“THE WAY OUT”

Sun (Auckland), Volume II, Issue 515, 19 November 1928, Page 5

“THE WAY OUT”

Or “ HEMING’S PROBLEM. ”

By

H. Maxwell.

CHAPTER XXIII (Continued) “Been there for hours,” said Stone, -and sewn-up with cramp in consequence. a nitty place that cupboard. He sank with a sigh on to the oaksettle. “But, man, it was worth it, the missus and the girls’ll have a roof over their heads at Christmas now. Can you find me a drop of something, doctor. I'm parched with dust and niftiness, anything that, s wet, water at a pinch.” He sneezed violently, and said, ‘‘Aye, man, it was well worth Sinclair picked up a jug of milk from the dresser and poured some ot it into a glass. „ “Man! not that! That’s poisoned. Stone cried. “Look here,” said Sinclair firmly, “you’d better go home and go to bed. He, like everybody else in Wilchester, was aware of Stone’s domestic circumstances and impending dismissal, and had heard rumours of his brain being unhinged as the result of his many troubles. And now, of course, he was sure of it. “You can’t stay here. Stone, poor Jane Finlay’s dying, and your wife can’t fail to be anxious about you. You wouldn’t like to cause an upset in a cottage where a poor old woman’s dying. I must ask you to go. Now 7 do go like a decent fellow.” “Br-r-r-ura! br-r-r-um! br-r-r-um! ’ said Stone, “I know 7 she’s dying, she s been slowly poisoned, and the stuff in the jug is to finish hqr off. But, man. if you don’t find me a drink of something w 7 et in two ticks I’ll expire at your feet.” Sinclair discovered a pitcher of water, and when Stone had drained something more than a quart, he said: “Br-r-um br-r-um! that’s better, but man! It’s a cruel thirst to w 7 aste on W'ater. I*m not mad. and I’m not causing an upset, and my wife won’t be anxious about me. Just take a sniff at that milk-jug and tell me if you can detect anything, but for heaven’s sake don’t put your lips to it.” “Do you mean what you say,” said Sinclair, gingerly sniffing at the jug. “Lord, yes, I mean it. I’ve been days trying to get inside that cupboard, but it w 7 as not till old Jane got so ilj she had to go and lie down on her bed that I got the chance. I was there long before you came. I saw 7 Carstairs tip toe in here and drop something into that jug. He was here minutes before he went to the bedroom. Old Jane knows he killed fompton, but for some reason or other won’t tell; now he’s getting unBuv egg s now they’re cheap, and Put them down with Sharland’s Kgg Preservative for the “dear” season. 6

easy and wants her polished off, and then he’ll feel safe.” “Aconite,’.’ said Sinclair starkly, still sniffing at the jug. “I daresay: would aconite account for her symptoms?" “Exactly, but one can’t be sure except after analysis.” “Probably you’re right, you can analyse it later,” said Stone, and took another long pull at the pitcher. “Br-r-r-r-um,” he said, “that saved my life. But I’m not really interested about Jane being poisoned; she’s a pig-headed old woman who’d be better dead. She’s taken a violent dislike to me, and says she’d have great pleasure in murdering me bacuse I told lies about Heming and Temple in print. Let her go, I say, rude old creature telling you to go and boil yourself: nobody’ll miss her; but first mind you she’s got to give evidence that'll convict Carstairs. You’ll contrive to keep her alive long enough for that?” “Stone, you’re talking as if you’re off your head. Be calm and sensible, and If there's anything in what you say . . .” "Calm and sensible! Why, man, I've saved my job,” cried Stone. “I’ve saved the mother of my girls from starving, I’ve saved the home, I’ve got a scoop here that’s going to send the Gazette’s circulation up by tens of thousands, l shouldn’t be surprised if I'd got myself into Fleet Street, and you tell me to be calm and sensible! Gosh,” he said, “if that crabbed, crusty, pig-headed old creature doesn’t speak now, I’ll be hard put to it not to shake the life of her." “Hush, Stone, hush; you’re altogether too wild and lacking restraint.” “Pig-headed, is it?” said Jane, emerging from the inner room, “shake the life out of me, would you? You’re one of the murders I'd have done myself if I’d seen my way not to be found out afterwards.” “Jane Finlay, go back to bed at once,” said Sinclair peremptorily. “Don’t you touch me,” she said, snatching up the broomstick. “Dying, am I? I’ll match you. Poisoned in the legs and you grabbing about declines and infirmaries! What d'you know? Thrippences and fourpences is all you’re after. Poisoned under your nose I’ve been in my legs and you never know nothing about it no more than Dick Dawson, the roadmender. Yah!” said Jane, “quack! panel!” and waved her broomstick viciously. “Jane Finlay, I warn you that any severe exertion may prove instantly fatal. I order you to put down that broomstick.” Jane, though she retained her grasp of the broomstick, was for the moment cowed, and turned sullenly to Alexander Stone.

“Why did you tell lies in print about Miss Cicely?” she demanded. “I did not tell lies about her; I am anxious to help her, she asked me to help‘her; I'm her friend. Carstairs is at the bottom of all her troubles; he’s a villainous rascal—” “He killed the silly lunatic what tried to murder her and Mr. Roger on the moor, I seen him do it,” said Jane in a challenging tone; “I’ve got the piece of wood what he done it with.” “Where is it, Jane?”

“In that cupboard.” “And you saw him do it?” said Stone, gently. “I seen him with my own eyes, I

was gathering kindling, and I seen him creep up behind him and bash his head in. It was a big chunk of a dead bough what he done it with. He seen I seen him. That's what he come here for, and asking me not to blab because he’d done it for Miss Cicely what the chap was prowling about in the wood to murder. Of

course I didn’t blab, and him that friendly and jolly, giving me a sovereign most days, and saying what a good riddance it was, and how he’d do it again for Miss Cicely. Then all the while poisoning me in my legs; why, he’s a scamp,” said Jane, “poisoning a poor woman in the legs unbeknownst to her. But I kept the chunk of wood, and sometimes I’d a sort of notion he was hankering to know what had become of it. But he never got nothing out of me about it. Fair spoken he was and merry and bright always, giving me sovereigns and making me laugh, but deep down inside me I was always a bit suspicious, though never slceert of him, never dreaming he was poisoning me in my legs. And now,” said Jane, flopping weakly on to the settle, “I hope he’ll be hanged.” A little brandy revived her, and Alexander Stone ejaculated “Br-r-r----um! Br-r-rrum!” continuously until Sinclair assured him that Jane was in no immediate danger. “Just like you, you provoking old creature,” said Stone to Jane, “t.o slip off the hooks when your life is beginning to be valuable. If you die,” he said threateningly, “before the police have time to take your statement, I’ll . . . I’ll make it my business to see Miss Cicely doesn’t come to your funeral, so now you know.” t An amused grin spread over Jane’s face, as she answered.

“You were a holy terror at asking questions, but you ain’t such a fool as some might think.”

“I’m your friend for life, if you’ll only live another twenty-four hours,” Stone retorted. “Extraordinary,” said Sinclair, “her pulse is quite strong.” At that moment Polly Simmonds, a strapping woman of five-and-fifty, appeared at the door and stared in gasping astonishment at Jane. “Mercy!” she exclaimed, “a little fat gentleman came along and said you were dead, and here’s me hurried as fast as I could come to lay you out. Well! I’m that disappointed I can’t tell you, Jane Finlay.” “I’ll lay you out,” said Jane, and made a fierce grab for the broomstick.

Polly Simmons didn’t wait. Jane chased her down the garden and right into the high road.

CHAPTER XXIV.—ROGER WANTS OCCUPATION, AND FINDS IT. “They may say what they like about panel doctors,” she remarked on her return to the kitchen, “but it’s my belief, Old Thrippence. you’ve been and cured my legs.

Roger stayed one night at Redderton Hall and went to London next morning; it was arranged that he should return on the third day for the wedding.

Neither he nor Cicely again referred to the subject of the conditions of their marriage. It was not Roger’s cue to do so; having gained her consent to the ceremony he was satisfied for the moment, the rest might be left on the knees of the gods. And Cicelyhad a score of good reasons for not referring to it; the strongest was the futility of reopening a discussion which always worked round to that apparently unanswerable question: Who killed Mary Barstow? And if there was much pain and distress and ambiguity in her situation she was still able to extract some comfort from it; it was better than the previous state of uncertainty; a decisive step had been resolved upon; she would be at least Roger’s legal wife; and if—and if — But she could not carry her reasoning further, since it brought the two diametrically opposite motives which swayed her conduct into instant conflict, the strength of her love for the man, and her invincible aversion to what she believed he had done. So she, too. was glad to leave the future on the knees of the gods. Yet an indirect allusion was made to the matter at the moment of parting.

“By the way,” he said, "have you thought where you are going to live? I suppose you haven’t had time. Will you think it over and let me know? I'll make any arrangements that suit you. You can’t stay here, can you? We shall have to make a pretence of starting on a honeymoon.” “I shall go home,” said Cicely. ‘‘Very well; yes—that would seem to be the best plan,” he answered. He spent the first hours after his arrival in London in settling down in his old rooms, spinning out the process as long as possible; but it was soon done—much too soon for his peace of mind. Tl is domestic arrangements were cruelly simple, and quickly completed. He had, alas, only to consider his own comfort and convenience. By three o’clock in the afternoon he was duly installed, with the wheels of his bachelor establishment running as smoothly as if the running of them had never been interrupted; and thereafter he hadn’t the least idea what to do with himself.

From sheer lack of occupation he sat down to think, or rather he moved aimlessly and restlessly about the room, compelled to think. Was his marriage right? Was it fair to Cicely? Ought he to disclose to her her father’s guilt before marrying her? He argued the thing over and over

again, invariably coming at the same conclusion, that it was light and was tair, and that he ought not to disclose the true story of Mary Barstow’s death. “Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof,” he said to himself, and smiled at the grim irony of applying so sinister a maxim to his own wedding day. Then what were to be his future relations with Heming and Lady Elizabeth? He could not tell.'What he knew was that he had no feeling of rancour against them —all that was past. The answer depended on so many things, upon how his marriage turned out, upon the view they took of it, upon what action Heming might choose to take, upon a variety of contingencies none of which could be foreseen. So again he was forced to find refuge in that ill-omened maxim which emphasised the sufficiency of its own evil for each particular day. By four o’clock his rooms had become intolerable, and he went out. But the streets were literally thronged with cheerful crowds absorbed in the pleasant business of Christmas shopping, and the spirit prevalent everywhere w a s so much out of tune with his own that the streets soon became as intolerable a. 1 his rooms. He had no one to buy presents for. Then, what to do with himself If he had no business, couldn't he make some? He suddenly thought of the Admiralty, and at half-past four he was in the building, waiting at the convenience of the high official who had charge of his matter to receive him. Remembering the difficulty he had in

obtaining an interview on the last occasion, he was prepared for a Ion: wait, but he was received almost immediately. “The board is making progress with the consideration of your affair,” said the high official, “and a decision should be reached in a few days from now. Sir Edward Conway Heming : has exerted himself strenuously in ] your' interests. He is actually conferring with the First Lord at this very moment.” “I have come to say I do not wish any further steps to be taken.” "I beg your pardon, Mr. Temple? You do not wish ?” “I formally withdraw my application for a review of the circumstances in which I resigned my appointment in the year 1905,” Roger stated more precisely. “This is very important. Are you sure? Am I to understand that you definitely withdraw ?” “It is what I am trying to make you understand,” said Roger tartly. “But forgive me if I am sceptical. The question of your rehabilitation so gravely affects your personal reputation that I am at a loss to ” “The question has ceased to be of any importance to my personal reputation,” said Roger. “You are the best judge of that, of course. Every man must be the best judge of what affects his own reputation, but I must say ” “I see you must,” said Roger. “You can't help telling me what you think instead of trying to grasp what I say. That I know is the official method, but wouldn’t it be better ” “Y'ou are impertinent, Mr. Temple. I am merely trying to ”

“Yes, I know; you are merely trying to do something which nobody wants you to do, which will be no good to anybody when you’ve done it, and which delays the doing of what I presume it is your special business to do. I shall be very glad to repeat ” “Enough, sir, enough. I understand you. I thought it my duty to ” “Quite so, quite so,” said Roger wearily, “you thought It your duty to do something which is quite outside the scope of your duty. That is the official mind. I am sure you can’t help it; it is hardly possible for anyone in your position to escape it. Shall I have it typed in triplicate or quadruplicate and post it to you? Or shall I »” “Sir, I will report your errand and your insolence to my chief, and it will be for him to deal with both. I can only say for my own part ” (To be continued)