Death at Dartmoor

by Robin Paige

  “If you don’t mind my askin‘, m’lord,” the constable said, frowning, “what’re we lookin’for? A weapon?”

  “We are looking for this, first of all,” Charles said. He pointed to the handleless tin cup that sat on the corner ledge that served as a table. “Other than the cup, I’m afraid I don’t know. I should like to have a look at anything that seems out of the ordinary, I suppose.” He could tell that the constable was not sure about the purpose of their search and suspected that he would rather be out on the moor going after the escaped man, whom he clearly believed had killed Sir Edgar. “Let’s just see what we can find, shall we?” he added, in an encouraging tone.

  The cell was small, and there were few places of concealment in it. In a few moments, they had pulled apart and searched the mattress and bedding, examined the walls and floor for possible carved-out stones or niches, and laid out the prisoner’s pitifully few belongings on the wooden bed boards: a Bible; a volume of Shakespeare’s plays, inscribed “To Samuel, from his loving brother, M.”; a cheap printing of Oscar Wilde’s “Ballad of Reading Gaol”; and three items—the mirror, the sepia-toned snapshot, and the black-bordered obituary notice—taken from the wall above the ledge.

  While the constable paged carefully through the Bible and the books, Charles carried the photograph to the lamp, where he took a hand lens from his pocket and examined it. The snapshot was that of a young man in his twenties, leaning with nonchalant grace against a palm tree, a shock of dark hair falling into his eyes, an ironic smile on his handsome, somewhat dissipated face. Dr. Spencer himself, at a younger age? There was a distinct likeness, Charles thought, although it might be a family likeness. When he turned it over, the name written in faded ink on the back of the photo was Malcomb. The date 10 July, ’96, the place Algiers.

  Who was Malcomb? The question was answered when Charles took up the black-bordered obituary notice. The body of Malcomb Spencer, he of the dark hair and the sardonic smile, had been pulled from the Thames on 27 February, 1900. Drowned, presumably by accident. Next of kin, the victim’s wife Clementine and daughter Rachel, his sister, Evelyn M. Spencer, and his brother, Samuel Spencer.

  So Malcomb had been the “loving brother” who had given Dr. Spencer the volume of Shakespeare. His drowning must have been a shock to the prisoner, coming, as it did, so soon after his own conviction. Charles stared for several moments at both the photograph and the obituary, while an idea began to glimmer. He considered it for a time, then turned to the constable.

  “Are you having any luck with the books?”

  “No, sir,” the constable said, laying all three on the bed boards. “Nothin’ at all in any of ’em, sir.”

  Charles picked up the Bible and turned it over in his hands. It appeared to be new, the cheap black leather covers stiff, the pages unthumbed, many of them still adhering together. But as he scrutinized the binding more carefully, he noticed something odd.

  “Look here, Constable,” he said, opening the Bible at the back. “What do you make of this?”

  The constable bent forward. “Not sure, sir. It don’t look quite right, but I’m not up on books. I can keep the peace and collar a thief if need be, but books—” He shrugged apologetically.

  “You’re correct that it doesn’t look right,” Charles replied. “The back flyleaf should be free, like that in the front. D’you see?” He demonstrated that the front flyleaf, of marbelized paper, could be turned, like a page. “Instead, the back flyleaf is glued down—but only at the top and bottom, creating a pocket.” He inserted the tips of his fingers between the marbelized flyleaf and the leather cover. “Something might have been concealed here, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I s’pose,” the constable said doubtfully. “Nothin’ so large as a gun, though.” He brightened. “Could’ve been a razor blade, or a key.”

  “Yes, both are possible.” Charles agreed. “It might also have contained a letter. Or a map.”

  The constable looked at him, frowning, and Charles could see him sorting through the implications. “A map, sir? Of the moor, d’ ye think? But that ‘ud mean he didn’t just jump when he saw Black and Wilcox goin’. It ’ud mean he had a plan, and that somebody helped him.”

  “Yes,” Charles said thoughtfully. “That somebody helped him.” He paused, recalling his first day at the prison, when Oliver had mentioned that a missionary from the Salvation Army Prison Gate Mission was at Dartmoor that very day, distributing Bibles to Scottish inmates. Samuel Spencer was from Edinburgh; he might have been one of those Scottish inmates who received Bibles. And the missionary—

  “I think, Constable,” he said, taking up the tin cup carefully, “that we should have a talk with Major Cranford. But on the way to his office, there is one more chore I must perform. You will please bring the other items.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  All tragedies are finished by a death.

  Lord Byron

  Death always comes too early or too late.

  English proverb

  Lady Duncan did indeed break down under the brutal news of her husband’s death, although Mr. Garrett did all he could to spare her feelings. In fact, Kate thought that the vicar’s first delicate telling of the tale was terribly muddled and incomplete, for he unfortunately failed to make clear exactly how or where Sir Edgar had died, intending, perhaps, to soften the truth by revealing it by degrees. For all that could be understood from his story, Sir Edgar might have suffered a stroke at a London railway station or met with an accident on the road.

  Lady Duncan’s disbelief and astonishment at the news that her husband was dead turned quite naturally into a violent fit of weeping, which was gradually calmed by her maid’s deft application of salts and Kate’s offer of brandy. When Lady Duncan was partially recovered, she lay back on the sofa in her private apartments, her face quite pale.

  “It does seem such a mystery,” she said wanly. “Sir Edgar had gone, I thought, to London. And then I received his letter from Yelverton.” Her glance went to Kate, who patted her hand. “And to die so suddenly,” she said sadly, “before we could resolve our differences.” She turned to the vicar. “Where is it that he died, Mr. Garrett?”

  The vicar glanced helplessly at Kate, who, feeling that some clarity must be brought to the situation, replied, “Sir Edgar’s body was found on the moor, Lady Duncan. Near Chagford, not far from here.”

  Lady Duncan’s dark eyes widened disbelievingly. “On the moor? But that’s not possible! He wrote to me from Yelverton! He was going to—”

  She began to weep, her tears mixed with words spoken so distractedly that Kate could not make them out. At last she seemed to gain some control over herself and said, wretchedly, “Forgive me, Lady Sheridan, but I cannot lie, not even for the sake of appearances. My husband betrayed me for another woman, with whom he planned to leave the country. I thought that was the worst of all possible tragedies. But now I learn that he has died!”

  “Of course,” Kate said comfortingly. “You cannot be blamed for being distraught.” Over Lady Duncan’s shoulder, on the table behind the sofa, she glimpsed a large wedding photograph of Sir Edgar and his new wife, a fairly recent photograph, judging from the ages of the bride and groom. It hadn’t taken long, Kate thought sadly, for the marriage to go to pieces.

  Lady Duncan looked from one of them to the other, holding out her hand beseechingly. “You have not said how my husband died. Was he ... was he stricken suddenly? Tell me, please, I must know. However badly he has behaved toward me, I pray, oh I pray that he did not suffer.”

  Kate appealed wordlessly to the vicar, but one glance was enough to see that he was of no use at all in this situation. Like it or not, she was going to have to handle this herself. She took a steadying breath.

  “I am very sorry to have to tell you this, Lady Duncan,” she said quietly. “Your husband was murdered, here on the moor. He was shot, and then beaten. He—”

  For the space of a breath or two, Lady Duncan was as if petr
ified. Her lips fell apart, and all the little color in her face left it in an instant.

  “What’s this? My dear Lady Duncan, whatever is the matter?”

  Startled by the sound of the voice, Kate turned. Nigel Westcott was framed in the doorway.

  “Oh, Mr. Westcott,” Lady Duncan cried, stretching out a hand. “It is so dreadful, you cannot imagine it! Lady Sheridan and the vicar tell me that Sir Edgar’s body has been found....” She fell back on the sofa cushions, gasping for breath, unable to speak. Kate reached for the vial of lavender salts the maid had left behind and applied it quickly.

  “His body found?” For a moment, Mr. Westcott, too, seemed frozen. But then he came swiftly to the sofa and knelt down, grasping Lady Duncan’s hand in his own. “Such awful news,” he said, in his deep, compelling voice. He leaned over her and spoke commandingly. “But you must recover yourself, dear lady. Strength, not weakness, is what is required from us in such difficult circumstances. You must be strong.”

  Lady Duncan seemed to respond to this, or perhaps to the lavender salts, for her lashes fluttered and her color returned a little. “Yes, Mr. Westcott, of course,” she murmured dazedly. She appeared to make an effort to pull herself together, repeating, “Strength. I must be strong. I will be strong. I—”

  Nigel Westcott put his finger to her lips. “No more, now,” he said firmly. “Rest.” He looked from Kate to the vicar. Not having observed him so closely before, or in daylight, Kate thought that his eyes had an almost mesmeric intensity, perhaps accounting in part for his success as a medium.

  “It’s true, then?” he asked. “Sir Edgar is dead?”

  The vicar’s head bobbed. “Indeed, I am sorry to say, Mr. Westcott, that he ... that he ...” He swallowed.

  Dismissing the vicar, Mr. Westcott turned to Kate. “Lady Sheridan? What can you tell me?”

  “Sir Edgar’s body was discovered this morning on the moor,” Kate replied. “He was shot and beaten and assaulted by dogs.” A low moan came from Lady Duncan. Kate took a deep breath and added, “I am sorry to be so blunt, but the horror will not be diminished by drawing it out.”

  “No, no, of course. You are quite right to speak forth-rightly.” Nigel Westcott’s eyes narrowed. “Poor Sir Edgar was killed by the escaped convict, no doubt. We understood that two were apprehended but that the third remained at large. Lady Duncan has been dreadfully frightened at the thought of a crazed man roaming across the moor, free to attack at will. And the servants, of course, are terribly fearful. Thornworthy is quite remote, and it would be difficult to summon help if the convict—”

  Lady Duncan started up, as if she had just now fastened on what Nigel Westcott was saying. “The convict!” she cried, with a wide-eyed shudder. “Of course, that’s who killed him, I’m sure! Is there any chance that the man will be apprehended quickly?”

  “It’s difficult to say, I’m afraid,” the vicar said apologetically. “Search parties were sent out in the beginning and the roads closed, but so much time has passed that I believe that it is now thought that the third man has left the moor. Every effort is being made to recapture him, of course.”

  Kate frowned. She did not know where the investigation stood, but she did know that Charles believed the convict to be innocent of the murder for which he was incarcerated, and she wondered whether they might be jumping to too quick a conclusion.

  “Perhaps it is too early to assume that the convict murdered Sir Edgar,” she said quietly. “I know this is a difficult question, Lady Duncan, but I wonder if you know of any person who might have wanted to kill your husband. Did he have any enemies?”

  “Enemies?” Lady Duncan asked confusedly. “Sir Edgar? Why, no, of course not. He was a kind man. I know of no—”

  Mr. Westcott shook his head. “Dear Lady Duncan,” he murmured, taking her hand again, “you are charitable to a fault, I fear. But in this instance you must say what you know. Sir Edgar deserves no less.” He glanced up at Kate. “I saw them together only twice, Lady Sheridan, but it did not take a special intuition to recognize the depth of Mr. Delany’s envy and animosity toward poor Sir Edgar.”

  “Mr. Delany?” Worriedly, the vicar knitted his brows. “I, too, must confess that I have noticed a certain covetousness in him. But not enough animosity to result in—” His frown deepened. “Surely you are mistaken, Mr. Westcott.”

  Seeming to draw strength from Nigel Westcott, Lady Duncan took a deep breath. “I am grateful to Mr. Westcott for reminding me of my duty to my dear husband. Mr. Delany is a relation of Sir Edgar’s and has always insisted that his claim to Thomworthy is superior to that of Sir Edgar’s. In fact, some four years ago, before we removed here from London, he went to court in a misguided attempt to prove it.”

  The vicar leaned forward. “To court?” Kate thought that his eyes seemed to glitter.

  “Yes, indeed. It was most unpleasant. His claim was defeated, of course, but he has remained envious and quite resentful, in spite of Sir Edgar’s efforts to conciliate him. And now, with my husband dead, he stands to inherit Thornworthy.” Lady Duncan pressed her lips together, half overcome at the thought. “Of course, I don’t say that Mr. Delany is capable of murder—”

  “Quite right, Lady Duncan,” Nigel Westcott said. “No one here is in a position to make any accusations.” He glanced at the vicar. “I think, however, that the possibility must be considered, especially since it would appear that Mr. Delany stands to profit from poor Sir Edgar’s death. Perhaps, Mr. Garrett, you could pass it on to the proper authority.”

  Kate hesitated. She had one other question to ask, but she was not sure to what extent Lady Duncan had taken Mr. Westcott into her confidence. “You mentioned that Sir Edgar planned to leave the country in the company of ...” She paused delicately. “Did he say who that might be?”

  Lady Duncan’s mouth trembled. “If you mean to ask,” she murmured indistinctly, “whether my husband revealed the name of the woman for whom he betrayed me, the answer is no. I have no idea who she might be, nor do I wish to know. It would only further sully his memory.”

  Nigel Westcott frowned. “Are you suggesting,” he asked, “that Sir Edgar’s female companion might be involved in his death?”

  “I don’t know,” Kate said, aware that she had received two answers in one. But it was not surprising that Lady Duncan had taken Mr. Westcott into her confidence, through whom, after all, the letter’s arrival had been predicted. “I believe, however, that the more information is known to the authorities, the sooner they are likely to find Sir Edgar’s murderer.”

  Lady Duncan gave a little moan and turned her head away.

  Mr. Westcott released her hand and stood. “Lady Sheridan, Mr. Garrett, I think we must all leave her ladyship now. She is a strong woman and will carry on bravely. But she needs time to recover from this terrible blow. I’m sure you understand.”

  “Oh, of course.” The vicar bowed deeply. “I shall pray for you, Lady Duncan, and for Sir Edgar’s soul.” Picking up his hat, he backed toward the door. “Shall we go, Lady Sheridan?”

  “Please accept my condolences,” Kate said with genuine sympathy, “and those of Lord Charles as well. Our hearts are with you in this sorrowful time.”

  “Thank you,” Lady Duncan whispered. “I’m grateful. Very grateful.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  We hold several threads in our hands, and the odds are that one or other of them guides us to the truth. We may waste time in following the wrong one, but sooner or later we must come upon the right.

  The Hound of the Baskervilles

  Arthur Conan Doyle

  Constable Daniel Chapman gathered up the items from the escaped prisoner’s cell and followed Lord Charles to the room where the fingerprinting project was supposed to be taking place, although with the escape, the guards had been called away to help with the search, and the project had come to a halt. The stone-walled room was dank and cold, the air as thick with the prison’s rank foulness as the air of the
cell block, and the thought that men were doomed to spend their whole lives in such a place was enough to make the constable shudder. Locking up a drunken rowdy for a night or two in the Princetown jail was one thing—this, this was quite another. He was only glad that such decisions were in the hands of the Crown and of men who were made of sterner stuff than he. Daniel Chapman loved his work and had sworn to uphold the law, but he was a man who knew his limits, and he knew for certain that he’d never be able to bring himself to lock a criminal away for life, no matter what the poor bloke might’ve done.

  Preoccupied with these troublesome and somewhat conflicted thoughts, the constable stood by while Lord Sheridan carefully and methodically went about his task, dusting the tin cup they had brought from the cell with black powder, using sticky celluloid tape to lift the fingerprints, placing the tape carefully on a card. As the constable watched, however, he was drawn more and more into what his lordship was doing, and it occurred to him that he would very much like to learn this interesting method of work. Perhaps Lord Sheridan wouldn’t mind teaching him, once the prisoner was recaptured and the investigation of Sir Edgar’s murder wrapped up.

  The constable frowned. As far as that business was concerned, he didn’t put much faith in Dr. Conan Doyle, for all his fine reputation for solving fictional crime-about which the constable could form no judgment, since although he had heard of Sherlock Holmes, he had never read one of his adventures. But Lord Charles Sheridan was a different kettle of fish entirely, if he was any judge of persons, which he was. From their little acquaintance, he knew that Lord Sheridan understood what sort of questions to ask, what line of inquiry to pursue, and how to conduct an investigation—although the constable had to confess that he didn’t quite understand what they were doing here in Dartmoor Prison when they should be out there on the moor, pursuing the escaped convict who had killed Sir Edgar. Perhaps his lordship was coming to some conclusion or other about the identity of the escaped man’s accomplice, although the constable couldn’t quite fathom how he might do that, given the little evidence at hand, none of which seemed to implicate anyone here on the moor.