Biggles Sets a Trap

by W E Johns

  “Surely it’s a pity to let a grand old place like this fall to pieces,” he remarked. “If you can’t keep it up why not sell it to someone who can.”

  “I’m not allowed to sell it.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’ll understand when you’ve heard the story I’m going to tell you.”

  “How long has your family lived here?”

  “Since 1486.”

  Biggles pursed his lips in a soft whistle and did some quick mental arithmetic. “Four hundred and seventy-six years. That’s quite a time. And how many rooms have you in the house?”

  “About forty, I believe. I don’t know exactly. I’ve never seen all of them. In fact, it must be years since some of the doors were opened.”

  “What about the servants? Don’t they do them out once in a while?”

  “There aren’t any servants. I told you, I have one old man who does all that is necessary. He has one room and the kitchen. I use two rooms. The jackdaws, starlings and sparrows can have the rest.”

  “What about the land? That should produce an income.”

  “A few pounds a year. I let it to a local farmer for grazing sheep.”

  Biggles shook his head. “Two of you in a place that size. Why do you live here at all?”

  “I have to for most of the year or I lose it. I’ll tell you more about that presently.”

  “Who built the house originally?”

  “I don’t know. There’s no record, but there’s a local legend that William Rufus had it built as a hunting lodge. They say he spent his last night here. The next morning, while out hunting, somebody bumped him off with a bow and arrow. The body was brought back here before being buried. That’s what they say. I suppose it could be true. In these rural districts folk-lore can have a long memory. Anyway, there it is.”

  “Don’t tell me the ghost of Rufus still hangs around,” joked Biggles.

  “If it does I’ve never seen it. If we have a ghost at all it takes care to keep well out of sight. I may have heard it although not in the house.”

  “Ghosts are usually pretty quiet.”

  “We’ll talk about ghosts presently.”

  The car crawled forward up the overgrown drive, bumping over ruts, its wheels scraping through weeds and sun dried grass into what long ago may have been a garden. Nor did the weeds stop there. Thistles, nettles and wild flowers had taken possession of everything even to the walls of the house itself. Some had found a roothold in cracks and crannies of the stonework. A clump of pink valerian, the ancestor of which in the distant past may have escaped from a lady’s herb garden, had managed to elevate itself to a window sill, from where it looked down on a party of fading foxgloves.

  The old Bentley came to a stop level with a frowning arched doorway. The keystone had once been fashioned as a shield, tilted slightly forward; but the armorial bearings that had been carved on it were no longer recognizable. From the side of the portal a rusty chain hung down from a heavy bell.

  The police car parked alongside the Bentley and Bertie joined the others as they got out.

  “I’m sorry, but you won’t find any modern conveniences here; no hot and cold laid on, or anything of that sort,” said the owner, dryly. “If you want a bath you’ll find an old one propped up on bricks in the scullery.”

  The heavy oak door, black with age, creaked open, and an old man came out. His age would have been a matter for conjecture, but if his face, as wrinkled as a walnut, was anything to go by, he must have seen not fewer than eighty years pass by. He was in his shirt sleeves, showing a faded red and black striped waistcoat. He wore a green baize apron, much stained, tied round his waist, and on his feet, carpet slippers that had seen better days.

  “Oh, Falkner. I’ve brought two guests home with me for lunch,” Leo told him. “I hope you’ll be able to manage a bite for us.”

  “I’ll do my best, sir.”

  “You might put a jug of cider and some glasses out right away. I’m sure my friends could do with some refreshment.”

  “Certainly, sir.” The old man retired.

  “My general factotum,” explained Leo. “Heaven help me if anything happened to him, as it must one day. He does the lot, from the kitchen garden to my bedroom. He makes the cider, too, and I think you’ll agree it’s pretty good. You might call him the last of the old brigade of household retainers. When his sort go there won’t be any more. He’s as much a part of the establishment as I am. His family has been here as long as mine, possibly longer, judging by his name.”

  “Falkner?” queried Bertie.

  “It’s one of the old trade names, and some of them go back to Saxon days. Falkner derives from falconer, a man who trained hawks for hawking. He can still do it. He once trained one for us. It was handy to get a partridge or a pigeon for the larder. Saved cartridges. You can still find plenty of these old trade names in the district although few of the owners are doing the same jobs. Some must go back to Roman times. The Fabers, who were iron workers; Miles were soldiers; Forsters were foresters; Fletchers made arrows; Heywards, the hedge guards; Reeves, the farm workers; the Lorimers, who made brass fittings for harness, and so on. In rural districts of England these names run on, father to son, for centuries, as you can see from the church register. But let’s go in and have a drink. I’d better lead the way or you might get lost.”

  Biggles threw Bertie a peculiar smile as they followed their host across the threshold into the hall, empty except for an old coffer, a strip of coconut matting curling up at the edges, a pair of decrepit antlers on the wall and a suit of armour showing several dents. Leo jerked a thumb at this in passing. “That, you may be interested to know, was worn by my namesake at Bosworth Field; the first holder of the title, and, incidentally, the chap who started all the trouble. We used to have quite a lot of armour, and still have some bits and pieces, as you’ll notice; but as complete suits are now worth money to collectors, the good stuff, like everything else of value, has gone to keep the pot boiling. I’ve managed to keep that one suit for sentimental reasons.”

  They passed on under a series of Gothic arches into a room so vast and remarkable that Biggles slowed his pace to stare at it. Sunlight filtered in through a range of mullion windows to fall on an enormous oak refectory table, scratched, and in places carved, as if schoolboys had worked on it with knives. Tucked under it, looking dwarfed and ridiculously out of place, were half a dozen cheap kitchen chairs. There was practically no other furniture. A huge fireplace, itself the size of a small room, was piled with logs.

  But the outstanding feature was the walls. From end to end they were lined with oil paintings of men in the garments of the period in which they had lived. Some, presumably the earlier ones, wore armour. Conspicuous in most of them was a sword, or a weapon of some sort.

  “This is the banqueting hall,” remarked Leo casually. He smiled, “Not that we have any banquets these days.” He pulled out some chairs. “Sit yourselves down, gentlemen.”

  “What a room,” breathed Biggles. “I imagine if these walls could talk they’d have some tales to tell.”

  “They would indeed. No doubt many a plot has been hatched here, hence the rose.” Leo raised his eyes to the ceiling where, carved on a beam immediately over the table, was a Tudor Rose.

  “Ah! I get it,” said Biggles. “We’re sub rosa.1 Do you mean we’re to take it seriously?”

  Leo thought for a moment. “I wish you would. That is, I’d be obliged if you’d treat anything I tell you with the strictest confidence.”

  “Certainly,” agreed Biggles, as Falkner came in carrying a tray bearing a jug of cider and glasses. Having put the tray on the table he went out.

  “Don’t say this is where you usually take your meals?” queried Biggles, looking slightly amused.

  “Always,” returned Leo, calmly. “Why not? We’ve always eaten in this room, although there was a time when it didn’t look like this. There’s nothing like having plenty of elbow room at the tabl
e.”

  “Well, you’ve certainly got that,” conceded Biggles. “Tell me this. When we were outside you said something about having no modern conveniences. Did you mean that literally?”

  “Quite. We’ve no water laid on. It’s drawn by a pump from a well under the kitchen. No gas. No electricity. It’s still lamps and candles after dark so at least we’re not troubled by mechanical breakdowns. We have plenty of wood so we don’t have any coal bills.”

  “What about the telephone?”

  “I manage without one. The village is only three miles away. I run in once a week, in the old car, to do the shopping. To bring electricity here would need a transformer, and the job, so I’m told, would cost five thousand pounds. As far as I’m concerned it might as well be five million.” While talking Leo had poured out the cider.

  “Good health,” said Biggles, raising his glass.

  “Thanks. That’s a toast that really means something here.” Leo went on: “Before we get down to serious business, may I ask, are you superstitious?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Neither am I. Do you believe in coincidence?”

  “Up to a point. Why?”

  “Because you’ll have to believe in one or the other before I’ve finished talking.”

  “Suppose we get on with it?” proposed Biggles.

  “I think we’d better, or you’re likely to be late home,” said Leo. “It’s a long story, and one you’re going to find hard to believe, so I warn you.”

  “We’re in no hurry,” answered Biggles. “Go ahead. You’ve got me really curious.”

  Leo paused, his sombre eyes inscrutable. “Before I start there’s one thing you should know because it may help you to get into the atmosphere of the events I’m going to narrate. You realize that the portraits you see round the walls are those of my ancestors?”

  “That is what I had supposed.”

  “They cover a period of nearly 500 years, from the original holder of the title to my grandfather, and although their clothes change with the fashion of the day, and the family likeness is not always outstanding, they all had one thing in common. I won’t waste time asking you to guess what it was. In one word we might call it a particular grief. In almost every case, the eldest son of the men you see here died a violent death. A year ago my brother ran true to the tradition. We call it The Curse. The Curse of the Landavilles.”

  Silence fell.

  * * *

  1 Sub rosa. In olden days the rose was the symbol of silence, or secrecy. In the days of plots and conspiracies the flower itself might be worn as a sign of faith; but it was also carved, painted or hung, on ceilings where conspirators met. Such meetings were said to be sub rosa—under the rose. When the Roman Catholic religion predominated roses were sometimes placed on the heads of those who came to confess as a guarantee of secrecy.

  CHAPTER II

  COINCIDENCE — OR WHAT?

  “IT isn’t easy to know where to begin, but I think perhaps the best plan would be to start at the first chapter and try to keep things in sequence,” resumed Leo. “Don’t hesitate to interrupt if I fail to make myself clear.

  “We now go back to the year 1485, when it so happened that an ancestor of mine was lucky enough to find himself on the winning side at the Battle of Bosworth Field, where, you will remember, Henry Tudor, Earl of Richmond, founded the Tudor dynasty by pushing Richard III off the throne; and not before it was time, for Richard seems to have been an exceptionally nasty piece of work. At one moment the result of the battle hung in the balance. Richard made for Henry and actually closed with him. He cut down his standard bearer. The folds of the flag wrapped themselves round the head of Henry’s horse causing it to rear and he was thrown. Richard raised his sword for the blow which, had it fallen, would have changed the course of history. Henry would have died, and our kings and queens from that day to this would have been an entirely different set of people.”

  “Fascinating to reflect on, but let’s stick to the facts,” interposed Biggles. “The blow didn’t fall.”

  “Quite right, the reason being that a humble squire jumped in, parried the blow and fetched Richard a swipe that knocked him out of the saddle. Then Sir William Stanley arrived at the spot and it was all over bar the shouting. Richard never again stood on his feet. The name of the squire who saved the day, and so avenged the dastardly murder of Richard’s nephews, the two young Princes in the Tower, was Leofric Landaville.”

  “I get the drift,” murmured Biggles.

  “When things had settled down, and Henry had climbed into the Big Chair at Westminster, in accordance with the custom of the times he handed out rewards to the people who had helped him to get into it. He also took his revenge on the people who had tried to stop him. One of those was a Lord Simon De Warine. My Lord De Warine, to whom this house belonged at the time, seeing the battle lost skipped across to France from where, wisely, no doubt, he never returned; but his son was caught and of course went to the block.

  “As far as Henry was concerned the presents for his followers were easy to come by. He simply dispossessed the people who had fought against him and gave their houses and estates to his supporters. He didn’t forget Leofric Landaville. He knighted him and gave him Ringlesby Hall with 100 acres of land and a pension of 400 a year in perpetuity. We’re still here and I still get the pension. In fact, that’s what I live on. I hold the Royal Charter, signed by Henry VII and carrying his Great Seal, and no one, no law of the land, can set it aside, although some people would like to. But what a king gives for services rendered is as secure as anything on this earth can be.”

  “Four hundred a year doesn’t sound a lot of money.”

  “Not now. But at the time it was awarded it would represent a small fortune. Unfortunately Henry made certain conditions, and I can’t set those aside, either. In that respect the Charter cuts both ways, and while one way works so must the other. Of course, Henry knew what he was doing when he made the award. However grateful kings might be they seldom give away something for nothing.”

  “What were these conditions?”

  “Actually it was a stipulation to ensure our constant support. He knew what he was doing and he was certainly within his rights. Remember, we’re talking of the days when the Feudal System operated; and that was about the only system that could have worked in the conditions then prevailing. There was a clause in the Charter that while England was at peace the Head of the House of Landaville was compelled to reside here for eleven months of the year, the idea being, of course, so that he would always be on hand with his men-at-arms should his services be needed. Should the rule be broken he would lose everything, money, house and estate.”

  “And that still operates today although the need no longer arises?”

  “Of course. The Charter must operate in its entirety or not at all. Only in the event of war can I leave the place— to fight for the king or queen, as the case might be.”

  “And this rule you say is still effective?”

  “Just as much as ever.”

  “Now that the original intention no longer applies can’t you get the clause set aside?”

  “Not a hope, so the lawyers say. What is written on the Charter must stand to the letter or not at all. As you can see, the house is little more than an empty shell. Through the centuries my ancestors either sold the contents to augment their incomes, which remained stationary while the price of everything went up, or had their possessions seized. In the civil war of the seventeenth century my ancestor fought for the king, as he was bound to. Like many other cavaliers his silverware went into the melting pot for coinage to pay the troops. When the king lost, Cromwell’s roundheads came here, and what they couldn’t carry away they smashed. They stabled their horses in this very room and sharpened their swords on the window sills which, being sandstone, were just the job. You can still see the marks outside, as you can see the cuts in this table where they tested their knives, or wiped them after use. The pension was
stopped by Cromwell, but at the Restoration Charles II gave it back to us.”

  Biggles smiled. “But he didn’t repair the damage or replace the things you’d lost.”

  “Not on your life. The pension was paid by the Treasury. The Stuarts were free enough with public money, but if anything meant putting their hands in their own pockets it was a very different cup of tea.”

  Bertie spoke. “Why do you stay here, anyway? Why don’t you clear off and let the whole thing go hang?”

  “I’ve sometimes wondered that myself, but I can’t bring myself to do it. It isn’t the pension. It may be that my roots are here, too deep in the ground. Moreover, I feel it would be letting them down if I packed up.” Leo raised a hand towards the grave faces looking at them from the walls. “I feel if they could stick it, so should I. I don’t know quite what it is, but heritage does something to a man. It may not show, but I can feel it in my bones. I wouldn’t like to be the first Landaville to run away from anything.”

  Biggles nodded. “I can understand that. Have you ever thought of selling some of these pictures?”

  “Never. That would be too much like selling one’s soul, or the dead bodies of one’s parents. Being mostly by unknown artists they wouldn’t fetch much in the market, anyway. While they hang there I can face them without shame. I couldn’t do that if they were in somebody else’s house. In order that you should see them was one of the reasons why I asked you to come here, hoping you’d appreciate that, and realize the tragedy of it when I told you that the elder or eldest son of nearly every one of those men was murdered.”

  “Murdered.”

  “The alternative is coincidence beyond all imagination.”

  “Is it always the eldest son?”

  “No. The eldest son goes first, but there have been one or two occasions when the second son has gone, too.”

  “So The Curse might fall on you.”

  “It might, particularly as that would finish the business, me being the last of the Landavilles. Perhaps one of the most remarkable things about the whole affair is this. There always has been at least one son, and always one with the Christian name of Leofric. There are few cases where a family has run in an unbroken line for centuries. Holders of the title may have had daughters, but always there have been sons to carry on the name. On the distaff side, that is, the female line, should the woman marry her name would of course be changed to that of her husband, in which case there would be no son of hers named Landaville. But that has never happened. There have been daughters born here, but for nearly 500 years there has always been a Leofric Landaville. Why my father named his first son Charles I don’t know. Maybe he thought that by this he would escape The Curse. If that was his idea it failed. For the sake of the tradition, I suppose, he gave his second son, me, the fatal name of Leofric.”