Upstairs Mr. Brimsdown made unavailing search among Robert Turold's papers
for proofs of his statement about his marriage. The lawyer believed that
they existed, and his failure to find them brought with it a belated
realization of the fact that he, too, had been cherishing hopes of
Sisily's innocence. It was the memory of her face which had inspired that
secret hope. That was not sentiment (so Mr. Brimsdown thought), but the
worldly wisdom of a man whose profession had trained him to read the human
face. Sisily's face, as he recalled it now, had looked sad and a little
fearful that night at Paddington, but there was nothing furtive or tainted
in her clear glance. He felt that a judge would look with marked attention
at such a face in the dock. Judges, like lawyers, and all whose business
it is to trip their kind into the gins of the law, scan faces as closely
as evidence in the effort to read the stories written there.
But the disappearance of certain papers which had probably been abstracted
from that room weighed more in the scale of suspicion against Sisily than
her look of innocence. She stood to gain most by the suppression or
destruction of the proofs of her mother's earlier marriage. But Mr.
Brimsdown could not see that this rather negative inference against the
girl brought the actual solution of the mystery any nearer. It did nothing
to explain, for instance, the marks on the dead man's arm and his
posthumous letter. The letter! What was the explanation of the letter? Was
it not an argument of equal weight for Sisily's innocence, suggesting the
existence of some hidden avenging figure glimpsed by Robert Turold in time
to give him warning of his death, but not in time to enable him to avert
it?
There were other things too. What was the meaning of that sly and stealthy
shake of the head which Austin Turold had given his son that afternoon. A
warning obviously--but a warning for what purpose? Mr. Brimsdown could not
guess, but his contemplation of the incident brought before him the image
of the restless and unhappy young man, as he stood by the bedside in the
next room, pointing to the marks on the dead man's arm. Even in his
vehement assertions of Sisily's innocence Mr. Brimsdown had conceived the
impression that he was keeping something back. What did Charles Turold
know? Did his father share his secret knowledge? Mr. Brimsdown could not
answer these questions, and he was greatly perturbed at the way in which
they brought a host of other thoughts and doubts in their train. He
reflected that the Turolds, father and son, were after all the greatest
gainers by their relative's death. The father came into immediate
possession of a large and unexpected fortune which he would bequeath to
his son. And Austin Turold was not anxious apparently to proceed with his
brother's claim for the title.
These were facts which could not be gainsaid, but where did they lead? The
trouble was that no conceivable theory covered the facts of the case, so
far as they were known. So far as they were known! That was the
difficulty. Any line of thought stopped short of the real solution,
because the facts themselves were inconclusive. There was much that was
still concealed--Mr. Brimsdown felt sure of that.
As he applied his mind to the problem, the definite impression came back
to him, and this time with renewed force, that the mystery surrounding
Robert Turold's death was something which might not bear the light of day.
He set his lips firmly as he considered that possibility. If that proved
to be the case it would be his duty to cover it up again. He was an adept
at such work, as many of his clients, alive and dead, could have
approvingly testified. He had spent much time in safeguarding family
secrets. Several old families had found him their rock of refuge in
distress. If he had been a man of the people, baby lips might have been
taught to call down Heaven's blessings on his discreet efforts. Those
members of the secluded domain of high respectability for whom he strived
showed their gratitude in a less emotional but more substantial
way--generally in the mellow atmosphere of after-dinner conferences ...
"You had better see my man, Brimsdown. I'll give you a note to him. He'll
square this business for you. Safe? None safer."
Mr. Brimsdown did not accept the axiom of a great English jurist that
every man is justified in evading the law if he can, because it is the
duty of lawmakers not to leave any loophole for evasion. That point 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. Mr. Turold returned upstairs, and some time afterwards we
heard him go down again and out.
"I was so upset that I arose and dressed myself to await Mr. Turold's
return. I thought he might like a cup of coffee when he returned, so I
decided to go downstairs myself and prepare it. As I passed the passage
which led to Mr. Charles Turold's room, I noticed a light underneath his
door. I rather wondered, as he was still up, why he had not gone with his
father, but I was passing on without thinking any more about it when I
happened to notice that the light beneath the door was fluctuating in the
strangest way. First it was very bright, then it became quite dim, but the
next moment it would be bright again.
"That alarmed me so much that I walked along the passage to see what it
meant. I thought perhaps the young man had fallen asleep with the window
open and left the gas flaring in the wind. I stood for a moment outside
the door wondering what I ought to do. Then I heard a crackling sound, and
smelt something burning. That alarmed me still more, because I knew no
fire had been lit in the room that day. I wondered if the bedroom was on
fire, and I knelt down and tried to see through the keyhole.
"At first I could see nothing except a bright light and the shadow of a
form on the wall. Then I made out the form of Charles Turold, standing in
his dressing-gown in front of the fireplace, in which a fire of kindling
wood was leaping and blazing. I could not make out at first what he was
doing. He seemed to be stooping over the fire, moving something about.
Then I saw. He was drying his clothes--the suit he had worn that day. They
must have been very wet, for the steam was rising from them.
"I must have made a noise which startled him, for I saw him turn quickly
and stare at the closed door, then walk towards it. I went away as quickly
and noiselessly as I could, and as I turned the corner of the passage, out
of sight, his door opened, and then closed again. He had looked out and,
seeing nobody, gone back into his room.
"I went downstairs to make the coffee and wait for Mr. Turold. I had to
wait some time. When I did hear the sound of his key in the door, I went
up the hall with a cup of coffee in my hand. Mr. Turold seemed surprised
to see me. He looked at me in a questioning sort of way as he took the
coffee, and stood there sipping it. As he handed me back the cup he told
me in a low voice that his brother was dead. I said that was why I had
waited up--because I had heard the knock and the dreadful news. Mr.
Turold, in the same low voice, then said he was very much afraid his
brother had taken his own life.
"He then went upstairs. I again retired shortly afterwards, but I could
not sleep. I was too upset--too nervous. I could not get Mr. Robert
Turold's suicide out of my head. It seemed such a dreadful thing for a
wealthy man to do--so common and vulgar! Suicide sticks to a family so--it
is never really forgotten. It is much easier to live down an embezzlement
or misappropriation of trust funds. The thought of it put the other
thing--the fire and young Mr. Turold and his wet clothes--out of my head
completely, for the time.
"As I was lying there tossing and thinking I heard a light footstep pass
my door. I slipped out of bed, and opening the door a little, looked out.
I saw Mr. Turold, fully dressed, a light in his hand, turning down the
passage which led to his son's room. Then I heard the sound of a creaking
door, the murmur of a low conversation, cut short by the shutting of the
door. I stood there for a few minutes, and then went back to my bed and
fell asleep.
"The next day it all came back to me. I had gone into Charles Turold's
room for some reason when he was out, and there, on the hearth, I could
see the remains of the fire he had lit overnight to dry his clothes. He
had made some clumsy man-like attempt to clean up the grate, but he left
some ends of the charred kindling wood lying about."
This final revelation brought a silence between Mrs. Brierly and the
lawyer; a silence broken only by the distant deep call of the sea beneath
the open window. The silence lengthened into minutes before Mr. Brimsdown
found his voice.
"You have said nothing to anybody else about this?" He spoke almost
abstractedly, but she chose to regard this question in the light of a
reproach. She hurriedly rejoined--
"I did not see the necessity--then. If young Mr. Turold got caught in the
storm, and chose to dry his clothes in his room, instead of putting them
out for the maid, why should I tell anybody? I did not connect it with his
uncle's death. I was under the impression that Mr. Robert Turold had taken
his own life. It was not until the detective called to see Mr. Austin
Turold that I learnt there was a suspicion of--murder. My maid overheard
the detective say something while she was in and out of the room serving
tea, and she told me what she had heard. I saw things in a new light then,
and I was terribly upset. But I could not see my way clear until you came
to the house to-day. Then I decided to tell you."
"Can you tell me what time Charles Turold came in that night?"
"I have no idea. He and his father have separate keys of the front door."
It was evident that she had told all she knew. She rose to her feet in
agitation.
"I must go. My husband will be wondering where I am. But tell me, Mr.
Brimsdown, do you imagine ... Is it possible ..." Her voice dropped to the
ghost of a frightened whisper.
He evaded this issue with legal caution.
"You have done quite right in coming to me," he replied, as he opened the
door for her departure. He held out his hand.
She touched it with trembling fingers, and went away.
Mr. Brimsdown closed the door behind her, and wearily sat down. He had
been prepared to do much to shield the name of Turold, but he had not
bargained for this. He did not doubt the truth of the story he had just
heard, and it gave him a feeling of nausea. What a revelation of the
infamy of human nature! The stupendous depth of such villainy overwhelmed
him with dismay. The extent of the criminal understanding between father
and son he did not attempt to fathom. His mind was filled with the
monstrous audacity by which Charles Turold, apparently at the dictate of
remorse, had sought to convince him of Sisily's innocence by directing
attention to the marks on the dead man's arm which he had probably made
himself. Could human cynicism go farther than that? A great wave of pity
swept over the lawyer as he thought of the unhappy Sisily, and all that
she had been compelled to endure. But why had she fled?
Long he sat there without stirring, until the shadows deepened and the
grey surface of the sea dissolved in blackness.
"The police must be told of this," he said at last, in an almost voiceless
whisper.