MOORGRCFT MANOR MYSTERY

Auckland Star, Volume LVIII, Issue 78, 2 April 1927, Page 32

MOORGRCFT MANOR MYSTERY

(By J. R. WILMOT.) | l (Aγ. l.or of "Where's There's a Will,"' etc' , I CHAPTER XXVIII. That same night a little party of five gathered together in a private room at the Inn awaiting Sinclair's story. Superintendent Nelson occupied the largest arm-chair over by the fire where lie could fill and re-fill his ever-present l>;pe with comfort and convenience. The others were ranged in a half-circle, the .alow from the fire burnishing their Juatuxes and making the occasion an altogether seasonable one. Helen was seated next to Julia, who seemed suddenly shy and nervous. Next came Mcrrivale, unusually quiet though l here could be no doubting but what he was happy. "The story I have to tell you," began Sinclair, "is closely interlaced with the events of this afternoon. It is, in fact, the story of a man we all knew as Gleave, that grey-haired old fellow, who, as butler up at Moorcroft Manor, ministered to our manifold wants with a quiet dignity and an easy grace. It is this that makes the telling of my story all the harder and the acceptance of it, and all that it implies, the more difficult. Nevertheless we are here, I hope, to face the facts, and in order to understand them I stfail have to ask you to accompany me on a little historical excursion. ''I want you to try and picture Moorcroft Manor three or four hundred years ago, and particularly in the days of the cavaliers. There is one line of lloyalists, however, upon which I should like to fix your attention. They were the Le Dreetons, a particularly virile stock, born to command to rule. Now in every family there is, and this is the most important—a peculiar pride of race and habitation. This trait was stronger a hundred years ago than it is to-day, but the peculiarity still exists in members of dozens of families whose lineage can be traced back to the days before the Norman conquest. "The Le Breetons were once an important family. They obtained considerable concessions from various courts. They were always strongly Royalist, and, upon more than one occasion, Moorcroft Manor housed a King of England either in a moment of his triumph or upon one of those occasions when his life was of no considerable consequence to anyone but his chosen followers. '•Having, so to speak, obtained a mental picture of |he family—and to appreciate the rest of the story, it is absolutely necessary that you got the right atmosphere—l want you to realise that the Le Breetons were lon?-lived. There is an old book in the library up at the Manor, which gives a wonderfully graphic description of the vagaries of the family fortunes. That book has been added to, not in print but in manuscript, by successive generations. It forms a valuable record of family history. It has already told me, for instance, that Geoffrey Le Breeton, who was born in the year 1815, had one son and three daughters. The son, William, married but had no issue, and his wife died twenty years ago. "You will by now, I hope" Sinclaii continued, noting the interested expression on everyone's face and particularly Nelson's, "realise that William L{

Breeton, the last surviving member of this ancient and honourable family, could still be alive at this very moment, though we are aware, of course, that he is lying dead up at the Manor. The detective was about to interrupt, but he checked himself, quickly. "Now I come to a portion* of- the

story which may or may not be strictly historically true. By that, I mean that

while it is supported by the more recent

chronicles of the Le Breeton family, it can never be thoroughly substantiated because the only person who can do so

—William Le Breeton himself—has passed beyond the necessity of words. "Bearing in mind what* I have told you about family pride—that almost

indefinable expression of clan consciousness—is it unreasonable to speculate that William Le Breeton—the last of

his stock—finding himself in reduced circumstances is obliged to sell his historic home in order to meet the ever-

pressing financial obligations of these materialistic, modern days?

"The possibility of such an event is, I maintain, perfectly credible. But I am prepared to go even beyond that and suggest that William Le Breeton, having developed a peculiar form of mania for his old home, thought out a scheme whereby he could accomplish his desire. That scheme was a perfectly logical one, for at that time, I believe, he was as sane as any of us here. He conceived the idea of a ghostly visitant to haunt Moorcroft Manor and to build up a spectral reputation for it that would scare away prospective tenants either before they entered into occupation or shortly afterwards; and what more picturesque figure than of an ancestral cavalier?

"There you have my story in a nutshell. I may, of course, be wrong, but I have thought the matter out so carefully, that I am convinced I am right in my assumptions, because they seem to fit the facts so remarkably well." "'Does your theory altogether account for the murder?" The detective's voice was low, but every word was uttered slowly and distinctly. "Would not the repeated appearance of the apparition have been sufficient to convince a tenant like Overington that the place was scarcely worth renting?" "That is a point I have not forgotten," Sinclair told him, "and perhaps I ought to apologise for not mentioning it. You may recollect —and please correct me if I am wrong—that Mr. Overington during dinner on Christmas Eve when the matter of the ghostly visitant was mentioned expressed a very definite scepticism concerning all forms of psychic phenomena. That, I suggest, was the reason why he excused himself from coining up with us to the East Wing." 'That's quite right," intimated Helen, quietly. "Daddy didn't believe in ghosts, and lie was never afraid to say so. During dinner, when daddy was talking, the butler was in the room, wasn't he?"

''Yes," said Sinclair. "I have an excellent recollection of that because " he paused, uncertain whether or not to proceed. "Because it was then that I obtained my first clue." "You what? Do you mean to suggest tliat you had a clue to the murder some hours before it was committed? Come, Mr. Sinclair, there are one or two things I can't swallow." Superintendent Nelson flashed out his words quickly, and Sinclair noted the note of irritation running through them. "That is so," said Sinclair, meeting the detective's gaze, calmly. tw Ut h ? W? Are y° u tr y in g to tell me tnat you're a necromancer 2" inffS"" ew that Nelso ° was adoptV* gllt attit ude. He could «»» detectives feelings.

What he (Sinclair) had said had certainly been provocative. He turned to Helen.

"Do you remember the day I arrived at the Manor how you offered to show me over the old place, pointing out the things of interest?" The girl replied affirmatively, and the young man proceeded: "You will remember, then, how we paused in the portrait gallery overlooking the hall to speculate upon the characters of the ancestral portraits. Well, on that occasion, I think, I was impressed by the peculiar smile on the face of an old reprobate of a fellow in cavalier's dress who seemed to regard his ancestors with a sort of self-satisfied grin. The frame out of which he smiled was next but one to the window at the end."

"Of course I remember it," Helen replied. "Weren't we also speculating upon the respective characters, and you were making suggestions as to who among the collection were their wives!"

"Well, it was through that portrait that I recognised in Gleave's peculiar way of smiling that he was a Le Breeton. Naturally that, in myself, is no justification for murder, and it was not until in London when I was casting about for some way out of the mystery that suddenly I saw a mental picture of a cavalier with a smiling face, and then I knew that at Moorcroft Manor and not in London -would I find tho proof I needed.

"The human brain often plays tricks with us like that. It receives an impression one day, and instead of retaining it in the uppermost mirror, it promptly stores it away in the crypt. Then one day something happens and the picture is brought out again and we suddenly realise that we've seen it before, but, for the life of us, we can't think where. On the night before the murder was committed, I looked up into the butler's face as he was re-filling my glass, and saw him smile. That smile was so familiar that I was certain I had seen it some\vh|re before. I had. It was only that morning that I had commented upon it in the gilded frame.

"There can be no doubt, of course, that William Le Breeton latterly suffered from a well-known form of mental malady .. . devastating mania that comes with mental obsession; when the mind constantly and deliberately focussed on one particular thing day after day, month after month, slowly weakens under the strain. That is why a healthy mind needs variety. Brooding brings madness.

"You will agree, I think, that the story has a curiously pathetic side. In spite of what happened on Christmas Eve. I have felt myself feeling singularly sympathetic towards this old man, and I am glad to think that the crime he committed was not one of passion. Please don't think I am making excuses for him. Far from that, but in all things there is always a flicker of humanity if we would but look for it."

Helen had not resented the young man's allusion in the least. After hearing his story she, too, experienced a peace of mind she had not known since

before the murder. It was comforting to think that William Le Breeton had no personal animosity towards her father.

Nelson struggled out of his chair by the fire and held out his hand. "I congratulate you, Mr. Sinclair," he said with genuine enthusiasm. "You have achieved something of which any member of our staff would have been

justifiably proud. There is not a weak link anywhere in your story, and, to be frank, I'm not at all sorry that things have turned out as they have done. Knowing what I would be bound to know sooner or later about William Le Breeton, I should have hated allowing the case to go forward to its inevitable end. As you say, Mr. Sinclair, there is more than a touch of pathos in it, although we are not supposed to become' sentimental over a case of this kind. Helen held -out her hand to Sinclair too. '

"Thank you!" she said, simply. Merrivale just smiled, and Sinclair wondered how much of his story he had heard and assimilated, but after all it did not matter very much to the lawyer. His thoughts were elsewhere. ° "By the -way," Julia, interposed, rather shyly, "what will happen to Mr Morrell?" Everyone had forgotten about Morrell He might never have existed seemed to belong to some other story. "Oh, he'll get just what he deserves," Nelson told her. "He'll be quite safe with us for a bit," he added with a touch of humour. There was a strained silence for a few moments, then: p^V/ J ? have a word *M« Peter Slade at the bar," announced .Nelson with a meaning smile. When he had gone, four happy y oun<» people smiled at each other and talked of lots of things. • • • Three months later spring had come ,0 the world, painting the lean brancnes or the trees with tiny flakes of green while the sun crayoned tho noddin°daffodils down by the river's crystal brink. • "I'm glad the spring time has come again, murmured Helen, as she watched i linnet fly away with a wisp of straw in its beak. It makes one think of hope arter the dreary • ey winter." Sinclair smiled. He never remembered li ing seen ll.\ look more adorable than she did ut that moment, hatless and with the wind running invisible fingers her hu.r. "Springtime is like that," he agreed, 1 he stood beside her. "Hope and the b ds bursting from their bondage is often strangely symbolical Jme o f us. After all, love .. .... a beginning ..." ° The girl lifted her eyes until they met his and in their azure depths he read the answer he ha! been seeking so long. ° 'You deserve happiness—every little pit of it there is," he said, simply drawing her yieldingly towards him until their hps met in the first exultant kiss of love. Another pair of lovers connected with this story had done the same thing in much the same way, but that was quite two months ago, for Julia Slade discovered that Clifford Merrivale did not allow the grass of hesitation to grow long within his Eden. The End.