MOORCROFT MANOR MYSTERY.

Auckland Star, Volume LVIII, Issue 58, 10 March 1927, Page 20

MOORCROFT MANOR MYSTERY.

(By J. R. WILMOT.) (Author of "Where There"s a Will," etc.) SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS CHAPTERS. SILAS OVERINGTON, widower and successful financier, rents the haunted Moorcroft Manor, and with the help of LADY ISABEL FORRESTER, wife of SIR JOHN FORRESTER, arranges a housewarming party at Christmastide. Among those invited is a young Oxford man, MORTON SINCLAIR, and his friend Clifford Merrivale. Sinclair is secretly in love with HELEN OTERINGTON. the daughter of their host. Morton Sinclair feels a strong presentment of evil about the old Tudor manor, and has an instinctive dislike of the financier's private secretary. MONTAGUE MORRELL, who also appears to be very much attracted to Helen. Morrell excuses himself from an expedition which is arranged to watch for the ghost of a cavalier, which, according to tradition, haunts an old wing of the building. When, at midnight, the guests assemble in the old hall, their host is absent. Morton goes to seek him, and on the way encounters the ghost. Entering the library Morton discovers Overington in a chair wjth a dagger protruding from his back. As Morton approaches Silas Overington expires muttering the words "The Ghost." CHAPTER VII. Watching the cavalier walking leisurely across the lawn in the itinerant moonlight towards tho manor had a strange eifect on the two men. This was due, almost solely to the difference in psychological reaction to similar stimulus, for it is well-known that no two minds respond in precisely the same way when confronted with a particular crisis.

The analogy was the same with Sinclair and Merrivale. Turning suddenly from the window, Merrivale dashed across the room towards the door, only to find Sinclair beside him a moment later with a restraining grip upon his arm. "Where are you going?" Sinclair demanded, with an abruptness that rather surprised his companion. '"To see whether that fellow comes in through that door of mine," Merrivale replied, enthusiastically. "If he does, then we've got him. You remember what I told you about the hinges and the latch being well oiled." "I don't see how any good will be served by acting so precipitately," Sinclair told him, at the same time extracting the key from the lock. "What can you do if Morrell does come into the house by that door? You can't arrest him for murder—you haven't the remotest shred of evidence. Think it over for a moment, Clifford, and you'll see what I'm driving at." "I'm hanged if I can! Here we have an excellent chance of catching him redhanded, and you go and spoil the whole show by starting up an There was a note of acute disappointment in Merrivale's voice. "I prefer action to talk. When you've got a chance, take it, that's what I say. If the police wouldn't theorise so much about murder cases we might have more criminals brought to justice. They go arguing backwards and forwards like adding machines, and lose a lot of valuable time which might easily have been much more profitably employed. You're making the same mistake, Sinclair, old man."

"I think not!" Sinclair's voice, unlike that of hia companion, was pleasantly calm. Not once did he betray any of the emotion he felt as a result of their discovery a few moments before. "Don't you see," he went on, "if Morrell is mixed up in the affair—and we liaye no definite proof that he is beyond the fact that we have seen him wearing a cavalier's costume—we are going to give him the lead he is probably waiting for. If he has any idea that we suspect him in any way, he is going to be more than ever on his guard. On the other hand, if we say nothing at all, but just keep our wits about us, the chances are that he may fall into any trap we care to lay for him."

But Merrivale was by no means convinced. What Sinclair had said might contain a good deal of truth, lie admitted that the reasoning was, on the whole, quite sound, but it suffered from a certain sense of conventionality which waa not at all in keeping with liis own ideas as how best to track down a murderer. "I hope you're not forgeting the ghost legend," he reminded Sinclair. "So far as we are aware it might be nothing more than an uterly ignorant superstition—a flight of idle fancy from which, I understand, country folk are not altogether immune. On the other hand, we have actually seen the figure of a cavalier crossing the lawn, added to which we have recognised his features as belonging to someone who has no more claims to the supernatural than we have. If there is a ghost at Moorcroft Manor who is responsible for murder, then we have solved the riddle with surprising ease. From what I can see, nothing could be clearer. We've only got to go and hand Morrell over to the police and the whole thing's finished. Can't you see how simple it is?" "It is because it sounds so simple that I prefer to take another line of argument altogether," said Sinclair, quietly. "It is not always the most obvious things in life that are necessarily the most simple. Has it not struck you as just a little curious that, if Morrell is responsible for the crime, he should revisit the scene at so early a date? I am perfectly aware that criminal psychology is curious and abnormal; that murderers are said to be obsessed with an overwhelming desire to revisit the places where their crimes have been committed, but history does not record their doing so within a few hours of the crime actually taking place. That is altogether too much four us to expect." "Of course, when you put it like that, I can see your point." Merrivale admitted, "but what I can't reconcile is the fact we have the story of the place being haunted by the ghost of a cavalier whom no one has seen and whom, quite probably, no one seriously believes, and the indisputable evidence of our own eyes not five minutes ago." "Your legal mind was made for argu ment," smiled Sinclair, as he switched on the light. "I suppose that by now the fellow will have gone to his room so we really cannot do more until after the police have been. By the way, Cliff, old man, could it be left to you to make arrangements for as many of the guests as desire it. leaving by the only train of the day? I don't suppose they will want to stay on up here, now, and the police can't have any objection. We can prove that everyone was up in the east wins at the moment the murder took place." '\on can relv on me." renlied Merriale. "I'm rather good at making myself generally useful when occasion demands. suppose we'll lie expected to hang around until everything is cleared up a, I , Miss Overington decides wnat she is going to do?" .lernvaJe glanced quickly at Sinclair f-i™ i ! slip ' but tho othpr ™ an ' s a-str 1 n ° «»' i.c w "We'll disc, whole matt ; Zl "Z m ? 8 S r lair «™ouneed. open y ° U at breakfas?! Oh, and if you happen to see Morrell, not *

"Trust me," answered Jlerrivale, as he closed the door behind him. But there was little sleep for Sinclair. His mind was much too occupied to permit of repose. In the first place, there was the problem he had been discussing with Merrivalo. Was Montague Morrell guilty of murderMerrivalc, being a lawyer, was well acquainted with the intricacies ot circumstantial cxiiience. The fact that Silas Overington's words had reference to the phantom which was said to haunt the manor, pointed definitely to the conclusion that some connection existed between the ghost and his death. This being so. it was singularly ea-y. from the lawyer's way of thinking, to assume that, the phantom being known to assume the shape of a cavalier, Montague Morrill and the ghost were definitely welded together in one personality, and unless overwhelming evidence to the contrary was produced, the necessary verdict could readily be obtained from any panel of jurymen. But what Merrivale did not know was that lie (Sinclair) had encountered the ghost in the long oak-panelled corridor leading from the east wing onlv a few minutes before discovering the crime in the library. If the person in cavalier costume he had seen disappear mysteriously was indeed Morrell, then he must have been making for the secret door which Merrivale had, bv chance, discovered. In that way he had left the manor before there was any possibility of a hue and cry being raised. This argument seemed very sound. It was plausible. But if Montague Morrell had murdered Silas Overington, why had he returned to the manor when lie had an excellent chance of escape before the police could be notified? That was the problem that perplexed Sinclair's mind and disturbed his rest. Unless, of course . . . Sinclair sat up in bed as the thought occurred to him. What if Morrell, remembering he had -ft behind him some shred of evidence which would inexorably identify him with the crime, had returned for the purpose of oblit^r-

it? Small beads of perspiration stood out cold I v on Sinclair's brow. iS-flit it not have been better to have let Merrivale follow bis inclinations and see what Morrell did when be entered the house? The though was dit-turbinjr. Renietnbberinfr that room was the first cue on the ri'_rht at the end of the corridor, Sinclair shuMed into a pair of felt-soled bedroom slippers, pulled on his dressing-pown, and p! a need cautiously around his liedroom door. A small oil-lamp suspended from the eeilinp, burned at the anple of the corridor. Soft-footed, he stole along until he was* outside Morrell's door. At first he could detect no sipn of anyone within, but iust as he was about to turn back, he caught the unmistakable sound of someone breathing. Then came the creak of a spring. Probably Morrell. with an uneasy conscience, wns pro wins? restless. Sinclair moved silently back to his room and fell asleep ponderifl™ over another equally important problem. Why had Merrivale been so quick to correct himself when referring to Helen Overington? To Sinclair this was of infinitely more importance than the mystery of the sleeping cavalier.

CnAPTER YIII. Inspector Richard Wishart was not in the best of tempers, for even the myrdimons of the law have their typically human moments and to have to go over to Brindlev to take charge of a murder case on Christmas morning, when, by rights, he should have been indulging in the festive convivialities commensurate with his family traditions, was, to say the least, distinctly annoying. On his way from Hexley he consoled himself with the thought that his ofiicial statute was a considerable ono in the rural areas over which, in the absence of the Divisional Superintendent, he presided. The constable who had brought the message had given him scant details of the affair, so that the six miles he had to pedal his bicycle could not be very profitably employed iu deductive cogitation, which was one of the main points in the brief, but intensive course, in crime investigation ho had gone through the previous summer at New Scotland Yard. Since his return, Inspector Wishart had prayed for an opportunity to place his newly-acquired knowledge to the supreme test of actual experience. Working out murder clues on an examination paper was fairly simple, for Richard Wishart was not* without intelligence! In fact, ho was singularly ambitious, but promotion from the rural areas was almost painfully slow. It was just after eight o'clock, after an exhilarating ride in the crisp air of that early Christmas morning, that he turned in at the ornate gates that heralded the mossy-mosaic drive . bv which the old manor was approached. Sergeant Crofter met him at the door as he dismounted, and narrated the facts as he knew tliem with frequent reference to his pocket-book in which he had carefully placed them on record. The inspector's eyes brightened as he listened. "And what steps have you taken, sergeant, since the time you were acquainted with the crime?''* There was a noto of authority in the inspector's voice.

"I took a look round the place, sir." replied the sergeant, "and made certain discoveries of a somewhat suspicious nature. Beneath the window of the lounge—that is the room on our left as we stand here, sir—l found a series of footprints in the clay soil. There are also marks on the stone sill which indicate that someone either entered or left by means of the window." '"Is it not possible to prove bv a glance at the footprints whether' the person came or went in that manner. Here the inspector considered his superior training in crime detection would assert itself over the rudimentary and somewhat parochial knowledge of the sergeant. "I had thought of that, sir. But there are distinctly two sets of footprints on top of each other which might mean that the person who made them entered and left the same way. 1 only made the discovery early this morninji, when it was light enough to take a pood survev of the ground, hut as tlie door of the lounge remained locked after the discovery of the murder, sir, it would ap.pear that the footprints were made by someone before the crime was committed." The inspector considered the matter for a moment and made an entry in his pocket book. "I think we can leave that matter until a little later," he said, brusquely. "Let me see the library." At that moment John Forrester and Sinclair came down the broad stair-

ease together. "Are you from Scotland Yard?'' inquired Sir John, advancing towards the inspector who, with the sergeant, had paused outside the library door. "I am not actually on the stall at the Yard," said the inspector, with a trace of pride, "but I have studied there under some of the foremost intelligeu^-s

"Ah!" Sir John seemed gratified at the information. "My name is Inspector Wishart. Sergeant I ivi'ier notified me early this morning of thi? unfortunate affair, and 1 hurried over a- quickly a? possible." "Then you're only a locali"' There was a noto of disappointment in Sir ■John's lone. "I »ii;ijni>e You're the injector whom ili»- mtl'i'jiii iold us would have to he notiliisl before nnv definite steps were Taken to bring the murderer to ju-t ire Ihe colour 1 ]<>i •< le> 1 into tbe inspector's cheeks, lie \\:is aecii~tonied to being addressed in siuh a pre-emp;ory manner. He <"•' ii Id not permit a civilian to ei;i;e:-o tlio lorniat of police procedure in ~in-:i manjicr as tin's. "I think \'>u lorgei. s; r . that I am now in charge of th:< investigation. I cannot permit \"«> 11 t.> indulge your personal views—at thi-> staire. I.ater, perhaps, I may require you to answer certain questions." Sinclair saw indignation bubbling into Sir John's throa:. I tliink. inspector," said Sinclair, calmly, "t.iat Sir John in }iis rapacity as a magistrate of the City of London has every right to make whatever pertinent obser\ at inns be considers necessary. Sir John is just as anxious as \ourspil to get to the bottom of thi« a Hair." I should think so. indeed! I never heaid ol such a thing. It's monstrous! Simply monstrous! lhe look of discomforture on the face of the inspector was almost humorous, and Sinclair thought he also noticed a twinkle of amusement in the eyes of the st ol id - look ing sergeant. "I'm sorry, sir," apologised the inspector, -but it isn't usual for a police ••llicer to be criticised in front of n subordinate." With that the sergeant unlocked the librai \ door and the inspector entered followed by Sir John and Sinclair. (To be continued dailv.)