by Robin Paige
No, the vicar’s dislike of his work was at once larger and more trivial than any other reason that he might have advanced, for the truth was that Thomas Garrett was a very young man—still in his twenties—unmarried, and handsome, if he did say so himself. While pursuing his studies at Oxford, Mr. Garrett had developed an intense fondness for the pleasures of fine food, fine wine, and fine conversation, none of which, sad to say, were to be easily discovered in Dartmoor. Fine food was limited to the dining room of the Duchy Hotel in Princetown, where fine wine might occasionally be obtained as well; otherwise, the vicar had recourse only to the plain Devon cuisine of his house-keeper, Mrs. Blythe, or the greasy hot pies and stout brown ale served over the bar at the Black Dog or the Plume of Feathers. But fine conversation of the sort he had grown accustomed to during his student days—ample, free-ranging, clever conversation about books, music, politics, religion, affairs of the Empire—was not to be had among the people of the moor, or at least in the households that Mr. Garrett had occasion to visit. As a consequence, he had fallen into the moor habit of talking about moor people and their trivial moor doings—the intricacies of local genealogies, the fortunes of local agriculture, the vagaries of local weather—and had become, he realized sadly, rather a gossip, and a lonely one, at that.
But, Mr. Garrett thought as he sipped his tea and pulled on his pipe, things might just be looking up. He had recently been asked to serve as spiritual adviser to Lady Rosalind Duncan, wife to Sir Edgar Duncan, master of Thornworthy, a large estate near the hamlet of Chagford, a few miles up the Torquay Road. Sir Edgar, who came from an old county family, had inherited Thomworthy some four years before. While he and Lady Duncan had been in the habit of keeping largely to themselves in the earlier years of their residency at Thomworthy, they now seemed to be taking a more sociable course—perhaps because Sir Edgar had been mentioned as a possible Liberal candidate for Mid-Devon.
In fact, the Duncans were having an entertainment that very night and had invited as their guest a medium from London, quite a famous man, about whom the vicar had read and whom he most earnestly desired to meet. Before Mr. Garrett found himself exiled to the intellectual deserts of the moor, spiritualism had been a subject of great fascination to him, and he was eager to meet Nigel Westcott. And since he had learned that the company that evening would include another visitor to the moor, a famous writer of detective fiction whose work he also fervently admired, the vicar was quite excited by the prospect that this day opened up before him. If more days such as this were to be had, Mr. Garrett thought as he opened his Bible, he might grow to like his work, and Dartmoor, after all.
CHAPTER TWO
Duchy Hotel, Princetown, Dartmoor
A lady an explorer? a traveller in skirts?
The notion’s just a trifle too seraphic:
Let them stay home and mind the babies, or hem our ragged
shirts
But they mustn‘t, can’t, and shan’t be geographic,
Punch, 1893
Patsy Marsden leaned one elbow on the white damask tablecloth and gazed at the opposite wall, where the gilt-framed photograph of Queen Victoria was draped in black crape and surmounted by an elaborate black bow. The newspapers said that it was the end of an era, and Patsy hoped that it was—the end of the interminable prudishness that the Queen represented and the beginning of a more cheerful, less confining time. King Edward was definitely not prudish, with his racehorses, his shooting parties, and his Mrs. Keppel, who was widely known as the First Lady of the Bedchamber. The new era promised to be more openly entertaining than the old, and perhaps some of the freedoms the Royals seemed to enjoy would percolate down to the rest.
Patsy turned to look out the window of the Duchy Hotel. The clouds that hung over Dartmoor were gray and forbidding, and while the damp wind was not particularly cold, it was so fierce that it snatched off men’s hats and twisted ladies’ skirts—those few ladies, that is, who ventured out into Dartmoor’s famously inclement weather.
But Patsy herself, undaunted by such minor discomforts as a damp wind, had just returned from a long morning’s ramble in the direction of Merrivale Bridge, to see the famous hut circles and Standing Stone. She might be storm-tossed and pink-cheeked, but why should she be daunted by a bit of a wind? After all, she had journeyed through far less hospitable landscapes: across the burning Gobi desert, the frozen Alps, the steaming mangrove swamps of West Africa. What’s more, her mostly solitary travels were not of the usual sort, where English ladies accompanied by their English maids stayed in the posh hotels that were frequented by English travelers, seeing the world not as it really was—astonishingly varied in landscape; extravagantly, colorfully rich in unique cultures and customs—but as a pale reflection of the ordered and decorous England they knew. Nor did Patsy carry with her the usual baggage, only (like the American journalist Nellie Bly, on her famous seventy-two-day trip around the world) one small bag containing a change of clothing and another containing her photography gear. And like Isabella Bird and Mary Kingsley Amis, traveling women whose books she devoured and whose stubborn determination to challenge society’s familiar order she admired, Patsy now returned only briefly to England, to meet a few favorite friends, make the required duty call upon her mother, and—during this visit—to see to the publication of her photographs, a most exciting event in her life.
“Patsy! Oh, I’m so very glad to see you! I can’t believe how long it has been since we traveled through Egypt.”
Patsy lifted her eyes at the sound of the familiar husky contralto and the distinctive American accent. Kathryn Ardleigh Sheridan had seated herself across the table and was reaching out eagerly for Patsy’s hand.
“Kate!” Patsy exclaimed in delight. “How wonderful to be with you again! And how smart you look!”
Now, Patsy knew that smart was not an accurate description of her friend’s appearance, although she had always thought that Kate—Lady Charles Sheridan—was one of the most attractive women she had ever met. Kate was not conventionally beautiful, for her mouth was much too resolute, the freckles too generously dispersed across her nose, and her green-flecked hazel eyes too disconcertingly intent, while the thick auburn hair, glinting russet in the light, stubbornly refused to be subjugated by combs. Unruly locks escaped to curl around the collar of the sensible green tweed walking suit, the skirt of which was no more than ankle length, displaying a pair of sturdy, thick-soled, black boots. Muddy boots, today. No, smart was not at all the correct word.
But these defects of personal style seemed to Patsy to be evidence of Kate’s unique character, and she loved her the more for them. She was grateful to Kate, too, for if it were not for her friend’s advice several years ago, she might not be here today, self-reliant and free of domestic entanglements. She might instead be the wife of—she shuddered at the thought—Squire Roger Thornton, of Thornton Grange, whose property bordered that of the Marsden family in Essex.1
Indeed, Patsy’s mother had recently remarked that the squire might still be willing to overlook her “unfortunate perambulations” and condescend to make another offer of marriage, if she should promise to give up her travels. Patsy had shaken her head emphatically and then had to listen to a familiar lecture on the necessity of marrying into a good family, concluding with a smug “as your sister Eleanor has done, with true domestic bliss.” Patsy had grimaced at this remark, for in her handbag she carried a letter from Ellie, testifying that her marriage to a wealthy London candy manufacturer was every bit as wretched today as it had been from their wedding, some six years before. Patsy herself was determined to take as many lovers as possible and never, never to marry.
“When did you and Charles arrive in Princetown?” Patsy asked, putting these thoughts aside. “It’s such a treat to be able to arrange this little holiday.” She smiled at the formally dressed waiter as she accepted a large menu from him, adding, “You may bring us a decanter of white wine, please.” The Duchy Hotel might be (as it was advertised) the
“highest hostelry in the land,” but the owner, Mr. Aaron Rowe, insisted that guests be served exactly as they would in a fine London hotel.
“We came on the morning train,” Kate replied. “Charles has taken himself off to the prison, and I’ve just this minute finished unpacking.” Patsy was not surprised that Kate had not brought a maid. As an American who had been raised in a New York tenement by an Irish aunt and uncle, her friend was used to doing for herself and preferred, when she traveled, to leave the servants behind.
“But I’m not sure we should call it a holiday,” Kate went on, glancing out the window. “From the look of those clouds, it might pour at any moment. I am told that it rains here at least two hundred days out of the year.”
“Any day is a holiday when I can be with you,” Patsy said, opening her own menu, choosing quickly, and laying it aside. “I’m hoping for a snowfall, actually. Snow would enhance the photographs I plan to take.” She paused. “I was sorry to hear from Mama that Lady Sommersworth has died.”
“Thank you,” Kate said. “She had been quite ill for some months. I believe she wanted to be released from her pain.” Her face did not betray what Patsy knew: that the Dowager Lady Sommersworth had despised her daughter-in-law for her Irish blood and her independent American ways and had done everything she could to make Kate desperately unhappy. But if she was relieved that the mean-spirited, angry old woman was dead, she didn’t acknowledge it.
“And how is Patrick?” Patsy asked. Kate could have no children—a sadness that Patsy knew still ate into Kate’s heart—but some years before, they had taken a boy into their home. “He must be ... fifteen, is it?”
“Yes, fifteen.” Kate, too, closed her menu with a happy smile. “I should have liked him to go to school, but he’s chosen to be apprenticed as a jockey to George Lambton at Newmarket. He rides amazingly well, but Mr. Lambton thinks his real talent is as a trainer. Patrick seems to know exactly what the horse is thinking.”
The waiter reappeared with a decanter and poured their wine. They gave their orders—roast beef for Patsy and lamb for Kate—and sat back. “I’ve just seen the galley proofs of my book,” Patsy said, smiling. “It’s smashing, Kate. I can’t thank you enough for introducing me to your publisher and coercing him to take me on.”
Kate was herself a much-published author of both nonfiction articles and (under the pen name of Beryl Bardwell) quite a number of popular fictions. Kate and Patsy had coauthored an article about their trip to the pyramids the previous spring, the last time they were together. Kate had supplied the text, Patsy the photographs, and Jennie Cornwallis-West, a friend of Kate’s, had published their piece in The Anglo-Saxon Review.2
“Your work served as its own introduction,” Kate replied warmly. “And there was no coercion, not a bit of it The book is going to be a tremendous success.” She glanced out the window again, where a pair of shaggy Dartmoor ponies had emerged out of the whirling mist and were ambling up the quiet street. “You’ve come here to photograph the moors, then? You shan’t lack subjects.”
“To see you and to take pictures,” Patsy replied. “I’ve wanted to come for some time, and when I learned you’d be here, it seemed the perfect occasion.” She sipped her wine. “Tell me again why you’ve come.”
“Charles is setting up new procedures for the fingerprinting of inmates at the prison, and Beryl Bardwell and I want to set a novel on the moor, something Gothic, perhaps. We stayed in Yelverton last night and heard Mr. Crossing—a writer who has lived in the vicinity for many years—tell about a spectral funeral procession which crosses the moor when someone is about to die.” The corners of Kate’s mouth quirked and she lowered her voice in a dramatic whisper. “And then there’s the legend of the cursed huntsman and his demon hounds, with eyes that glow in the dark and—”
“My dear Lady Sheridan!” The man who had interrupted her was a beefy, affable-looking man, with a substantial mustache, gold-rimmed eyeglasses, and a rough voice with a marked Scottish burr. “What a delightful surprise! Is his lordship with you?”
“Dr. Doyle!” Kate exclaimed, extending her hand. “How nice to see you. Yes, Charles is visiting the prison on a project for the Home Secretary. But I thought you were still in Edinburgh. Didn’t I read that you stood for the Central Division?”
“In a Radical district, chiefly the Trade vote.” The man screwed his mouth into an ironic smile. “My downfall was a scurrilous placard that charged me with being a Papist conspirator.” He gave an exaggerated, self-deprecating sigh. “I fear that my political ambitions have been utterly dashed by the loss. I am returning to writing.”
“Well, I’m sure your many readers will be glad of that,” Kate said emphatically and turned to Patsy. “Miss Marsden, may I present Dr. Arthur Conan Doyle?”
Patsy stared at the man. It couldn’t be. No, not this burly, ham-handed man, who weighed no less than seventeen stone and looked as if he’d be far more at home wearing boxing gloves than wielding a pen. He simply could not be the author of—
“You’ve read his work, I’m sure,” Kate added in an explanatory tone. “He is the creator of Sherlock Holmes.”
“And other things,” Doyle put in, with a half smile. “While I am most often remembered for Sherlock, I have produced far better works.”
“Delighted, Dr. Doyle,” Patsy murmured, trying to hide her astonishment. She had read every one of the Sherlock Holmes stories and had imagined the author to be something like his character, tall and excessively lean, with a narrow face, a broad forehead, a hawklike, aristocratic nose. This man’s cheeks were full and florid, and his head seemed hugely round. He might have been mistaken for a genial Guardsman.
“Miss Marsden’s first book of photographs is to be published this spring,” Kate said. “She is a world traveler, and never without her camera.” She hesitated, and her voice became more serious. “Tell me, how is your wife, Dr. Doyle? I had a note from her recently, and she did not seem well. And the children?”
“Touie has good weeks and bad,” Doyle said with a sigh. “On the whole, though, I suppose I can only be grateful. The doctors gave her up for lost nearly eight years ago. But the climate of Hindhead is quite restorative, and I continue to hope for the best. And the children are well, of course. Boisterous as always.”
Kate nodded, then indicated the unoccupied chair. “We’ve just ordered luncheon. Would you care to join us?”
“That’s very good of you, Lady Sheridan,” Doyle said quickly, “but I’m meeting a friend, Mr. Robinson. I stayed at his home in Ipplepen before stopping here.” He paused, having obviously just thought of something. “I say, I wonder if you and Lord Sheridan—and you too, of course, Miss Marsden—would like to engage in an evening’s entertainment. Sir Edgar and Lady Duncan have invited Robinson and myself to a séance tonight, at their home near Chagford. They have a guest, a medium down from London, Mr. Nigel Westcott. Perhaps you’ve heard of him.” He paused. “At the least, you might find the house intriguing. Built of Dartmoor granite, with towers and turrets. Amazingly Gothic. Reminds one of the Castle of Otranto.”
Kate replied without hesitation. “I’m sure I should find the evening quite interesting, Dr. Doyle, although I shall have to ask Lord Sheridan if he is available.” She put her hand on Patsy’s arm. “I do hope that Miss Marsden will agree to be a member of our party.”
“Of course,” Patsy said quickly. “I should enjoy it immensely.”
“Then it is settled,” Doyle said, sounding satisfied. “I shall ask Mr. Robinson what time we will be leaving the hotel and leave a note for you at the desk. Give Lord Sheridan my regards.” He bowed himself off.
Patsy leaned forward. “I suspect that this is an interest of Beryl Bardwell’s,” she said, “and that tonight’s adventure is by way of being a research expedition for one of her stories. That Gothic novel, perhaps?”
“You’ve seen right through me,” Kate said with a light laugh. “How did you guess?”
“Because Kate Sh
eridan is not the sort of person to believe in ghosts,” Patsy replied with a laugh. “But I’ve been to a séance or two and found them quite interesting, full of bumps and raps and tilting tables. Perhaps I should bring my camera and see if I can photograph some floating ectoplasm.”
“But the ghosts might not put in an appearance if there’s a camera,” Kate said seriously. “And it’s ghosts we want to see—as well as that Gothic castle.” She looked up as a waiter approached with a tray and began to distribute dishes. “Ah, here’s lunch! And doesn’t it look wonderful?”
CHAPTER THREE
Dartmoor Prison, Princetown, Dartmoor
The primary object is deterrence, both general and individual, to be realised through suffering inflicted as a punishment for crime, the fear of a repetition of it. If as a by-product of this process the reformation of the offender is achieved, so much the better; if not, no matter, it is hardly to be expected.
Chief Justice Cockburn, 1900
His hands thrust deep into the pockets of his greatcoat, shoulders hunched against the wind, Lord Charles Sheridan paused just outside the famous keystone entrance arch of Dartmoor Prison and looked up. Carved into the rock over the double oaken doors were two Latin words, Parcere Subjectis.
