The Moor End Mystery,

Alexandra Herald and Central Otago Gazette, Issue 440, 8 September 1904, Page 2

The Moor End Mystery,

By Victor Waite.

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CHAPTER XlH.—(Continued.) * * Sir I' she said, in a voice like an iceberg, * allow me to inform you that gentlemen do not do things such as you have mentioned!' She turned to the trembling Vicar, and with a sweep of the skirts rose. 'I regret exceedingly, Mr Lifton,' said she, with her nose pointed at the top of his bald head, ' that I mustleave in order to catch my train. I must at oncj consult my solicitors as to what steps to take. But I trust that I may have another opportunity of talking over this painful matter with you in private.' I saw my opportunity and seized it. As I made for the door I caught a glimpse of the white scared face of the Vicar turned imploringly towards me; bnt I neither pitied nor heeded him, I was still in the doorway when the strident tones of Jenkins's aunt sounded behind me, ' Who is that person ?' I heard her say. 'You will paidon my saying that he appears to me to be a very wicked old man S" And then the door slammed behind me; I caught up my hat and stick and was half-way home before I was sufficiently.recovtred to realise that I had indeed escaped from the frozen stare of the pince-nez. Her dear nephew! No wonder the poor brute ran away! Wicked old man, indeed! And she was at least ten years my senior—at the very least ten. Pooh —pooh—pooh ! A most repulsive woman! But I am glad the vicar was caught, • He showed a poor timorous spirit; I hate to see a man afraid of females • I had a bad night—all owing to that woman —and to put the cap on it the very first news I had in the morn ing was that Kentland had been ai rested. It was only what I had expected, nevertheless it upset me. And without waiting for breakfast I hurried over to the police station. CHAPTER XIV,—ACCESSOF AFTER THE FACT, (Narrative of Master William Rof - of Moor End.) I'am Roper Secundus; and am thirteen and a half, and in the second eleven. That murder was ripping. It was a real mystery, like you read of in the books. And I found—Oh, but that cones later on, This is how it happened. On that Monday I went out before first school because I wanted to see the inside of the haunted house in Hammerton. I thought this one rather a sell myself. It looked to j new to be any good for ghosts. I climbed up to the upper room, and had just got my nose above the floor through the open place at the back of the room, when I found a man sitting staring at me. Just for a bit I wa3 jolly sorry I had come; because I noticed his clothes, and his bushringer hat. just like the descriptions, a id knew at once it was the murderer Kentland. But I don't know that I was exactly frightened; because I was awfully glad to meet a real murderer, don't you know. Not that he was a bit one —except his hat. His face looked rather dirty, and he hadn't shaved—most likely he wanted to grow aboard to disguise himself. But he wasn't at all fierce, In fact it seemed to me he was in an awful fuuk at my findiaohim. He looked at me a minute with his eye 3li <e glass marbles, and then said, 'Go away, little boy! Go away! I wish to be alone-' As soon as he spoke I wasn't a little scrap afraid, for his voice was like a girl's, aud shook like anything—he was so beastly frightened of my blabbing. • It's all right,' I said, getting u p to the iiojr beside him. 'I know

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your secret._butXU-never let on.' He looked surprised at that. ' Secret ?' he said. 'Do you—do you know who I am ?' ' Yes,' said I. ' I knew you at once from the description, It's stuck up in the station,' ' Then are they—ah—searching for me?'

'Ra-then' said I. 'They've got detectivea from town, and all kinds of things!' He gave a groan, just as if he had pain in his tummy; which I know was from remorse, like the people in stories, They all get it pretty badly in the books. Then I noticed he had no" t boots and guessed he needed some, and that was why he had not escaped before, * I suppose you had to hide your boots because of the blood on them,' I said, so as to give him a chance to explain. He looked frightfully confused at my suggesting it, and said, 'Blood?'—in a kind of scream—--4 What blood ?' ' When you did it. don't you know,' I answered, 'Bid what?' he asked, and he acted it just beautifully. ' What do you mean ?' ' I mean the murder!' .'What murder?' he cried, looking puzzled. £Mr Loot. Last week—you remember that one, surely?' said I, for he didn't seem to know which one I meant, and I suppose he had done a good many, you know. 'Mr Lott? I never heard-of him in my life,' said he. ' I don't understand, I didn't know there had been a murder. 'Oh, I say, you know!' I cried, It's all discovered. They found your pistol and everything, I know all about it; but you can trust me—you can really, sir, I wouldn't blab for—not a new bat. And I'll help you to escape all I can.' I thought he might have trusted a ellow after that. But no! He went .;: shamming away just the same. ' Merciful Heaven!' he said, as if he was spouting verses, 'Do you mean to say they accuse me of murder?' ' You bet they do!' I said, 'And there are detectives and policemen in plain clothing all over the shop watching for you I' ' Good Lord deliver us -' he said in alow voice, looking as if he would cry, 'I see it all! When did it happen?' I thought he ought to know best, but only said, 'On Thursday night, wasn't it, sir, that you shot him ?' ' I shot him f I never fired a pistol off in my life!' * Oh, come, I say, Mr Kentland! I wish you'd trust me, sir,''l began, but he interrupted me. 'KerAland?' he cried. 'l'm not Kentland!' * Then who "are you, sir ?' I asked, and couldn't help smiling. It sounded so funny to hear his telling such beastly crams when I knew all about it.

'lam a clergyman. And my name is Jenkins—' he began, and then I laughed outright, 'You are a very rude little boy?' he said, I didn't like his treating me as if I was only a kid, but I didn't want to make him in a scot. After all he was a real murderer. So I asked him if he didn't want a pair of boots, And then he seemed to make up his mind I was all right, for he answered, ' Boots ? Yes —yes. Ido require a pair. But, tell me, boy, do you think I could leave here without being seen ?'

I didn't want him to go, for I wished to save him all myself; so I said,

'No, sir. There are simply shoals of detectives all round; and they'd

spot your hat, you know, at once*' 'That's it!' he cried. * It's these wretched elothes, What a terrible eonfusion 1* Then he thought for a minute, and laid, 'I oan't go myself in daylight. Boy, will you do an errand for me, and promise not to tell you have seen me or where I am ?' Of course I was jolly glad to do anything for him. So I promised, and he told me to go down to Dootor Tring'o and simply ask him for a message. 'You must see the Doctor himself,' said he. ' Just ask him for an answer. He will understand. And don't say where you saw me! Will you do that?' Of course I would; so I made up I my mind to cut first school and go straight off to the Doctor. I got there all right and saw the Doctor. He was a scotty old boy, very big and fat, with white whiskers and a red nose- I suspected him the minute I saw him; and very soon he wasn't in the know at all, and only wanted \ to find out where Mr Kentland was hiding. He tried to pump me, and I was jolly near letting it out once, but just stopped in time. And then he started threatening in his big voice, and gave himself away at once, and let out that he was in with the police. So I cut and ran, I hooked it back to the haunted house and told Kent—Jenkins I mean —how near a shave I had had of being caught. He got quite funky, and said he couldn't understand it; and every time a train whistled in the distance he'd jump and look all round. I thought he seemed an awfully frightened sort of beggar for a murderer. After a bit he told me he wanted a bicycle taken back to somebody else, who lived in an old deserted barge down on a lonely reach of the canal. I guessed the man must be hiding, and asked,

' Is he your—your accomplice ?' He got quite excited at that; though why he should mind I don't know. ' Accomplice V he cried, «What do you mean, boy ?' I told him I only meant did the other man help with the murder. Anybody would have known I meant that, But he got in an awful fuss about it, «I had nothing to do with it!' he cried, quite loud out.' And the chap hid his face in his hands as if he was going to blub. I was pretty sick with him. It seemed a bit mean to shove all the blame on the other fellow like that, and sneak and then start snivelling like a girl. He was a rum chap, so limp in the knees and floppy in the hands; he didn't look like killing a mouse.

Well, anyway, I went and found the bike easy enough. It was hidden in a copse on the other side of Hammerton. The machine was too high for me to ride, so I had to wheel it all the way. As I walked along I kept a good lookout for detectives and other suspicious characters, to make sure they were not following me, So it was a spiffing adventure; and I took all kinds of precautions, and all that, don't you know—crawling up under hedges to see the coast was clear before turning corners, and hiding in bushes and places if I heard anyone coming. So it took me a long time to reach the lane, and the sun was going down when I got near the place. Besides I was jolly well starving, and went round to a farm I knew where they were harvesting, and got the workmen to give me some grub. And that took time. I left the bike in a coiner of a field, crawled on my stomach along a dry ditch so as not to be seen, and climbed up the railway embankment, and looked over. There sure enough was the old barge lying close to the canal bank below. I thought it might not be safe to be seen*going down to it; besides it seemed so jolly flat to walk down and just tell the second murderer I had brought his bicycle ; so I thought of a ripping fine plan. I wrote him a note on a bit of an envelope in pencil, pretty big and plain. 'You are betrayed. Hiding place known. Escape at once. Will meet you in lane with bike.' I put it that way, you see, because I wanted the man to have a really exciting time ; besides I knew when I got back there would be no end of a beastly row about my cutting school, and I might not have another chance of seeing him. Then I took my catapult, which I had in my pocket, tied the letter round a stone with string, took a good aim, and plumped it slap into the cabin place in the stern of the barge. The moment I fired I popped behind the embankment and sprinted back to the lane to wait for the accomplice to come. And I was just wheeling the bike along slowly when all of a sudden the mad curate, that people thought was drowned, bounced over the hedge and nearly knocked me down, and then collared the machine and bolted off with it; and the last I saw of him was a cloud of dust, as he whizzed away with a cartful of men in full cry behind. I can tell you I felt pretty sick at losing the bike; and then I went home to school, and old Jerry—that's the Head—jawed me and gave me six cuts and two hundred lines, I had told Kentland—no Jenkins—that I'd try and bring him boots and some grub that evening; but, of course, I couldn't, for I never had a show to get out. Next day was a half-holiday. I managed to do my lines and get off by three o'clock. Of course I went down like steam to see my murderer. I had found some old boots for him—one black and the other brown—and at dinner had managed to sneak some

bread and a ohtmk of rice pudding which I had whipped in my pocket when nobody wag looking. I took two or three other things with me, in case he needed them, and ran down to the haunted house, The man was lying asleep, when I looked in from the bank behind, And to give:him a surprise, I put *the pudding in one boot and the bread, in the other,; chucked them through the window, and bobbed down among the leaves to see what he would do. It was the rummiest thing. He jumped as if he had been shot, made', a boll for the window, and tumbled over the boots. Then he took them up and stared at them for five minutes before he thought of putting them on. But at last he put his foot into the brown one, which was the left-one, and of course stuck his toes into the rice pudding. He was an ass, Any ordinary murderer would have thought of looking in the boots for rope ladders, or files, or anything he needed of that sort. It was an awful waste of pudding too. However he did eat the bread, Then I went in and gave him the other things I had brought him. * What is this for?' he asked, when I handed him the file—it was a half one I found in the ashpit. ' Oh, it's to file,the bars .through if you do get caught and put in prison/ He gave a sort of gasp and dropped the file. ' But—they would never do thab;'. he said. ~ ' Won't they just, though!' I said, for he didn't seem half keen. ' Just you walk outside and see, sir J' ' No, I shall wait until dark and then go down to tho'railway station—' ' The station ? Why, it's simply thick with detectives and people, and they have descriptions of you stuck up on the platform. You can't go there, sir 1' Then he looked pretty seedy. 'Well, I'm not going to the Vicarage!' he snapped out, 'No, sir. I didn't think you were,' said I—as if a murderer chap would do that I 'I shall go back to my Aunt Jemima,' he said, sort ol to himself. His Aunt Jemima! Fancy a- murderer having an aunt! He piled it on too jolly thick for a fellow to believe, I tried not to laugh, but he saw and looked beastly huffy over it too. Presently he looked up and said, ' I shall go down to Wealdstone by the canal—or as far as it goes at least. I shall try to hide in a barge.' ' That would be spiffing!' I said, but he only looked sick and said nothing, I climbed down from the room, and stole round through the wood to the other side of the valley to watch. There was another empty house there that looked straight across to the haunted house; and I could see the front window of the floor where Mr Jenkins—as he called himself—lay. Just as I came out of the back door I saw that old doctor coming down the hill towards me. And as I ran back to my empty house ft. noticed a policeman hanging aboup the long sloping street that runs up the other end of the valley. There was no time to be lost, I got out a pencil and paper I had brought and wrote a note as quick as I could to Jenkins I put:—' Doctor has sold you. Police close by. Bun for your life,' I had only just one, and was tying a note to a stone when there came a step behind me, and the doctor came puffing into the house. In a second I had pulled oufc my catapult and shot the message over to Jenkins. It wasn't a bad shot; for it went straight in at the window, and I heard it rattle against the wall inside. Then the doctor gripped me by the collar, I slipped out of my coat and dodged round the house, the doctor after me, saying, 1 Come here you young ! Come here ! I want you l' The second time we came round the doctor stopped, and I heard him say, 'Great heavens 1' and saw him staring across at the haunted house. I looked too, and then the fun began. Jenkins came scooting out of the front window and down through the wood. I. could see his light suit dodging between the trees. And then all of a sudden the Doctor shouted, ' Kentland! Kentland!' * and started off after him-

It was scrumptious. I just howled behind, and fired at the doctor with my catapult. One stone knocked off his top-hat. It was jolly—better than Barnum and Bailey's or anything. The murderer heard the shouting, and didn't he run! It was a splendid escape, just as hair's-breadth as it could be. He did look rum, with one brown boot and one black. And the doctor tried to shout and run both at once, and was too fat; and the policeman came charging round the corner and ran slap into him. And they both swore like fun. And by the time they had said it all my pal had reached the other side of the valley and disappeared in. the trees, It was a glorious escape, and I managed it all myself; and while the doctor .was swearing at the policeman I found the top-hat lying and danced upon it to pay him out for grabbing my coat. And then the policeman saw me and I thought I'd better run- But I never had such a good time in all my life; and I do hope that murderer chap got to the canal all right. He was Kentland, you see, after all; else why did the Doctor say so ? And I believe the other chap who stole the bike was Jenkins, the mad curate. The other fellow wanted to make out Jenkins did the murder, of course,'and tried to lay all the blame on him, don't you see ? Which was a beastly shame. But all the same I'm glad he escaped, though he was a bit of a liar. (To be continued.)