THE Tarrington Square Mystery

Taranaki Daily News, 16 January 1934, Page 11

THE Tarrington Square Mystery

(By

M. L. Eades)

“Did she know the voice ?” “No. But it was a man’s voice.” “Claremont’s?” “She couldn’t say. Said it sounded strange and thick. Unfortunately she did not wait to hear any more. She wanted to get away before Scott found out that she had not done something or other she was supposed to have done. But here is proof that Miss Ashleigh was in her sitting-room, that she had a man with and that this man showed extreme agitation on being confronted with Claremont. A few minutes later Claremont was dead. What do you make of that ?” “That there is no proof that Miss Ashleigh was in her room. The man who recognised Claremont was the person who put up the window. Were there any marks on the window ?” “Yes. Fairly good ones. The sill was dusty.” “I would like to see those prints. I will go up to the Yard and have a look at them. It is a pity there were none on the kris; they would have been the same as those on the window.” \ “I agree. He was cute enough to wipe the.kris, though. Anyway the man was there with that girl when Claremont arrived.” Winston shook his head with decision. “The man was there; the girl was not.” ; “What would he be doing there in her absence ?” Winston shrugged his shoulders. “My good man,” he replied, “are not visitors left to go upstairs on their own.? —the man Lizzie Barker sent up at twenty minutes to four, for instance. He must have waited expecting Miss Ashleigh to appear any moment.” ’“Huh!” exclaimed Mason, raising his heavy bulk from the chair and taking up:his hat. “That is the man we want, of course. But he was not alone. Anyone could see that the girl was lying like a good one. She was there when the killing was done. Now she is trying to screen the murderer—” “Look here, Mason,” Winston interrupted, “your summing up of Miss Ashleigh is incorrect. She is not the sort of girl to screen a murderer.” The inspector stuck out his chin belligerently and his clenched fist came down with a thump on the table. “Any girl living would screen her lover,” he asserted in an emphatic tone. “He would not be Miss Ashleigh’s Jover.if he were a slayer,” replied Winston quietly. It was with a strange expression that the inspector regarded the younger man for a moment or two. He nodded, regretfully once or twice. Then: “Look here,” he said, “you are getting off the track. That girl is getting hold of you. I told you she is a deep one.” Winston Barrows gave the other a straight look. Mason’s manner became less assured and he stroked his chin uncomfortably. “Don’t be a bigger ass than is necessary, Mason,” Winston told him. “Miss Ashleigh is neither a ‘deep one’ nor a screener of criminals. She is merely a straightforward English girl with an English girl’s sense of decency and honour.” “Bah!” retorted the other. “There's none so blind as those who won’t see what is staring them in the face. Some people want to see things on the screen and to hear them on the loud speaker before they believe ’em. As for me I want the man who was with Miss Ashleigh yesterday.” CHAPTER X. AT CLAREMONT PARK. Winston Barrows watched Mason pass up the street, then he touched the bell on his table. A minute later the door opened to admit the Pup. Nearly eighteen months had passed since Winston had severed his connection with Scotland Yard, and he still retained the Pup’s services. The boy had changed very little in that time. He was a little taller perhaps, but his age might still have been anything from II to 16. Winston Barrows, ex-colonel, with a D.S.O. to his credit, remained the Pup’s hero, his tin god to whom he offered an admiring homage and a faithful service that the man appreciated. These two, the man and the boy, the one gently bred and with all the advantages that wealth and education could bestow upon him, the other a gamin of the East End who had scratched for a living like a London sparrow, were knit closely together by ties not easily severed. Each owed his life to the other on more than one occasion. They had been in tight corners together, and each knew that he could place implicit trust in the other. The Pup would never have dreamt of doubting the infallible wisdom of his hero. Winston’s word was law. The Pup gave him strict obedience. However, during hours of recreation, when he was free to follow his own bent, the Pup relaxed with an abandon that regulated the pendulum of his life to a nicety. “See here, Pup,” said Winston, as the boy came briskly forward, “you saw that gentleman who came here just before three o’clock ?” “Yessir. American gent. In love with the young lidy as come afterwards.” Winston Barrows surveyed the small figure from top to toe while a smile of amusement played about the corners of his mouth. “How did you learn that, Pup ?” “Heard ’im,” replied the Pup with brevity. “Heard him say that he was in love ? Surely not.” “Crikey, no! But when you ear a gent ask if a young lidy ’as arrived in a voice like a kid asking for thruppence —all excited like—then you know as he's in love with that there lidy—see ? “I see. Quite good logic. Pup. Would you recognise him if you saw him again ?” "Not ’alf, Gov'nor,” returned the Pup, 1 his bird-like eyes sparkling at the ’ thought of another “case.” He was an insatiable reader of such literature as | “thunder and lightning” yarns, and a case was a “yarn” in real life, all the more thilling for the active part assigned to himself.

“His name is Elton,’’ went on Winston, "and he is staying at the Russell Hotel. I want you to keep track of him; Pup.

.If he leaves the Russell —and I think he will—find out where he goes. Understand ?” The. Pup’s eyes narrowed and h? nodded knowingly at Winston. “You bet, sir,” he said, with a roguish wag of his head. Winston opened a drawer and took therefrom some money. “You had better not be short—he may take you far afield. Now off you go.” The Pup saluted with military precision and vanished. Winston Barrows smiled to himself as the door closed. He knew that once Elton was picked up by the Pup he had as little chance of escaping his vigilance as a young cygnet the watchful eye of its mother. There was an A.B.C. Guide on the table. This Winston opened and turned to the trains for Godaiming. There was one leaving Waterloo Station at 6.12, arriving at Godaiming at 7.8. That train he caught. At Godaiming he took a taxi to Claremont Park, a matter of several miles. There was a slight breeze which was acceptable after the stifling heat of London. The spell of hot weather still held, and the ground looked parched, the vegetation thirsted for the rain that seemed as far off as ever.

At length the taxi turned in through a handsome, wrought-iron gateway, entering a drive that swept through many acres of undulating parklands. Gradually the park gave place to wide, sweeping lawns, velvet-soft with age and I graced with many a fine old oak or copper beech. Winston gave an involuntary exclamation of pleasure when the house, a stately grey pile standing on a slight eminence, came into view. A stone terrace ran the whole length of the building, from which a wide flight of steps led to a rose terrace, and again to a well-laid-out garden rejoicing in a riot of bloom. To the left the lawns led to thick woods in all the glory of full leafage, and, as a fitting background to the dignified old mansion, some tall firs rose darkly against the evening sky. Winston stopped the taxi while yet some distance from the house, preferring to walk the rest of the way. The scene was an expression of peace and aesthetic beauty where the very thought of bloodshed and the evil passions of men seemed anomalous. Yet Winston wondered if this fair place—in verity one of the “stately homes of England”—would prove to be the motif of the murder of its late owner. He found himself hoping that Clare Ashleigh might reign here as mistress. She was as much out of place at Linden House as a pearl in a cheap setting. Claremont Park was her rightful background; its dignity and stateliness a complement to her loveliness and grace. And Warren Elton ? If Clare reigned here as mistress would not Elton reign as master ? Winston Barrows was aware of their attraction, the one to the other. His face clouded. He felt irresistibly drawn to the boy; his charm of person and manner was not to be denied. But —it was that “but” that brought the shadow on the man’s face. It was not easy to connect that bright American lad with crime. He seemed the quintessence of frankness and uprightness. All the same during his career as a detector in crime, Winston had come across criminals who looked as innocent as cooing doves, having fascination of personality calculated to deceive a psychoanalyst. Human nature was like gunpowder, harmless enough until it came into contact with the fire of temptation, then—well, it all depended on character, on what inward safeguards a person had-the grace of religion, moral principles or whatever it might be. But Winston Barrows was experienced enough to know that while religion had the strength of a spiritual power, moral philosophy was oftentimes as a dam across the river, sufficient under normal condition, but under flood pressure collapsing as a thing of straw. As witness men who lived exemplary lives for years, regarded and revered as respectable members of society. Suddenly a temptation, fierce as hell, presents itself, and in a moment they throw everything to the four winds, wife, children, home, the respect of decent men and women, the very hope of heaven, to grovel as a pig in the mud of desire. From his observation during the short time at his disposal, Winston was inclined to attribute to Warren the possession of sterling qualities. But he had to keep an open mind where this young man was concerned. There were certain things which told heavily against him—his medical knowledge; the fact that in every particular he answered to Lizzie Barkers description of the man who was sent to Clare’s room at twenty minutes to four; his presence in her room, and his inability to produce his friend, one John Dennison. Against these unfavourable factors was the fact that he had come to Winston, though its value was reduced insomuch that he came from a country where, not infrequently, hard cash stood between even a murderer and the penalty of his crime. However, Elton’s father might be twenty times a millionaire, but, in England, that would not’ avail the son should he be proved guilty of murder. Again, his being in Clare’s sitting-room as late as six o’clock strongly supported his assertion of innocence. If guilty it would have been madness to remain on the scene of his crime, running the risk of discovery at any moment. Attracted as he was by Warren’s joyous personality, Winston would not admit this to bias his judgment. But he would be glad to prove him innocent. Thus busy with his thoughts he walked on until he reached a turn in the drive. Here he drew up short, his thoughts scattered to the limbo of forgotten things. A man had suddenly darted out from the side of the house, bad crossed the intervening strip of lawn, and vanished into the woods. So rapid had been his movements that Winston’s glimpse of. him had been but momentary. That glimpse aroused his suspicions. Why should anyone leave the house in that furtive I manner ? Hardly a moment had flashed by before Winston was in pursuit. It took scarcely more than a minute to reach the spot where the man had disappeared. There was no sign of him. Winston pressed forward, seeking some

■» in "iiiiiii m wmi i 'in mi uanaaawß track, some mark to show which way the man had gone. But evening shadows : were already collecting in the thick woods, blurring outlines, rendering con- ; cealment a simple matter. He stood for a moment listening for the snap of a branch; hurried footsteps. But the air was full of the sound of birds preparing for the night, twittering, trilling, mate calling to mate, or a sudden darting from one bush to another with fluttering of wings, and shaking and disturbance amongst the leafage. The tang of hot grass was in his nostrils and the scent of the hot evening air. Brambles stretched out long, clutching arms to stay his progress. And Winston stayed because it was but waste of time to see further. Whosoever the man wag he had gone, gone completely. Who was he, and why was he leaving the house in that surreptitious manner ? Winston would have given much to be able to answer these questions. " Making his way to the house he rang the bell. A footman opened the door and he entered a hall of noble proportions, and of a stataely, sombre beauty with its dark oak panelling, its minstrel I gallery, its magnificent sweeping stair- I 1 case, its Jacobean fireplace. I The butler, a man in his sixties, of quiet, respectful demeanour, would have . shown Winston to the library. ~ !’ "The policy officers are there, sir," he said. “You would like to join them ?” “Yes. presently. There are just one or two questions I want to ask you first, Johnstone. Your name is Johnstone ? Yes ? Oh, and by the way.” he added. ! quite casually. “Who left the house a few minutes ago ?” , ' A startled look swept into the butler s I face, . ~ (To be continued.) 1