… Before Dr. Broomhall left the castle he spoke privately with Kate. “I am not so concerned about Lady Mary,” he said, “her indisposition is temporary, the result of a fright and exposure, and a certain amount of exhaustion. She will be quite herself when she comes out of her sleep in a few hours. Keep her warm and as quiet as possible and”—he smiled encouragingly—“free from worry.”
“I’ll do my best, Dr. Broomhall. And Sir Richard?”
“He is the one about whom I am really concerned, though I must wait for Dr. Briggs to return from London to discuss the case.”
“But he seemed …”
Dr. Broomhall shook his head. “Whatever he said in his own self-defense was negated by the expression in his eyes. Quite obviously he is subject to delusions. How long has this been going on, Kate?”
“I … I can’t rightly say, sir.”
“With Lady Mary, a sudden shock caused her trouble; but with Sir Richard the delusions are functional and thus their treatment is not so simple.”
“What would you mean by that, sir?”
“Emotionally determined and reaching over a considerable period of time.” He glanced around him. “It’s beautiful, this old castle, but I wish Sir Richard and Lady Mary could get away from it for a while, a good long while. When the past begins to affect the present, as it would seem to be doing with Sir Richard, its hold should be broken. But, as I said, I will have to discuss this with Dr. Briggs.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Do the best you can for them, Kate, and I’ll come by again within a few hours to see how Lady Mary is.” He turned and went toward his small car that had been standing behind the Americans’ large one.
Half an hour later, luncheon was announced. Sir Richard was nowhere to be found, and as his horse was not in the stable it could only be assumed that he had gone for a canter. Lady Mary was deep in sleep. Philip Webster sat down at the long table with the six Americans and luncheon was served by Wells and Kate. They did not linger over their coffee. Wells had reminded them all that this was the day the castle was open to the public and by three o’clock the charabancs would arrive.
“There’ll be people all over the place,” Wells said dismally, “as you well know, Mr. Webster.”
“That I do, Wells, and I’ll not be one of them. I’m going to the inn to do some telephoning. How about you, Mr. Holt, may I offer you a ride in my Austin?”
“You may indeed, Mr. Webster. I, too, have business to transact that can best be done in the relative quiet of the village inn. John?”
“I’ll stay here with the boys. We’ll work until we hear the buses, then we’ll make ourselves scarce. Sir Richard got out ahead of us all, didn’t he?”
“He often does this, sir,” Wells said apologetically. “He can’t abide having these people in his castle. Invaders, he calls them, though they’re most of them British and they pay good money.”
… Sir Richard, without benefit of Wells, changed into his riding clothes; then he strode rapidly through the familiar passages of the castle, out the wide west door, and across the lawn to the stable. Again, without benefit of Wells, he led his gray stallion from the stall, saddled and bridled him, and mounted with the ease of one long accustomed to horses. He ran his hand down the smooth neck and spoke in a low tone. The stallion pricked his ears and flicked his tail. His iron-shod hooves echoed on the cobbles of the stable yard, then thudded softly on the grass as he yielded to the direction given him. Trotting first, then breaking into an easy gallop, he carried his master over greening meadows and along lanes still starry with primroses.
Half an hour later, Sir Richard reined up by the church and dismounted. Before looping the reins over the hitching post he put his hand to his head to quiet the pain that had begun its raging. Usually a brisk ride made the pain abate, sometimes even cease, but this was not the case today.
The church was dim and empty, as he knew it would be in the early afternoon. He walked up the center aisle and turned to the alcove at the left of the altar. There his ancestors were buried; there he would lie someday with Mary beside him, the last of the Sedgeleys. At one side was the tomb of his father. Upon it lay a bronze statue in a coat of mail, gauntleted hands folded across the breast. Placed close to the figure and filling the space from shoulder to knee was the sword of his ancestor William Sedgeley, the man to whom the castle had been given five centuries ago. Tradition said that it lay there ready to be used, but only by a Sedgeley and only in a moment of utter need.
Sir Richard stood by the tomb, then he put his right hand on the sword and drew it from its scabbard. It came with difficulty, but he put his strength to it and the sound it made as metal scraped against metal echoed in the silence of the church. He lifted it in his hands, bent his lips to the hilt, then held it upright before him.
“I swear,” he began, in a loud hoarse voice, “I swear, by my father and by my forefathers—”
“Sir Richard!”
There, coming up the altar steps, was the vicar.
“Yes, it is I, Sir Richard Sedgeley of Starborough Castle.”
“You surprised me, Sir Richard,” the vicar said uncertainly, peering into the shadows of the alcove. “I thought I heard an unusual sound and came to investigate.”
“You see Richard the Fourth,” Sir Richard said stiffly, the sword still upright before him.
“I beg your pardon?” the vicar asked. He stared at the strange figure, at the flushed face and blazing eyes, the upright sword. “Are you quite yourself, Sir Richard?” he inquired, frightened.
“Richard the Third was my father, the crippled king, you remember! His armies were very strong. He could wield the sword easily. And I am here to claim the sword,” Sir Richard declared in an unearthly voice.
So speaking, he pushed the vicar aside and left the church, the sword held high in his right hand.
“… You’ll not get up, my lady,” Kate declared, “even though the tourists are coming this afternoon.”
“But I am up,” Lady Mary said crossly. “What’s more, I’m half dressed. Go away, Kate.”
“I will not,” Kate retorted.
After serving luncheon and finishing her work in the pantry, Kate had come straight to Lady Mary’s room expecting to find her still asleep, or perhaps drowsily waking. She had found Lady Mary sitting on the edge of her bed, trying to put on her clothes. Remonstrances were of no avail, her ladyship was adamant.
“Kate, I tell you, I must see that American. I have something to talk about — business — it’s very important. Where is he?”
“The doctor gave me my orders,” Kate said stubbornly. “You’re to stay in bed, my lady. Tomorrow, if you feel—”
“Tomorrow will be too late,” Lady Mary said, gently stubborn. “And how dare you talk about orders, Kate? You forget yourself, indeed you do. I’m surprised at you. You’re getting above yourself, you really are. I’ve noticed it before. We’ve spoiled you, and now, just because we’re in difficulties you’re behaving very badly. You’re taking advantage.”
Kate stared at her astonished and burst into tears. Never before had Lady Mary spoken like this. “Oh, my lady, you know that I can’t bear seeing you and Sir Richard in trouble.”
“I must speak with that American. I want to tell him to go at once. It’s he who has caused all this trouble.”
“Oh, I agree that the American should leave us,” Kate wailed. “I do want them to go, all of them to go. If we could only get back to the sweet old days, dear, with just the three of us here, and Wells, so peaceful it was.” She continued to sob.
“Do stop crying, Kate,” Lady Mary said impatiently. “It upsets me. You know we can’t do without you, whatever you are. Now help me with my things, for my head does feel a bit heavy. Mind that button, it’s almost off. Now, that’s better — I’m properly dressed. Take me to the American, wherever he may be.” She leaned on Kate’s arm and talked as they walked together.