The Moon Rock

by Arthur J. Rees

  CHAPTER XXIX

  Barrant returned to London in the mental disposition of a man who sees anelaborate theory thrown into the melting-pot by an unexpected turn ofevents. The humbling thought was that he had allowed a second fish toglide through his hands without even suspecting that it was on his line.He had never remotely connected Charles Turold with the murder until Mr.Brimsdown had imparted Mrs. Brierly's disclosure to him. He had actedpromptly enough on that piece of information, but once again he was toolate.

  Austin Turold might have felt reassured if he had known how little hisshare in the events of that night occupied Barrant's mind during theirlast interview. The complexion Austin's conduct bore to the detective'sreflection was that of a father who had intentionally misled the power ofauthority in order to shield his son. The law took a serious view of thatoffence, but it was a matter which could be dealt with at leisure inAustin's case. By his brother's death Austin Turold had become a man ofproperty and standing. It was the drawback of his wealth that he could notdisappear like his son. He was to be found when wanted. The main thingjust then was to catch the son, or the girl--or both. Barrant went back toLondon for that purpose.

  As the days slipped away without that end being achieved he became worriedand perplexed. His own position was an unenviable one, and his thoughtswere far from pleasant. He felt that he had failed badly, and that hisstanding with his superiors in Scotland Yard was under a cloud inconsequence. But he could not see where he had actually been at fault. Itwas such a damned amazing case. In most crimes the trouble was to findsufficient clues, but in this case there were too many. And the inferencespointed different ways. That was the trouble. He was not even sure that inthis latest discovery, so annoyingly belated, he had reached the ultimatesolution of the facts. It was not that the theory of these two youngpeople committing murder for love was too cynical for belief. He hadencountered more incredible things than that in his professional career.Life was a cynical business, and youth could be brutal in pursuit of itsaims, especially when the aim was passion, as it usually was. In hisexperience youth and age were the dangerous periods--youth, because itknew nothing of life, and age because it knew too much. There were fewersurprises in middle-age. That was the period of responsibility--whenhumanity clung to the ordered way with the painful rectitude of aprocession of laden ants toiling up a hill. Youth was not like that--norage.

  No, it was not that. His difficulty was to fit all the circumstances intoany compact theory of the case. Try as he would, there were always someloose ends left over, some elements of uncertainty which left himperplexed. He fashioned a new view of the murder, with Charles Turold asthe principal figure in it--the actual murderer. He assumed that Charlesand Sisily had gone to Flint House that night to prevent the truth aboutSisily's birth becoming known. The assertion of her illegitimacy restedupon her father's bare statement, but his lawyer was convinced he wouldnot have made the statement without having the proofs in his possession.These proofs had not been found. Very well. What inference was to be drawnfrom that? Sisily knew that they were kept in the clock-case, and pointedout the hiding place to her lover. In a struggle for their possessionRobert Turold was shot down, or he might have been shot first andstaggered to the clock afterwards to see if they had been stolen. Eithersupposition accounted for the fallen clock, and fitted in with nearly allthe known facts of the murder.

  Nearly all, but not all! In face of Mrs. Brierly's disclosure it seemed acondition precedent to the elucidation of the mystery to substituteCharles Turold for Thalassa as the person whose undisciplined love forSisily had led him to shoot her father to shield her name. Nor was itincredible to suppose that he had remained in Cornwall to cover her flightin the hope of diverting suspicion from her. But the loose end in thetheory was Thalassa's share in that night's events, and his dogged silencesince under strong suspicion.

  Thalassa knew more than he had yet revealed, but what did he know? Whatwas his share in the business? It was difficult to say. Barrant was unableto accept the assumption that three people were concerned in the murder.That idea, if not impossible, was at least contrary to reason. But if itwas excluded, how was the silence of Thalassa to be explained? Was heafraid? It was as difficult to associate that quality with him as with aneagle or beast of prey.

  And the theory failed to explain the reason for Robert Turold's franticletter to his lawyer on the night of the murder. That was another looseend.

  What a case! It was an abnormal and sinister mystery in any light, with noabsolute or demonstrative certainty of proof by any of its circumstances,however regarded. The effect of its perplexing clues distorted theimagination, outraged the sense of possibility and experience. To reachconclusiveness in it seemed as impossible as an attempt to scale anunending staircase in a nightmare. The facts were there, but they wereinexplicable, or at least they stared at him with the aspect of manyfaces.

  As he weighed these doubts he found his thoughts reverting with increasingfrequency to the hood clock in Robert Turold's study and the question ofits connection with the crime. He pondered over the point with the nervousanxiety of a puzzled brain, and it seemed to him now that he had notdevoted as much investigation to this peculiar clue as it deserved. Herecalled Mr. Brimsdown's conversation on the matter. He remembered that hehad been struck at the time by the penetration of his remarks about theclock, and while not accepting his fantastic theory, had determined togive more careful thought to the point. But Mrs. Brierly's disclosure putthe idea out of his head.

  It recurred to him with renewed force when he found himself in Exeternearly a fortnight later on another case. It was a good opportunity to goon to Cornwall, and he took it. His business completed, he caught theearly train, and in due time arrived at Penzance. With an obscure instinctfor solitude he hastened through the town and struck out across the moors.

  The afternoon was waning when he reached Flint House and pulled theold-fashioned bell-handle of the weatherbeaten door. There was no reply,and a second ring passed disregarded. That was disconcerting andunexpected. He wondered whether Thalassa and his wife had left the place.Then he noticed that the door was merely closed and not shut. He liftedthe heavy iron knocker, and knocked loudly. The repeated knocking sent thedoor flying open, and Barrant found himself looking into an empty hall.Half-way down a pair of curtains stirred slightly and parted suddenly,revealing a narrower passage which led to the door of the kitchen. Thecurtains streamed horizontally, twisting and coiling like snakes. Barrantstepped quickly inside and closed the door. The curtains fell togetheragain.

  There was something so startling in this action of the wind that Barrantstood motionless, looking round him. The cold current of air he hadadmitted died away in the draughty passages with queer gasping noises,like a wind strangled. Then there was the most absolute silence. Thecurtains hung perpendicular, as thickly motionless as blankets. Barrantnoticed that the hallstand and a chair beside it were thick with dust.Evidently the house was empty.

  Turning first to make quite sure that the front door was securely shut, hetook his way upstairs to Robert Turold's study.

  A point of light, falling through the shattered panel of the closed door,pierced the vague gloom of the passage and hovered on the door of thebedroom opposite--the room into which the dead man had been carried.

  Barrant entered the study and looked around him. It was intolerably dirtyand neglected; everything was covered with a thick grey dust. Barrantwalked over to the clock and regarded it attentively.

  What a rascally fat face that moon had! It must have seen some queersights in old houses during its two hundred years of life. Strange thatthose old clockmakers could make clocks to last so long, but couldn't keeptheir own life-springs running half the time! The moral verse was curiousenough. Why should a man who spent half his lifetime putting together aclock presume to tell his fellow creatures to make the most of the passinghour?

  His reflections took a more practical turn. The clock was the sole witnessto the time of the murder. There were
two other clocks in Flint House, butnobody had thought of looking at them when the crime was discovered.Barrant regarded that as a regrettable oversight. It was always importantto know the exact time when a murder was committed. Thalassa said that thehood clock was going and kept excellent time, but the value of thatsecondary testimony was impaired by the fact that Thalassa might not betelling the truth. On the other hand, there was certain presumptiveevidence which suggested that he was. It was a proved fact that Mr. andMrs. Pendleton and Dr. Ravenshaw left the doctor's house in a motor-carfor Flint House not later than half-past nine on the night of the murder.Assuming that they covered the journey across the moors in five or sixminutes and occupied another five minutes in getting upstairs and breakingin the door, the testimony of the hood clock seemed correct, because Dr.Ravenshaw said death had just taken place, and he and the doctor who madethe post-mortem examination were both agreed that Robert Turold could nothave lived many minutes after he was shot. Therefore the presumptiveevidence seemed to determine the time of death accurately enough.

  But that was only a minor phase of the mystery. The real problem was thehidden connection between the clock and the murder. What had brought theclock down, and why had Robert Turold fallen almost on top of it, hisoutstretched hands resting on the dial? The complete elucidation of themystery lay behind the obscurity in which these two points were shrouded.To find the answer to them was the surest and quickest way of reconcilingall the contradictory facts of the case. But Barrant racked his brains forthe reason in vain.

  He examined the room. There was a leather-topped writing-table withdrawers, several cabinets filled with manuscripts and papers, some walnutchairs with carved legs, and a tall deep bookcase filled withdreary-looking books. His eyes wandered over the titles of the volumes.They also belonged to a bygone period--a melancholy accumulation of worksas dead as their writers. Two whole shelves were occupied with the numbersof a forgotten periodical which claimed to give "ample details of theunhappy difference between Queen Caroline of Great Britain and her consortGeorge the Fourth." Barrant wondered idly why human nature was always sointerested in the washing of dirty linen. Above these was ranged a row ofpublished sermons. Barrant's eye roamed higher and fell on a fat sturdyvolume wedged in between some slimmer books. The title of this book was"Clocks of All Periods." Clocks!

  He reached for the volume and placed it on the table. A cursory glancethrough the pages conveyed the suggestion that it contained moreinformation about clocks than was worth acquiring or writing down. Therewas a chapter on water clocks, to begin with: "Known to the Egyptians andthe Holy Land." Barrant turned the leaves. "The Ancient Chinese used asmouldering wick as timekeeper." Barrant shook his head impatiently. "KingAlfred's supposed device of measuring Time by Candles--a Myth." Would toheaven his invention of juries was a myth, too. Scotland Yard would get onmuch better without them. "A Lamp-clock was another Simple and IngeniousDesign." How intolerably long-winded the writer was. What had he to sayabout hood clocks? "Very few of the Early Clocks had Dials. The Device wasgenerally a Mechanical Figure which struck the Hour on a Bell." Evidentlythe forerunner of the devilish alarum clock. "Early clockmakers--OldEnglish monks as Clockmakers." The pages flowed rapidly through Barrant'sfingers. "Introduction of Minute Hand Marks--Period of Clocks ShowingTides--Longfaced Clocks." Ah, here it was at last--"Hood Clocks."

  He began to read the chapter with interest, but as he was about to turnthe first page the silence of the room was broken by a faint cacklinglaugh--an elfin sound which died away instantly. He looked up, startled.His surprise was not lessened at the sight of Mrs. Thalassa watching himfrom the open doorway. She entered on tiptoe, with a strange air ofcaution, examining him with restless eyes.

  "I heard you," she mumbled. "I saw you go upstairs. Mr. Thalassa was out,and I was afraid to go to the door. I've been playing patience, and itwon't come out."

  She showed her apron full of small cards. She placed them on the table,and arranged them in rows.

  A new idea came into Barrant's mind as he looked at her. If the poorcreature had recovered sufficient wits to take to her cards again shemight be coaxed to recall what she had seen on the night of the murder. Hedrew near her. "Can I help you?" he said.

  She nodded sideways at him like a child--a child with withered face andgrey hair.

  Together they bent over the cards. A gull flashed past the window with ascream, as though it had seen them and was repelled at the strange sight.

  "Only kings can go into vacant spaces," murmured Barrant's companion,intent on the game.

  The result of the game was inconclusive. A king remained surrounded bysmall cards, like a real monarch overwhelmed by the rabble on May Day.Mrs. Thalassa's eyes strayed mournfully over the rows, then she gatheredup the cards and shuffled them again.

  "Do you know any other games of patience?" Barrant asked.

  She shook her head.

  "Then this is the game you were playing on that night?"

  "What night?" she whispered.

  "The night Mr. Turold was killed."

  "I don't want to think of that--it frightens me."

  She remembered, then! Her face went grey, but her eyes were alert,watching his.

  "Listen to me"--he spoke very gently--"I want to help you get rid of yourfear and terror, but to do so I must talk to you about that night. Do youunderstand?"

  The kindness in his voice seemed to reach her feeble consciousness, andshe looked at him earnestly.

  "Will you try and recollect?"

  She seemed to search his eyes for courage, and gave a trembling nod.

  "What time was it when you heard the crash upstairs? Think well."

  She seemed to make an effort to remember. "I don't know," she said atlast.

  "Think again. You were playing patience--the game you have just shown me?"

  Her eyes turned to the cards on the table. "Yes," she said.

  "What time did you commence--can you think?"

  She shook her head. "I seem to remember it was half-past eight by thekitchen clock when I started my last game. I was alone in the kitchenthen. The game was just coming out when I heard a crash--"

  She broke off suddenly with a painful sigh and a frightened glance at thehood clock on the wall.

  "One game!" Barrant glanced at his watch with, an air of mistrust. "Youmean two, don't you?"

  Her eyes returned to his. She shook her head with a rapid tremulousmotion. "No!" she exclaimed excitedly. "One, only one!"

  Barrant cast another glance at his watch, which he Still held in his hand."You are quite sure you did not play two?" he persisted, with a puzzledglance.

  "No, no--one!" She sprang to her feet excitedly.

  "Very well--one," acquiesced Barrant soothingly. "One. Go on."

  But his effort to calm her came too late. She cast a wild and fearfulglance at the wall behind her, as if there was something there whichfrightened her.

  "How it rings--how it rings!" Her indistinct utterance grew louder. "Yes,Jasper, I hear. Yes, sir, I'm coming. Where's the supper tray?"

  "Don't be afraid, Mrs. Thalassa," said Barrant, approaching her, but shebacked hurriedly away towards the door.

  "Coming with the supper tray--coming with the supper tray.... What's that?Ah-h-h-h-h!"

  Her disjointed mutterings ended in a shrill scream which went ringingthrough the stillness and seemed to linger in the room after she haddisappeared. Barrant heard her muttering and laughing as she descended thestairs.

  The sounds died away into a silence so absolute as to suggest theimpression of a universe suddenly stricken dumb. Barrant crossed the roomto the window, where he stood looking out, deep in thought.

  What was the meaning of it all--of this latest scene in particular? Thegame of patience so tempestuously concluded had occupied half-an-hour. Hehad noted the time. Yet Mrs. Thalassa insisted she had played only onegame after half-past eight on the night of the murder. If he dared acceptsuch a computation of time an unimagined possibility in the case
stoodrevealed. But--a demented woman. "A parable in the mouth of a fool."Perhaps it was because she was a fool that he had stumbled on thisrevelation. She lacked the wit to lie about it.

  If so--

  His eyes, straying incuriously over the outstretched panorama of sea andcliffs beneath the window, fell upon a man's outline scaling the cliffpath near the Moon Rock. Disturbed in his meditations, Barrant watched theclimber. He reached the top and appeared in full view on the bare summitof the cliffs. Barrant stared down upon him, amazed beyond measure. Theadvancing figure was Charles Turold.