The Moon Rock by Arthur J. Rees (no david read aloud .txt) 📕

the truth, and Thalassa, moreover, was at the disadvantage of having something to hide. It would be strange if he did not succeed in getting the facts out of him.

The St. Fair wagonette was pulled up outside the station. Mr. Crows, master of his destiny and time-tables, reclined in front, regarding with a glazed eye his drooping horse. Inside, some stout women with bundles waited patiently until it suited the autocrat on the box seat to start on his homeward way. Mr. Crows showed no indication of being in a hurry. His head nodded drowsily, and a little saliva trickled down his nether lip. He straightened himself with a sudden jerk as Barrant climbed up beside him.

“What be yewer doin’ yare?” he demanded.

“I’m going to St. Fair,” said Barrant.

“I doan’t allow no passergers to sit alongside o’ me.”

“You’ll have to put up with it for once,” returned Barrant curtly, in no way softened by the odour of Mr. Crows’ breath.

As this was a reply which no resident of St. Fair would have dared to make, Mr. Crows bent a muddled glance on his fare, and by a concentrated effort recalled the face of the man who had given him ten shillings on the previous night. He decided to pocket the present indignity in the hope of another tip.

“Aw right,” he said, with unwonted amiability, “yewer can stay where yew are—for wance.”

He applied himself to driving the wagonette. Sobriety was not an essential of the feat. The horse knew the way, drew clear of the town without accident, and jogged into the long winding road which stretched across the moors. The shadows deepened into night, and Mr. Crows lighted a solitary lamp in the front of his vehicle.

“Aren’t you going to light up inside?” asked Barrant, when the lamp was flickering faintly.

“No,” replied Mr. Crows shortly. “It don’t pay. Let ‘em set in the dark.”

“Not enough passengers, eh?”

“Moren enough fat old wommen on the out journey,” declared Mr. Crows passionately. “That’s because it’s all up-hill. But they walk in downhill to save a shellen. I know them.” He brooded darkly. “It’s all part of the plan,” he went on. Then, as though feeling that this latter statement, in itself, erred on the side of vagueness, he added—“to worrit a man.”

“How many passengers did you have on your last journey in, last night?”

“Two on ‘em.” Mr. Crows, with forefinger and thumb, snuffed his nose as he had previously snuffed the candle in the lamp. “There was Peter Portgartha and a young woman. I happen to know it was a young ‘un because she went away at such a rate when she got out. When wommen begins to get up in years they go in the legs, same as harses.”

“Would you know her again if you saw her?” asked Barrant eagerly.

“Not if you was to sware me on the Howly Trinity.”

“Did this young woman travel up with you by this wagonette last night?”

Mr. Crows couldn’t say for that. There were six insides, that was all he knew. He disremembered anything about them.

“Surely you notice the passengers you carry?”

Mr. Crows, with the air of one propounding an insoluble riddle, asked his fare why should he take notice of his passengers? He weren’t paid for that—no, not he. What’s more, the night was a dark one. He knew there was six insides because six fares was put through the winder, but whether they was put through by men or ma’adens or widder wommen was moren he cud say.

He again called on the Trinity to attest his ignorance.

“Their shellens is nuthin’ to me”—the reference was to the passengers. “They wouldn’t pay for the harse’s feed. I work for the Duchy, I do, which is almost the same as being in Guvverment, ain’t it? I remember yew, thow—because yew gave me ten shellens for driving yew to the Central hotel last night.” Mr. Crows cast a quick glance at his fare to see how he took this artful reminder of his munificence. “But as for their bobs—” He spat into the night in order to express his contempt for the insignificance of such small sums.

There was a tap at the window behind him. He unfastened the pane, and a spectral hand came through with a coin. Mr. Crows took it, the hand disappeared, to be replaced by another, more dirty than spectral, with a coin in the outstretched palm, like its predecessor.

“You see,” said Mr. Crows, when he had collected six shillings in this manner. “What’s the need for to look at them? I’ve learnt them to hand in their fares this way. Saves time and talk for nothing. Why should I look at a lot of fat old wommen? I ain’t paid for that. It’s quite enough to let them set in my cab, wearing out my cushions with their great fat bodies, without looking at them.” He eyed Barrant with some sternness.

“But this was not a fat old woman,” said Barrant. “She was a pretty young girl.”

“Ma’ad or widder, it’s all the same to me,” returned the misogynist. “Some holds with the sex and finds them soothing, but I was never took up with them myself. I prefers beer. Every man to his taste.”

“Did any of the passengers alight at the crossroads?”

They were nearing the cross-roads as he spoke, and the rude outline of the wayside cross loomed out of the shadows directly ahead.

“I couldn’t tell you that, neither. I always stop at the cross-roads, in and out. It’s one of my regular stopping-places. Come to think of it, though, somebody did get out at the cross-roads last night.”

“A man or woman?” asked Barrant with eagerness.

“A woman. She went off acrass the moors that way.” Mr. Crows pointed an indifferent whip into the blackness which rested like a pall between the white road and the distant roaring sea. “She was a wunner to go, too—out of sight in a moment, she was.”

“Thank you. I’ll get down here, too.”

As the wagonette stopped at the cross-roads Barrant jumped down from his seat and disappeared in the indicated direction before Mr. Crows could summon his slow wits to determine the value of the coin which the detective had pressed into his passively expectant palm.

Chapter XVI

The twilight had deepened into darkness when Barrant reached Flint House. A faint ray of light flickered from the kitchen window on the giant cliffs, like a taper from a doll’s house. He approached the window by a line of rocks which guarded it like sentinels, and looked in.

Within, Mrs. Thalassa sat alone by the table in a drooping attitude of dejection or stupor. Her head was bent over her crossed hands, which rested on the table, and her grey hair, escaping from the back comb which fastened it, fell on both sides of her face. An oil lamp smoked on the table beside her, sending forth a cloud of black vapour like an unbottled genie, but she did not heed it. There was something uncanny in her complete detachment from the restless activity of life. The dead man lying upstairs was not more still.

Had Barrant known her better he would have had matter for surprise and conjecture in the fact that her patience cards stood untouched in their shabby leather case, but knowing nothing of that he fell to wondering what her husband had seen in such a queer little creature to marry her. The consideration of that question led him to the conclusion that perhaps Thalassa had been impelled to his choice by the realization that she was as good-looking a wife as he could afford. Barrant reflected that women resembled horses in value. The mettlesome showy ones were bred to display their paces for rich men only. Serviceable hacks, warranted to work a lifetime, could not be expected to be ornamental as well as useful. So long as they pulled their burdens without jibbing overmuch, one had to be content.

He began to wonder where Thalassa was, and moved closer to the shadow of one of the rocks in case he happened to be prowling around the house. In the silence of the night he listened for the sound of footsteps on the rocks, but could hear nothing except the moan of the sea and the whimper of a rising wind. His eye, glancing upwards, fell upon a chink of shuttered light in the back of the house which looked down on the sea. The light came from the dead man’s study, and had not been there a few moments before.

Barrant walked to the kitchen door and tapped lightly. There was no answer, but somewhere within the house a dog howled dismally. The door handle yielded to his touch when he tried it, and he walked in.

The little old woman at the table made a sudden movement at his appearance, but he gave her a reassuring smile and nod. She sat quite still, with a look of fear in her eyes. Above his head he heard someone moving in the study.

“Your husband is upstairs?” he asked in a voice which was little more than a whisper. “I want to see him—I am going up to him.”

He did not wait for her to reply, and she watched him out of the room with staring eyes. Stealthily he directed his steps to the staircase, and with infinite precautions for silence commenced to ascend. But midway he stumbled in the dark, and the stair creaked loudly. Above his head a door opened sharply, and when he reached the landing he saw the figure of Thalassa framed in the lighted doorway at the far end of the long passage, listening.

“Who’s there?” he cried; then his eye fell on Barrant, advancing swiftly from the darkness towards the light. “What do you want?” he said. “How did you get in?”

Barrant looked past him into the room. There was a litter of papers on the table and shelves, as he had last seen it, but it did not seem to him that anything had been disturbed. The door of the death chamber opposite was closed.

“What are you doing up here?” he said sternly.

Thalassa did not deign to parley. “What do you want?” he repeated, looking steadily at the detective.

“Did you hear what I said to you?” angrily demanded Barrant. “Were you not told not to interfere with these rooms in any way? You have no right up here.”

“More right than you have to come into a house like a thief,” retorted Thalassa coldly. “I have my work to do. The place must be looked after, whether I’m spied on or not.”

“I advise you not to take that tone with me,” replied the detective. “As you are here, you had better come into this room again, and shut the door behind you. I have some questions I want to put to you.”

Thalassa followed Barrant into the room and stood by the table, the rays of the swinging-lamp throwing his brown face into sharp outline. “What do you want to know?” he asked.

“I want you to tell me everything that happened in this house on the night your master was found dead.”

“There’s not much to tell,” began Thalassa slowly. “When it happened I was down in the cellar, breaking some coal. I heered my wife call out to me from the kitchen. I went up from the cellar, and she was standing at the kitchen door, shaking like a leaf with fright. She said there’d been a terrible crash right over her head in Mr. Turold’s study. I took a lamp and went upstairs, and knocked at the door, but I got no reply. I knocked three times as loud as I could, but there wasn’t a sound. At that I gets afeered myself, so I put on my hat and coat to go across to the churchtown to fetch Dr. Ravenshaw. Then a knock come to the front door, and when I opened the door there was the doctor and Mr. and Mrs. Pendleton.”

“How long was that after the crash upstairs?”

“No longer than it took me to go upstairs, knock at the door, and getting no answer, go downstairs to put on my coat and hat. I was just winding a comforter round my throat when I heered the knock.”

“It did not occur to you to break in the door of your master’s room when you got no answer and found it locked?”

“No it never, and you wouldn’t have done it in my place.”

“You heard no sound of a shot?”

“Not down in the cellar. I fancy I heered the sound of the clock falling. It came to me all muffled like, though it frightened her rarely.” He pointed downward to the kitchen. “And it frightened the dog, too, started it barking.”

“Is that the dog I heard whining