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

who could it have been? Have you any idea—the faintest suspicion?”

Again she shook her head. She made an effort to look at him, but there were tears in her eyes for the first time. His hand was resting on the table, and she touched it gently with her fingers.

“We must find out.” He spoke loudly, as if with the idea that a firm utterance lessened the tremendous difficulty of that performance.

“What can we do?” Her tone was hopeless enough.

“Let me think.” He fiddled with the planchette on the table as though he had some notion of invoking the shade of Robert Turold to answer the question. “Had your father any enemy? Did he fear anybody?”

She raised thoughtful eyes to his in reply.

“My father feared nobody,” she said, “at least, I do not think so. Nobody had any real influence over him except Thalassa.”

“What sort of an influence?”

“It is difficult to describe,” she hesitatingly answered. “Thalassa could take liberties which nobody else would have dared. He used to go into his room at any time. Sometimes I have awakened late at night and heard the murmur of their voices coming from my father’s study.”

“Anything else?” he said, looking at her keenly.

“There was never any question of Thalassa leaving us,” she went on. “Wherever we went, and we were always going to some fresh part of England about the title, Thalassa went also. Perhaps it was because he had known him for so long that my father allowed Thalassa to do things which nobody else could do. Thalassa used to sneer about the title, and say no good would come of it. They had a quarrel once, long, long ago. I was a very little girl at the time, and I can just remember it,” she added dreamily.

She was apparently unconscious of the significance of these revelations, but they made a deep impression upon Charles. There was something expectant and cruel in his face as he listened—the aroused instinct of the hunter. He addressed her—

“This bears out what I have believed all along. Thalassa knows about the murder. He is mixed up in it in some way.”

“Oh, why do you think that?” she exclaimed, clasping her hand in distress.

“Why?” he echoed. “Because your father was not the man to stand insolence from Thalassa or anybody else unless he had to. Thalassa must have had him under his thumb in some way. Why did I not know of this before? It’s clear enough now. Thalassa, even if he did not commit the murder—”

“He did not,” she said quickly. “He left the house with me, so he could not have done it.”

“Then he knows who did. He and your father shared some secret together—some dreadful secret which brought about your father’s death. That is one reason why Thalassa will not speak—because he is implicated in this mystery, whatever it is.”

“No, no. He is keeping silence because of me—I feel sure. I made him promise not to tell.”

Charles Turold shook his head decidedly. “He may have more than one reason for keeping silent,” he said with a swift flash of intuition. “If it is as you say, he is shielding himself as well as you. If your father was killed while Thalassa was out of the house that night, Thalassa knows who did it.”

Her eyes met his in an agony of perplexity and distress. “Oh, no, I cannot think you are right,” she said. “If I could only see Thalassa—for five minutes—”

“What good would that do?” he abruptly demanded.

“He would tell me the truth—if he knew.”

He shook his head incredulously. “You do not know all,” he murmured. He shrank from telling her of the marks on her father’s arm. “I know Thalassa,” she eagerly replied. “He would tell me if he thought it would help me.”

“If you think that I will go down and see him—and get it all out of him.”

“No, no! You must not go,” she cried in affright. “It would not be safe for you.”

“Would it be any more dangerous than hiding in London like a skulking rat?” he bitterly replied. “This cannot go on. We are both in a dangerous position, and might be arrested at any moment. What would happen then? Who would believe my story—or yours? They sound improbable even to ourselves. Here, at least, is a chance of discovering the truth, for I most solemnly believe that Thalassa knows it, or guesses it. What other chance have we of finding out the hideous mystery of that night? I must go, Sisily. I will be careful, for your sake.”

She knew by his voice that he was not to be deterred from the hazardous enterprise, so she did not attempt to dissuade him further. But she clung to him trembling, as though she would have shielded him from the menace of capture. He was thinking rapidly.

“It may be that I shall fail,” he said. “I do not think so, because I shall take every precaution, but the police will be watching for me in Cornwall as well as here. If I fail—if I do not come back … you will understand?”

Her look answered him.

“You had better watch the papers. And be careful on your own account.” He eyed her anxiously. “Do you think you will be safe here till I get back?”

“Yes—I think so,” she murmured sadly.

“Very well. I will go down by to-night’s train—I’ve just time to catch it.” He glanced at his watch with an assumption of cheerfulness. “When you wake up in the morning I shall be in Cornwall.”

“I shall not sleep,” she said, in a miserable broken voice. “I shall lie awake, thinking of you.”

He caught her swiftly in his arms, and kissed her on the lips. “If I find out the truth, nothing shall come between us then, Sisily?”

“No, nothing,” she said.

He turned with a sudden swift movement as though to go, but she still held him.

“Tell Thalassa … that I ask him to tell you the truth, if he knows it….”

She released him then, and stood looking after him as he walked from the room and out of the house.

Chapter XXVII

Flint House looked a picture of desolation in the chill grey day, wrapped in such silence that Charles’s cautious knock seemed to reverberate through the stillness around. But the knocking, repeated more loudly, aroused no human response. After waiting awhile the young man pulled the bell. From within the house a cracked and jangling tinkle echoed faintly, and then quivered into silence. He rang again, but there was no sound of foot or voice; no noise but the cries of the gulls overhead and the hoarse beat of the sea at the foot of the cliffs.

A cormorant, sitting on a rock near by, twisted its thin neck to stare fearlessly at the visitor. But Charles Turold was not thinking of cormorants. Where was Thalassa? Where was his wife? He believed they were still in Cornwall, but they might have left the house. He had been in London a long while. Not so long, though—only twelve days. Twelve days! Twelve eternities of unendurable hopelessness and loneliness, such as the damned might know. Was he to fail, now, after finding Sisily? He had a responsibility, a solemn duty. He had reached Cornwall safely from London—run the gauntlet of all the watching eyes of the police—and he would not go back without seeing Thalassa. His mind was thoroughly made up. He would find him, if he had to walk every inch of Cornwall in search of him. And when he found him he would wrest the truth out of him—yes, by God, he would! When he found him, but where was he to be found? The crafty old scoundrel might be in the house at that moment, lurking there like a wolf, perhaps grinning down at him from behind some closed window…. A sudden rage surged over him at that thought, and he fell savagely on the shut door, beating it with insensate fury with his fists. Damn him, he would force his way in!

The cormorant ruffled its greenish feathers and watched him curiously. The faint cries of the gulls overhead seemed borne downward with a note of mocking derision. Charles Turold stepped back from the door with an uneasy look at the cormorant, as though fearing to detect in its unreflecting beadiness of glance some humanly cynical enjoyment at his loss of self-control. The wave of feeling had spent itself. Not thus was victory to be won. He paused to consider, then tried the knocker again. The knocker smote the wood with a hollow sound, like a stroke on the iron door of a vault, loud enough to rouse the dead. Charles Turold had a disagreeable impression of Robert Turold starting up in his grave-clothes at the summons, listening…. But no! The dead man was safe in his grave by this time. He had forgotten that.

A sudden silence fell on the house: a deep and profound stillness, as though seas and wind had hushed their wailing speech to listen for the answer to the knock. The birds, too, were silent. The house remained immutably quiet. Charles Turold bent down, and peered through the keyhole, but could see nothing within but darkness. Then, as he looked, a sound reached his ears, a sound like a thin cackle of laughter from the interior of the house. In the gathering gloom within he had a momentary impression of a stealing greyish shape—a shape which vanished from his vision as he looked.

He rose to his feet, his mind groping blindly for some tangible explanation of this spectral thing, but finding none. A ghost? He shook off that feeling roughly. God knows, that house might well be haunted, but not by a ghost that could laugh, though there was no merriment in that ghastly cackle. The reality of the thing, whatever it was, could not be worse than the sound. Had he really seen anything, after all? Was there some trap about it, some danger to himself? He would have to risk that.

The distant sight of a human figure far away on the wide space of the moors, clambering over the granite slabs of a stile, turned his thoughts to a more perceptible danger. If he could see that man more than half a mile away, his own figure must be apparent over a long distance in that clear brown expanse. Perhaps at that very moment the policeman from the churchtown was prowling about the moors in search of him. His actions at that lonely house were suspicious enough to attract anybody’s attention. That was an act of imprudence which he had no right to commit. He had not evaded the keen eyes of the London police to be trapped like a rat by a rural constable. It was too dangerous for him to remain there. He determined to spend the rest of the day among the cliffs, and return to Flint House when night fell.

He walked away, briskly at first, but with a more laggard step as he plunged into the shelter of the great rocks, for he had had nothing to eat since the night before, and was beginning to be conscious of his weakness. But he strode on, doggedly enough, for more than an hour, until he found himself at a part of the coast he had not seen before—a theatre of black rocks, with dark towering walls, and a hissing sea whitening at the base.

At the foot of these cliffs three jagged conical rocks rose bare and glistening, the spray from the broken sea dashing far up their sides. As Charles stood there, looking down, he saw a man appear from the edge of the furthest one and walk rapidly across the sloping shelf of rock which spanned the narrow bay near the surface of the sea. His heart leapt within him as he took in the figure of the man. It was Thalassa.

As Charles climbed down from the higher cliffs to intercept him, there came to his mind an imperfectly comprehended fragment of conversation which he had overheard, between waking and dozing, in the train that morning. The voices drifted to his dulled hearing from the next compartment, where some men seemed to be discussing somebody of whom they stood in dread, somebody who was forever striding along the cliffs with his eyes fixed on some distant horizon, as though seeking some one. The object of the mysterious being’s quest, if it was a quest, nobody who met him cared to ask. So much he had gathered. He had heard one of the speakers say: “I’ve met un, ever so laate, stalkin’ aloong like th’ devil. Tes aw token o’ a bad conscience. Tes dreadful to think about. I got owt o’ his way…. I’d as soon speak to th’ devil. Iss, aw’d.”