“THE WAY OUT”

Sun (Auckland), Volume II, Issue 517, 21 November 1928, Page 5

“THE WAY OUT”

Or “HEMING’S PROBLEM.”

*- By

H. Maxwell.

CHAPTER XXVI. —(.Continued)

Carstairs smiled and bowed as he made this reply* but there was no swagger or bounee in his mien or tone. He gave one the impression ot a man, who, while keenly alive to the seriousness of his position, is by no means crushed or weighed down by it, his attitude expressing dignity and confidence allied with calmness and innocence. The voice in which he pleaded “not guilty" was very telling in its clear and quiet firmness. The first witness was the Police Inspector, who had made the arrest. He told how he had gone to Carstairs’s house, and after stating the nature of his business had read the warrant to him and added the usual caution; and that Carstairs had then said: “Of course I’ll come with you, you are only doing your duty, but I hope I need not say that somebody has made a very grave blunder." Whereupon he had asked to be alUiwed to write a note to his friend, Sir Edward Conway-Heming, and the request was granted. He was then taken into custody and conveyed to the County Headquarters Station in a cab. During the drive he had chatted Pleasantly on various subjects, and said that this would upset his, and Sir Edward’s and Lady Elizabeth’s Plans for the Christmas holidays, which they had proposed to spend together at one of the Swiss resorts for winter sports, ski-ing and skating and toboganning. He said he was afraid the interference with these plans would be an especially severe disappointment to Lady Elizabeth. “Any questions to ask the witness?" queried the chairman. “None, thank you; the inspector has described everything that passed with admirable accuracy and fairness," said Carstairs. This was a moral pat on the back *or the Inspector. Alexander Stone was the next witness. He described how, in his journalistic capacity as a provider of news, he had determined to make a personal effort to solve the mystery of the hiurder of Raymond Compton. His investigations led him to suspect that

Jane Finlay knew the perpetrator o£ the crime, but had reasons of her own for not imparting her knowledge to the police. He had kept a systematic watch on her cottage, and been struck with the frequency with which Carstairs visited her. He then detailed with great vividness the series of incidents ensuing upon his hiding in Jane’s cupboard, exactly as they are known to the reader, and that concluded his evidence. He had given it with great moderation and solemnity, but not without a certain gusto and pride in his successful debut as an amateur detective. “Any questions to ask this witness?” said the Chairman. “Just one or two, sir: I shall be very brief,” Carstairs replied. “You are, I think,” he said to Stone, “under notice of dismissal from your post as editor of the ‘Wilchester Gazette’?” “I was,” Stone answered, “but I am not now; my notice has been cancelled?” “When was it cancelled?’ “Last night?” “Immediately after you had reported to your employer the success attending your efforts to get me arrested?” “Yes.” “I should not be surprised, Mr. Stone, to hear that you salary has been raised.” “It has been raised, said Stone. “So that my arrest has been a source of considerable pecuniary profit to you. You have retained your job, and have gained an increase of salary as the result of it?” “I suppose so.” said Stone, reluctantly. “Yes or no, sir? “Yes,” said Stone. “Thank you, that is all. You may stand down,” said Carstairs pleasantly, and Alexander Stone was glad to leave the box. Jane Finlay was the next witness, and in response to leading questions from the Superintendent, gave her evidence with much shrewdness and point, interspersed with rambling comments on her own ailments, her loyal devotion to the Conway-Heming

family, her views on panel doctors, and many other irrelevant matters. But the gist of it was hopelessly damaging to the accused. Her graphic narrative of the actual murder held the Court spell-bound. “I saw him,” said Jane, “creep up behind the poor lunatic, who was standing in the path foolishly a-gape, staring np at the sky, all unbeknownst of the peril that was so nigh him. Like a cat he crept, slow and sure and silent, for all he's so fat; not a sound there was, not a twig snapped. Suddenly he ups and swings the big chunk of wood, and the poor lunatic drops like a bullock wbat has been pole-axed. Then he hits him again and again, making sure, bashing his poor head in, it made my blood curdle to see it. When he’d made sure he chucks the chunk of wood away and runs, dodging among the bushes like a hare, swift and noiseless, for all he’s so fat. But I see him; I seen everything, gathering kindling I was. And after a while I went to look and there the poor fellow laid dead as dead, with his poor head bashed in, so I gathered up my kindling and went back borne.” Carstairs cross-examined her with equal gentleness and skill. “We’ve been great friends, Jane, haven’t we?” “We was great friends till I found out you’d been poisoning me unbeknownst in the legs for weeks.” “You don’t really think that?” “Well, old Thrippence said so and him what wrote lies about Miss Cicely and Mr. Roger in print.” There was a titter in Court and a craning of necks to look at Alexander Stone, who muttered “B-r-r-r-um! br-r-m” under his breath. “But there is nothing the matter with your legs now?” Carstairs continued. “They ain’t as good as old Dick Dawson’s; past eighty he is and mends roads.” said Jane. “Well, they are better than they were. They seemed perfectly sound that day you chased Polly Simmonds with the broom-stick.” “And put it about her head if I’d caught her I would. And so would you,” she retorted fiercely, “if she’d come to lay you out when you were no more dead than what you are this minute.”

“Then your legs are better?” “You leave my legs alone,” said Jane hotly. “If I’d left them alone, you’d still be bed-ridden. I cured them.” “You poisoned them. Old Thrippence said so.” “Did old Thrippence cure them?” “Not he. Thrippence and fourpences was all he was after.” “You remember how continually you begged me to give you stuff to cure them ?” “Yes, and you never done it, never so much as a drop did you give me.” “Yes, I did, I gave you aconite.” “Unbeknownst ?” “Unbeknownst, Jane; it was the aconite tbat cured you.” “Well, I never,” Jane gasped; “and Thrippence and him what wrote lies in print said ” “Never mind what they said, I am sure you don’t believe them.” “No more I do,” said Jane, and Car-

stairs, much too clever to continue after obtaining that admission, thanked her very kindly and gently, and Jane was out of the box before she had said half of what she wished to say. ‘‘Look here,” she said to the chairman from the well of the court, “if I'd a known what I know now, that he'd cured my legs and not poisoned them, you might have all been hanged afore I’d’ve told you what I seen him do in the wood. There’s a lot of things worse than murder, and the Ten Commandments isn’t everything. I’ve been tricked, I have, by old Thrippence and him what wrote lies in print about—” At this point she was picked up and tenderly removed by two stalwart constables, whom she rewarded for their tenderness with reiterated advice to “go and boil themselves.” When quiet was restored the Superintendent intimated that the case for the prosecution was closed, and made formal application for the accused to be committed for trial. “Have you any witnesses to call?" “I wish to call Sir Edward ConwayHeming.” i“I understand he is not in court,” said the chairman. “Is his evidence material at this stage?” “I rely on his evidence for my acquittal.” “We might adjourn till to-morrow to enable Sir Edward ’’ began the chairman, when Roger rose in his place and said: “Sir Edward is very seriously ill. and cannot possibly attend to-morrow.” He handed up a doctor’s certificate, which wras scanned by the Bench with much sympathetic murmuring, and finally passed to Carstairs for perusal. The certificate stated that Sir Edward Conway-Heming was suffering from a cerebraj affection which rendered him mentally incapable of testifying in a court of law, and that his condition gave rise to the gravest anxiety as to whether he would ever recover. f 'l am profoundly distressed to read this,” said Carstairs. “No doubt it is a shock to you; we are all profoundly distressed,” said the chairman; “but the point is, how can Sir Edward’s testimony be material at this stage? From the evidence already heard we have no option but to commit you for trial.” “I am placed in a very serious dilemma.” “If you insist upon an adjournment.” “I want time to consider my position.” “You would like to obtain legal advice, perhaps?” “I should like a private interview with Mr. Temple,” said Carstairs, with a glance of unutterable meaning at Roger. “There need be no difficulty about that if Mr. Temple is willing to accord ' you one,” said the chairman. “We de- | sire that you should have every’ reason- ! able facility for preparing y’our de I fence.” “I am willing to see him,” said ; Roger.

“Very well, then, arrangements shall be made.” The chairman then formally adjourned the court till eleven o’clock the following morning, Carstairs was removed to the county gaol, and the proceedings terminated. CHAPTER XXVII. —RECOXCILIATION. After consultation with the Chief Constable, Roger fixed five o’clock for the interview with Carstairs; then hurried to Lady Elizabeth to give her, according to promise, an account of the proceedings in the Magistrate’s Court. She listened with tranquil attention to what he had to tell, but an indefinable detachment of manner and the far-away look in her eyes showed that her thoughts were elsewhere. Obviously she was not greatly interested, though she expressed sincere gratitude for all he had done. . “It is my belief that Carstairs intends to do all the mischief he can,” he said in conclusion, feeling that he must make her realise the position. "Can he do any mischief?’ she ab “He has got that horrible poison order.” “All, yes," she said with a faint smile, “I suppose he will try to trade upon that, and perhaps his diary.” “I imagine that that is why he wants the interview; and that he will endeavour to strike some sort of bargain with me.” “I should have thought he would know better than that, Roger.” “A drowning man will catch at a straw.” "True,” she said, “but Carstairs is too clever to believe that the straw he would seem to be catching at can possibly save him. One does not condone murder in England.” “I can only suppose he is counting on Sir Edward's influence. . . . oh, I don’t know how,” said Roger, “possibly to get him a commutation of sentence.” “Edward has no influence,” said Lady Elizabeth, and the crisp tone of finality in which she uttered the words were curiously impressive. “Yes, but Carstairs won’t be easily convinced of that; he’ll threaten to make mischief and I think lie’ll make it. The scandal of a sensational

exposure will appeal to bis morbid vanity* even if it’s a posthumous scandal. I’m afraid he’ll do his worst.” “Yes, I dare say . . . poor man,” she murmured, and it was startlingly clear that scandal, exposures and sensations had passed for her into the realm of things that have ceased to matter. “I think Edward is dying,” she said, abruptly. “He is suddenly much worse?” “He is better and worse. His mental condition is better. He has lucid intervals, in which he realises everything that happened yesterday; and then his mind wanders again. But his vitality is very low, there has been an extraordinarily rapid change for the worse in that. So much so that the doctor has decided not to leave him.” Roger nodded; there was nothing to Be said. “Cicely will arrive at three o’clock,” she went on. “Here’s her answer to my wire,” and she read aloud: “Dreadfully cut up about the news of father, but otherwise, thanks to Roger’s message, the happiest girl in the world. Home at three. Ask him to meet me.” “My one and great consolation in all this,” said Lady Elizabeth, “is that everything is now well with you and Cicely.” “I hope and believe it is,” said Roger gravely. “But how can you doubt it?” “No, not really, but I do know she is going to be horribly hurt when she knows—everything.” "The joy will quickly heal the hurt, Roger.” “I pray it may be so,” he said. But he was after all prevented from meeting Cicely at the station, for at the moment of starting Lady Elizabeth came to him to say that Hemiug had asked for him and would he go to his room. “He is dying, Roger, his mind is quite clear; he knows he’s dying,” she said with a catch in her voice, “and it may be too late when you return.” Of course he went at once. “Just caught you in time, Elizabeth tells me,” Heming said, as they clasped hands. “1 always seem destined to disturb your plans, but this is absolutely the last occasion on which I shall worry you.” Then with a whimsical smile, “I expect this is about the best ending to it all, Roger.” “If there is anything I can do ” “There is nothing anybody can do; all that one wants at the end is to be able to undo —to undo the past. Still it wouldn’t do me any harm to hear you say you forgive me.” “It seems so presumptuous to say I forgive ” “Say it anyhow,” and Roger said the words.

(To be continued.)