THE TRIAL OF CICELY SELBY

Star (Christchurch), Volume LXVI, Issue 20594, 20 April 1935, Page 8

THE TRIAL OF CICELY SELBY

A POWERFUL STORY OF A WOMAN UNJUSTLY ACCUSED.

By

ALLYN SLOAN

SSY THE AUTHOR OF “ STRANGE ABSENCE.'*

CHAPTER XXXII. Cut Off ! The detective was the first to break Che horrified silence. “We must get to the telephone, sir.” “That’ll be to Wicjecombe,” Mrs. Pugstey told them. Thanking her, they bolted out to the car, hustling their unwilling driver with them. “Step on . it, man, for God’s, sake,” McCrae ordered. Devon, however, is a deliberate county, and Syd Rook was a typical Devonian. Hurry was unknown to him, and he could see no necessity for it in others. Besides, it was a horrible night, and the moor, it was well known, was not to be defied when in one of its angry moods. But to the three ignorant Londoners, Dartmoor, with its wealth of legend, was only a bare tract of high land between themselves and the railway station of their desire. “We’ve got to catch the 5.50,” Rand told him. Rook shook his head knowingly. “Like as you won’t,” he drawled. “When it snows to Dartmoor, it snows.” They made Widecombe post office without great trouble, however, and asked for a call to London. The post mistress, also a deliberate body, with all time before her, evidently thought them lunatics, but put the call through. “Find out how long it will take. Say it’s urgent,” Rand ordered. The postmistress again rang the exchange and put the question; then, turning to them, she said: “There’s no connection with London to-night, sir. The line’s out of order.” “What? Give me that!” Rand sprang at the astonished woman and snatched the receiver from her hand. “Look here, miss, I must get through. It’s a matter of life and death. —What? —Oh, God!” He turned to the other two, his face a mask of dismay. “It’s true. There’s no communication. The lines are down in the storm.” “Oh, good Lord,” McCrae breathed. “Like as they’ll be all right in the morning, sir,” the postmistress ventured. Rand looked at her. In th© morning.— He saw a procession slowly moving towards a shed; he heard the prayers for the dead being read; whilst a girl was led along, supported —carried, perhaps—her face was covered by a white sack— Ah! He shook himself violently. “Come on. We’ve an hour and a half to catch that train. We’ve got to catch it. It’s the last!” Rand hurried out of the small post office, nearly slipping on the frozen step. The driver, however, refused to budge. His was a car, not a snow plough; he valued his life, if they didn’t. It was impossible to cross Hay Tor on such a night. “We’re going to cross it. Either you come with us, or you get out,” Rand ordered sternly. “But, zur ”

McCrae leapt into the driving seat and raced the engine. Rather than lose sight of his car, the youth climbed in by his side.

“Be careful of ’un, maister,” he entreated, as McCrae drove off up the road. The wind was falling, but so was the enow, thickly and with a steady persistence. They progressed well enough for the first few miles, indeed, until they began the ascent out of the valley and rose above the shelter of the hedges. Then, however, the snow seemed to close in about them like a solid wall. The roads beneath their white blanket became indistinguishable from the moor and boglands on either hand, and their pace fell to a crawl. Snow obstructed the windscreen which, not being fitted with an automatic cleaner, had continually to be wiped by the unfortunate driver of the car. The headlamps, too, were dimmed by the flakes, and the light meeting the white wall seemed to stream up instead of forward. Rand sat on the edge of the back seat peering over McCrae’s shoulder from burning eyes. The confession reposing in an inner pocket crackled when he moved, hut if they did not get on faster than this — The car gave a lurch and stopped. “My God, we’re sunk,” swore McCrae. “There zur, I told ’ee,” wailed Syd Rook, who knew all the stories there were about pixy-led travellers and ghosts upon the moor. “Get out.” McCrae pushed him into the snow and climbed out behind him. “We’re off the map,” diagnosed Rand, stamping hi-s feet about until lie. found the ridge of the grass. Then using his foot like a shovel, he walked a few yards to get the line of the road. They drove on again, barely crawling, and in five minutes again found themselves off the track. The same performance was repeated by the aid of a powerful flash lamp which belonged to .Wild. The silence about them was intense, the snow dulling even the sound of their footfall. The cold, too, was bitter. Afterwards Rand declared that only their absorbing anxiety kept them from freezing. “We’ve only half an hour for that train,” Wild observed. “Don’t I know it,” groaned McCrae. They all knew it. It seemed that time was flying past them, and that they were standing still. But it was better to crawl than to get bogged and stop altogether. Suddenly McCrae cried out: “We’re going downhill!” Rand looked out and saw that it was so. In that case, 1 barring accidents, they should soon be off the moor. But it seemed a year before hedges and trees loomed along the roadside, breaking the fall of the snow, and he knew that they hid lost the train, the last from MoretonHampstead that night. With an absolute sickening sense of apprehension at heart, Rand reviewed the situation. It was nearly 6ix, and the train which would get them to London by eleven had gone. The only chance would be to push on to Exeter, some 15 miles further on, and try to catch it there, for it did not leave St. David’s statu*:? until 7.45. That gave them another chance. “The snow is stopping,” whooped McCrae, who was now driving much faster. “ *Tis always worse on the moor, zur,” the driver informed him. “ ’Tis like being up in the clouds, so to speak.”

Skilfully, with every sense alert, McCrae pushed the old car along the slippery road, until at length they saw the lights of Moreton-Hampstead twinkling ahead. Rand unfolded his plan, but McCrae insisted that they must endeavour to find a better vehicle. Detective-Sergeaiit Wild also wished to stop at the police station. “I’ve got to arrange for them to keep tin eye on that girl, sir,” he explained. “She’ll have to be charged.”

It was therefore after half-past six when they started ofl again, with a fresh car and driver. One hour remained for

them to cover 15 miles, ordinarily an easy task, but in such weather as they were experiencing far from certain. The snowfall had abated, although desultory flakes kept twirling about them and the roads were heavy with slush and ice. But all went well until at one point two large elms were down in the hedge and although they were not actually lying across the road their great branches seemed completely to block the way. When Band saw the obstruction for a moment he knew despair, but springing out and viewing the trouble from near, they decided that it would be possible to push through the barrier if they held back the larger of the branches. Accordingly, the three of them, exerting their strength to the utmost, succeeded in bending back the head of the large arm so that, with much scratching of the paint but otherwise little harm, the car was driven by. It was a race then to Exeter, which they gained at just after the half hour. “We’ve done it,” gasped McCrae, a« they got out at the station. “Yes.” Incredible as it seemed, it was so. They would be in town at eleven after all. Rand went off to see whether luncheon baskets could be procured, as they had scarcely eaten that day at all. When he returned he found McCrae standing in front of a poster picturing golden sands and sunny hills. Pointing at the legend written upon it, he jeered: “South for Sunshine! I don’t think!” Rand chuckled, but said: “I wonder if we shall be late getting in.” To a passing guard he put the question. “London, sir? Yes, you’ll be there all right; 2.40.” “What?” shouted Rand. “But I' thought we got in at eleven?” The guard shook his head. “No, sir, that’s been altered. Twoforty every day but Saturdays now.” “Oh, my stars,” McCrae almost sobbed. In opposite corners of the carriage, beneath the meagre glare of the light, they regarded each other whilst they munched dry ham sandwiches out of a paper bag. Lord, what a day,” sighed McCrae wearly. “Yes, but we’ve done it,” Rand told him grimly. For the first time since they had left the train that morning they were able to relax, and the two young men found themselves almost worn out with cold and fatigue. Wild, however, having done his duty and having no emotional interest in the affair, soon fell asleep in his corner. Rand took out the confession and with McCrae read it over. After a moment the latter asked: “Tell me, who d’you think the prettydark girl was ?” After a moment Rand answered: “I think Jill Selby.” McCrae nodded. In a while he said: “Lor! Supposing that girl hadn’t confessed when she did? She mightn’t have.” Rand’s head nodded. “I know. Ghastly, isn’t it?” “Awful. Has it ever happened?” “Yes,” said Rand. There was a long silence, which McCrae broke. “The evidence all seemed to fit so well.” “It did seem to. That’s the trouble.” He added: “There was a distinct likeness, too. Did you see it?” “Yes. We shall be in time, shan’t we?” Anxiety rang in his voice. Rand nodded. “My heavens, yes!” The train dragged along, its windows white inside with mist, and outside splashed with sleet. Each man’s mind ran back over the day. It had seemed to occupy years of their life instead of a few hours. Rand, who for some nights had scarcely slept, and who all through the day had lived at the apex of nervous tension, now felt completely exhausted. But his faith in Cicely had been justified. It was appalling, though, to think that'her precious life had depended upon the conscience of another. Had that woman delayed her confession the consequences would have been too terrible to contemplate. Of course, people would say that it was Cicely’s own fault for refusing to appeal and so giving herself time, yet he sympathised. Rather death any day than years of captivity and afterwards a blighted life. McCrae’s voice broke into his thought. “You know I asked Cicely to marry me when she came out of prison.” It was a moment before Rand could speak. “What did she say?” he asked with forced carelessness. “She said she couldn’t think of it then. 1 shall ask her again as soon as she’s out.” Rand was silent, dread knocking loudly at his heart. After a few moments he remarked: “She will need a great deal of looking after when she comes out.” “Y-yes, I suppose she will,” McCrae agreed, doubtfully. He had not thought of that aspect of it. Cicely, he had iinagined, would emerge joyfully, vindicated, triumphant. It was already five to three when the train dragged into Paddington. Practically the only passengers in the train, the three men hurried up the platform and out to a taxi. “Go to 100. Great Cumberland Place,” Rand shouted to the driver. “That’s the Home Secretary’s house. You can go on from there, Wild.” In London the snow had turned to slush, and the empty streets glistened beneath the lamps. From heavy eyes Rand stared out at them, but his one thought was that Cicely must be got out of Wandsworth before the ghoulish crowd gathered to watch for the hoisting of the black flag. But where could she go to? She could not go to that flat of hers, nor did he imagine that Pengemere would be good for her. She would need care, cheer, comfort The taxi stopped outside the tall house in Great Cumberland Place. The street was deserted and the blinds of the lower windows down. “How are we going to get in?” asked McCrae. “Ring and hang until we do.” Rand told him. “I Know Sir Frederick well. He’s a good fellow.” For five minutes they rang the bell and knocked. Windows across the street opened and tousled heads looked out indignantly. At last, however, the door was opened by a surprised and yawning butler. “Sorry to get you up, Williams.” said Rand, entering. “I must see the Home Secretary at once.”

The man blinked. “But it’s half-past three, sir.” He 1 stared at Rand, as if he thought him out of his senses. “I know it is. Please wake Sir Frederick and tell him that I am here with Detective-Inspector Wild, of Scot land Yard. It is very urgent.” “Very good, sir.” They followed, the butler into the library, a beautifully proportioned room with books reaching from the ceiling to the ground. Once again they waited. Rand moved restlessly about the room until he came upon a tray of drinks left over, apparently from the night before. Taking up the whisky he poured out three stiff drinks and handed them to his companions. Raising his glass, he paused with it at his lips. Glancing over at McCrae he breathed: “Cicely Selby!” As footsteps resounded in the hall outside, both men drank to the girl they loved. (To be continued daily.)