The Moon Rock

by Arthur J. Rees

  CHAPTER XXI

  Barrant had returned with a feeling of irritation against the mischancesof events which had brought an important piece of evidence to light afterhis departure for London. He had chosen to commence inquiries intoSisily's disappearance as soon as he had reached London instead of goingto Scotland Yard, where a guarded telegram from Inspector Dawfield awaitedhim, and although he had hastened to obey the summons back to Cornwall assoon as he received it, two valuable days had been lost. It was true thatin that time he had found traces of the girl which he believed would leadto her early arrest, but the letter, with its implication that the deadman was aware of his impending doom, was a highly significant clue, andstrengthened Barrant's original belief that the real mystery of RobertTurold's death lay much deeper than the plausible surface of eventsindicated.

  He sat now, with a kind of sombre thoughtfulness, listening to Mr.Brimsdown's account of his first meeting with his dead client. That storycarried with it a suggestion of adventure and mystery, but it wasdifficult to say whether those elements had anything to do with RobertTurold's death, thirty years later. It brought up the image of a man,rugged and dominant even in youth, winning his way into the heart of amiddle-aged lawyer by the story of his determination to possess an oldEnglish title. Most men have the spirit of Romance hidden in themsomewhere, and chance or good luck had sent Robert Turold, on his returnto England, to the one solicitor in London to whom his story was likely tomake the strongest kind of appeal. The spirit of Romance in Mr.Brimsdown's bosom was no shimmering thing of thistledown and fancy, buttook the concrete shape of the peerage law of England, out of which he hadfashioned an image of worship to the old nobility and the days ofchivalry.

  Barrant gathered so much from the lawyer's description of that firstmeeting. And if Robert Turold had found in the solicitor the man he mostneeded in his search for the missing title, it was equally clear that hisown great quality of rugged strength had exercised the most extraordinarysway on the lawyer--a species of personal magnetism which had never lostits original effect. It was not until the second or third meeting--Mr.Brimsdown was not quite sure which--that the question of money wasintroduced. The lawyer had pointed out to his client that the search forthe title was likely to be prolonged and expensive, and Robert Turold hadindifferently assured him that he had money at his command for thatpurpose lying on deposit at a London bank. The amount, when he did mentionit, was much greater than Mr. Brimsdown imagined--nearly L50,000 in fact.It was at Robert Turold's suggestion that Mr. Brimsdown undertook toinvest the sum at better rates of interest, and thus, before a year hadpassed, the whole of Robert Turold's business affairs were in the hands ofthe solicitor.

  On one point Mr. Brimsdown was clear. He had never heard from RobertTurold how he first came into possession of this large sum of money, andhis client had never encouraged inquiry on the subject. Mr. Brimsdown hadonce ventured to ask him how he had made his fortune, and Robert Turold,with a freezing look, had replied that he had made it abroad. Mr.Brimsdown had never again referred to the subject, deeming it no businessof his.

  Barrant, listening to this with the air of a man who was not to bedeceived, could not see that the narration threw any illumination on theletter or the other circumstances of Robert Turold's death. It seemed toofar-fetched to suppose there was any connection between the fortune whichRobert Turold had brought from abroad thirty years before and the letterhe had sent to his solicitor on the night of his death. The idea didindeed cross his mind that some iniquity in that money-getting may havebeen responsible for a belated revenge, but he dismissed that thought astoo wide for the scope of his inquiry. Abroad! That was a vague word, andthirty years was a long while back.

  As he contemplated the manifold perplexities of the case, Barrant tried toshut out the more sinister inference of the letter by asking himself, ifafter all, the postscript was not capable of some entirely innocentinterpretation. But his conscientious mind refused to permit him to evaderesponsibility in that way. The letter could not be dismissed with a waveof one's wishing wand. It remained stubbornly in Barrant's perspective, anunexplained factor which could be neither overlooked nor ignored.

  These thoughts ran through his mind as Mr. Brimsdown talked of his deadclient. At the same time, the detective's attitude towards the lawyerunderwent a considerable change. His professional caution, amountingalmost to suspicion, became modified by the more perceptive point of viewthat as the dead man had turned to Mr. Brimsdown for assistance, it wouldbe better for him to trust the lawyer also--to look upon him as an ally,and make common cause with him in the search for Robert Turold's murderer.

  This changed attitude, carrying with it a seeming friendliness, theestablishment, as it were, of an understanding between them, was not lostupon Mr. Brimsdown. But it had its awkward side for him, by giving addedweight to the responsibility of deciding whether he should reveal orwithhold his chance encounter with Sisily at Paddington. Till then, Mr.Brimsdown had been unable to make up his mind about that. There were somenice points involved in the decision. In an effort to reach a solution hebroached the subject.

  "Is it still your opinion that Miss Turold is guilty--after this letter?"he asked.

  "Her disappearance lays upon her the obligation of explaining her secretvisit to her father on the night of the murder," was the guarded reply.

  "Then you intend to arrest her?"

  "Yes."

  "Do you know where she is?"

  A quick consideration of this question led Barrant to the conclusion thatit would do no harm to let the lawyer know the scanty truth.

  "She is in London. I have traced her to Paddington."

  Mr. Brimsdown decided that, as the detective knew that much, it absolvedhim from any obligation to betray the daughter of his dead client. Hisfeeling of relief unsealed his lips, and led him into an indiscretion.

  "It seems incredible that she can be guilty." As he spoke the memory ofSisily's tender and wistful face, as he had seen it that night, came backto him.

  "She had some justification, you know, if she was listening at the doorthat afternoon," replied Barrant thoughtfully.

  "It is hardly possible that she could have inflicted those marks on thearm," Mr. Brimsdown said.

  "How did you learn of them?" asked the detective quickly, in a changedtone.

  Too late Mr. Brimsdown realized that in contrast to his silence withCharles Turold, he had now gone to the other extreme and said too much. Hehesitated, but his hesitation was useless before the swiftness ofBarrant's deduction.

  "Was Charles Turold showing you the marks when I found you in the otherroom?" he asked with a keen glance.

  Mr. Brimsdown's admission of that fact was coupled with an assurance thatthe young man had shown him the marks because he was convinced of Sisily'sinnocence.

  Barrant dismissed young Turold's opinions about the case with an impatientshake of the head. "Who told him about the marks?" he said.

  It was the thought which had occurred to Mr. Brimsdown at the time, but hedid not say so then. "How did you discover them?" he asked.

  "When I was examining the body. But Charles Turold had no reason toexamine the body. Perhaps Dr. Ravenshaw told him. I must ask him."

  "It is a terrible and ghastly crime," said Mr. Brimsdown, in an effort toturn the mind of his companion in another direction. "There is somethingabout it that I do not understand--some deep mystery which has not yetbeen fathomed. Was it really his daughter? If so, how did she escape fromthe room and leave the door locked inside? Escape from these windows isplainly impossible."

  He crossed to the window, and stood for a moment looking down at a greysea tossing in futile restlessness. After an interval he said--

  "Do you suspect Thalassa as well?"

  The detective looked at him with a cautious air: "Why do you ask that?" hesaid, with some restraint in his tone.

  "It might account ... for certain things."

  Barrant shook his head in a way which was more noncommittal than negati
ve.He wanted to ascertain what the lawyer thought, but he was not prepared toreveal all his own thoughts in return.

  "Do you think that Robert Turold invented this story about his marriage?"he asked suddenly.

  "For what purpose?"

  "He did not want his daughter to succeed him in the title. Hisannouncement about the previous marriage strikes me as just a little tooopportune. Where are the proofs?"

  "You would not talk like that if you had known Robert Turold," said thelawyer, turning away from the window. "He was too anxious to gain thetitle to jeopardize the succession by concocting a story of a falsemarriage. He had proofs--I have not the slightest doubt of that. I believehe had them in the house when he made his statement to the family."

  "Then where are they now?"

  "They may have been stolen."

  "For what reason?"

  "By some one interested."

  "The person most interested is Robert Turold's daughter," said Barrantthoughtfully. "That supposition fits in with the theory of her guilt.Robert Turold is supposed to have kept valuable papers in that old clockon the wall, which was found on the floor that night. Apparently hestaggered to it during his dying moments and pulled it down on top of him.For what purpose? His daughter may have guessed that the proofs of herillegitimacy were kept there, and tried to get them. Her father sought tostop her, and she shot him."

  "That theory does not account for the marks on the arm," said the lawyer.

  "It does, because it is based on the belief that there was somebody elsein the room at the time, or immediately afterwards."

  "Thalassa?"

  "Yes--Thalassa. He knows more about the events of this night than he willadmit, but I shall have him yet."

  "But the theory does not explain the letter," persisted the lawyer with anearnest look. "Robert Turold could not possibly have had any premonitionthat his daughter intended to murder him, and even if he had, it would nothave led him to write that letter with its strange postscript, whichsuggests that he had a sudden realization of some deep and terrible dangerin the very act of writing it. And if Thalassa was implicated, was helikely to go to such trouble to establish a theory of suicide, and thenpost a letter to me which destroyed that theory?"

  "We do not know that Thalassa posted the letter--it may have been RobertTurold himself. As for premonitions--" Barrant checked himself as ifstruck by a sudden thought, stood up, and walked across the room to wherethe broken hood clock had been replaced on its bracket. He stood thereregarding it, and the round eyes in the moon's face seemed to return hisglance with a heavy stare.

  "If that fat face in the clock could only speak as well as goggle itseyes!" he said, with a mirthless smile. "We should learn something then.What's the idea of it all--the rolling eyes, the moon, the stars, and averse as lugubrious as a Presbyterian sermon on infant damnation. Thewhole thing is uncanny."

  "It's a common enough device in old clocks," said the lawyer, joining him."It is commoner, however, in long-cased clocks--the so-called grandfatherclock. I have seen all sorts of moving figures and mechanisms inlong-cased clocks in old English country houses. A heaving ship was a veryfamiliar device, the movement being caused, as in this clock, by a wirefrom the pendulum. I have never seen a specimen with the rotatingmoon-dial before, though they were common enough in some parts of Englandat one time. This is a Dutch clock, and the earlier Dutch makers werealways fond of representing their moons as human faces. It was made by agreat master of his craft, as famous in his native land as old Dan Quareis in England, and its mechanism has outlived its creator by more thanthree hundred years."

  "Would it be an accurate timekeeper, do you think?" asked Barrant, lookingmistrustfully at the motionless face of the moon, as though he suspectedit of covertly sneering at him.

  "I should think so. These old clockmakers made their clocks to keepperfect time, and outlast Time himself! And this clock is a perfectspecimen of the hood clock, which marked a period in clock-making betweenthe old weight clocks and the long cases. Hood clocks were popular intheir day in Holland, but they have always been rare in this country. Itwould be interesting to trace how this one came into this house. No doubtit was taken from a wreck, like so much of the furniture in old Cornishhouses."

  "You seem to know a lot about old clocks."

  Mr. Brimsdown, astride his favourite hobby, rode it irresistibly. Hediscoursed of clocks and their makers, and Barrant listened in silence.The subject was not without its fascination for him, because it suggesteda strange train of thought about the hood clock which was the text, as itwere, of the lawyer's discourse. He looked up. Mr. Brimsdown, in front ofthe clock, was discoursing about dials and pendulums. Barrant broke inabruptly with the question on his mind--

  "Can you, with your knowledge of old clocks, suggest any reason whichwould cause Robert Turold to go to it? Are the works intricate? Would sucha clock require much adjustment?"

  "Robert Turold was not likely to think of adjusting a clock in his dyingmoments," returned Mr. Brimsdown, with a glance which betokened that heperfectly understood his companion had some other reason for his question.

  "There's a smear of blood on the dial," said Barrant, staring at it.

  "Was that made by the right or left hand?"

  "The right hand was resting on the clock-face. Why do you ask?"

  Mr. Brimsdown hesitated, then said: "The thought has occurred to me thatRobert Turold may have gone to the clock for a different purpose--not forpapers. Perhaps his last thought was to indicate the name of the murdereron the white face of the clock."

  "In his blood? Rather a melodramatic idea, that! He had writing materialsbefore him if he wanted to do that, if he thought of it. He was shot downin the act of writing, remember."

  A silence fell between them on this declaration--a silence terminated byBarrant remarking that it was really late, and he must be getting back toPenzance. Mr. Brimsdown made no suggestion to accompany him. Instead herustled papers in Robert Turold's cabinet as though to convey theimpression that the sorting and searching of them would take him sometime. Barrant, from whose eyes speculation and suspicion looked out from adepth, like the remote glance of a spider which had scurried to a hole,gave a slight sign of farewell, and wheeled out of the apartment withoutanother word.

  Downstairs he went, plunged in the deepest thought. Looking downward, hesaw Thalassa escorting Dr. Ravenshaw to the front door. The doctor's voicereached him.

  "... She must not be left alone on any account--understand that. You oughtto get somebody to look after her."

  "I can't afford nobody," Thalassa made reply.

  Dr. Ravenshaw was about to say something more, but the figure of thedescending detective caught his eye. Barrant made a detaining gesture, andthe doctor waited in the passage for him. Barrant, with a slight glance atthe motionless figure of Thalassa, led the way into the front room. Heclosed the door before he spoke.

  "Doctor," he said, "have you told anybody about those marks on RobertTurold's arm?"

  "I have not," said the doctor promptly, looking up. "Why do you ask?"

  His glance carried conviction, and interrogation also. But it wasBarrant's province to ask questions, not to answer them. He ignored Dr.Ravenshaw's.

  "There's another matter, doctor," he continued. "One of the coastfishermen has a story that when Robert Turold was out on the moors he usedto hasten home with great strides, like a man who feared pursuit. Did youever observe this peculiarity in him?"

  "I have observed that he used to walk at a quick pace."

  "This was more than a quick pace--it was almost a run, according to thefisherman--looking backward over his shoulder as he went."

  "I did not notice that, but I should not be surprised if it were true,with a man of Robert Turold's temperament."

  "He feared pursuit--some unknown danger, then?"

  "I cannot say. He may have suffered from agoraphobia."

  "What is that?" asked Barrant.

  "The dread of open spaces."

&
nbsp; "I have heard of claustrophobia--the dread of closed spaces--but not ofthis."

  "It is common enough--an absurd but insurmountable aversion to openspaces. The victims are oppressed by a terrible anxiety when crossing afield. I have known a man who would be terrified at the idea of crossingTrafalgar Square."

  "What is the cause of agoraphobia?" asked Barrant.

  "It is a nervous disorder--one of the symptoms of advanced neurasthenia."

  "Did Robert Turold suffer from neurasthenia?"

  "His nervous system was in a state of irritable weakness through themonomania of a fixed idea," was the reply--"too much seclusion andconcentration on one object, to the exclusion of all other humaninterests."

  "How's your patient?" said Barrant, giving the conversation an abruptturn.

  "What patient do you mean--Mrs. Thalassa?" asked Dr. Ravenshaw in somesurprise.

  "Yes. I gathered from what I overheard you say to Thalassa that you havebeen attending her."

  "I have been attending her since Mr. Turold's death."

  "She is in a strange condition," observed Barrant reflectively. "I wasquestioning her the other night, but I could get nothing out of her. Sheseems almost imbecile."

  "She is not a woman of strong mind, and she is now suffering from a severeshock. She should be looked after or taken away from here altogether, buther husband seems quite indifferent."

  "Do you think she will recover?"

  "It is impossible to say."

  "How do you think the shock was caused?"

  "I should not like to hazard an opinion on that point, either," repliedDr. Ravenshaw gravely. He glanced at his watch as he spoke. "I must begoing," he said.

  They left the house together, but branched off at the gate--Dr. Ravenshawto visit a fisherman's dying wife, and Barrant to seek the _Three JollyWreckers_ for supper before returning to Penzance.

  From the kitchen window Thalassa watched them go: the doctor walkingacross the cliffs with resolute stride, the detective making for the pathover the moors with bent head and slower step, as though his feet wereclogged by the weight of his thoughts. Thalassa watched their dwindlingforms until they disappeared, and then stood still, in a listeningattitude. The sound of the lawyer stirring in the study overhead seemed torouse him from his immobility. He closed the door, and stood looking upthe staircase with the shadow of indecision on his face.