Death Comes to Dartmoor

by Vivian Conroy

  Even if the affair didn’t have such consequences, it might lead to other troubles, such as the lady of the house discovering that her husband or son was carrying on with a maid and the maid being blamed for it and dismissed or cruelly punished with extra hard work or, in severe cases, beaten.

  Some maids used their bond with a high-placed male in the household to boast or make others feel inferior, and if those others banded against them, they might end up constantly targeted and humiliated until they fled and ended up on the streets anyway.

  The position of a maid who carried on with someone above her station was precarious at the best of times, as the favor of the man she sought to please might shift to another at any moment.

  But did a naive young woman from a country village know all that?

  Raven stood studying her. “What thoughts are racing through your head? You look very worried.”

  “The girl is dead, and if there was something going on between her and her employer, that will give people all the more reason to suspect Oaks. They might think he tired of her and wanted to end the affair, that she threatened to speak of it publicly, or …”

  Raven shook his head. “Oaks assured me that nothing happened between them. Nothing but a kiss she forced onto him one day as he came back from a walk and she came to ask him something. She kissed him and said she loved him and wished him to marry her so she could escape her father. It seems she had a hard time at home.”

  Merula remembered the stable boy saying that the girl hadn’t wanted to go into service at first because she had wanted to stay with her father. That after her mother’s death they were left to depend on each other. That didn’t agree with what Raven was telling her now. Was Oaks lying? Devising a sad situation at home for the girl so he could explain that she had wanted to be with him? Or had the girl lied about wanting to get away from her father to explain her sudden interest in Oaks? Did it even make sense to assume a servant girl would dare to kiss her employer, a much older man?

  Raven said with a sigh, “Oaks was in tears about it. He refused to marry her, even urged her never to approach him again about this subject. Then she vanished. He was afraid he had hurt her feelings and driven her to run away, perhaps even kill herself in despair because she felt rejected. Oaks believes he drove her away from here, but what will happen when he hears she’s dead? He will surely blame himself.”

  “That was why he said they’d be after him. Because he blames himself that the girl ran. But did she really run because he rejected her? Or was there another reason? Do you know any more about her?”

  “No, but perhaps Bowsprit can throw light on that.” Raven tapped his foot impatiently. “I want to believe Oaks when he says he turned her away, also because he understood she was merely clinging to him because she didn’t have anybody else. But how well do I know him or his behavior around women? What if he first encouraged her and then turned her away?”

  “Even then, he need not have killed her. Rich men can simply dismiss a girl they no longer like. He need not have murdered her, I presume.”

  “Except that the strange markings on her neck were supposed to have been made by his kraken.”

  Merula glanced down the corridor in the direction of the room with the specimens and the adjacent bathroom where the dead kraken hung on display. “I can’t deny it looks rather creepy and might provoke superstitious thoughts in local minds. It’s a creature from the sea, and all these people grew up with the sea nearby and listened to local lore.”

  “Yes”—Raven pointed a finger at her—“and that is our problem. For if we assume that Oaks has nothing to do with the murder and that someone else killed the girl in a way that suggests that Oaks’s kraken is behind it, then what is the motive of this killer? I don’t suppose he wants to see that specimen on the clothes rack on trial.”

  “Drive Oaks away from here? Perhaps people are afraid of his house, his beasts, his presence, and they want to terrify him into leaving.”

  “By killing one of their own girls? I can hardly believe it would have been a local.”

  Merula bit her lip. “How about the gentleman in the very nice carriage who visited this place? Who was he and what was he here for?”

  She studied Raven’s tight features. “Was he a nerve doctor? Was he sent by Bixby? The stable boy told me they quarreled before Bixby left here last week, and Oaks was heard to repeat that he wouldn’t be pressured into it. Did he resist treatment?”

  Raven pursed his lips. “It’s possible, I suppose. Do we have to invite some specialist of our own to come assess Oaks’s condition?”

  “If Oaks doesn’t want to cooperate, will the specialist even be able to ascertain anything?”

  “I don’t know really.”

  With a heavy sigh, Raven opened the door and peeked in. Then he gestured to Bowsprit, who came over to the door and out of the room at once. “Oaks is sleeping,” he reported. “His breathing sounds rather labored, as if he’s dreaming about unpleasant things.”

  “I can imagine,” Raven said, “as he obviously blames himself for his servant girl’s disappearance.”

  Bowsprit said, “At the inn, I got a few men to talking. They told me that the girl, Tillie, had worked at the inn. That she had been a pretty little thing—excuse the wording, my lord, but that is what they said.”

  “Yes, tell it in their words so we may get an idea of how this girl Tillie lived and what she might have been involved in.”

  “The innkeeper doesn’t mind when the customers take an interest in the girls. The man I talked to pointed out a blonde girl to me, telling me her name is Fern and she is friendly with a few of the men. He said with a sneer that, if she turned up dead, one of them got into a row with her and strangled her in anger or jealousy. He even had a name for me of the man who could have done such a thing. Ben Webber, son of the local greengrocer. It seems he liked Fern and wanted to marry her. He claimed he could offer her a better life than serving at the inn, as she could come and work in the shop. But Fern didn’t like Mrs. Webber, Ben’s mother. Her husband made provisions before he died that the son will become owner of the store when he turns thirty. Until that time his mother is in control of everything, and she lets her son work for her like a hired hand. Again: their words, not mine.”

  Bowsprit grimaced. “Mrs. Webber has strong opinions about everything and isn’t afraid to voice them. Fern believed that the woman would be commandeering her, sending her here and there to do errands for her, and so she would rather stay at the inn. She was close to Tillie when Tillie still worked there, but it seems that they got into some kind of argument after Tillie left to work for Oaks.”

  “So Tillie had an argument with a friend of hers?” Merula repeated slowly. “We should talk to this girl Fern to find out what the argument was about.”

  “It’s a shame they had an argument,” Raven said pensively, “as one could assume girls amongst themselves might speak of men they are interested in. Fern might have known if Tillie took an interest in Oaks. But if they quarreled and Tillie left the inn to work elsewhere, that suggests they were no longer close and Tillie won’t have told her anything.”

  He closed his eyes a moment as if to focus on his reasoning. “What made Tillie change her profession? You’d say the inn was a livelier place, and this house also has a bad reputation.”

  “It seems she was never quite equal to Fern.” Bowsprit frowned, as if trying to recall what he had been told or what he had inferred from the remarks made. “Fern was prettier and wittier, with Tillie being more of a quiet girl. She disliked the customers getting too rowdy. Fern could joke with them and slap grabbing hands away, but not this girl. She thought it would be better to do something different, and so she came here. Also to support her father’s household. When her mother died, the income she brought in from sewing ended, and he has to work hard to make ends meet. He travels the entire area to tend to the horses.”

  “Yes, the stable boy told me her father is a blacksmith,” Merula
said. “He was here this morning with the mob. The man in the leather apron. In the end he gave them the signal to go away. If Tillie was his daughter and he believes Oaks to be guilty of killing her, why didn’t he try to have the mob burn the house anyway?”

  “A fear of Bixby?” Raven shrugged. “Perhaps the blacksmith tends his horses as well and doesn’t want to lose his business there. Go back in there and watch our host. Take note of everything he says, even if it’s just mutterings in his restless dreams. I want to understand what has happened here.”

  “Very well, my lord. I can pass the time by reading some of the more interesting books Mr. Oaks put in the windowsill.”

  “Yes, that reminds me, do you know what kistvaens are?”

  “Ancient graves on the moors. They’re rumored to contain riches. But it’s not wise to search for them. When violated, they might …” Bowsprit fell silent, grimacing.

  Raven pressed, “Yes? Is there some curse attached to it? Like with Egyptian tombs?”

  Bowsprit shrugged. “There are stories that those who once opened a kistvaen changed, and not for the better.”

  “Like Oaks,” Merula said. “Can he have been looking into these graves?”

  Raven eyed her. “Do you believe a curse fell upon Oaks after he discovered an ancient grave?”

  “No, but I wonder if someone might have wanted others to believe that. Bixby, for instance, who is so eager to convince everyone Oaks is going mad.”

  “I’ll keep a close eye on Oaks.” Bowsprit turned to the door, then shook upright. “I remember now.” He reached into his pocket and produced some folded sheets, holding them out to Merula. “I was close enough to the man who blocked the road yesterday to take back your belongings when he wasn’t paying attention. I’m sure he doesn’t need them. There you are.”

  He handed the sheets to Merula and entered the room, closing the door behind him with an impeccably soft click.

  Raven shook his head. “My valet an expert pickpocket. I’d better not ask him where he acquired those skills.”

  Merula stared in amazement at the sheets in her hands. The pencil drawings on the top one were a little smudged from the paper having been tucked into the man’s pocket, but otherwise it was all there.

  “I’m curious”—Raven reached out to pull the stack from her hands—“what they were after when they took these from you. What you might have drawn that upset them.”

  “You know I drew nothing while we were looking at the estuary beach. It was impossible, as the wind was too strong. These are just sketches from the journey.” Merula held on to them tightly.

  Raven surveyed her. “You don’t want me to see them?” He tilted his head. “I believed there were no secrets between us.”

  “There are none, but my sketches are not very good, and I feel awkward showing them.” Knowing she was lying, her cheeks lit up.

  Raven looked away. “Very well. There’s nothing for me to do here. I might go into the village and see if I can buy some necessities at the greengrocer’s. What better way to meet Mr. Ben Webber and his domineering mother? As Webber came to the inn often to court Fern, he must have met Tillie there before she took her leave and started working for Oaks. Webber might be able to tell us something worthwhile about the girl. He can certainly tell us where Fern lives so we can also talk to her and try to find out why Tillie left the inn and came to work for Oaks. Who knows what else we might learn just by listening well? For I’m sure the murder must be the talk of the town by now.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Merula had insisted on going with Raven, and they had asked the stable boy whether there was a cart around. There was, and after he had put a horse in front of it, Raven drove them into the village. Merula had asked Lamb to come along, as she knew the girl was frightened in the house and still aching to get back to London.

  It was sad to see how her excitement about this trip had died a sudden death and had turned her back into the shy, pale creature she had first been when Merula had come to know her. She liked Lamb inquisitive, talkative, and excited about the new things she might discover.

  The village square had an old oak tree in the center, a place to put the cart, and directions on a wooden pole, pointing the visitor east, west, and south. “Town hall,” Raven read aloud. “Well, well, how presumptuous for a little village. Newer, too, than the other directions, it seems.”

  He helped the ladies out of the cart, holding Merula’s hand just a little longer and looking into her eyes with a probing intensity. She wished she had just shown him the sketches and been done with it, had him smirk about his likeness or wonder, anything better than drawing more undue attention to it. But it could not be helped.

  At a shop with a small front window and a weather-beaten sign over the door, a young man was putting apples into a neat row. From inside, a voice called, “Make sure you put any black spots or bruises to the other side so the customers don’t see them. They have to look their best.”

  “Yes, Mother!”

  “Good afternoon,” Raven greeted. “How delicious your apples look. They have that healthy country glow about them that you never see in the city. Might I purchase a few for my fiancée?”

  Merula almost choked at being presented as Raven’s fiancée, but the greengrocer’s son looked them over, smiled at her, and picked up a brown paper bag. He had a nice symmetric face, strong jaws, and a hint of freckles over his nose. His deep-brown eyes seemed to twinkle as if he was pondering some secret only he was privy to.

  If he had really loved the girl Fern and she had rejected him, there was nothing of sadness or grief in his demeanor.

  Raven paid for the fruit and observed casually, “Such a lovely village, and still struck by misfortune. Didn’t I hear that a serving wench from a tavern died mysteriously by the river last night?”

  “She wasn’t just a serving wench; she was a respectable village girl.” The young man looked at Raven as if he suddenly discerned a poisonous insect.

  “Forgive me if I’m misinformed,” Raven said. “I’m a writer for a London newspaper, and I’ve come here with the express purpose of writing on the mystery of the sea monster that strikes from the deep. Of course, no one is to know of this. I told my employer I was taking my fiancée to Devonshire for the sea air. She has been ill, haven’t you, my dear?”

  Merula nodded and tried to look as if she was tired and slightly bored, like you’d expect of a city-bred woman who enjoyed soirees with her fiancé’s newspaper contacts and going to the theater or meeting with friends to gossip. Being shipped off to Devonshire, whether it be for the sea air or for invigorating walks on the moors, had to be dull to such a woman.

  Raven continued to the young man, who listened intently, “I’m interested in reliable information from a good source. I’m willing to pay decent money for this information.”

  “Then you have come to the right man.” The young man extended his hand. “Benjamin Webber. This is my store. I also deliver to people’s homes, and I have been to the house where the sea monster lives. I can tell you everything about it.”

  Merula almost jerked upright with excitement but reminded herself just in time that she had to look like someone recovering from an illness. Someone who might smile indulgently at her fiancé’s preoccupation with sea monsters but who would have no interest in such a subject herself.

  Ben Webber put the last apples in place. “I’ll tell my … uh … staff that I’ll be away for a while. I can tell you all while we have a little stroll. No ears overhearing, you understand?”

  Raven nodded, and Ben Webber popped inside.

  “His mother,” Raven whispered, “and he calls her the staff.”

  “He also lied that this is his store. It is not.”

  “At least not yet.”

  Merula grimaced. “Do you have any idea how reliable his information will be?”

  “None at all, but I guess that, even if he’s lying, we’ll get some kernels of truth. He visited the house, and that may
prove to be—oh, here he comes.”

  The four of them walked away from the square through a narrow street with cobbles and children playing with a dirty puppy, until they came into a broader street where a moss-splattered bench beckoned from under an apple tree. Raven suggested they sit down to speak of the matter. He spread his handkerchief out for Merula to sit on.

  Lamb had to stand behind them, and it didn’t escape Merula’s attention that Ben Webber cast appreciative looks at her. Lamb’s pale cheeks suddenly gained some color.

  Well, well …

  “The gentleman who lives in the house is very strange.” Ben Webber began his story in a low, confidential tone. “He has been all over the world looking for animals, and he brought home trophies of his travels. Not skins or things, like you might expect, but whole animals in glass jars. They look like they are staring at you.”

  So he had actually seen the specimens. Had Oaks shown them to him? Why? He had just delivered food to the manor, hadn’t he?

  Ben Webber shifted his weight. “They are all from faraway places, and he even got one from Canada. The sea monster they call the kraken. It’s a huge thing with long arms. It can easily wrap itself around you a dozen times. It has a strange luminous skin like it is reflecting light. And it makes the sound of splashing water.”

  Raven’s muscles twitched as if he was about to burst into laughter at these fanciful details, but Merula kicked him in the foot to warn him, and he kept himself in check.

  Ben Webber continued with a perfectly serious expression, “It leaves the house at night to search for the sea from which it came. It goes via the river to the estuary, from which it can access the sea. As it swims, it surprises bathers and strangles them.”