ON THE NIGHT OF THE NINTH

Star (Christchurch), Volume XLIV, Issue 379, 22 March 1932, Page 12

ON THE NIGHT OF THE NINTH

BY

J. R. WILMOT

Author of “Zora—the Invisible,” “The Monday Night Murder,** “The Moorcroft Manor Mystery,” etc.

CHAPTER 111. At the Rectory. The Reverend Thomas Baxter wai r silver-haired, but nevertheless vigorous man. That he had never married was probably due just as much to his allegiance to things spiritual as to things temporal. He was a great scholar, a great antiquary, and a moderate theologian. During his thirty-five years of ordination he had held a variety of i livings, some that interested him ami ! some that decidedly did not. He was not, and never had been, a vigorous evangelist. It was his boast that he had never yet attended a Diocesan Conference, and had never seen the inside of Lambeth Palace. He was a man of simple habits, and despite his clerical shortcomings and his abhorrence of the limelight, lie had been "beloved wherever lie had gone. His sermons had never been long, but they had always been to the point. His dogma had always.been as elastic as his generosity and, 60 far as lie was aware, lie had not an enemy in the world. He haa come to Craylingham fifteen years ago mainly as a result of an article lie had written for “The Antiquary.’' This article had been read with considerable interest by Sir John Crayling and, himself an ardent collector, had found himself attracted by Mr. Baxter’s unique grip of his subject. And it had so happened that, at that moment, the living of Craylingham Church was vacant. When Sir John wrote him there was no happier man alive than the Rev. Thomas Baxter. He knew Craylingham quite well. He had spent a fortnight down there one summer pottering about the old church; making copious extracts from its records and learning something of the history of the unique collection of ecclesiastical ornaments contained at the rectory and the church itself. ‘His researches at Craylingham had Been rewarded by his being made a Fellow of the Royal Society—the apex of an intellectual career. Hi 3 spiritual duties had for many years been negiblv, for Craylingham Church was not in the village, but of it. It was situated a good mile and a half from the village itself, away out on the edge of the marshlands and adjacent to a little sheltered creek that ran out to the sea where so often the grey mists hung close to the water. His congregation consisted of a handful of fisher-folk, a few farmers and a sprinkling of those more energetic folk who walked out from the village. This diminution of the attendance at Craylington Church was not due to any spiritual backslidings on the part of the good folk of the district. As was only natural the village had spread westwards in its inevitable expansion and it had been found necessary, particularly during the war when came the establishment of a munitions factory half a mile on the western border, .to build another church., larger and more up-to-date than the grey stone Saxon edifice that liad weathered the storms of a thousand years. This idea of building another church Was welcomed by many, for the pews at the old church, as it was now called, were narrow and consequently uncomfortable, and, in tune with the modern age, folk demanded that their orthodoxy should at least be more comfortable. So the new church rose quickly, stone upon stone. A London architect invested it with modern lines and angles, to conform, if you please, with the villa property that was going up in the neighbourhood and which, it was anticipated, would continue to rise well into the future. But it had no stained glass to compare with the old. Its pulpit was plain; its choir stalls knew no carving at the gouge of the old masters such as Mr. Baxter’s treasure possessed. Its font was of chemical composition masquerading as marble, for money was “tight” in the diocese. But there were cushions in the low-backed pews and central heating grilles in the floor. In cold, wild weather, draughts Mere rigorously excluded by patent rubber door devices and science had conceived a ventilating system whereby the air in the body of the church Mas changed completely once every fifteen minutes silently and unobtrusively. From the moment of consecration it had been a complete success, and the new vicar preached to crowded congregations twice every Sunday, while less Itlian two.miles away.the Rev. Mr. Bax-. tir~chanted his Nunc Dimittis to a handful of devout souls. The rectory abutted on to the church, but was essentially not of it* One reached the church itself through the rectory garden—thirty yards or less away. It was a pleasantly compact house, built of the same grey stone as the church, and was not more than a hundred years old. On this night of March 9. in the year 1931, Mr. Baxter sat cloistered in his study reading a new work lie had only that morning received by post from London. It was entitled “The Influence of the Renaissance on English Church Architecture.” The subject was treated from quite a new angle, and he was happy. At five o’clock that afternoon he had walked hack from the station after seeing Aline Temple, his niece, Mho ministered to his bodily comfort, off to London with Major Keith Helsby, that fascinating man who had come doM r n a month ago asking permission to make sketches of the old church and to take notes which would enable him to prepare a paper he had been asked to read before the Boston Architectural Society in the autumn. Baxter had taken quite a fancy to the major. He had gathered that Helsby had had a military career, but had alwavs been passionately interested in old churches, and the rector had encouraged him very considerably. He had unlocked his treasures and recited their histories, and Major Helsby had been adequately impressed. So that when Helsby asked permission to take Miss Aline up to London for dinner and a dance, the rector had offered no objection. In fact he M r as rather glad, for Aline was young and the night life around Craylingham Mas largely confined to the owls that nested in the old church tower, and the bats that flung themselves backwards and forwards under the trees and across the rectory windows. The old grandfather clock in the hall chimed the half-hour and the rector looked at his watch. It was half-past nine. It would be nearly midnight before Aline and Helsby returned, so he settled himself again to his book. Suddenly a knock at the door aroused him, and there was a perplexed frown on his face as he went to see who was there for visitors to the rectory were rare at that hour of the night. lie dropped the chain from its hook, w ithdrew the long bolt and opened the door.

It was intensely dark outside and a thin drizzle of rain floated disconsolately down on the still night. “Mr. Baxter?” asked a man's pleasant “Yes,” smiled the rector. “Could I have a word with you, sir. It’s rather important.” "Como inside,” invited the rector, and led the May back into his study. Turning, for there Mas no light in the hall, he gazed at his visitor. He Mas a man of about his own age and of much the same build —rather square and stocky. “Now, sir, what can I do for you? Won’t you sit down?” The 61ranger had not removed his hat and the collar of his coat was still turned up about his neck. “You can come quietly, Mr. Baxter,” snapped the man, and from his pocket he quietly pulled a revolver. The rector staggered backwards. Hie face had gone suddenly like chalk. “What ie the meaning of this —this — outrage?” he demanded, unsteadily. “That’s not your business, rector,” he Mae told. Then the man gave a low whistle and a moment later he was joined by another: “Just run your fingers over him; we'd better be quite The other man did as he Mas instructed. “He’s harmless enough,” h§ announced. “We’d better be getting along.” “Sorry to have to disturb you, Mr. Baxter,” said the first stranger, in an oily voice, “but we’ll just take a little trip along to your bedroom. I want to 6ee you pack your bag.” “Pack my bag?” repeated the rector, incredulously. “That’s what I said. Come on.” He moved forward and pointed that dangerous looking gun at the rector's back. Realising that it Mas little use arguing with anyone so situated, Mr. Baxter walked unsteadily from his study and mounted the stairs. “We’ll switch on the glim,” intimated his captor, and the'landing above Mas quickly flooded with a soft amber light. Ten minutes later Mr. Baxter carrying a small Gladstone bag and wearing his long heavy double-breasted coat found himself marched*from his rectory and into a waiting 6aloon motor car. The man with the revolver seated himself beside him. His companion climbed into the driving seat, started the engine, let in the clutch, and the car sped softly into the night. Within an hour the old rectory was occupied once more, but it was not Mr. Baxter who occupied it. Mr. Baxter was ten or twelve miles away, an unwilling prisoner in an old disused mill away up on the marshes, while Richard Yorke, a man of many parts and known to his select circle of intimates as “Drury Lane” because in hie earlier days he had once been associated with the profession of acting, Mas installed in the rector’s place plotting the next move ho Mas to make in the little drama in M'hich he Mas playing the lead. Epping Forest is a lonely place at midnight. but to the man in the motor-car such thoughts of loneliness M ere strangely absent. He enjoyed night driving. The white ribbon of fight from his powerful headlamps made the road almost as white as the day—brighter, perhaps, than it was usually at noontide under that sweeping arch of trees. He held the wheel lightly and hummed softly a jazz tune to himself. In an hour he would be back again in London. Suddenly his trained eyes detected something ca\ight up in the white lap of the lamps. Instinctively his foot crushed the brake pedal and the car came to a halt within a yard of the “something.” Scrambling out, he M’ent over the inert form of the man stretched out in the centre of the road. His first thought was that some unfortunate tramp had been knocked doM’n by a. passing motorist and left for dead, but as he looked closer he saw a dark stain on the man’s clothing. There Mas no mistaking that stain and its significance. The man had been shot through the heart. Dragging the limp form to the grass verge the motorist, sweat beads on his face, clambered into his car, pushed home the gear lever with a trembling hand, and hurried on his way to notify the first policeman he met. ,» (To be continued daily.)