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

of view of justice as a battle of wits, with victory to the sharpest, was a little too cynical for his acceptance. But he believed it to be his duty to safeguard the interests of his client. Robert Turold was dead, and no longer able to protect his own name. It might be that the facts of his death involved some scandalous secret of the dead man’s which was better undivulged, and if so it would remain undivulged, could Mr. Brimsdown contrive it. For the time being he would pursue his investigations and keep his own counsel.

The sound of an opening door and a shadow athwart the threshold disturbed his meditations. He looked up, and was confronted by the spectacle of Thalassa advancing into the room with his eyes fixed upon him.

“Well, Thalassa,” he said, “what do you want?”

“To ask you something,” was the response. “It’s this. It’s every man for himself—now that he’s gone.”

He jerked his thumb in the direction of the next room. “He took this house for twelve months, and so it’ll have to be paid for. Can I stop here for a bit? I suppose it’s in your hands to say yes or no.”

His face was hard and expressionless as ever, but there was a new note in his voice which struck the lawyer’s keen ear—an accent of supplication. He looked at Thalassa thoughtfully.

“You wish to stay on here until you have made other arrangements for your future—is that so?” he asked.

“That’s it,” was the brief reply.

Mr. Brimsdown felt there was more than that—some deeper, secret reason. Before granting the request it occurred to him to try and get what he could in exchange. Self-interest is the strongest of human motives, and men wanting favours are in a mood to yield something in return.

“Well, Thalassa,” he said, amiably enough, but watching him with the eye of a hawk, “I do not think your request is altogether unreasonable—in the circumstances. I dare say it could be arranged. I’ll try to do so, but I should like you to answer me one or two questions first.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Was your master’s daughter here—in the house, I mean—on the night of his death?”

Thalassa’s face hardened. “You, too?” he said simply. “I say again, as I said before, that she was not.”

“You said so,” rejoined Mr. Brimsdown softly. “The question is—are you telling the truth? If you know anything of the events of that night you may be injuring Miss Turold by your silence.”

For a moment Mr. Brimsdown thought his appeal was going to succeed. He could have sworn that a flicker of hesitation—of irresolution—crossed the old man’s stern countenance. But the mood passed immediately, and it was in an indifferent voice that Thalassa, turning to go, replied—

“If that’s what you’re reckoning on, I’d better go and pack my traps.”

“Oh, I don’t make that a condition,” replied the lawyer, acknowledging his defeat in a sporting spirit. “You can remain here and look after the house until you decide what to do. As Robert Turold’s old servant you are entitled to consideration. I will help you afterwards, if you will let me know your plans. I am sure that would have been your late master’s wish.”

“I want nothing from him,” Thalassa rejoined, “a damned black scoundrel.”

Mr. Brimsdown was shocked at this savage outburst, but there was something so implacable in the old man’s air that the rebuke he wished to utter died unspoken. Thalassa regarded him for a moment in silence, and then went on—

“Thank’ee for letting me stop on here a bit. Now I’ll tell you something—about him.” Again his thumb indicated the next room. “It was the night after.”

“Do you mean the night after he met his death?”

“Yes. Some one was upstairs in his room—in this room.”

Mr. Brimsdown gave a startled glance around him, as though seeking a lurking form in the shadows. “Here?” he breathed.

“Here, sure enough. I woke up in my bed downstairs, staring wide awake, as though somebody had touched me on the shoulder. I was just turning over to go to sleep again, when I heered a noise up here.”

“What sort of a noise?”

“Like the rustling of paper. I listened for a bit, then it stopped. I heard a board creak in the next room, where we’d carried him. Then the rustling started in the other room again, right over my head. The dog downstairs started to bark. I got up, and went upstairs as quickly as I could, but there was nobody—except him. The dog frightened whoever it was, I suppose. Next morning I found the front room window wide open.”

“Were there any footprints outside the window?”

“A man doesn’t leave footprints on rocks.”

“What time was it?”

“It would be about midnight, I reckon.”

“Did your wife hear the noise?”

“No. She was in bed and asleep.”

“Are you sure you didn’t dream this?” Mr. Brimsdown asked, with a shrewd penetrating glance.

“The open window wasn’t a dream,” was the dogged reply.

“You might have left it open yourself.”

“No, I didn’t. I close the windows every night before dark.”

“And lock them?”

“Not always.”

The incident did not sound convincing to Mr. Brimsdown, but his face did not reveal his scepticism as he thanked Thalassa for the information. Thalassa lingered, as if he had something still on his mind. He brought it out abruptly—

“Has anything been seen of Miss Sisily?”

“Nothing whatever, Thalassa.”

On that he turned away, and went out of the room, leaving the lawyer pondering over his story of a midnight intruder. Mr. Brimsdown came to the conclusion that it was probably imagination, and so dismissed it from his mind.

He resumed his work of working over the papers, but after a few minutes discontinued his search, and walked restlessly about the room. The air seemed to have the taint of death in it, and he crossed over to one of the windows and flung it up.

The window looked out on the sea, though far above it, but the slope of the house embraced in the view a portion of the cliffs at the side. As Mr. Brimsdown stood so, breathing the sea air and looking around him, he espied a woman, closely veiled, walking rapidly across the cliffs in the direction of the house.

She vanished from the range of his vision almost immediately, but a few minutes later he heard footsteps and an opening door. He was again confronted by the presence of Thalassa on the threshold. But this time Thalassa did not linger. “Somebody to see you,” he announced with gruff brevity, and turned away.

The open door now revealed the figure of the woman he had seen outside. She advanced into the room.

“Mr. Brimsdown?” she said.

“That is my name,” said the lawyer, eyeing her in some surprise. He recognized her as the woman who had stared after him when he left Austin Turold’s lodgings, but he could not conjecture the object of her visit.

“I see you do not remember me,” she sadly remarked.

“You are Mrs. Brierly, I think.”

“Yes. But I was Mary Pleasington before I was married. I remember you very well, but I suppose that I have changed.”

Mr. Brimsdown recalled the name with a start of surprise. He found it difficult to recognize, in the faded woman before him, the pretty daughter of his old client, Sir Roger Pleasington, whose debts and lawsuits had been compounded by death ten years before. He remembered his daughter as a budding beauty, with the airs and graces of a pretty girl who imagines her existence to be of some importance in the world. He recollected that her marriage to an impecunious young artist had caused some sensation in Society at the time. Marriage had dealt hardly with her, and no trace of her beauty or vivacity remained.

“You are the late Mr. Turold’s legal adviser?” she continued, after a pause.

Mr. Brimsdown, always chary of unnecessary words, replied with a slight bow.

“I suppose you have come to Cornwall to investigate the cause of his death?”

Mr. Brimsdown remained silent, waiting to hear more.

“I—I wish to speak to you about that.” Her lips quivered with some inward agitation.

“Will you not be seated?” he said, placing a chair for her.

“Will you regard what I have to say to you in strict confidence?” she queried, sinking her voice to a whisper.

“Is it about Mr. Turold’s murder?”

“It—it may be.”

With the recollection of previous eavesdropping in that house, the lawyer rose and closed the door. “I cannot make a promise of that kind,” he said firmly, as he returned to his seat.

“No, no—of course not,” she hurriedly acquiesced. “I was wrong to ask it. I have come here to tell you. When I saw you this afternoon I realized that Providence had answered my prayers, and sent somebody in whom I could safely confide. I will tell you everything. I have come here for that purpose.”

She seemed to have a difficulty in commencing. Her pale grey eyes wandered irresolutely from his, and then returned. It was with a perceptible effort that she spoke at last.

“What I am about to tell you I have known for some days, but I could not bring myself to the extreme step of going to the police. Sometimes I am inclined to think that it may be only a trifling thing, easily explained, and of no importance. But sometimes—at night—it assumes a terrible significance. I need counsel—wise counsel—about it.”

She paused and looked at him wistfully. As though interpreting his nod as encouragement, she went on—.

“Mr. Austin Turold and his son have been inmates of my household for the last six weeks. Mr. Robert Turold arranged it with me beforehand. I had never done anything of the kind before, but our means—my husband’s and mine—are insufficient for the stress of these times. After all, people must live.”

Mr. Brimsdown’s slight shake of the head seemed to imply that this last statement was by no means an incontrovertible proposition, but Mrs. Brierly was not looking at him.

“Therefore, to oblige Mr. Turold we decided to afford hospitality to his brother and son. The terms were favourable, and they were gentlefolk. These things counted, and the money helped. But if I had only known—if I could have foreseen …”

“Mr. Turold’s death?” said Mr. Brimsdown, filling in the pause.

“I mean—everything,” she retorted a little wildly. “My name is well known. I was in Society once. There is my husband’s reputation as an artist to be considered. I would not be talked about for worlds. I acted against my husband’s advice in this matter—in taking Mr. Turold and his son. My husband said it was a degradation to take in lodgers. I pointed out that they were gentlefolk. There is a difference. I wish now that I had listened to my husband’s advice.”

Mr. Brimsdown listened with patient immobility. His long experience of female witnesses withheld him from any effort to hasten the flow of his companion’s story.

“They were very nice and quiet—particularly Mr. Austin Turold,” she went on. “The son was more silent and reserved, but we saw very little of him—he was out so much. But Mr. Turold did my husband good—his breeding and conversation were just what he needed to lift him out of himself. A man goes to seed in the country, Mr. Brimsdown, no matter how intellectual he may be. Nature is delightful, but a man needs to be near Piccadilly to keep smart. Cornwall is so very far away—so remote—and Cornish rocks are dreadfully severe on good clothes. I am not complaining, you understand. We had to come to Cornwall. It was inevitable—for us. No English artist is considered anything until he has painted a picture of the Land’s End or Newquay. The Channel Islands—or Devon—is not quite the same thing. Not such a distinctive hallmark. So we came to Cornwall, and my husband went to seed. That was why I welcomed Mr. Turold’s conversation for him. It did him good. My husband said so himself. He derived inspiration—artistic inspiration—from Mr. Turold’s talk. He conceived a picture—‘Land of Hope and Glory’ it was to be called—of a massive figure of Britannia, standing on Land’s End, defying the twin demons of Bolshevism and Labour Unrest with a trident. He was working at it with extraordinary rapidity—when this happened.

“On the day of his brother’s death we did not see much of Mr. Austin Turold. There was Mrs. Turold’s funeral in the afternoon, and when he came home I thought he would prefer to be left to himself.

“He went to his sitting-room, and stayed there. My husband and I retired early that night, but later we were awakened by a very loud knock at the front door. We heard Mr. Austin Turold, who was still up, go down and open it. Then we heard a very loud voice, outside—Mr. Robert Turold’s man-servant, it appears. We heard him tell Mr. Austin that his brother had been found shot.