent authority on numismatics, who is here for the purpose of examining the vast collection of coins and medals formed by the kinsman I have just referred to. I can also promise you the advantages of a particularly bracing climate, and assure you of a warm welcome and every possible provision for your comfort. In the hope that you will be able to come to me at an early date,

“I am, dear sir,

“Yours truly,

“Francis Raven.

“Leonard Middlebrook, Esq.,

“35M, Old Buildings, Lincoln’s Inn, W. C.”

Several matters referred to in this letter inclined me towards going to Ravensdene Court–the old family mansion–the thousands of ancient volumes–the prospect of unearthing something of real note–the chance of examining a collector’s harvest–and perhaps more than anything, the genuinely courteous and polite tone of my invitation. I was not particularly busy at that time, nor had I been out of London for more than a few days now and then for several years: a change to the far-different North had its attractions. And after a brief correspondence with him, I arranged to go down to Mr. Raven early in March, and remain under his roof until I had completed the task which he desired me to undertake. As I have said already, I left London on the 8th of March, journeying to Newcastle by the afternoon express from King’s Cross. I spent that night at Newcastle and went forward next morning to Alnmouth, which according to a map with which I had provided myself, was the nearest station to Ravensdene Court. And soon after arriving at Alnmouth the first chapter of my adventures opened, and came about by sheer luck. It was a particularly fine, bright, sharply-bracing morning, and as I was under no particular obligation to present myself at Ravensdene Court at any fixed time, I determined to walk thither by way of the coast. The distance, according to my map, was about nine or ten miles. Accordingly, sending on my luggage by a conveyance, with a message to Mr. Raven that I should arrive during the afternoon, I made through the village of Lesbury toward the sea, and before long came in sight of it... a glorious stretch of blue, smooth that day as an island lake and shining like polished steel in the light of the sun. There was not a sail in sight, north or south or due east, nor a wisp of trailing smoke from any passing steamer: I got an impression of silent, unbroken immensity which seemed a fitting prelude to the solitudes into which my mission had brought me.

I was at that time just thirty years of age, and though I had been closely kept to London of late years, my youth had been spent in lonely places, and I had an innate love of solitudes and wide spaces. I saw at once that I should fall in love with this Northumbrian coast, and once on its headlands I took my time, sauntering along at my leisure: Mr. Raven, in one of his letters, had mentioned seven as his dinner hour: therefore, I had the whole day before me. By noon the sun had grown warm, even summer-like; warm enough, at any rate, to warrant me in sitting down on a ledge of the cliffs while I smoked a pipe of tobacco and stared lazily at the mighty stretch of water across which, once upon a time, the vikings had swarmed from Norway. I must have become absorbed in my meditations–certainly it was with a start of surprise that I suddenly realized that somebody was near me, and looked up to see, standing close by and eyeing me furtively, a man.

It was, perhaps, the utter loneliness of my immediate surroundings just then that made me wonder to see any living thing so near. At that point there was neither a sail on the sea, nor a human habitation on the land; there was not even a sheep cropping the herbage of the headlands. I think there were birds calling about the pinnacles of the cliffs–yet it seemed to me that the man broke a complete stillness when he spoke, as he quietly wished me a good morning.

The sound of his voice startled me; also, it brought me out of a reverie and sharpened my wits, and as I replied to him, I took him in from head to foot. A thick-set middle-aged man, tidily dressed in a blue serge suit of nautical cut, the sort of thing that they sell, ready-made, in sea-ports and naval stations. His clothes went with his dark skin and grizzled hair and beard, and with the gold rings which he wore in his ears. And there was that about him which suggested that he was for that time an idler, lounging.

“A fine morning,” I remarked, not at all averse to entering into conversation, and already somewhat curious about him.

“A fine morning it is, master, and good weather, and likely to keep so,” he answered, glancing around at sea and sky. Then he looked significantly at my knickerbockers and at a small satchel which I carried over my shoulders. “The right sort o’ weather,” he added, “for gentlemen walking about the country–pleasuring.”

“You know these parts,” I suggested.

“No!” he said, with a decisive shake of his head. “I don’t, master, and that’s a fact. I’m from the south, I am–never been up this way before, and, queerly enough, for I’ve seen most of the world in my time, never sailed this here sea as lies before us. But I’ve a sort of connection with this bit of country–mother’s side came from hereabouts. And me having nothing particular to do, I came down here to take a cast round, like, seeing places as I’ve heard of–heard of, you understand, but ain’t never seen.”

“Then you’re stopping in the neighbourhood?” I asked.

He raised one of his brown, hairy hands, and jerked a thumb landwards.

“Stopped last night in a little place, inland,” he answered. “Name of Lesbury–a riverside spot. But that ain’t what I want–what I want is a churchyard, or it might be two, or it might be three, where there’s gravestones what bears a name. Only I don’t know where that churchyard–or, again, there may be more than one–is, d’ye see? Except–somewhere between Alnmouth one way and Brandnell Bay, t’other.”

“I have a good map, if it’s any use to you,” I said. He took the map with a word of thanks, and after spreading it out, traced places with the end of his thick forefinger.

“Hereabouts we are, at this present, master,” he said, “and here and there is, to be sure, villages–mostly inland. And’ll have graveyards to ’em–folks must be laid away somewhere. And in one of them graveyards there’ll be a name, and if I see that name, I’ll know where I am, and I can ask further, aiming at to find out if any of that name is still flourishing hereabouts. But till I get that name, I’m clear off my course, so to speak.”

“What is the name?” I asked him.

“Name of Netherfield,” he answered, slowly. “Netherfield. Mother’s people–long since. So I’ve been told. And seen it–in old books, what I have far away in Devonport. That’s the name, right enough, only I don’t know where to look for it. You ain’t seen it, master, in your wanderings round these parts?”

“I’ve only come into these parts this morning,” I replied. “But–if you look closely at that map, you’ll observe that there aren’t many villages along the coast, so your search ought not to be a lengthy one. I should question if you’ll find more than two or three churchyards between here and Brandell Bay–judging by the map.”

“Aye, well, Netherfield is the name,” he repeated. “Netherfield, mother’s side. In some churchyards hereabouts. And there may be some of ’em left–and again there mayn’t be. My name being Quick–Salter Quick. Of Devonport–when on land.”

He folded up and handed back the map, with an old-fashioned bow. I rose from the ledge of rock on which I had been resting, and made to go forward.

“I hope you’ll come across what you’re seeking, Mr. Quick,” I said. “But I should say you won’t have much difficulty. There can’t be many churchyards in this quarter, and not many gravestones in any of them.”

“I found nothing in that one behind,” he answered, jerking his thumb towards Lesbury. “And it’s a long time since my mother left these parts. But here I am–for the purpose, d’ye see, master. Time’s no object–nor yet expense. A man must take a bit of a holiday some day or other. Ain’t had one–me–for thirty odd year.”

We walked forward, northing our course, along the headlands. And rounding a sharp corner, we suddenly came in sight of a little settlement that lay half-way down the cliff. There was a bit of a cottage or two, two or three boats drawn up on a strip of yellow sand, a crumbling smithie, and above these things, on a shelf of rock, a low-roofed, long-fronted inn, by the gable of which rose a mast, wherefrom floated a battered flag. At the sight of this I saw a gleam come into my companion’s eye, and I was quick to understand it’s meaning.

“Do you feel disposed to a glass of ale?” I asked. “I should say we could get one down there.”

“Rum,” he replied, laconically. “Rum is my drink, master. Used to that–I ain’t used to ale. Cold stuff! Give me something that warms a man.”

“It’s poor ale that won’t warm a man’s belly,” I said with a laugh. “But every man to his taste. Come on, then.”

He followed in silence down the path to the lonely inn; once, looking back, I saw that he was turning a sharp eye round and about the new stretch of country that had just opened before us. From the inn and its surroundings a winding track, a merely rough cartway, wound off and upward into the land; in the distance I saw the tower of a church. Salter Quick saw it, too, and nodded significantly in its direction.

“That’ll be where I’ll make next,” he observed. “But first–meat and drink. I ate my breakfast before seven this morning, and this walking about on dry land makes a man hungry.”

“Drink you’ll get here, no doubt,” said I. “But as to meat–doubtful.”

His reply to that was to point to the sign above the inn door, to which we were now close. He read its announcement aloud, slowly.

“‘The Mariner’s Joy. By Hildebrand Claigue. Good Entertainment for Man and Beast,’” he pronounced. “‘Entertainment’–that means eating–meat for man; hay for cattle. Not that there’s much sign of either in these parts, I think, master.”

We walked into the Mariner’s Joy side by side, turning into a low-ceilinged, darkish room, neat and clean enough, wherein there was a table, chairs, the model of a ship in a glass case on the mantelpiece, and a small bar, furnished with bottles and glasses, behind which stood a tall, middle-aged man, clean-shaven, spectacled, reading a newspaper. He bade us good morning, with no sign of surprise at the presence of strangers, and looked expectantly from one to the other. I turned to my companion.

“Well?” I said. “You’ll drink with me? What is it–rum?”

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