The Kestrel House Mystery.

Ashburton Guardian, Volume 65, Issue 268, 23 August 1945, Page 7

The Kestrel House Mystery.

s Serial Story; <,

I (Copyright). e

<| BY T. C. H. jACOBS. ](

CHAPTER I. “AT BARROW’S FARM.” Mr Henry Holt was roused from his contemplation of the chickens squabbling in the farmyard by the sound of the breakfast gong. A beam of pleasurable anticipation overspread his round, jovial face as he strolled slowly towards the open French windows overlooking a small lawn on the other side of the house. To the casual observer Mr Holt, presented a remarkable resemblance to the immortal Pickwick. A short, comfortable little man, whose merry, blue eyes twinkled behind a pair of large, horn-rimmed spectacles. His high, bald forehead and rosy, clear skin, his ample waist-line and innocent expression, he was a man to whom most people took an instant liking. As he took his seat at the breakfast table the door opened and his ward, Muriel Mainwaring, bounded, rather than walked into the room. “Oh, what a shame!” she exclaimed. “I thought I was going to be first.” Henry Holt smiled as he glanced at the bright eyes, blue as a summer sky. “You’ll have to emulate the little larks, my dear,” he said. “Ah! here comes Mary Jane!” “Mornin’, zur, mornin’ miss,” mumbled the maid-of-all-work, placing the tray upon the table. “Good morning, Mary Jane,” smiled Muriel, “Any news of Miss Page?” The maid shook her head vigorously: “No, miss, her’s vanished, like as if the ground have opened and swallered her up. The vicar be in a purty fine state about her. Coming on top of they there other disappearances he’s fair frantic, as you might say.” “I expect he is,” agreed v Muriel, sympathetically. “All right, Mary Jane,, let me. know if you do hear anything, won’t you?” ' “Iss. I’ll let ’ee know, but I reckon that her’s gone for keeps, like they Were others,’ 'and nodding darkly the girl left the room. “H’m! Mary Jane is not very optimistic!” ( “Mary Jane is rather a fool, my dear,” replied Holt, in mild reproof. “Do you know, Muriel, I think, —er —I should not interest myself so much in idle village gossip! I mean, while it is all very well for empty-headed servants to —er —gloat—over some occurrence which they like to believe is mysterious it hardly becomes a younglady like yourself to do likewise.” “Guardy, you are being ridiculous. I’m not gloating over anytliihg. I’m awfully sorry for the vicar. How would you feel if I was missing?” Mr Holt rubbed his chin, gazing down at his plate as he' did so: “Well—er —put that way, of course “And I’m no relation to you,” went on his ward, “think what poor Mr Page is suffering; you don’t realise.” “Oh, but, my dear, I —er —appreciate all that, but I do think you are attaching too much importances to what may prove to be quite an ordinary affair. Large numbers of people are temporarily missing every year; most of them turn up again eventually and generally the explanation is a little—er —sordid. I deplore the sentationalism which is so raippant, it makes the mind morbid and introspective, the most ordinary events are invested with an air of mystery which is, to say the least of it, irritating to a well balanced mind.”

Henry Holt paused and applied himself to the delicious bacon, feeling both pleased and surprised that lie had been allowed to say so much without interruption. It was unsual but distinctly an improvement. . “Oh! so that’s what you think about it, well, Guardy let me tell you that to a really well balanced mind, like mine, it is perfectly obvious that there is a mystery somewhere. Dartmoor is not the sort of place people choose to disappear from, especially inhabitants.” “Dartmoor strikes me as being a remarkably suitable place for such amusement,” smiled Holt. “Heaven knows, it’s big enough and wild enough.” “Yes, I realise all that, but Guardy, there have been three women and one man within the last, three months 1 Mona Page makes the fifth. Even Constable Ford admits it’s strange.” “Constable Ford would admit anything after two pints of beer,” murmured Holt, not looking up. “Take Mona’s ease,” persisted the girl. “She left the vicarage soon after five o’clock and walked over the moor to Mrs Hepworthy’s cottage, where she arrived about six or soon after. She stayed with the old lady for an hour, and then set out to walk back. Mrs Hepworthy’s grandson, Billy, met her coming over Brimble Down, and that was the last anyone saw of her. She can’t have fallen into a mire and been drowned, because there are none near there, and the valley has been searched thoroughly. At seven o’clock it is broad daylight, and Mona knows the moor as well as any moorman. How do you account for her failing to return?” “I don’t know', my dear. How do you?” “She’s been kidnapped.” Henry Holt leaned back in his chair and staved at his ward, the suspicion of a smile hovering over his good humoured mouth: “Is that what Mary Jane thinks?” he asked mildly. “Mary Jane thinks perfectly horrible things,” replied Muriel, with a little grimace. “Quite my dear, and that is why I would,rather you did not discuss this matter with hei*. I’m sure that you did not interest yourself in—er—things of this nature when you were at school.” “You bet we did!” was the prompt reply. “Once we had a burglar, and it was ever so exciting. A real detective came down and carried out investigations and found no clues. Everybody was most thrilled.” Henry Holt’s eyes twinkled merrily as he shook his head in feigned despair. “Well, well,” lie murmured. “I supf pose you won’t listen to ” Thereafter breakfast proceeded without further reference to the series of mysterious disappearances which was so agitating the peace of the Dartmoor village. “What are you doing to-day, Guardy?” asked his ward presently. “I’m walking over to Kestrel House, my dear. Andre Moineau has some

new specimens he wishes to show me,” replied Holt, rising from the table. “Is Mr Moineau such a great friend, Guardy? You are often going over to him.” This was something which Muriel did not quite understand. Holt was always willing to take her anywhere on the moor except Kestrel House. On that point he was evasive; and once had definitely refused to take her with him. Yet he w r as very keen on her seeing as much os possible of Haydea Mercer, Moineau’s nephew. “Why, yes, my dear,” replied Holt, not looking at her as he answered. “1 first met him years ago in West Africa. Poor fellow! It’s a sad case; the climate got him, he’s an absolute wreck now, never goes out. So that is why I like to see him sometimes, it cheers him wonderfully to be talking over old times and adventures, and he’s i r> r - ' mensely proud of his collection or butterflies. My wretched little bunch would scarcely fill a. single draw in one of . his cases.” “But you have only just commenced collecting,” consoled his companion, “I think you have some beauties already.” Twenty minutes later Holt came down the stairs complete with specimen box and net. Muriel was standing at the door gazing across the moor stretching away into the purple distance, where the scarred grey tors swept up in all their rugged majesty. “I’m going down to the village, so I’ll come a ittle way with you,” she announced, slipping her hand through his arm. “Gee, it’s going to be a scorcher. to-day!” As they came into the farmyard the village hired-car drew up at the gate and a young man jumped out. “That’s the new boarder,” whispered Muriel. “Mrs French told me that we were having an addition.” The newcomer opened the gate and crossed the yard raising his hat as he passed them and murmuring some polite commonplace. “Gee, he’s got red hair.” « “Auburn,” corrected her guardian. “Well, my dear, I’ll leave you here. I think I’ll go through the valley on my way!* there may be some specimens.” “Right ho, good-bye for the time, Guardy.” "Good-bye, my dear, and—er—it is—er possible that Hayden may be over this afternoon.” Mr Holt avoided his ward’s eye as he turned away and set out across the moor. A shadow flickered over the fresh young face as she watched him go, conscious of a strange chill at her heart. MR PYECROFT MAKES A BAD IMPRESSION. Mrs French was “dusting” in the breakfast room when Muriel returned from the village. _ “The new gent have come, miss, she confided in a stage whisper. “I saw him, what’s his name?”

Mrs French foraged in the capacious pocket of her apron and produced a letter: “Mr Percival Pyecroft,” she replied. “He’s a London gent, ain’t very strong, so he tells me, doctors sent him here for his health. They thought Dartmoor air would do him a power of good, and they’m right, too. I’ve had a lot of folks come to Barrows for their health, and ’tis wonderful what a' deal of good it have-done. Regular change from London air and what with. they, nightclubs and such goings on. T’ain’t no surprise that they wants a change sometimes.” “But he looks awfully well and fit, protested Muriel. Mrs French shook her'head: . “You never can tell, miss; but, s’hush’ he’s coming down.” Muriel glanced towards the door as it opened to reveal the hesitating figure of Mr Pyecroft. His hair, she thought, was dark red, copper coloured, and wavy, much too nice to be wasted on a man. She met the slightly startled stare of his grey eyes, with a friendly smile. Mrs French bustled forward : ■ _ “This is Miss Mainwaring, Mr Pyecroft,” she said. “How —how do you do. Um —pleased to meet you,” stamemred the young man, extending his hand nervously. “Lovely weather, what?” “Yes, isn’t it glorious,” reiilied Muriel, conscious that she was disappointed. He was so different from what she had expected—and he wore a monocle! But he certainly had not the appearance of a sick man, very much the reverse. Still, as Mrs French had said, you never could be sure. “What did you say the little lady was called?” asked Pyecroft, as the girl left the room. “Miss Mainwaring, she is staying here with her guardian, Mr Henry Holt.” “Ah, yes, of course, quite, quite. Wretched memory • • • mine. Awfully inconvenient you know.” Mrs French murmured sympathy and turned to go: “Is there anything I can do for you, sir?” she asked, pausing at the door. “No, I think not, Mrs French,” replied the visitor slowly, as though he was considering a matter of great importance. “I think I’ll have a walk on that jolly old heath, what? I mean, that’s what the dear old medical blokes sent me here for . . . rest-, ing the nerves and all that sort of rot. I suppose it does some people good,” he added doubtfully. “It would do anybody any good,” affirmed Mrs French, somewhat sharply. Mr Pye croft’s dreamy eyes opened a little wider, enhancing the rather vacant expression which marred a face which might otherwise have been considered good-looking. “You think so, er?” he asked diffidently. “I’m sure of it,” replied Mrs French stoutly, eager to praise her beloved moorland. “Oh, well then, I’ll make a day of it. Find some shady nook down by the babbling stream and munch sandwiches. Good scheme . . . what?” Muriel Mainwaring watched him from her bedroom window as he crossed the farm-yard moving with an easy grace, outwardly a splendid specimen of young manhood. She wondered more than ever what, was supposed to be wrong with him j anyone less like an invalid would have been difficult to imagine. (To pe continued.) The characters in tills story are entirely imaginary. No reference is intended to an living person or to any public or private company.