CHAPTER XIX
It was from Mrs. Pendleton that Mr. Brimsdown gained his first realknowledge of the drama of strange events surrounding Robert Turold'sdeath. In response to his call at the hotel she came down from her roomfingering his card nervously, her eyes reddened with weeping, and an airof tremulous bewilderment about her which sat ill on her massivepersonality.
The lawyer greeted her with formal courtesy. He was newly shaved andbathed, his linen was spotless, and his elderly grey eyes looked out withalert watchfulness on a world of trickery.
"As your late brother's legal adviser for many years, I felt it incumbentupon me to come down," he said, fixing a grave glance on the distractedlady before him. "It seemed to me that I might be of some use, perhaps,assistance. That is the object of my call."
The fact that she had not seen Mr. Brimsdown before did not lessen thehysterical gratitude with which Mrs. Pendleton received this piece ofinformation. The events of the last forty-eight hours had shaken herbadly. Her brother's tragic death, and the terrible suspicion whichenveloped Sisily, had stripped her of her strength, and left her with afeminine longing to cast her burden on a man's shoulders. She haddiscovered to her dismay that a husband who has been snubbed and keptunder for twenty years is apt to prove a thing of straw when a woman likesto feel that the male sex was devised by Providence to take the wheel fromfemale hands if the barque of life drifts on the breakers. But Mr.Pendleton had revealed no latent capacity to play the part of the strongman at the helm in the crisis. He had shown himself a craven and kept outof the way, leaving his wife to her own resources. The appearance of Mr.Brimsdown was as timely to her as the arrival of a heaven-sent pilot in astorm.
"Thank you," she murmured incoherently. "Such a dreadful end. Poor dearRobert." She sobbed into her handkerchief.
"A deplorable loss to his family--and England," assented the lawyer. "I amglad to see you. They ascertained your address for me at the hotel where Iam staying. I have been resting after travelling all night, and I shall goand see the police in the morning. So far I have only read the reports inthe London evening papers, and there may be intimate particulars whichwere not disclosed to the press. If such exist, perhaps you will impartthem to me. You need not hesitate to disclose to me all you know. Yourlate brother honoured me with his confidence for nearly thirty years." Mr.Brimsdown coughed discreetly.
His tone invited confidences which Mrs. Pendleton, in her perplexity ofspirit, was only too anxious to impart to a sympathetic ear. Mr.Brimsdown, sitting stiffly upright, his eyes fixed on a portrait ofRoyalty glimmering inanely down at them through a dirty glass frame on theopposite wall, listened with unmoved front. Yet the story had itssurprises, even for him. Not the least of them was the fact that Mrs.Pendleton's description of her niece tallied with the appearance of thegirl whose identity he had tried to recall at Paddington. He was chagrinedto think he had failed to recognize his late client's daughter, but herecalled that it was ten years since he had seen Sisily, who was then adark-eyed little girl. At Norfolk. Oh, yes! he remembered her readilyenough now, playing innocently about some forgotten tombstones in adeserted graveyard on a wild grey coast, while her father wrested savagelywith the dead for his heritage. Strange that he should have met her againat the moment of her flight, when he was setting out for Cornwall inresponse to her dead father's letter! Life had such ironical mischances.
He said nothing of this chance encounter, or of Robert Turold's letter, tothe dead man's sister who was now pouring out her fears and suspicions tohim. He was a receptacle into which confidences might be emptied, but hegave nothing in return. Mrs. Pendleton did not need that. Her state ofmind compelled her to speak, and her impulsiveness hurried her along onthe high tide of a flood of words. The story she had to tell oppressed herlistener with the sense of some great unknown horror. It was like tryingto see a dark place by lightning. The flashes of her revelations revealeda distorted surface, but not the hidden depths. Mrs. Pendleton's agitatedmind, doubling in and out a maze of conjectures like a distracted hare,turned again and again to the question of Sisily's complicity in herfather's death.
"I can hardly believe it even now," she said with a shudder. "Such a sweetpretty girl! And yet--there was something strange in her manner. Iremarked it to Joseph--my husband--before this happened." She pressed herhandkerchief to her eyes.
The lawyer, with a sideways glance at the Royal portrait opposite, whichseemed in the act of smiling blandly at his companion's grief, reflected,soberly enough, that sweet and pretty girls were as human as the rest ofcreation, if it came to that.
"Charlie Turold--my nephew, you know--will have it that she is innocent."
"In spite of her disappearance?"
"Yes. He came this morning, before I was up, to see if I knew where Sisilyhad gone. After tea he came again in a terrible state, raving against thedetective for taking out a warrant for her arrest. He said it was madnesson his part to imagine that a girl like Sisily would kill her father. Itold him that as Sisily had disappeared he could hardly blame the policefor looking for her. He turned on me when I said that, and used suchviolent language that I was quite frightened of him. But I makeallowances, of course."
"Why?" the lawyer asked, looking at her.
"I think Charlie is very fond of Sisily," murmured Mrs. Pendleton withwomanly intuition.
"Do you mean that they love each other?" said the lawyer, regarding herattentively.
"I cannot say about Sisily. And I never guessed it of Charlie until thismorning. I'm sure poor Robert had no idea of it. He would never haveagreed--after what he told us on the day of the funeral, I mean."
Mr. Brimsdown gave a tacit unspoken assent to that. Some men might havewelcomed such a solution of an ugly family scandal, but not Robert Turold,with his fierce pride for the honour of the title which he had sought togain.
"Is your nephew's belief in Miss Turold's innocence based on anythingstronger than assertion? Does he suspect any one else?"
"He did not say so. He was very excited, and talked on and on, withoutlistening to me in the least. He seems very impulsive and headstrong. Inoticed that on the day of the funeral. When Robert told us about hismarriage, Charles said to him that his first duty was to his daughter.Robert looked so angry."
"I can well believe it," murmured the lawyer. "The young man must havecourage."
"Oh yes, he served with distinction in the war," Mrs. Pendleton innocentlyrejoined. "In temperament he takes after me, I think, more than after hisfather. Austin and I never did think alike. We even disagreed over poorRobert's terrible death. Austin thought he had ... destroyed himself." Hervoice dropped to a shocked whisper.
"On what grounds did he base that belief?" Mr. Brimsdown cautiously asked.
"He thought the circumstances pointed to it," she rejoined. "But I knewbetter--I knew Robert would never do anything so dreadful. Besides, had Inot seen that horrible old man-servant glaring through the door? That iswhy I went to the police."
As Mrs. Pendleton showed a tendency to repeat herself, Mr. Brimsdown roseto terminate the interview. Mrs. Pendleton rose, too, but she had not yetreached the end of her surprises for him.
"And then there's Robert's will--so strange! Really--"
"The will! What will?" interrupted the lawyer testily. "Did your brothermake his will down here?"
"Yes. A will drawn up by a local lawyer--a man with the extraordinary nameof Bunkom--a most terrible little creature. Bunkom, indeed!" continuedMrs. Pendleton, shaking her head with a feeble assumption ofsprightliness. "Everything is left to my brother Austin. I do not mind inthe least about myself. After all, Robert and I met almost as strangersafter many years, and I want nothing from him. But his treatment of thisunfortunate girl, his daughter, is really too dreadful. I do not wish tospeak ill of the dead, but I must say that much, whether Sisily hadanything to do with Robert's death or not, for, of course, Robert couldn'thave known about that at the time--when he made his will, I mean,"concluded Mrs. Pendleton, in some confusion of
mind.
"It is strange that your brother did not consult me before drawing up thiswill," said Mr. Brimsdown.
"Perhaps he imagined you might persuade him against it," sighed Mrs.Pendleton. "It is all very strange. I do not understand it a bit."
Mr. Brimsdown thought it strange, then and afterwards. Next day, aftergoing to the police station and handing Robert Turold's letter toInspector Dawfield, he sought out the Penzance lawyer who had drawn up thewill. Mr. Bunkom was a spidery little man who spun his legal webs in asmall dark office at the top of Market Jew Street, a solicitor with aservile manner but an eye like a fox, which dwelt on his eminent confrerefrom London, as he perused the will, with an expression which it was justas well that Mr. Brimsdown didn't see, so sly and savage was it. ThePenzance spider knew his business. The will was watertight and properlyattested. The bulk of the property was bequeathed to Austin Turoldunconditionally. There were only two other bequests. Robert Turold hadplaced Thalassa and Sisily ("my illegitimate daughter") on an equality bybequeathing to them annuities of L50 a year each. Austin Turold and Mr.Brimsdown were named as joint executors, and that was all.
Mr. Brimsdown would not have occupied such a distinguished place in thelegal profession if he had not been a firm believer in the sacred Englishtradition that a man has the right to dispose of his own property as hethinks fit. Moreover, his legal mind realized the folly of speculatingover the reasons which had prompted this hurried will when the man who hadmade it was beyond the reach of argument, reproof, or cross-examination.
But the lack of all mention of the title was a different matter, callingfor investigation. It was remarkable that a man like Robert Turold shouldhave gone to the grave without binding his heir to prosecute the claim forthe Turrald title. To that end Robert Turold had devoted his life, and tothe upkeep of the title he had proposed to devote his fortune. The absenceof this precaution puzzled Mr. Brimsdown considerably at first, but as hepondered over the matter he began to see the reason. Robert Turold was soclose to the summit of his ambition that he had not thought it necessaryto take precautions. He was a strong man, and strong men rarely think ofdeath. Once the title was his, it descended as a matter of course to hisbrother, and then to his brother's son--provided, of course, that theproofs of his daughter's illegitimacy were in existence.
That conclusion carried another in its wake. If Robert Turold had notsafeguarded his dearest ambition because he hoped to carry it out himself,it followed as a matter of course that he did not take his own life. Mr.Brimsdown had never accepted that theory, but it was strange to have it soconclusively proved, as it were, by the inference of an omission. Thatbrought the lawyer back to the position that some foreboding or warning ofhis murder had caused Robert Turold to summon him to Cornwall by letter.The next step of his investigations led Mr. Brimsdown to the dead man'sstudy, where that frantic appeal had been penned.
He engaged a vehicle at the hotel and drove over to Flint House in theafternoon. The impression of that visit remained. Flint House, rising fromthe basalt summit of the headland like a granite vault, its windows coldlyglistening down on the frothy green gloom of the Atlantic far beneath, thecountry trap and lean black horse at the flapping gate, the undertaker'sman (dissolute parasite of austere Death) slinking out of the house, andThalassa waiting at the open door for him to approach--all these thingswere engraved on Mr. Brimsdown's mind, never to be forgotten. Who was itthat had staged such a crime in such a proscenium, in that vastamphitheatre of black rocks which stretched dizzily down beneath thosegleaming windows?
Then came other impressions: the dead man upstairs, the disordered dustystudy, the stopped clock, the litter of papers. It was in the room whereRobert Turold had been murdered that Mr. Brimsdown questioned Thalassaabout the letter, and heard with a feeling of dismay his declaration thathe had not posted it. Where was the nearest pillar box? Nearly a mileaway, at the cross-roads. Could his late master have gone there to post itthat night? If he had, Thalassa hadn't heard him go out. Could anybodyelse have posted it? No; there was nobody else to post it.
It was like questioning a head on an old Roman coin, so expressionless wasThalassa's face as he delivered himself of these replies. But the lawyerhad the feeling that Thalassa was deriving a certain grim satisfactionfrom his questioner's perplexity, and he dismissed him somewhat angrily.Then, when he had gone, he turned to an examination of some of the papersand documents which littered the room, but that was a search which toldhim nothing.
When the shades of evening warned him to relinquish that task, he toldhimself that he really ought to go and see Austin Turold before returningto Penzance. But he shrank, with unaccountable reluctance, from theperformance of that obvious duty. He felt very old and tired, and histemples were throbbing with a bad nervous headache. He therefore decidedto postpone his visit to Austin Turold until later.