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

Charles had thought nothing of this chatter at the time, but he wondered now if they were talking of Thalassa. Did the local fisherfolk believe that he had something to do with the murder, and shunned him like Ishmael in consequence?

He looked like Ishmael at that moment, crossing that wild place, earnestly scanning every nook of those seamed and riven walls, sometimes glancing stealthily behind him. His preoccupation in this search—if it was a search—was so great that he never once glanced ahead, and he did not see Charles until the young man leaped down the last few paces of his slippery descent and stood plainly forth before him. Thalassa’s brown face did not move a muscle as he looked at him.

“Thalassa,” said Charles sternly, “I have been looking for you.”

Thalassa went on, still scanning the secret places of the towering cliffs as he walked forward with Charles beside him. When the rugged passage was crossed, and the narrow wild bay left behind, he spoke.

“For what?”

“To have the truth out of you, you infernal scoundrel!” cried the young man fiercely, his self-control suddenly vanishing at that indifferent tone. “You know all about the murder of your master; you’re going to tell me, or I’ll throw you off these cliffs into the sea.”

He gripped the other’s arm as he spoke, but Thalassa tore off his fingers, and leapt backward against a rock, a knife in his hand, snarling like a wild beast.

“Keep off!” he cried. “Keep off, or by Christ, I’ll—” He hooked the air with his knife.

Charles eyed him across the space, affected almost to nausea by his evil glance. What a fool he had been to lose his temper! Not in that way was the truth to be reached. The man before him was not to be terrorized or intimidated. Sisily’s way would have been the best. He wondered whether it was too late to attempt it.

“I was hasty, Thalassa,” he said. “Come, do not let us quarrel after I have risked everything to get down here to see you. I have a message for you—from Sisily.”

The face of the man crouching by the rock changed instantly. He made a step forward, as if to speak, then cast a gleaming eye of unbelief at his companion.

“It’s a lie!” he said. “You haven’t seen her.”

“I’m speaking the truth,” Charles earnestly replied. “Do you think I’d have come back to Cornwall otherwise, knowing the police are searching for me?”

“Ay, you know that, do you?” muttered the other. “They’ve been watching Flint House for you. You were a fool to come back here.”

“I’d risk more than that to learn the truth, Thalassa. It’s for Sisily’s sake. I’ve seen her. She’s in London, and I’ve come from her. She gave me this message to bring to you. She said: ‘Tell Thalassa that I ask him to tell the truth—if he knows it.’ The police are looking for her as well as me.”

“I’ve heered so.” With these words, uttered quickly, Thalassa fell into the silence of a man on his guard and pondering. Charles approached nearer.

“Thalassa,” he pleaded, “if you are keeping anything back you must tell me for Sisily’s sake.”

“How do I know you’ve seen her?” retorted Thalassa, darting a dark crafty look at him.

Charles was overwhelmed by a sense of catastrophe. Here was a possibility which had been overlooked. How was he to instil belief that he spoke the truth? A moment passed. Thalassa cast another black look at him, and turned as if to walk away. “I’ll keep my word,” he muttered to himself.

The young man’s quick ear caught the whispered sentence, and saw the way. “I’ll prove it to you,” he said. “You promised Sisily that you’d tell nobody she was at Flint House to see her father on the night he was killed. How could I know that unless I’d seen her?”

“What else?” said Thalassa, facing him with a strange and doubtful glance.

“You let her in,” Charles rapidly continued, “and you waited downstairs for her. Afterwards you took her back across the moors to catch the wagonette. It was on the way, near the cross-roads, that Sisily made you promise not to tell anybody that she’d been there that night.”

“Suppose it’s true—what then?” Thalassa’s voice was edged with the craftiest caution. “She’s sent you to me to ask for the truth, say you. ‘Twould have been safer not. What else is there to say, when she’s told you everything?” He cast a look of savage jealousy at the young man.

“Much.” Charles spoke rapidly, but his glance was despairing. “What happened while you were away from the house? What sent your wife mad? What did you find when you returned? You know these things, Thalassa.”

“Happen I did, what good’d come of telling them?”

“To save Sisily.”

“They’d not help to save her.”

“Do you think she shot her father?”

Thalassa gave him another dark look, but remained silent.

“You know she didn’t, you hound!” cried Charles, anger flaring up in him again. “It was you—it must have been you. Listen to me! I know almost enough to hang you. I was in the house while you were away, and found your master lying dead in his study, and the key of the door in the passage outside. Who could have dropped it there except you?”

“‘Tweren’t me. ‘Twas done afore I got back to the house,” answered Thalassa.

“What time was it when you left the house with Sisily?”

“Agone half-past eight: perhaps ten minutes after. She came running downstairs, her eyes staring and blazing. ‘Thalassa, dear Thalassa, for pity’s sake let me out,’ she said half-sobbing. ‘Oh, what did I come for? He’s wicked—wicked.’ Twasn’t for me to say anything between father and daughter, so I just opened the door without a word, and went out with her.”

“What time did Sisily catch the wagonette?”

“That’s what I don’t know. She made me go back when we got to the cross-roads. She knew as well as I did that the old fool who drives it wasn’t particular as to time, and she worried about my old woman getting scairt if she found herself alone, and me out. ‘Go back to her, Thalassa,’ she said, ‘I shall be all right now.’ That was just after she’d made me promise to tell nobody that she’d been to see her father that night. And, by God, I kept my word. Nobody got anything out of me, though they tried hard enough. Well, when she sent me back I went, leaving her standing, for I had my own reason for going. When I looked back after a bit I saw her standing there by the light of the dirty little lamp above the cross-roads.”

“Did you see the wagonette on the road?”

“Not a sign of it. Just her—alone.”

A faint hope died in Charles’s breast. Even the drunken irregularity of a Cornish cabman told against Sisily. But that point was not so immediately important as Thalassa’s story that the murder had been committed during his absence from Flint House. Although his own experience supported that supposition, Charles was reluctant to accept a theory which plunged the events of that night into deeper mystery than ever.

“Well, go on,” he said. “What did you find when you got back?”

“The house was dark and the door open. The wind was coming in from the sea sharp enough to take your head off your shoulders, and I thought perhaps I’d jammed the door without closing it, and it had blowed open with the wind. But when I got inside I heered something like moaning. I thought that might be the wind too, for it’s for ever screeching up and down the passages like a devil, specially o’ nights. I—” He stopped suddenly, with a cautious sidelong look at his listener.

“Yes, yes!” cried Charles. “And what then?”

Thalassa went on, but a little moodily.

“I went along to the kitchen and found the old woman lying on the floor, in a kind of fit or faint, making the queer noise I’d just heered. When I picked her up she opened her eyes, laughing and crying and making mouths as she pointed to the ceiling. I could get nothing out of her for a while. Then she mutters something about a crash upstairs, and goes off into another fit. I carried her into her bedroom and went upstairs as fast as my legs would take me. There was a light under his door, but he didn’t answer when I knocked. I tried to open it, but it was locked inside. In a bit there was a knock downstairs. You know what happened after that.” He lapsed into silence again, with another look at the young man.

“That was when my aunt and her husband and Dr. Ravenshaw came to the door?” said Charles, filling in the pause. “But how was it that you told them that you feared something had happened to your master? Was that pure guesswork on your part? You hadn’t been in the room, you say.”

“I had to tell them something, hadn’t I?” retorted the other sullenly. “If I hadn’t told them that, it would a’ all come out about me going out with Miss Sisily, and not into the coal cellar, as I said.”

“It is astonishing that your story should have been so near the truth when you knew nothing of what had taken place.”

“I did know something. The door was open, the house dark, and she in a fit on the floor, saying there’d been a crash upstairs. Then his door was locked, and I couldn’t get an answer. Wasn’t that enough?”

“Hardly enough to warrant your saying that you feared your master had been murdered—unless you expected him to be murdered.”

“I didn’t say that,” replied Thalassa with unusual quickness. “All I said was that I was afeered something had happened to him. There was reason for thinking that. I had to make up my story quick—that part about just going for Dr. Ravenshaw. That was because I’d still got my hat and topcoat on, just as I’d come in from the moors, and I wasn’t going to break my promise to Miss Sisily.”

“Did you see the blood under the door when you went up and tried to get in?”

“I’ve told you all there is to tell,” was the dogged response.

“What frightened your wife so much? Do you think she saw the murderer?”

“That’s what I would like to know,” responded Thalassa, with a swift cunning glance.

He turned his face away and looked across the sea, the brown outline of his hooked profile more than ever like an effigy carved by savage hands. Charles scanned him despairingly. The feeling was strong within him that he was still keeping something back.

“Thalassa,” he said, “you should have told this story before. You have done wrong in keeping it back.”

“‘Twould a’ been breaking of my word to Miss Sisily.”

“It was of more importance to clear her. You could have done that if you had come forward and told the police, as you’ve just told me, that she left the house with you before nine o’clock on that night.”

“‘Twouldn’t a’ helped if I had. I found out next day that the wagonette didn’t get to the cross-roads that night till nearly ten o’clock. ‘Twas after half-past nine when it left the inn.”

“What made you find out that?”

“Do you think I didn’t put my wits to work when the damned detective was trying to put me into it as well as her? I thought it all out then—about telling the truth. But I saw ‘twould a’ been no good for her, but only made matters worse. Who’d a’ believed me? There be times when a man can say too much, so I kept my mouth shut.”

There was so much sense in this that Charles had nothing to say in reply. In silence they tramped along till they reached the dip of the sea in which the Moon Rock lay. Here they paused, as if with the mutual feeling that the time had come for the interview to end. Behind them towered the cliffs, with Flint House hanging crazily on the summit far above where they stood. The eye of Charles ranged along the shore to the spot where he had said good-bye to Sisily not so very long ago, then returned to rest doubtingly on Thalassa. The old man stood with his hand resting on a giant rock, his dark eyes fixed on the rim of the waste of grey water where a weak declining sun hung irresolutely, as though fearing the inevitable plunge.

“I’d a’ given my right arm to have saved her from this,” Charles heard him mutter.

Charles found himself looking down at Thalassa’s brown muscular arm, corded with veins, stretched out on the rock by which he stood. It was as though it had been bared