The Moon Rock by Arthur J. Rees (each kindness read aloud .txt) 📖

confirmatory expression of surprise at this remarkable accession to the wagonette’s fares. He waited so long that Barrant felt called upon to say something.

“Who was your fellow passenger last night?”

“Now you’re asking me a question which takes a bit of answerin’,” replied Mr. Portgartha. “‘Twas like this. I was waitin’ at the crass-roads for old Garge to come along, when a young womon came up out of th’ darkness and stood not far from me—just by the ol’ crass. I tried to maake out who she was, but it was too daark. So I just says to her, ‘Good ebenin’, miss, are you waitin’ for the wagonette too?’ She never answered a word, and before I could think of anything else to say old Garge came along, and we both got in. She sat in a corner, silent as a ghooste. Well, then, I went to light th’ lamp, same as I have to-night, but as luck would ‘ave it, I hadn’t a match. I knaw it was no use askin’ old Garge, ‘cos he’d pretend not to hear, so I turned to the young womon sittin’ opposite, and asked her if she had a match in her pocket. And do you knaw, I declare to gudeness she never said nawthen, not so much as a word!”

“Perhaps she was dumb?” Barrant suggested.

“Aw, iss, doomb enough then,” retorted Mr. Portgartha. “I tried her two or three times more, but couldn’t get a word out of her. Well, at last I began to get narvous, thinkin’ she might be a sperit. So I leant across to her an’ says, ‘Caan’t you say a word, miss? It’s only Peter Portgartha speaking, he’s well known for his respect for your sect. No young womon need be frightened of speakin’ to Peter Portgartha.’ And with that she spaaks at last, with a quick little gasp like a sob—I’m thinking I can hear it at this minute—‘Aw,’ she says, ‘why caan’t you leave me alone?’ ‘Never be afraaid,’ I says, for I have my pride like other folk, ‘I’ll say no more. Peter Portgartha has no need to foorce his conversation where it ain’t welcome.’”

“A strange girl!” said Barrant, beginning to feel an interest in the story. “Have you no idea who she was?”

“Wait a bit,” continued Mr. Portgartha, evidently objecting to any intrusion on his right, as narrator, to a delayed climax. “Well, there we sat, like two ghoostes, till we got to Penzance, but all the time I was thinkin’ to mysel’ that I’d find out who she was. I sed to myself I’d ride on to the station, instid of gettin’ out a piece this side of it so as to make a short cut across to the Mouse’s Hole, as I usually do. But that stupid old fule Garge pulled up as usual and bawls through the window, ‘Are you going to keep me here all night, Peter?’ Before I could say a word the young womon says: ‘I’ll get out here.’ With that she puts the fare into his hand through the open window, and slips out afore I knew what she was going to do. If it hadn’t been for my rhoomatics, which I got in the war, I’d ‘a followed her. As it was, I couldn’t.”

“So you didn’t see her face, after all?” asked Barrant quickly.

“I didn’t, in a manner of speakin’. But I did get a glimpse of her as she passed near the lamp-post—just a half-sight of two big dark eyes in a white face as she went past. I wouldn’t ‘a thought no more of it,” added Mr. Portgartha, laying an impressive hand on his companion’s knee, “but for what happened at Flint House last night.”

“What’s that got to do with it?” In his quickened interest Barrant vainly strove to make his voice appear calm.

“Because the young womon must have coome from Flint House.”

Barrant scrutinized his companion sharply in the dim light. “Why do you think so?” he asked.

“For’n thing, the wayside crass where she picked up the wagonette is not far from Flint House by acrass the moors—closer’n goin’ from the house on the cliffs t’ the churchtown, which is a good slant to the north of it. From Flint House to the crass-roads it’s straight as a dart, if you know yer way, with only one house twixt it till you come arver to it—old Farmer Bardsley, who ain’t got no wemmenfolk, so it’s sartin she didn’t come from theer. She wasn’t a maa’iden from any of the farms of the moors, for I know them all. But it weren’t till this marning that I got a kind of notion who she was. I dropped into the Tolpen Arms to have a drop of something for a cawld I’ve got, and some of the fishermen were talkin’ about th’ old gentleman of Flint House blowing his head off last night with a gun. It made me feel queery-like when I heerd aboot it. ‘Why,’ I says, ’that’ll be about the time I saw the strange young womon in ol’ Crows’ wagonette. She must ‘ave come from Flint House, now I coome to think of it.’ ‘What young woman was that?’ asked ‘Enery Waitts. So I told them what had happened to me, just like I’ve told it to you. Mrs. Keegan, the land-lady, who was list’ning, says, ‘I shouldn’t be surprised if it was Mr. Turold’s daughter that you saw. I heard yesterday that his sister was staying at Penzance, so p’raps she was going to her, after it happened. So if it was her it’s not surprisin’ she didn’t want to speak to you in her grief.’”

“Did you ever see Miss Turold?”

“I’ve never see any one of the Flint House folk, though I’ve heerd of them, often enough.”

“Did you notice in which direction this girl went?”

“No. She passed the lamp-post as if she were maakin’ up Market Jew Street, but I suppose she ced ‘ave turned off anywhere to the right or left.”

“What time was it when the wagonette reached the cross-roads on the moor, where she got in?”

“About the same time as to-night, getting on for ten, mebbe.”

“She was quite alone?”

“As lonely as any she ghooste, standin’ theer by the old crass. ‘Twaas because I thought she’d feel feersome that I spoke to her.”

Barrant relapsed into a thoughtful silence which lasted until the wagonette pulled up and his fellow-traveller prepared to alight. Then he turned to him and said—

“Good-night. I may see you again.”

He fumbled at the interior window as he spoke, opened it, and touched the driver on the shoulder. “Drive me to the Central Hotel,” he said. “Go as fast as you can, and I’ll give you ten shillings!”

Mr. Crows nodded a cold acquiescence, and they rattled off down the silent street, leaving on Barrant’s mind a receding impression of a startled red face staring after them from the footpath. The wagonette jolted round a corner, and ten minutes later stopped at the entrance of the hotel where Mrs. Pendleton was staying.

Chapter XV

When Barrant learnt from the trembling lips of Mrs. Pendleton that she had not seen her niece since that morning, his first step was to get Sisily’s full description, and call up Dawfield on the hotel telephone with instructions to have all the railway stations between Penzance and London warned to look out for her. That was a necessary precaution, but it did not need Dawfield’s hesitating information about time tables to convince him that it was almost futile. The later of the two trains by which Sisily might have fled from Cornwall had reached London and discharged its passengers somewhere about the time that Mr. Peter Portgartha, in the depth of the rumbling wagonette, was paying his tribute to shrinking female modesty as exhibited on Mousehole rocks.

After doing this Barrant returned to the empty lounge, where Mrs. Pendleton sat in partial darkness with tearful face. All the other guests had retired, and a lurking porter yawned longingly in the passage, waiting for an opportunity to put out the last of the lights and get to bed.

In the first shock of Barrant’s violent apparition and angry questions, Mrs. Pendleton had tried, in a bewildered way, to insist that her niece had not left her room on the previous night. But now, in her troubled consideration of the new strange turn of events surrounding her brother’s death, she saw that she might have been deceived on this point. Barrant, for his part, had not the slightest doubt of it when he heard that her belief rested on no stronger foundation than Sisily’s early withdrawal from the dining-room on the plea of fatigue, and the fact that her bedroom door was locked when Mrs. Pendleton returned from her own visit to Flint House. Sisily’s subsequent flight eliminated any uncertainty about that, and established beyond reasonable doubt her identity with the silent girl who had entered the returning wagonette at the cross-roads. The coincidence of those two facts had a terrible significance. Barrant had no doubt that Sisily had gone to her own room early in order to find an opportunity to pay a secret visit to her home, for a purpose which now seemed to stand sinisterly revealed by her disappearance. He also thought he saw the motive—that vital factor in murder—looming behind her nocturnal expedition. But that was a question he was not inclined to analyze too closely at that moment. He wanted to know how she had been able to disappear that day without the knowledge of her aunt.

Mrs. Pendleton had a ready explanation of that. She said that after returning from her visit to the police station that morning she had been engaged with her brother Austin until nearly lunch-time, and when she went up to Sisily’s room she found it empty. She concluded that her niece had gone out somewhere to be alone with her grief—she was the type of girl that liked to be alone. After lunch Mrs. Pendleton had letters to write, and then she had gone to her bedroom and fallen sound asleep till dinner-time, worn out by the shock of her brother’s death, and the sleepless night which had followed it. When Sisily did not appear at dinner she began to grow uneasy, but sought to convince herself that Sisily might have gone on a char-à-banc trip to Falmouth which had been advertised for that day. The incongruity of a sad solitary girl like Sisily nursing her grief in a public vehicle packed with curious chattering trippers did not seem to have occurred to her. But as time passed she grew seriously alarmed, and sent her husband out to make enquiries.

She had sat in the lounge listening with strained ears for the girl’s footsteps until Barrant arrived.

“Has your niece any friends in Cornwall or London, or anywhere, for that matter, who would receive her?” Barrant abruptly demanded.

“I really do not know,” said Mrs. Pendleton.

She wiped the tears from her eyes with a large white handkerchief. She was overwhelmed by the shock of her niece’s disappearance, and the terrible interpretation Barrant evidently placed upon it. But Barrant was in no mood to allow for her confused state of mind.

“You had better try and remember,” he said irritably. “It seems to me that I’ve been kept in the dark. You went to the police to demand an investigation into your brother’s death, but you did not say anything of the disclosure he made to you yesterday of his daughter’s illegitimacy. Instead of doing so, you only directed suspicion to his man-servant. Meanwhile your niece, who was placed in your care, disappears to heaven knows where, and you took no steps to inform the police. You have acted very indiscreetly, Mrs. Pendleton, to say the least.”

“I did not know—I did not think,” gasped Mrs. Pendleton. She endeavoured to commence a flurried explanation of the mixed motives and impulses which had swayed her since her brother’s death, but Barrant cut it short with an impatient wave of the hand.

“Never mind that now,” he said. “I have lost too much time already. Have you no idea where your niece is likely to have sought refuge?”

Mrs. Pendleton shook her head. “Robert had no friends,” she said, “and Sisily led a very lonely life. Robert told me that yesterday. That was the reason he wanted me to take charge of her—so as to give her the opportunity of making some girl friends of her own age.”

She paused, embarrassed by the recollection that her brother’s real intention in placing Sisily in her charge was altogether different. Barrant noted her hesitation, and interpreted it aright.

“No,” he said. “The real reason of your brother parting with his daughter provides the motive for her return to his house last night. What happened between them is a matter for conjecture, at present. Apparently she was the