“Trial of Cicely Selby”

Wairarapa Daily Times, 4 May 1937, Page 7

“Trial of Cicely Selby”

BY ALLY N SLOAN. (Author of “Strange Absence.”)

CHAPTER XXXII (Continued). “The snow is stopping,” whooped McCrae, who was now driving much faster. “ ’Tis always worse on the Moor, sir, ’ ’ 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 en-de-votir to find a better vehicle. De-tective-Sergeant Wild also wished to. stop at the police station. “I’ve got to arrange for them to keep an eye on that girl, sir, ’ ’ he explained. “She’ll have to be charged.” It was therefore after half-past six when they started off again, with a fresh car and driver. One hour remained for them to cover fifteen, miles, ordinal ily an easy task, but in such weather as they were experiencing, far from certain. The snow-fall 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 read their great branches seemed completely to block the way. When Rand 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 laigei 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 thei gained at just after the half hour. “We’ve done it,” gasped McCrae, as they got out at the station. “Yes.” Incredible as it seemed, it was so. They would be in town at 11 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, lie jeered: “South for Sunshine! I don’t think!” “I wonder if wo shall be late getting in.” To a passing- guard ho 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. “Ho, sir, that’s been altered. Twoforty every day but Saturdays now.” "“Oli, m.y stars,” McCrae almost sob-" bed. 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 wearily. ‘ ‘ Yes, but we ’v-e 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 pretty dark girl was?” After a moment, Rand answered: “I think Jill Selby.” McCrae nodded. In a while he said: “Lord! Supposing that girl hadn’t confessed when she did? She mightn’t have. ’ ’ Rand’s red 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 has voice. Rand nodded. “My heaven, 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. I shall ask her again as soon as she’s out.” Rand was silent, dread knocking loudly at his heart. After a few moments, lie remarked: “She will need a great deal of look-

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ing 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 imagined, 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, please,” 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 bneath 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 bang 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 touzled 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 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 Scotland 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 lie came upon a tray of drinks left over, apparently from the night begore. 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. . CHAPTER XXXIII.

Only four more hours of life! The night seemed an eternal well of darkness into which she stared in a vain search for the sleep which for nights had been a stranger to her. In the morning she would find a rest from which she would never awake, but the waiting—this terrible, awful waiting— If even she could stop the dreadful trembling of her limbs; it was wearing her out, but it would not stop. The flesh was weak, and it had been so long, so very long. The past few days had been protracted hours of mental torture. Could they not have killed her at once and spared her this agony? The prison chaplain had told her that this time was given her for repentance, to make her peace with God. He had begged her to confess her crime, express her contrition, and because she had insisted that she had nothing to confess, lie had urged her not to die with sin upon her conscience.

“I’m not afraid of God. I’ve done nothing to be ashamed of,” she had insisted, impatiently, because she was sick and weary of being disbelieved. It was true. She had done nothing wrong, yet she was going to die a shameful death. She was twenty-four and she was going to die. “Hang by the neck until you are dead” were the words of the Judge. Her body, now a weak and useless thing, shuddered violently, and her teeth chattered, but gripping the bed with her thin hands, she made no sound. Soon, soon now it would be over. They had promised her that ita only took a minute; that one felt nothing—yet—g smothered groan escaped her and she crushed her face into the pillow. Death,. Then what—? Anything? Had she lived just for this? A few pleasures, a few troubles; was that what was called Life? If so, it was a poor thing, useless, cruel. Yet the flesh clung to it; her frightened, trembling body. It was afraid, more afraid than she.

It seemed almost as if she were two persons, one mental, the other physical.. Her mind ran back over the previous day. They had asked her what she would like to eat, said that she could choose. As if it mattered! All food tasted alike now, like saw-dust. She did not realise that they wanted her strong to face the morrow, that she might ascend the scaffold with fortitude. She could not guess that it was worse to hang a man or woman who had to be carried and held up on the gallows; had she known it she might even have tried, as far as was physically possible, for the wardresses had been kind. And she was to wear her own clothes once more—to-day. As if it mattered what she died in! (To be Continued.)