HEN I set out for Leycaster that morning, I had no idea in my mind as to the reason which had made my old friend, Danthorpe, send for me so suddenly and hurriedly, conveying his message in four single words: “Come here at once.” But Danthorpe was not only town clerk and a solicitor of standing at Leycaster, but a sharp man of the world, who never wasted time or money of his own, and was certainly not likely to waste mine, and so I obeyed his summons and thought no more of it until I reached the quaint old town by the sea, whereat I had sometimes visited him on pleasure. And as soon as I caught sight of his face on the station, I knew that Danthorpe had something in hand to which he thought it worth while to draw my professional attention.
“Come straight to the Castle Hotel, Campenhaye,” he said, taking my arm. “I’ve ordered lunch in a private room. There is a mystery waiting for you here which seems to me about as queer a one as I ever encountered. I say ‘seems’; it may be that you will think little of it. Anyway, it will give the people of this place plenty to talk of for at least the proverbial nine days—perhaps longer.”
I thought as I looked around me at the familiar sights and scenes of Leycaster that it could never require much to stir the folk of so quiet a town. Leycaster, as all people know who have visited it, is one of the most ancient, as it is also one of the most picturesque, boroughs in the country. It is old, and worn, and grey—as grey as the waters of the North Sea which beat against its cliffs and headlands. It is built on a bold promontory; the Norman tower of its ruined castle may be seen for a wide stretch over land and sea; it has an ancient church, and queer streets and alleys; the houses in its market-place are of bygone centuries; there is scarcely anything modern in it; it has a small sea trade; it has a herring-fishery; but the tourist and tripper leave it alone. Every year a few artists set up their easels in its nooks and corners; a few people who love quiet and the smell of the sea visit it, but for all other purposes it is still out of the world. Leycaster is, in short, what the old topographers call a decayed town. But even in such a place things can happen.
Danthorpe is a wise man. He refused to say a word of business until we had luncheon. But as soon as we had come to the coffee and the cigars, he drew his chair closer to mine.
“Now then, Campenhaye,” he said, “we’ll start out on this affair. You are sufficiently acquainted with the geography of Leycaster to remember our castle? Very well. Last night, about dusk, a woman, who lives in one of the cottages in Outer Ward, was passing through the castle grounds and came across the body of a man, which lay at the foot of Siward’s Tower. She immediately fetched assistance from the lodge. The body was warm, but the man was dead. There was no mystery as to how he met his death. You have been up Siward’s Tower with me more than once, and you will no doubt remember that here and there, all the way to the top, there are ancient embrasures, or openings, fenced in by low railings. According to our Castle Committee, these railings are constantly tested, and should be absolutely safe; but it is impossible to deny the fact that the dead man evidently leaned on one of the upper ones, that it gave way with his weight, and that he was precipitated some sixty or seventy feet to the path below.”
“You are sure the railing gave way? You are sure he did not throw himself over?” I asked, mentally making notes of all that Danthorpe told me.
“There is no doubt that the railing gave way. The upper rail was broken completely out of its socket, and the wood was rotten,” replied Danthorpe. “If the man was leaning heavily upon it, as he no doubt was, looking at the view over the bay and the harbour, he would have no chance at all. Our Castle Committee, or their subordinates, will get into hot water over this, I assure you. However, that is another matter. Let us go on. The man was removed to the mortuary. I myself saw him a few minutes later. The doctor said he had been killed instantaneously. He was a good-looking, gentlemanly-appearanced man of, say, forty-five, well but quietly dressed, with good linen, good boots, clean-shaven, slightly grey of hair. He would have passed for a professional man—doctor, lawyer, anything of that sort. But on examining his clothing there was nothing whatever upon him to show who he was.”
Danthorpe paused, and looked at me in a fashion which was significant of his astonishment. I only nodded, and bade him to continue.