The Mystery of the Moor

Sun (Auckland), Volume II, Issue 433, 15 August 1928, Page 5

The Mystery of the Moor

By

J. S. Fletcher

CHAPTER XI. —THE POLICE THEORY. I don’t think I did more than hear him—l was watching the coroner, feeling, now, that he, somehow, crystallised in himself all that the various people in that room were thinking and wondering. He suddenly put a sharp question to Postlethwaite. “The actual will, truly executed by the deceased, was in those very words?’’ “Precisely!” assented Postlethwaite. “This is the draft —in the deceased’s handwriting—from which the actual will was copied.” The coroner looked round —at nobody in particular. “I understand that the will has not been found,” he said. “The theory is that it was stolen by the supposed murderer, with other of the deceased’s papers. Nobody knows anything about it, eh?” Wetherby was suddenly on his legs, with a side-long glance at me. “As Mr. Holt, the beneficiary, is present, sir,” he said, “I should like to ask him if he knows anything about it?” I felt Crole tug at my sleeve, but I jumped up. “I know nothing about it,” I exclaimed. “I never heard of it.” Wetherby gave me another look; there was something cynical in it which I strongly resented, and I felt the blood flame in my cheeks. “You and the deceased gentleman were very close friends, I think?” he said quietly. “Isn’t that so?” “We had come to be close friends; very good friends,” I answered, “but He interrupted me with a wave of the hand and another disagreeable smile. “Such close friends that he leaves you all his money—a vast fortune! and appoints you sole executor of his last will and testament —and yet never even mentions the matter of his good intentions and your extraordinary luck to you!” he said, with what was almost a sneer. “You’re sure about your memory?” “I’m sure of something else than ®y memory!” I retorted hotly. “I know nothing whatever about Mazarou s will; I never knew he’d made one. And I’m very sure that if Mazaroff i.eally was Merchison, and his will is ound, and I have to handle his money, shall just transfer it to whom it beongs to his widow and daughter. Do you hear that, Mr. Wetherby?—if not, i il say it again.” h TL bad got a hand on my arm rtbat time, and was dragging at me. Sit down, Holt, you damned young s ?' .be muttered strenuously. Sit down! Leave this to me.” He, oo got on his legs—his voice sounded ave and placatory as he turned to me coroner. » sit, that this has scarcely --thing to do with the object of this inquiry ” _ “ Wlt b all respect to Mr. Crole, I'm t so sure of that,” interrupted Wetherby. “i f „ .! 'T 0 in possession, if you please,” t. role ' 1 suggest that the inbe adjourned until——” m about to do that,” broke in the

coroner. “During the next few days, more light will doubtless be thrown on all these matters.” He turned to the open-mouthed jurymen. “This day fortnight, gentlemen, and In the meantime ” I paid no heed to the coroner’s platitudes about keeping open minds —my own mind was in a whirl of indignation against Mrs. Elphinstone’s solicitor. But when I turned in her direction, I saw that Mrs. Elphinstone herself had crossed over from her seat and was talking earnestly to him. Presently he came up to me, with a half-amused, half-ingratiating smile. “You’re a bit hot-tempered, Mr. Holt,” he said. “Come! come!—l was only speaking professionally, you know—professional manners, after all, are—” “Confoundedly offensive, sir, if that’s a specimen of them!” I retorted. “You were inferring that —” “Now, now, I wasn’t inferring anything,” he interrupted soothingly. “I’ve the interest of my client to consider—Crole there, and Postlethwaite would have done the same. I say again, it’s an odd thing that Marazoff or Merchison didn’t mention his will to you. But the whole thing’s odd,” he went on, looking round, “and what I suggest is that we legal gentlemen and the parties concerned just have a talk, if we can find a place to talk in.” I took them into the private sittingroom which Mazaroff ami I had chartered and I still retained—the three solicitors, Mr. and Mrs. Elphinstone, and Sheila; Maythorne was already in conference with the police in a quiet corner of the room in which the inquest had been held. The solicitors did most of the talking that followed; it was all about the chances of recovering the missing will and the possibilities of setting up the original draft—which was wholly in Mazaroff’s handwriting and also bore his signature—if no recovery was made. The discussion didn’t interest me. I was resolved, after what I had heard, tjiat I should never touch one penny of the dead man’s money. And I made a blunt interruption in the midst of the legal jargon. “You’re all forgetting," I said, “that when Mr. Mazaroff—or, as I think we ought to call him, Mr. Merchison—made that will at York, he didn’t know that he had a daughter.” They all turned and looked at me. “You think that if he had known that, he’d have made a different will, Mr. Holt?” suggested Wetherby. “I can only say what I know,” I replied. “When Mazaroff, or Merchison, told me what he did about his marriage, and his running away, and all the rest of It, he said that if his child had been born before he went he was sure he’d never have gone. Well, he came back—years later—and found

ALL FRUIT NOVEL DECORATIONS BACHELOR’S IDEA Not so very long ago people discovered the decorative qualities of fruit, not wax fruit, set up under glass shades, hut glowing rich, full coloured, full flavoured fruit, with the bloom of the orchard upon it. So the florists began to fill great baskets with grapes and peaches and oranges and cherries and strawberries, in fact, anything in season, and to nestle among the fruit the flowers. Now, London newspapers talk of the joys of what may be termed “the pure fruit” decoration, but to one Sydney bachelor at least fruit as a decorative agent is no novelty. Year's ago, when his mother had a fascinating house with a lily pond embowered in a succession of sweetscented stocks, giant pansies, and delphiniums, he was devoted to his garden. When he began to reside in a bachelor flat, he decided that in such quarters flowers were unsuitable, so he furnished to his own taste, and replaced pansies by pomegranates. Figured materials he considers are effeminate, but he approves of quantities of colour, such as red lacquer cupboards and trays, or a vivid orange vase. A thing need not be costly to be beautiful, and some of his greatest treasures he has picked up in the Chinese quarters for a very few pounds. Breaking down - any suggestion of severity come the bowls of glowing fruit, with their assurance of material enjoyment as well as of beauty. Pioneers, of course, all have their trials, and this interior decorator has his. They take the form of the flowers which his well-meaning hostesses insist upon thrusting upon him. “You must take back some roses for your flat,” they say, hospitably. And, being polite, he takes the roses, or some sister blooms, to his sister, whose home is not far away. People are so exceedingly good to him that they grow primulas and lobelia, and suchlike, in pots, for his special benefit.

he had a child —a daughter. He saw her! And I think it’s only common sense to suppose that finding he had a daughter, he’d have left his money to her. Besides—” I paused there. A sudden notion had struck me—one that I was glad to have. “Well?” asked Wetherby, goodhumouredly. “Considering that after coming here he discovered that he had a daughter,” I continued, “I should think it’s very obvious what he did with the will made at York.” "Aye—and what, now?” inquired Wetherby. “Burnt it. of course!” I answered. “AVhy should he leave his money to me, when he’d a daughter of his own? He didn’t know he had one when he was at York—but he knew within an hour or two of arriving here.” “There's something in that,” muttered Wetherby. “Pie may have done. The question is—was he going to reveal himself as Merchison?” “Was he Merchison?” suggested Postlethwaite. There was a pause after that. Suddenly Crole smote the table at which he was sitting. “Who murdered this man?” he exclaimed, with emphasis “That’s the question! Who murdered him, and why? It may have been a common, vulgar crime—for mere robbery. But—there may be more in it. He was a man of mystery, evidently. And as I’ve asked before —was he murdered as Mazaroff, or as Merchison? X think we may have to go back—perhaps a long \vay. But it seems to me that the murder must be cleared up as a start.” “Supposing he is not Merchison at all?” suggested Postlethwaite once more. “Supposing ” I don’t know what his second or third supposition was; he seemed to be anxious to consider several, none of them very pertinent, to my thinking. Just then Maythorne came in, closing the door behind him. "Gathered anything?” asked Crole. “Well—something,” answered Maythorne. “No secret about it, either. Manners tells me that a certain-man named Parslave, Ralph Parslave, better known as Ratty, who lives in a cottage on the outskirts of Birnside, has never been home since the day of that fail. He s a man who lives by himself and seems to be a sort of oddjob man; occasional drover, gamewatcher, rat-catcher ” “Everybody knows Ratty Parslave ” Interjected Sheila. “He’s a local celebrity.” ; “Just so,” said Maythorne. “Well, Ratty Parslave was known to go to ' this fair they talk about, after his usual habit, but he never came home again. However, the police have ascertained that he came in here in : company with other men, drovers ’and : so on, returning from the fair, on the evening of the murder. He was one 1 C °f Pany , *° wllich Mazaroff 1 stood drinks and cigars. Those who 1 ■were present—such of them, at any 5 rate, as can remember any details— ; are under the impression that Par- ' slave left the room where Mazaroff ; raff ei u taiUe T them ’ a little befoi'e Maza- > roff himself went out, but up to now 1 theyve failed to find anybody who actually saw Parslave leave this house or saw him again that night. It’s abso lately certain, however, that he was ' m here that evening—and since then S ing see!i or “ ; fair,” su g g ted" Po s tlethwaite“ “These fellows do go from one to another ”

“ Yes,” agreed Maythorne. “But there are no other fairs being held just now—nothing until next month. And, of course, the police have already got a theory—they think that Parslave, who, they say, has been in what they call trouble before, saw Mazaroff make a display—unconsciously—of his money. They think he slipped out of the bar-room, perhaps with no very definite intention; that chancing to pass the open door of this private room he saw Musgrave’s gun hanging on those hooks, stepped in, took it down and cleared off with it; that he afterwards followed Mazaroff across the moor, shot him dead, and robbed him, after that throwing the gun away where it was found, and clearing out with the proceeds of his

crime. That, I say, is the police theory.” “And what do you think of it?” asked Wetherby, with some curiosity. “We know you by repute, Mr. Maythorne. How does it strike you?” “It’s a good theory—from a policeman’s point of view,” said Maythorne. “There may be a great deal in it. But speaking for myself, I should like to know more about the dead man’s personal, private history, recent'as well as past. One matter in particular needs clearing up. He told Mr. Holt that he wanted to see some man here at Marrasdale. Who was that man? Did he see him?” IMobody, of course, could answer that question, and the conference broke up. Maythorne and the three solicitors began talking together I went with the Elphinstones and Sheila to the door of the inn. Mr. Elphinstone was inclined to be sceptical about the identity of Mazaroff with Merchison; the letter from Sinclair, the return of the cabin trunk,

j the monument in the church, appeared i to him proof positive tbVt Merchison was dead long ago, and that Mazaroff, | knowing something of Ijis history, had | told me a cock-and-bull story. He j maundered away about it as I walked | up the road with them Mrs. Elphin- | stone and Sheila said nothing. But ; when I was about to turn back, Mrs. j Elphinstone showed more graciousness of manner than I had yet seen

j in her, and it emboldened me to say j once more W'hat was ip. my mind— I rankling in it, as a matter of fact. | “You understand,” I said, “that if what old Hassendeane positively as- | serted to be a fact turns out to be J so, and if that will turns up, I'm not j going to touch one penny of that j money. I very much resented your solicitor’s manner ” “Don’t think any more of that,” exclaimed Mrs. Elphinstone, with whom I just then happened to be shaking hands. “Mr. Wetherby is, of course, a lawyer. I’m not. I am quite sure you would do what you feel to be right, Mr. Holt, under any circumstances—quite, quite sure',” She and old Elphinstone turned

away Sheila lingered for a moment. She gave me a direct, questioning glance. “Look here,” she said, “do you believe that poor man was my father — Andrew Merchison? Honour bright. | now?” j “Very well, I do!” I answered, j “Can’t think anything else. I haven’t j | the slightest doubt of it.” j “Then,” she said, unconsciously coming nearer to me, “if his will turns ! up, please stick to the money—please. ; To please me, if nothing else.” “Good Lord! why?” 1 exclaimed. “I I haven’t the least right to a penny.” ! “Yes, you have,” she retorted. “It was his wish.” “But he didn’t know about you, then,” I said. “If ■” “Never mind,” she interrupted. “I —I want you to stick to it. I do not want it to come into my mother’s hands or mine—l know what that would mean. Anyway, please promise me that, if the will’s found, you won’t do anything rashly, in that way.” “I’ll promise you that,” I replied

eagerly. "I won't do anything at all without consulting you. But ■” She motioned me to say no more, and moved away. “Thank you for promising,” she said over her shoulder. I'll say more—■ afterwards.” (To be continued.)