The Error of Her Ways

Waikato Times, Volume 125, Issue 20951, 2 November 1939, Page 5

The Error of Her Ways

(By FRANK BARRETT)

CHAPTER XLIII (continued) Malcolm raised Sylvia’s supine body on the seat, passed his arm round ner, and brought her head into the hollow of his shoulder with no feeling but that of sullen discontent at this new addition to his embarrassments. In this position Sylvia found herself as she slowly recovered consciousness.

“Where am I?” she cried, starting suddenly as the memory of what had passed flashed upon her. “Oh!” and she recoiled in horror from Malcolm. “Oh, let me go!” She thrust him from her with loathing, and made an attempt to open the door. Malcolm seized her arm and forced her hack upon the seat. She caught sight of the blood upon her hand, and with a fresh access of horror cried: “His blood—my darling’s blood!” Malcolm with his handkerchief essayed to remove the incriminating stain. She snatched her hand away —drawing herself back from his touch with frenzy in her eyes. “Murdered! murdered!” she exclaimed.

Stutter pulled up, that his voice might be heard.

“Gag her, Angus, gag her, my good fellow—here’s parties cornin’.” Malcolm forced the bloody handkerchief in his hand upon her mouth, crushing her down with all the force inspired by terror as the fly moved on, and they passed a couple of labourers returning from their day s work. Sylvia struggled for freedom, striving to get to the window in the hope of throwing herself out. “Listen,” said Angus hoarsely. “I shot the villian not only to avenge the wrongs he has done me, but to save you. For your sake—to free you from this villainous marriage into which he has ensnared you—l took his life. Would you betray me?” “Yes,” she cried, escaping from the gag, “you must kill me as you have killed him to keep me silent. Coward and murderer, you shall not escape.”

He twisted her arms behind her back till the bones seemed to be breaking from their sockets, and she shrieked from sheer physical agony, sickening under the torture. She was helpless when they drove over the bridge and into the courtyard of the moated house.

The two men had to carry her into the room reserved by Mrs Stutter for her exclusive use. There she dropped on the floor and lay silent and half-dead from exhaustion and suffering. Malcolm turned the key upon her and seated himself in the adjoining room in morose silence, while Stutter hurried off to take the fly back to the inn from which he had hired it. Stutter returned with sullen determination in his square-cut features.

“Now, Angus,” said he, when he had lit a lamp and produced his pipe, “you havin’ messed this job terrights have got to tell me square and fair as man to man what you intent to do next.”

For reply Malcolm rose and took up his hat. “Hold hard! Set down again, old pal, and listen to me, cos it’s for your good. Don’t you run away with the idea that you’re goin’ to bolt and leave me to answer for that gal and what you’ve done, cos you ain’t. If I find you tryin’ to sneak off, or see any reason for so doin’, I shall jist turn King’s evidence and let out the whole blessed lot afore you can get fifty miles away. Oh, I shall—l tell you straight.” “What the hell do you want me to do?” asked Malcolm, turning like a rat in a corner.

“In the first place, set down and listen to reason. That’s right. I knew you would if you couldn’t help yourself otherways. Now, look ahere —it’s like this: if you behave yourself I’ll treat you like a pal and a brother and help you to get out of the hole you’re gone and let yourself into.” “What is it? Cut it short,” exclaimed Malcolm in exasperation. “I’ve been weighing things up,” pursued Stutter, heedless of the other’s irritation, and not to be diverted from the exercise of those oratorical powers on which he rather prided himself, “p’r’a’ps more’n what you have—it bein’ one of my gifts to look ahead and see what’s a goin’ to ’appen in the future before us. And I see, clear as water, that wave got to take off our coats to this job if we want to keep out of chokey. With your natural turn for messing things, Angus, it’s just likely you ain’t properly done for Mr Clifford, or, say, you’ve hit him in such a part as a coroner’s inquest will bring in a verdict of couldn’t hev done it himself: wilful murder against some

Enthralling Serial Story

party unknown. Now what follers? Why, the day after to-morrow —or, say, the next, accordin’ as when the inquest comes off—the police will be out all over the blessed shop searching all the most likely and unlikely places for suspicious ceracters; and this not bein’ a hundred miles from the spot where the act was perpetrated, is about the first they’ll come and overhaul. Now, what I propose is this: as first of all we get that gate outside into goin’ order, shut it and lock it, put up every blessed shutter we can find to the windows, and make believe the bloomin’ place locked up—empty—and everyone gone away—same as what it has been year before. Of course, that gal will have to be kept in a part where she can’t wave handkerchers to people passing, and you’ll have to put the muzzle on if she raises her voice or turns saucy. You understand?”

Malcolm nodded, seeing no alternative to Stutter’s proposition.

“Well, that bein’ so, we won’t lose no time, so we’ll just pop out and have a look at that door.” Malcolm rose.

They found a lantern and went into the gateway, where the wind was drifting the snow, and examined the old door. It was of massive oak, three inches thick, old as the hills and as everlasting, braced and studded from end to side with wrought-iron bands and bolts, hung on massive hinges, with an enormous lock and ponderous key. It was as much as the two could do to turn it an inch from the wall upon which it was thrown back; the lock defied their efforts to turn its key. “Angus, my boy,” said Stutter, when they had worked half an hour uselessly. “I’m more of a blacksmith ’an what you are. So just you go up the road about a hundred yards, or say two hundred, and if you spot anyone coming, hook back and let me know. Meanwhiles, I’ll take and work about a half-gallon of parrafifin into the lock and them hinges, and I warrant we’ll have it shet afore the missus comes ’ome.” fieL ussh sure tothew ?fhiefs . . ohte CHAPTER XLIV. The Spread of Misery The returning labourers were first to find Tom’s body. The storm had spread a winding-sheet of snow over him and obliterated the traces of footsteps around. The men noticed nothing but the body lying there and I the muzzle of a revolver sticking up ! out of the snow near it. Their own | footsteps and those of others who ! shortly after came upon the spot entirely removed any means that might have existed of tracing the murderer.

Two of the labourers ran down to the village, another went back to Ivy Cottage, to bring help, Tom was at once identified by the servants from the house. The landlord of the Chequers slipped a flask of brandy in his pocket and with half a dozen villagers quickly joined the knot of servants. This man, who had been in South Africa, was not terrified by the congealed blood that caked the side of Tom’s head, and knew what to do. He lifted his head and poured brandy down his throat. A pal of his had been hit, looked as like death as this, and yet lived to fight again. Then Bendall trotted up, closely followed by a cart in which was the constable he had fetched from Witherham. What was to be done? Bendall proposed to gallop across to Sevenoaks and fetch a doctor; the landlord, more practical, suggested that it would be a saving of precious time to take Tom to the doctor. Bendall and a dozen excited men made a dash for the coachhouse, got out the brougham, harnessed the horse, and rushed back to the scene of tragedy, while the maids, at the practical landlord’s command, fetched fur rugs and hot-water bottles from the house. Tom’s body was lifted into the carriage, propped against the constable and covered with furs; the landlord took the opposite seat with brandy flask and hot-water appliances, and Bendall drove off, leaving the group of servants and villagers to gape and speculate over the blood - stained snow.

Not a soul had given one thought to Mrs Stutter.

That prudent person, seated on a tool chest behind the phaeton, had not stirred from her position, nor sought to attract attention when the door opened and while the brougham was being drawn out. Her ears were open to catch any scraps of information that might fall from the hurrying stable men. “Shot himself, I say.” “Couldn’t have been the missus, because she went out of the house, the cook told me, pretty near ten minutes before he did.”

“Did you see his brains, Roberts, hanging all out the side of his head?’ 1 Etc., etc.

Then the brougham and the helpers dashed off, leaving the coachhouse door wide open; so that, all being quite silent again, Mrs Stutter had nothing to do but walk along the back drive, turn to the right, and step off briskly to Wickmere. Bendall stopped at the first red lamp in Sevenoaks, and fetched the doctor out sharp. 4 I think he’s alive, sir,” said the landlord, as the doctor lifted the lid of Tom’s eye.

“Where do you come from?” “Whitham; but the gentleman’s v, - here at Mr Harrowgate‘s, Falconrest.” l;1 , u: s im there at once. I will fellow immediately. Lay him out straight on a bed. Get more hot water to his feet. You’ve done well to apply warmth.” (To be continued)