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Updated: June 14, 2025
Brimsdown had been unable to make up his mind about that. There were some nice points involved in the decision. In an effort to reach a solution he broached the subject. "Is it still your opinion that Miss Turold is guilty after this letter?" he asked. "Her disappearance lays upon her the obligation of explaining her secret visit to her father on the night of the murder," was the guarded reply.
Austin Turold took off his glasses, and posed himself in an attitude of expectation, with his eyes fixed upon the detective's face. Barrant eyed the elder man with a puzzled curiosity which was tolerably masked by official impassivity. Barrant had his own methods of investigation and inquiry. He brought an alert intelligence, a seeing eye, and a false geniality to bear in his work.
Robert Turold was not a man of intellect or action, but he belonged to a type which, as a rule, cling to life: the type from which zealots and bigots spring men with a single idea. Such men shrink from the idea of destroying the vital engine by which their idea is driven forward. Their ego is too pronounced for that.
"Indistinguishable, of course," he muttered, returning the letter to the envelope. "Had Robert Turold any enemies?" he asked. "I never heard him speak of any." "How did he come by his money?" asked Barrant, struck by a sudden thought. "His sister tells me that he made his money abroad." "That I cannot tell you." "But you invested his fortune for him, did you not?" "I did," the lawyer agreed.
"Thalassa told Pengowan that Robert Turold kept the revolver in the drawer of his writing table," Dawfield remarked. "I have read Pengowan's report," returned Barrant impatiently, "and I am assuming that Robert Turold's daughter knew where it was kept. This is a purely constructive theory of her guilt, and we have to assume many things.
He had resisted the impulse for years, but it had waxed stronger with each recurring anniversary, and had overcome him at last. Every suicide was a law unto himself. Barrant willingly conceded that, but he could not so easily concede that a man like Robert Turold would put an end to his life just when he was about to attain the summit of that life's ambition.
Brimsdown's mind, never to be forgotten. Who was it that had staged such a crime in such a proscenium, in that vast amphitheatre of black rocks which stretched dizzily down beneath those gleaming windows? Then came other impressions: the dead man upstairs, the disordered dusty study, the stopped clock, the litter of papers. It was in the room where Robert Turold had been murdered that Mr.
Bit by bit, Robert Turold succeeded in fitting together the last pieces of the puzzle which had eluded him for so long. Simon Turrald, the brother, had fled to Cornwall, where he had married a Cornishwoman who had brought him two sons. The elder, Simon, had taken religious vows, and established a priory at St. Fair, a branch of the great priory of St. Germain. And there was a tomb in St.
But who would find the way to such a lonely spot to commit murder, if murder had been committed? Reaching the end of the long passage, he first turned towards the study on the right. The smashed door swung creakingly back to his push, revealing the interior of the room where Robert Turold had met his death. Barrant entered, and closed the broken door behind him.
I opened it, and saw Robert Turold sitting at his table writing with his back towards me. "At the sight of that atrocious scoundrel sitting there immersed in his shameful project against a woman I had loved, my self-control gave way utterly, completely. I had intended to be calm, to reason with him, to exact my terms with a cold logical brain. I did none of these things.
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