Death Comes to Dartmoor

by Vivian Conroy

  “So you are not a local man?”

  “In fact, no, sir, I am from London as you are. Scotland Yard.”

  Raven hitched a brow. “Why would Scotland Yard have an interest in a girl’s death in some isolated little town?”

  “Strange things have been happening here. Damage has been done to influential names. I’m looking into all of it. Now if you will excuse me, I have a prisoner to transport and question once we’ve arrived.”

  “Oaks is in no condition to be questioned. I found drops in his bedroom that he might have been taking.”

  “Ah, he acted under the influence of some stimulant. I’ve witnessed my share of violence done in opium dens. What soothes one man can put another in a bad rage, my lord.”

  The inspector shook his head, his expression softening somewhat. “I’m sorry if he’s your friend, but you will have heard of cases where men killed other men as the rage came upon them. Strangling a girl must be easy then. He might not even have a clear memory of it.”

  Merula swallowed. Their host had been found unconscious and had spoken incoherently once he was in bed. He had mentioned having seen something, a ship not having a chance. He had also cried out about something gruesome. Did fits come upon him in which he didn’t know what he was doing?

  “If he has no memory of it,” Raven said, “then how will you prove his involvement? You can only accuse him of a crime he cannot recall if you have witnesses who saw him do it. Or found traces of his presence near the body.”

  “Traces of his presence?” The inspector laughed. “How does this sound to you? We found hoofprints close to the victim’s body. Someone drove his horse down the riverbank to the water. The tracks were clearly visible in the soft bank. The blacksmith in Cranley recognized the shoes as having been made for Oaks’s horse. He should know, shouldn’t he? It’s his work. Like it is mine to take this prisoner along. Now good night to you.”

  Tapping his hat, he walked to the carriage. The two constables had gone into the back with the prisoner, and the inspector climbed onto the box with the driver. He raised his whip, the horses jumped forward, and along they went, whisking the unfortunate owner of the house away from his possessions.

  “I’m sorry, my lord,” Bowsprit said, “that I was unable to prevent them from taking Mr. Oaks.”

  “You did all you can, I’m sure. Scotland Yard, well, well. I would never have guessed. There’s more at stake here than just the murder. Mysterious happenings along the coast, he said. Does he mean the shipwrecks we heard about before? Would those be a matter for a London inspector?”

  “I took the liberty, my lord,” Bowsprit said, “to glance over some newspapers as I sat by Mr. Oaks’s bed. I found records of no less than six shipwrecks in just three weeks’ time. It struck me as quite a lot, as it’s not the season for storms. I put the papers together for you to look at. They are in the bedroom. You might deduce something from the details provided in each instance. Now I must first go see to the horse and cart. The stable boy has already gone to bed.”

  “Yes, of course. Thank you.” Raven directed Merula and Lamb inside. They heard Bowsprit talk to the horse and click his tongue to soothe it.

  Lamb said she wanted to go to bed as well if Merula no longer needed her.

  Suspecting her of wanting to dream of her newfound love, Merula said she could go. She herself followed Raven up to the bedroom, which seemed suddenly soulless now that Oaks had been dragged away.

  The blanket had half fallen from the bed, and Merula put it back in place while Raven gathered the newspapers Bowsprit had put aside for him.

  The turning of the pages sounded too loud in the empty room as he read. “Strange indeed. Why would so many ships get into trouble here, in front of this particular coast?”

  “There might be rocks underneath the water. A treacherous undertow? A sudden change of wind? There seem to be places all over the world where sailors fear to go.”

  Raven hmmed. “Perhaps. None of the ships were empty. They were all heavily laden and with valuable goods. I will study this closer. We must now first get some sleep.” He looked at the deserted bed. “Poor Oaks. He’s not a strong man, and then to be treated like a murder suspect …”

  “I do hope he will make some sense when he’s questioned. Else the inspector might believe he’s really guilty. The mention of the drops he might have taken seems only to have further prejudiced the inspector against him.”

  Raven nodded slowly. “Unfortunately, but it couldn’t be helped. The drops should have reached Galileo by now, and as soon as he knows what they are, he will let me know. It might be something quite harmless.”

  He bundled the newspapers and held them to his chest, a pensive look in his eyes. “What was that,” he slowly asked, “about Lamb and that fellow Webber? She cannot seriously believe he takes an interest in her.”

  “I think she does believe that. She seems to have the wrong idea of him altogether. Of his prospects and his position at the shop. She seems to think it is his already and it will be hers as well, as soon as they marry.”

  “Marry?” Raven echoed with a half laugh. “They’ve barely met. Why do women always immediately assume that one conversation means marriage?”

  “This was more than a conversation,” Merula said, remembering the entwined figures in the rose garden.

  Raven watched her, the paper bundle clutched in front of him. “Have you ever had such an experience? Perhaps at a party as well, a few stolen moments?”

  Merula flushed at the direct question. “I can assure you that Aunt Emma would never let me out of her sight. She has friends, too, who would report back to her the instant I was alone with a man. And I can also tell you I’m not interested at all in that sort of thing. I want to pursue my research.”

  Raven looked down with a frown, as if he was contemplating some problem. Then he muttered, “Yes, of course. Good night, then,” and left the room.

  Merula stood and wondered whether her declaration had been so fierce that he hadn’t believed her. Perhaps she should have explained to him that her research gave her freedom that meant the world to her, while marriage seemed like it would only tie her down. That it was the last thing on her mind to commit herself to some man who would not appreciate her but only expect her to sit at home waiting for him while he was out to his clubs or his dinners.

  Even worse, having her own household, she would be forced to entertain other ladies at tea and organize soirees with musical entertainment. Her soirees would be compared to those of others and would probably be found inferior, if only because her piano didn’t come from the right piano builder. She could just shudder at the idea of the snobbish attitudes taken by her aunt’s acquaintances and the constant struggle to pay for the latest fashions, while actually she cared so little for the trimming on a dress.

  Her hands idly rearranged the blanket on the bed. Suddenly she felt something. Hard and square. She pulled it out. It was a small notebook. What was it doing in Oaks’s bed?

  It seemed to want to open in the middle, and when she let it, she spotted rows of figures that seemed to be part of some calculation. Some parts of it were repeated on the other page. Part of it had been erased again, with wild movements, as if Oaks had acted in anger or emotion. What could it mean?

  She decided to give it to Raven to ask for his opinion and left the room quickly. She knocked at his bedroom door, but there was no reply. She listened for sounds indicating he was in there, but it was completely silent. Then she looked down the corridor. Had he gone to Oaks’s sanctuary? To the room with the specimens preserved in alcohol?

  For a moment Merula recalled the vicious Tasmanian devil staring up at her from the shadowy depths of the well, and she shivered. Then she steeled herself, and clutching the notebook as if it were a weapon, she walked down the corridor.

  Boards creaked under her footfalls, and the wind outside pulled at the windows, rattling the panes. A draft seemed to whisper through the corridor, striking cold upon h
er sweaty face. The door into Oaks’s specimens room was indeed half open.

  She hesitated a moment, unsure, as if suddenly someone other than Raven could be in there to jump her and hurt her. Were they even certain they were in this house alone? Was there some way in, used by someone who wished to do Oaks harm?

  But Oaks had been arrested; he was no longer here. Had the perpetrator’s goal been achieved? Would the actions stop here? Or would they go on?

  She heard sounds and, curiously, peeked in. The door on the other side of the room was open, and the sounds came from there. Out of the bathroom where the kraken hung on his stand.

  Her stomach plummeted, and she wanted to turn away and run. Her mind raced with images of the creature having come down off the stand, slithering across the tiles, leaving wet traces. His tentacles reaching out greedily for anything that came into his path. She could almost feel the soft wetness on her skin, the suckers spreading their poison.

  But she didn’t even know if they were poisonous. And dead animals could not move about.

  Besides, if she didn’t go and look now, she’d never know what was happening in there.

  Merula put down the notebook on the floor. From the wall, she took a javelin that was hanging there, one of Oaks’s many traveling souvenirs, and balanced it in one hand at shoulder height, as she had seen athletes do. It made a rather clumsy weapon for someone not accustomed to using it, but it was at hand, and Merula didn’t want to face whoever or whatever was behind that half-open door completely unprotected. The javelin’s pointed metal tip was sharp, gleaming in the dim light.

  Holding her breath, she approached the open door, listening to the sounds inside.

  The splash of water, a gurgle almost. Ben Webber had said that when the kraken moved about, it made the sound of splashing water. Raven had been on the verge of laughter at the idea, but if this wasn’t the kraken, then what was it?

  The blood thrummed in her ears, and her knees were wobbly. The javelin almost slipped from her sweaty palm and she had to rebalance it.

  She couldn’t dismiss the images of gigantic tentacles coming to grab her and squeeze the breath out of her throat. Perhaps the creature didn’t need poison. Perhaps it killed by pure strength alone.

  If she screamed, would anyone hear her and come to her aid? Would there be time enough to save her?

  But gripped by her fascination with the happenings in the room, she walked on anyway.

  Kicking the door open wide, she jumped in, the weapon held high to strike at whatever might be threatening her.

  Raven, on his knees in front of the kraken, half turned to her and yelled when he saw the javelin pointing straight at him.

  Merula lowered the impromptu weapon with a sigh. She had never been so glad she didn’t have to try something new.

  “Are you mad?” Raven roared. “You could have hurt me with that thing. Or yourself.”

  “I heard strange noises. What are you doing?”

  “Looking closer at the kraken.”

  “But what’s that gurgle?”

  “The bath. I removed the stopper to empty it. I want to know what’s in it. The water is so dirty, I can’t see to the bottom, and …”

  He hadn’t wanted to put his hands in without knowing what was in it. A wise precaution, probably.

  Suddenly light with the nerves of the past tense moments, Merula put the javelin on the floor and came to stand next to him. “What about the kraken? What do you want to ascertain about it?”

  “That it is dead,” Raven said with a half-mocking grin. “I don’t believe in spooky kraken haunting the land, but I’m not enough of a zoologist to be certain an animal can’t look dead and still be alive. Some species can go without food for months, I heard. They go into a sort of dormant state.”

  “And?” Merula swallowed hard.

  “It doesn’t respond to any stimuli. What’s more, one of its tentacles is missing.”

  “Missing? You mean it’s gone?”

  “Yes. Cut off with a sharp knife or other blade. It’s a very clean cut. I can’t ascertain when it was made, but I wonder if whoever took it is using it to strangle girls.”

  Merula suppressed a gasp. “Do you think it’s possible? It seems so soft and pliable.”

  “Perhaps, but it would explain the strange markings. And someone has been inside this house to remove things, or else the Tasmanian devil would not have been in Bixby’s well.”

  “True.” Merula held Raven’s gaze. “Who could have done that?”

  “Bixby himself, for one. I don’t like him, and I think he could be the killer. He encouraged the doctor to answer my questions about the markings on the victim’s body. The doctor’s confirmation that the markings were unlike anything he has ever seen of course supports the idea that a sea monster is at work here, exactly what Bixby needs to divert attention from himself. He could have put the Tasmanian devil in his own well, hoping it would be discovered during the Perseid watching so it would seem he’s also under attack. A victim of strange events, like Oaks. How do you feel about Bixby?” Raven gave her a probing stare.

  Merula shrugged. “I haven’t had a chance to talk to him. How can I have any opinion about him? Most of all, why would he want to hurt Oaks? What would his motive be?”

  Raven sighed as he rose to his feet. “I have no idea, really. But you overheard those men in the upstairs corridor saying that something should be done soon and that Bixby should have arranged for it already. That could be referring to Oaks. Implicating Oaks in murder.”

  Merula blinked. “But why? Who can they be, and why would they use Bixby to harm Oaks?”

  Raven raised his hands and rubbed the palm of one hand with the index finger of the other. He opened his mouth to start into an explanation, then sighed and shook his head. “We can conjecture all night long, but chances are minimal that we’d hit on the right answer. We simply don’t have enough information. We don’t know who the men are who spoke in the corridor and what their connection to Bixby is. Or how Oaks can even fit in. We can’t ask Oaks anymore. He’s in the hands of the inspector, and that Scotland Yard man is not going to let us near him. He made it very clear he wants to close this case quickly.”

  “I did find something.” Merula rushed out into the corridor to retrieve the notebook and gave it to Raven. He looked at the numbers with a frown. “Means as much to me as Professor Morehead’s endless formulas.”

  “Hold on to it. It might prove important in the end. Is that bathtub empty already?”

  Raven went over and looked inside. “Empty but for a ladle on the bottom.”

  “A ladle?”

  “That’s what it looks like.”

  Merula came to stand by his side. Indeed, on the bottom of the rusty bathtub, a metal object rested, spoonlike with a long handle. It could have come from the kitchens.

  Merula turned her head to look at the kraken, then at the floor. “The first time we were in here, there were wet traces on the floor. Perhaps Oaks uses this ladle to spoon a liquid over the kraken? To keep it moist, as a measure to preserve it?”

  “I’m not sure that would actually work.” Raven cast a doubtful look at the kraken.

  “I’m not saying it works, just that Oaks might believe that it does. The use of formaldehyde to conserve specimens is also quite new and not without risk, I heard from my uncle’s secretary.”

  She frowned to recall what Whittaker had told her. “People working with it noticed their eyes and lungs became aggravated, I think. Andrew thought it was comparable to the smoke of burning wood irritating his throat when we went ice skating. They had braziers along the rink, which–”

  “Andrew?” Raven interjected. “You were on familiar terms with your uncle’s secretary? He even took you ice skating?”

  “Julia and me. Aunt Emma considered him a fit chaperone. She knew that Andrew would never take liberties, as his job was at stake. I’m almost certain he was a bit enamored of Julia, but he of course realized that she has to
marry a man of her own station or preferably above.”

  “Of course,” Raven said cynically. “But to you no such rules apply.”

  Crudely put, but true, Merula supposed. As she was just a relative living with the family, the shine of Aunt Emma’s title and Uncle Rupert’s wealth did little to nothing for her marriage prospects. She would have to be happy if a middle-class merchant came along for her.

  Aunt Emma had once even said a vicar might be acceptable, “as a last resort.” It wasn’t flattering for the vicar or for Merula herself, she had felt. Compared to that, Andrew Whittaker had been a much better choice. The time they had spent together when he had built the pupa cabinet for her butterflies, working from her design, had been quite pleasant.

  Still, looking back on it now, Merula felt it had been silly to think shared interests or kindness extended could be anything like love. It had to be bigger than that, stronger, more inevitable, overpowering you even against your own better judgment.

  An inexplicable bond that formed between people who weren’t even looking for it. Who might never even admit that … they felt it?

  “Zoologists will always look for ways to keep decay away from their collections,” she said, rushing to return to the original topic of the conversation. “A friend of Uncle Rupert’s was quite upset when his snow leopard began to fall apart before he had even brought it to England. He suspected one of the natives who had helped him hunt for it of meddling with it so it didn’t preserve well. The snow leopard seems to be a character of local lore, sacred even. Much like the saint’s tears Bixby mentioned to us tonight.”

  “Where there are people who believe something, there are also always people who want to keep those beliefs alive for their own gain. I wonder whether that could also be the case here.” Raven’s gaze wandered to the window with the bars and the darkness stretching behind it, across that lonely land of heather and tors with names referring to strange incidents that had supposedly taken place there.

  As the excitement wore off, Merula felt tiredness creep through her body, an overwhelming sense of defeat. They didn’t know much, not just about Oaks and the murder, but also about the mysterious man who had addressed her. She had wanted to find him, speak with him, but she had not seen him anywhere among the guests after that. It was as if he had vanished.