THE KESTREL HOUSE MYSTERY

Auckland Star, Volume LXII, Issue 138, 13 June 1931, Page 9 (Supplement)

THE KESTREL HOUSE MYSTERY

By T. C H. JACOBS

CHAPTER Xn. "That Man is Mad," Detective-Sergeant Trotter expressed himself with more force than elegance ■when Barnard roused him out of a heavy slumber at sunrise the following morning. "Dog bite me, chief," he growled, "what's the matter with you? Been another murder?" I "There will be if you don't get up, lazy? devil!" replied Barnard. "I'm going over to the place where we picked up Holt last night, and I want to get there before anyone else." "Healthy, lot of chance of that happening," mumbled Trotter, as he rolled unwillingly out of bed. "From what I've seen of it you could be there a week and not see a soul." "Maybe," snapped Barnard, "but I'm taking no chances." Trotter was one of those men who like to- linger over a substantial breakfast before commencing the day, but he was given no opportunity to indulge this morning. "We'll breakfast when we return," said Barnard, and the detective-sergeant groaned inwardly; it was worse than he had anticipated. For some time they continued their way over the moor in silence, broken at iast by Barnard. "The key to this business lies in Kestrel House . . and Moineau," he said in his slow, measured tones. "That man is mad, quite insane, and as dangerous as a bushmaster snake, despite his age. He's up to some devilry over there which will land him in Broadmoor . . . if he is not hanged." He uttered this startling prophecy in the same even tones as he would have employed in ordering a supply of new notebooks, and Trotter had. difficulty in suppressing a grin; the imp of humour, with him, was always thrusting itself forward at incongruous moments. "They say down in the village that Holt is pushing the old cove's nephew, Mercer, on to the Mainwaring girl," he laid, "but she ain't a biter. Rather got a fancy, for'the Pyecroft Woke, so they Bay;" r "Who?" demanded Barnard. This was news to him, of no importance except that he ought to have known lest it should have some bearing on the case, however remote. "feme straight from the stable, Mary Jane, the slavey up at the farm," grinned Trotter. "The Mainwaring girl was pretty well fixed up with Mercer till Percy blew along." Barnard shrugged his shoulders and had nothing more to say until they arrived at their destination, where he went carefully over the ground immediately surrounding the rock. He found the cigarette which had jerked from Holt's hand, and the half burned match, but nothing else rewarded his ' Trotter looked on without much interest. He had little faith in the other's prospects of finding any useful clue, but it was a pleasant way of wasting time, even if he was craving for his breakfast. Presently Barnard stood up, his forehead wrinkled in a thoughtful frown. /The man who struck Holt came up behind him," he said slowly, speaking his thoughts aloud rather than addressing his- isubordinateu "But at this height Holt had a clear view for a mile at least, so that whoever it was must have been concealed near here when Holt came up the hill from the valley. Therefore it follows that the assailant was definitely waiting for Holt and no one else. Doubtless he had been watching and waiting for some time, yet he contents himself with a sandbagging and steals nothing. Holt had come from Kestrel House some time earlier in the evening, the intervening time being spent in searching for specimens . specimens . . . h'm . . . well, I suppose one does find butterflies in the evening, settled about on things . (but nothing stolen, damn it, nothing stolen, there's no object in it if nothing was stolen " "No, chief," murmured Trotter, feeling that some comment was expected of him. Barnard ignored the remark. "And why was Holt in such a ghastly state of nerves ?" he went on to himself. "That man was frightened and anxious, damned anxious, about something. No, not his own personal safety or he'd never have ventured into this area after all the wind-up locally, what then? H'm, what . . . what? By God! I know! Something was stolen from him and he's scared to admit it, deliberately hiding the fact . . Trotter, come here."

The Footprint. Detective Sergeant Trotter, half lost in contemplation of the rolling moorland, started violently and his hands automatically -went up to his howler hat more firmly upon his head." "Blimey, chief," he exclaimed, '"you itartled me." "I'm glad something roused you," snapped Barnard sarcastically, "you've been as helpful as a tailor's dummy up to the present. You can wake up further by going over to the hotel at Two Bridges and proving that alibi Pyecroft put up." "Sure, chief . . . how do I go?" "Borrow the bicycle at the pub or walk. Now. sit on that rock, face the ▼alley and make yourself as small as possible." "Takes me for a blooming contortionist," grinned Trotter to himself as he complied with his senior's order. Barnard stood behind him and gazed over the moor which sloped genily down from them. There were numerous clusters of boulders and large clumps of gorse, but in the immediate vicinity there was only one big bush which could afford adequate cover to 11 man unless he was in the prone position. And in Buch a position it would have been difficult, if not impossible, to watch the movements of his victim. The inspector strode across to the gorse bush and immediately perceived that he had been correct in his surmise. -Directly behind it was a small patch of loose earth turned out by an enterprising rabbit and clearly showing at the edge was the print of a bootheel, a Very distinctive print, as the boot had been adorned with a rubber heel of peculiar pattern. Further search failing to reveal any other marks, he shouted to Trotter, who jumped up with alacrity and came down. "Dog bite me, chief," he exclaimed, "that looks remarkably useful." "Make a drawing," ordered Barnard. ; "While: Trotter was making a good Sketch of the print—he was a clever draughtsman—Barnard watched him, &nd both policemen were too engrossed

to notice a face which peered cautiously around a boulder a short distance away; neither did they see the momentary flash of sunlight upon the powerful field glasses which the observer was using.

The sketch completed to Ms satisfaction, . Barnard spent another twenty minutes ,casting around for any further clue which might manifest itself, and Trotter, feeling that he had been mistaken in his judgment, lent a willing pair of eyes to the search. Happening to glance toward the valley he suddenly gave a low whistle of warning and dropped to his knees in the heather. Barnard followed his example and looked away in the direction of his pointing finger. His teeth set hard so that the jaw muscles stood out prominently under the skin and his 'big hands clenched as he" saw the object of Trotter's excitement. Grossing the bridge at a rapid pace and obviously returning from Kestrel House was Henry Holt.

CHAPTER XIII. The Morning After. Difiturbed and considerably puzzled by the loss of the parcel, Pyecroft spent a restless night. Someone had been a witness to the sandbagging of Holt, that vas certain. Someone who suspected what the parcel had contained, and was prepared to take any risk to obtain it. A person, moreover, who was swift and cunning, one who had accurately anticipated events, and beaten him at his own game most successfully. He knew that it was not Barnard or his subordinate, neither was it likely to have been any member of the Kestrel house gang. Who then was it? Pyecroft wrested with the problem until outraged nature triumphed, and he dozed. But even asleep his senses were alert, and with the first, faint light which heralded the dawn he awoke. It was not the light which had awakened him, but a slight creaking of the floor boards outside hie door. He sat up in the bed listening intently, and presently he nodded his head. "As I thought, my dear professor, despite the beanache which you unquestionably have, you cannot rest until you have seen the boss. Needs must where the devil drives, so I'll up and follow." He slipped from the bed and moving with the silence of a jungle cat went to the window. Concealed behind the curtain, he watched as Holt, little more than a shadow in the dim light, crossed the yard and set out ever the moor. Less than five minutes afterwards he was hastening On the trail, but he did not take the lower road through the valley, but kept to the higher ground all the way. In so doing he under-esti-mated the speed at which Holt could travel, and actually arrived on the hill overlooking the bridge some minutes after Holt had reached the house. This he realised later, and was on the point of -working his way under cover across the valley, when he saw Barnard and Trotter approaching. They were a considerable distance off when he first noticed them, but recognition was immediate, and he changed his plans abruptly. It was essential that he should know what brought them out at such an early hour. Holt's business he knew, but the Scotland Yard men were a very different matter. Working his way through the bracken and heather, he crawled below the ridge and doubled across to a convenient cluster of boulders, where he waited for the policemen to appear. Concealed behind the rocks he watched Barnard casting around, and guessed his purpose. More than ever he was glad that ho had put up some sort of an alibi. When the chief inspector moved down the slope and made his discovery of the heel mark, he took out a pair oi powerful field-glasses. Trotter was standing with his back towards him, and the glasses showed him clearly the drawing which was made. Frowning angrily, he prepared to depart, but there was no haste in his movements. One hundred and fifty yarde behind lay the fold in the moor where they had parked the car, and he did the entire journey on his stomach. Scarcely a single stem of the bracken moved to mark hia proS 'Once securely hidden he broke into a run and did not cease until he was standing opposite the cottage on the edge of the village where Flack was lodging. '■ ■ ' ■ Assuring himself that nobody was about he stole under cover of the garden wall to the rear of the cottage and quietly lifting the latch slipped into the kitchen. y. Three pairs of boots were standing on the hearth and without a second's hesitation he snatched the nearest pair and waf gone. He smiled to himself as he thought of Flack's consternation when the loss was discovered, for he prized those boots very highly. Ten minutes later he was disrobing in his room, but h» did not get into bed. Drawing on a dressing gown luv waited by the window and presently his vigil was rewarded by the sight of Henry Holt walking across the moor. He saw him stop and speak to. one of_the boys who came from the yard.

"Ah! now I wonder what yarn you are spinning to that unsuspecting youth? Couldn't sleep and thought a walk on the moor would clear your head. You'll have to unload something better than that on friend Barnard, I think. In fact, I'd say that you were up against it, my dear professor." When Hblfc came across the yard he was tempted to open the window and greet him with some facetious remark, but suppressing the inclination he turned away and got into bed, where... he promptly went to sleep. An hour later Mary Jane awoke him with the morning cup of tea and the information that .Flack was waiting to see him. "Show him along, Mary Jane," said Pyecroft, rubbing his eyes and yawning sleepily. "Why do people get up at this unearthly hour?" Flack came into the room, cap in hand, and closed the door carefully./ "You look just like a stage crook doing that," commented Pyecroft. "Well, what's the matter?" "Barnard's been nosing around my digs, and a pair of my boots is gone, guv'nor. Guess that busy's taken 'ein for sunnink." Pyecroft beckoned him to come nearer and, in a voice no louder than Flack's whisper, but in which he managed to infuse considerable emphasis, said: "You'll be lucky, m'lad, if Barnard confines himself to pinching your blighting boots and doesn't get his paws on you as well. Now, I'll tell you something which might interest you. When you took cover behind that gorse bush last night you left a heel mark in the soft earth and that infernal boot was

adorned with a rubber heel which only a lunatic would wear. Barnard and his hound were out this morning making a fair copy of the thing and if it wasn't for a lucky chance I'd have been totally unaware of it. Your beastly boots are ditched where they won't be found in a hurry and if you make such a priceless ass of yourself again 111 sack you. Get me?" A slight flush overspread Flack's lined, little face as he averted his gaze from his master's angry eyes. "Sorry, guv'nor," he mumbled, "I must be gitting past this game." Pyecroft smiled and placed a hand upon the other's arm. "Not you, old scout," he said encouragingly, "but watch your step in future, we're up against somebody more dangerous than Barnard." Rapidly he told him of the loss of the parcel and of Holt's early morning visit to Kestrel House. Flack swore blasphemously as he vigorously scratched the grey stubble which crowned his head. "Gosh, guv'nor," he exclaimed, "some slick guy that! Maybe Barnard's got a nark trailing wot we ain't spotted." Pyecroft shook his head. "No, he's nothing to do with the police; but I wouldn't mind laying good odds that he's the advance guard of the Bergen crowd. If so, m'lad, things will be decidedly hectic." Flack's little eyes sparkled with excitement. "You've hit it, guv'nor; s'welp me if you ain't. Darkey Mullen has doublecrossed 'em and they're out for blood. S'truth, and they'll git it too! Wot we going to do?" "Let 'em all come," smiled Pyecroft, shugging his broad shoulders. "Well beat 'em, Flack, eh?" "Sure, guv'nor," grinned Flack, though the new menace left him uneasy in his mind. Leon Bergen was a very dangerous man. He considered the matter from all angles as he walked back to his lodgings, but the more he thought about it the less the prospect appealed. When Pyecroft arrived down to breakfast he found that Holt and Muriel Mainwaring had practically completed their meal. The former immediately arose and was on the point of leaving the room when Mary Jane announced Trotter. Grasping his hat firmly with both hands the detective sergeant stood hesitating upon the threshold. "Oh, good morning, sergeant," beamed Holt, "anything I can do for you?" "Morning, sir," rumbled Trotter, "the chief sent me along to ask you to step down and see him some time this morning if convenient." "Why, certainly, sergeant. I'll . . .er . . . come right along now, that suit you?" "Thank you, sir, it will."

(To be continued daily.)