The Mystery of the Moor

Sun (Auckland), Volume II, Issue 425, 6 August 1928, Page 5

The Mystery of the Moor

By

J. S. Fletcher

CHAPTER lII.—LOST. “Mrs. Elphinstone, eh?” said Mr. Mazaroff. “And the young lady— Miss Elphinstone, ot course?” "No, sir,” replied Musgrave. “The young lady is Miss Merchison —Miss Sheila, as we all call her. Mrs. Elphmstone's daughter by a previous marriage, sir—l believe Mr. and Mrs. Elphinstone hadn’t been married very long, themselves, when they came here. I fancied I detected renewed interest in the expression of Mr. Mazaroff’s face during this explanation. But he was a good hand at concealing his thoughts, and he turned and waved his hand ’ towards the wide prospect before us. “So Mr. Elphinstone, of Marrasdale Tower, owns most of what we see?” he suggested. “Well, not what you might call most, sir,” replied Musgrave. He set down his basket of apples and began to point out distant landmarks. “Mr. Elphinstone’s estate, sir, runs from here up to the village, and then across by the foot of the fells to a point near that blue hill in the far distance, and from that right back here, taking in the whole of Marrasdale Moor. But those moors to the south and east, sir. High Cap Moors, they belong to a London gentleman, Mr. Verner Courthope, a banker. He’s got a shooting-box right in the middle of

cm—High Cap Lodge they call it — and he’s there now, with a small shooting party.” “Good sport hereabouts?” asked Mr. Mazaroff, half indifferently. “There’s a fine lot of grouse this s ® ar > sir,” replied Musgrave. “Mr Elphinstone and Mr. Courthope, they’ve both had rare good bags.” With occasional bits of gossip of this sort, our first evening at the woodcock went off very pleasantly. I wondered what we were going to do "hh ourselves next day in so solitary a Place. But Mr. Mazaroff, it seemed, had notions of his own, which he Promptly explained on coming down io breakfast.

Holt, laddie,” he said, with a condential nod, “you’ll understand me, m sure—l want to have this day to *yself, looking round old spots, you now, alone. And also, there’s a man I want to see on a bit of busihess. So—you'll amuse yourself till ojenlng, when I'll be back in good “me for dinner?”

"Of course,” I agreed. “I’ll be all -ight. Don’t bother about me.” He thanked me, almost as it I had the first person to consider, vresently, carrying a stout stick, he ent out—and I noticed that just beore leaving our sitting-room he put °n a pair of blue spectacles, with some remark about the glare of t he snn. He went off in the direction of he village, and I saw no more of him '■util fi e turned up again just as dinner w as ready at 7 o'clock. He was ' ery quiet au<} thoughtful during din-

ner, and it was not until he was halfway through his after-dinner cigar that he suddenly motioned me to draw my chair close alongside his own. “Holt!” he said, “I’ve something to tell you. And, man! —it’s the strangest tale you ever heard in your life!”

I suppose I gave Mr. Mazaroff a wondering and perhaps a half-uneasy, stare, for he nodded reassuringly as he drew his chair still closer to mine. “Nothing to he frightened about, Holt, my lad,” he said. “Just a—a coil, as you might put it. But a—had one! And, as I said just now—as strange a tale as ever you heard. Anyway, one of ’em.” “Yes!” I said. “About—yourself?”

“Self and other folk,” he replied, with a grim smile. “Other folk! —aye, there’s the devil of it! If it were only myself, now! —but there’s more than one affected. And yet, now I come to think it over, it’s only what might have been expected—just that!” He turned to the window and for a moment or two sat staring fixedly and in silence across the moor, stretching away in the rapidly-gathering twilight. But I saw that it was not at the moor, nor at the darkening mass of the hills beyond, that he looked, but at someth! »; far off in his memory. Curiosity got the better of me, and I broke in on his thoughts. “I’m all in the dark, Mr. Mazaroff,” I said. “Am Ito listen” He stared —then gave me an emphatic nod. “Aye!” he answered. “You’re to listen, Holt, for I’ve nobody else to tell it to, and I’m wanting counsel on it, and you’re a sensible youngster. It’s just this—you saw the two ladies that passed us by yesterday afternoon when we were talking to the landlord at his garden gate?” “I nodded an affirmative —I might have added that —in my mind’s eye— I had been seeing the younger of the two ever since, and had spent the whole of that day thinking about her. But I kept that bit of news to myself.

“Aye, well!” he continued. “They don’t know it, and nobody knows it, only me. But it’s just this, Holt, my lad —that’s my wife and daughter!” I was smoking one of Mr. Mazaroff’s prime cigars at the moment, and when he said this I started so violently that it jumped from between my teeth and fell to the floor. It seemed to me that a whole age—an aeon, if you like —elasped in the mere act of stooping and recovering it. And I wondered at the calmness and banality of my reply when I sat upright again, looking at him. “Musgrave,” I said, quite steadily, “Musgrave called the elder lady Mrs. Elphinstone, and the younger Miss Merchison —Miss Sheila Merchison.” He gave an impatient laugh. “Musgrave here, Musgrave there!” he retorted. “He knows no better, and no more. But I’m telling you

that that’s my wife, laddie, and the lassie’s my daughter, and unless I see some way out of the complications there’s the devil and all to pay!” There was a pause between us then. He sat twiddling his big thumbs, and, as he had discarded the blue spectacles, the cast In his eye looked, somehow, more sinister than usual. I began to sense the mysterious in him, and to realise that his was, to me, an unexplored personality. “I don’t understand,” I said at last. “I’m going to make you understand, Holt,” he answered. “This is the way of it —yon good-looking lassie’s name is Merchison, sure enough. And —Elphinstone though she may call herself, and no doubt think she’s a right to call herself —so is her mother’s. And—so’s mine. Merchison!” “Not Mazaroff, then?” 1 exclaimed. “I’ve a right to that, too,” he said. "Legal right—all correct and proper. It’s been my legal name for many years, and It’ll remain so. But I was born Merchison —and not so far from here, too —and I was married Merchison. And yon’s Mrs. Merchison, for ail she’s married to Elphinstone.” “And I don’t understand any more now!” said I. “Well, Holt,” he answered, “I’ll make it as plain as I can, and maybe it’s not such a tangle as it seems when you get hold of one end of the thread and pull steadily at it. You see, I was horn hereabouts. My father was a well-to-do estate agent in these parts, and I was an only son, only child, In fact. My father and mother died when I was a mere youngster, and after that I lived with my grandfather on his farm near Selkirk, across the border yonder. Then he died, when I was just about two-and-twenty, and he left me all he had, a tidy lot of money, and that, put to what my parents had left me, made me a pretty rich man. And I was headstrong and impetuous, and always for having my own way, and there was nobody to keep me from having it, nor from indulging myself in any whims that came into my head. And I came across a high-mettled girl that was pretty much like myself in that respect—a parson’s daughter that was just mad to get away from her folk and her home and the dullness of it all —and we got wed in more than the usual haste, and began to repent as soon as we’d done it!” “Why?” I asked. “Man!” he answered, “we had not a taste in common. We had nothing In common except obstinacy and selfDON’T NEGLECT PILES! Medical authorities stress the danger of neglected Piles, as they sometimes lead to septic poisoning, fistula, and even cancer. The Zann Double Abroption Pile Cure offers you the latest scientific remedy. Write for generous Trial Treatment, enclosing nine penny stamps. Address in strictest confidence, Zann Proprietary, Box 952, Wellington. Booklets and stocks of “Zann” obtainable from Bridge Drug Stores, Karangahape Rd., and A. Eccles, Chemist, Queen Street, and Branches. Auckland.—s.

will. And we found we were the worst pair to pull together that ever was harnessed. I was all for adventure, and travelling to see the world. She was all for setting up a grand establishment and playing the big lady among the folk that had previously bored her to death. I saw in less than a year that things would never do —so I just took matters into my own hands.” “In what way?” I inquired. “I’ll not deny that it was a highhanded, cavalier, maybe, selfish and egotistical jway,” he answered reflectively. “It was not the way I would take now, with a soberer mind and more knowledge of the world. But what I did was this: I went to a lawyer and pledged him to secrecy; then I realised all that I had —a nice lot—and divided it into two equal shares, and made one fast to her for life—she’ll have it always. Never less, Holt, than £1,500 a year of her own. And, that done, and all secure for her, I just took my share and cleared out.” “Without telling her!” I exclaimed. “Aye, she knew nothing about it,” he answered. “What was the use? X just went- —right away. Nobody, not even the lawyer body, knew where. To he sure, I left word for her that I was going travelling for a few years, but I did not let on where.” “So —you ran away from her?” I suggested. “If you put it that way, X did,” he assented candidly. “It was the only thing to do. There would have been unpleasantness otherwise. A silent and quiet departure —the only thing for it, in my judgment.” “And the child? —the girl we saw yesterday afternoon?” I asked after a pause. “Was she horn then?” “No,” he answered with emphasis, “she wasn’t; If she had been, maybe I’d never have gone—indeed, I’m sure now that I would not have gone. But she was neither born, nor did I know she was likely to be born. She came eight months after I’d left.” “You heard of it, then?” I suggested. “Never knew of it till to-day!” he exclaimed. “I’ve been making some inquiries, without revealing my own identity. These country folk, Holt, are rare hands at knowing family histories and secrets, and they’re equally good at retailing what they know.” “Of course, Mrs. Elphinstone-—as she’s known here —believes you to be dead?” I said. “That goes without saying.” “Oh, to bo sure!” he answered. “She married this Elphinstone a few years hack, just before he bought this Marrasdale Tower estate. Aye, she believes me dead as Adam —and here I’m alive! ” “What are you going to do?” I asked. “What would you do, yourself, Holt?” he replied, anxiously. “Tell me your plain opinion, man! I’ll not be offended at anything you say. As I’ve remarked before, I’ve a great opinion of your common sense. Say, now!” “I think I should just go away, saying nothing,” said I. “After ail, you left her. And—if you reveal yourself, it’ll mean breaking up what’s probably a satisfactory settlement. Mr. Elphinstone and the “Oh, by all accounts, they suit each other as well as we suited each other ill!” he broke in. “Aye, this settle-

ment’s all right. But —the girl’s my daughter.”

“She’s never known you, Mr. Mazaroff,” I remarked. His bronzed cheeks, reddened at that, and he shook his head. “You’re right, Holt, you’re right!” he said, almost humbly. “And it’s my own fault. Well —up to now, nothing’s happened. Nobody knows but yourself.” “You’ve told no one?” I asked.

“Not a soul,” he asserted. “I’ve just picked things up—information. Nobody knows —nobody has the least idea —those folk at Marrasdale Tower least of all.”

“After all these years it would be something of a startling revelation,” I observed. “It needs some reflection. “And” —but then a new idea struck me, and I regarded him doubtfully. “I suppose, if it came to it, you’d have to prove that ” “That Salim Mazaroff is Andrew Merchison,” he interrupted. “Oh, that can be done. There’s the cast in my eye, and a birth-mark on my right arm, and there’s papers and people—not just at hand, to be sure, but findable —that, can substantiate all that.” “How came you to take such an unusual name?” I ventured to ask him. He laughed softly, as if the reminiscence pleased him. “I’ll tell you,” he answered. “When I first went off, it was to India. I knocked about there a good deal, and in the Persian Gulf, and in adjacent parts. Then I went further south—to Durban, and thence into the interior, the diamond districts. And in Durban I foregathered with an old man of like tastes to mine, in fact, he and I lived together and traded together. His name was Mazaroff, and he left me all his money—no little—on condition I took it. So I did; why not? At that time, I’d no intention of ever coming back to England again.” “Mr. Mazaroff,” said I, “did it never strike you that your wife, believing you dead —as I suppose she did—would marry again?” “I can’t say that it did,” he replied. “I’m a bit slow, perhaps. I ought to have thought. But I didn’t. And now—there’s the situation!” “What are you going to do about it?” I asked. “I don’t know,” he answered frankly. “Nothing in a hurry. And, as I say, nobody knows but you and me. There’s no fear of my being recognised. I’ve talked to a dozen people to-day who knew me in the old days, and in my blue spectacles they hadn’t the least idea as to who I really was.” He got up then and went out, to stroll about the front of the inn alone. That night he said no more on the subject of his revelations, nor did he mention the matter in the morning. We spent most of thaj; day in motoring to some ruins twentymiles away. When we returned in the evening there was a good deal of business being done at the inn; men were returning in numbers from the fair of w-hich Musgrave had spoken, and every room in the house was crowded except our own private parlour. And there were groups of men and horses in the road when, after dinner, Mr. Mazaroff, remarking to me that he wanted to have a good think all by himself, crossed over to the open moor and strolled away across *

tlie heather. I never saw him again —alive. It was about half past seven when he went out and vanished into the undulations of the moor. I went out myself soon afterwards, and was out, wandering aimlessly about among the slieep-tracks, until past nine o’clock, when I returned to the inn. He had not come back. Nor had he come at ten —and when eleven struck from the old grandfather clock in the stonewalled hall, I sought out Musgrave and his wife, seated at their supper-table after the toils of an unusually busy evening. Webster, Mr. Mazaroff’s chauffeur, was supping with them. The landlord and landlady were not inclined to any uneasiness or alarm. During our forty-eight hours’ stay they had discovered that Mr. Mazaroff was, as they put it, an affable and friendly gentleman, inclined to sociability—their present opinion w T as that he had dropped in at one of the moorland houses and was still there, comfortably chatting. But when twelve o’clock sounded, and he was still absent, Musgrove’s face lengthened, and he began to talk about the foolishness of going out in the dusk and dark in strange places. “Are there any places on the moor where he could come to harm?” I asked. “That depends,” replied Musgrave. “There’s places he could fall over in the dusk, and there’s others —bogland —that he could sink into before he knew where he w T as, dark or light.

Them that doesn’t know these moors shouldn’t wander about ’em, after dark.” It was on the tip of my tongue to | remark that Mr. Mazaroff knew* these : moors well enough, or had known them, but I checked myself, and instead of saying anything went out on to the road before the inn. It was black night then, and the silence was intense. There was scarcely a star to be seen, and on the hard-surfaced roads that led from the village and across the moor itself not a footfall sounded. I went back, resolute that something must be done. Musgrave got lanterns for Webster, me and himself; we went out on the moor, leaving instructions with Mrs. Musgrave to keep a strong light burning in the front windows of the inn, and to make an arranged signal to us if Mr. Mazaroff returned in our absence. We dispersed in different directions, listening always for any cry of distress. We were out in that way until a faint grey light began to show beyond the eastern hills; at that we went back to the inn. None of us had heard or seen anything. And now Musgrave and his wife set up a different theory. Mr. Mazaroff had wandered too far, called in at some house, and been pressed to stay the night; he would turn up at breakfast time. I had no belief in that. Webster and I got some food and hot coffee and went out again—he one way, I the other. Mine took me toward the dawn. And the sun had just risen | in all its autumn glory, and the fells ! were shimmering in the morning ; mists, when suddenly rounding a sharp ! bluff in the rise and fall of the moorland, I came face to face with the girl ; of whom I had been thinking for two i days—Sheila.

Sheila was sitting by one of the reed-fringed pools that lay among the heather and the moss. Unconscious ■ of any presence save that of a solemneyed spaniel who sat at her side, she had drawn off her shoes and stockings and was dabbling her feet and ankles in the dark waters. A sudden start of realisation came over me at the sight of her. All unaware as she was of it, there was I, anxiously searching for a man, who. if this story was true, was this girl’s father! The spaniel caught sight of me and barked. His mistress looked hastily in my direction, saw me, seemed to realise that she had seen me before, and though she blushed at being caught in a somewhat mystifying situation, accepted it calmly. She gave ! me a friendly nod —and at the same time began to put on her foot-gear. I purposely remained in the rear until ; she jumped to her feet, faced me. and ! laughed, pointing to the pool. “There’s a superstition about that i well," she said, without preface or | hesitation. “They say' that if you 1 dip your feet in it six times, within [ an hour of sunrise, any time between Michaelmas and Martinmas, you'll live to be happy ever after. So —I was trying it.” I went nearer, en- : couraged by her frank smile and : manner. ! “1 hope it'll come true," I said. “As ; for myself, I’m not at all happy just i now.” A look of concern came into her eyes. “Xo?” she responded. “Not? Why?” “I believe you saw me, yesterday—no. the day before — near the Woodcock, with an elderly gentleman? I ■ said. “You went by. Well, he's missing— lost!” (To be Continued !