Barrant returned to London in the mental disposition of a man who sees an
elaborate theory thrown into the melting-pot by an unexpected turn of
events. The humbling thought was that he had allowed a second fish to
glide through his hands without even suspecting that it was on his line.
He had never remotely connected Charles Turold with the murder until Mr.
Brimsdown had imparted Mrs. Brierly's disclosure to him. He had acted
promptly enough on that piece of information, but once again he was too
late.
Austin Turold might have felt reassured if he had known how little his
share in the events of that night occupied Barrant's mind during their
last interview. The complexion Austin's conduct bore to the detective's
reflection was that of a father who had intentionally misled the power of
authority in order to shield his son. The law took a serious view of that
offence, but it was a matter which could be dealt with at leisure in
Austin's case. By his brother's death Austin Turold had become a man of
property and standing. It was the drawback of his wealth that he could not
disappear like his son. He was to be found when wanted. The main thing
just then was to catch the son, or the girl--or both. Barrant went back to
London for that purpose.
As the days slipped away without that end being achieved he became worried
and perplexed. His own position was an unenviable one, and his thoughts
were far from pleasant. He felt that he had failed badly, and that his
standing with his superiors in Scotland Yard was under a cloud in
consequence. But he could not see where he had actually been at fault. It
was such a damned amazing case. In most crimes the trouble was to find
sufficient clues, but in this case there were too many. And the inferences
pointed different ways. That was the trouble. He was not even sure that in
this latest discovery, so annoyingly belated, he had reached the ultimate
solution of the facts. It was not that the theory of these two young
people committing murder for love was too cynical for belief. He had
encountered more incredible things than that in his professional career.
Life was a cynical business, and youth could be brutal in pursuit of its
aims, especially when the aim was passion, as it usually was. In his
experience youth and age were the dangerous periods--youth, because it
knew nothing of life, and age because it knew too much. There were fewer
surprises in middle-age. That was the period of responsibility--when
humanity clung to the ordered way with the painful rectitude of a
procession of laden ants toiling up a hill. Youth was not like that--nor
age.
No, it was not that. His difficulty was to fit all the circumstances into
any compact theory of the case. Try as he would, there were always some
loose ends left over, some elements of uncertainty which left him
perplexed. He fashioned a new view of the murder, with Charles Turold as
the principal figure in it--the actual murderer. He assumed that Charles
and Sisily had gone to Flint House that night to prevent the truth about
Sisily's birth becoming known. The assertion of her illegitimacy rested
upon her father's bare statement, but his lawyer was convinced he would
not have made the statement without having the proofs in his possession.
These proofs had not been found. Very well. What inference was to be drawn
from that? Sisily knew that they were kept in the clock-case, and pointed
out the hiding place to her lover. In a struggle for their possession
Robert Turold was shot down, or he might have been shot first and
staggered to the clock afterwards to see if they had been stolen. Either
supposition accounted for the fallen clock, and fitted in with nearly all
the known facts of the murder.
Nearly all, but not all! In face of Mrs. Brierly's disclosure it seemed a
condition precedent to the elucidation of the mystery to substitute
Charles Turold for Thalassa as the person whose undisciplined love for
Sisily had led him to shoot her father to shield her name. Nor was it
incredible to suppose that he had remained in Cornwall to cover her flight
in the hope of diverting suspicion from her. But the loose end in the
theory was Thalassa's share in that night's events, and his dogged silence
since under strong suspicion.
Thalassa knew more than he had yet revealed, but what did he know? What
was his share in the business? It was difficult to say. Barrant was unable
to accept the assumption that three people were concerned in the murder.
That idea, if not impossible, was at least contrary to reason. But if it
was excluded, how was the silence of Thalassa to be explained? Was he
afraid? It was as difficult to associate that quality with him as with an
eagle or beast of prey.
And the theory failed to explain the reason for Robert Turold's frantic
letter to his lawyer on the night of the murder. That was another loose
end.
What a case! It was an abnormal and sinister mystery in any light, with no
absolute or demonstrative certainty of proof by any of its circumstances,
however regarded. The effect of its perplexing clues distorted the
imagination, outraged the sense of possibility and experience. To reach
conclusiveness in it seemed as impossible as an attempt to scale an
unending staircase in a nightmare. The facts were there, but they were
inexplicable, or at least they stared at him with the aspect of many
faces.
As he weighed these doubts he found his thoughts reverting with increasing
frequency to the hood clock in Robert Turold's study and the question of
its connection with the crime. He pondered over the point with the nervous
anxiety of a puzzled brain, and it seemed to him now that he had not
devoted as much investigation to this peculiar clue as it deserved. He
recalled Mr. Brimsdown's conversation on the matter. He remembered that he
had been struck at the time by the penetration of his remarks about the
clock, and while not accepting his fantastic theory, had determined to
give more careful thought to the point. But Mrs. Brierly's disclosure put
the idea out of his head.
It recurred to him with renewed force when he found himself in Exeter
nearly a fortnight later on another case. It was a good opportunity to go
on to Cornwall, and he took it. His business completed, he caught the
early train, and in due time arrived at Penzance. With an obscure instinct
for solitude he hastened through the town and struck out across the moors.
The afternoon was waning when he reached Flint House and pulled the
old-fashioned bell-handle of the weatherbeaten door. There was no reply,
and a second ring passed disregarded. That was disconcerting and
unexpected. He wondered whether Thalassa and his wife had left the place.
Then he noticed that the door was merely closed and not shut. He lifted
the heavy iron knocker, and knocked loudly. The repeated knocking sent the
door flying open, and Barrant found himself looking into an empty hall.
Half-way down a pair of curtains stirred slightly and parted suddenly,
revealing a narrower passage which led to the door of the kitchen. The
curtains streamed horizontally, twisting and coiling like snakes. Barrant
stepped quickly inside and closed the door. The curtains fell together
again.
There was something so startling in this action of the wind that Barrant
stood motionless, looking round him. The cold current of air he had
admitted died away in the draughty passages with queer gasping noises,
like a wind strangled. Then there was the most absolute silence. The
curtains hung perpendicular, as thickly motionless as blankets. Barrant
noticed that the hallstand and a chair beside it were thick with dust.
Evidently the house was empty.
Turning first to make quite sure that the front door was securely shut, he
took his way upstairs to Robert Turold's study.
A point of light, falling through the shattered panel of the closed door,
pierced the vague gloom of the passage and hovered on the door of the
bedroom opposite--the room into which the dead man had been carried.
Barrant entered the study and looked around him. It was intolerably dirty
and neglected; everything was covered with a thick grey dust. Barrant
walked over to the clock and regarded it attentively.
What a rascally fat face that moon had! It must have seen some queer
sights in old houses during its two hundred years of life. Strange that
those old clockmakers could make clocks to last so long, but couldn't keep
their own life-springs running half the time! The moral verse was curious
enough. Why should a man who spent half his lifetime putting together a
clock presume to tell his fellow creatures to make the most of the passing
hour?
His reflections took a more practical turn. The clock was the sole witness
to the time of the murder. There were two other clocks in Flint House, but
nobody had thought of looking at them when the crime was discovered.
Barrant regarded that as a regrettable oversight. It was always important
to know the exact time when a murder was committed. Thalassa said that the
hood clock was going and kept excellent time, but the value of that
secondary testimony was impaired by the fact that Thalassa might not be
telling the truth. On the other hand, there was certain presumptive
evidence which suggested that he was. It was a proved fact that Mr. and
Mrs. Pendleton and Dr. Ravenshaw left the doctor's house in a motor-car
for Flint House not later than half-past nine on the night of the murder.
Assuming that they covered the journey across the moors in five or six
minutes and occupied another five minutes in getting upstairs and breaking
in the door, the testimony of the hood clock seemed correct, because Dr.
Ravenshaw said death had just taken place, and he and the doctor who made
the post-mortem examination were both agreed that Robert Turold could not
have lived many minutes after he was shot. Therefore the presumptive
evidence seemed to determine the time of death accurately enough.
But that was only a minor phase of the mystery. The real problem was the
hidden connection between the clock and the murder. What had brought the
clock down, and why had Robert Turold fallen almost on top of it, his
outstretched hands resting on the dial? The complete elucidation of the
mystery lay behind the obscurity in which these two points were shrouded.
To find the answer to them was the surest and quickest way of reconciling
all the contradictory facts of the case. But Barrant racked his brains for
the reason in vain.
He examined the room. There was a leather-topped writing-table with
drawers, several cabinets filled with manuscripts and papers, some walnut
chairs with carved legs, and a tall deep bookcase filled with
dreary-looking books. His eyes wandered over the titles of the volumes.
They also belonged to a bygone period--a melancholy accumulation of works
as dead as their writers. Two whole shelves were occupied with the numbers
of a forgotten periodical which claimed to give "ample details of the
unhappy difference between Queen Caroline of Great Britain and her consort
George the Fourth." Barrant wondered idly why human nature was always so
interested in the washing of dirty linen. Above these was ranged a row of
published sermons. Barrant's eye roamed higher and fell on a fat sturdy
volume wedged in between some slimmer books. The title of this book was
"Clocks of All Periods." Clocks!
He reached for the volume and placed it on the table. A cursory glance
through the pages conveyed the suggestion that it contained more
information about clocks than was worth acquiring or writing down. There
was a chapter on water clocks, to begin with: "Known to the Egyptians and
the Holy Land." Barrant turned the leaves. "The Ancient Chinese used a
smouldering wick as timekeeper." Barrant shook his head impatiently. "King
Alfred's supposed device of measuring Time by Candles--a Myth." Would to
heaven his invention of juries was a myth, too. Scotland Yard would get on
much better without them. "A Lamp-clock was another Simple and Ingenious
Design." How intolerably long-winded the writer was. What had he to say
about hood clocks? "Very few of the Early Clocks had Dials. The Device was
generally a Mechanical Figure which struck the Hour on a Bell." Evidently
the forerunner of the devilish alarum clock. "Early clockmakers--Old
English monks as Clockmakers." The pages flowed rapidly through Barrant's
fingers. "Introduction of Minute Hand Marks--Period of Clocks Showing
Tides--Longfaced Clocks." Ah, here it was at last--"Hood Clocks."
He began to read the chapter with interest, but as he was about to turn
the first page the silence of the room was broken by a faint cackling
laugh--an elfin sound which died away instantly. He looked up, startled.
His surprise was not lessened at the sight of Mrs. Thalassa watching him
from the open doorway. She entered on tiptoe, with a strange air of
caution, examining him with restless eyes.
"I heard you," she mumbled. "I saw you go upstairs. Mr. Thalassa was out,
and I was afraid to go to the door. I've been playing patience, and it
won't come out."
She showed her apron full of small cards. She placed them on the table,
and arranged them in rows.
A new idea came into Barrant's mind as he looked at her. If the poor
creature had recovered sufficient wits to take to her cards again she
might be coaxed to recall what she had seen on the night of the murder. He
drew near her. "Can I help you?" he said.
She nodded sideways at him like a child--a child with withered face and
grey hair.
Together they bent over the cards. A gull flashed past the window with a
scream, as though it had seen them and was repelled at the strange sight.
"Only kings can go into vacant spaces," murmured Barrant's companion,
intent on the game.
The result of the game was inconclusive. A king remained surrounded by
small cards, like a real monarch overwhelmed by the rabble on May Day.
Mrs. Thalassa's eyes strayed mournfully over the rows, then she gathered
up the cards and shuffled them again.
"Do you know any other games of patience?" Barrant asked.
She shook her head.
"Then this is the game you were playing on that night?"
"What night?" she whispered.
"The night Mr. Turold was killed."
"I don't want to think of that--it frightens me."
She remembered, then! Her face went grey, but her eyes were alert,
watching his.
"Listen to me"--he spoke very gently--"I want to help you get rid of your
fear and terror, but to do so I must talk to you about that night. Do you
understand?"
The kindness in his voice seemed to reach her feeble consciousness, and
she looked at him earnestly.
"Will you try and recollect?"
She seemed to search his eyes for courage, and gave a trembling nod.
"What time was it when you heard the crash upstairs? Think well."
She seemed to make an effort to remember. "I don't know," she said at
last.
"Think again. You were playing patience--the game you have just shown me?"
Her eyes turned to the cards on the table. "Yes," she said.
"What time did you commence--can you think?"
She shook her head. "I seem to remember it was half-past eight by the
kitchen clock when I started my last game. I was alone in the kitchen
then. The game was just coming out when I heard a crash--"
She broke off suddenly with a painful sigh and a frightened glance at the
hood clock on the wall.
"One game!" Barrant glanced at his watch with, an air of mistrust. "You
mean two, don't you?"
Her eyes returned to his. She shook her head with a rapid tremulous
motion. "No!" she exclaimed excitedly. "One, only one!"
Barrant cast another glance at his watch, which he Still held in his hand.
"You are quite sure you did not play two?" he persisted, with a puzzled
glance.
"No, no--one!" She sprang to her feet excitedly.
"Very well--one," acquiesced Barrant soothingly. "One. Go on."
But his effort to calm her came too late. She cast a wild and fearful
glance at the wall behind her, as if there was something there which
frightened her.
"How it rings--how it rings!" Her indistinct utterance grew louder. "Yes,
Jasper, I hear. Yes, sir, I'm coming. Where's the supper tray?"
"Don't be afraid, Mrs. Thalassa," said Barrant, approaching her, but she
backed hurriedly away towards the door.
"Coming with the supper tray--coming with the supper tray.... What's that?
Ah-h-h-h-h!"
Her disjointed mutterings ended in a shrill scream which went ringing
through the stillness and seemed to linger in the room after she had
disappeared. Barrant heard her muttering and laughing as she descended the
stairs.
The sounds died away into a silence so absolute as to suggest the
impression of a universe suddenly stricken dumb. Barrant crossed the room
to the window, where he stood looking out, deep in thought.
What was the meaning of it all--of this latest scene in particular? The
game of patience so tempestuously concluded had occupied half-an-hour. He
had noted the time. Yet Mrs. Thalassa insisted she had played only one
game after half-past eight on the night of the murder. If he dared accept
such a computation of time an unimagined possibility in the case stood
revealed. But--a demented woman. "A parable in the mouth of a fool."
Perhaps it was because she was a fool that he had stumbled on this
revelation. She lacked the wit to lie about it.
If so--
His eyes, straying incuriously over the outstretched panorama of sea and
cliffs beneath the window, fell upon a man's outline scaling the cliff
path near the Moon Rock. Disturbed in his meditations, Barrant watched the
climber. He reached the top and appeared in full view on the bare summit
of the cliffs. Barrant stared down upon him, amazed beyond measure. The
advancing figure was Charles Turold.