The Mystery of the Ravenspurs

A grand old castle looks out across the North Sea, and fishermen toiling on the deep catch the red flash from Ravenspur Point, as their forefathers have done for many generations. The Ravenspurs and their great granite fortress have made history between them. Every quadrangle and watch-tower and turret has its legend of brave deeds and bloody deeds, of fights for the king and the glory of the flag. And for five hundred years there has been no Ravenspur who has not acquitted himself like a man. Theirs is a record to be proud of. Time has dealt lightly with the home of the Ravenspurs. It is probably the most perfect mediæval castle in the country. The moat and the drawbridge are still intact; the portcullis might be worked by a child. And landwards the castle looks over a fair domain of broad acres where the orchards bloom and flourish and the red beeves wax fat in the pastures. A quiet family, a handsome family, a family passing rich in the world's goods, they are strong and brave—a glorious chronicle behind them and no carking cares ahead. Surely, then, the Ravenspurs should be happy and contented beyond most men. Excepting the beat of the wings of the Angel of Death, that comes to all sooner or later, surely no sorrow dwelt there that the hand of time could fail to soothe. And yet over them hung the shadow of a fear. No Ravenspur had ever slunk away from any danger, however great, so long as it was tangible; but there was something here that turned the stoutest heart to water, and caused strong men to start at their own shadows. For five years now the curse had lain heavy on the house of Ravenspur. It had come down upon them without warning; at first in the guise of a series of accidents and misfortunes, until gradually it became evident that some cunning and remorseless enemy was bent upon exterminating the Ravenspurs root and branch. There had been no warning given, but one by one the Ravenspurs died mysteriously, horribly, until at last no more than seven of the family remained. The North-country shuddered in speaking of the ill-starred family. The story had found its way into print. Scotland Yard had taken the case in hand; but still the hapless Ravenspurs died, mysteriously murdered, and even some of those who survived had tales to unfold of marvelous escapes from destruction. The fear grew on them like a hunting madness. From first to last not one single clue, however small, had the murderers left behind. Family archives were ransacked and personal histories explored with a view to finding some forgotten enemy who had originated this vengeance. But the Ravenspurs had ever been generous and kind, honorable to men and true to women, and none could lay a finger on the blot.