The Moon Rock

by Arthur J. Rees

  CHAPTER XIII

  "Oh yes, I'm modern enough," said Austin Turold, balancing his cigarettein his white fingers, and glancing at Barrant with a reflective air--"thatis to say, I believe in America and the League of Nations, but not in God.It's not the fashion to believe in God or have a conscience nowadays. Theyboth went out with the war. After all, what's a conscience to a liver? Buthere I am, chattering on to distract my sad thoughts, although I can seein your eye that you have it in you to ask me some questions. Well, goahead and ask them, and I will answer them--if I can."

  "I do wish to ask you some questions," said Barrant--"questions connectedwith your brother's death."

  "I know very little about it. It was a most terrible shock to me, I assureyou, and is likely to detain me in this barbarous place longer than Iintended--greatly against my will."

  "I understand you came to Cornwall at your brother's request?"

  "Yes. My brother sent for me and my son more than a month ago, so we cameat once. I'll forestall the further inquiry I see on your lips, and tellyou why I came so promptly. My brother Robert was the wealthy member ofthe family, and I was the poor one--a poor devil of an Anglo-Indian withnothing on this side of the grave but a niggardly Civil Service pension!

  "When we arrived I found that Robert had already taken these lodgings forus, which was as near as he could get accommodation to his own house. Idid not object to that arrangement, because I do not like hotelsnowadays--not since the newly-rich started to patronize them. So here I'vebeen rusticating ever since, conferring daily with my poor brother, andeating the four meals a day which are provided with the lodgings by theestimable people of this house. My landlord is an artist. That is to say,he's forever daubing pictures which nobody buys. I've come to theconclusion that most people dislike Cornwall because of the number of badpictures which are painted here. You see some samples of my host's brushon these walls. They are actually too bad to be admitted to the Academy.My poor host and hostess, being unable to make ends meet, were obliged totake in lodgers. The fact, however, is not unduly obtruded. We discuss Artat night, and not the scandalously high price of food. I get on very well,but then I can adapt myself to any society. I pride myself on being aphilosopher. But my son is not so facile. My worthy entertainers regardhim as a Philistine, and bestow very little of their attention upon him.He spends his time in taking long walks through the wilds. He is outwalking at present. I am sorry he is not here."

  The conversation was suspended by the entrance of an elderly maid servantwith a long and melancholy white face, thickly braided hair, stronglymarked black eyebrows, wearing a black dress with white apron, and a whitebow in her hair, who came to ask if Mr. Turold required any more tea. Onlearning that he did not she withdrew as noiselessly as she had entered.

  "I see you are looking at our parlour-maid," said Austin Turold, followingthe direction of his visitor's glance.

  "She's a strange sort of parlour-maid," admitted the detective. "Shereminds me of--of--"

  "A study in black and white," suggested his host. "Her face is herfortune. She's sitting to Brierly--that's my host--for his latest effort.He's painting her as the Madonna or Britannia--I really forget which. Anew type, you know. The servants in this house are engaged for theirfaces. They had a villainous scoundrel of a man-servant--a returnedsoldier--engaged as Judas Iscariot, who bolted last week with the silverspoons. But all this is beside the point, Mr. Barrant, and I must notwaste your time. You have come here for a specific purpose--to turn meinside out. What can I tell you?"

  "I want to know all that you can tell me about your brother's death," saidthe other, with emphasis.

  "But what can I tell you that you do not already know?" exclaimed Austin,raising his eyebrows with a helpless look. "Ask me what questions youlike, and I'll endeavour to answer them. When the famous DetectiveBarrant--for I understand from the newspapers that you are famous--takesan interview in hand I expect him to handle the situation in a masterlyfashion, as befits his reputation. So ask your questions, my dear fellow,and I'll do my utmost to respond." Austin Turold took off his glasses, andposed himself in an attitude of expectation, with his eyes fixed upon thedetective's face.

  Barrant eyed the elder man with a puzzled curiosity which was tolerablymasked by official impassivity. Barrant had his own methods ofinvestigation and inquiry. He brought an alert intelligence, a seeing eye,and a false geniality to bear in his work. Unversed in elaboratededuction, he flattered himself that he knew enough about human nature tostrike the balance of probabilities in almost any case. His cardinalarticle of faith was that there was nothing like getting on good termswith those he was interviewing in order to find out things. Most peoplewere on their guard against detectives, who too often took advantage oftheir position to assume offensive airs of intimidation, whereas the greatthing was to disarm suspicion by a friendly manner. Barrant had cultivatedpleasantness with considerable success. Some who were not good judges ofphysiognomy were apt to overlook the watchful eyes in his smiling affablepresence, and talk freely--sometimes too freely, as they later ondiscovered to their cost. A chance word, a significant phrase, wassufficient to set him burrowing underground with the activity of a mole,to burst into the open later on with all his clues complete, to theconfusion of the trusting person with an unguarded tongue.

  He had put these tactics into execution with Austin Turold. Austin, takingtea when he called, in a bright blue room hung with pictures, had receivedhis visitor with a charming cordiality, insisted on his taking tea withhim, and then let loose a flood of small-talk, as though he were delightedwith his visitor. His welcome was so perfect, his manners so gracefullyunforced, that Barrant had an uneasy suspicion that he was being beaten athis own game, and was slightly out of countenance in consequence. Up tothat moment he could not, for the life of him, decide whether AustinTurold's polished self-assurance was a mask or not. It seemed too naturalto be assumed.

  "Your own opinion is that your brother committed suicide?" he asked again.

  "No other conclusion is possible, in my mind."

  "But did he have any reason, that you know of, to commit suicide?"

  Austin shrugged his shoulders. "Suicide is not usually associated withreason," he observed. "But in Robert's case there is a reason, or so itseems to me. I have not seen him for many years, but during my recentclose association with him I was struck by two things: the solitaryaloofness of his mind, and his overwhelming pride--pride in the familyname. These two traits in his character coloured all his actions. In thefirst place, he disliked opening his mind to anybody, but the strongerinfluence, his family pride, overcame his habitual secretiveness when hethought it necessary and desirable to do so in furtherance of his darlingambition--the restoration of this title. Men who lead a solitary,self-contained life, like my brother, become introspective andultra-sensitive, and face any intimate personal revelation with the utmostreluctance. They will nerve themselves to it when the occasion absolutelyrequires, but the after effects--the mental self-probings, the agonizedself torture that a self-conscious proud man can inflict on himself whenhe comes to analyze the effects of his disclosure on other minds, aresometimes unendurable."

  Austin put forward this analysis of his brother's state of mind with agravity which was in complete contrast with the light airiness of histea-table gossip, and Barrant felt that he was speaking with sincerity.

  "Yes, I can understand that," he said with a thoughtful nod.

  "I think that is what happened in my brother's case, when he felt calledupon to reveal, as he did yesterday, a shameful family secret which hurthim in his strongest point--his family pride."

  "Stop a minute," interrupted Barrant, in a surprised voice. "I really donot follow you here. What is this shameful secret to which you refer?"

  Austin Turold looked surprised in his turn. "It had to do with hismarriage and his daughter's legitimacy," he slowly replied. "Surely mysister imparted this to the Penzance police inspector, when she besoughthis assistance?"

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p; "I know nothing about it," replied Barrant quickly and emphatically. "Ishall be glad if you will tell me."

  "Certainly."

  Austin Turold related the story of his brother's disclosure. Againhe spoke in careful grave words, and with a manner completely divested ofany trace of his habitual flippancy.

  "It appears to me that this revelation must have had a very painful effecton Robert's mind," he added. "You must remember that he was an abnormaltype. An ordinary man would not have made such a disclosure on the day ofthe funeral of the woman who was supposed to be his wife. But all Robert'sacts hinged on his one great obsession. He allowed nothing to come betweenhim and his one ambition--not even his wife (let us call her so) andchild. But it would come home to him afterwards--I mean the normal pointof view--the way the world would regard such a disclosure--and I have nodoubt that his belated mental anguish and morbid thoughts impelled him totake his life. Understand me, Mr. Barrant, I do not mean that he did thisthrough remorse, but through the blow to his pride. He couldn't face theracket--the gossip, the notoriety and all the rest of it."

  "But according to your story, your brother had nothing to blame himselffor," said Barrant. "You say that he was ignorant of this earlier marriageuntil recently?"

  "Public sentiment will not look at it that way. People will say hesacrificed a dead woman and his daughter to his own selfish ends--threwthem over when he had attained his ambition. That's what came home to him,in my opinion."

  "I see." Barrant was silent for a while, turning this over in all itsbearings. "Yes. There may be something in that point of view. But did notyour brother confide this story to you before yesterday?"

  "When we were alone together during the last few days he frequently seemedon the point of telling me something. I could see that by his manner. Buthe never got beyond a certain portentousness, as it were. It's my beliefnow that he wanted to tell me, but couldn't quite bring himself to it. Iam very sorry that he didn't."

  "Do you know how long your brother has been aware of this earliermarriage?"

  "Quite recently, I believe. He gave us to understand yesterday that it wasa death-bed confession."

  "Are there any proofs of the earlier marriage?"

  "I am afraid I cannot enlighten you on that point either."

  "This is very strange," said Barrant. "The proofs are very important. Thisdisclosure vitally affected your brother's ambitions, and was thereforelikely to influence his views regarding the disposition of his property."

  He shot a keen glance at his companion. Austin laid aside his glasses andbent earnestly across the table.

  "I will be frank with you," he said, "quite frank. My brother told me alittle more than a week ago that he had made a new will, and that I washis heir."

  "Where is this will?"

  "I found it in the clock-case at Flint House last night, and I have sincehanded it to the lawyer who drafted it."

  "Your brother gave you no indication of this before?"

  "No. He told me when I came that he had summoned me to Cornwall because ofthe great change in the family fortunes. As I was his only brother hedesired my presence in the investigation of the final proofs and thepreparation of his claim for the House of Lords. Nothing was said aboutthe succession then. Robert was very excited, and talked only of his ownfuture. I feel sure that he was not then thinking of who was to succeed tothe title after his death. He looked forward to enjoying it himself. Icertainly did not give it a thought, either. Who could have foreseen thistragic event?"

  "Do you know anything about this peerage?"

  "Not till latterly. I never took it seriously, like Robert. I looked uponit as a family fiction. I understand that the Turrald barony was a baronyby writ--whatever that may be. The point is that if my brother had livedto restore it, the title, on his death, would have descended to his onlydaughter, if she had been born in wedlock. As she is illegitimate, thetitle would have descended to me, and after me to my son."

  "You were here last night when they brought you the news of your brother'sdeath, I understand?" remarked Barrant, in a casual sort of way.

  "Yes; I did not go out again after I returned from the funeral."

  "Was your son home with you?"

  "Most of the time. He came in later than I, and then went out for a walkwhen the storm cleared away. I did not see him again until this morning.Thalassa came for me with the news of my brother's death, and I did notget back from Flint House until very late."

  "I suppose you are aware your sister does not share your view that yourbrother committed suicide?"

  "I understand she has some absurd suspicion about Thalassa, my brother'sservant."

  "Why do you call her suspicion absurd?" asked Barrant cautiously.

  "It is more than absurd," replied Austin warmly. "I am ashamed to thinkthat my sister should have given utterance to such a dreadful thoughtagainst a faithful old servant who has been with Robert for half alifetime, and was devoted to him."

  "Mrs. Pendleton saw him looking through the door."

  "She only thought so. She went to the door immediately to find out who itwas, but there was nobody there."

  "Do you think she imagined it?"

  "No; I think somebody was there, but it is by no means certain that it wasThalassa. It might have been Thalassa's wife. It might even have beenRobert's daughter."

  "Was not Miss Turold present at the family gathering?"

  "No; my brother naturally did not wish her to be present, and she wentupstairs. She went out while we were in the room. The door was slightlyopen, and she may have glanced in as she passed."

  "But this person was listening."

  Austin Turold shrugged his shoulders.

  "Was your brother talking about his marriage at the time?"

  "Yes."

  "Could Miss Turold have heard what he was saying?"

  "Anybody could. The door was partly open."

  "There is some mystery here."

  Barrant spoke with the thoughtful air of one viewing a new vista openingin the distance. These surmises about the listener at the door, by theirmanifest though perhaps unintended implication, pointed to a deeper andmore terrible mystery than he had imagined.

  Austin Turold did not speak. Darkness had long since fallen, and a lamp,which had been brought in by the maid who was also the model, stood on thetable between the two men, and threw its shaded beams on their faces. Aclock on the mantel-piece chimed eight, and aroused Barrant to the flightof time.

  "I must get back," he said. "I intended to see Dr. Ravenshaw, but I shallleave that until later. Can I get a conveyance back to Penzance?"

  "There is a public wagonette. I am not sure when it goes, but it startsfrom 'The Three Jolly Wreckers' at the other end of the churchtown."

  "'The Three Jolly Wreckers!' That's rather a cynical name for a Cornishinn, isn't it?"

  "Oh, the Cornish people are not ashamed of the old wrecking days, I assureyou."

  He accompanied Barrant to the door with the lamp, which he held above hishead to light him down the garden path. Barrant, glancing back, saw himlooking after him, his face outlined in the darkness by the yellow rays ofthe lamp.