Murder on the Moor

by Julianna Deering

  Iris’s face turned even redder.

  “I . . .” Gray cleared his throat and began again in a lower register. “I believe he’s gone down to the Hound and Hart for the evening. At least that’s what Miss Midgley told me when I came to inquire after him. I’d talked to my father, you see, and we wanted to let Midgley know in no uncertain terms—”

  “He came to see me, Mr. Farthering.” Her unseeing eyes were defiant, and she took hold of Gray’s arm. “It will come out before long anyway, but it won’t matter. We’re going away from here, out of the cold and the wet and the wind. To someplace sunny where we can be together. Tell him, Morris.”

  “Now, Iris, dear, ah, well . . .” Gray glanced at Drew, nearly cringing, almost as if he thought Drew might strike him.

  Drew wanted to. Instead he challenged Gray with a look, daring him to make answer to her.

  “He’s going to leave Mrs. Gray,” Iris said when he did not, her lips trembling. “We’re going to be married.”

  Gray seemed to shrivel a bit. “I merely said if there were any way. You know there’s my father to be thought of and Frances herself, of course, and you know how people would talk, and . . .”

  Again he glanced at Drew, but Drew gave him no quarter. Instead he waited for the man to falter into inevitable silence.

  Iris stood perfectly still, and then she wiped the back of one hand across her eyes. It was a gesture of resignation, not of shock or even pain. She seemed to realize that her romantic dreams were nothing more than that. Just dreams, false and fleeting. Here, with Drew as witness, she could deceive herself no longer. Without a word, she stripped off the pearl earrings and pressed them into Gray’s hand.

  He took her arm. “Iris, darling—”

  “Don’t.” She freed herself in one savage motion, tapped her cane on the ground to get her bearings, and then, head held high, strode back toward her cottage.

  Gray shifted on his feet, unable to meet Drew’s steady gaze. “I, uh, I suppose I ought to see her home, eh?”

  “Was that what you usually did?” Drew asked. “Afterwards, I mean.”

  “Well, there was always the chance her father would be there, you know. I really couldn’t risk . . .” Gray halted in his struggle to explain himself. “Look here, Farthering, you’re a man of the world. You understand these things, surely. One must have these little escapes now and again. Good heavens, mired up at Westings day in and day out with Frances and her sheep and Father every bit as plodding, what was I to do? It’s not as if the girl came out badly from it. She was just as keen as I to hear about those places, to hear me read grand novels and poetry, to talk about art and music. Do you think her father would have given her that? And I did what I could to make things better for her. Money when I thought it wouldn’t be too much missed. A gift now and again, discreetly, of course. Do you think some shop boy or shepherd would do that for her? If he’d take her at all, blind as she is. And if he would, I know she wouldn’t have him. She’s too fine for all that. She’s turned down Bloodworth’s man time and again, I happen to know. So don’t imagine—”

  “Delwyn?”

  Drew was startled out of his cold fury. Delwyn? If he wanted the girl, why in the world would he not want this affair to be exposed? This had to feel like betrayal, even if Iris didn’t return his interest.

  “Yes, Delwyn. The gamekeeper. The glowering brute, he probably reads nothing but penny dreadfuls. That’s if he can read at all.”

  Drew recalled his brief glance at Delwyn’s bookcase. There were depths to the man. Puzzling, but there all the same. Morris Gray, on the other hand, was as shallow as a reflecting pool.

  “I’ll send her along some money when I can,” Gray went on, suddenly very businesslike. “It’s awkward, yet we both knew it couldn’t go on forever.”

  The cold fury came back. Drew’s fists tightened. “Did you both know that?”

  Gray had no answer. At least he had the decency to look ashamed.

  Drew waited until the man was well on his way back to Westings before he went back up to where Nick was waiting.

  “I suppose you heard everything.”

  Nick whistled low. “Gray and Iris? They’re the last ones I thought would be trysting out here.” He glared toward the now-distant figure that scurried up a hill in the fast-fading light and then vanished over it. “I wish you’d biffed him one. Just on principle.”

  “I’d be brought up on charges if I’d done what I’d like to do.” Drew thought for a moment. “Do you suppose Delwyn really did want to pay court to her?”

  Nick shrugged.

  “And she turned him down?”

  “Maybe she does think herself too good for a working man,” Nick said. “Wouldn’t be the first girl in the world to hold that opinion. Do you suppose she’ll be all right on her own now?”

  “I can’t imagine there’s anything I could say or do at this point that would help, and my presence would only bring her embarrassment on top of everything else.” Drew exhaled heavily. “Well, at least we know who’s been using this place and why, but it doesn’t tell us anything about our cloaked visitor from earlier. I still think a few words with Mr. Midgley are in order.”

  “That would point us in the direction of the Hound and Hart, eh?”

  “Precisely.” Drew brushed off the front of his coat and smoothed back his hair with both hands. “Am I presentable enough? Or do I look as if I’d just fallen down a hole?”

  Nick peered at him in the fading light. “You’ll do, Beau Brummell. Dust off the knees of your trousers and straighten your tie, and you’ll do.”

  “Don’t look so smug,” Drew said. “You could use a bit of tidying yourself.”

  “All part of the costume,” Nick replied. “We ruffians needn’t be so particular about our sartorial details as you proper gentlemen.”

  “You ought to go back to your room anyway. It wouldn’t be wise for us to enter the pub together.”

  “Right.” Nick gave a salute. “Be there in a bit. Maybe I can get Midgley to tell me where he was this afternoon.”

  Drew lowered his brows, not having considered this before now. “You know, if that really was Midgley out there today, he already knows we’re conspiring against him. He might give you a warmer welcome than you’re expecting.”

  “Or he might pretend ignorance and seem the same as always. It’s hard to say, but I’ll keep my eyes open.”

  By the time Drew made his way into Bunting’s Nest, night had fallen. It was only the presence of a full moon in an unclouded sky that had made his path across the moor clear and easy. It was early yet, but the Hound and Hart was already busier than usual, filled with men just coming from their work, eager for some cheery companionship and a respite from laboring.

  Delwyn hunched over the table in the far corner, looking balefully into the mug he clutched in both hands, everything about him a warning for others to steer clear. Drew sat down across from him.

  “Good evening, Delwyn. Been here long?”

  Delwyn didn’t look up. “Long enough.”

  Long enough to get drunk, Drew judged by the slur in the man’s words. “There seems to have been a good turnout for this send-off, eh?”

  “Doesn’t take much to bring everyone in.”

  “And the guest of honor?” Drew asked, scanning the dimly lit room. He didn’t see Midgley.

  “Blackstock there.” Delwyn gestured with his mug toward the bar, where the milkman stood looking embarrassed and delighted to be surrounded by well-wishers.

  Drew smiled and nodded, and the milkman excused himself and came to their table.

  “Good of you to come, sir. Very good, I’m sure.” His bearded face was flushed, perhaps with excitement, perhaps with drink, but his eyes sparkled behind his thick spectacles. “I didn’t expect we’d have any of the gentry turn up.”

  “And I didn’t expect you’d be the one leaving Bunting’s Nest. This is sudden.”

  “I wish it was a happier cause, sir, beli
eve me. Better yet, I wish there was no cause at all and I was staying right here.” He glanced at Delwyn and dropped his voice. “I’m sorry there’s no more I can do to help you. You know, in the particular matter we’ve been discussing.”

  “I hope nothing serious takes you away,” Drew replied, cringing inwardly at the man’s weak attempt to be subtle. He hoped the general rumble of conversation would make his words difficult to overhear.

  “It’s hard to say yet, sir. My brother, well, he’s never been very strong. His heart, you know. He wrote me to see if we might not all get on better if I came to help him and his family on the farm. Not that he can pay me anything, just my keep, but how could I tell him no?”

  “No, of course not. Family ought to stand together, eh?”

  “Just as I always say, sir. I can’t imagine these folk who leave their own kin to fend for themselves when they’ve had a knock of one kind or another. Ought not to be done, I say. Not in a Christian land.”

  “It’s not at all the thing, is it? When do you leave? Soon?”

  “Oh, tonight, sir. The last train to York. From there to London and then Southampton and on to America. Who’d have thought it? And at my age?”

  “Can I get you something, sir?” the barmaid asked, her plain face lit with a smile.

  “Cider,” Drew told her. “Thank you.”

  He gave her half a crown, making her smile even brighter, and she quickly brought him back a mug. He lifted it in a toast to Blackstock. “I wish you all the best. Safe journey and Godspeed.”

  “Thank you, sir.” With another glance round the room and a tap to the side of his nose, he leaned closer to Drew. “And good luck solving your little mystery.”

  Drew managed not to scowl. The fellow meant well, and he was leaving the village. It wouldn’t matter who knew he was in on the game at this point.

  “Mum’s the word, eh? And you’ve been very helpful.”

  “Clearing out, are we, Blackstock?”

  Blackstock shrank back as Midgley loomed over him with “Selden” at his elbow.

  “You little worm,” the poacher spat. “I ought to take my boot to you, that’s what. What do you mean creeping about spying on folk and carrying tales? Good thing you’re off, and good riddance, I say. We don’t like your sort here.”

  Drew stood, putting himself between the two of them. “What about my sort? Or would you rather your dog saw to my sort?”

  Midgley looked as if he wanted to spout off and then thought better of it. Drew might be a stranger in Bunting’s Nest and an infernal nuisance, but he was friends with the master of the Park Lodge and with the police. And he was gentry. It wouldn’t pay.

  “Haven’t got any dog,” Midgley said.

  “How about something to cut the brake lines on an Austin 10?”

  The poacher’s eyes narrowed to malevolent slits. “Trenton had me in over that, thanks to you.”

  “Did he now?”

  “Go on.” The poacher waved a dismissive hand. “You got nothin’ against me you can prove. Nor did he.” He looked around Drew and Blackstock to where the gamekeeper sat sullenly in the corner. “Nor do you, Rhys Delwyn, for all your pokin’ and prowlin’ about. I done nothin’ but ply my trade to provide for me and mine.”

  “And a poor job you’ve done of it,” Delwyn muttered.

  “Come over here and tell me that, ye dirty-nosed pup, and I’ll fetch you a clout like last time.”

  “Don’t tempt me, old man.”

  The poacher’s gimlet eyes flashed. “And don’t think you can come sniffin’ around my girl either as if she were some scullery wench. Blind or no, she has finer fish to fry than the likes of you.”

  With a screech of chair legs, Delwyn was on his feet, shoving his way past Drew and the others gathered there. “You shut your mouth, Jack Midgley. You got no business talking about Iris like that!”

  “Iris?” Midgley gave a bark of a laugh. “Iris? What should you care what I say about her? Devil take the girl, she’s no better than she should be.”

  This time Drew didn’t consider getting between the two of them. Apart from a few looks of disgust turned Midgley’s way and a few low protests about the unseemliness of the man’s comments, no one else seemed to object either. They merely backed off.

  “You’ve been warned once now,” the barman said, hurrying over. “You take your differences outside. Go on.”

  Delwyn took a sudden step toward Midgley, and the barman caught his shoulder. “I mean it, Mr. Delwyn. Not saying you don’t have cause, but this is neither the time nor place.”

  “He wants you to hold him back,” Midgley taunted. “He’s yellow and he knows it.”

  He gave the gamekeeper a ringing slap across the face, and with a roar Delwyn threw the barman off and caught Midgley by the front of his coat. There was a gasp from the crowd as Delwyn lifted him off the ground, looking as if he would hurl him through the window that overlooked the street, but then he shoved the poacher into a nearby chair, almost turning over man and chair both.

  Midgley sat there frozen, his usually florid face bloodless, his eyes saucer wide and his breath coming in terrified hitches. Delwyn glowered at him and then turned away, wiping both palms on his coat as the barman once more hurried over to him.

  “Mr. Delwyn—”

  “Don’t worry, Jenkins. I wouldn’t soil my hands on the likes of him.”

  Midgley sat blinking for a moment. Then the color came back into his face, deep and angry, and he pushed himself to his feet. “You turn round, Rhys Delwyn. Just turn right round.”

  Delwyn turned, gave a smirking little laugh, and then went back to his pint.

  “Come on,” Nick said, taking Midgley’s arm. “You’ve stood me to a drink or two before now. Let me return the favor.”

  “Let me go, Selden. I swear—”

  “Ah, let him alone. The bully’s not worth spending a night in chokey.” By then Nick had the man over at the far end of the bar. “Come on, Jenkins. A little service, eh?”

  The barman glared at the two of them. “Not tonight. Not for either of you. Now, Mr. Midgley, I’ve warned you time and again. Don’t make me ring up the police. Another word and I will.”

  “Aw, I didn’t do nothin’,” Nick moaned. “Have a heart.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Selden, but I have nothing more to say on the matter. If you’re his friend, you’ll take Mr. Midgley on home without any more trouble. Otherwise you leave me no choice.”

  Midgley pushed himself away from the bar. “Never you mind, Jenkins. I can do better than that watered-down excuse for ale you overcharge for. Come on, Selden. I have a bottle of something at home we can have a taste of, eh?”

  Nick grinned. “Now that’s the best news I’ve had all day.” He turned Midgley toward the door, grabbing his arm when he stumbled a little and then urging him forward. The poacher made his way like a monarch sweeping through a throng of peasants. When he reached the door, he fixed Delwyn with a baleful eye.

  “Don’t think this ends it, Welshman. You haven’t seen the back of me yet.”

  Delwyn said nothing, his dark eyes fixed on Midgley until, with a disdainful sniff, the poacher pushed open the door. With Nick at his heels, he lurched out of the room.

  The men went back to their drinks, murmuring among themselves as they did. Drew turned to go back to Delwyn’s table and found himself face-to-face with the milkman. “Mr. Blackstock, I beg your pardon. I didn’t see you there.”

  Blackstock laughed. “Ought to be a bit quieter now. At least I can tell my brother about my little adventure when I get to America.”

  “I’m sorry to lose your help.”

  The little fellow seemed shyly pleased and began talking about his brother and his family. As he spoke, Drew glanced over at Delwyn, still sitting in the corner, and wished he could talk to him privately, to find out what he knew about Iris and Morris and the hound from the church tower. There was definitely something that made those paw prints, something much
bigger than old Mr. Bloodworth’s mastiff.

  “Mr. Farthering?”

  Drew smiled at the milkman as if he’d been listening all along. “What part of America are you going to?”

  “It’s a place called Weston, in Missouri. Somewhere in the middle of the country.”

  “I’m sure your brother . . . what did you say his name was?”

  “Oh, it’s Mark—” Blackstock coughed and then took a sip of his drink, looking embarrassed. “I beg your pardon. It’s Mark. He’s married to Alma and they have—”

  “Are you going to stand chatting there all day, Blackstock?” one of the men at the bar called. “Come and have a drink.”

  “Come on, lad,” another said, taking him by the arm. “Last night and all, eh?”

  Blackstock looked flattered and troubled all at once. “Mr. Farthering, I do apologize—”

  “Oh, don’t mind me. You’re the guest of honor.”

  The milkman was soon engulfed with well-wishers, and Drew sat once again across from Delwyn. “Sounds like he’s off on a grand adventure.”

  “Good on him,” the gamekeeper said, still with the dour expression that hadn’t left him all night. “Someone ought to be.”

  Drew studied him for a moment, remembering what he had said about his attachments here in Yorkshire, wondering where he would go if he felt free to leave. “I went to that abandoned kiln, the one over by Midgley’s.”

  Delwyn huffed but said nothing.

  “Why didn’t you want me going there?”

  “Never said that, sir,” Delwyn said, his eyes on his ale.

  “But it’s true all the same.”

  The gamekeeper looked up, mouth taut, chin belligerent. “If you went, then I expect you know why.”

  “But if Gray and—”

  “Why, sir,” Delwyn said, that pixyish grin turning up his mouth, still leaving it hard and bitter, “you give yourself out to be a Christian man. Don’t you know love covers a multitude of sins?”

  Delwyn had been trying to protect the girl. Even knowing where she was and with whom, he’d tried to shield her. Anyone who looked at the situation rationally would know it couldn’t last. Not for long. And then patient love would step in, not full of pretty words and dreams of what might be, but clear-eyed and steadfast, facing what was. Drew found himself hoping that somehow, soon, and despite her blindness, Iris would truly see.