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213 pages

English

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After having toiled for years to prove that he's the rightful heir to a vast estate, Robert Turold is on the brink of making a major breakthrough. But on the eve of his triumphant announcement, he's found murdered in a locked room whose only alternate point of egress would be a 200-foot-drop to the craggy cliffs below.

Informations

Publié par	The Floating Press
Date de parution	01 octobre 2015
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781776591831
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0134€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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THE MOON ROCK
* * *
ARTHUR J. REES

*
The Moon Rock First published in 1922 Epub ISBN 978-1-77659-183-1 Also available: PDF ISBN 978-1-77659-184-8 © 2013 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
*
The Moon Rock Chapter I Chapter II Chapter III Chapter IV Chapter V Chapter VI Chapter VII Chapter VIII Chapter IX Chapter X Chapter XI Chapter XII Chapter XIII Chapter XIV Chapter XV Chapter XVI Chapter XVII Chapter XVIII Chapter XIX Chapter XX Chapter XXI Chapter XXII Chapter XXIII Chapter XXIV Chapter XXV Chapter XXVI Chapter XXVII Chapter XXVIII Chapter XXIX Chapter XXX Chapter XXXI Chapter XXXII Chapter XXXIII Chapter XXXIV
The Moon Rock
*
"There is no help for all these things are so, And all the world is bitter as a tear, And how these things are, though ye strove to show, She would not know. "
—Swinburne
Chapter I
*
The voice of the clergyman intoned the last sad hope of humanity, thefinal prayer was said, and the mourners turned away, leaving Mrs. Turoldto take her rest in a bleak Cornish churchyard among strangers, far fromthe place of her birth and kindred.
The fact would not have troubled her if she had known. In life she hadbeen a nonentity; in death she was not less. At least she could now mixwith her betters without reproach, free (in the all-enveloping silence)from the fear of betraying her humble origin. Debrett's Peerage wasunimportant in the grave; breaches of social etiquette passed unnoticedthere; the wagging of malicious tongues was stopped by dust.
Her husband lingered at the grave-side after the others had departed. Ashe stood staring into the open grave, regardless of a lurking grave-diggerwaiting to fill it, he looked like a man whose part in the drama of lifewas Care. There was no hint of happiness in his long narrow face, dullsunken eyes, and bloodless compressed lips. His expression was not that ofone unable to tear himself away from the last glimpse of a loved wifefallen from his arms into the clutch of Death. It was the gaze of oneimmersed in anxious thought.
The mourners, who had just left the churchyard, awaited him by a rudestone cross near the entrance to the church. There were six—four men, awoman, and a girl. In the road close by stood the motor-car which hadbrought them to the churchyard in the wake of the hearse, glisteningincongruously in the grey Cornish setting of moorland and sea.
The girl stood a little apart from the others. She was the daughter of thedead woman, but her head was turned away from the churchyard, and hersorrowful glance dwelt on the distant sea. The contour of her small facewas perfect as a flower or gem, and colourless except for vivid scarletlips and dark eyes gleaming beneath delicate dark brows. She was veryyoung—not more than twenty—but in the soft lines of her beauty there wasa suggestion of character beyond her years. Her face was dreamy andwayward, and almost gipsy in type. There was something ratherdisconcerting in the contrast between her air of inexperienced youth andthe sombre intensity of her dark eyes, which seemed mature anddisillusioned, like those of an older person. The slim lines of her figurehad the lissome development of a girl who spent her days out of doors.
She stood there motionless, apparently lost in meditation, indifferent tothe bitter wind which was driving across the moors with insistent force.
"Put this on, Sisily."
Sisily turned with a start. Her aunt, a large stout woman muffled in heavyfurs, was standing behind her, holding a wrap in her hand.
"You'll catch your death of cold, child, standing here in this thindress," the elder lady continued. "Why didn't you wear your coat? You'd bewarmer sitting in the car. It's really very selfish of Robert, keeping usall waiting in this dreadful wind!" She shivered, and drew her furscloser. "Why doesn't he come away? As if it could do any good!"
As she spoke the tall form of Robert Turold was seen approaching throughthe rank grass and mouldering tombstones with a quick stride. He emergedfrom the churchyard gate with a stern and moody face.
"Let us get home," he said, and his words were more of a command thanrequest.
He walked across the road to the car with his sister and daughter. The menby the cross followed. They were his brother, his brother's son, hissister's husband, and the local doctor, whose name was Ravenshaw. With aclang and a hoot the car started on the return journey. The windingcobbled street of the churchtown was soon left behind for a road whichstruck across the lonely moors to the sea. Through the moors and stonyhills the car sped until it drew near a solitary house perched on the edgeof the dark cliffs high above the tumbling waters of the yeasty sea whichfoamed at their base.
The car stopped by the gate where the moor road ended. The mournersalighted and entered the gate. Their approach was observed from within,for as they neared the house the front door was opened by an elderlyman-servant with a brown and hawk-beaked face.
Walking rapidly ahead Robert Turold led the way into a front sitting-roomlighted by a window overlooking the sea. There was an air of purpose inhis movements, but an appearance of strain in his careworn face andtwitching lips. He glanced at the others in a preoccupied way, but startedperceptibly as his eye fell upon his daughter.
"There is no need for you to remain, Sisily," he said in a harsh dryvoice.
Sisily turned away without speaking. Her cousin Charles jumped up to openthe door, and the two exchanged a glance as she went out. The young manthen returned to his seat near the window. Robert Turold was speakingemphatically to Dr. Ravenshaw, answering some objection which the doctorhad raised.
"... No, no, Ravenshaw—I want you to be present. You will oblige me byremaining. I will go upstairs and get the documents. I shall not keep youlong. Thalassa, serve refreshments."
He left the room quickly, as though to avoid further argument. The elderlyserving-man busied himself by setting out decanters and glasses, then wentout like one who considered his duty done, leaving the company to wait onthemselves.
Chapter II
*
The group in the room sat in silence with an air of stiff expectation. Themembers of the family knew they were not assembled to pay respect to thememory of the woman who had just been buried. Her husband had regarded heras a drag upon him, and did not consider her removal an occasion for thedisplay of hypocritical grief. Rather was it to be regarded as an act oftimely intervention on the part of Death, who for once had not acted asmarplot in human affairs.
They were there to listen to the story of the triumph of the head of thefamily, Robert Turold. Most families have some common source of interestand pride. It may be a famous son, a renowned ancestor, a faded heirloom,even a musical daughter. The pride of the Turold family rested on thebelief that they were of noble blood—the lineal inheritors of a greatEnglish title which had fallen into abeyance hundreds of years before.
Robert Turold had not been content to boast of his nobility and die acommoner like his father and grandfather before him. His intense pridedemanded more than that. As a boy he had pored over the crabbed parchmentsin the family deed-box which indicated but did not record the familydescent, and he had vowed to devote his life to prove the descent andrestore the ancient title of Turrald of Missenden to the Turolds of whichhe was the head.
There was not much to go upon when he commenced the labour of thirtyyears—merely a few old documents, a family tradition, and the similarityof name. And the Turolds were poor. Money, and a great deal of it, wasneeded for the search, in the first instance, of the unbroken line ofdescent, and for the maintenance of the title afterwards if the claim wascompletely established. But Robert Turold was not to be deterred byobstacles, however great. He was a man with a single idea, and such menare hard to baulk in the long run.
He left England in early manhood and remained away for some years. Hisfamily understood that he had gone to seek a fortune in the wilds of theearth. He reappeared—a saturnine silent man—as suddenly as he had goneaway. In his wanderings he had gained a fortune but partly lost the use ofone eye. The partial loss of an eye did not matter much in a country likeEngland, where most people have two eyes and very little money, andtherefore pay more respect to wealth than vision.
Robert Turold invested his money, and then set to work upon his greatambition with the fierce restlessness which characterized all hisproceedings in life. He married shortly after his return. He soon came tothe conclusion that his marriage was a great mistake—the greatest mistakeof his life. His wife had borne him two girls. The first died in infancy,and some years later Sisily was born. His regrets increased with the birthof a second daughter. He wanted a son to succeed him in the title—when hegained it. Time passed, and he became enraged. His anger crushed the timidwoman who shared his strange lot. His dominating temperament and moodypride were too much for her gentle soul. She became desperately afraid ofhim and his stern ways, of that monomania which kept them wanderingthrough the country searching for links in a [pedigree] which had to betraced back for hundreds of years before Robert Turold could grasp hisheart's desire.
When She died in the house on the cliffs wh