CLOUDED NOON

Star (Christchurch), Volume LXVI, Issue 20539, 14 February 1935, Page 16

CLOUDED NOON

By

BASIL HAYE

CHAPTER IX “Let’s Forget.”

The thing seemed too unbelievable for John to pay much real heed to, though ae waited while the old man, with shaking lingers, turned over the pages of his notebook, peering at page after page through his horn-rimmed glasses. To suggest that, after all these years, there should exist any evidence capable of righting such a wrong seemed too ridiculous for words. And through Tony Carslake, who had been killed by a bomb from an enemy raider within a few hours of the trouble? Burden simply couldn't see it. He supposed the old man had something there among his notes which he imagined might be useful, and so John waited, taking out a cigarette and lighting it. His nerves needed soothing. “Here it is!” croaked the thin voice; after a tense interval, the silence broken by the rustle of turned leaves. “I’ve a good memory, after all. I'll read you the note, Mr. Burden, as I put it down.” “Mr. Eustace Carslake called in Mr. Jurvis’ absence. Said he was the father of Lieutenant Anthony Carslake, killed in the war, and a great friend of Captain Branscombe. Wanted to know if we had Captain Branscombe's address from prison, as anxious to get in touch with him. Told him we had no knowledge of Captain Branscombe’s whereabouts.” “That doesn’t strike me as particularly useful, Wayde,” laughed John drily as the other finished reading. “Not as it 6tands, sir, I agree. But there’s something more attached to it, which isn’t noted down here, and I’ll tell you.” He seemed suddenly to become more like the competent, discreet employee of old Mr. Jurvis as John had known him all those years ago. He began to explain in terse sentences. This visit by Tony Carslake’s father had occurred a few' weeks after Eric Branscombe had left prison and disappeared. He had found out from the prison authorities that Mr. Jurvis was Branscombe’s solicitor, and would probably know where he was. Why did he want to get in touch with Branscombe? It appealed to be in connection with a letter the family had received from Lieutenant Carslake, a letter written and put in the field-post not many hours before he was killed. The letter, as a matter of fact, had been left unopened, for it arrived after the War Office wire announcing the distressing news of Carslake's death. It hadn’t been until a few days before the father called on Mr. Jurvis that this letter, found accidentally among some papers, had chanced to be carefully read. Then it had been realised that its contents had a reference to Branscombe, w’hich ought to have been read and noticed before. Just what the reference was Wayde did not know. He reported the matter to Mr. Jurvis, and there his duty had ended. “Mr. Jurvis considered I’d done rightly by not admitting we knew what had happened to you, sir,” he told Burden. “Mr. Carslake had said he would look in again in a day or so’s time, but didn’t do so. From that day to the time Mr. Jurvis died he never came to our office. It wasn’t till now that I remembered about him.” “Just as well, I should say, Wayde,” John shrugged. “If there had been anything important attached to it, he'd have called again. No, my friend. There’s no help for Eric Branscombe after all this lapse of time. No good trying to raise my hopes on that.” “I’m not so sure, sir. Mr. Carslake was very serious, very urgent in the way he spoke, wanting to get in touch with you. He certainly had heard something from his son that —why, yes—lie said it was a voice from the dead that could make things clear for the living.” “Thirteen years ago, Wayde. I ask you—what could I do about it now ?” “Try and get in touch with Mr. Carslake, sir.” “He’s probably dead.” “It's a well-known family, sir.” “Wayde, I’ve grown content to let the past bury its dead. It’s decent of you to have mentioned this, but—” John rose. “I’m perfectly satisfied if I’ve convinced you that the little matter arranged by our old friend, Jurvis, must remain the secret it was meant to be.” “Mr. Burden, I don’t know what to say, how to ask your forgiveness for what—” “Shake hands, Wayde, and let’s forget about it.” There was irony in the fact that Burden should have borrowed Harvey Stayre’s car to pay this visit, as a result of which had been snapped the one and, apparently, only link in the chain of the Australian’s search for Eric Branscombe. He had no further hope in that direction now—at least, from this source. The repentant Wayde had promised to find some way of putting Stavre right off the trail. And John, reaching Coring that even ing, was more than satisfied with his afternoon’s work. He had begun to suspect. too, that perhaps, all these years, he had been too concerned over the safety of his secret, had hedged his life around with too much fear, too many restrictions, eternally haunted by the grim apparition of possible discovery. All the time, even without his know* ledge, the truth might so easily have been given away, for he had not imagined this Tittle old clerk shared his secret. It did seem now as if, after all. Fate —realising how much he had suffered in the past—was standing solidly by him with a protecting hand. With the car drawn up outside KaLee, John felt elated, stronger in himself than he had been for years. He had the inclination even to throw aside his old armour of reserve, and openly challenge the world on his own merits as the John Hasluck Burden he had forced it to recognise and know. Thirteen years, after all, is a long time. And it was not as if the warincident which had broken Eric Branscombe ever had the slightest national interest. Who indeed bad known it, but Branscombe and the few military concerned in it? Shrouded in official secrecy, it had been only one of many incidents quite unknown to the general public. So why need he be obsessed now bv those fears which had harassed the background of his life so long? It was frank folly. Branscombe was dead. Even Stay re could not bring him to life now. He had no living relatives. By now, even those who had known him

(To be continued daily..)

intimately, might have easily forgotten what he looked like. Branseombe was dead! Long live John Hasluck Burden! As for old Wayde’s parting suggestion that he should try to get in touch with Tony Carslake's father (if he were still alive), John decided not to. He could not feel any good purpose would be served by it. Too late now for anything Tony Carslake might have written in that last letter to his home. It would carry no weight now in those scales of justice which had found Branseombe wanting. Burden, turning from the car to pass into the garden of Ka-Lee, had little opportunity to avoid what he had taken such pains yesterday and to-day to escape—the limelight of the Press. Before he was aware of what was happening, he heard the clicking of more than one camera, and suddenly realised that a couple of picture men had appeared from behind an old elm, catching him full-faced with their cameras. ‘‘Sorry to take you by surprise, Mr. Burden, but—l’m from the ‘Record’ ” a politely murmuring voice by his side disclosed a well-dressed young fellow with a little notebook protruding from his closed hand. But Burden did not re bn If him. At this moment, indeed, he could see no reason for anger. In his new mood of defiance and open challenge, he faced this newspaper trap almost with amusement. After all, there was no reason why John Hasluck Burden should not speak for himself, he decided on the spur of the moment. And he told a very neat, adroit story about himself, with not a single hint of lie in it, while yet he avoided tactfully any reference to that part of his life which went further back than thirteen years. His youth, he protested, was purely personal and of no public interest, nor was he to be moved from a firm stand on the point. “If you can make anything romantic out of what I’ve told you,” he commented dryly in the end, “you’re more of a wizard than I am, which isn’t saying much.” “All the same, Mr. Burden, a man like you can’t be without his romance!” laughed the other. “Come now, I’m sure you'd not mind the public knowing that you’re about to cap a successful business career with a real romance. I had a word this morning with a lady, who lives where you’re just about to visit. May I say that an engagement is likely to be announced at an early date ?” For a moment, John hesitated, realising, of course, that Lena—by talking a«> she had done earlier in the day—had placed him in an awkward position. He could not, anyhow, let her down by a deliberate denial. He sought the line of least resistance, as the only way. “I’ve generally noticed that premature announcements of that sort produce unfortunate results,’’ he said. “Supposing we let the public wait until the two people most concerned are ready to take it into their confidence?” That shielded the impulsive Lena without in the least committing himself, and he escaped from the newspaperman a few_ minutes later, making his way into Ka-Lee with a satisfied smile on his lips. He had, he felt, successfully fed a rapacious Press with empty words, which could do him no harm. As for the little —but quite serious matter—of Lena. He could not be angry with Lena. Indeed, when he was ushered into the small drawing room, and she came hurrying to meet him, there was something in her eyes which roused in him at least pity, if not a far stronger emotion. Had she been alone with him at this moment, he might even have been moved by the touch of her clinging fingers to a betrayal of weakness. But the room. as. a matter of fact, was unexpectedly full. Apart from Harvey Stayre and Lena, John was compelled to meet quite an unusual number of people. The Rector and his wife. Colonel Trotter with his daughters. Some younger people, married and single. In all perhaps a dozen and a half, including the doctor and his more or less invalid wife.