THE CHILDERPRIDGE MYSTERY

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXVIII, Issue IX, 1 March 1902, Page 386

THE CHILDERPRIDGE MYSTERY

By

Guy Boothby.

SYNOPSIS of INSTALMENTS I. to V —William Standerton, a successfu’ - ist, with his two grown up children, have decided to leave Australia and settle down in the Old Country. Just before their start, the son, Jim. is accosted by a “swagman” who tells him to inform his father that Richard Murbridge will meet him in the morning. When Jim delivers the message, his father seems greatly agitated, and although no harm comes of the meeting with Murbridge. whom Standerton acknowledges having known in previous years, both Jim and his sister are rendered very uneasy. Childerbridge Manor becomes the English home of the Standertons—an historic mansion with an army of ghosts. Jim. out driving, runs over a dog, and becomes acquainted with its mistress. Miss Decie, and her guardian, Abraham Bursfield. The two young people i»n time fall in love with one another, but Mr Bursfield refuses his consent. Jim encounters Richard Murbridge In the park. He forbids him to see his father, but the latter, on hearing of it, sends for the man and they have a stormy interview. That evening a fainting servant declares she has seen a ghost, and the next morning William Standerton is found dead in bed, strangled. Suspicion fastens at once upon Murbridge, who, it is found, has left for London. “The Black Dwarf” again appears. frightening the inmates of the Hall. At the inquest a verdict of “murder’ is returned against a person or persons unknown. Jim takes Helen Decie back to the Dower House, and is met by Mr Bursfield. who angrily forbids any more communication between the two. and refuses to state his reasons.

CHAPTER VI. While the letter from Helen cheered James Standerton wonderfully, it did not in any way help him out of his diHieulty with Mr Bursfield. The latter had most decisively stated hits intention not to give his consent to the marriage of’ his adopted granddaughter with the young Squire of Childerbridge. What his reasons were for taking such a step, neither Jim nor Helen could form any idea. It was a match that moist guardians would have been only too thankful to have brought about. In spite of Helen’s statements, he could only, after mature consideration, assign it to the old man’s natural selfishness, ami. however bitterly he might resent his treatment, in his own heart he knew there was nothing for it but to wait with such patience as he could command for a change in the other s feelings towards himself. He had the satisfaction of knowing, however, that Helen loved him, and that she would be true to him. happen what might. He was not a more than usually romantic young man, but I happen to know that he carried that letter about with him constantly, while he had read it so often that hr must have assuredly got itis contents by heart. All things considered, it is wonderful

what comfort it is possible for a lovesick young man to derive from a few common-place words written upon a sheet of notepaper.

After the momentous interview with Mr Bursfield, the days went by with their usual samenes at Childerbridge. No news arrived from the detective. Robins. Apparently it was quite impossible for him to discover the smallest clue a's to Afurbridge’s whereabouts. To all intents and purposes he had disappeared as completely as if he had been caught up into the skies. The reward, beyond bringing a vast amount of trouble and disappointment to Jim. had not proved of the least use to any one concerned. Numerous half-witted folk, ;s is usual in such cases, had come forward and given themselves up. declaring that they had committed the murder, but the worthlessness of their stories was at once proved in every case. One man. it was discovered, had been on the high seas at the time, another had never been near Childerbridge in bis life, while a third, and this was a still more remarkable case, was found to have been an inmate of one of Her Majesty’s Convict Establishments at the time the murder was committed. “Never mind.” said Jim to himself, “he must be captured sooner or later. If the police authorities cannot catch him. I’ll take up the case myself.” As he said this he looked up at the portrait of his father, which hung upon the wall of his study. “Come what may. father ” he continued. “if there is any justice in the world, vour cruel murder shall he avenged.” Another month went by, and still the same want of success attended the search for Murbridge. “Alice. T can stand it no longer,” 'said Jim to his sister one evening, after he had read a communication from Robins. “T can gather from the tone of this letter that they are losing heart. T ought to have taken up the case myself at the commencement. and not have wasted all this nrecious time. The man may now he back in Australia, or in South America. or anywhere else.” Alice crossed the room and placed her hand on his shoulder. “Dear old Jim.” she said. “I am sure you know how I loved our father.” “Of course 1 do.” said Jim. looking up at her. “No one knows better. But 1 can see there is something you want to say to me. What is it?” “Don't be angry with me, Jim.” she replied, seating herself on the arm of his chair and throwing one arm round his neck, “but deeply as that man has wronged us, I cannot

hilp thinking that we should not always be praying for vengeance rgainst him as we are doing. Do you think it is what our father with his noble nature would have wished?” Jim was silent for a moment. “Surely you don’t mean to say, Alice,” he stammered, at last, “that you are willing to forgive the man who so cruelly killed our father?”

“I shall try to forgive him.” the girl replied. “I feel sure it is what our father would have wished us to do.”

“I am no such saint,” Jim returned angrily. “I wish to see the man brought to justice, and, what’s more. I mean to bring him. He took that noble life, and he must pay the penalty of his crime. An eye for an eye. and a tooth for a tooth, was the old law. Why should we change it?”

Alice rose and crossed the room to her own ehair with a little sigh. She knew her brother well enough to be sure that, having once made un his mind, he would carry out his determination.

On the morning following this conversation. .Tim was standing after breakfast at the window of his sister’s boudoir, lookmg out upon the lawn, across which the leaves were being driven by the autumn wind. His brow was puckered with thought. As a matter of fact he was wondering at the moment how he should commence his search for Murbridge. London was such a great city, and for an amateur to attempt to find a man in it. who desired to remain hidden. was very much like setting himself the task of hunting for a needle in a bundle of hay. He neither knew where or how to begin. While he was turning the question over in his mind, his quick eye detected the solitary figure of a man walking across the .park in the direchion of the house. He watched it pass the clump of rhododendrons, and then lost it again in the dip beyond the lake. Presently it reappeared, and within a few moments was within 'easy distance of the house. At first Jim had

watched him with but small interest, later, however, his sister noticed that he gradually became excited. He craned his head in order that he might watch the stranger pass the corner of the house.

“Good gracious, Alice!” he cried, “it surely cannot be.” “■What cannot be?” asked Alice, leaving her chair and approaching the window.

"That man coming up the drive,” Jim replied. “It doesn’t seem possible that it can be he, yet I’ve often boasted that I should know his figure anywhere. If it were not the most improbable thing in the world, I should be prepared to swear that it’s Terence O'Riley.”

“But. my dear Jim, what could Terence be doing here, so many thousand miles from our old home?” Jim did not wait to answer the question. Almost before Alice had finis Led speaking, he had reached the front door, had opened it. and was wild’y shaking hands with a tall, spare man, with a humorous, yet hatehet-shaped face, so sunburnt’as to be almost the colour of mahogany.

The new comer, Terence O’Riley, was a character in his way. He boasted that he knew nothing of father or mother, or relations of any sort or kind. He had received his Hibernian patronymic from his first friend, a wild Irishman on the diggings where he was born. He had entered William Standerton’s service at the age of twelve, as horse boy. and for upwards of thirty years had remained his faithful henchman. In every respect he was a typical bushman: he could track like a blackfellow. ride any horse that was ever foaled, find his way’ in the thickest country with unerring skill, was a first-class rifle shot, an unequalled judge of cattle, a trifle pugnacious at certain seasons, but, and this seems an anomaly, at other times possessed a heart as tender as that of a little child. When William Standerton and his family’ had left Australia, his grief had been sincere.

For weeks he had been inconsolable, and it meant a sure thrashing for a man who dared to mention James’s name in his hearing.

“What on earth does this mean, Terence?” asked Jim, who could hardly believe that it was his own servant who stood before him.

“It means a good many things, Master Jim,” said Terence, with the drawl in his voice peculiar to Australian Bushmen. “It’s a longish yarn, but my word, I am just glad to see you again, and bless me, there’s Miss Alice too, looking as pretty as a grass parrot on a gum log-’- *

With a look of happiness on her faee that had certainly not been there since her father’s death, Alice came forward and gave Terence her hand. He took it in his great palm, and I think, but am not quite sure, that there were tears in his eyes. “Come in at once,” said Jim. “You must tell us your tale from beginning to end. Even now I can scarcely realise that it is you. Every moment I expect to see you vanish into mid-air. If I had been asked where you were at this moment, I should have said ‘out in one of the back paddocks, say the Bald Mountain, riding along the fence on old Smoker, with Dingo trotting at his heels.’ ” “No, sir,” Terence answered, looking round the great hall as he spoke, “I sold Smoker at Bourke before I came away, and one of the overseers has Dingo, poor old dog. The fact of the matter was, sir, after you left I got a bit lonesome; it didn’t seem like the same place. I had put by a matter of between four and five hundred pounds, and. thinks I to myself, there’s the Old Country, that they say is so beautiful, and to think that I’ve never set eyes on it! Why shouldn't I make the trip, just drop in and see the Boss, and Master Jim, and Miss Alice in their new home? Who knows but that they might want a colt broken for them. As soon as I made up my mind, I

packed my bag and set off for Melbourne, took a passage on board a ship that was sailing next day, and here I am, sir. I hope the master is well, sir?”

There was an awkward pause, during which Alice left the room. “Is it possible you haven’t heard, Terence?” Jim inquired, in a hushed voice.

“I’ve not heard anything, sir,” Terence answered. “I was six weeks on the water, you see. I do hope, sir, there is nothing wrong." Jim thereupon told him the whole story of his father’s death. When he had finished the Bushman’s consternation may be better imagined than described. For some moments it deprived him of speech. He could only stare at Jim in horrified amazement.

“Tell me, sir, that they’ve got the man who did it,” he said at last, bringing his hand down with a bang on the table beside which he was seated. “Tell me that they’re going to hang the man who killed the kindest master in all the world, or I’ll say that there’s not a trooper in England that’s fit to call himself a policeman.” The poor fellow was genuinely affected.

“They haven’t caught him yet, Terence,” said Jim. “The police have been searching for him high and low for weeks past but without success.”

“But they must find him. run him down, and hang him. just as we used to string up the cowardly dingoes out back when they worried the sheep. If I have to track him like a myall blackfellow, I’ll find him.” “Terence, I believe you’ve come at the right time,” said Jim. holding out his hand. “Seeing the way the police authorities are managing affairs, I’ve decided to take up the case myself. You were a faithful servant to my father, and you’ve known me all my life. You’ve got a head on your shoulders—do vou remember who it

was that found out who stole those sheep from Coobalah Out Station? Come with me. old friend, and we’ll run the villain down together. I would not wish for a better companion.”

“I’m thankful now that I came, sir,” Terence replied. “You mark my words, we’ll find him wherever he’s stowed himself away.”

From that day Terence was made a member of the Childerbridge household. In due course, accompanied by Jim, he inspected the stables and was more than a little impressed by the luxury with which the animals were surrounded.

“Very pretty,” he muttered to himself. “and turned out like racehorses; all the same I wouldn’t like to ride ’em after cattle in the Ranges on a dark night.” The sedate head coachman could not understand the situation. He was puzzled as to what manner of man this might be, who. though so poorly dressed, while treating his master with the utmost respect, conversed with him on terms of perfect equality. His amazement, however, was turned into admiration later in the day when Mr O’Riley favoured him with an exposition of the gentle art of horsebreaking.

“He’s a bit too free and easy in his manners towards the master for my likin’,” that individual informed the head gardener afterwards, “but there’s no denyin’ the fact that he’s amazin' clever with a youngster. They do say as ’ow he did all the master’s horsebreaking in foreign parts.” It soon became apparent that Terence was destined to become one of the most popular personages at Childerbridge. His quaint mannerisms, extraordinary yarns, and readiness to take any sort of work, however hard, upon his shoulders, won for him a cordial welcome from the inhabitants of the Manor House. As for Jim and Alice, for some reason best known to themselves, they derived a comfort

from his presence that at any other time they would scarcely have believed possible. On the day following Terence’s arrival James stood on the steps at the front door watching him school a young horse in the park. The highspirited animal was inclined to be troublesome, but with infinite tact and patience Terence was gradually asserting his supremacy. Little by little, as he watched him, Jim’s thoughts drifted away from Childerbridge. and another scene, equally familiar, rose before his eyes. He saw a long creeper-covered house, standing on the banks of a mighty river. A man was seated in the verandah, ami that man was his father. Talking to him from the garden path was another—no less a person than Terence. Then he himself emerged from the house and stood by his father’s side—a little boy of ten — dressed in brown Holland, and wearing a broad-brimmed straw hat upon his head. Upon his coming his father rose and, taking him by the hand, led him down to the stoekyard, accompanied by Terence. In the yard stood the prettiest pony that mortal boy had ever set eyes ou. "There, my boy,” said his father, "that is my birthday present to you. Terence has broken him.” And now here was this self-same Terence in England, making his hunters, while the father who, all his life, had proved so generous to him, was lying in his grave, cruelly murdered. At that moment Alice came up behind him. "What are you thinking of. Jim?” she enquired. "I was thinking of Gundawurra and the old days,” he answered. "Seeing Terence out there on that horse brought it back to me so vividly that for a moment I had quite forgotten that I was in England. Do you know, Alice, that sometimes a wild longing to be back there takes possession of me. If only Helen were my wife. I'm not quite certain that I should not

want to take you both back—if only for a trip. It seems to me that I would give anything to feel the hot sun upon my shoulders once again, to smell the smoke of a camp tire, to see the dust rise from the stock-yards, and to scent the perfume of the orange blossoms as we sit together in the verandah in the evening. Alice, that is the life of a man; this luxurious idleness makes me feel effeminate. But there, what am 1 talking about? I’ve got my duty to do in England before we go back to Gundawurra.” At that moment Terence rode up. very satisfied with himself and with the’animal upon whose back he was seated. He had scarcely departed in the direction of the stable before Jim descried a carriage entering the park. It proved to be a fly from the station, and in it Kobins, the detective, was

seated. “Good afternoon, sir,’’ he said, as he alighted. “In response to your letter, 1 have come down to see you personally.” -I am very glad you have done so,” Jim replied, “for I have been most anxious to see you. Let us come into the house.” He thereupon led the way to his study, where he invited the detective to be seated. “1 hope you have some good news for me,” Jim remarked, as he closed the door. "Have you made any discovery concerning Murbridge? The detective shook his head.

“I am sorry to say.” he answered, ■ that our efforts have been entirely unsuccessful. We traced the man from Paddington to a small eatinghouse in the vicinity of the station, but after that we lost him altogether. We have kept a careful watch on the outgoing ships, tried the hotels, lodg-ing-'houses, Salvation Army Shelters, and such places, and have sent a description of him to every police station in the country, but so far without an atom of success. Once, when the body of a man was found in the river at Greenwich. I thought we had discovered him. The description given of the dead man tallied exactly with that of Murbridge. I was disappointed, however, for he turned out to be a chemist's assistant, who had been missing from Putney for upwards of a fortnight. Then a man gave himself up to the police at Bristol, but he was found to be a mad solicitor s clerk from Exeter. This is one of the deepest cases I have ever been concerned in. Mr Standerton. and though I am not the sort of man who gives up very quickly. I am bound to confess that up to the present I have been beaten, and beaten badly.” “You are not going to abandon the ease. I hope?” Jim asked anxiously. “Because you have been unsuccessful so far, you are surely not going to give it up altogether?” “The Law’ never abandons a case," the other observed sententiously. "Of course it's quite within the bounds of possibility that we may hit upon some clue that will ultimately lead to his arrest; it is possible that he may give himself up in course of time; at the present, however, 1 must admit that both circumstances appear remarkably remote.” "Well," returned Jim, "1 can assure you that whatever else happens, 1 am not going to r'.e up the chase, if the authorities are going to do so, 1 shall take it up myself and see what I can do.”

There was a suspicion of a smile upon the detective's face as he listened.

“I am afraid you will only be giving yourself needless trouble,” he said. “I should not consider it trouble to try and discover my father’s murderer,” Jim returned hotly. “Even if I am not successful, 1 can only fail as the police have done; while I shall have the satisfaction of knowing that I have done my best. May I trouble you for the name of the eat-ing-house where Murbridge proceeded on leaving Paddington?” Taking a piece of paper from the writing table. Kobins wrote the name and address of the eatinghouse upon it. and handed it to Jim. The latter placed it carefully in his pocket-book, and felt that he must make the house in question his starting point.

When the detective took his departure naif an hour later, Jim gave instructions that Terence should be sent to him.

"Terence,” he began, when the other stood before him. xam going up to London to-morrow morning to commence my search for Murbridge. 1 shall want you to accompany me.” "All right, sir,” Terence replied. "I’ve been hoping for this, and it’ll go hard now if we can’t trac». him someuow. But you must bear in mind, sir, that I’ve never been in London, if it was in the bush, now, 1 won't say but what 1 should not be able to find him, but I don’t know much about these big cities, so to speak. It will be like looking for the track ot a sheep in a stockyard after a mob of wild cattle have been turned into it.” Jim smiled. He saw that Terence had not the vaguest notion of what London was like. That evening Alice was informed of the decision he had come to. She had been expecting it for some days past, and was not at all surprised bj it. She only asked that he would permit her to accompany him. “I could not remain here,” she said, "and I'll promise that x 11 not be in your way. It would be so desolate in this house without you. especially as Mr Bursfield will not allow Helen to visit us, and I have no other companion.” “By all means come with me,” said Jim. “I shall cnoose a quiet hotel in the West End, and you must amuse yourself as best you can while I am absent.” Later in the evening he wrote a note to his sweetheart informing her of his decision, and promising to let her know, day by day, what success attended his efforts. Next morning they left Childerbridge Station at eleven o’clock for London. As the train steamed out of the village past the little churchyard, Jim looked down upon his father’s grave, which he could just see under the old yew tree on the eastern side of the church. “Dear father.” he muttered to himself, “I swear, by all I hold holy, that I will bring your murderer to justice —even if I have to devote the remainder of my life to doing so.”

(To be continued.)