"BURNT WINGS"

Hawera Star, Volume XLVIII, 8 December 1928, Page 10

"BURNT WINGS"

CHA PTER XXIV. —Continued. As the couple left the High Street and turned up the road leading to Sir Horace’s residence, the watcher felt once move fear grip him as in a vice. “What good are they going to do up there—the scoundrels l'.’. ne muttered. Something of the same kind must have entered the mind of the gipsy, lor when t hey reached the gate he Hesitated and spoke earnestly to the woman, tine expostulated and lie walked a yard: or two op the drive, then stopped once more. “It ain’t no use,” he grumbled, walking slowly back. “What's the bloke going to say to yer?” “it’s what I’m going to say to him, replied Ninon, “tie’s cheated me!' “How do yer know he’s cheated yerr What about, the Weston blighter ? P’raps he ” .. Jerry Weston, hidden in the bushes a few”yards away, shivered as with a cru©. when he saw the face of the woman. Conccntrarted hat© mad© n©r livid. Her eyes glared at the mention of his name as they had when she confronted him in the parlour of the inn the night before. “Do you think be would darer” she began. “Dare!” the gipsy laughed. Well, not exactly dare. That’s not daring, that’s cunning. P’raps he thought vou’d be too exalted to ” * Xinon Esterei gazed at her husband for a moment in amazement. Then she made a sound that was half-sob, halfcry, and ran back down the drive. ‘‘Where are you going?” asked the gipsy, hurrying after her. “To kill Jerry Weston!” she hissed. “Don’t be a fool! Come an’ see the old woman first. She’il tell yer what to do!” But Ninon went on.

“You’re not going I” said the gipsy as he overtook her and seized her arm roughly. “You’ll p’raps lose what you've got!” “That doesn’t matter so long as 1 finish him!”

Her efforts to break away, however, were futile. Though’ she fought and scratched like a tigress, she could not escape. After a particularly vicious kick from the enraged woman, Ben Dale boxed her ears with his heavy hand, picked her up like a refractory child, and carried her back to the gate. ••You’ll come home with your lawful husband,” he panted. ‘T need some o’ that money.” Like an evil shadow ever pursuing, Jerry Weston, slinking here and there in the heavy, oppressive darkness, followed them up the road.

The woman made several ineffectual attempts to escape, then finally appeared resigned, and walked docilely by the side of the man. As they neared the common a flash of lightning gave warning of another storm approaching. The gipsy urged the woman to quicken her pace, but they had just reached the top of the lngh ground when the rain came in torrents.

Seizing her hand, Dale half-dragged her as they ran at top speed across the unsheltered heath to the old mill.

Wet through, Jeremiah Weston sought shelter under a hawthorn bush. Except for the sound of the rain as it swept across the open moorland, there was l an uncanny silence. flagged clouds obscured intermittently the face of the moon, and the thunder rolled and crashed like the discharge of heavy artillery. Suddenly above the roar of the storm he heard angry voices coming from the mill. Then a shriek rent the air, followed by a confused babel of sound, and all was still again. Two hours later, soaked to the skin, Jeremiah Weston let himself into his empty house.

As dawn slowly crept over the deserted common, the gathering light dispelled many nebulous shapes. Weird figures' of the night were revealed as innocent trees and bushes.

A few yards away from the old mill, however, one indeterminate mass retained its sinister character in spite of the growing brightness. Sodden with the night’s rain and lying all crumpled on the crushed and blood-stained bracken, with here eyes staring upward at the brilliant sky, lay the dead body of Ninon Esterel. CHAPTER. XXV. The mist was slowly trailing away from the common in fantastic swirls when the old gipsy woman looked out from the ruined mill. The storm and the quarrel of her son with his errant wife had robbed her of sleep, but she was up as soon as day dawned to gather a few sticksi for the lire. She usually left that duty to her uncouth son, but as he had not returned, so far as she was aware, before the rain set in to add to the general uproar, that essential duty was forgotten. Over the low ground, as it fell below the eminence on winch the derelict mill stood, tlie mist still hung like a grey curtain, forming a neutral background to the sharp black silhouette of the structure. In front and beside the cavern-like entrance, nebulous grey shapes writhed and gyrated like fiends mopping and mowing to the aged hag who gazed eagle-eyed into the void.

The weird cloudy formations parted and swirled above her as, mumbling inarticulately, she hobbled slowly across to a little thicket wdiere she might reasonably hope to find what she sought.

By G. Herbert Teague.

“1 ought not to bo doing this,” she l croaked, “while you lazy lout is steepin' line a pig. My poor old feet’s soaicin’ wet —soakin’ wet.” Wandering here and there with her sharp eyes on the soft springy ground, she gathered sufficient wood lor Jier needs, but still, from force of habit, watched for anything else she might garner. Returning slowly with her arms full of sticks, and picking her way carefully through matted undergrowth and over twisted roots, which threatened her footing, she was crossing a small clearing .not far from some overhanging thorn trees when she saw a heap oi clothing lying on the open ground. Clothing was not a usual find on the common, and, congratulating herself on her good fortune, she deposited her bundle on the ground and hobbled over to investigate. As sbe approached and could notice details, the sodden heap looked strangely familiar—a badraggled hat lay just beyond. It was a woman. Terrified, but drawn to the sinister bundle as though by a magnet, the old gipsy hobbled nearer. The face was upturned to the pitiless sky. “Ninon!” She stumbled and fell

across the dishevelled corpse and groped wildly for signs of life. “Ninon!” sue shrieked, as she patted the unresponsive xcace and raised the lifeless hands, “Dead!” The exclamation was more a horrified sigh than a whisper, then it merged into a low, passionate, griefstricken crooning, as the old woman cowered on the wet turf.

“Poor lass!” she moaned, as she rocked to and fro. “Poor lass! End of all your painted finery! Who did it, lass? Who did it? Tell me who did it? Oh, Ben Dale, Ben Dale, you’ll be sorry for this!” Her first grief at length over, the possibility of the body being seen brothers roused her to the danger of her position. She gazed helplessly around for a moment, then, with a flash of inspiration, went back to her bundle of sticks and spread them over the crumpled heap. The misty shapes were vanishing when the old woman returned to the mill, and the beams of the rising sun were sire telling over the tops of the hills. Pilled with panic as she realised the peril of discovery in the brightening clay, she alimost fell through the dark doorway and ran to a,n inner room. Wailing hysterically, she stood panting for a moment, unable to make any conerent sound. “Wake —wake up!” she cried at length, as she burst open the door. “Wake up and fly before the police get you—tor murdering Ninon!” “What’s that?’’ her grandson lepliecl as he sat bolt upright. “Police?” “Why, yer not undressed l ” she shrieked as she observed that the man had gone to bed with nothing remove i but his jacket and boots. “Ye’re not undressed! “That’d prove it! Oh, yer murderer! Get up, get up, and let’s hide the body. The police!” ‘‘W'hcre are the police?” lie asked fearfully. “I didn’t do it. D’ver say she’s murdered—Ninon?”

“Aye, Jyin’ stark an’ stiff over yonder!” She waved a skinny hand in the direction of the spot she had just left.

“And what about the coppers—where did yer say they were!” he asked, springing to his feet and hu rriectly putting on his wet boots. “They’re not Here yet, but soon will he! Come on, quick!” As they made their way over the common the man turned to the old woman struggling on behind and laughed over his shoulder. “Ye’re mad! Where is she?”

“Am i?” was the reply as she leached the pile of brushwood and kicked it away, revealing the corpse. “As 1 mad now?”

The gipsy gazed at the body of his wife with frozen horror. “I didn’t do it!” he murmured weakly. “Ye’re a liar!” hissed the old woman. Didn’t 1 hear the row last night? Didn’t i see ye stripe her? 1 can see the rope over ye now. Don’t stand there like a lost dog. We’ve got to hide it quick. Someone will be along soon, and then—” She made a horrible significant gesture with her hand on her neck, and Ben Dale ran like a frightened hare back to the mill.

The old woman pointed at him with her lean yellow claw, and cackled with maniacal, eldrich laughter. A few minutes later the gipsy returned with two spades. “Lay ’old o’ that!” he commanded, dinging one of them at the hag’s feet, and began digging with frantic haste. The woman, feeble as she was turned over the soft yielding soil with a vigour unusual in one of her apparent years. Neither spoke, but the perspiration of fear and exertion rolled off the man’s forehead and ra'n in a stream down his agonised face. The woman stopped frequently to rest and wail softly to herself, but the man never paused until a grave of about two feet deep had been dug. “Quick!” he panted, “in with hoi-. We’ve no time or use for parsons on tin's job!” Without another word they halfdragged, half-rolled the body of Ninon Esterel into the pit they had dug, then, using spades, hands and feet,' . - i

they rapidly covered up the damning evidence of the crime. Replacing the turf as well as they could, and scattering broken branches here and there to disguise the fact that the ground bad been disturbed, the pair hurried away from the sinister spot as though the police were already in pursuit. “W’here are you going?” the old woman asked when they were once more inside the mill. “What d’yer mean—where am 1 going ?” “I’m not having a murderer hiding with me!” she said. “Ye’re going now, and ——” “I ain’t a murderer!’’ he protested. “It was ” “Tell that to the coppers,” she sneered. “I know different. Are ye going now, or are ye waitin’ until they come?” “I’m going now!” he said. “I’m goin’ over to Mitch ley Fair for a while if ye think I did it, an’ then I’m goin’ to London or somewhere, an’ see what happens.” Hastily snatching up a piece of bread and making a bundle of a few things, the gipssy silently strode out of the mill, crossed the common without a glance at the place where the body lay, and made his way on to the Kirk cl tester road.

For a long while the old hag sat at the door, with her knees almost touching her sharp chin, watching the evil spot as though she expected the corpse to come out and condemn both her and her son.

The sun had risen and dispelled the mists; the droning of bees as they worked among me purple heather mingled with the song of the skylark; yet she sat on, crooning softly to herself: Blood and murder, Murder—'blood ! See the painted lady lying! Rain and thunder, Mud and clay! No one there to see her dying! CHAPTER NXVI. The detestation of Jeremiah Weston shareci equally uy ifeggie Deauville and Eppy Smith formed a bond between them, and they met frequently after their first acquaintance. Jerry Weston bad refused to lie intimidated by threats of exposure, and had told him to do his worst. Eppy, therefore, had accepted the invitation, and was staying in the ‘own t.jilil such time as he had satisfiM.himself on that score.

The day following Reggie Deauville’s return from London he called on Smith at the lodging-house to talk over things and relate his adventures since he went away.

There was a certain air of dignity about the visitor as he stood among the motley residents in the general room, but once outside, walking together along the road, he unbent and became genial, as befitted the friendship that had been firmly cemented by their one common interest. “I was sent on an important or;and by Lady Hopper,” explained Reggie proudly, in answer to a question horn the other as to the reason for his \isit to London. “Blvme!” replied Eppy, briefly but eloquently. “Y'es; she dispatched me with a very important message to an elderiy party who lives in Islington, and [fail expenses, of course.” “Cotter retainin’ fee?” asked Eppy, with memories of his own sporting origin.

“Not exactly, but there’s a—well, it’s like this —there’s a sort of a mystery about me. This old party 1 went to see at Islington kept on looking at me and saying there was no doubt about it, and all that sort of Ming, till I began to wonder “Blvme!” remarked Mr. Smith for the second time, and with equal eloquence. “Yer might turn out ier be a miliionairey’s Jong-lorst- boy, wot’s come back to the old ’omostea-d- after playin’ the giddy goat on a fun.n shore!”

Reggie laughed. “Not to me! No, you see, I helped young Brent home after his accident. He’s her ladyship's nephew, and she says she can’t forget it. That’s vhy she sends me what she calls ‘a little sum each week’ to help me along.” “An’ wot abart the party in London? She knows somethin’, don’t she?” “I expect she a.oes. But I’m not worrying, and if I should turn out to be the missin’ Lord Deauville, 1 shall not forget my old i'rieud in mr —er — adversity—Mr. Eosom Smith.” That gentleman grasped the extended hand in dramatic fashion, and placed his left hand on Reggie’s shoulder.

“This is wot’s called settin’ the seal on our friendship,” lie murmured. “But wouldn’t it lie all right on the pictures,” he sang, remembering an old ditty. ’Ware a. gentle-man’s son, And I’m a pore work-in’ lad.

“I’ve got an idea,” said Reggie, when the little scene was over, and they had .resumed their walk. “There’s no reason why you shouldn’t make a do of this business. Since Lady Hopper has been so kind to me, L think we might forget about that letter we took to Sir Horace.

“Whatever you suggest, ole pal, is good enough for me. Besides, I should think ’is nibs ’as brassed up by now.” “Yes, I’m inclined to think lie lias,” said Reggie. “If he hadn’t tliere’d ’a’ been trouble up there, and as Sir Horace and young Brent went to Loudon together, it isn’t likely they’d leave if Ninon hadn’t been sort o’ put off with a little present.” “True, my lord!” replied Eppy with a bow. “But don’t—please don’t—ask me to spare the other bloke. Don’t ask me to be robbed o’ me revengence!” “You mean old Jerry?” “That’s the dirty dog Let me keep me claws in ’im!” “That’s wliat I’m coming to. You’ve got your knife in him; so have I. And two of us can get him wliero p’raps one couldn’t on his own.” “That’s the talk! Now I been watchin’ Mister Jerry—doin’ a hit o’ deteotivin’ —while you was in London.

an’ I seen ’im go inter the Five Bells the other night. As ’e doesn’t drink, it’s plain ’e went ter see Miss Esterel, as she calls ’erself. An’ as ’e doesn’t love ’er an’ she doesn’t love ’im, it’s also plain ’e went ter pay some money —deliver the goods, as yer might say. Partic’lerly as ” “Marvellous!” interrupted Reggie, admiringly. “You ought to be in the ” “Partic’lerly as I’d seen ’im call on S’rorris the day before!” “Go on! The dirty blighter’ll he sorry he gave me the push!” “Well,” resumed Eppy, warming to his work, “there’s another thing. ’E give you the push, didn’t ’e? Why shouldn’t we push ’im?” (To be continued.)