The Merafield Mystery

Evening Star, Issue 19764, 14 January 1928, Page 13

The Merafield Mystery

By R. A. J. Walling

(Author of ‘The Third Degree,’ ‘Fatal Glove,’ etc,).

Special Note.—All the names, characters, and incidents in this story aro entirely fictitious.

SYNOPSIS. Sir Charles Merafield, a member of an old .Devonshire family, a pood sportsman, but not a man for whom anyone had much respect, is overheard in a heated argument with his wife, formerly Miss Mary Sheen, a wellknown traveller, by Mr Franks, a local solicitor and clerk to the justices. Mr Franks receives a letter from his friend. Major Overbury, a distinguished solicitor arid barrister, saying he has been invited to stay at Merafield Tower. Early one morning Franks is summoned by Lady Merafield, who tells him her husband has been murdered. Franks finds Lady Merafield very calm and collected. She tells him that during the war she had been a nurse in France, concealing her identity under the name of Mary Brand, as her father disapproved of her action. She had been engaged to Overbury. and later quarrelled with him. He did not know of her marriage to Sir Charles, who, against her wishes, had insisted on asking him to the house. On the night of the murder she and Overbnry had been talking until a very late hour. Overbnry had since disappeared. Ladv Merafield gives Franks the impression that she knows where Overburv is. At the inquest a verdict of wilful murder against Overbnry is given. Public opinion is stronglv against Lady Merafield, who is arrested soon afterwards as being an accessory to the murder. Before this happens she hands to Mr Franks an amazing note from Overbnry to Sir Cbcrles found by her. Mr Franks undertakes a little detective work on his own account, and finds that two days before tbe murder Oyerbnry saved Sir Charles from drowning. His investigations lead him to the house of Dr Sandys, of Chittlehampstead. and he finds that a Mrs Briscoe has left in Merafield’s car, driven by Atkins, his chauffeur. To add to his suspicions, it is obvious that Atkins is a gentleman, and only occupying the position of chauffeur for..§ome particular reason.

myself to be careering round the country in search of a young lady who called her chauffeur “Boyo.” He turned away, saying: “Then it must have been Torquay, for they went down the street.” And I did feel rather alarmed at the facility with which I found myself lying right and left. But I bad found out a part of what I wanted to know. Mrs Briscoe was a chit of a girl with a free style; she was on terms of close familiarity with Atkins; and they had gone westward again. Atkins himself must be my nest objective. I drove back by the main road, avoiding Dartmoor. This was Atkins’s speedway to Merafield if he was bound in that direction. By applying my question here and there I traced him and Mrs Briscoe as far as the hamlet of Wickham, two miles from Merafield Bridge. At Merafield Bridge Atkins had been in the car alone. At home I found my wife surprised to see me so early. Yes, she said, Atkins had called round to ask for me, saying something about a telephone message shortly after I left. She had told him she did not know the direction I had taken. “ Which way did you go?” she asked. “Did he overtake you?” “ Yes,” said I, “ but not till near Exeter. The telephone message was nothing important You won’t ask any questions, will you?” “No; hut I suppose I may make a remark? Atkins is a remarkably gentlemanly man for a chauffeur.” “He is,” I said. “But if I were you I would pretend not to have noticed it.” I knew that would be enough for my wife—always the soul of discretion. After dinner I walked over to Merafield Tower to see Mason. I told him I was sorry to have been away when the telephone message came for me. “I hone it was nothing important, sir?” “ No, not very. Only if I had received it I might have been saved a journey." “So Atkins said, sir; and when we had talked it over we agreed that bo might as well go and try to find you. But I didn’t think he’d go so far. All the way to Exeter, wasn’t it ; sir?” “ Yes, he overtook me just this side. The big car is so much faster than mine that I suppose be got home early.” “ About five, 1 think,” said Mason. “He said something about stopping at Exeter to have bis wires looked at or some such, thing. I’m a fool about cars.'* “Seems a nice, competent fellow,” said I. “How long has he been with you. Mason?” “ Not more than a few weeks, sir.” “How did Sir Charles pick him up?” “Well, it was rather curious. He was really engaged by my lady, as you may say. Sir Charles did most of his own driving in that terrible fast iittle car of his own. The chauffeur we had to drive the big car and look after the garage got an offer all of a sudden from a gentleman in London he’d never heard of before, and ns it was big money and all in a hurry he accepted by telegram. And the very next morning her ladyship gets a letter from Atkins saying he’d heard that she wanted a chauffeur used to this particular kind of car, and would ho do, as he was out of a job, but had good references. She said if the man was any good it would save a lot of bother advertising. Atkins comes down and is engaged on the spot.” “ Very lucky,"” said I. " And very curious, as you remark, Mason.” “ Yes, sir, it is. But Atkins is a nice quiet, unassuming chap—almost a gentleman, as'you might say. We get on very well.” “Of course. It would bo a poor creature who couldn’t get on with you, Mason. I suppose Atkins drove Lady Merafield about a. good deal?” "Well, yes, sir, a goodish bit. You see, she had lots of time to herself, and was fond of going about. It isn’t for me to say anything about Sir Charles, who was always a good master, and I’d known him since he was a boy, but it was noticeable that after the first he and Lady Merafield didn’t got on very well together. Sir Charles neglected her, as von might sav.” “Oh!” _ 1 could not bring myself to the question I itched to ask. I left it at “Oh!” But Mason went on to answer for me.’ “ Yes, sir. It began with the fuss about Jane Emlerhy. And T always did say to myself that if Sir Charles had done the right thing he would have got rid of Jane Rm’frrhy before Lady Merafield came home.” “Jane Endcrhy?” I echoed. “Oh, well, sir, I daresay you haven’t lived all these years in the world without knowing what gentlemen are where a pretty girl is concerned. Jane Enderby was too -pretty for a housemaid, and that’s the truth. But whatever happened before ho was married, I think Sir Charles ought not to have had her in the house after lie was married. No good could como of it, and none did. Of course, she wont when Lady Merafield insisted, but Lady Merafield had to threaten to go herself, as I happen to know.” “Oh, wellj” said !, “that’s a thing of the past, and Sir Charles is gone now.”

CHAPTER V. But before I had gone half a mile westward I had stopped the car and turned, and was retracing my way. I could not hope to catch Atkins. But there were other things I could do now that could not be done later. Principally, 1 could try to discover something about Mrs Briscoe, who was at this moment rjding eastward in Merafield’s car with Merafield’s chauffeur. Up to this point I had been blessed with incredible luck. Atkins was a smart fellow, whoever he might be, but he had made the mistake of over-esti-mating his opponent—if opponent I was to consider myself. Ho thought I knew a lot more than I did. In his anxiety to foil me he had actually presented me with an open sesame to the confidence of the excellent Dr Sandys, which I should have had difficulty in penetrating without that key. For instance, I could not have pounced suddenly upon Dr Sandys and demanded to know who in his house had sent a telephone message in the small hours of the morning of August 20. Thanks to Atkins, I knew to a moral certainty that it was sent by Mrs Briscoe. And" as I had only been able to learn the very name of Mrs Briscoe by pretending to know all about her, further inquiries on that subject from Dr Sandys were ruled out. Whether Mrs Briscoe’s telephone message was linked up with the murder of Sir Charles Merafield or not, it was certainly closely connected with the events of the Monday and the Tuesday. By guile, by force, or by any means that suggested themselves, I must learn all that could be learnt about Mrs Briscoe.

I drove straight through Chittlehampstead again and took the road to Exeter. I supposed that by this time Atkins had half an hoar’s start of me. But there was little traffic on the road, and Merafield’s magnificent car could hardly have escaped notice. I prepared a question to put to the likeliest persons I could see. Addressed to two loungers in front of the public house in the first village I passed, it worked perfectly “ I have missed some friends motoring across the moor. Have you seen a large car pass within the last halfhour or so, with a driver in a brown uniform?”

Aye, they had. It went through the village like a railway train about half an hour back, and would bo in Exeter long before now. “Ah!” said I. “But let me make sure. Did you see who was in the car? Was it a lady?”

“ Aye,” said the first loafer, “so you may say, if you please. Anyhow, ’twas a wench—a’sittin’ ’Jongsido driver, her was. Little chit of a thing, puffin’ away at a cigarette. Hadn’t got no hat on, an’ her hair clip short. Anyway, ’twas a female right enough.” I made no surprise at hearing my supposed friend thus described. 1 thanked the loafers and went on as fast as tire car would go to Exeter, and straight ■to the big garage known as Staubury’s. Not that I hoped to catch Atkins there, even if he called. He probably would, to make sure of corroboration of his story in case I followed him up. But he would be careful to have got out of the way before I arrived.

“Yes, sir. Poor Charles!” Mason sighed. “ But it accounts for what I was saying, sir, that Atkins was out driving Lady Merafield about a good ish hit.”

And so it proved. The big car had been in with a supposed fault :n its lighting circuit, which proved to be non-existent—but then yon never could tell with these chauffeurs, could yon? They tvere mostly incompetent, and not to be compared with owner-drivers.

“I suppose she liad some favorite drives? A crass the moors, for instance?” •‘No, I don’t think she liked the moors much. She was fond of the sea, and Atkins often talked about the difficulty of getting the car along some of the narrow lanes by the coast.” T made a note to find out what had become of Jane Enderby. Perhaps there was no harm in putting one question to Mason.

But I had to make quite sure that the big car was the one I had missed. Was there a lady with the chauffeur? Yes. And yes, again, she was a young lady. Hair shingled? Certainly, She got out of the car hatless and strolled about the garage while they were looking at the wiring. A slight and short young lady—smoking a cigarette? No; smoking was not allowed in the garage. But she was the sort of young lady who would doubtless have smoked a cigarette on any provocation. Friend of mine?

“ I suppose Atkins knew nothing about the causes of Lady Merafield’s long drives alone? Jane Enderby would have been gone long before Atkins came here?”

“No,” said I, “merely an acquaintance on the road.” Ah, well, the intelligent mechanic thought, you never could tell with these young ladies any more than you could with these chauffeurs. But he _ must say he fancied her a bit free in her language. Not but what she was a real young lady—you could tell that by the style of her and the tone of her voice. But as for him, he didn’t hold with young ladies being familiar enough with their chauffeurs to call them by their pet names. “And did she do that, really?” “ Oh, yes, she did. You couldn't help noticing it. ‘ Better hurry up, Boyo,’ says she, ‘ or we shall be in the cart.’ ” And which way did they go? I wanted to _ know, for I was to meet them at dinner either at Taunton or Torquay, and we were to have settled the next stage when we reached Exeter, but I had had treble with my carburettor. and had got left behind. The intelligent mechanic was plainly a, little too intelligent to swallow this invention. Ho looked rather sadly at me, as if he thought it was a deplorable thing for a middle-aged gentleman like

“ Oh, long before, sir. I don’t think he ever heard her name. We don’t encourage gossip about that sort of thing, and Atkins is a very reserved kind of man—keeps himself to himself, as the saying is.” Nevertheless, I felt curious as to whether Mrs Briscoe and Jane Enderby knew anything of each other. “ I suppose Jane Enderby was the usual housemaid type, Mason?” said

“les. A ladylike girl enough to all appearances. Not that anybody who knew the real thing could have made a mistake, sir.” But unless the intelligent mechanic at Stanbury’s garage had made a mistake. Mrs Briscoe was the real thing in Mason’s sense. The question had to be reserved.

I saw Atkins for a few moments before T. left Merafield Tower. Ho seemed, indeed, to have been waiting for me.

The fellow was as impenetrable as a Chinaman. T knew he had brought me a bogus message, that he had lied like Ananias, that he had tricked me, or tried to, all the afternoon, that he had

spirited Mrs Briscoe away from Chittlehampstead in order that I should not see her, and that in some way or other he was deeply concerned in the mysteries surrounding the murder of Sir Charles Merafield.

Yet I could not persuade myself to dislike and suspect the fellow, as by all the rules 1 ought to have done. I suffered from what the psychologists would probably call a sympathy complex.

“ Got back all right, sir,” said he, touching his cap. “Yes,” 1 said. “You had the legs of me, Atkins, with that car. I went round by Exeter, hut, of course, you were hours ahead of me.”

“ Very fine engine, that, sir,” he remarked. “ I called in at Exeter about the wiring . It was nothing much after all.” “Ah!”

. “1 hope you think I did the right tiling in going after you, sir? Mason thought so, and, of course, we didu’t know how important it might be.” “ Oh, perfectly right,” said I. “ You don’t know how much trouble you saved me, Atkins.” “ I’m very glad, sir. • Good-night.” An imperturbable chauffeur, that. When I wished Atkins good-night I was in two minds about leaving him to himself for another twenty-four hours. But I could not have kept a watch on him without risk of arousing his suspicions, and I wanted to lull his suspicion.

If Atkins was what I thought him, aud his quick conclusion about my motor journey showed that he had divined something unusual in my conduct or speech, he would be very much alive to everything I did in the next twenty-four hours. I had no taste for a competition in ambushes with Atkins. Therefore I went home and slept soundly upon all that had happened.

The next morning, in my office, 1 put down on paper the points of my inquiry so far; that is, those which the official inquiry had not brought out because of the settled theory that Overbury was the murderer and "Lady Merafield his accomplice. . “ (1) Something had happened during the fishing expedition on the 17th, and something else during the game of golf on the 18th, which led up to the telephone message sent by Mrs Briscoe from Chittlehampstead on the night of the 19th, or, rather, the morning of the 20th. Note: On the 17th, witnesses—William Newberry and possibly the occupants o f a motor boat. “ (2) Knowledge of these things possessed by : Merafield (deadj, Overbun'- (in hiding), and probably Atkins (acting). “ (3) Merafield in a dead fright on the 19th; possibly ill as well, but certainly frightened. Warned by Overbury.

(4) Mrs Briscoe, whoever she was, desired to escape all inquiry. But, on the other hand, anxious not to be too far away. Note; Atkins could have taken her a hundred miles away in the car without raising any questions if she or he, or both, had wished. Close familiarity between Mrs Briscoe and Atkins. Query ; It may be that the pseudo Mrs Briscoe was in reality Mrs Atkins, and that all this is a blind alley. But that does not fit with the fact that the telephone message received by Merafield just before his death was sent by Mrs Briscoe.” Having got thus far, I began to consider Overbury. Did ho know of the existence of Mrs Briscoe? If Mrs Briscoe was in any way connected with the death of Merafield, it seemed unlikely, for Overbury manifestly knew little of Merafield, and was only by the merest chance involved in the matter.

However, Overbury was hidden and silent, and there was always the possibility that Mason’s startling theory about him might prove to be correct —that he had been put out of the way and would never contribute anything to the solution of the problem. 1 therefore looked over my notes for the most salient clue, and fastened upon the word “motor boat.” The motor boat, Newberry said, had come Up from Westport and had returned in that direction. I went out and walked down to the quays, wdiere I was well known, coming across by the ferry from Westport Passage, as I did, every morning. In a large port, at a distance of nearly a fortnight from the event, it seemed a rather, hopeless task to trace the movements of an unknown motor boat. But it happened that at Westport the motor boats available for hire were in the hands of three or four men, and wore berthed at one wharf. if no motor boat had been hired on the 17th, then I should know that some private owner, or a waterman out for sport among the shags, was concerned, and I need go no further. I drew two blanks, hut at the third inquiry I lit upon an extraordinary circumstance. Wensley and Lillicrap were two ex-fishermen who had saved a little money and invested it in motor boats, which they used chiefly for taking out pleasure parties, but also hired to private persons by the day. They had a little office on the wharf, and were the only owners thus circumstanced.

I found Joe Lillicrap, whom I knew very well, in his office. I said to him: “ 1 am making a little private inquiry Joe—legal business, you know—and 1 want to know if you can help me. Do you keep a record of boat hirings?” “ Oil, yes, sir, every time,” said he. “We’re a partnership, you know, and you’ve got to he particular. Everything’s down in the books.” “Well, I want you to tell me in confidence whether you let out a motor boat to anybody on the 17th.” “Seventeenth? Let's see, when was that?” “It was last Monday week.” “Oh, then there’s no need to turn up the books. Yes, we did Jot out a boat in a sort of way that afternoon, and it was the funniest thing you ever heard. Ho'.came down ’’ “ Who came down?”

“That’s the funniest thing of all. We don’t know who he is. Never seen him before or since. Came down, he did, and wanted to hire a motor boat for the afternoon. ‘ Yes,’ says I, ‘there's the Belle Rose.’ ‘How much?’ says ho. 1 Twenty-live shillings for the afternoon,’ says 1; ‘back by 8 o’clock, and five shillings for the man, which’Jl be me.’ ‘ Oh,’ says he, ‘ I don’t want no man.’ ‘ Never lets out a boat without,’ says 1. ‘ What’s your boat worth?’ says he. I looks at him funny, and I says ‘ hundred pound.’ 1 don’t suppose I’d get more’n fifty for her, anyhow. ‘ Very well,’ says he, ‘ he’ll deposit a hundred pound, and ninetyeight pound fifteen to be returned to him if he brings back the boat by 8 o’clock.’ ”

‘‘He didn’t give you a cheque, I suppose?” I asked. • “ No green about Joe Lillicrap, Mr Franks. No, sir; he don’t even attempt it. He takes out a pocket book and puts down two fifty pound notes—there on the table where you are. And ‘Right?’ says he. ‘Look sharp. I’m going to shoot a cormorant.’ He has jus eye on the window all 'the time, looking out to sea. 1 thought it was lunny, but a hundred pound of bank paper being exactly the sort of fun I like, I pulls in the Belle Rose, add sees to the petrol and oil, and starts the engines. He comes down the steps, carrying a bag and a rifle, and steps aboard ” “A rifle?”

“ Oh, yes, ’twas a rifle all right. I says to him, ‘You’ve got to bo _ a mighty good shot for to hit a shag with a rifle bullet, sir.’ ‘ I don’t often miss,’ says lie. sharp like. And off he goes. And I must say he could handle a boat very well.” “ And when he came back,” said I, “did he say he’d got his cormorant?” “Well, sir, that’s, the curious part of it. He's not back yet. I’ve never set eyes on him or the Belle Rose, and there’s the hundred pound in our safel’ I gaped at Joe Lillicrap. “ Why, the boat’s probably at the

bottom and the man drowned!” I exclaimed. “Have you told the police about it?” “ No, sir. You see, there’s plenty of time to work out the hundred pound at fifty shillings a day. Do you think 1 ought to?” 1 considered this. “Why, no,” I said. “Perhaps better not for the time. _ I’ll let you know. If it’s the man I think, he often goes off ou a wild-goose chase, and may come back any time. What sort of man was he?” “ Oh, quite the gentleman, sir. Sort of short, commanding way with him. Man about fifty, grey hair, clean shaved; tall man. Spoke very well—not a la-di-da style, if you know what I mean—but, well. Looked very stern all the time. Sort of man you wouldn’t think of trifling with. Is that your man, sir?” “It might be,” said I. “ Are you sure he said he was going to shoot a cormorant?” “Yes, sir. I thought it funny he should speak like that, seeing _ that there’s cormorants by the million to be had for the shooting. But I took it he meant to- test his skill with the rifle at a moving target.” “Ah!” said I. “Very likely.” (To be continued.)