MYSTERIOUS MR. MALLAFORD.

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXIX, Issue 21141, 26 March 1932, Page 11 (Supplement)

MYSTERIOUS MR. MALLAFORD.

CHAPTER X.—(Continued.) Presently Peggie Flint and her aunt, both once more solemnly adjured to silence, went away, and Gray turned to jus with an ominous shake of the head. " Very interesting, Leicester, very interesting indeed," he remarked cynically. il Peggie's quite a model little witness, handy, intelligent, willing, and all the rest of it. 'And her evidence is exceedingly valuable —for the defence!" I stared at him, not comprehending. "What do you mean—for the dffenco ?" I asked. " Just What I say," ho retorted. f Mallaford, Webbam, Mrs. Barfoot—they're tho defence. Well, how could cither Mallaford, or Webbam, or Mrs. Barfoot have any part or lot in the .murder of Susan Wheeler if Mallaford and Webbam were in the house from the moment Susan Wheeler left it, and never went out. of it, and if Mrs. Barfoot spent that evening in London ? Wouldn't cause sny ono of the three much trouble, if any were accused, to set up a plea of —Elsewhere at tho time. Eh? " " That is, supposing Susan W 7 heeler to have come by her death between eight and nine o'clock on that evening?" I said. He turned sharply, staring at me. "Supposing?" he repeated. "Is—is there any supposing? That's what the doctors said. Death occurred between eight and nine o'clock." It was my turn to shako my head and to be a little sceptical and cynical. " Oh, well, I'm a mere layman," 1 said. " I can't say anything in these matters. But do you think those chaps are infallible ? Here's a woman found dead at between ten and eleven o'clock in the morning. The doctors examine the body and gravely inform you that death took plap about fourteen .hours previously. Are they right ? What I mean is, are they always right? Mightn't they make a mistake—sometimes ? A mistake of —well, in this case, of even one hour "Yes." he 1 said eagerly, '-'a mistake of ono hour would make a difference in this case. Supposing, however, that a mistake of two or three hours had been made ? That Susan Wheeler was murdered, not at half-past eight, but at halfeleven or at half-past twelve ? I should really like to hear, at first hand, what those medical men have to say on the subject." " That's easily done," said I. " There Were three of them, eventually. They came to the conlusion, among them, that Wheeler had been dead, about fourteen hours. Well, all three are within a few miles of this house. Supposo we go and see them? " -" One would do," replied Gray. " W T hat I want to know is—were they certain about the time of death, and can he give me grounds for this qertainty ? If Susan Wheeler was murdered at half-past fcighfc in the evening of which we've beep talking to Peggie Flint, then it's a positive fact that neither Mallaford, nor Webbam, nor Mrs. Barfoot could possibly have had anything to do with the murder. And if they hadn't, who bad? " We went next morning to call on the 'doctor who had come with the police to see Susan Wheeler's dead body 60on after my discovery of it. He was emphatic, and decided in his opinion that death had taken place fourteen hours before he examined tho body; in ether words, that Susan Wheeler was murdered at half-past eight o'clock in the evening. Moreover, as far as our limited capacifv would permit, he gave us reasons for his" belief. And finally he summed lhings up in a terse declaration. " When I first saw body, tho woman had been dead fourteen hours! he declared. " may take that as certain." Gray walked out of the doctor's house 'looking verv glum, and presently declared "that that had settled it, and that matters had come to an impasse. Everything we had dono was wasted. We had got no further. Wo should have to look in another direction. Where the devil was one to get hold of a likely clue? And so on, and so on—ho continued to be so gloomy and self-blaming (nothing, he said, having occurred to him so far that warranted him in thinking himself possessed of more than the brains of a . sheep or a rabbit!) that—*s we had to pass it oil our homeward way-I took him into the inn at- Burford Bridge to cheer him with a drink. " A famous place for inspiration, this, Gray," I said chaffingly. " Here Keats wrote his 'Nightingale' and here JNelsou and Lady Hamilton "No stock in.any one of them at piesent." he interrupted. " What I want is not inspiration, either for odes to nightingales or how to win the Battle of Trafalgar, but a clue—even the thinnest splinter of one! I can see now, he went on, after taking a hasty pull at the tankard of bitter beer which had been set before him, " that T shall have to haik bark again, and " Ho got no further than that. ® door of the parlour in which we were kitting swung open Mr. Bussill. CHAPTER XI. ANOTHER. DOOR OPBNS. I don't know what amount of surprise Gray and I showed when Mr. Bus silt walked in: probably we showed a good deal, for v.o had certainly not expected to see him. But Mr. Bussill showed none ; he might have been in the habit cy faceting us in that room every morning of the Week. "I thought ,1 might run across you J'oung men here," he remarked as ie came up and shook hands. " 1 called a your house, Mr. Leicester, and heard that you had ;/one this way. And few people, I imag'ne, pass this hotel without it a call." But what are you doing here in Surrey, Mr. Bussill?" I asked when we had seated.him in a comfortable corner and pressed hospitality upon him. Ihis is quite an unexpected pleasure! " You may be sure I had good reasons for coming," he replied,/ with a know ing finiile. And you can guess what they are. I came up last night and stopped in town until this morning, when 1 ca ™° along here. I know this part cf the world; I have spent holidays about here, but it's many years ago. And after calling at vour house I walked down hei e—and iiere, I think, I shall stay a > while —my belongings are at the station. "No!" 1 made haste to say. You must conie and stay with me—l ve plen y of room " "That's very kind of you, ' he interrupted, " but I think it will bp best if I put up here. There are things want to do. But now, toll me—how have you progressed ? " , Wo gave him an acocunt of all that had happened and all that YL 0 .. 1 ?, learned since our leaving him at Hoi oi . Ho listened in silence, nodding his head now and then at various points. He mad_ no comment when I had finished, so asked if he had any fresh news for us —-from his end. ~ ~ "Nothing much," he replied, cept this. " Since you saw me, I have a - certained that the Holford solicitors to whom 'the money for distrilmtion aniong Mallows' clients was sent, did find _Su "Wheeler! I had understood, previously, that thev didn't. But they did, and the

amount originally entrusted to Mallows, with interest on it, was duly forwarded to her. Now, here's the astonishing thing. She returned it!" "Returned it!" exclaimed Gray. " The lot ? " " Everything—with a curt note, stating that that was not what she wanted of David Mallows! The solicitors begged her to reconsider matters, and to state what she did want. She never replied to their letter. So —after, I think, another appeal to her, also disregarded—they returned tho money—of course, to Mallows —through the secret channel by which it had reached them." "Queer —very queer!" said Gray. " Now, what do you suppose she did want ? " Mr. Bussill took up his glass, drank meditatively, and set it down with a gesture that suggested finality. " Revenge! "ho said. " Revenge! " W'o were all threo silent for a minute or two after that; wondering, I think. Then Gray turned on the old gentleman. " Mr. Bussill! "he said. " What have you come here for"' " Mr. Bussill smiled. He took off his gold-rimmed spectacles, polished them, returned them to his nose, and looked at his questioner archly. " Now, can't you answer that question for yourself, young man ? " he said. " Why have I come here ? Why, I want to see this man who calls himself Mallaford ! That's why ! " " Easily dono, sir," I remarked. "We can give you a sight of him from my window, or my garden, any day as he passes in his car—and perhaps a closer and moro leisurely one. I'll arrange all that. And now you'll lunch with me and Gray ? It's past ono o'clock." " Thank you," he said. " I shall be happy to do so—l breakfasted rather early in London this morning." I left him and Gray together in the little lounge outside the dining room while I went in to consult the head-waiter and to order a table for three; Mr. Bussill had been so hospitable to Gray and myself at Holford that I wanted to return the compliment. Choosing my table and telling (the head-waiter my wishes, I turned to go back—and in the act of turning saw Mallaford! Mallaford, of all men in the world, and with him the woman I had seen at his door when I ran there to tell of my discovery of Susan Wheeler's dead body, the housekeeper, Mrs. Barfoot ! Mallaford and Mrs. Barfoot sat at a table in a window place, one on either side. They had evidently just finished lunch; they had coffee before them; he was smoking a cigarette and listening earnestly to something she was telling him. And I saw quite well that there was a familiarity, a relationship between them, which was not that of the employer and employee sort. Yet I could see that it Was not that of lovers or of people who had been lovers—it was, rather, the close intimacy of individuals who shared secrets and had common interests. Mallaford caught sight of me as I went back to the door and gave me a quiet, friendly smile of recognition, to which I was careful to respond to in the same way. It was evident that be was not at all incommoded by being discovered lunching with his housekeeper—and as for the housekeeper, she was obviously one of those women who can be depended upon for self-possession and complete assurance at any critical moment. She gave me the faintest though perfectly polite inclination of her head and turned again to Mallaford. I rejoined' Mr. Bussill and Gray, and motioned to them to put their heads together over the little table at which we were sitting. Mr. Bussill!" I whispered. lou wanted to see the man who calls himself Mallaford! The opportunity has come sooner than I'd thought for. Mallaford is in there—in the dining room, lunching with a lady. They've about finished, too, and in a minute or two they'll be coming out. Sit back in your corner, Mr. Bussill, and take a good look at Mallaford as he passes." Mr. Bussill showed no surprise; he. evidently thought, it quite a natural thing that "Mallaford should be encountered within such a short distance of his own house, and lie promptly obeyed my orders and sat back. Gray edged closer to me. " Who's the lady ? " he murmured. "Tho housekeeper!" I answered in a whisper. "Keep close!" A moment later the dining room door opened and Mallaford and Mrs. Barfoot appeared, and with a mere glance at us went slowly across the little lounge toward the entrance hall—l heard him saying something about his car being due outside. A second or two, and they had cr one —and wo both turned on Mr. Lussil!. " Well ? " The old gentleman nodded. " He has grown a very full hp is of course, twenty "years older," he. said, quietly. " But that's David Mallows, without a doubt. I know his build, his figure, his walk ! Yes—that s Mallows. And —I know the woman! " . "The woman, too?" I exclaimed. "You do? Who is she, then? ' " The woman whose name I mentioned to you at Holford," lie answered more quietly than ever. " The woman who ran away from Holford and completely disappeared about tho time of Mallow s disappearance. Mrs. Carstone! ( " Good Heavens!' said Gray. lou re sure of that?" " As sure as T am that 1 see you, young man!" replied Mr. Bussill. "As sure as that I am very hungry! ' We went into the dining room, we ate and drank ; wo talked of the associations of our surroundings and their connection with Keats, and with Nelson, and with various other celebrities of one sort and another; nothing was said between us of what had just happened. But when we were back in our corner in tho 'ounce with coffee and cigars, Gray went straight to business. . , .... "Mr. Bussill!" he said. What, aie vou going to do?" . Mr. Bussill gave him a quiet, enquning look. ~, , •' What about, young man ? he aS " The affairs i" which we're all concerned!" replied Gray. "You are quiio sure the man yen saw just now is the man you knew as Mallows " lie is Mallows! said Mr. Bussill. " Well, you have a hold on Ma Hows. What arc you going to do about it ! Mr. Bussill became reflective. lie iemained silently contemplating the tabic before him for a while. " r should like to have some convention with Mallows," he said at last. " And preferably in the presence of somebody else—you two, for instance. I think—l have an idea, perhaps an instinct, that if Mallows could be >nduwd to talk, we might learn something. Som .- thing that at present we can t even inak a guess at. And I think Mallows would tal "There me ought to be little difficulty i if viTit M s' id Grav. i How cap manage it? Manage it, I mean, in a '» dSLeJ ways ami »"«% we hit on what seemed to be a sensible nlan. Mr. Bussill was to go back with lis to my house; I was then to go up to Mallaford Court, get an interview with its owner, tell liini plainly that my guest Mr Bussill, of Ilolford, had recognised him as an old-time acquaintance of his in Sat town and invite him to step down and see Mr. Bussill. We should be able to judge, from his mere reception of. this invitation, if he was afraid or not. I had no great relish for my p.ut as ambassador, but i had made up my mind before I reached the gates of Mallaford Court, that I would be perfectly plain and candid, and if need arose would not hesitate to lay niy cards on the table; as 1 cards the man himself ii, seemed to me that the time was now or never And I was lucky to begin with—l found Mallaford alone in the garden; he stood there, L pipe in his mouth, his haods careless y thrust in his pockets, inspect..',g a newhJaid out flower bed. Hearing the soutfd. of my approaching footsteps on the gravelled path, he turned, and I could not ee-

By J. S. FLETCHER. Author of "Cobweb Castle," "The Wild Oat," etc. A FINE STORY BY A FAMOUS NOVELIST.

(COPYRIGHT.)

any sign of surprise at my presence. Instead, he greeted me as one neighbour might greet, another; certainly he was neither embarrassed nor inquisitive. But I was nervous and perhaps a little awkward, and being so, went straight to tho point, no doubt with much abruptness. "Mr. Mallaford!" I said. "You'll wonder at seeing me here ? You saw me just now at the Burford Bridge Hotel with two friends of mine. Did you ob-, serve that ono of them was an elderly man ?" He began to show some surprise then, and, stared at me wonderingly. " I —yes, I think I did see that," he answered. " Ho is a man whose acquaintance I have recently made," I went on. "Ho conies, Mr. Mallaford, from Holford, in Yorkshire." Ho did start at that—an unmistakablo start. And from that point onward he seemed to bo wrapped in a sort of wonder, and for a while, instead of finding words of his own, kept repeating my words. " His name," I went on, " is Bussill. He is a solicitor—retired." "His name is Bussill! A—retired solicitor?" ho said. "Of Holford?" " He says he knew you, at Ilolford, years ago—" " At Holford, years ago—" " And he is desirous of having a talk with you, Mr. Mallaford. So—will you como down to see him, at my house?" lie stared at me more than ever when ho got the full meaning of this plain invitation, and for a whole minute's space he kept silent. Then he suddenly burst out, seeming, 'with strange rapidity, to lose control of himself. "Man!" he cried, lifting both hands with a gesture—was it of appeal, or was it of helplessness? "What is it you are after? What are you interfering with mo for? There's something behind it! If you'd only speak—" "I'll speak!" I interrupted him, quickly. ' It's this, "Mr. Mallaford. I believe that unfortunate man, Ned Ayrton, who's been arrested on the charge of murdering Susan Wheeler, in tho wood down yonder, is innocent! And I want to know who's guilty ? That's what it is, Mr. Mallaford!" "Do you suspect mo?" he exclaimed. " For it—" "No, I do not!" I said hastily. "But T think you'd better see Mr. Bussill. There aro things, queer things of the past, Mr. Mallaford, that are all mixed up, and Mr. Bussill is determined to piece them together. Be advised, Mr. Mallaford ! —como to my house," Ho turned away, as if to go to his own door, but suddenly twisted on his heel. " That young fellow who is with you ?" he demanded. " Who is he ?" " I'll bo quite candid with you," I answered. " He's what people would call a private detective." His forehead knitted at that, and he stared at me more closely. " Why are you so interested in clearing this Ayrton ?" he asked. " What's he to you ?—a worthless fellow " " I believe him innocent," I said. " And —he appealed to me. And since I've set to work on the job, Mr. Mallaford, I'll see it through—by finding out who did murder Susan Wheeler. For it wasn't Ayrton!" He turned away again at that, and this time he didn't turn back,'but he flung a word over his shoulder. "I'll como then." ho said. "To-night!" With that he strode off, his head bent; I thought I heard him muttering to himself. And I went out of his grounds, feeling nerve-shaken in every fibre of my body. CHAPTER Xlf. BEGINNING OP A STRANC.E STORY. You may wonder how it was that my nerves—tho nerves, mind you, of a man who until then had never particularly realised that he had any, and who was, moreover, in perfectly sound health and in good physical training—should be so affected by the mere delivering of a message and giving of an invitation. But there was the fact; I was as limp as a rag when I walked out of the gates of Mallaford Court. And what was it that had upset me ? I found it hard to give a name to it. But a moment's reflection showed mo that it was Mallaford himself. And bow was it —Mallaford ? Well, it was something about him—something! And what was that something? Just this— Mallaford knew things!—things that up to now lie had never mentioned to a soul! What were they? Would he tell us if he came down? And—would he come? He came —that night., as ho had promised. It was past nine o'clock when I heard a step on the crazy pavement in my garden. I went to the door myself and found him standing in the porch. " Come in, 'Mr. Mallaford," I said, as ho looked at. mo hesitatingly. But ho still hesitated, glancing beyond me into the hall. " I should like to see Mr. Bussill alone," he. said. " I thought wo mignt, perhaps, walk in the wood ?" " You can see him alono in here," I answered. " You shall be perfectly alone. Como into my study, and I'll bring Mr. Bussill in to you. Nobody will interrupt and nobody can overhear." He walked in then, and I put, him in the study and went hack to Mr. Bussill and Gray, whom I had left in the dining room. Gray was eager and excited; Sir. Bussill was as calm and unconcerned—to all outward appearances any way—as it nothing unusual was afoot. " He's come, Mr. Bussill," T said, " and lie wants to see you alone. I've put him in the study and assured liini that, you ar\d he will not be interfered with there. So—there you are! But I confess that Gray and I would very much like to bp informed of what transpires—if we may?" Mr. Bussill got up very quietly and made for the door " Leave it to me, my friends," he said. " I'll see to it." He went off; wc heard the door of the study closed. Half-an-hour went by; Gray and 1 tried to talk, and failed; to smoke, and let our pipes go out; with every moment we grew more and more fidgetty. 1 suppose each was trying to visualise and to imagine what was going on. At last Mr. Bussill re-appeared, ushering in Mallaford. We were all very formal and very polite; I introduced Gray; he and Mallaford shook hands. I got out the whisky and tho cigars; nobody would have guessed, seeing the four of us together that anything out of the common was in that room. And all that was said, during tho first few moments, was in the shape of an interchange of remarks between Mallaford and myself on the merits of a certain rose which I had noticed in his gardens. Bussill set the ball rolling, lie pulled his chair to the centre table, motioned Mallaford to set opposite to him, and signed to Gray and myself to draw up our chairs. Then he spoke—as if he had been presiding at a meeting of shareholders. "I want to say a word to you two young gentlemen, Mr. Leicester and Mr. Gray," he said, with precise formality. " Mr. Mallaford —who authorises me to tell you, in strict confidence, that his real name is David Mallows —Mr. Mallaford, I say, and I have come to an understanding—what it is, I needn't trouble you with, just now, at any rate. Mr, Mallaford is fully aware that you, Mr. Leicester, want "to solve the mystery attaching to the death of Susan Wheeler, in order fo clear the man Ayrton, who is—wrongly, as you believe—at present in custody, charged with her murder; he is aware, too, that you have enlisted the aid of Mr. Gray in your efforts to find out who was responsible for Susan Wheeler's death. And—once again, I repeat, this is all in strict confidence— Mr. Mallaford wishes to tell you all that he knows about Susan Wheeler—all! I have given him my word that h® tells you, you will keep to yourselves.

Gray and I muttered our confirmation of Mr. Bussill's pledgo; Mr. Bussill turned to Mallaford. " " Tell them—in detail—what you have told me in brief," he said. " They are good lads—you can rely on them." Mallaford had accepted one of my cigars and was puffing at ifc abstractedly. Tie laid it aside when Mr. Bussill invited him to speak, ami folding his hands together on the table before liim, began to talk, looking from one to the other of us as ho went on. " may —probably will—have to come out, all of it, some day," ho began. " And of course, if the necessity arises, I shall have to tell, either before the coroner-—the inquest's adjourned again, isn't it? —or if Ayrton's sent to the assizes, what I'm going to tell you. Mind you, though, I don't know that Ayrton s innocent! lie may be guilty enough, for all 1 can say to the contrary; (after all, the woman's bits of stuff and that banknote I gave her were found on his premises. But perhaps he found her dead, and merely robbed her dead body—l can't say, I can't say at all! All I can say all I can tell you, is about my dealings with Susan Wheeler just before her death. I'll preface it by telling you at this moment I haven't the remotest idea as to the identity of her murderer—»if she really was murdered. " I'll begin now, at the beginning. About the end of April I began to suffer from certain pains in my left shoulder. They got pretty bad. 1 went to consult Dr. Warde-Bobcrtson. He said that a. course of massqgo would do mo good, and that he could recommend a professional masseuse who was very good at, the job, and would send her, if I liked, to my office in the city—he knew that I was in attendance there nearly every clay, and that I bad time on my hands of an afternoon. I agreed to this, and a few days later the woman came, and was brought to my pri"ate room. However, as events would have it, I was obliged to go out, so I had to make other arrangements with her, and we decided that, it would be best if she came down to Mallaford Court, twice a week, until my shoulder was better. We fixed up an appointment for the following Monday, and she went away. " Now, I want to tell you everything afiout that first short interview, and to impress certain facts about it upon you. To begin with, I barely glanced at tho name upon the card, which the woman sent in; what I did notice about it was that under her name—printed or engraved, of course—Dr. Warde-Robertson s name was pencilled. If I did notice her name it conveyed nothing to me. But I noticed the woman herself as she came in. She was a tallish, thin, very thin woman, scraggy, in fact, with curiously light eyes, staring out of a sharp-featured face; I remember that my first glance at her made me wonder if she'd the strength to do massaging work, of which I'd some experience. But I took little notice of her, after that—l was fearfully rushed, there were two clerks in the room, taking notes and orders, and I'd only just time to make the appointment with her to go down to Mallaford Court. Happening to look at her, however, just before she left the room, I saw that she was staring at me in a very queer way, steadily, fixedly, and it struck mo that she was asking herself if she'd ever seen me before! But as I'd no recollection of her, and was very busy, that slipped clean out of my mind, then and there, and didn't come back. " Well, this woman came down to Mallaford Court on the day I'd fixed—the following Monday. Sho came, as far as I can remember, a little before six o'clock in the evening. She was brought into my study—what wo call the library. I didn't notice anything remarkable about her that time —at first,, anyway. She was quite professional in her manner, asked me about the pains, find SO on, and what Dr. Warde-Robertson had said, and then told me to remove my things so that she could get to work on my shoulder, I took off my coat, wai-stcoat, shirt, vest and she began and carried out tho massaging —it was to last twenty, minutes each time. And then, as I was putting on my things again, she suddenly spoke, in a very quiet voice, but there was something in it that made me—well, it made nie afraid. " ' So you're David Mallows, are you ? ' she said. ' I thought so, when I saw you. at your office the other day. But now I know—l saw your arm and the marks on it. where you'd that accident that, put you in the General Hospital at Holford over twenty years ago! David Mallows —after all these years! But I knew we should meet! ' " I faced round on her, quick as lightning. And 1 give you my word, gentlemen. believe k or not, as you like, tho sweat burst out of me—for "something in her eyes told mo that this woman was mad ! Mad—aye, mad as ever they make 'em! You could not only see it, but feel it! It " ' Who oil earth are you ?' I stammered staring at her. "She laughed—by God! T was worse frightened than before, at the sound of it. " ' Yon know my name, Mallows,' she said. 'lsn't it on tho card? Susan Wheeler. You know tho Wheelers well enough. Didn't you cheat me out of ever so many thousand pounds?' " I calmed down a bit at that—the mere mention of money showed me that sho had 6ome vestiges of sanity. (To be continued on Saturday next.)