THE FERROL MYSTERY.

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXII, Issue 19201, 15 December 1925, Page 18

THE FERROL MYSTERY.

BY 0. GUISE MITFORD

CHAPTER XVIL —(Continued). Wilson returned the document to its envelope which he carefully placed in h huge poacher's pocket fashioned in the lining of his jacket, and, having securely buttoned up his overcoat, he rose and held out his hand. " Thanks, Bill. I did not want to go to a stranger, or to one of them solicitor fellows. You know me as7»vell, and better, than most of the blokes here, so I came to you." " That is all right," Winter said. " I am always glad to do what I can to oblige an old friend." James Wilson gave a short laugh, and his old, easy-going smile returned to his face. I " I may be an old scoundrel, Bill, and 1 ki;ow<l am a blamed liar, but 1 am speaking God's truth when I toll you that I do not want a drink this morning." / "That so?" " Yes. But I am going to have one all the same, just to wish luck to that thero document 1 have signed." " That is right, matey. It would not bo liko you, Jim, to leave the old Sandrock as dry as when you entered it. What will you have?" "The usual, Bill. What is yours?" The .drinks were brought and consumed with much appreciation. " And how are things going with you ?" Wilson asked, as the two men drew their chairs to the fire. Tbo public, bar was'empty, for there was little custom before mid-day. "A good deal has happened since I last looked round this room." "When might that he?" "Why, have you forgotten? It was the night when Mark Ferrol was murdered, and you asked mo to have a peep at him .through tho door. 110 was sitting in that very chair, where you are sitting now, and his face was half turned to me. I recognised him right enough." Mr. Winter's expression became grave, | as he proceeded to fill and light his pipe, " That was an ugly business," Wilson j continued. " I wonder the police have never got to the bottom of it; and they had avspecial man sent down from London, too." " Yes, they did," the landlord said. " As you say, Jim, it was an ugly business, and I suppose the truth will never be known now." " Do vou see anvthing of his brother ?" Yv ilson said presently. "Whose brother?" " I mean the new squire, up at Meadowhaugh." "He put up here for a couple of weeks when he first came to Grassland, and I saw him again afterwards, when I was with a deputation to ask him for a contribution toward the Institute. He paid up well, and gave us a cheque for twenty pounds." " It is easy to be generous, when you have got the cash," Wilson said grudgingly. " They say he has plenty of money." " Any amount of it." " By the way, your bov is up at Meadowhaugh now, is he not ? I heard some talk about it in the bar the other night." " Yes. He has been there some time now." "And what is his job?" " I don't know what it is." Wilson replied,; as he spat into the fire. "He gets good pay, and does not seem to work very hard for it. A cushv job, I call it." 7 Then he is in luck's way. Well, I am ' glad/ to hear it, for Cliff is a nice steady lad. How does he get on with I his new boss ? " "He lias nothing to complain of. By the way, Bill, which of those two brothers was the/eldest?" " Which two brothers ? I thought you only had one boy." Get along with you. I mean the two Ferrols—the one who was murdered, and the ope who is now at Meadowhaugh." " How the devil should I know ? Do you think I have seen their blooming birth certificates ?" " But John Ferrol was some time with ' you .here, before he moved into his new house." " That is so." " y°n saw enough of him to form an opinion as to whether he is older or younger than his brother. You remember Mark Ferrol, don't you?" "I remember him right enough." " Tlien which of the two do you think was the elder ?" Mr. Winter rubbed his chin thoughtfully. " If you ask me that question, I should Kav that Mark was the youngest man. He had a 7nore slim and classy figure, and his hair had no* grey in it. His brother is morn heavUv built, and his manner is that of an older man. What would you 6av ?" " T acrree with you. Bill, but there could not have been many years between thorn " " P°rharis not. Were they the only tv" famifv ?" " I have not heard of any other relation." " T wonder who got Mark Ferrol's Tnonoy j" " 1/ suppose it went to his brother," Marshall said. "You need not worrv *" Monev alwavs goes to money. I could have done with some of it myself." "The same here," Mr. Winter replied, es he hurried into the bar, from which came the sound of heavy bangs upon tho counter. CHAPTER XVIII. It was nearly eight o'clock upon the following evening, and Rosie sat. bes'de the fire in the kitchen, staring thoughtfully at the bright- flames that chased each ether up the emmney. There was a troubled expression upon her face, and her usually busy fingers were idle, which Was a very rare thing. Her father .was reading his paper, upon the opposite side 'if the .table, and he looked viri more than once at the silent figure of his daughter. "What ails you, lass?" he asked presently, as he lowered the paper to his knee.' "Anything wrong to-day?' She started, as she turned her pretty head toward him. "It is nothing, dad. I am only feeling, a bit. worried." " And what is it that you are worried about?" She hesitated for a moment before she replied. " Cliff promised to call for me this evening, and take mo to the pictures." she answered in a low voice. "He was to have been here at six o'clock, and he has neither come nor sent, any message. It is not like him, and I am afraid something may be wrong." " Maybe he has been kept at his work, and cjouid not get away in time," Mr. Marshall said, " You need not worry about that, my girl. It is not fair on the lad to expect him to come here every night.'' " But he has never done such a. thing before, / and—and —I am always anxious about him when he is at home." " What is there to be anxious about ? The boy is all right. He can take good care "of himself." There was a silence between them for a while, and Mr. Marshall returned 1,0 the perusal of his paper. Presently the girl spoke again, and the troubled look deepened upon her face as he did so. "..Father." " Yes, dear." "May 1 slip down to the village? I will go straight, there, and I will come straight back." Mr. Marshall looked round the corner of his paper. " Stay where you are. lass. I don't like to see young girls like you out by themselves at nights, as though thev had neither homes to go to, nor any parents to look 'fter them." " But I am so anxious, dad. I have a queer feeling that something may have happened to Cliff." 'What shou'd happen to him, Rosie? You worry too much about tho boy. It Keems that, your heart does you more • Credit than your head."

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She did not answer his question. "I will take Minnjo Hall with me," she said. " And it. is a fine night- The moon is almost full." Her words ended with a sound that was very near to a sob.

Mr. Marshall looked up at her again, more lovingly this time, and the stern expression upon his face relaxed. He remembered that he had been young himself once, and, though old-fashioned in many ways, he was broadminded enough to make some allowances for those who had tho hot blood of youth coursing through their veins. "If you take Minnie Hall with you, 1 don't so much mind. She is a steady lass, and you will bo safe together," But when Rosie called at the cottage where Minnie Hall lived, she found tho I girl was out, for she too had her boy, and was away with him at the pictures that night. The frosty sky was clear of all clouds, and the brilliance of the moon gave almost tho clarity of day, as Rosie hurried along the white, straight, road that led from the farm to tho village. She was more troubled in her mind than she cared to acknowledge even to herself. She was obsessed with a feeling—that came near to a pre- i sentiment —that her presence was wanted at the side of the boy she loved. She felt that he was never really safo in the dograded home he shared with his dissolute parent, and she was filled with a nameless terror at limes, conjuring up in her simple way what harm might have befallen him. She started violently when she suddenly came face to face with a man who was passing, her, but a quick sob of relief came to her as she recognised that he was the Squire of Meadowhaugh, slowlv wending his way back to his solitary borne. Ho i took no notice of her, and she was too frightened even to look back at his retreating figure. She passed Minnie Hall's brother with his "young lady," and several of her girl friends who were taking advantage of the fine night to enjoy a lover's ramble, but she had only hurried words of greeting for them as she sped on her way. When she reached the village, her anxiety was increased to alarm, for, as she turned into Friars Lane, there came to her the sound of many subdued voices. She saw dark figures standing in groups about the roadway—and they were either near or in front of the house where her sweetheart lived. She quickened her steps, and her breath came in short gasps, as she reached tho door, pushing her way between the people who had gathered there. A constable barred her way, and held out a restraining' arm. "Stand back, there," he said, in an official, though kindly, voice. She tried to press past him. "Merciful God!" she murmured between her set teeth, "what has happened?" The constable stooped, and whispered into her ear. " You go home, missie. You can do no I good here." " I want Cliff," she moaned. "I want I Cliff Wilson. He is my lad, and he will be wishing me beside him." The constable was about to move her gently from him, when the door opened suddenly behind him. The doctor came out, and with him was Cliff. The girl gave a cry of relief. Her boy was alive and safe. She threw herself toward him. " Cliff!" she cried. "I am here. Tell me what has happened." A strong arm was passed around her waist, and the dearly-loved voice was whispering into her ear. "Go away, my darling. Why are you here*? You must not come in. It is not a sight you can see, and—and—" he choked back a sob—" nothing can be done now." " But what has happened ? I—l do not understand." "Hush, Rosie, my dearest. I-—I cannot tell you now. Mv father is dead." "Yes," called out a raucous voice near to them. "Jim Wilson has been done in, and he is as dead as a coffin nail, poor devil." CHAPTER XIX. The murder of James Wilson profoundly stirred public interest, not only in the district where he lived, but throughout the whole county. Less than six months had passed since a similar crime had been perpetrated in the same village, of which the late Mark Ferrol was the victim, but, in that case, there had been an obvious motive, which was robbery. Here, however, there appeared to be no motive at all. The man was poor, and, if he had ! not many friends, it was generally ad- | mitted that he had no enemies. His murj der was an act of cold and ca'culated j brutality, for there was no evidence of any struggle, nor was anything missing from the house. That robbery played no part in this crime was proved by the fact that even the contents of his pockets had not been touched, for among them was found Treasury Notes to the value of six pounds. No ono had been seen to enter his house or leave it. The body was discovered by his son upon his return home, and the postion of it led to the assumption that the man had been killed with a knife while in a drunken sleep. There was no proof that he had succumbed to the effects of any second stroke. The one horrid gash in his neck to'd its own bloody tale. He had been stabbed from behind his chair, and must quickly have bled to death. It is not necessary to record hero the details of the inquest. Apart from tho doctor and the police, the only evidence asked for and given was that of Cliff and Mr. Winter of the Sandrock Hotel. Neither was able to throw any light upon ! the matter, though both of them we; e ! closely examined with regard to tho mysterious document which the murdered man had signed upon the day of his death. Cliff knew nothing about the contents of it, nor could lie even offer a suggestion as to what it might have referred. Mr. Winter could only swear that he had witnessed Wilson's signature in the saloon of his hotel, and that his mild curiosity with regard to it had only resulted in a snub. The gruesome details of the crime were reported at length in the local press, and a photgraph of the houso appeared in a London illustrated paper, which was an honour much appreciated by the residents of East Grassland village. Cliff had taken Rosie home on the night of his terrible discovery, and Mr. Marshall had at once placed a room at his disposal till he could make other and more satisfactory arrangements —if a further change of home was considered necessary. Number 13, Friars Lane was locked up, and i left in the charge, of the police, so that | a thorough examination of the house i should be made for any clue that might ! he'p them in their search for the murderer, i So far their investigations had produced jno result whatever. Mr. Ferrol, with a | kindness and a gereiosity which was | much appreciated, allowed the young man | a week of absence from his duties, in I order to recover from the shock of his ! father's death. lie also sent a handsome j wreath of flowers from the Meadowhaugh ! conservatories. j Once more did public interest in a sordid crime simmer down to mild indifj ference. Indignant letters were written to the local papers by critical nobodies, condemning the inefficiency of the police, and offering suggestions which were more or less irre'evant to tho matter at issue, j The bald fact remained that a brutal murder had been committed, and. as in | tho last case which aroused similar interest, the perpetrators of it had escaped without leaving so much as a finger-print behind them. (To be continued daily.)