'The Moor End Mystery,

Alexandra Herald and Central Otago Gazette, Issue 440, 18 August 1904, Page 2

'The Moor End Mystery,

By Victor Waitc. Author of ' Cross Trails,' &c, &c

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CHAI'TER V - {.Continued ) i |y| Y good man,' I said, pulling iwl out the watch, a silver one, 'do I look like one who would deceive you? I will give you this watch if you'll lend me the trousers.' His face brightened instantly. His manner changed. • Beg parding, sir,' he said, touching his hat, ' I'm a bit 'asty, I am; likewise, my sight ain't strong. 1 didn't mean no 'arm. I knows a gen'leman when I sees 'im ; and my old trowsis ain't fit for the like o' you, sir; but I'll tell you what I'll do. •If you'll 'and me that there ticker, sir, I'll walk over to Rough End village 'ere and buy you a pair o' trowsis and bring back the change." If a little rough at first, he really seemed a decent fellow, I thought; but I hesitated to give him my watch until I saw the trousers. He noticed my hesitation and looked quite mortified.

' Perhaps you don't trust me, sir,' he said, humbly, • but I wants to 'elp you Now I'll tell you wot. I'll leave my coat and 'at 'ere with you, sir, to show you I'm a honest man.' And he began to divest himself of his attire straightway. 'No—no!' I said, hastily, feeling sorry I had doubted the worthy man. 'Take the watch—here it is—and get me the trousers as quickly as you can.' ' All right,' he said, touching his hat, and taking the watch, • and thank you kindly, sir. What size, sir? Thank you. I won't be long, sir.' And he walked off quickly in the direction of the village. When he had gone I shut up my umbrella, and after looking over the hedge to make sure that no one was in sight, crossed the lane beyond and entered a little copse opposite, where I could await my messenger's return without being seen. It was a beautiful and balmy afternoon, and so warm that I did not feel the lack of clothing. But the gnats annoyed me excessively in my unprotected extremities. The place was very lonely. There was a sleepy droen of bees in the still air, and far away the purr of busy reaping machines. Now and then the roar of a passing train would break the stillness. 1 sat and meditated on my extraordinary adventure. And feeling 1 was near the end of my difficulties, I amused myself by imagining how I would tell the story next time I saw my aunt Jemima. The afternoon passed, and the sun sank low, and still my messenger did not return. I began to feel uneasy. What had delayed him ? I hoped no accident had occurred. At length the dusk came, and a doubt began to dawn in my mind. Could the man have—but 1 would not allow myself to helieve that. He had offered me security ; and could not have meant to deceive me.

So when the dusk began to deepen into darkness, and the glow began to lade in the west, I found it necesary to face the situation, which in my over-trustfulness 1 had looked upon as simple. Until then 1 had not considered the question of how I was to get home. 1 lived at Moor End Vicarage, which stood in the very middle of the long straggling town. To reach it 1 must go right down one of the principal streets nearly half a mile long, in my present garb that was not to be thought of, except under cover of darkness. Unfortunately the street was, of course, lighted, and the lights were not turned out before eleVi'i o'clock, so there was no hope of getting to the Vicarage unobserved before that hour. But it J succeeded in getting there without detection, how was Ito get into the house ? i was allowed no latchkey. The house would bj shut up before eleven, and I should have to arouse someone Had the Vicar hinisel been at home I would have knocked at his library window, where he often sat reading until a late hour. But unluckily he was away and would not return before the following evming. He was a widower with two grown-up daughters. J am naturally a little bashful perhaps, at least I was always rather embarrassed when with the Vicar's daughters, who were distressingly prepossessing. >iow I knew that both were out that evening at some entertainment, and would be back late, and if I attempted to gain admittance to the Vicarage it was more than probable either that they would return and find me at the

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door, or still be up when I appeared and would answer the door-bell themselves. The bare idea of such a catastrophe was too much. No, any attempt at entry that evening was hopeless, unless I could procure clothing. But where could that be done? I had absolutely no friend in the town but my fellow curate, and he was away for his annual holiday and would not be back for a fortnight, and the man who was taking his duties was out with the Vicar's daughters. Tbe only plan I could think of was to wait until the lights were out and slip down to the Vicarage and put a note to the Vicar into the letter-box, acquainting him with my dilemma. But all my writing materials were in the bag which I had left in the train. No, 1 must find somewhere to hide myself until the Vicar came home, and the only place within reach was Hammerton. There was a lonely house in the larchwood there which would do nicely, and the place was on my direct route home. It was not very pleasant to look forward to a night and day without food, but it was preferable to the humiliation of being seen in this ridiculous condition.

The distance from the copse to Hammerton was not more than four miles in a direct line, but I must have walked nearly twice as far in avoiding roads and places where I might meet people. I started soon after dark and did not arrive in Hammerton until about eleven o'clock, for the moon was high. I stole cautiously through the wood under cover of the larches, and presently found myself at the back of the empty house, looking up at the vacant sashless windows. The place looked cheerless and haunted, but I had no choice. Entering the further house of the two, I found myself in the back room, which was unflooped and littered with bricks and empty tins. The room above was floored, all but one strip next the back window, through which came a glimmer of light that showed the bare floor joists. There was no staircase; but by mounting on the sill of the back window, and putting my umbrella above me, I managed to pull myself up through the gap into the room above.

Scarcely had I reached the upper floor when something moved in the shadow of the brick partition-wall dividing the two rooms. A black mass leaped upon me; a hand seized me by the throat, and hurled me roughly to the floor. I felt a knee upon my chest, and a voice in my ear said:

'lf you make a sound I'll smash your head iu villi this brick!'

The throat was unnecessary. I was half strangled and could" not shout if I wished. I gave myself up for lost. Presently, however, my assailant released my throat, and allowed me to explain. And when I had in some measure recovered I told the unknown individual with the brick about my mishap. From his voice he seemed an educated man, although he used many strange expressions which I aftewards found he had learned abroad. He was a person of rude feelings. When I recounted the details of my disaster he showed an utter lack of sympathy, and actually laughed over my loss And when I came to my experience with the ferocious man in the lane he

said, ' Well, you are a fresh-drawn newchum. When do you think you were born ?'

I thought the question rather impertinent, but remembering the brick thought it best to answer. ' I was born in 1875,' I said.

He seemed to think that funny, for he laughed more than ever. But I think my manner subdued him, for he was quiet for a while. ' Look here,' he said at length, •I'm interested in you. I've never run across one before. You musn't mind my smiling; you see I'm only a back blocker, and am always making bad breaks. Now it strikes me that you are scaring the soul out of yourself over nothing. 1 suppose you think you're in a devil of a hole '?' 1 1 am in a serious difficulty,' I said, and told him of my plan of communicating with the Vicar. * Don't see why you should wait for your boss to get you out,' he said. ■ What can I do ?' «Walk right home !*

«But how ?' In the darkness I heard a grunt from my mysterious companion. There was a pause. Outside the night wind whispered in the corners of the wood. I sat on the hare floor in that desolate back room and waited. '.What can I do ?' I repeated after a few moments' silence. ' I can't go home in this condition.' 'Why not'?' he asked, 'You're quite decent.' ' I'm nothing of the kind. * Sorry to hear it' You forget that I must consider my cloth.' ' What's wrong with it ?' ' Nothing is wrong with it, but I—have—'

' Not quite enough of it ?' 1 No—no! I mean that being a clergyman I must ' •Exactly! I understand the difficulty. Now if we could raise a pair of gaiters and an apron people might take you for a bishop, and you could go anywhere.' His levity annoyed me

' I am in a grave position,' I said. ' Can you suggest nothing practical ?' He became suddenly serious, and sat a long while thinking. My eyes had grown accustomed to the gloom, and 1 could dimly see his face by the reflection of the moonlight from the chalk bank outside.

' Look here!' he said at last, in the low tone we had employed from the first for fear of attracting any chance passer-by. • Look here, we are both in a tight place ; but I'm in a worse fix than you. I can't explain all the details, but it amounts to this; that I must get money and clear out of here as soon as possible. See ?'

To tell the truth, I was not reassuied by the tone of the explanation. ' I don't know,' I answered cautiously. ' Well, my name is Kentland. Do you understand ?' he said, as if he expected me to know allabout him at once ' Thanks. But—d' you know I don't quite understand.' ' H'm. Just as well you don't perhaps,' said he grimly, ' but you'll understand this- I'm very hungry.' ' So am I.'

' Ah! And I must get some tucker, also papers of importance, I absolutely must draw money from the bank, too. Now, see here, I can't go myself, for reasons; but you can go. Now, here's a sporting offer. You want a pair of trousers and a feed. I want some money, and some tucker too. If you'll go round to my house and get the things, I'll give you the pick of the trousers in my room, and you can walk home to-morrow morning and be out of your little difficulty if you'll first go and cash a cheque for me at the bank and bring the money here. What do you say ?' It sounded a good offer. I certainly did not wish to be forced to take the Vicar into my confidence. But the air of mystery about tht transaction frightened me. ' But how can I get into your house like this ?' I asked, hesitating. ' Oh, that's easy enough ; you can get in at the back window.' 4 But suppose I were seen ?'

' That's your lookout. You must make it your business not to be seen.' ' And how can I find the things you want ?' 4 That's all right. I'll give you the keys' The more I pondered the proposal the less I liked it. But I was very hungry and wanted clothing

* ' Could not they take me up as a burglar ?' I asked. * Are there any people in the house ?' ' Only the old housekeeper. She's as deaf as a fence post, and blind as a mole, and is all right.' •And she—she isn't likely to—to have a pistol or anything ?' ' Not she! The old lady's quite harmless.'

' If you can see any better way I'm willing to do business.' he answered shortly. I saw nothing better. ' I suppose I must,' I murmured. ' It is ' * Hobson's choice,' he suggested.

• It is a choice of evils certainly.' 1 Wonder how you'd like to be in my boots,' he said bluntly.

'lt is a serious situation for me!' I rejoined, for he seemed to make too light of my position.

'lt's life or death for me!' he responded, with a grim laugh. The phrase startled me. I did not like it. Had the man committed some crime ? What dark secret lay behind these hints ?

' What should I do if anyone saw me?' I said, more than half inclined to refuse.

'Oh, you're in no danger. You could easily explain.' In the emphasis was lurking mystery. 'Explain,'l cried. 'How? Think of it yourself. Hoav could a clergyman explain his being caught climbing in by another man's window at midnight? And without any trousers, too!'

' Without trousers ? Why, that would explain the thing at once. You could tell them you were looking for some! Anyhow you have your choice. Go to my house and get the tucker and trousers, or stay here without.' I was silent.

' bee he said, brusequely. ' I can't wait all night- I'll give you while I count sixty to say yes or no.' And he began to count steadily.

What could I do? That twentyfour hours' fast rose up gloomily before me. He had reached fifty—-fifty-one—lifty-two ' I'll go,' I said. ' That's the timber!' said he. ' I knew yon were made of the right stuff.'

And ho proceeded to give ine minute instructions as to my errand. I was to enter by the back garden' gate, climb the roof of the bicycle shed, and go in by the study window. 'lt will be quite easy to open,' he said. 'lt is not latched. But take a look at the kitchen door first; the housekeeper may leave it unlocked, for I generally lock up myself.' { I should prefer the door, if possible,' said I.

Then he gave me the key of his writing desk, and told me I should find the cheque-book and a pocketbook with his papers in the righthand top drawer. The trousers, he said, were in the wardrobe in the front bedroom, and I would find food on a tray in the study table. 1 She always' leaves supper for me there,' he said. ' And now you had better be going, if you are to get back before daylight. Mind you don't go to the wrong house, or there'll be the devil to pay . It's the bottom one of fie row.'

' But am I to go like this :' I asked. Against the light of the window he conld see my undressed condition. ' Yes,' said he. 'lt can't be helped. I simply can't lend you mine, and that's straight. It's too big a risk. If they were to drop on me here I must be all ready to let go my ropes and slide, and it would be madness to let you take my gear.'

Once more these ominous suggestions of danger gave me uneasiness. But there was no help for it. At all events I must get clothing. Taking hold of the floor joists I began to let myself down gingerly, and was still clinging with my hands and feeling with dangling legs for some foothold, when my strange acquaintance leaned over and spoke. ' When you are there, don't forget a razor and shaving tackle,' he said. 'I want a shave.'

The request struck me as singularly frivolous at such a moment, but I promised to comply. ' You'll see the things on my dressing-table,' he whispered. ' And, by the way, fetch along any liquor you may come across'

I dropped to the window ledge and reached the ground. 'So long!' said this mysterious man, in a stage whisper, as he handed down my umbrella. And I say, if there are any police about, and '

'Any what?' I cried, in some anxiety. ' Any police about,' he repeated, in the most matter-of fact way, ' and If they shoulc run you in by any chance, you know, don't say a word about seeing me!' I found voice to make the required promise; but those last words of his did not add relish to my adventure, and it was with a beating heart that I set forth.

CHAPTER- VI.—THE MAD CURATE.

(Dr, Tring's Narrative Resumed.) I have told at some length of svhat happened on Friday, the 5tH of August, about the murder of Tobias Lott, and the disappearance of the Reverend Algernon Jenkins, curate of Moor End. And surely the affair 1 was even then complicated enough; j but Saturday, the 6th, brought circumstances that rendered the whole* business yet more involved. To begin at the beginning, that morning I visited my patient Dorothy Oliver. 'How is she?' I asked of Mrs. Oliver, whom I met in the passage outside the girl's bedroom door. * She is conscious,' she replied, ' and seems quite rational and well; but this horrible murder seems to have upset ner a little.' ' Murder upset her ?' I cried aghast. ' Who told her anything about it ?' Mrs. Oliver looked guilty.

' She asked for the paper and read the account of it.'

' Papers ! Murder!' I repeated, for I was annoyed excessively. * Folly —folly—folly! Did I not say she was to be kept quiet ? Did I not ?' ' But she seems none the worse, only a little excited.'

' Excited ? Of course! Let me see her,' I said, and entered the room. Knowing that I knew of the whole affair, it was with no little anxiety that I approached the patient. I feared that in liar nervous condition the account of the murder might very seriously affect her, but I was not in the least prepared for the attitude she showed.

' Good morning, Doctor,' she said, cheerfully, ' I am feeling so much better-'

' I am very glad to hear it,' I said, concealing my surprise- • How is the head ? Any pain ?' (To be continued.)