The Mystery of the Moor

Sun (Auckland), Volume II, Issue 441, 24 August 1928, Page 5

The Mystery of the Moor

By

J. S. Fletcher

CHAPTER XIX. THE BLANK WALL. "Now, then, Holt,” he said, plunging straight into business. ‘‘Miss Merchison’s given us a description of this man Parslave. Just you give us another, so that. Cottingley and this other man of mine will know him to the last detail. Here, Johnson!” The loafer individual slid close to us. like a shadow shifted by a moving light, and he kept his eyes on me without, blinking while I rapidly but ihoroughly detailed a description of Parslave. So, too, did Cottingley—and Cottingley, when I had finished, first glanced at Maythorne and then at me; his glance at me was accompanied by another jerk of his curi-ously-turned-out left thumb in the direction of Eccleshare’s house. Still in there?” he asked. He’s not come out agaiii since he went In ten minutes ago with a basket of potatoes and cauliflowers,” I answered. Cottingley nodded at Maythorne, udged the loafer, and turned away ® seenimf utter indifference. He putted a cigarette case out of his Pocket, gave a cigarette to his companion; they began to smoke, wanenag away from us. Sheila stared “w em *h obvious wonder. hat ar e they going to do?” she Y, “Queer, odd creatures!” Maythorne laughed and motioned Y 4 eu d of Praed Street. itmv° U two y° un g people can go off . now,” he said. "Parslave is as i.J , as if we’d got him inside the jewel case at the Tower! Take my ad- , e ,’ ®° somewhere and have the day Th yourse i ve s. Leave all this to me. tr ? only thing is that I want you, OVI ' ooli: at m y office at six o*f°D a^ar P this evening. Now—l'm ; ’ Business! Go somewhere and enelse "° UrSelVeS — never min<l anything was fa the taxi-cab which he had aw and was being driven ? y “ efore we could say anything, les l ° r a "uiauto or two we stood aimthi s^ar * n S around us, wondering at c! ktrange development. Then we *kughed° 0^ a t each other and .- That’s good advice of Maythorne’s, all 1 Baid - “Let’s follow it. Hang wh talS business! Let’s go some- ■ \lrL w f lere we can talk about ” “n “ at ’’ said, as I hesitated. enm U l 3elves! ” said I. “We’ve had cn °ugh of other people.” ftsacu Went somewhere else —to be little .^, e m °tored out to a certain hart „ j ase north of London. We old-fa J*? Iis htful lunch in a delightful, loon SaloDe( i inn; -we spent the afteraud anions the autumn-tinted lanes, wiftwt^ at after all has nothing to do do witn cU‘? ry ’ though it has all to Past-fi ae iia and myself. At halffrienrt^ e « 1 took her back to her duit o? aat ’ anil then w r ent on to Contuediat i 6t an 'i Maythorne. He im•tj ely waved a telegram at me. re you are. Holt,” he said.

“More developments. A wire from your man, Webster.” There was no great amount of wording in Webster's telegram, but .such words as were there conveyed a good deal of highly important information. The telegram itself, addressed to me at Maythorne’s office, had been dispatched from Black Gill Junction at ten minutes past ten that morning. And this is \vhal Webster said in it: Courthope, Armintrade, Eccleshare, Mr. and Mrs. Elphinstone all left here for Carlisle by the eight o’clock train this morning. No other developments here and Manners says no news whatever of Parslave. I handed back the telegram without comment, and Maythorne, placing it among other papers in a separate compartment of his desk, pointed to a Bradshaw which lay open close by. “Carlisle, of course, means London,” he said. “I’ve been looking out the trains. They’d reach Carlisle from Black Gill Junction at nine-thirty, in nice time to catch the ten o’clock express. That would get them to Euston at five minutes past six—which means that they’re all in London now. The scene of operation’s shifted. Holt! We’ve got some of the chief actors close at hand. Now I don’t attach much importance to the return of the three men from High Cap Lodge—that simply means that this shooting party’s broken up and that they’re returning to their respective avocations. But Mrs. Elphinstone’s journey to London is a different matter.” “Mrs. Elphinstone, of course, has come after her daughter,” I suggested. “And the will,” he answered. “Or to find out what her daughter’s done with the will. Well —there are two men we’ll have to have a pretty straight talk with to-morrow. Crole’s been here, and you and I are to meet him at his office in the morning. Then we’re going to have it out with Armintrade. After that, we’re going to interview Eccleshare and Parslave, possibly with a little police; assistance, if need be. But to-night you and I are going to see Mrs. Elphinstone. We know where’s she’s to be found—and we’ll go now and find her.” “Where?” I asked, wondering if he had some further information. “Can you doubt?” he answex-ed with •3 laugh. “She’ll be found at Ashington Mansions—where, I suppose, you’ve just left her daughter. That’s the first thing Mrs. Elphinstone would do, Holt, as soon as she struck Euston! Come along!—we shall be up there in Maida Vale about the same time that she gets there. Look here —what sort of person is this Miss Apperley that Miss Merchison is with?” “Very self-sufficient, cool-headed, modei-ix young woman, I should say,” I replied. “Teaches science at some woman s college or other.” “Not the sort to let Airs. Elphinstone drag her daughter off befoi-e we arrive?” he suggested, with a laugh.

“Not at all,” said I, “but I don’t think Miss Merchison is the sort to let herself be dragged off, either. I think she’ll probably give her mother as good as she gets.” “That’s all right,” he remarked. “I want to see those two together—and to ask Mrs. Elphinstone a question or two. And I may as ■well tell you, Holt —she won’t answer ’em! To-night, at any rate.”

“That I quite expect,” said I. , “Just so! But she’ll answer ’em tomorrow —or next day—or the day after that,” he said, with a significant glance. “The thing is, first, to put them to her. Now let’s get a taxicab.” We rode up to Maida Vale and got out 6f our cab some twenty or thirty yards short of Ashington Mansions. Maythorne immediately nudged by elbow. “What did I tell you?” he said. “They’re here, now!” In front of the main entrance to the flats a taxi-cab stood. There was luggage on it —suitcases, portmanteaux. And within it, as we were quick to see when we came abreast of its door, sat a woman—a tall, angular, elderly woman, dressed in somewhat rusty black, who stared straight in front of her until attracted by our momentary halt and seeing our eyes turn in her direction, she gave us a quick, side glance only to withdraw it sharply and to look, ahead again, still more steadily. We passed on and entered the dooi\

"I’ve seen that woman before,” remarked Maythorne, as we crossed the hall to the elevator. “At Alarrasdale.” "So have I,” I answered. “I saw her about the Woodcock —in fact, took her for the cook. She was certainly in the kitchen there, cooking, one day when I looked in to ask some question of the landlady. What can she he doing—here?” “Mrs. Elphinstone will know,” he said. “But —I shan’t ask her that, now. Well —what’s this Miss Apperley’s number?” he went on, as we were whirled upwards. “Twentyseven? Right! Now then, Holt—we walk straight in! We’ll excuse ourselves to Miss Appei-ley aftei-wards. But—open the door, and straight forward.”

I did as he bade me. Without ceremony or as much as a tap, I opened the door of Miss Apperley’s sittingroom, and Alaythorne and I entered, abreast. We plunged into the middle of things. An acrimonious debate was already at its full The setting was almost stage-like. The

owner of the flat, her pince-nez balanced on the bridge of a rather supercilious nose, sat, hands folded in her lap, on a Chesterfield in the window, glancing, half-amused, halt-speculative, alternately from Sheila, who stood, indignant and defiant, by the centre table, to Mrs. Elphinstone, enthroned, obviously in a fine temper, in an elbow chair by the hearth. As for Mr. Elphinstone, he was perched on the edge of a chair in another corner, nursing the handle of his umbrella and apparently as uncomfortable as a nervous and peaceable man can be. At sight of us he looked up and groaned —audibly. But it seemed to me that in spite of his groaning, the advent of two persons of his own sex gave him some comfort.

“ —not one word, good mother, till you tell me how you came into possession of that will,!” Sheila was saying, and saying with emphasis, as we strode in. “It’s up to you to speak first —you’re . . .” She broke off there, or, rather, Maythorne broke things off for her. He had quietly closed the door as we entered, and without a sign or sound of preface, he strode forward and took the words out of Sheila’s mouth.

“Your daughter’s in the right, Mrs. Elphinstone,” he said in cool, even accents. “It’s up to you to give explanations. Now, come, Atrs. Elphinstone —how did you obtain possession of Mazaroff’s will—which is now safe, let me tell you, safe—in Mr. Crole’s strong room. Come!” Mr. Elphinstone groaned again—wearily. But Mrs. Elphinstone showed temper—and fight. “How dare you speak to me —me! like that?” she demanded. “What right, ” “My dear lady!” interrupted Alaythorne. “Be calm, and don’t he foolish. Think a little. Here is a very wealthy man murdered under most suspicious circumstances. He has his will in his pocket, witli other papers, and with valuables, and with money. He is not only murdered, out he is robbed of everything he has on him. Nothing can be discovered about bis missing property. Then a few nights later your daughter accidentally finds out that the will is in your hands! What, do you suppose the police authorities will say to that, Airs. Elphinstone? I’m asking you.” But I saw at once that however and whatever Maythoi-ne might ask, he was not going to get an answer out of Mrs. Elphinstone—just then, at any rate, if ever. She looked at him halfwonderingly, as thoi-oughly obstinate and slightly stupid people will look at a questioner: I could see quite well that she was wondering how he dared to be so plain-spoken and unceremonious. And as she kept silence, he became still more outspoken. “I said —I’m asking you, Mrs. Elphinstone! I also referred to the police. Which do you prefer ?-r-to tell me, or to be questioned by them. It can easily come to the latter. One word—from me—and then ... but I think you understand—”

Mr. Elphinstone groaned once more —audibly. He shifted uneasily in his chair, clinging desperately to his umbrella. “AXost distressing!” he murmured. “Most unpleasant. Really—l—l think, Marion, that—er —you know—if I were you—l—-I think I should say how you got this—er—document—l should—really.”

“Mrs. Elphinstone will have to say how she got it, and from whom,” observed Maythorne. “That will was without doubt abstracted —stolen — from Mazaroff’s pocket by the man who murdered him.

“And, Mr. Elphinstone, it is later discovered in Mrs. Elphinstone’s keeping. How came it there?” Mrs. Elphinstone suddenly gathered up her wraps and her umbrella and rose from her chair. It seemed to me that she was the most self-possessed person there—even Miss Apperley was beginning to show signs of concern. “What right have you to ask me questions?” she demanded, facing Maythorne. “You’re not a policeman, as far as I’m aware, and I don’t know that you’ve any authority. If I were Miss Apperley, I should ask you to walk out of my flat! As for me, lam going, and whoever wishes to see me will find me at Short’s Hotel. You’ll find me there, Sheila —I shall not run after you again.” . "That’s a useful thing to know, Mrs. Elphinstone,” said Alaythorne still pertinacious. “You will no doubt be called upon at Short’s. And ag to our intrusion upon Miss Appex-iey— I should think Aliss Apperley has already heard enough to feel sure that we were justified. This is a matter of murder! And whether you like it or not, Mrs. Elphinstone—or, as it should.be, Merchison —I am going to know who mur-dei-ed Mazaroff. If you kjjow;, you’re already an accessory after the crime.” That was useless. Mrs. Elphinstone moved toward the door, motioning Mr. Elphinstone to follow. He got up from his chair, ii-resolute, frightened. “I think—er —l think, really—there may be some —some explanation, don’t you know,” he faltered, looking appealingly at Maythorne. “Mrs. Elphinstone may have come into possession of this—er—will in a quite—- “ Airs. Elphinstone has only to speak, sir,” said Maythorne. “You cannot get over the fact that things are as I have just set them out. I repeat—this is a matter of murder! If Mrs. Elphin--stone chooses to allow herself to come under suspicion, it is her own fault. Things can’t remain where they are. If Mrs. Elphinstone came into possession of the will in any innoc».it way, why does she not say straight out in what way, and help us, instead of hindering us, in our work.”

Ml’S. Elphinstone was at the dqor by that time, and her eyes were as hard as ever as she swept Us all with a half-contemptuous glance. “Do your own work!” siie retorted. “Are you coming, Alalcolm? As for you, Sheila, if you -w;Vit me again, you’ll have to come to me. Otherwise

She made a gesture which seemed to indicate that she washed her hands of her daughter and of everybody present, "and without waiting for'Mr. Elphinstone she marched off down the cori-idor. But he, lingering, turned another appealing look on Maythorne. “J—l do hope you won’t go to—to the police?” he said. “Most unfortunate and most unpleasant, all this, but I’m sure—certain! —there’s some explanation. It was, I think, very unkind, thoughtless, of—er my stepdaughter to run away with that docu-

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ment before she asked her mother any question about it, and —” “Miss Merchison did the only thing that could be done,” interrupted Maythorne. “Drastic, no doubt, but the only thing. Had that will remained in your house, Mr. Elphinstone, it would have been destroyed—sure enough! And the best thing you oan do is to give your wife some sound advice. Let her speak! Get this into your mind —neither she nor you seem to appreciate the fact, so far—this is

a case of murder! Why trifle with it?” Mr. Elphinstone shook his head—wearily and despondently. He looked round at all of us as if he wanted to speak, but no words came, and he presently turned and went after his wife. Maythorne closed the door, and glanced at us. “You may think I was too explicit—perhaps brutal —with Mrs. Elphinstone,” he said, “but I don’t believe any of you understand. Knowing what I do —and Crole, of course, knows

|it now—l cannot keep this informa* I tion from the police! It’s impossible! :We know —the police know—that ! Mazaroft was robbed as well as rhurdered. That will was on him! How did Mrs. Elphinstone get it?” “There’s one thing doesn't seem to have struck you, or any of you," said Miss Apperley, suddenly speaking for the first time. “I think it might have struck Sheila, if she were not so notoriously impulsive. Mrs. Elphiustone may have found the will.” (To be ContinueU>