It is dark in the bush

New Zealand Listener, Volume 6, Issue 149, 1 May 1942, Page 24

It is dark in the bush

SYNOPSIS Three students discover the body of james Collins on a tree in backblocks bush. The inquest reveals that Collins died of luminal poisoning, and the body was afterwards : hanged. Graham 1s arrested, evidence against him being that as Charles Preston he suffered a heavy jail sentence in Australia for a crime for. which his secretary, Peter Langley, alias Collins, was responsible, and that he is known to have bought luminal soon after reaching New Zealand. Mrs. Marsden confesses to Judith that she saw Preston in the clearing on the afternoon of the murder. Preston tells his lawyer that a week before the murder, Langley came to Murray’s house, Te Rata, and meeting Preston, attempted to blackmail him. Preston, after séveral days’ hesitation, goés up to Langley’s shack with the money and finds him already deed. There is an empty bottle of luminal on the table. Realising he will be suspected of murder, he drags the body into the bush and hangs it, hoping that in the event of tts discovery, Langley will be presumed to have killed himself. Preston begs David to recover from the shanty Langley’s papers, giving the full history of his blackmail victims, one of whom is probably the murderer. He reaches the shanty too late-the papers are gone. But there is someone else in the shanty. David is sure it is George Murray, and immediately suspects him ot the murder, a suspicion which is reinforced by Judith’s hasty marriage to John Murray. And in spite of Ashton’s eloquence, the trial goes badly for Preston.

CHAPTER XXVII.-Cont’d. HE Court rose at four o’clock that afternoon, and when it reassembled next morning, the jury found the prisoner guilty with a strong recommendation to mercy. Only the men of the party were present when sentence was pronounced, and as soon: as the Court rose, David hurried to meet Morgan. "That recommendation to mercy — what’s it worth?" "A life sentence at the best. It rests with the Executive and there’s been a strong reaction in favour of capital punishment just lately. Too many crimes of violence. . . . But tell the daughter that at least it won’t mean the death sentence."

"Tt won’t?" The lawyer shrugged. " Heaven knows, but no harm in telling her so. Poor child, at least she did her best." "And George Murray?" The lawyer glanced round and lowered his voice. " You heard his evidence; you saw him give it, and, if you were to voice your suspicions at this moment you would probably be forgiven as mentally deranged. Still-wait and see. I had a curious feeling once or twice that the witnesses were only temporising." "Temporising, with the death sentence pronounced!" "But not confirmed. The part you heard, dreadful though it was, was only a formality. There must be a delay of some weeks and I don’t think we shall have to wait as long as that for the truth to come out-if there is any to come." At the hotel he found John Murray waiting for him, his face very pale and his mouth set in lines of suffering. He gripped David’s hand in silence and then answered his unspoken question. "Yes, my uncle has told her. He will be glad you are here, as he was afraid of collapse; personally, I don’t think there'll be any, because she’s been preparing herself for this all along."

"Yes; still when it comes it must be a shock. ... And the others?" "I don’t know where Mrs. Marsden is; she was here when we got back and heard the verdict but she went out afterwards. Judith’s almost as much bowled over as Ann... . That’s been a surprise to me, David. I thought Judith would always take everything without turning a hair, but you saw how she nearly crumpled up in the witness box?" "Yes. But of course it was a terrible ordeal." "Certainly, but Ann managed it... . I’ve discovered, David, that Judith’s not nearly so independent as you all thought. What she wants, really, is someone to lean on." Under other circumstances David would have been amused at the selfcomplacency of the young husband’s tone, but he was in no mood for talk, and turned quickly to George Murray as he entered the room. "Yes, she is brave-amazingly brave. No, she wants to be alone. She sent you her love and will get someone to ring you up if she needs you. Otherwise, come this afternoon and she will feel more able to talk." "Where’s Mrs. Marsden? It’s not like her to go when everyone is sure to need her."

"She won’t be long, I’m sure, and she will look after the child when she comes. I know she has been up and down half-a-dozen times the last few nights to be sure that Ann slept or to talk to her if she was lying awake." "I know. Ann told me. Whatever would we all do without that woman?" "TI don’t know. I’ve wondered often enough during the last twenty years." A week ago David would have found something significant in the old man’s manner; but to-day he passed it by as only another enigma. No use for him to try to understand George Murray or to waste time speculating about him. The man was a mystery to him... . When David tapped at Ann’s door at three o’clock that afternoon he found her lying wide-eyed but composed on her bed. He sat down beside her and took her hand in his. "My dear, Morgan says that the Executive are sure to take notice of the jury’s recommendation. You are not to imagine that anything worse can happen." "Worse than imprisonment for life? David, what could be worse?" He had nothing to say, no way of comforting her. When he asked her if there was anything she needed, she replied, "Oh no; Mrs. Marsden is back and she thinks of everything. John and

Judith, too, have been so good-and Mr. Murray is the dearest of all. Oh David, what a tragedy we brought on everyone when we turned up at Te Rata that night-yes, and on you, too." But he knew the answer to that, though the sight of her helpless misery was almost more than he could bear. He got up restlessly and prowled round the little room, picking up a note from the dressing table and glancing at it idly. It was unopened and unstamped. " Hullo, 4vhat’s this?" She glanced it it indifferently. " Only another typed one. I expect it’s anonymous. You wouldn’t believe, David, how many letters I’ve had from absolute strangers since the trial began. The world must be full of queer people. Mr. Murray’s taken to going through my mail for me the last two days. He can’t have noticed this one." "Shall I open it?" "Tf you like, but I don’t want to see it. Some of them are-oh, hateful." It was a slip of ordinary typing paper; he looked at it casually, then bent over it, scanning the words closely. There was no noise in the room except the monotonous droning of a mason bee somewhere in the window frame. Ann opened her%eyes and said, rather querulously, " What’s the matter? Why are you gazing at that stupid letter as if you’d seen a ghost?"

He handed her the paper and she raised herself on her elbow to read it. "Set your mind at rest. Your father is innocent and will be at liberty in a few days. Tell no one of this letter." Ann began to sob helplessly; after her restraint and self-control of the last few days, the reaction was too much. David gathered her into his arms and still sat staring at the paper. So that was George Murray’s plan. He could bear this sight of her suffering no longer; he had determined on his own course but wished to relieve her mind meantime. All would now be well. "Oh David, who could have written it?" "T don’t know, Ann." "What if it’s a hoax?" "It isn’t. How could it be? Who would be such a devil?" This reassured her but still she came back ‘to the question, " But who could have written it? How did it get there?" At last he said, " Ann, it may be like this. Somebody-the real murderer, has waited. He’s been hoping your father would be acquitted. Now that’s over, he means to own up." With that she had to ba content. David sighed as he left her. When the

truth came out, when George Murray confessed, would not the blow to Ann be still a cruel one? CHAPTER XXVIII. They were all amazed at the improvement in Ann’s state of mind next day; since no one but David knew of the mysterious letter which was buoying up her hopes, they were delighted at the comparative cheerfulness with which she agreed to go back to Rata. It was pathetic, David thought, to watch George Murray keeping _up the fiction with everyone. "It’s the greatest suprise and relief to find the child so much better, I suppose she’s pinning her hopes, on the jury’s recommendation of mercy."

David agreed hurriedly, avoiding the other’s quiet eyes. He found the tension of these days of waiting almost unbearable and was filled with admiration and relief at the old man’s calmness. Yet he noticed that new lines of pain had graved themselves in George Murray’s face and that his eyes were haggard with sleeplessness. What did he mean to do-give himself up or take his own life? There was no indication from his manner or words, even in his least guarded moment, Ann had made the one condition that she be allowed to see her father before returning to the country. David and George Murray went to the gaol with her and, though she was in tears when she came out to them, David noticed that she put her arm in the old man’s and that she seemed to support him rather than lean upon him as they left the gaol. When they were alone, he asked her whether she had told her father of the note. "No; I couldn’t, when all the time T’ve still a dreadful fear that it may all mean nothing. But I whispered to him as I said good-bye that he was not to despair, that I believed the truth was going to come out very soon now; that was all right, wasn’t it?" "Quite. And now you're going back to Te Rata?" # (Continued on next page)

IT IS DARK IN THE BUSH (Continued from previous page) "Yes, as soon as we’ve had lunch. I’m longing to get away. You'll come, too, won’t you, David?" How could he stay away with the last act of this tragedy so soon to be staged? He must be at hand, too, for Ann’s sake when at last George Murray took that final, irrevocable step. The old man made it easier by urging it also. "Do come. That big house will be lonely with just three people in it. John and Judith are going away for a month -she is very knocked over by this wretched business. I’m depending on you to stand by me, David." They understood each other, said David to himself. Murray wanted him to be there to look after Ann. He agreed at once, but some instinct prompted him to leave the three together for the remaining few days of George Murray’s life. Ann and Mrs. Marsden-the two women whom the old man cared most for; they should have that time alone. "T’ll come in a few days. Do you mind if I wait till then?" "So long as I have your promise to be there within a week," replied George Murray. Beneath the hospitable tones there was a note of urgency and David's glance met his steadily. "TI promise to be there before thatbefore there is the slightest chance of your needing me," he replied. Over the luncheon table they heard with surprise that Mrs. Marsden was not returning immediately. Could they manage without her, she asked, for a few days? George Murray said nothing, but David thought he understood the profound sadness of his eyes. He would have liked his old friend to be with him at the last. "Of course we can manage," cried Ann. "Then you and David can come together when you're ready." "Trust myself on that horried machine of David’s?" she asked with mock horror. "Certainly not. Besides, I have many things to do before I can be free." Still George Murray said nothing, and it was only at the actual moment of departure that he allowed his feelings towards his faithful friend to show themselves. David: had little intention of acting as eavesdropper, but he had carried Ann’s luggage out and was lighting a cigarette behind the shelter of the car when he heard their voices; carried clearly in one of the pauses in street traffic. "But let me help you. At least tell me your plans," implored George Murray. Then Mrs. Marsden’s voice. " You can trust me, as you’ve always done." "God knows you’ve never failed us. Very well, I agree-but remember that my constant thought is-may God bless you." " Ah, but He has, my friend, He has"; the voice was broken and David saw the tears on George Murray’s cheek also. But the next moment Mrs. Marsden had reached the car and was saying cheerily, " Well, here’s David waiting to see you off, and here comes Ann. Well, good-bye, and remember to be careful on the bad corners, Mr. Murray. Don’t let him speed, Ann-and look after him."

The car had gone and Mrs. Marsden had returned to her room. David stood looking after the upright, handsome figure with his mind in a turmoil, So she knew-not only of George Murray’s guilt, but of his plans. Those words were a final farewell. He went back to his own hotel in a state of miserable perplexity, to receive a telephone call from Mrs. Marsden that evening. She was concise, as usual. "David, would you keep to-morrow evening clear to do some little things for me? Thank you. ... Yes, here, at seven o'clock, if that suits you. Goodbye, and try not to worry too much." He was very glad of the opportunity to serve her; as he went to sleep he reflected that he had never known her ask help of anyone; she was usually too busy doing things for other people. At seven o’clock he went to the hotel, to be told, to his surprise and disappointment, that Mrs. Marsden was out. "She left this note for you after lunch and said we were to give it to you as soon as you came this evening." And you’re sure she’s out?" "TI presume so. She said she was going out when she gave me the note and I haven’t noticed her come in." David was puzzled; it was not like Mrs. Marsden to break an appointment, but perhaps the note would tell him what she wanted him to do. It did-told him so clearly and concisely that inj three minutes the young doctor was rushing up the stairs, followed by the white-faced clerk, was hammering wildly on the door of Mrs. Marsden’s room, was desperately shouting her name. "T tell you, she’s not out. She’s in there. Get that door open." But when at last they had forced that stubbornly resisting lock, and David, followed by the perturbed manager and pallid clerk, had rushed into the room, they found little cause for all this excitement. The room was orderly, silent, peaceful; Mrs. Marsden was sleeping on her bed with her face turned away. Her little clock ticked on the table beside her, the blinds were down. Beside the bed stood her suitcase, ready strapped; all the few possessions she had brought with her were packed, only the travelling clock ticked cheery companionship to the quiet and lonely figure of the woman on the bed. The manager drew a breath of relief. "Well," he said reproachfully, "a lot of fuss about nothing! The lady’s tired and sleeping soundly, but there’s no harm in that-and here have you gone and spoilt a perfectly good lock as well as frightening a year’s growth out of me and the staff." But David was not listening to him: He had gone round the other side of the bed and turned down the quilt that was covering the quiet figure; now he touched her forehead with ‘a gentle finger and raised and held her hand. After a minute he laid it softly down and, turning to the hotelkeeper, said quietly: "She’s dead, not asleep. You may take my word for it. I’m a doctor." There was sorrow and pity in his young face, but stronger than either, overmastering every other emotion, was sheer amazement and incredulity. With

a dazed expression he smoothed out the letter in his hand and read it again. Then he turned and picked up a small bottle that lay beside the clock on the table. It was empty, but the label was clear ‘enough; the word ‘"Luminal" stared up at David and seemed to add the last touch of fantasy to all this dreadful nightmare. For a moment he stared straight before him, silent and absorbed deaf to the frantic exclamations of the hotelkeeper, unconscious of the ineffectual murmurs of his subordinate, aware only of the serene face of the dead woman and of the message he had read in that letter. At last he roused himself and turned to the manager. "You must send for the police immediately. No, don’t touch anything till they come. This is a case of suicide and Mrs. Marsden says she has left a letter for the authorities in the top righthand drawer of the chest. No, don’t look for it, don’t even open the drawer. She says it’s there and you can always rely on what she tells you." Even as he uttered the curious, inadequate words, he realised that the woman on whom they had all relied lay dead, and that she had not failed them, even at the last. (To be continued next week)