Little Lady Mystery

Waikato Times, Volume 105, Issue 17611, 16 January 1929, Page 4

Little Lady Mystery

BY RALPH ROQD. Author of “A Step in the Dark,” “Under False Colours,Whispering Tongues,’’ “Marriage by Capture,” &c., Ac.

(COPYRIGHT.)

CHAPTER ll.—(Continued.) “What's the good of throwing water on to the flames?” he called. “That part of the bungalow is done for. Better try to save the rest.” Suddenly, in the midst of the confusion, above the crackling of the burning wood and the babel of voices, was heard the sound or a motor horn. It was the Derings’ big car which had arrived, and in it were the young Squire, his sister, and their friend, Anthony Kirby. Hugh Dering flung off his long coat and pitched it into the car. His friend followed suit. They were both of them in evening clothes. Marcia Bering’s long satin coat only partially concealed the “creation” which contrasted so vividly with the work-a-day garb of the country folk about her. She looked more regal than ever as she stood there., while the gems she wore, catching the fltful light, shone and scintillated.

coughing and choking as he tried to draw in deep draughts of the cool •hight air. ‘l’m all right,” he gasped. “Give me a drink of water, someone. Hughie, I was too late, the poor chap’s dead.”

‘No, no, it’s too soon to say that," expostulated the latter.

“Fact, though,” persisted Tony. “I knew it as soon as I got hold of him. He must have been suffocated.”' And still holding his friend’s arm lie moved across to where the one he had borne from the burning house lay. As they reached the spot a few words fell on their ears with terrible significance.

“I tell ye t’ fire never did yon,” a farmer was saying stolidly. “’Tis ower much cold steel t’ poor chap ’as ’ad.” Dr. Skene was on his knees by the body. He hated himself for the make-believe examination he was called upon to undertake. He could have told them all he was going to tell —all and more, far more—without so much as a glance. “Yes,” he said gruffly, when he could remain silent no longer, “Hcsselstinc is right, the man has been stabbed.” The doctor’s words caused a shudder of suppressed horror. Death to these simple country folk came for the most part slowly by familiar paths. In this unwonted guise it terrified them. Laboriously they gasped the fact that in their placid little village a dreadful thing had happened. The rural constable felt for his pocket-book. “Does anyone know the gentleman’s name?” he asked.

“Off to the Hall, as quick as you can,” the squire shouted. “Bring some men and the Are hose.” Then he "snatched the bucket from the old rector. “No good your tiring yourself, sir,” Hugh Dering’s voice was as pleasant as his face, “not while I’m here, and we’re short of buckets, at any rate. I say, Tony,” to his friend, “go and stop them slopping the water about in that absurd way. Make ’em pitch it right on to the flames. We ought to be able to keep the fire in check until my fellows come.” “Boscombe thought it might be the wiser course to try to save the rest of the bungalow,” interposed the rector. “Oh, that’s right enough,” he said, “when you’re dealing with a big flare, but a little tuppenny ha-penny affair of this sort ought not to take much stopping, eh, doctor?” Skene grunted. He had assisted at the young Squire’s advent into the world eight-and-twenty years ago, and this was the first time he had cause to regret the fact. “Buzz her along,” Hugh called, as he handed a full bucket to the man next to him, and snatched an empty one in return, “buzz her along, Jim. Great idea having all the rooms on the ground floor. No fear of there being anyone in the house?” “Not likely, sir,”' returned thp postman, who happened to be next to him. "We thought as ’ow the new folk weren’t cornin’ in until to-morrow. Must-a-ben someone there' though to set ’er a-fire.”

Antony Kirby was staring down at the prone figure. But nobody noticed him. All eyes w'ere for the dead man. He lay much as he had done when the rector and Boscombe had first found him. He was of medium height, but inclined to fatness. His face had once been handsome. The forehead was lofty, 1 the .eyebrows finely pencilled, the nose thin and w r ell chiselled, but the mouth was large and loose-lipped—a sensuous mouth —the chin was massive and unpleasantly loaded with flesh. “It’s Merritt.,” the village storekeeper said. “That’s the name."

The squire’s • friend straightened himself slowly.

“There is some mistake,” he said. “You’ve got the name wrong. “He—” a movement of the hand indicated what was at his feet—“he is, was, I should say, Sir Wilmot Kirby.” It was a night of breathless sensations, and this was not the least of them. Everyone present had heard of Sir Wilmot. To the rural mind the great patron of sport was a sort of hero. In every branch of the pastimes which Englishmen love his name had .been prominent. \ There was scarcely a man present who would not have gone a mile out of his way to see the great Sir Wilmot in the flesh—and now Sir Wilmot lav dead in Jane Brown’s little garden. & But of all who heard Antony Kirby’s astounding statement none experienced the same thrill of excitement as passed through Marcia Dering. There was onlyone Sir Wilmot Kirby, and he was Tony’s uncle, and Tony was his heir. No, she had got the tenses wrong. Sir Wilmot had been Tonv’s uncle; now he was nothing, and The man she had always loved was Sir Antony Kirby, of Byelands Court and of Kirby House, Mayfair. Ned Skene stole a covert glance at the rector. The announcement which had filled others with consternation had a different significance for them. Why had Sir Wilmot carne to Kendon under an assumed name? What of the girl at that moment in the doctor’s house? (To be continued to-morrow.)

The squire was puzzled, though he never paused in his work. “Not coming till to-morrow," he said to the rector. “Why, we met them to-night on our way to the Castle—we’ve been dining there —at least, a chauffeur stopped his car and asked my man the way to Miss Brown’s bungalow, so I took it they were the honeymoon couple. Has no one seen them?”

"Nobody’s seen owt of ’em, sir,” the postman returned stolidly. "Bertie Jebson was coinin’ back from coortin’ a bit sin’, and as ’e gets to t’ doctor’s ’ouse, ’e smells summat burnin’, an’ ’e sees a light in t’ window of Miss Brown’s yonder. Jebson ’e goes knocks at door and ’oilers at window, but there were no one theer.”

■ Three of the listeners avoided one another's glances. They knew that though all Kendon had clamoured for admittance no answer would have been forthcoming, and they knew the reason why. “Yes,” said the squire encouragingly, “yes, Jim?” “Bertie Jebson ’e meets 'tnightkeeper after a bit, sir, an’ they fetches some o't lads from Hesseltines, but t’ door o't bungalow were locked Ned Skene’s face was stubborn. He could have told them who had locked the door and whereabout the kep lay amongst the lilac bushes —“so they breaks a window an’ calls out, but they got no answer.” The squire returned the bucket to the rector, but before he could go Skene had caught hold of his coat, lie knew instinctively what the other meant to do. “It’s not :. bit of good, lad,” he expostulated, “there’s not a living soul in there. You don’t suppose they’d sit still and be burnt to death.”

“No, hut they may be suffocated," suggested Kirby ,who had come up. "There must have been someone there, and no one'has seen them come out.” The squire nodded. “Gome on, Tony,” he said; “we’d better look into this."

“Hughie,” the rector called, “Hughic 1” And Marcia Dcring, watching, wondered why the doctor and Noel Boscombe should both of them turn on the speaker so quickly, though in the uproar she could not hear what they said.

“Be quiet,” Skene whispered warningly, “for heaven’s sake, Vaughan, be quiet. If you speak now you'll arouse suspicon at once.” And then the two old frends moved nearer to the burning building and joined that other pair of friends who were so much younger and so much readier , than they. “We can’t both go,” Kirby was saying. “You stay outside and keep the water bucket moving. Here, Marcia, lend me that thing you’ve got round vour neck. Must have something over my mouth.” Marcia Dcring was unwinding the long silk scarf she wore. “Tony,” she expostulated, '‘.why should you go? Why can’t someone else?” Antony Kirby almost snatched the scarf. Marcia was his friend, notb--•ing more. It irritated him ttiat she should try to stop him. The sudden call for action appealed to him. “Danger? Rubbish 1" he mumbled, his head already enveloped in the silken folds. And then he climbed through the window. The crowd surged forward, consumed with genuine anxiety for the man who was almost as familiar to them as the young squire, himself. Save for the roaring of tile fire there W as what seemed an almost interminable period of silence. It was broken by an audible sigli of relief which developed into a feeble cheer when Antony Kirby re-appeared at the window. Hugh Dering was leaning through the casement with outstretched arms. And then the watchers saw' him stag-

ger back under the heavy weight of the burden he and Antony Kirby were lifting over the sill. Noel Boscombc turned aside With a'smothered groan. The flames had failed to do their work of obliteration.

CHAPTER 111. Dering had caught hold of his friend, and w'as dragging hirn away from the cottage/ Kirby’s clothes were smouldering. Eager hands crushed out the sparks. The squire unwound the scarf which still bound his friend’s mouth. Tony was