A man approached. He was wearing a fustian shooting jacket and baggy corduroy trousers, and held a double-barrelled shotgun crooked over his elbow. With his short dark hair, drooping mustache, and swarthy skin, he bore a passing resemblance to the king's agent, though he was shorter and lacked the habitual frown.
“Here, what's this, then?” he demanded.
“Good afternoon. Don't worry yourself, my good man. We're expected. I'm Burton.”
“Ah, yes, sir, sorry, sir. Colonel Lushington said you'd be arriving. I'm Guilfoyle, the groundsman.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Guilfoyle. Is it all right with you if we leave our swans on the lake?”
“Of course, sir. There's plenty for them to eat in there, so they won't go hungry.”
Spencer rejoined them and was introduced: “This is Mr. Herbert Spencer, their keeper. He'll be down here from time to time to tend to them.”
“Very well, sir,” Guilfoyle answered, raising his cap to Spencer. “They're expecting you at the house, gentlemen. I'll walk you up. Leave your kites here. I'll find a place to store them.”
“Thank you.”
They followed the groundsman up the gently sloping lawn, which rose from the lake to the back of the house, skirted around the ivy-clad building, and arrived at its front. Beyond a carriageway, wheat fields stretched up to the brow of a distant low hill.
“Those are the famous Crawls,” Guilfoyle remarked.
“Crawls?”
“Aye. The fields old Mabella de Tichborne encircled to set the dole. Do you know the legend?”
“Yes. Bismillah! What a distance! No wonder she dropped dead!”
“Aye, sir, and no wonder she cursed the place first!”
Guilfoyle nodded a farewell and made to depart, but then stopped and gave a slightly strangled cough.
“Is there something else, my man?” Burton asked.
The groundsman removed his cap and pulled it nervously through his fingers.
“Well, sir, it's just that-that-well, what I mean is-”
“Yes?”
“Please, gentlemen, if you don't mind me sayin’ so, you should be careful at night. Stay in your rooms. That's all. Stay in your rooms.”
He turned and walked away, not looking back.
“How extraordinary!” Swinburne exclaimed.
“Yes, very odd,” Burton agreed. “Come on, let's go and announce ourselves.”
Four white Tuscan columns framed the entrance to the grand house. The three men climbed the steps and passed between them, through the portico. Swinburne tugged at a bellpull. It felt loose in his hand.
“Humph! Seems like the spring's broken!” he grunted, and used the brass knocker instead.
After a minute or so, the door was opened and a small, elderly, white-haired, and pleasant-faced Jamaican greeted them. Andrew Bogle, the butler.
“Sir Richard Burton and associates to see Colonel Lushington,” the king's agent announced.
“Yes, sir. Please come in. If you'd like to wait in the Reception Room, I'll inform the colonel that you have arrived.”
They were escorted into a plush chamber, where the butler left them, and were joined a few minutes later by a tall, smartly dressed, broad-shouldered man of ramrod-straight military bearing. Bronzed by an outdoor life, he appeared to be in his early sixties. He wore his greying hair cut very short, but possessed extravagant muttonchop whiskers, which stood out horizontally, ending in carefully waxed thin points above the tips of his shoulders.
“Good afternoon,” he barked. “Or evening. Which? No matter! Colonel Franklin Lushington is my name. Lushington will do. No formality required. Colonel, if you prefer. I'm glad you're here, Sir Richard. Henry Arundell speaks very highly of you. You are Sir Richard, aren't you? No mistake?”
“None, sir. I'm Burton.”
They shook hands, and Burton introduced his companions.
After arranging a room for Spencer-“below stairs” with the servants-to which he was escorted by Bogle, Burton and Swinburne followed Lushington to the library.
Supplied with the obligatory brandies and cigars, they settled into high-backed armchairs and got to business.
“Sir Alfred will join us for supper,” Lushington advised. “Or perhaps not. The plain unvarnished fact of the matter is-let's not beat about the bush-he's been behaving erratically in recent days and isn't reliable. I tell you that in confidence, of course. He doesn't always make sense. Some sort of nervous breakdown, I fancy.”
“I suppose the reappearance of his elder brother is to blame?” Burton suggested.
“Absolutely. Well, that's my theory, anyway. I should warn you that he'll tell you a cock-and-bull story about a ghost.”
“A ghost, by Gad!” Burton exclaimed, startled by the occurrence of yet another coincidence. Tichborne and Brundleweed, both haunted?
“Absolute rot, of course,” Lushington added. “Unless it's true. Who knows? I hear there's great enthusiasm for table-tapping in London these days, so maybe there's something in all that life-after-death nonsense, but I'm inclined to think otherwise. Have you ever been to a seance? I haven't. Don't see the need for them.”
Burton leaned forward. “So you haven't witnessed anything yourself?”
Lushington hesitated, took a gulp from his glass, and answered: “I haven't seen anything, no… Well, that is to say, not with my eyes. But I must admit, I might have spotted something with my ears. Spotted? No. Hah! Obviously a man doesn't see with his ears. Ahem! I mean I heard something. But then there's an awful lot to hear in a big old house like this, so it was probably nothing. Perhaps mice, except they don't knock, that's the thing of it.”
“You heard knocking?” Burton was beginning to feel more than a little frustrated by the colonel's rambling manner of speech.
Lushington shook his head, coughed, and nodded. “That's right, I did. Knocking, these two nights past, as if someone were walking through the house banging on the walls. Not mice, then. I don't know why I said mice.”
“Did you investigate?”
“Of course, military instinct. Seek out the enemy. On both occasions, as I approached the noise, it stopped.”
“The enemy mice ran away?” put in Swinburne, mischievously.
“Quite so, if it was mice, which it obviously wasn't.”
“So what was it then?” Burton asked.
“Not a clue. Haven't the remotest idea. Completely at a loss. The foundations settling as the day's heat dissipated, perhaps? Ah! There you have it! Mystery solved!”
Over the course of the next two hours, they reviewed the history of the Tichborne family and the circumstances leading up to the Claimant's imminent arrival. He was due at the house the day after tomorrow, and Lushington was eager to see the individual who'd caused such a furore.
“Bogle, the butler, the Jamaican fellow-at least I think he's Jamaican. West Indian, anyway-has been with the family for many years. He knew Roger Tichborne and will be sure to recognise him on sight. Then there's the resident physician, or doctor-what's the difference?-Jankyn, and the groundsman, er-er-er-”
“Guilfoyle,” Swinburne offered.
“Ah!” Lushington responded. “Is he, indeed? And your name, sir?”
“Algernon Swinburne. We were introduced earlier, if you remember. Are you really in charge of the estate's finances?”
“What of Sir Alfred's opinion?” Burton interrupted hastily. “Surely you aren't discounting that? He is, after all, the brother.”
“True, but he also has a vested interest. I'm sure he'd much rather this fellow was exposed as an outright crook. If not, he loses the estate.”
Burton looked surprised. “Surely you don't mean to suggest that he might purposely deny his brother simply to keep hold of the title?”
“Good lord, of course not!”
A gong sounded and echoed through the house.
