Caldecott was, I found, a very out-of-the-way little place. The pretty village of Rockingham, with its long, broad street leading up the hill and the old castle crowning it, was its nearest neighbour, for at that station I alighted from the train and walked through the noonday heat along the short, shadeless road pointed out by the railway porter.

The country in that district is of park-like aspect, mostly rich pastures with spinneys here and there, and running brooks; but on that blazing summer’s day, with the road shining white before me, I was glad enough when I got under the shadow of the cottages of Caldecott.

My first impression of the place was that the village was both remote and comfortable. The cottages were mostly well kept and nearly all thatched, with quaint little attic windows peeping forth here and there and strange old gable ends. Every house was built of stone, solidly and well, and every cottage garden seemed to be gay with jasmine, hollyhocks, sunflowers, and other old-world flowers. Not a soul was in the village street, for in that great heat the very dogs were sleeping.

Behind, on a slight eminence, stood a fine old church of Early English architecture, with narrow, pointed lancet-shaped windows similar to those in the choir of Westminster Abbey, and as I passed, the sweet-toned bell from the square ivy-clad tower struck two o’clock. Walking on a short distance I came to a small open space which in olden days was, I suppose the village green, and seeing an inn called the Plough I entered the little bar parlour and called for some ale. The place seemed scrupulously clean and comfortable, very old-fashioned, but well-kept, therefore I decided to make it my headquarters, and engaged a room for at least one night.

The young woman who waited upon me having explained that she and her brother kept the place, I at once commenced to make some inquiries. It was, I knew, most necessary that I should avoid attracting any undue attention in the gossiping little place, therefore I had to exercise the greatest caution. I gave her a card and explained my presence there to the fact that I was taking a holiday and photographing.

“By the way,” I said, standing at the bow window which gave a view on to the church, “whose house is that away among the trees?”

“The Vicarage, sir. Mr. Pocock lives there, a very-nice gentleman.”

“Has he been vicar long?” I inquired.

“Oh, he’s been here these five years, I think, or perhaps a little more.”

“And is there an old Manor House here?”

“Yes, sir. Right up the top end of the village. Mr. and Mrs. Kenway live there. They’re new tenants, and have only been there about a year.”

“Is it a large house?”

“One of the largest here—a very old-fashioned place.”

“Is it the oldest house?”

“Oh, yes, I think so, but I wouldn’t care to live in it myself,” and the young woman shrugged her shoulders.

“Why?” I inquired, at once interested and hoping to learn some local legend.

“Well, they say that all sorts of strange noises are heard there at night. I’m no believer in ghosts, you know, but even rats are not pleasant companions in a house.”

“Who does the place belong to?”

“To a Jew, I think, who lives in Ireland. Years ago, I’ve heard, the place was mortgaged, and the mortgagee foreclosed. But lots of people have rented it since then, and nobody within my recollection has lived there longer than about three years.”

What the young woman told me caused me to jump to the conclusion that the house in question was once the residence of Bartholomew da Schorno, and after finishing my ale I lit a cigarette and sauntered forth to have a look at the place.

I need not tell you how eagerly I walked to the top of the village, but on arrival there I saw no sign of the house in question. I inquired of a lad, who directed me into a farmyard gate, whence I found a short, ill-kept road which ended in a cul-de-sac, leading into a field. On my right was a clump of elms, and hidden among them was the quaint and charmingly old-world Manor House.

First sight of the place was sufficient to tell me that it had been allowed to fall into decay, and certainly it was, even in that summer sunshine, a rather dismal and depressing place of abode.

The old cobbled courtyard was overgrown with moss and weeds, and some of the outbuildings had ugly holes in the roofs. The house itself was long, low, and rambling, of Elizabethan architecture, with old mullioned windows, built entirely of stone, now, however, grey with lichens and green with moss on the parts which the clinging ivy had failed to cover. The outside woodwork, weather-beaten and rotting, had not been painted for a century, while upon one of the high square chimneys stood forth the rusty iron angle of a sundial, from which, however, most of the graven numerals had long ago disappeared.

The high beech hedge which formed one of the boundaries was sufficient proof of the antiquity of the place, but the trees of the broad pleasure grounds, which had no doubt once extended far away down to the river, had been cut down and the land turned into pastures, so that only a small, neglected kitchen garden now remained. The place, even in its present decay, spoke mutely of a departed magnificence. As I stood gazing upon it, I could imagine it as the residence of the lord of the manor in the days when peacocks strutted in the grounds, when that moss-grown courtyard had echoed to the hoofs of armed horsemen, and the talk was of the prowess of Drake, of Walsingham’s astuteness, of the martyrdom of Mary at Fotheringhay, and the fickleness of the Queen’s favour.

Determined to make the acquaintance of the present occupiers, even though it might or might not be the former residence of old Bartholomew, I went up to the blistered door and pulled a bell, which clanged dismally within, and made such an echo that I wondered if the place were devoid of furniture.

My summons was answered by a rather stout, middle-aged woman, who, in response to my inquiry, informed me that she was Mrs. Kenway. I was somewhat taken aback at this, for I had believed her to be a servant, but the moment she opened her mouth I knew her to be a countrywoman.

I was compelled to make an excuse for my call, so I invented what ............