THE RABBIT'S PAW

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXXII, Issue 22027, 6 February 1935, Page 21

THE RABBIT'S PAW

By SELWYN JEPSON Author of " The Qualified Adventurer," " Snaggletooth," " 1 lger uawn. " 1 Met Murder," " The Death Gong, etc., etc.

CHAPTER Vl (Continued) Brooks had crossed the lawn, and I came up with him where the path entered the park. It was full dusk under the elm trees which loomed against the evening sky. I had always found it a sombre half-mile, that stretch between the Great House and Pineways, but now it was definitely sinister. The dead man in the cypress, out of sight behind us, but nevertheless a persisting horror, did not improve /the walk. Brooks, who knew nothing of that second tragedy, .was \\ obviously affected by the atmosphere, ji " She didn't give you any idea. !j Brooks, what she wanted to see me i| about? " j " No, sir." j It was clear to me that she had deluded Paul and Rohan into the • belief that she had left for Town on the six-eighteen and did not want them to know that she had allowed it to go •! without her. So there was a split in :1 the Passmore ranks; the brothers-in--1 | law of Constance were not her con--1 | lidants. j. You will perhaps he glad to hear, :> i sir," Brooks said, " that Joe will not i | lose his eye, That Doctor Chambers • ! told him so." J "1 am glad. And for your niece's sake as well as his. It must have upi set her badly." 5 Brooks seemed to be choosing words, ' for he paused before he spoke. , " Without wishing to speak ill of ! the dead, it would give me great satisr faction to know that the soul of the " late Mr. Passmore is in hell." j I The venom in his tone shocked jne, . not because I thought his sentiment i I unwarranted, but because 1 was so • j accustomed to his benignity. It was | J too dark under the trees to see his • i face, but if it matched his voice he I must have looked devilishly unpleas- | ant. | I " The inspector gentleman will pro- | bably compensate him," he added. "There's that small comfort to be said for it, sir." " Inspector Georgewood?" I asked in surprise. " No, sir. The R.S.P.C.A. inspector. You see, sir, Joe and his friend Billy j English were helping him." " Helping him? What's all this?" " The rats and rabbits at the Cottage, ' sir." j " Brooks," I said, " 1 have had a lot , more to think about lately, one way or • another, than usual, and I suppose my mind is losing its grip a bit. But assume, would you, that I'm a little j half-witted, and explain to me, in as 3 short a manner as is consistent with j lucidity, just what you are talking . about. Rabbits?" , "1 beg your pardon, sir. I do, indeed. I 1 forget that the gentry don't hear everything that we do, below stairs, as it were. The rats, sir—and rabbits, i for that matter —which Mr. Passmore f breeds —bred—for his scientific in--4 j quiries: those were the ones, lliere is I ; a story about that he practises vivisec- • ; tion, and since lie isn't a qualified man, « ! if, stands to reason he hasn't a licence, i | They say it was Mrs. Dallas, of The i Laurels, who wrote to the society in the 4 first instance. An inspector came over. ! from Ipswich. He called at the Cottage ami was turned away. He couldn t get : any evidence except the rumours, but i before he left he asked Joe and Billy I English to keep their eyes open. He | would make it worth their while, he | said." " Light floods my darkness," I com- ' men ted. " So that's why he so i vicious with the dog-whip. Not," I I added hastily, " that that excuses it. We wfere in the pine wood behind my ; house by this time and 1 forgot for a ! while the matter of rats and rabbits m { useless speculation "about Constance j Passmore. She was standing in the middle of the sitting room: at first an indistinguishable figure because there was no light burning, and what I was left of the day was almost entirely shut out by thelinen curtains. She had her face toward me, her whole poise rigid with i the strain of expectancy. " You are alorie?" she said, before L had closed the door. " Yes. Let me light up. This gloom " Please, no! 1 mustn't be seen here I,came by the marsh path from the village, and 1 don't think—l praythat 1 was not followed. If there is j a light someone may suspect—" Tins all seemed extravagantly unreal, i Could 1 not show a light in my sitting : room after dusk, without inviting susi picion ? I Her voice was low with some emotion, i and she came close to me, so'that for I a moment I thought she was going to i take my hands. ' " Let's sit down, anyway," 1 said, as i easily as 1 could. I " Thank's—l—but 1 would rather not ! You see, the train leaves at seveni fifty, and 1 haven't much time." | " You missed the six-eighteen. But, Mrs. Passmore —there isn't a sevenfifty to Town." j " I'm going to Harwich." . | " Oh!" It occurred to me that Har- ; wich was a port. | " This must seem vol.- queer to you I ' i —niy coining here like this," she he- j ' gaii. " But I had to see someone who J i was not a Passmore, and who would j I understand —and someone who was not | too friendly with them. I thought of | \l r _ Songe at first, but I was uncerI tain of Lis sympathy. You are in love j with that girl—so you must have been ! jealous of 1 William." | " A thin word," 1 commented. ' tor I inv actual feeling." '<> Yes —ves —" The words were tumbling now. " And so you won t want to do anything—anything in a rush. I mean to —" I was conscious of my own rising ! excitement. " You won't stop me—prevent nie I going slip said, and added killed William!" She waited. I thought of saying: " You! I don't believe it!" But I didn't. All the same, I could not believe my ears. 1 remembered that sue had not heard of our discovery that he had not killed himself. It made her statement more remarkable than ever. " You say that after the coroner has. I recorded a verdict of suicide!" I said, i " It's madness, to say the least of it!" " Mad if you like. Mr Holland, but true." I thought rapidly of our reconstruction of the crime. Constance Passmore had arrived in the House gardens separately from the brothers. She could have clone it. ■' I have told you," she said abruptly, with less tensity. " because anything may happen when they find that it wa-s murder —when Rohan tells them that he believes it was. And I want someone to know the truth. " So Rohan thought it was too, did he? He was certainly reluctant to believe that his brother was insane That started him off. I suppose." She interrupted with a gesture. " You realise the significance of what 1 told vou—that I am a murderess?" " —yes, of course. W hat (lid she , expect me. to do? 1 felt acutely uncomfortable. Did she want me to lead her to the House, to the Chief Constable, saying: "Here is the evildoer " ? If so, why tell me that she proposed to catch the Harwich? No. She meant to confess,

(COPT RIGHT)

AN INTRIGUING STORY OF 'MYSTERY AND ROMANCE

and rely upon m.v sympathy to let her j! go clear. To confess before she fled, li was to ensure that no innocent person suffered for what she had done. " Don't you want to If now why and | how 1 shot hiin ?" she demanded almost j ; with asperity. " No—that is—yes, if you wish it. ; But if you intend to {jive yourself up, I'm not a policeman, Mrs. Passmore. : ' " I do not intend to give myself up. But i want someone to know the truth J; before 1 go 1 shot William because ji I hated him as few hitman beings can have hated another, and with more reason. You understand that?" " L understand the. spirit. It is easy ji to believe. As a matter of fact, I heard something about your marriage—"

" Marriage!" she exclaimed, scornfully. " Listen. It lasted a fortnight, and for seven years he refused persistently to. divorce me. He ruined everything for me, when 1 might have been happily married to the man 1 loved. He 'deliberately withheld the freedom that would have made it possible. He turned me into a kept woman —a mistress —someone who was barred from decent society." My instinct, which 1 did not voice, was to cry, "Come! Come!" tor I can never believe that in these broad days the world is as hard on women who have lovers as some people would have us think.

" I lived wretchedly, secretly, afraid to meet the eyes of the people who had been my friends. The man felt the strain even more than I did, I think. If he had been less great in spirit things would have been completely wrecked. He is a professional man—a scientist with a high reputation who must always be careful of what the world says of him. I have been a millstone round his neck for seven years! God! 'How I hated William for making me that!" She paused. "It wasn't until recently that I heard rumours, vague stories, that William intended to marry someone. I couldn't believe it, for if he wanted to do that he would have to divorce me. But I heard nothing from his lawyers. The rumours persisted. Finally 1 had inquiries made here, at Ditcham, and learnt that it was true. I couldn't understand it. He was going to marrv Beth may Vance when he was still married to me! 1 had to see him, and find out what he was doing, how he thought he could do that. If I could not marrv, neither could he. Nor should he! 1 had suffered; now it was his turn. I would declare myself, and put an end to his pleasant dreams — and save another woman from a fate which might be similar to my own. . . . for he was brutal, always to his women. IT nspeakably —'' "Go on," I said, as gently as I could. " 1 did not tell him 1 was coming I left London without a word to anyone. I meant to surprise him. I reached the Cottage a little before one o'clock. He was out, but Rohan and Paul were there. Thev did not know what to do, thev had thought me dead, for that was what he had told them. 1 said 1 was determined to see him. They said he was lunching with friends, and I could see that they were thinking of the girl Bethmav. 1 guessed he was with her, at the Vances'. 1 knew where that was, for I had seen the Great House years before, when the Vances were away. I saw that I could get no satisfaction from discussing the thing with Rohan and Paul, and walked out of the Cottage, saying I would come back later. 1 ran when I got into the park. Rohan and Paul hesitated, not realising at first where I was going. Then they came dlrter me. Rohan wanted to hold me back by force. He was very upset and angry. Paul said there was no point in interfering. 1 had made up my mind, and since there must be a fuss in any case, leave it to me. It was William's business, not theirs. But they would walk over with me. . . ." She stopped for a moment, at last deciding to ease her body; indeed if 1 had not found her a chair quickly I think she .have fallen. This was the crucial period of the story. " I came on him in the Dutch garden. He was alone. Rohan and Paul had gone to look for him in the House. He did not even stand up when he saw me, seemingly unsurprised. He grinned and rubbed his great hands as though lie was enjoying himself. He said: 'Well, and how is Connie all these years?' I did not waste time. At any moment someone might come —Rohan and Paul, or the girl. ' We're husband and wife,' 1 told him. ' You know you can't marry Miss Vance.' He laughed at that. ' 1 can. You are reasoning on a, false premise. We're not husband and wife! .. we never were.' I stared at him. 1 realised that it might be true. I said, ' I don't believe it! ' He | shook li is head. ' Poor Connie. Did you really think that that besotted crea- I ture was a real and reverend priest? ' He laughed again. And 1 shot him for I the seven years he had kept me tied to him. I dropped the* pistol in the pool " Her voice trailed into silence, and I looked at her in awed perplexity. \ "And then "

" I went quickly into the outer garden. Paul was on the terrace and Rohan somewhere close by. They had heard the shot,, of course, but thought it had come from the rose pergola. They were startled, and 1 asked what | had happened. I felt weirdly detached I and calm. They " ! She broke off. suddenly alert, and 1 realised that someone was at the door. Brook's voice was saving: ". . . must not be disturbed . . and then it opened and a man entered somewhat hurriedly as though he had swept Brooks out of his way. " Constance' " lie said: What's this? " At the same moment 1 reached out for the light-switch. The flood of brilliance revealed a heavily-built man of about thirty-five whom I had never set eyes on before. He wore brftwn plus-fours admirably cut. a dark Burgundy tie and was clean-shaven with a healthy face. His breathing was fast and perturbed. Mrs. Passmore, who had jumped to her feet with a cry. was shielding her face from the light. She was utterly nonplussed, and I realised that this was the person whom she had prayed had not followed her. The whereabouts of the Passmore brothers had not troubled her as much. " Who are you? " I asked at once. " James Grantley. You're Holland, aren't you? I saw you at the inquest. What's Mrs. Passmore been tolling you ? " "Jimmy!" Her voice was husky with anxiety. " It's nothing to do with you. You followed me from the station! " " Tried to, you mean. I lost sight of vou in these damned marshes." Another tiling I realised. He was the "Jimmy" whom seven years ago MacAngus had seen waiting with the car to take her away; the man she loved and for whose sake she had hidden herself from society; the scientist of high reputation. 1 had heard ol James Grantley as such. The bio-chemist. And he was in this thing also. He had been a spectator at the inquest at the very least. The tensity of the moment was increased by a jerky movement on the part of Constance Passmore. She had seen Brooks through the half-open door; Brocks who was uncertain what to do about this intrusion and was waiting for a sign from me. (To be continued daily)