by W E Johns
CONTENTS
FOREWORD
CHAPTER I: BIGGLES HAS A VISITOR
CHAPTER II: COINCIDENCE—OR WHAT?
CHAPTER III: STRANGER THAN FICTION
CHAPTER IV: SO IT WAS MURDER
CHAPTER V: THE OLD OAK CHEST
CHAPTER VI: THE RAVEN CROAKS
CHAPTER VII: A LADY ASKS SOME QUESTIONS
CHAPTER VIII: A GLIMMER OF DAYLIGHT
CHAPTER IX: AT THE SIGN OF THE SPURS
CHAPTER X: WARNING FOR DIANA
CHAPTER XI: A NEAR MISS
CHAPTER XII: BIGGLES EXPLAINS
CHAPTER XIII: DEATH CALLS A TRUCE
FOREWORD
THE purpose of the following notes is to inform the reader, or remind him if he has forgotten, of certain events which should give him a better understanding of The Curse of the Landavilles without having to refer to the history book.
I. BOSWORTH FIELD
There is no period of history from which we turn in more horror and disgust than from the Wars of the Roses. Its ferocious battles, fought on personal quarrels and ambitions, its brutal murders and ruthless executions, the shameless treacheries and utter disregard for human life, trampled any pretence of chivalry into the mire of a slaughter-house, all the more ignoble for the selfish ends for which men fought, father against son, brother against brother, in support of the Houses of York or Lancaster.
The casualties, in proportion to the numbers engaged, were appalling, for no quarter was given by either side and battles were fought out to the bitter end. It has been estimated that in the thirty years’ duration of the civil war more than a million men were slain, not including civil massacres and wholesale executions. Among those who died were many thousands of landed gentry, 200 nobles and 12 princes.
This dreadful carnage finally ended with the Battle of Bosworth Field, August 22nd, 1485. On that day fell the brave but ruthless tyrant, Richard III, and with him the Plantagenet line ended. The victor was Henry, Earl of Richmond, the first of the Tudors, afterwards Henry VII. Richard had sat insecurely on the throne, and it is no matter for wonder that when the Earl of Richmond landed at Milford Haven he was supported by partisans of both York and Lancaster, men actuated by horror at Richard’s most infamous crime—the murder of his two nephews, the Princes in the Tower.
The armies of Richard and Henry met in the pleasant country three miles south of Market Bosworth in Leicestershire. The vanguard of Richard’s army was commanded by the Duke of Norfolk. The king himself, wearing a golden crown, in magnificent armour, on his famous charger “White Surrey”, took the centre. The vanguard of the opposing forces was led by the Earl of Oxford.
Treachery, as so often happened, had already decided the day, for even before battle was joined Richard had been abandoned by the forces under Lord Stanley and the Earl of Northumberland.
The two armies closed, fighting as usual hand to hand. Oxford and Norfolk met and at once engaged. After shivering their lances they drew their swords. Norfolk slashed Oxford’s arm. Oxford hewed off Norfolk’s helmet leaving his head exposed. An instant later it was pierced by an arrow.
In the thick of the fray word was brought to Richard that Henry was a short distance away supported only by a few retainers. With a shout of “Treason” Richard charged, hoping in the fury of his despair to settle the matter there and then. And so the battle might have ended, and the whole course of history been different, had not fresh forces arrived on the scene.
Of all the knights who charged with Richard, only one, Lord Lovell, survived. Richard, as soon as he saw Henry, dug spurs in his horse and fought his way towards him. He unhorsed Sir John Cheyney, and rushing on Sir William Brandon, Henry’s standard bearer, cleft his skull and flung the standard to the ground. He was now within reach of Henry, and might have cut him down had not a young squire intervened. At this vital moment there arrived Sir William Stanley and his men at arms. They overpowered Richard, who fell, still fighting furiously, crying, “Treason! Treason! Treason!”
His body, when it was pulled from beneath those who had died with him, was almost unrecognizable from wounds. The crown he had worn, picked up near a hawthorn bush, was placed on the head of the conqueror, who as Henry VII was at once acclaimed king.
The battle is of great historical importance because it marked the end of the feudal system maintained under the Plantagenets and the beginning of a change that was to have tremendous consequences on our social and political life.
2. THE ORIGIN OF INN SIGNS
In the Early and Middle Ages the naming of a tavern was no mere fancy. It had a definite purpose, and through that it is often possible to follow the course of history. The fashion started when knights wore armour and because of the visor the face of the wearer could not be seen. It therefore became necessary, in order that men of the same side did not attack each other, to have some form of recognition. It had to be simple, because few men could read or write. The practice was for a noble to devise a sign—a cognizance, as it was called—which, painted on his shield or surcoat, enabled him at once to be recognized by his supporters. Words were unnecessary and most people soon got to know these symbols.
When travelling a knight would hang his shield outside his lodging to show where he could be found. In course of time these “armorial bearings” were sometimes painted on the inn itself to let it be known that the knight had stayed there, or, in time of civil war, which side was supported by the innkeeper. Sometimes the sign disappeared, but the name of the nobleman remained. Thus we find names like The Duke of York public house, The Norfolk Arms, The Red Lion, etc.
Today, if you see a sign showing a bear holding a pole (The Bear and Ragged Staff) you may assume that the Earl of Warwick (Warwick the King-maker) once rested there, perhaps when he was marching to defeat the Yorkist army at St. Albans. The Star was the cognizance of Oxford, whose leadership decided the Battle of Barnet. The Lion of Norfolk was conspicuous on Bosworth Field, where Richard III lost his life as well as his crown.
The Sun was the cognizance of the ill-fated House of York. The White Swan was the sign of Edward of Lancaster, slain at the Battle of Tewkesbury. Edward IV carried the White Rose of York, but after the Battle of Mortimer’s Cross he displayed the Rose within a Sun, from a curious spectacle that preceded the battle when three suns were seen (it is said) in the sky, in conjunction.
The White Hart, with a gold chain round its neck, was the badge of Richard II, murdered at Pontefract castle. Richard III wore a Rose supported on one side by a Bull and the other side by a Boar. The Boar became his personal badge. The Antelope was the sign of Henry IV; The Beacon, Henry V; The Feathers, Henry VI.
The Saracen’s Head is thought to go back to Richard Lionheart and the Crusades. The White Horse, much older, was the standard of the Saxons, but the common pub sign probably came through the House of Hanover. It was the badge of George I when, in 1714, he succeeded to the throne of England.
W.E.J.
CHAPTER I
BIGGLES HAS A VISITOR
“WELL old boy, that’s another job done.” Sergeant Bertie Lissie of the Air Police pushed in the drawer of a metal filing cabinet and strolled over to where Biggles was working at his desk. “Anything else? If so I might as well get on with it. This quiet spell can’t last much longer.”
“With Algy and Ginger on leave we’re lucky it’s lasted as long as it has. I’m glad they’ve had fine weather.” Biggles reached for the intercom telephone which had buzzed. “Bigglesworth here. Yes. Who? All right. Bring him up.”
“Who was that?” inquired Bertie.
“Door duty officer. Says there’s a fellow below asking to see me personally. Claims he knows me. As things are quiet I might as well see him.”
A t
ap on the door and it was opened by a uniformed constable who ushered in the visitor and retired.
The caller stood before them, hat in hand. He was a well-groomed young man of about twenty, slightly built, with sleek black hair and dark eyes set in a pale face. He looked delicate. His expression was serious. Looking at Biggles with a curious, almost apologetic smile, he said in a tone of voice that revealed a certain social position: “Remember me?”
Biggles stood up and held out a hand. “Yes, I remember you. You’re Leofric Landaville, the lad I ran in some time ago for dangerous flying. If I remember rightly you argued you were only flying a bit low, and I said that came to the same thing. I hope you haven’t been up to any more of that nonsense.”
“I couldn’t. That little affair cost me my ticket.”
“Haven’t you applied for it back?”
“No. I’ve finished flying.”
Biggles shrugged. “Pity about that, but you asked for it. Take a seat. What can I do for you? By the way, this is Sergeant Lissie, one of my staff pilots.”
“I’ve come to ask your advice,” said the visitor, after the introduction, sitting down in the chair Bertie had pulled up for him.
“Is this something to do with aviation?” asked Biggles.
“Nothing whatever.”
Biggles raised his eyebrows. “Then why come to me?”
“Because I have a problem and you’re the only man I know who might listen and take me seriously. You were very decent over that crazy flying of mine and it struck me the other day you were just the sort of man of experience to answer a question which, frankly, will not be easy to explain. Some people would call it ridiculous, but to me it’s anything but a joke.”
“Has this anything to do with the police?” asked Biggles, suspiciously.
“It could be, in the long run. That’s another reason why I’ve come to you. It would be pointless for me to tell my story to the village constable however worthy he might be, and you’re the only officer of senior rank I’ve ever met. If nothing comes of this conversation, should you hear that I had died suddenly in what appeared to be an accident would you be good enough to make sure I wasn’t murdered?”
“Are you expecting to be murdered?”
“As a matter of fact I am. I’ve been expecting it for some time.”
“And who is likely to murder you?”
“That’s just it. I haven’t the remotest idea. Do you remember our conversation when you caught me taking risks in the air? You said if I went on like that it was only a question of time before I killed myself; and I said that was probably the best thing that could happen. You asked me what I meant, but I declined to explain. I’m prepared to do so now in the hope that if I die suddenly you’ll catch the murderer and hang him. You see, things have changed since that conversation. A few months ago, Charles, my elder brother was murdered. The title and estate have therefore passed on to me. Believe me, the last thing I wanted was that accursed title, and the curse that goes with it; but I had to have it. I am now Sir Leofric Landaville, the twenty-first baronet of the line, and I shall probably be the last.”
“That would be a pity, Sir Leofric.”
“Never mind the handle. Just call me Landaville, or better still, Leo; it saves time.”
“As you wish.”
“A family, like everything else, must eventually die of old age, but there is a reason why I’d rather mine didn’t die out with me. I’d like to get married.”
“Is there any reason why you shouldn’t?”
“Yes. I carry The Curse of the Landavilles. Tell me this; would you marry a girl knowing that she would soon be a widow; and if she had a son he’d be murdered, too?”
Biggles frowned. “What is all this talk of murder?”
“It’s a long story. I could explain it more easily at home. Moreover, there you might understand it more readily. I wonder if you’d care to run down to my place with me. I could give you a bite of lunch.”
“Where do you live?”
“Ringlesby Hall, near the village of Ringlesby, in Hampshire. It’s in the New Forest, about eighty-five miles from London. If nothing else I’m sure you’d find my story interesting.”
“But look here. If you have a complaint why don’t you report it to the local police?”
“They would no more know what to do than I know— if, in fact, it’s possible for anyone to do anything.”
“Is this situation one that has recently cropped up?”
“As far as I’m concerned, yes. It has arisen since my brother’s death, and is complicated by the question of whether or not I should marry.”
“I’m sorry, Leo, but you can’t expect me to be interested in your matrimonial affairs.”
“I’ve told you the circumstances.”
“Do I understand someone is threatening you?”
“No one is threatening me.”
“Then why worry?”
“Because I know that even if I escape The Curse, as surely as night follows day, if I had a child it would be murdered.”
Biggles looked puzzled. “But by whom?”
“I’ve told you I have no idea. I was hoping you might be able to tell me. You’re a detective, so you should be able to work things out. Of course, you wouldn’t be able to do that sitting here; but if you came home with me I could demonstrate more easily the problem with which I’m faced. I can’t promise you much in the way of hospitality but I’ve no doubt my man could produce something cold and a glass of beer.”
“Do you live alone, then?”
“Except for one old man on his last legs; but at least he’s someone I can trust. He’s grown old in our service. I have a car outside. It’s only a vintage Bentley that belonged to my brother, but I think it will get us there. Will you come?”
Biggles hesitated. “I must say you’ve aroused my curiosity, which I suspect was your intention when you came here. I’ll help you if I can, provided you’ll give me an assurance that you’re not taking me on a wild-goose chase, or anything of that sort.”
The visitor smiled bleakly. “Why should I waste your time? You can take my word for it that this is no laughing matter; or you wouldn’t think so if you were in my shoes. Decline my invitation and one day you may remember this conversation, and have it on your conscience that you did nothing.”
“Have you told anyone else about this?”
“Not a soul. It needed all my nerve to come to you.”
“One last question so that I know what I’m doing. Is this a matter as between man and man, or between you as a member of the public and me as a police officer?”
“It could turn out to be either—or both.”
“Fair enough. In that case I’ll come with you. You won’t mind if I bring my sergeant with me? If he follows in my car there would be no need for you to drive me home. We shall have our own transport.”
“That seems a sound idea.”
“All right. I’ll let my chief know I shall be out for a bit then we’ll press on.”
The two cars were soon on their way, Biggles in the old Bentley with its owner and Bertie tracking them in the police car.
After leaving the outskirts of the sprawling metropolis the route taken by Leo ran through some of the loveliest rural scenery of England, seen at its best perhaps in the weather conditions that prevailed, for it was a perfect early autumn day with the deciduous trees tinged with gold and the green of the bracken already fading to pallid Venetian red and brown. The best came at the end, when the cars cruised between the ancient oaks and beeches that have their roots in history; the New Forest, established for his pleasure by the conquering Norman William 900 years ago, and in the leafy glades of which—as a judgement for his cruelty in evicting the rightful owners of the land, as it was thought—his son and successor, William Rufus, was destined to die from an arrow discharged by an unknown hand.
The cars were still deep in the forest when the Bentley slowed, and leaving the road turned off between a pair
of pillars, leaning awry and far gone in dilapidation, that obviously once had supported massive iron entrance gates. The rubber tyres now crunched on a rutted track that might once have been gravel but was now much overgrown with grass and trailing briars. There were even places where the sombre holly that forms so much of the undergrowth of the forest had encroached to flourish unchecked, and so turn what had once been a drive into a narrow lane. At one point it skirted a rush-bounded mere of stagnant water from which coots and waterhens looked up to watch the passage of the cars.
However, after that the track ran straight enough for perhaps a quarter of a mile to end at the front aspect of a long stone mansion house of considerable size, grey with age, and, as could presently be seen, fast falling into ruins to make a melancholy picture which numerous jackdaws on the groups of chimney stacks did nothing to relieve.
“Welcome to Ringlesby Hall,” said the owner, without a hint of apology for its condition.
“So this is where you live,” murmured Biggles, in a curious voice, as his eyes surveyed the scene.
“This is my house, and the land you see around you is the park.”
Biggles’ eyes wandered over a surrounding scene of nature running riot. “And very nice, too,” he congratulated. “But—er—forgive me if I appear impertinent— isn’t it time you did something about it?”
“There’s nothing I can do about it.”
“Why not?”
“I’ve no money.”
“You live in a place this size and you’ve no money!”
“That’s how it is.”
“Don’t you care?”
“Not particularly. It suits me, and it’ll last my time.”
“Would you mind pulling up? I’d like to look at the house.”
The car, now close to the front door, bumped slowly to a stop.
Again Biggles’ eyes surveyed the crumbling sandstone pile, now observing the details of gables, windows and other features which, in spite of their condition, still presented a certain proud dignity.
