The Moor End Mystery.

Alexandra Herald and Central Otago Gazette, Issue 440, 15 September 1904, Page 2

The Moor End Mystery.

CHAPTER XV.—ON THE BRIDGE(Dr. Tring's Narrative.) I had no difficulty in gaining admittance to the cells. The sergeant in charge knew me, and was an obliging fellow. * It's a strange thing, sir,' he said as he led the way, ' the prisoner keeps on grousing and saying he ain't the man. And—this is the way, sir.' He opened the door as he spoke, and I looked in. Huddled up in a corner of the plank bed was a figure dressed n a light suit which I recognised as Kentland's. Eentland!' I said. With a groan the man lifted a white face, on which a week's growth of beard sprouted in sickly tufts, and pushed back Kentland's wideawake from his eyes. 'I am hot Eentland!' he said querulously. •My name is Jenkins! 'What—what—what's this?' I cried, turning to the sergeant. * This is not Mr Eentland.' He looked incredulous. ' The clothes is Mr Eentland's,' he said. 'Tut—tut 1' said 1... 'Can't two people dress alike without being arrested? You've got hold of the wrong man, and a pretty ferment there's likely to be over it. It may cost you pretty dear—wrongful arrest, you know—serious business. Come, come! A clergyman too!' The sergeant looked sceptical and unimpressed. ' Well,' he said, 'if he's a parson what was he doing skulking about in a canal boat? If it's not Eentland it's that mad parson that's wanted for an assault on Constable Spudderty, so it's all one.' ' But, my good man, you arrested him on a warrant in the name of Eentland, did you not ?' 'Yes/ 1 Exactly—and it's not Eentland'.' • That makes no difference,' replied he doggedly. *lf he answers to the description we takes him in charge. If it ain't Eentland it's Jenkins, and if it ain't Jenkins it's Eentland. What's the odds? They're both wanted.' And to that the sergeaut obstinately stuck. He was one of those opinionative men—made to be annoying. I was glad to find it was only tha parson whom they had arrested, and not my friend. In his irresponsible state of mind it could do Jenkins no harm to be under restraint for a lew hours but at the same time he looked so haggard and broken down that I deemed it best to.procure his release as soon as possible. So th • end of it was that I sent for the Vicar, and the Viear appealed to the magistrates, and bailed poor Jenkins out. He refused to go to the Vicarage, so I took him home with me and fed him. He looked pinched and thin, and, as I found out afterwards, had had nothing to eat but a crust of bread for two days. As you may imagine I was interested in his case, for when I found out he had not been to Liverpool the whole business looked more mysterious than ever. How had he obtained Keutland's clothes, and where? To these questions I could got no satisfactory answer. Jenkins seemed too shaken and too sensitive about the matter to talk of his adventures, and to my questions he answered, 'Do not talk of it, pray! I can't bear it. lam ruined—ruined!' In the end I gave it up, and sent him off by train to that stupendous aunt of his at Wealdstone One thing he asked me to do. It appears that a bargee on the canal had befriended him, and bad been promised some remuneration; so I offered to see to it, hoping to obtain information from the bargeman.^ ' You will recognise the man by hi* waistcoat,' said Jenkins- It is a peculiar one with red spots.' And then the train bore him off to the bosom of his Aunt Jemima, and I set out to look for a bargee with a

By Victor Waite.

Author of 'Cross Trails,'&&, &c.

COPYRIGHT.

spotted waistcoat. I had no difficulty in finding him. At the bridge by the old inn lounged a highly respectable looking man wearing one of those abominable waistcoats young men insist on displaying in these days —a brown one with most unmistakable red spots all over it. ' Did you bring a passenger down the canal last night ?' I asked. The man looked me over suspiciously a moment, but at last, apparently satisfied with my appearance, admitted that he had. ' I don't know nothink abah t him, said he cautiously. «A bloke wif a sorft 'at and a white mug come along last night and says,' Will you take a passenger?' he says. ' Wot's 'e worf ?' says I. And then 'e tells me 'e ain't got a brown. Well, 'e was like a 'orse as has been on the tow for a week without 'ay—looked as if 'e'd 'ad the bloomin' stuffin' knocked out o' him; so I guv the pore beggar a bit o' wittles and brought 'im down wif me. And wot d'you fink ? We was lyin' under the lock 'ere, when dow r n comes a blessed copper. ' Robert Eentling,' 'e said, 'you jest come along quiet!' And wif that 'e snaps the bracelets on the bloke and tows him off to the station! Bloomm' 'ard luck, wasn't it ? But that's all I seen—didn't know the bloke from a bar o' soap I' 'Well,' my good man,' said I, 'he sent you this.' And I slipped a half-sovereign into his hand. ' 'Alf a quid!' he cried, glancing at the coin in his palm. ' Strike me 'appy! And same to you, sir. It's all right. I'll 'old me jaw like a bloomin' lock-gate.' And the man winked reassuringly. While we were speaking a down train had entered the station, and now I noticed two men approaching from the direction of the railway. The front one was dressed in clerical clothes and was walking rapidly ; the other one was a big quiet-looking man in tweeds. As the first drew near something in his "walk struck me as familiar; and when he came up I was thunderstruck to recognise in the clean-shaven parson Eentland himself. 'Hullo, Doctor,' said he in his usual cheerful way, «I expect you hardly knew me in this outfit. Don't I look a blooming bishop I I'm thinking seriously of ' ' Good God!' I said, ' Are you mad ? Did you not get my wire ?' 'No, I didn't expect an answer,' said he, ' I just came right along by the first train this morning. How is she?' 'Be quiet, you young fool'' I whispered. 'Whatare you thinking of?' And I glanced at the bargee who stood by grinning. ' Why did you come back ?' I went on. ' To get some baccy and a drink,' said he- « Come up to my place, and I'll tell you all about it.' And he took me by the arm, and turned towards the village. ' Mr Eentland,' said a voice behind us, 'aword with you.' I wheeled round, and there stood the quiet man in grey. 'Well,' asked Eentland, who did not look in any way disconcerted, ' what do you want with me?' ' To arrest you for the murder of Tobias Lott.' 'Tobias Lott s ' said Eentland in the calmest way. ' Are you sure ?' ' Yes, of course,' said the detective, sharply. 'Well, you're wrong!' said Eentland. ' Lott is not dead !.' ' Not dead ?' I cried. 'No, not dead,' said Eentland, coolly. ' I saw him in Liverpool yesterday morning.' ' Impossible—absolutely absurd 1' I cried. «Why, I examined the body myself!' %, * No you didn't—not his -anyway. I saw him just at the corner of Chapel Street. He crossed towards St. Nicholas Church, and I lost sight of

him; but I reckoned the best thing to do was to come right back and tell them.' The detective smiled and glanced at me. 1 You are a fool!' I said; ' a fool to be misled by a trick of the imagination, ' I tell you I saw him in broad daylight I' said Eentland, obstinately. «The less you say, the better for your case,' remarked the detective, quietly- ' Come along.' «All right, I'll come, though I don't believe your warrant is worth a cent. You can't arrest me for murdering a chap that isn't dead ?' The detective shook his head. * You can.tell 'em all that in court,' said he. ' So I will. And a pretty lot of fatheads you'll all look when I do. I tell you the man's alive.' The detective for reply drew a pair of handcuffs from his pocket, and reached for Kentland's wrist. ' You can pull down your cuffs and they won't show,' said he presently. ' I'm if I do!' said Eentland, not excitedly, but with cool force. 'l'm willing to go along peaceably; but if you try that sort of thing I think you'll want a little help before you get me there,' The detective measured him with a look, and clapped the handcuffs into his pocket. ' Come along then,' he said, cheerfully. And we all set out together for the police station. CHAPTER XVI.—BEFORE TRIAL. (Eentland's Narrative.) I made a big mistake in coming back to Moor End. I began to think so when that detective bailed me up on the bridge; and when they hauled me into the magistrate's court I was sure of it. To begin with not a soul —not even old Tring himself—would believe I had really seen Lott in Liverpool. The doctor seemed to think it was jumps or something of that sort; and the bench of magistrates all thought it wa's my guilty imagination, I reserved my defence simply because there was no defence to make—except an alibi which I couldn't prove without risking Dot's secret; so I was committed for trial at the next Assize Sitting. If I had known what His Majesty's prison was like, I don't think I should have hurried back to Moor End. Not that I had anything to complain of. My cell was as clean as a new knife, and was airy and light enough. I had a hammock that rolled'up against the wall in the daytime, and whichwas as comfortable a bunk as* anyone need want. I've slept in many worse places out on the back-blocks. There was a washstand in the corner next the scuttle, and upon a shelf by the door were a few books—Bibles and other praying tackle mostly, but library books, too- I used to spend a lot of time in reading. And the tucker was all right, though I could have done with a little more of it sometimes. But there was something about the place that gave one the hump—the want of elbow room and the smell of carbolic, and the great grey walls all round. I felt like a steer in a crush pen just before the branding. And if you went into the yard, i$ was like looking up at the free sky from the bottom of a well; and there was the gallows house staring you in the face every time you turned. A man feels pretty down on his luck when he knows fighting is no good, and he has to sit in a stone jag and wait for an old joker in a wig to say whether he is to have his neck wrung or not. And I missed my baccy. That was the worst of all. I'd have given a small pile for a fill and to get my old briar between my teeth for about ten minutes' when things looked dead blue, and I felt as if I'd sooner be hung and be done with it. I have had all I want of the Government hotels, though they are cheap. Many a time I used to sit and stare at the blank grey wall of the cell and wonder if I'd ever feel a saddle between my knees again and see the tails of a fat mob whisking in front in the good old yellow dust of some bush track. And then I'd think of the goldficlds; and the ring of a pick on quartz; and the roar of a twentystamp battery rolling up the gully where the white mullock-heaps crawl down from the mouths of the drives above. There was I, bailed and legroped, with a fat warder in a coalscuttle hat at every corner; and outside was the sea; and oversea, the bush and the open plains and the sheep breaking camp at sunrise. And then I'd wonder how Dot was taking it all, and whether she was safe. And that would make me worse than ever, and I'd start and curse Lott and Moor End and this old country, and all its ways. But one day a thing happened that gave me something more to think of, and which panned out to be pretty important to me in the end. We were exercising, as they called it, in the big yard, which is a long flagged court between forty-foot walls. It was a blazing autumn day, and the sun beat down into that narrow space, and the heat settled in lumps in the bottom of it until you had to take your hat off to breathe. I marched up and down—you're not allowed to stand still —and took stock of the other guests. Some were poor broken-kneed foundered-100 king beggars that didn't look to have anything left in them ; and two or three seemed pretty decent. But some were real old lags with the ' Government stroke' in the way they moved; as tough an outfit as ever I ran across on the diggings or in the shearing sheds; and that's where you'll gene-

rally find a pretty hard push. But these old country who had done time and were expecting to do more, were as rocky a lot as you'd scrape up in old Woolloomooloo, which is saying something. I took a tally of the whole mob as I walked up and down, and founc there were nearly a score and a half of us ; and it struck me that we could have made things pretty sultry for a bit in that yard if we had got a start. The walls were as strong as mountains ; but I saw two places where a man with the gallows behind him might have scrambled up. There were only two warders, one at each end, armed with carbines. But tbey could have done very little if we had rushed them suddenly; and I reckoned that a man might have managed to shin up the water pipe to the roof before they could have got help. Well, I was working it ail out, and walking up and down just about the middle of the yard opposite the gallows-house, when I heard a voice behind me. ' I say, mate,' it said, half aloud—the prisoners aren't allowed to talk, but they do, of course—' I say, don't turn and look. Keep right on slow, and I'll tell ye somethink.' 1 walked on slowly and the man behind followed up and talked. ' I saw you the day they copped you on the bridge at Moor End lock. An' two days arter that they dropped on me for cracking a beggar's blooming' nut wif the lock-key. Botten fool I was to stay and let 'em cop me.' He stopped as we neared the end of the yard, where the warder with his gun loaded was doing sentry-go. As I turned I saw the man, and he winked as I passed. It was the bargee I had seen standing on the bridge beside the doctor just before I was arrested. ' As soon as we got well away from the warder he began again. 'You're in for that job at Moor End, ain't ye? I 'eard all abaht it. And wot's more I found the spotty weskit and the iron ticker wif the bullet 'ole and his name inside.' What more the bargee had to say I never heard; for just then the warders formed us all up in line and marched us back inside. It was good to get into the cool dim light of the prison after the baking heat outside, and w r e were numbered off and marched to our cells. I was at the tail end, so had some time to stand while the others went to their quarters. It was a rum sort of place—iron stairways leading up to tiers of cells, and each tier separated by wire nets from the one below to prevent any poor brute chucking himself over. It is very high and lighted from the top, and another steep ladder leads down to the dark cells underground. Well, I stood there listening to the clang of boots on the iron galleries echoing around the high roof, and wondering what in all Heligoland the bargee had meant. ' A watch with a bullet hole and a spotted waistcoat. By gad!' I said to myself, ' that chap knows something. I must get it out of him tomorrow 7 .' Just, at that moment one of the warders coming down from the gallery above took out his watch—one of those gun-metal Swiss watches you buy for about a couple of pounds—and in a second it struck me that I had seen one just like it somewhere, and I remembered that Lott wore one, f> calendar affair that tells you what day it isn't and when you last remembered to set it And that recalled the waistcoat he had worn last time I saw him in Moor End, and it was spotted. But how did the bargee know that ? And how had he got hold of them ? As I sat over my tucker half an hour later, holding my tin of soup, with a potato can on top, on my knees, a warder came in to say someone wanted to see me. I was not sent to that infernal wild-beast cage where the convicted prisoners receive callers. They took me across the court, down a winding passage that brought me out near the door of the chapel, where there were two glass compartments like the places where cashiers are kept in big shops. I was put into one of them with a big warder behind me, and a wire-gauze screen between me and the other half of the compartment. I expected to see Tring; but instead in came that unlucky beggar Jenkins, looking more slack twisted than ever. I He seemed in a deuce of a fuss over something, ancl was so nervous that he tried to shake hands with me through the wire-netting and barked his knuckles. I I wanted to see you to—to tell you that—that I am awfully sorry I ever thought you did it,' he began, and then lowering his voice he whispered, ' I say, I have something to tell you, if that man there would only go away.' He looked as mysterious as if he was going to givs me a tip about a horse. I told him the warder would get fits if ho did go, and told him never to mind but to wade in. ' Well,' he said, still looking nervously at the warder, and speaking in a low tone, ' do you know that—that —' he gasped with excitement as he brought it out, and his eyes bulged ' —that Lott is alive?' ' Yes, why ? Did you see him ?' ' Yes ! I saw him in the street not an hour ago!' ' The devil you did ? Where was it?' 'ln Queen Victoria Street. I saw him go into the Equitable Tontine Mutual Assurance Office,' said the parson triumphantly. ' Look here,' I said. 'Go at once when you get home and tell Tring about this, and tell him to make inquiries at the insuranca office.' (To be continued.)