The Kestrel House Mystery.

Ashburton Guardian, Volume 65, Issue 269, 24 August 1945, Page 6

The Kestrel House Mystery.

l[ BY T. C. H. JACOBS. JI

! i Serial Story: <,

!> (Copyright). < (

* CHAPTER 11. CONSTABLE FORD EXPLAINS. The village church clock was chilling the hour of seven when Pyecroft pushed open the door of the Blue lu.ar and dropped with a weary sigh upon the wooden bench. “A tankard, landlord, a large tank, filled to the brim with foaming ale. he called. “My whole-body shouts lor sustenance.” Then turning to Ike only other occupant of the bar, lie added, “Gad it’s been hot to-day.’ “It have that,” agreed the man, whose blue serge trousers and re.’ 1 - lation boots proclaimed him no a policeman in mufti. “Been far, su “Miles and miles, all among bracken and heather and Lord knows what. Ah! this is the stuff the doctors forgot to order,” he grinned as Ihe landlord appeared. Pyecroft took a long drink and set the empty pot upon the table. “Gad. that’s better, fill her up again, landlord, and let’s all have one.” Constable Ford pushed his tankard along the table and edged nearer to the hospitable stranger. “Staying around here, sir?” lie asked by way of conversation. “Yes, rather, up at Barrows Farm, charming place, lovely chickens, so romantic, and talking of romance, I hear that there’s been a trifle of excitement in this locality, mysterious disappearances and all that sort ofjolly old tosh. Business getting brisk, eh?” The constable’s heavy features assumed an- expression of disapproval at this levity: “It ain’t no tosh, sir. There’s four of ’em clean gone and now the vicar’s daughter be missing. Matters is getting serious.” “Oh, I say, like that, eh ?” Mr Pyecroft raised his eyebrows in questioning surprise. “But what about the police, can’t they do anything?” Constable Ford took a long and thoughtful pull at his beer then lowering his voice to a confidential whisper he moved still nearer. “As I was saying, sir, there have been five counting in Miss Page, and they have all gone from near enough the' same place, that’s up in the valley yonder, all within the last three months. If they was all females I could understand it better but the second one was a farmer’s son, chap by the name of Joe Abbot. He was in here, this very bar and sitting on this very bench the night he went. Left here about nine to ride home but he never got there, only his boss arrived. Young Abbot himself ain’t been seen since, nor never will. Now that there chap was as strong as a lion, a champion wrestler and a general smart lad, not likely any harm would come to ee by natural means.” “Perhaps his horse chucked him off and his body is out there in that ghastly waste of heather,” suggested Pyecroft. “What I mean to say, you could search for all eternity and not be sure you hadn’t missed somewhere.” Constable Ford shook his head and took up the second pot of beer which Mr Pyecroft’s hospitality had provided. “No, sir,” he said emphatically. “That is possible but it ain’t probable, not by miles it ain’t. Young Abbot was reared in the saddle and the boss he was riding was an old ’un. If he failed off and killed hisself, well then tis true hjs body might lie out there till his bones was white and nobody be any the wiser, but that ain’t the way he went, I’ll be bound. He’s gone like the females, and we, nor anybody else human, won’t never see him again. Mr Pyecroft screwed his monocle more firmly into his eye and frowned at the red faced policeman. “I don’t quite follow your meaning, old fruit,” he said. Constable Ford had the greatest possible objection to being called old fruit but he was now into his. third free pint so lie decided to overlook the matter. “No, sir? Well, you wouldn’t be expected to,' I suppose.” Then settling liis tankard very deliberately upon Ihe table lie leaned over and whispered: “Did you ever hear tell of the Dartmoor Hell Hound?” “Good Lord!” ejaculated Pyecroft, edging 'away, “Stop it, you make me feel all creepy. Wfiat . . . what do you mean ?” “I mean, sir, as how there’s a lot more truth in that than some folks is prepared to admit. The story goes that this here phantom hound is the soul of a wicked monk what haunts the valley and whoever meets it, daylight or dark, and don’t at once, make the sign of the cross, is spirited away bang on the spot.” “Here, I say, hold hard, old top,” protested Pyecroft. “That is a hit too thick, I mean, twentieth century and all that sort of thing, it simply isn’t done. No, most decidedly it would not be allowed. Have another beer, you’ve shaken me.” This was one thing which Constable Ford had never been known to refuse and he made no exception to the rule now. “Allowed, or not, sir, the fact remains that in my humble opinion, it ain’t so very far wrong. What’s more j I’ve heard it.” Tie paused dramatically and stared fixedly at the other with his large, j bovine eyes. Mr Pyecroft started so violently that his beer was in grave danger. Ford watched anxiously until the pot was safely reposing on the table. “Heard it, officer? You .. . you mean the . . . the . . .” “The Hell Hound, yes, sir. I was •coming home across the moor about a month back, pretty near midnight it was, when I heard it a howling in the valley an awful, marrer freezing, unnatural rumpus. Well there ain’t much what frightens me, but I’m prepared to admit open and fair that I run hell for leather and I didn’t stop till I got home neither.” Mr Pyecroft flopped against the wall and goggled at the stolid face. (To be continued.) The characters in this story are entirely imaginary. No reference is intended to an living person or to any public or private company.