It seemed a long wild journey in the dark, but actually only half an hour passed before the car emerged from the wind and rain of the moors into the dimly-lighted stone street of the churchtown. A few minutes later the car stopped, and the driver informed Mr. and Mrs. Pendleton in a Cornish drawl that they had reached Dr. Ravenshaw’s.
Husband and wife emerged from the car and discerned a square stone house lying back from the road behind a white fence. They walked up the path from the gate and rang the bell.
A rugged and freckled servant lass answered the ring, and stared hard at the visitors from a pair of Cornish brown eyes. On learning their names she conducted them into a small room off the hall and departed to inform the doctor of their arrival.
Dr. Ravenshaw came in immediately. The quick glance he bestowed upon his visitors expressed surprise, but he merely invited them to be seated and waited for them to explain the object of their late visit. The room into which they had been shown was his consulting room, furnished in the simplest fashion—almost shabbily. There were chairs and table and a couch, a small stand for a pile of magazines, a bookcase containing some medical works, and a sprawling hare’s-foot fern in a large flowerpot by the window. Mr. Pendleton seated himself near the fern, examining it as though it was a botanical rarity, and left his wife to undertake the conversation. Mrs. Pendleton was accustomed to take the lead, and immediately commenced—
“I have taken the liberty of coming to ask your advice about my niece, doctor. You heard what my brother said this afternoon?”
Dr. Ravenshaw inclined his head without speaking, and waited for her to continue.
“As you are a friend of my brother’s—”
“Hardly a friend,” he interrupted, with a gesture of dissent. “Our acquaintance is really too short to warrant that term.”
There was a professional formality about his tone which pulled her up short. Like all impulsive people she was chilled by a lack of responsiveness. Her impulse in visiting him had hoped for an interest equalling her own. She reflected now that she should have remembered that nobody liked being bothered with other people’s affairs. She recovered her feminine assurance and went on, with a winning smile.
“But you are in my brother’s confidence, doctor—you were present at our family gathering this afternoon. It is because of that I have come to see you again, at this late hour. My husband and I are returning to London in the morning, and there would be no other opportunity. I have been thinking over all my brother said this afternoon, and I am very much distressed about my niece.”
He gave a short comprehending nod which encouraged her to proceed.
“I am extremely desirous of preventing this scandal of my brother’s marriage coming to light after all these years,” she earnestly pursued. “It seems to me that Robert has decided to let the truth be known without first considering all the circumstances. He has forgotten that if he succeeds in restoring the title he will come prominently into the public eye. As the holder of a famous name his affairs will have a public interest, and details will be published in the newspapers and eagerly read. That is why this story about Sisily’s mother would be so terrible for all of us, and especially for Sisily.”
“I should think your brother had foreseen all this.” said Dr. Ravenshaw, after a short pause.
“I do not think Robert has realized it,” Mrs. Pendleton eagerly rejoined. “He is a most unworldly man, and lives in a world of his own. His whole life has been devoted to the idea of restoring the title. He has thought of nothing else since he was a boy. He is quite incapable of understanding what a sensation this story of an earlier marriage will cause if it is made public. Indeed, I did not realize it myself until afterwards. Then I decided to come and see you, and ask your help.”
“I quite agree with you that it would be better if the story could remain unknown, after all these years. But how can I help you?”
She had anticipated that question, and proceeded to unfold her plan.
“It might be kept quiet, I think,” she said meditatively. “It is Robert’s duty to keep it secret for Sisily’s sake. I am chiefly concerned about her. Girls are difficult, so different from boys! It wouldn’t be so bad if she were a boy. A boy could change his name and emigrate, go on a ranch and forget all about it. But it is different for a girl. Leaving the shock out of the question, this thing would spoil Sisily’s life and ruin her chances of a good marriage if it was allowed to come out. People will talk. It is inevitable that they should, in the circumstances. I fancy the matter could be arranged in a way to satisfy Robert—so as not to interfere with his plans about the title.”
“What do you suggest?”
“Sisily could be told that there is some obstacle which prevents her succeeding to the title. Robert has not brought her up as an heiress with expectations. He has never treated her fairly, poor girl. It was his dream to have a son to succeed him. Not that it would have made any difference if Sisily had been a son, after what’s come to light! Sisily would never question anything that was told her about this wretched title, for I’m quite sure that the idea of inheriting it has never entered her head. It certainly never entered mine. I thought titles descended in the male line. I don’t know, really, but that has always been my idea.”
“It depends on the terms of the original creation. The Turrald barony originally went into abeyance among several daughters. One daughter could have succeeded. There is nothing in the wording of the original writ to prevent it—no limitation to male heirs. It is now well established by precedent that a daughter can inherit a barony by writ. But for the unhappy obstacle revealed by your brother’s story, his daughter would undoubtedly have succeeded to the restored title on his death.”
“I’m sure it’s very good of you to explain it to me,” murmured Mrs. Pendleton, in some confusion of mind. “It sounds quite reasonable, too. A woman can inherit the throne of England, so why not a title? But it never occurred to me before. Sisily, of course, cannot succeed to my brother’s title because of her birth. But is there any need for this to be known? Could she not sign a paper renouncing her rights in return for a share of my brother’s fortune?”
“I doubt if the law would approve of the arrangement if it became known.”
“The law should realize that it was done from the best of motives to keep from an innocent girl a secret which would darken her life,” responded Mrs. Pendleton with decision.
“I wasn’t looking at it altogether in that light,” replied Dr. Ravenshaw with a slow shake of the head. “But it might have been tried—oh yes, it might have been tried.” He rose from his chair, and paced thoughtfully up and down the room.
“Is it too late to try it now?” she asked.
He looked at her thoughtfully.
“In what way?”
“By trying to persuade my brother to change his mind.”
“He is not likely to change his mind.”
“That,” responded Mrs. Pendleton, “remains to be put to the test. I intend to see him to-night, before it is too late. I beg you for Sisily’s sake to come with me and try and persuade him.”
“Such a request as you propose to make should come only from a member of the family,” replied Dr. Ravenshaw. “It is a matter in which I would rather not be involved. If you wish support, I would remind you that there are two other members of your own family—your other brother and his son—staying temporarily in this churchtown, not far from here. Why not go to them?”
With a charmingly feminine gesture Mrs. Pendleton washed her hands of the other members of the family. “I would not dream of going to Austin,” she said in decided tones. “He would not approve of my plan, nor, indeed, would Robert listen to him if he did. But he would listen to you, I feel sure. That is my reason for coming to you.” She rose from her seat, and sought to shepherd him into compliance by approaching him with a propitiatory smile. “Do come, doctor. I have trespassed too much on your kindness already, but oblige me further in this.”
“It’s rather late for a visit,” he replied.
“It’s only half-past nine,” she said, with a glance at her wrist watch. “My brother sits up till all hours over his papers and books. I will take all responsibility upon myself for the visit. I will tell Robert that I literally had to drag you with me, and he will understand that we simply had to see him to-night, as he knows we are going home to London first thing in the morning. Do come, Dr. Ravenshaw. The car is waiting.”
He consulted his own watch.
“Very well, Mrs. Pendleton,” he assented. “I will accompany you. Please excuse me while I get my coat.”
He rejoined them in a moment or two, and they proceeded outside to the waiting car.
A few minutes later the car stopped in the gloom outside the old house on the cliffs. The storm had passed, but the sea still raged white beneath an inky sky. A faint gleam from a shuttered front window pointed a finger of light to the gravel path which led to the front door.
Mrs. Pendleton knocked, and an answer came quickly. The door was partly opened, and Thalassa’s voice from within parleyed: “Who’s there?”
“Mrs. Pendleton—your master’s sister,” was the reply. “Let us in, Thalassa.”
The door was at once opened wide, and Thalassa stood back for them to enter. By the light of the lamp he carried they saw that he was dressed and coated for a journey, with his hat on.
“I’m glad you’ve come,” he said to Dr. Ravenshaw. “It’s you I was just going out to fetch.”
There was something strange in his manner, and the doctor looked at him quickly. “What’s the matter with you, man? Is there anything wrong?”
“That’s what I don’t know. But I’m afeered, yes, by God, I’m afeered.”
His voice broke hoarsely, and he stood before them with his eyes averted from the three wondering faces regarding him. Mrs. Pendleton stepped quickly forward, and grasped his arm.
“What is it, Thalassa? Has anything happened to my brother?”
“There’s been a great noise in his room, like as if something heavy had crashed down, then silence like the grave. I went up and called—an’ tried to open the door, but I couldn’t.”
“Why didn’t you try to break in the door?” said Dr. Ravenshaw.
“Tweren’t my place,” was the dogged retort. “I know my place. I was just going to St. Fair for you and his brother.”
“How long is it since this happened—since you heard the crash, I mean.”
“Not many minutes agone. Just before you came to the door.”
“Light us upstairs at once, Thalassa,” said Mrs. Pendleton sharply.
“Mrs. Pendleton, will you wait downstairs while we investigate?” suggested Dr. Ravenshaw.
“No,” she resolutely answered. “I will come with you, doctor. Robert may need me. Do not let us waste any more time.”
She slipped past him to Thalassa, who was mounting the stairs. Dr. Ravenshaw hurried after her. Mr. Pendleton, with an obvious call on his courage, followed last. The lamp in Thalassa’s hand burnt unsteadily, first flaming angrily, then flickering to a glimmer which brought them to a pause, one above the other on the stairs, listening intently, and looking into the darkness above.
“His bedroom is open and empty,” said Thalassa when they had reached the end of the passage above. “See!” He pointed to the gaping door, and then turned to the closed one opposite. “He’s in here.” His voice sank to a whisper. “It was from here the noise came.”
He placed the lamp on the floor, and knocked hesitatingly on the dark panel of the closed door, then again more loudly, but there was no reply. Far beneath them they could hear the solemn roar of the sea dashing against the cliffs, but there was no sound in the closed chamber. Its stillness and hush seemed intensified by the clamour of the sea, as though calamity were brooding in the darkness within.
“Robert, Robert!” The high pitch of Mrs. Pendleton’s voice shattered the quietude like the startling clang of an unexpected bell. “Knock again, Thalassa, more loudly, very loudly,” she cried, in the shrill accents of tightened nerves.
Thalassa approached the door again, but recoiled swiftly. “God A’mighty!” he hoarsely exclaimed, pointing, “what’s that?”
They followed the direction of his finger to the floor, and saw a sluggish thin dark trickle making its way underneath the door. Mr. Pendleton stooped and examined it, but rose immediately.
“There’s been trouble in there,” he said, with a pale face.
“How could anybody get in?” said Thalassa sullenly. “The door is locked from the inside, and it’s two hundred feet from the windows to the bottom of the cliffs.”
“Oh, for pity’s sake stop talking and do something,” cried Mrs. Pendleton hysterically. “My poor brother may be dying.” She rattled the door-handle. “Robert, Robert, what is the matter? Let me in. It is I—Constance.”
“We must break in the door,” said Dr. Ravenshaw. “Stand away, Mrs. Pendleton, please. Now, Thalassa, both together.”
The doctor and the servant put their shoulders to the door. Mr. Pendleton watched them with a white face, but did not go to their assistance. At the fourth effort there was a sound of splintering wood, the lock gave, and the door swung back.
They peered in. At first they could see nothing. The light of the swinging-lamp had been lowered, and the interior of the room was veiled in shadow. Then their eyes detected a dark outline on the floor between the table and the window—the figure of a man, lying athwart the carpet with arms outstretched, face downwards, the spread finger-tips clutching at some heavy dark object between the head and the arms.
Thalassa stepped across the threshold, and with shaking hand turned up the lowered wick of the swinging lamp. The light revealed the stark form of Robert Turold. At this sight Mrs. Pendleton broke into a loud cry and essayed to cross the room to her brother’s side.
“Keep back, Mrs. Pendleton!” cried Dr. Ravenshaw, interposing himself in front of her. “I begged of you not to come upstairs. Mr. Pendleton, take your wife away at once.”
But Mr. Pendleton’s timorous and inferior mind was incapable of translating the command into action. He could only stare dumbly before him.
“No, no! Let me stay, I will be calm,” Mrs. Pendleton pleaded. “Is—is he dead, doctor?”
Dr. Ravenshaw crossed to the centre of the room and bent over the body, feeling the heart. Husband and wife watched him, huddled together, their white faces framed in the shadow of the doorway. In a moment he was on his feet again, advancing towards them. “We can do no good here, Mrs. Pendleton,” he said gently. “Your brother is dead.”
“Dead? Robert dead!” Her startled eye sought his averted face, and her feminine intuition gathered that which he was seeking to withhold. “Do you mean that he has been killed?” she whimpered.
“I fear that there has been—an accident,” he replied evasively. He stood in front of them in a way which obscured their view of the prone figure, and a small shining thing lying alongside, which he alone had seen. “Come,” he said, in a professional manner, taking her by the arm. “Let me take you downstairs.” He got her away from the threshold, and pulled the broken door to, shutting out the spectacle within.
“Are you going to leave him there—like that?” whispered Mrs. Pendleton.
“It is necessary, till the police have seen him,” he assured her. “We had better send Thalassa in the car to the churchtown. Go for Sergeant Pengowan, Thalassa, and tell him to come at once. And afterwards you had better call at Mr. Austin Turold’s lodgings and tell him and his son. Hurry away with you, my man. Don’t lose a moment!”
Thalassa hastened along the passage as though glad to get away. His heavy boots clattered down the staircase and along the empty hall. Then the front door banged with a crash.
The others followed more slowly, stepping gently in the presence of Death, past the little lamps, hardly bigger than fireflies, which flickered feebly in their alcoves. They went into the front room, where a table lamp gave forth a subdued light. Mrs. Pendleton turned up the wick and sank into a chair, covering her face with her hands.
It was the room where only that afternoon Robert Turold had unfolded the history of his life’s quest: a large gloomy room with heavy old furniture, faded prints of the Cornish coast, and a whitefaced clock on the mantel-piece with a loud clucking tick. Dr. Ravenshaw knew the room well, but Robert Turold’s sister had seen it for the first time that day, and the recollection of what had taken place there was so fresh in her memory that it brought a flood of tears.
“Poor Bob!” she sobbed. “He denied himself all his life for the sake of the title, and what’s the good of it all—now?”
That was the only light in which she was able to see the tragedy in the first moment of the shock. Other thoughts and revelations about her brother’s strange death were to come later, when her mind recovered its bearings. For the moment she was incapable of thinking coherently. She was conscious only of the fact that her brother had been cut off in the very moment of success—before it, indeed; ere he had actually tasted the sweets of the ambition he had given all his years to gain.
Silence fell between them, broken only by the clucking of the whitefaced clock and the dreary sound of the wind outside, crying round the old house like a frightened woman in the dark. Nearly an hour passed before they heard the sound of a guarded knock at the front door. Dr. Ravenshaw went and opened it. Austin Turold was standing on the threshold.
“This is bad news, doctor,” he said, stepping quickly inside. “I came ahead of the others—walked over. Thalassa is waiting at the churchtown for the sergeant, who is away on some official business, but expected back shortly. They may be here at any minute.”
He spoke a little breathlessly, as though with running, and seemed anxious to talk. He went on—.
“How did it happen? Tell me everything. I could get nothing out of Thalassa. He was detained at the police station for a considerable time, waiting for Pengowan, before he came to me with the news. He gave a great knock at the door of my lodgings like the thunder of doom, and when I got downstairs he blurted out that my brother was killed—shot—but not another word of explanation could I get out of him. What does it all mean?”
“I cannot say. Your sister and I reached the house just as Thalassa was about to leave it to seek my assistance. Your sister is in the sitting-room.”
Austin Turold brushed past the doctor and opened the door of the lighted room. At his entrance Mrs. Pendleton sprang from her seat to greet him. Grief and horror were in her look, but surprise contended with other emotions in Austin’s face. She kissed him with clinging hands on his shoulders.
“Oh, Austin,” she cried, “Robert is dead—killed!”
“The news has shocked me to the last degree,” responded her brother. “What has happened? Did somebody send for you? Is that what brought you here?”
Mrs. Pendleton shook her head, embarrassed in her grief. She remembered that she wished to keep the object of her visit secret from her younger brother, and she could not very well disclose the truth then.
“Not exactly,” she replied, a trifle incoherently. “I wanted to see Robert again before I returned to London in the morning. So we motored over after dinner, and found him—dead.” Fresh tears broke from her.
Austin Turold wandered around the room quickly and nervously, then drew Dr. Ravenshaw to the door with a glance. “I should like to go upstairs before the police come,” he whispered.
Dr. Ravenshaw nodded, and they went upstairs together. The shattered door creaked open to their touch, revealing the lighted interior and the dead man prone on the floor. Austin approached his brother’s corpse, eyed it shudderingly, and turned away. Then he stooped to look at the small revolver lying alongside, but did not touch it. Again he bent over the corpse, this time with more composure in his glance.
The object on which the outstretched arms rested was an old Dutch hood clock, which had fallen or been dragged from a niche in the wall, and lay face uppermost, the glass case open and smashed, the hands: stopped at the hour of half-past nine. It was a clock of the seventeenth century, of a design still to be found occasionally in old English houses. A landscape scene was painted in the arch above the dial, showing the moon above a wood, in a sky crowded with stars. The moon was depicted as a human face, with eyes which moved in response to the swing of the pendulum. But the pendulum was motionless, and the goggle eyes of the mechanism stared up almost reproachfully, as though calling upon the two men to rescue it from such an undignified position. At the bottom of the dial appeared the name of Jan Fromantel, the famous Dutch clockmaker, and underneath was an inscription in German lettering—
"Every tick that I do giveCuts short the time you have to live.Praise thy Maker, mend thy ways,Till Death, the thief, shall steal thy days."
“Look at the blood!” said Austin Turold, pointing to a streak of blood on the large white dial. “How did it happen?”
“I know very little more than yourself. Your sister called at my house about an hour ago and asked me to accompany her here. She wished to see your brother on some private business, and she was very anxious that I should accompany her. Thalassa let us in, and said he was afraid that there was something wrong with his master. We came upstairs immediately, burst in the door, and found—this.”
“Did Thalassa hear the shot?”
“He says not, only the crash.”
“That would be the clock, of course. Was my brother quite dead when you found him?”
“Just dead. The body was quite warm.”
“The door was locked from inside, I think you said.”
“We found it locked.”
“Then it must have been locked from inside,” returned the other, who appeared to be pursuing some hidden train of thought. “But where’s the key? I do not see it in the door. Oh, here it is!” He stooped swiftly and picked up a key from the floor. “Robert must have taken it out after locking the door.”
“Perhaps it fell out when we were breaking in the door,” observed the doctor.
“Of course. I forgot that. I notice that the clock is stopped at half-past nine.” He bent down to examine it. “My brother kept private papers in the clock-case,” he added. “Yes—it is as I thought. Here are some private documents, including his will. I had better take charge of them.”
“Yes; I should if I were you,” counselled his companion.
Austin rose to his feet and placed the papers in his pocket.
“It is plain to me—now—how it happened,” he said. “Poor Robert must have shot himself, then tried to get his will from the clock-case when he fell, bringing down the clock with him.”
“Is that what you think?” said Dr. Ravenshaw.
“I see no other way of looking at it,” returned Austin rapidly. “The door was locked on the inside, and the room couldn’t be reached from the window. This house stands almost on the edge of the cliff, which is nearly two hundred feet high. My feeling is that after my poor brother shot himself he remembered in his dying moments that his will was hidden in the clock-case and might not be found. He made a desperate effort to reach it and dragged it down as he fell.”
The doctor listened attentively to this imaginary picture of Robert Turold’s last moments.
“But why should he destroy himself?” he queried.
“Grief and remorse. Do you remember the disclosure he made to us this afternoon? It is a matter which might well have preyed upon his mind.”
“I see,” said the other thoughtfully. “Yes, perhaps you may be right.”
Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of a loud knocking downstairs.
“That must be the police,” observed Dr. Ravenshaw. “Let us go down.”
“Why should Robert commit suicide?”
That was the burden of Mrs. Pendleton’s cry, then and afterwards. There was an angry scene in the old cliff house between brother and sister before the events of that night were concluded. She utterly refused to accept Austin’s theory that their brother, with his own hand, had discharged the revolver bullet which had put an end to his life and ambitions. Sitting bolt upright in indignant amazement, she rejected the idea in the sharpest scorn. It was nothing to her that the police sergeant from the churchtown shared her brother’s view, and that Dr. Ravenshaw was passively acquiescent. She brushed aside the plausible web of circumstances with the impatient hand of an angry woman. They might talk till Doomsday, but they wouldn’t convince her that Robert, of all men, had done anything so disgraceful as take his own life. Arguments and events, the locked door and the inaccessible windows—pathetically masculine insistence on mere details—were wasted on her. The marshalled array of facts made not the slightest impression on her firm belief that Robert had not shot himself.
Shaking a large finger of angry import at Austin, and addressing herself to him alone, she had said—
“Robert has been murdered, Austin, I feel sure. I don’t care what you say, but if there’s law in England I’ll have his murderer discovered.”
And with that conclusion she had indignantly left the house with her husband, leaving her brother to walk back to his lodgings at the churchtown in moody solitude across the rainy darkness of the moors.
For herself, she returned to her hotel to pass a sleepless night, tossing by the side of her placidly unconscious husband as she passed the tragic events of the night in review and vainly sought for some clue to the mystery. The dreadful logic of the circumstances which pointed to suicide, hammered at her consciousness with deadening persistence, but she resolutely refused to give it entry. Why should Robert commit suicide? Why indeed? It was the question which had sprung to her lips when she first heard Austin’s belief, and it was to that she now clung in the midst of her agonizing doubts, as though the mere wordless insistence in her mind made it an argument of negation which gathered force and cogency by frequent repetition.
But in the mass of teeming thoughts which crowded her brain in the silence of the small hours, she long and vainly sought for any other theory which would account for her brother’s death. If he had been murdered, as in the first flush of her indignation she had declared, who had killed him? Who had gone to the lonely old house in the darkness of the night, and struck him down?
It was not until the first faint glimmering of dawn was pushing its grey way through the closed shutters that there came to her the recollection of an incident of the previous day which had left a deep mark upon her mind at the time, but had since been covered over by the throng of later tremendous events. It was the memory of that momentary glance of a pair of eyes through the slit of the door while her brother was telling of his daughter’s illegitimacy and her mother’s shame. In the light of Robert’s subsequent death that incident appeared in a new sinister shape as a clue to the commission of the deed itself. With the recollection of that glance there sprang almost simultaneously before her mental vision the grim and forbidding features of her brother’s servant, Thalassa.
If she had been asked, Mrs. Pendleton could not have given a satisfactory reason for linking Thalassa with the incident of the eyes, but she was a woman, and not concerned about reasons. The two impressions had scurried swiftfooted, into her mind together, and there they remained. She was now convinced that she had all along believed it was Thalassa she had seen watching through the door, watching and listening for some fell purpose of his own. She knew nothing about Thalassa, but she had taken an instant dislike to him when she first saw him. That vague dislike now assumed the form of active suspicion against him. She determined, with the impulsiveness which was part of her temperament, to bring her suspicion before the police at the earliest possible moment.
She was essentially a woman of action, and in spite of her sleepless night she was up and dressed before her husband was awake. He came down to breakfast to find his wife had already finished hers, and was dressed ready to go out.
“Where is Sisily?” he asked, with a glance at the girl’s vacant place.
“I’ve ordered her breakfast to be taken to her room, and sent word to her to rest in bed until I go to her,” his wife replied. “I have a painful ordeal before me in breaking the news of Robert’s death to her. It’s all over the hotel already, unfortunately. Sisily is out of the way of gossip in her room. After I’ve seen her I shall leave her in your charge, Joseph. I shall have plenty on my hands to-day.”
Mr. Pendleton received this mandate with a blank face, and momentarily regretted that the arrangements for their departure by the morning’s train had been cancelled. Then his better nature asserted itself, and he meekly replied that he would do what he could. “What do you suggest?” he asked.
“Take her for a walk,” responded his wife. “Try and keep her interested and her mind occupied.”
With these words she left the breakfast table and proceeded upstairs to Sisily’s room before going out. On the way there she again regretted having undertaken the responsibility of her niece’s future. She had not disturbed Sisily on the previous night. She had tried her door on her way to her own room, but it was locked, so she had let the girl sleep on, and deferred breaking the tragic news until the morning.
She now paused outside the door reluctantly. But she was not the woman to shrink from a duty because it was unpleasant, and womanly sympathy for her unhappy niece banished her diffidence. She knocked lightly and entered.
Sisily was seated by the window reading. A breakfast tray, still untouched, stood on a small table beside her. She put down her book as her aunt entered, and rose to greet her.
Mrs. Pendleton bent over the girl and kissed her, and took her hand. As she did so she observed that Sisily looked worn and fatigued, with black rings under her eyes, as though she, too, had passed a sleepless night. But she was wonderfully pretty, the elder woman thought, and nothing could rob her of the fresh charm of youth and beauty.
“Sit down, Sisily,” she said, leading her back to her chair, and taking another one beside her. “I have sad news for you, dear, and you must be a brave girl. Something has happened to your father.”
“What has happened?” asked Sisily quickly. Then, as if taking in the import of her aunt’s tone, rather than her words, she added: “Do you mean that he is … dead?”
Mrs. Pendleton inclined her head with tears in her eyes. “It is worse even than that,” she went on, her voice drooping to a whisper. “He … he has been killed. We found him last night. Listen, dear, I will tell you all.”
She gave the cold fingers a comforting pressure as she spoke, but the hand was immediately withdrawn, and Sisily sprang away from her, then turned and regarded her with blazing eyes and a white face.
“Tell me about it!” she said.
Mrs. Pendleton imparted as much of the facts as she felt called upon to relate. There was something about the girl’s reception of the news which puzzled her, and her own look fell before the sombre intensity of her gaze. Sisily heard the story in silence, and when it was finished, merely said—
“I think I would like to be left alone for a little while, if you don’t mind.”
“Oh, you mustn’t sit here moping, my dear,” said Mrs. Pendleton, with an attempt at cheerfulness which she felt to be clumsy and ill-timed, but Sisily’s manner had momentarily disconcerted her. “You had better put on your hat and coat and go out with your uncle. He is waiting downstairs for you. It is very sad, very terrible, but you must let us help you bear it. You must not stay here alone.”
“You are very kind”—the girl’s lips quivered slightly, though her face remained calm—“but I would rather not go out. I should prefer to be left alone.”
There was in her expression a despairing yet calm detachment and resolve which forced Mrs. Pendleton in spite of herself to yield to her wish with a meekness which was almost timidity.
“Very well, dear,” she said. “If you feel like a walk later on, you will find your uncle downstairs.”
As she left the room she heard the door shut behind her.
But Mrs. Pendleton had other things to think about that morning than the strangeness of her niece’s disposition and the manner in which she had received the news of her father’s death. The horror of that event filled her own thoughts to the exclusion of everything else, and she was determined to remain in Cornwall until the mystery was explained.
She glanced at her watch as she reached the bottom of the stairs. She had breakfasted early, and it still wanted a few minutes to ten o’clock. The lobby of the hotel was deserted, and through the glass doors leading to the breakfast-room she could see a few guests still at their morning meal. A porter was sweeping the front entrance, and of him she enquired the way to the police station, and set out for it.
It was chill and grey after the storm, with a sky obscured by scudding clouds, but a gleam of truant sunshine was sporting wantonly on the hoary castled summit of St. Michael’s Mount, and promised to visit the town later on. Mrs. Pendleton walked briskly, and soon arrived at the police station.
A young constable in the office came forward as she entered and enquired her business. She disclosed her name, and her relationship with the inmate of Flint House, deeming that would be sufficient to gain her an interview with somebody in authority. In that expectation she was not disappointed. The constable favoured her with a good hard stare, went into another room, and reappeared to say that Inspector Dawfield would see her at once.
She followed him into the inner room, where a slight man of middle age was seated at a leather-covered table opening his morning correspondence. He looked up and bowed as he saw his visitor, but waited until the constable had retired before he spoke.
“Good morning,” he said. “What can I do for you?”
His eye regarded her with a thoughtful glance. His professional interest had been aroused by the strange death of the occupant of Flint House, whose object in visiting Cornwall had been common gossip in the district for some time past.
“It is about my brother’s death that I wished to see you.” Mrs. Pendleton spoke earnestly, drawing her chair closer with the feeling that the man before her had sufficient intelligence to give her a sympathetic hearing.
“So I gathered from your card. It seems a very sad case. Sergeant Pengowan’s report has just reached me. Anything I can do for you—” Inspector Dawfield pretended to occupy himself in cutting open an official envelope with scrupulous care.
“Sergeant Pengowan regards it as a case of suicide, does he not?” asked Mrs. Pendleton rigidly.
“Well, yes, I believe he does,” replied Inspector Dawfield. “There is no doubt on that point, is there? Your brother’s revolver was lying near him, and the door was locked on the inside.”
“There is the greatest doubt in my mind,” returned Mrs. Pendleton vehemently. “I do not—I cannot believe that my brother has taken his own life. In fact, I am sure he did not.”
On hearing these words Inspector Dawfield looked at his visitor again, with something more than surprise in his eyes, then he pulled a document from a pigeonhole and hastily scanned it.
“Pengowan’s report states quite definitely that it is suicide,” he said as he replaced it. “In the face of that, do you think—”
“I think my brother has been murdered,” she said in a decided voice.
“This is a very grave statement to make, Mrs. Pendleton. Have you anything to support it? Anything which has not been brought to light, I mean?”
Mrs. Pendleton proceeded to give her reasons. She had thought over what she was going to say as she came along, and she spoke with growing conviction, intensified by the sight of the earnest attentive face before her. The incident of the person she had detected looking through the door took on a new significance as she related it. By her constant association of the eyes with the disliked face of her brother’s servant, she had unconsciously reached the conclusion that she had all along recognized the eavesdropper as Thalassa.
“You say your brother was talking about some family matters at the time?” asked Inspector Dawfield, as she related that part of her story.
“Yes,” responded Mrs. Pendleton. She had repressed all mention of her brother’s announcement of his daughter’s illegitimacy, but afterwards she tried to persuade herself that it slipped her memory at the time.
“It’s common enough for servants to listen at doors,” remarked Inspector Dawfield. “In this case it may seem to have a sinister interpretation because of what happened afterwards. How long has this man been in your brother’s employ?”
“A number of years, I believe,” replied Mrs. Pendleton. “But he has a wicked face,” she added hastily, as though that fact cancelled a record of lengthy service. “I took a dislike to him as soon as I saw him.”
Inspector Dawfield veiled a slight smile with a sheet of foolscap. “Have you any other reason for suspecting him?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t like to say that I suspect Thalassa, or anybody else.” Mrs. Pendleton was prompt with this assurance. “But there are certain things which seem to me to need further investigation. There’s the question of the door being locked on the inside. It seems to me that the door might have been locked on the outside, and the key dropped in there afterwards. The door had to be smashed before we could get in, and the key wasn’t in the door then, you know.”
Dawfield nodded thoughtfully. “Who has charge of the keys in your brother’s house? This servant with the strange name—Thalassa, is it?”
“Yes, and he was upstairs in my brother’s room last night, after we came down. And when we got there he was ready to go out, with his hat and coat on. It all seems very strange.”
Again the courteous inspector hid a slight smile. His lady visitor might disclaim suspecting anybody, but her inferences carried her to the same point.
“What do you wish me to do?” he asked.
“I feel there should be further inquiries. Sergeant Pengowan does not strike me as the kind of man capable of bringing to light any mystery which may be hidden behind my brother’s supposed suicide. He does not look at all intelligent. I thought of sending a telegram to Scotland Yard, but I decided to see you first.”
The hint was not lost on Inspector Dawfield, but it was unnecessary. It was his duty to look into her complaint and make further inquiries into the case.
“Your statement shall certainly be investigated,” he said emphatically. “I am rather short of men just now, but I’ll see if I can get Bodmin to send over a man. I will inquire immediately, if you will excuse me.”
He retired into a curtained recess in a corner of the room, where Mrs. Pendleton could see him holding a colloquy over the telephone. After rather a lengthy conversation he returned to announce that a detective was coming over by the next train to investigate the case.
“The Bodmin office is sending over Detective Barrant, of Scotland Yard,” he explained. “He happens to be in Cornwall on another case, and was just on the point of returning to London. I was able to speak to him personally and relate the facts of your brother’s death. He decided to telephone to Scotland Yard, and come over here at once. He will arrive soon after lunch. I will take him to Flint House myself. He may wish to see you later on. Will you be at your hotel?”
“If not, I will leave word where I can be found,” replied Mrs. Pendleton, rising as she spoke. “Good morning, and thank you.”
She left the police station feeling that she had accomplished an excellent morning’s work, and hurried back to the hotel with visions of letters to be written and telegrams to be sent before lunch. But she was destined to do neither. As she entered the lounge, her eye fell upon its solitary occupant, a male figure in a grey lounge suit sitting in her favourite corner by the window. It was her brother Austin.
He rose from his seat as he saw her, but waited for her to approach. Her eyes, dwelling on his face, noted that it was not so angry as she had last seen it, but smoothed into the semblance of sorrow and regret, with, however, something of the characteristic glance of irony which habitually distinguished him, though that may have been partly due to the pince-nez which glittered over his keen eyes. There was something of an art in Austin Turold’s manner of wearing glasses; they tilted, superiorly, at the world in general at an acute angle on the high bridge of a supercilious nose, the eyes glancing through them downwards, as though from a great height, at a remote procession of humanity crawling far beneath.
At that moment, however, there was nothing superior in his bearing. It was so unwontedly subdued, so insistently meek, that it was to be understood that his mission was both conciliatory and propitiatory. That, at least, was the impression Mrs. Pendleton gathered as her brother informed her that he had been waiting nearly an hour to see her.
She reflected that he must have arrived shortly after she left the hotel to go to the police station, and she wondered what had induced her brother to rise at an hour so uncommonly early for him, in order to pay her a morning visit.
“I was up betimes,” said Austin, as though reading her thought. “Sleep, of course, was impossible. Poor Robert!”
Mrs. Pendleton waited impatiently for him to disclose the real reason of an appearance which had more behind it, she felt sure, than to express condolences about their common bereavement. Of Robert she had always stood a little in awe, but she understood her younger brother better. As a boy she had seen through him and his pretensions, and he did not seem to her much changed since those days.
“I have been upset by our difference last night, Constance,” he pursued. “It seems deplorable for us to have quarrelled—yes, actually quarrelled—over our poor brother’s death.”
His sister’s face hardened instantly. “That wasn’t my fault,” she said distantly.
“You’ll excuse me for saying that I think it was. You took an altogether wrong view of his—his death; a view which I hope you’ve seen fit to change after a night’s reflection.”
“You mean about Robert committing suicide?”
Austin inclined his head.
“I haven’t changed my opinion in the slightest degree,” she retorted. “I am still quite convinced that Robert did not commit suicide.”
Austin darted an angry glance at her, but controlled himself with a visible effort. “Have you reflected what that implies?” he asked in a low tone.
“What does it imply?”
“Murder.” He breathed the word with a hurried glance around him, as though apprehensive of being overheard, but the lounge was empty, and they were quite alone.
“I am aware of that.”
“Then is it still your intention to go to the police with this terrible suspicion?” he asked, in a voice that trembled with agitation.
It was on the tip of Mrs. Pendleton’s tongue to reply that she had already been to the police, but she decided to withhold that piece of information until she had heard all that her brother had to say.
“Certainly,” she replied.
“Then you must be mad,” was his indignant rejoinder. “Have you considered the scandal this will entail upon us all?”
“Not half such a scandal as that Robert should be murdered and his family permit the crime to go unpunished.”
“I do not think that you have given this matter sufficient consideration. It is for that reason I have come to see you this morning—before you take action which you may have reason to regret later on. I want you to think it over carefully, apart from a mere feminine prejudice against the possibility of a member of the family destroying himself. If you will listen to me I think that I shall be able to convince you that Robert, deplorable though it may seem, did actually commit suicide.”
“What’s the use of going through all this again?” said Mrs. Pendleton wearily. “Robert would not commit suicide.”
“Suicide is always difficult to explain. Nobody can say what impels a man to it.”
“Robert had no reason to put an end to his life. He had everything to live for—everything in front of him.”
“You cannot say that a man bordering on sixty has everything in front of him. I know it’s considered middle-aged in this misguided country, where people will never face the facts of life, but in simple truth Robert had finished with life to all intents and purposes.”
“You won’t say that when you come to sixty yourself, Austin. Robert was a great strong man, with years of activity before him. Besides, people don’t kill themselves because they are growing old.”
“I never suggested it. I was merely pointing out that Robert hadn’t everything in front of him, to use your own phrase.”
“In any case he would not have killed himself,” replied Mrs. Pendleton sharply. “Such a disgrace! He was the proudest of men, he would never have done it.”
“You always hark back to that.” There was faint irritation in Austin’s tone.
“I really cannot get away from it, Austin. Can you conceive of any reason?”
“There was a reason in Robert’s case. I did not mention it to you last night in the presence of the police sergeant, but I told Dr. Ravenshaw, and he is inclined to agree with me. Since then I have thought it over carefully, and I am convinced that I am right.”
“What is the reason?”
“You recall the disclosure Robert made to us yesterday afternoon?”
“About his marriage and Sisily?”
“Yes. It must have been very painful to Robert, more painful than we imagine. It would come home to him later with stunning force—all that it implied, I mean. At the time Robert did not foresee all the consequences likely to ensue from it. It was likely to affect his claim for the title, because he was bound to make it known. When he came to think it over he must have realized that it would greatly prejudice his claim. A body like the House of Lords would do their utmost to avoid bestowing an ancient name on a man, who, by his own showing, lived with a married woman for twenty-five years, and had an illegitimate daughter by her. These are painful things to speak of, but they were bound to come out. My own feeling is that Robert had a bitter awakening to these facts when it was too late—when he had made the disclosure. And he may have felt remorse—”
“Remorse for what?”
“Remorse for giving the secret away and branding his daughter as illegitimate on the day that her mother was buried. It has an ugly look, Constance, there’s no getting away from that.”
He lapsed into silence, and awaited the effect of his words. Mrs. Pendleton pondered over them for some moments in manifest perturbation. There was sufficient resemblance between Austin’s conclusions and the thoughts which had impelled her nocturnal visit to Flint House, to sway her mind like a pendulum towards Austin’s view. But that only lasted for a moment. Then she thrust the thought desperately from her.
“No, no; I cannot—I will not believe it!” she cried in an agitated voice. “All this must have been in Robert’s mind beforehand. His letters to me about Sisily indicated that there were reasons why he wished me to take charge of her. Robert had weighed the consequences of this disclosure, Austin—I feel sure of that. He was a man who knew his own mind. How carefully he outlined his plans to us yesterday! He was to appear before the Investigations Committee next week to give evidence in support of his claim to the title. And he told me that he was purchasing a portion of the family estate at Great Missenden, and intended to live there. Is it logical to suppose that he would terminate all these plans and ambitions by destroying himself? I, for one, will never believe it. I have my own thoughts and suspicions—”
He turned a sudden searching glance on her. “Suspicions of whom?”
“I took a dislike to that terrible man-servant of Robert’s from the moment I saw him,” said Mrs. Pendleton, setting her chin firmly.
This feminine flight was too swift for Austin Turold to follow.
“What has that to do with what we are talking about?” he demanded.
“When we reached the door last night it was Thalassa who let us in, with his hat and coat on, ready to go out. There was something strange and furtive about his manner, too, for I never took my eyes off him, and I’m sure he had something on his mind. I’m quite convinced it was he who was listening at the door yesterday afternoon. And he’s got a wicked and crafty face.”
“Good God!” ejaculated Austin Turold, as the full force of his sister’s impressions reached his mind. “Do you mean to say that because you took a dislike to this unfortunate man’s face, you think he has murdered Robert? And yet there are some feminists who want to draw our judges from your sex! My dear Constance, you cannot make haphazard accusations of murder in this reckless fashion.”
“I am not accusing Thalassa of murder,” said Mrs. Pendleton, with a fine air of generosity. “And there’s more than my dislike of his face in it, too. He was looking through the door in the afternoon—”
“You only think that,” interrupted her brother.
“I feel sure it was he. It was also strange to see him with his hat and coat on when he answered our knock. He told Dr. Ravenshaw that he was going to the churchtown for him.”
“That reminds me that I haven’t yet heard what took you up to Flint House last night, Constance,” said her brother, looking at her fixedly. “What were you doing there at that late hour, and why was Ravenshaw with you?”
Mrs. Pendleton told him, and he listened coldly. “I think you might have consulted me first before Dr. Ravenshaw,” he observed.
“I didn’t because I thought you would have put obstacles in my way,” she replied with frankness.
“I most certainly should. Of course the whole position may be altered now, with Robert’s death. Have you told Sisily?”
“Yes. She took it almost passively. She is the strangest girl, but after last night I look upon her as a sacred charge—Robert’s last wish.”
“It will be best for you to take charge of her, I think,” said Austin absently. “I expect she is provided for in Robert’s will. I found that in the old clock case last night, and I’ve handed it to the local lawyer who drew it up. But this is beside the point, Constance. I have come over here this morning to beg of you to let this terrible business rest where it is. There is not the slightest doubt in my mind that our unhappy brother has ended his own life—all the facts point to it only too clearly—and I particularly desire, for all our sakes, that you do nothing to put your ill-informed suspicions into action. Let the thing drop.”
“It is too late,” said Mrs. Pendleton decidedly. “I have already been to the police. There is a detective from Scotland Yard on his way over from Bodmin.”
“You might have told me this before and saved my time,” said Austin, rising with cold anger. “In my opinion you have acted most ill-advisedly. However, it’s too late to talk of that. No, there is no need to rise. I can find my way out.”
Austin Turold left the hotel, and made his way up the crooked street to the centre of the town. His way lay towards Market Jew Street, where he intended to hire one of the waiting cabs to drive him back to St. Fair. As he neared the top of the street which led to the square, his eye was caught by the flutter of a woman’s dress in one of the narrow old passages which spindled crookedly off it. The wearer of the dress was his niece Sisily. She was walking swiftly. A turn of the passage took her in the direction of the Morrab Gardens, and he saw her no more.
Her appearance in that secluded spot was unexpected, but at the moment Austin Turold did not give it more than a passing thought. He hurried across Market Jew Street and engaged a cabman to drive him home.
The ancient vehicle jolted over the moor road in crawling ascent, and in due time reached the spot where the straggling churchtown squatted among boulders in the desolation of the moors, wanting but cave men to start up from behind the great stones to complete the likeness to a village of the stone age. The cab drifted along between the granite houses of a wide street, like a ship which had lost its bearings, but cast anchor before one where a few stunted garden growths bloomed in an ineffectual effort to lessen the general aspect of appalling stoniness. Austin Turold paid the cabman and walked into this house. He opened the door with his latchkey, and ascended rapidly to the first floor.
Lunch was set for two in the room which he entered, and Charles Turold was seated at the table, turning over the pages of a book. He glanced up expectantly, and his lips formed one word—
“Well?”
“It is not well,” was the testy response. “My charming sister has called in the assistance of Scotland Yard. You’ll have to stay. We’ve got to face this thing out.”
His son received this piece of news with a pale face. “You should have foreseen this last night,” he said.
“I saw Sisily in Penzance—near the gardens.”
“Where was she going?” asked Charles, flushing slightly.
“I really cannot say. You should be better acquainted with her movements than I,” was the ironical response. “You do not suppose I have been altogether blind to your infatuation, do you? If you choose to go walking and flirting with a girl on Cornish moors you must expect to be observed. As a matter of fact I thought it rather a good move on your part, until I learnt the secret of Sisily’s birth.”
“I tell you I won’t stand this,” exclaimed Charles, springing up from the table.
“Won’t?” said his father. “You carry things with a high hand—Jonathan.” His look dwelt coldly on his son. “Do not be a fool. Sit down and let us have lunch, and we’ll discuss afterwards what’s best to be done.”