"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.