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

train to that resort did not do equal justice to this flattering assumption of its delights. They seemed, on the whole, rather to regard themselves as unlucky dogs (if the term could be applied to parties of women), and were huddled together on the station seats in attitudes suggestive of despair. Men flirting with barmaids in the bars may have considered themselves lucky dogs, but whisky played an important part in their exhilaration.

The belated train came rushing in with an effusion of steam, like a late arrival puffing out apologies, bringing a large number of passengers back to London from Penzance. They scrambled on to the platform with the dishevelled appearance of people who had been cooped up for hours. First-class passengers eased their pent-up energy by shouting for luggage porters and bundling their women into taxicabs. The third-class passengers, whose minor importance in the scheme of things did not warrant such displays of self-importance, made meekly and wearily for the exits.

They were dammed back at the barriers by two ticket collectors, whose adroit manipulation of the gates prevented more than one person trickling through at a time, and turned the choked stream of humanity within into a whirlpool of floating faces and struggling forms. As Mr. Brimsdown stood regarding this distracting spectacle from the outside, he saw one of the ticket collectors grasp the arm of a girl who was just emerging, at the same time shutting the gate on a stout woman following, thus effectually blocking the egress of those behind.

The girl turned quickly at the touch of the detaining hand, and there was fear in her face.

“What do you want?” she said, framing the words with an obvious effort.

The ticket collector was a man whose natural choleric temperament was accentuated by the harassing nature of his employment. He tore in two portions the ticket which the girl had just given him, and thrust half into her hand.

“Here’s your return half. Why don’t you look what yer doin’ when givin’ up yer ticket? You women are the limit. Now, mother, for God’s sake don’t be all night getting through that there barrier. There’s others want to get ‘ome, if you don’t.”

Having by this adroit remonstrance spiked the wrath, as it were, of the stout and angry woman he had jammed in the gate, he permitted the resumption of the trickle of impatient passengers.

Mr. Brimsdown followed with his eye the pretty girl who had been forgetful enough to give up a return ticket instead of a half one. She had stopped outside the barrier, gazing round with a troubled face at the immensity of the station and the throngs of hurrying people.

The lawyer looked at her hard, from a little distance. “Where have I seen that face before?” he murmured to himself.

Her beauty was of a sufficiently rare type to attract attention anywhere, except, perhaps, at a London railway station at midnight. She was unused to her surroundings and she was not a city product. So much was obvious, though her clear pale face and slim young figure did not suggest rusticity. Her dark eyes glanced quickly and nervously around her, and then she started to walk slowly towards one of the main entrances.

A luggage porter hurried towards her, intent on tips. The broad back of a policeman was outlined in the entrance. The girl looked wistfully from the policeman to the porter, then appeared to make up her mind. She extracted a silver coin from her purse, and proffered it timidly to the porter. The porter showed no timidity in accepting it.

“Luggage, miss, in the van?” he asked. “Just you wait ‘ere.”

“I have no luggage,” Mr. Brimsdown heard her say. Her eyes wandered downward to the little handbag she carried. “I wanted to ask you—I am a stranger to London. Can you tell me a place where I could stay; for the night—somewhere quiet and respectable?”

Mr. Brimsdown found himself listening anxiously for the porter’s reply. By all the laws of Romance he should have had an old mother in a clean and humble home who would have been delighted to give the girl shelter for the sight of her pretty face. But pretty girls are plentiful in London, and kind-hearted old women are rare. The porter seemed surprised at the inquiry. He pushed his blue cap back from a shock of red hair, and pondered the question deeply. Then he made a valiant feint of earning his shilling by throwing out suggestions of temperance hotels in Russell Square and the Euston Road. He warmed to the subject and depicted the attractions of these places. Quiet and cheap, and nothing respectabler in the ‘ole city of London. They was open at all hours. His own sister stayed in one when she come to town.

“Would you give me the address?” the girl wistfully asked.

The porter shook his head cautiously. He had evidently no intention of pawning his sister’s reputation for a shilling given him by a strange girl who might have designs on the spoons of temperance hotels.

“How do I get to Euston Road?” asked the girl with a quick realization of the fact that she had obtained London value for her shilling.

“By the Metropolitan.” He pointed to a blazing subterranean archway which at that late hour was still vomiting forth a mass of people. “Book at the first winder.”

Mr. Brimsdown watched the girl until she disappeared out of sight down the steps. He then turned away to seek his own train, the insistent feeling still haunting him that he had seen her pretty wistful face before. He taxed his memory to recall where, but memory made no response. It seemed a long time ago—like a glimpse from the face of the dead. Mr. Brimsdown strove to put the idea from him as a trick of the imagination.

He beckoned to a porter, who took his bag to a first-class carriage in the Penzance train. Mr. Brimsdown settled himself comfortably in a corner seat. A few minutes later the train moved out on the long night journey to Penzance.

Chapter XVIII

The clock in Dr. Ravenshaw’s study ticked loudly in the perfect stillness and then struck ten with a note of metallic derision as though rejoicing in the theft of an hour from a man who prided himself on knowing the value of time. Startled to find that it was so late, Barrant sprang to his feet and rang the bell. A sleepy Cornish maid appeared in answer, and Barrant informed her that he could not wait any longer.

“The doctor may be in at any time now, sir,” the girl eagerly assured him, as though she were in league with the clock to steal more of his time.

“I will call again,” said Barrant curtly.

“Any message, sir? Oh, here’s the doctor now. A gentleman to see you, sir.”

Dr. Ravenshaw advanced into the room. He looked tired and weary, as if he had spent a long vigil by a patient. He dismissed the girl with a nod, and turned inquiringly to his visitor.

“I am Detective Barrant, doctor; I have waited to see you on my way back from Flint House. I am investigating the case.”

“Yes?” said the doctor inquiringly. “Please be seated.”

“It is a strange case, you know,” began the detective. “And one of the strange things about it is that the dead man’s relatives differ whether it is murder or suicide. That’s what brings me to you. You are a medical man, and you knew Robert Turold intimately. Would you consider him a man of suicidal tendencies?”

“Many men have tendencies towards suicide at odd moments,” replied the doctor, “particularly men of Robert Turold’s temperament.”

“Was there anything in Robert Turold’s demeanour which suggested to you recently that he valued his life lightly, or was likely to take it?”

“I would rather not give a definite opinion on that point. I have to give evidence at the inquest, you know.”

Barrant nodded. He realized the force of the doctor’s objection to the expression of a view which might be proved erroneous later. So he turned to another phase of the case.

“You saw Robert Turold’s body soon after you arrived at Flint House?”

“Within a few minutes.”

“How long had he been dead?”

“About ten minutes, I should say.”

“What was the cause of death?”

“He was shot through the main blood vessel of the left lung. It was possible to arrive at that conclusion from the very severe haemorrhage. The blood was still flowing freely when we broke into the room. That would cause death from heart failure, following the haemorrhage, within two or three minutes, in all probability.”

“He was quite dead when you entered the study?”

“Quite.”

“How long after was the body carried into the bedroom?”

“An hour or more. It was some time before Pengowan arrived, and Thalassa and he removed the body a little later.”

Barrant looked disappointed at his reply. “Would it be possible to make marks on a corpse after that length of time?” he asked.

“What sort of marks?” asked the doctor.

“There was a mark of five fingers on the left arm, made by a left hand.”

“Then you have finger-prints to help you?”

“Unfortunately no. It’s a grip—a clutch—which, will not reveal print marks in the impressions. I thought they might have been caused during the removal of the body.”

“It is not possible to make such marks on a corpse. Reaction sets in at the moment of death. Sometimes blue spots appear on a dead body, and such appearances have been occasionally mistaken for bruises.”

“Did you observe any marks when you examined the body?” asked Barrant as he rose to his feet.

“No, but my examination was confined to ascertaining if life was extinct.”

Barrant thanked him and said good night. The doctor rose also, and escorted him to the door.

Outside, a wild west wind sprang at him. Barrant pulled his hat over his eyes and hurried away.

The following morning he sought out Inspector Dawfield at his office in Penzance and disclosed to him his conclusions about the case.

“I intend to go to London by this morning’s train, Dawfield,” he announced. “We must find Robert Turold’s daughter.”

“You think she has gone to London?”

“I feel sure of it, and I do not think it will be difficult to trace her. I shall try first at Paddington. I will get the warrant for her arrest backed at Bow Street, and put a couple of good men on the search before returning here. You had better have the inquest adjourned until I come back. This is no suicide, Dawfield, but a deep and skilfully planned murder.”

“I should think the flight of the girl makes that pretty clear,” said Dawfield, as he made a note on his office pad.

Barrant shook his head. “It’s too strange a case for us to have any feeling of certainty about it yet,” he said. “There is some very deep mystery behind the facts. Every step of my investigation convinces me of that. The disappearance of Miss Turold does not explain everything.”

“She was up at Flint House on that night, and now she is not to be found. Surely that is enough?”

“This is not a straightforward case. It’s going to prove a very complicated one. But I have come to the conclusion that the quickest way to get at the truth is to find Sisily Turold. Her flight suggests that she is implicated in the crime in some way, and it may even mean that she is guilty.”

“Do not the circumstances point to her guilt?”

“Circumstances can lie with the facility of humanity, at times. Moreover, we do not know all the circumstances yet. But let us examine the facts we have discovered. We believe that the girl visited her father’s house on the night of his death, and has since disappeared. We must assume that it was she who was seen listening at the door during the afternoon by Mrs. Pendleton, because that assumption provides strong motive for the murder by giving the key of interpretation to Miss Turold’s subsequent actions. We must picture the effect of that overheard conversation on the girl’s mind. She had been kept in ignorance about the secret of her birth, and she suddenly discovers that instead of being a prospective peeress and heiress, she is only an illegitimate daughter, a nameless thing, a reproach in a world governed by moral conventions. Her prospects, her future, and her life are shattered by her father’s act. The effect might well be overwhelming. She broods over the wrong done to her, and decides to go to Flint House that night and see her father, though not, I think, with the premeditated idea of murder. Her idea was to plead and remonstrate with him.”

“Why do you think that?” asked Dawfield.

“She could not have foreseen that her absence from the hotel would pass unnoticed. That was pure luck, due to Mrs. Pendleton’s chance