Death at Dartmoor (13 page)

Mrs. Bernard's face had grown quite pale. “The more you see? But surely you don't think that my silly imaginings—whatever they were, I can barely remember—that they have any truth in them!”

“How can we be sure?” Kate asked seriously. She leaned forward. “You say you are a friend of Sir Edgar's. If you knew that robbers lay in wait for him, would you allow him to go on the roads unwarned? Perhaps tonight we will learn whether your ‘imaginings,' as you call them, have any merit. If not, there is nothing more to worry about. If so, you can tell him what you have experienced and allow him to be the judge of the matter. And I will be by your side; I promise it.”

Mrs. Bernard appeared for a moment to shrink inwardly. “I suppose you are right,” she replied in a low voice. “I must confess to having a special fondness for Sir Edgar. That is,” she lifted her head with a quick motion, as if to deny some charge that Kate had not yet made. “That is, he has been most helpful to me and I quite naturally owe him a great debt of gratitude. If anything should happen to him, I should not like to think I might have prevented it.” She seemed to pull herself together. “For his sake, I will go with you tonight, Lady Sheridan. I only hope that you do not think me a giddy little fool.”

“I think,” Kate said, extending her hand, “that you are very brave.”

This seemed to please Mrs. Bernard, for she slipped her hand into Kate's. “I don't know about being brave.” She coughed once or twice, then managed a small smile. “I don't think I would do this if you had not promised to stay beside me.”

“You may expect me around seven,” Kate said. She stood. The cat rose, too, rubbing against her skirt. “Now, my dear, I shall continue my walk and allow you to return to your morning's work. Thank you for permitting me to have this little chat with you.”

“Oh, thank
you,
Lady Sheridan,” Mrs. Bernard breathed, putting out her hand. “I feel ever so much better, knowing that I am under your protection.”

On an impulse, Kate bent over and kissed the other woman's cheek. And when she reached the end of the path, she turned and gave an affectionate wave to the woman framed in the rustic doorway, her white cat in her arms, a pretty picture of a young countrywoman, at home in her thatched cottage.

But as she walked down the lane, Kate thought again that Mrs. Bernard was very young and much more nervous and impressionable than she had thought, and her cough was troublesome. Was she consumptive? She wondered whether she and Beryl had done the right thing. It was all well and good to go looking for story ideas, but perhaps not to the extent she had carried it this morning. And as she turned in the direction of the road that would take her to Two Bridges, thinking to take a different route back to Princetown, for the sake of variety, she frowned inwardly at herself and at Beryl Bardwell. When
would
the two of them learn not to meddle in matters that could not possibly concern them?

T
he vicar had driven out in his gig that morning to make his weekly call at Thornworthy. It had been a rather unusual session, for Lady Duncan appeared to have quite forgot that he was coming. In fact, the servant who had gone to announce him had returned to report, in a flustered tone, that it would be some moments before her ladyship was ready to receive him, and he was left to cool his heels in an anteroom with not even a cup of hot tea for his comfort.

More than some moments, it had been nearly an hour before he was finally admitted to Lady Duncan's private apartments, and when she appeared, she was not in the best of spirits; indeed, he felt that she was suffering from some deep depression or mental perturbation, for her face was ashen, her mouth pinched, the skin around her eyes reddened, as if she had been weeping. Mr. Garrett, who prided himself on his judgment of persons, deeply felt her ladyship's constraint and sadness, which he observed to be underscored by a kind of nervous anxiety that had its outlet in a constant, fluttering movement of her pale fingers. Recognizing that these sensations most probably arose from some sort of unfortunate disruption in her normal affairs (perhaps, he speculated, in her relationship with her husband), he did not engage in their usual practice of discussing spiritual matters but merely read a few soothing passages of scripture, including the Twenty-third Psalm, and ended their meditation together with a brief prayer.

But the readings and prayer did not alleviate Lady Duncan's distress to any significant degree, and Mr. Garrett could not help feeling that there was something hidden in her soul about which she wished to speak but could not. A time or two, she seemed on the very brink of speech, then hesitated and checked herself. But Mr. Garrett was impressed by the stoic courage with which she seemed to bear whatever sorrows Fate had imposed upon her, and when he wondered out loud if it were wise to convene the second séance that evening, given (he ventured delicately) her present situation, she seemed to pull herself together, replying with a great firmness.

“No, indeed, Mr. Garrett, whatever my personal state of mind, I shan't be so frightfully cruel as to disappoint everyone—and especially Mr. Westcott, who was so unhappy about the outcome of last night's séance. He felt that there was some negative presence that actively discouraged the spirits' efforts to come through, and he trusts that this presence, whoever or whatever it was, will not make itself felt this evening.”

Mr. Garrett perfectly agreed with this assessment. He didn't say so, of course, but it was his private impression that it was Lord Sheridan who had thrown up the barrier, and he fervently hoped that his skeptical lordship would absent himself from tonight's meeting. Now that they were speaking of spiritualist matters, Lady Duncan's depression seemed to lighten somewhat, and her color improved. She turned the conversation to Mr. Westcott, saying that they had become acquainted through the Psychical Society, whose London meetings she attended regularly and whose membership had been enormously impressed by Mr. Westcott's spirit contact.

“He is an Arab scribe named Pheneas,” she added, with a trace of her usual animation, “from the ancient city of Ur. He was a leader of men in his own society, and is now a very high soul who speaks and works on the earth plane exclusively through Mr. Westcott. We are quite privileged to have him in our midst.” She gave him a small smile. “Although I fear that not all of our small group are of a mind to appreciate his contributions to spiritualist science as much as you.”

“Oh, but one of us is,” Mr. Garrett replied, and, gratified that he was able to contribute some small something to Lady Duncan's store of information about such matters, related that he had just the day before happened upon an article by Mr. Conan Doyle, published over a decade ago in
Light,
the journal of the London Spiritualistic Alliance. In the article, Mr. Doyle had written with enthusiasm about an encounter with a medium who had seemed able to read his very thoughts, and whose abilities he took to be proof of the fact that intelligence could exist in the universe, apart from the human body. He concluded by relating a remark about lions in Africa that clearly demonstrated Dr. Doyle's convictions on the matter.

“So I am confident that we can count Mr. Doyle among the believers in the group,” Mr. Garrett continued, “and Mrs. Bernard, as well, perhaps, since she seemed deeply affected last evening. In fact, when I conveyed her home, she confessed to having felt the quite distinct presence of a force that seemed to threaten—”

The vicar stopped, suddenly thinking that it was perhaps not quite wise to relate Mrs. Bernard's half-hysterical feelings and noticing that, at the mention of the other lady, Lady Duncan had abruptly pulled her brows together. He hastily changed the subject, but within a very few moments her ladyship precipitously closed the interview and he found himself on the way out the door.

With all these matters crowding into his mind, then, it was no wonder that Mr. Garrett was so preoccupied with his thoughts that, just after he crossed the West Dart at Two Bridges, he drove straight on past a lady who was walking in the grassy verge. It wasn't until he had driven some distance down the road that he realized, with a start, who she was. He pulled up his horse and turned, calling out to her.

“Lady Sheridan! My dear Lady Sheridan, what a surprise to see you walking here!” He jumped down, came around the gig, and doffed his hat in a low bow. “Do allow me the pleasure of giving you a lift to Princetown.”

“The pleasure will be all mine,” Lady Sheridan said with a rueful smile. She took his hand and climbed into the gig. “I was visiting Mrs. Bernard and decided to return by the road past Dunnabridge Farm, rather than the footpath under Royal Hill. I' m afraid I didn't realize what a long walk I had undertaken. I'm very glad you came along, Mr. Garrett.”

“Delighted to be of service,” the vicar replied, settling himself and picking up the reins. He thought to himself that her ladyship looked exceptionally attractive today, her cheeks red from exertion, her eyes sparkling, her russet hair pulled about by the wind. And he could scarcely keep from smiling as he considered the quite amazing extent to which, in the space of a few days, his social circle had widened. Who could have guessed that he would not only have been taken so completely into Lady Duncan's confidence but should also have been granted the pleasure of meeting Mr. Nigel Westcott, Lord and Lady Sheridan,
and
Dr. Conan Doyle?

Kate, for her part, was truly pleased that Mr. Garrett had happened to come along, for she was quite tired of walking. She did not even have to carry the burden of conversation, because Mr. Garrett seemed quite eager to talk. In fact, whenever his intercourse lagged, all Kate had to do was smile at him with a look of attentive interest and he became quite spirited again. In the fifteen minutes it took to drive to Oakery Bridge, he managed to mention his conviction that Dr. Conan Doyle was quite the best writer in the world, and a delightfully genial personage as well; his feeling that little Mrs. Bernard was charming but perhaps just a bit hysterical; and his sense that Mr. Delany could certainly not be blamed if he should harbor a few covetous feelings toward Thornworthy, since the line of inheritance had passed to Sir Edgar's side of the family, leaving only Stapleton House and a small scrap of ground, adjacent to Thornworthy, to the Delany branch. And of course, he went on, there was every reason to envy Sir Edgar and his wife, for Thornworthy Castle was a most magnificent edifice, equipped, as it was with its very own ghost. He looked a bit discomfited after he had made the last remark, and Kate thought he might be wondering whether she shared her husband's skepticism about such matters. But the encouraging smile she turned on him seemed to reassure him, and as they began to climb the hill to Princetown, he added that he was deeply gratified to have been invited to the second séance at the castle that night and very much hoped that he would see her ladyship there.

“I wouldn't miss it for the world,” Kate said. “I dare-say that Mr. Westcott will have better luck in contacting the spirits tonight, especially since Lord Charles has elected not to attend.” She gave the vicar a sidewise glance. “Mr. Westcott is a highly successful medium, I am told.”

“Oh, my goodness, yes,” he replied enthusiastically. “Lady Duncan told me this morning—today was our regular spiritual consultation, you see—that Mr. Westcott's spirit control is an Arab scribe named Pheneas, from the ancient city of Ur, in Sumeria. A powerful leader among men in his own time, and now a very high soul, sent especially to work with Mr. Westcott on the earth plane.”

Kate considered this for a moment, then asked, “Mr. Westcott is a friend of Lady Duncan's, then, and not of her husband?”

“I believe that's the case,” the vicar said. “They became acquainted through the Psychical Society.” He sighed confidentially. “Dear Lady Duncan. She has condescended to allow me to bring her spiritual comfort.” He broke off, as if just catching himself from confiding too much. “There, there, I shouldn't say more. After all, such matters are very private. But I do admire Lady Duncan, and I am glad to advise her in her hour of need.”

Kate might have been puzzled by these last rather enigmatic remarks, but her attention was distracted by a pony cart coming in their direction. As it drew near, Kate saw from its bright orange and green paint that it came from the Boise Brothers livery stable, next to the Princetown station, and was driven by a stable lad. And riding in it, as if conjured up by Kate's mention of him, was Mr. Nigel Westcott. He condescended to notice them, as they drove past, with a half smile and a slight wave of his hand.