Death at Dartmoor (27 page)

Charles regarded him. “So Delany threatened Sir Edgar? To his face? And in the hearing of others?”

“Well, yes, but—” The doctor paused, pursing his mouth. “You'd have to know Jack Delany. As I say, he's hotheaded. Says what he thinks without calculating its effect. But I very much doubt that he would...” His voice trailed off. “Anyway, I understood that the current line of thinking pointed to the escaped prisoner as Sir Edgar's killer.”

“Perhaps,” Charles said. “But it seems useful to see what other possibilities there might be.” He paused. “Jack Delany does stand to inherit the estate of Thornworthy now that his rival is dead, does he not?”

“Yes. Yes, that's correct. The entail devolves upon the oldest son of the surviving bloodline.” Lorrimer was silent for a moment, while in the grate, the peat fire began to burn lower. “If you are looking into Jack Delany, Lord Sheridan, there is something more you should know. And I will tell you myself, so that you hear the facts, rather than getting the tale from the moor people, who may know only one bit or another of it.”

“And what is that?” Charles asked.

Lorrimer sighed. “A year or two before Sir Edgar married and came to the moor, Jack Delany was involved in a nasty bit of unpleasantness. He had purchased some land, you see, and the seller—a man who lived in Okehampton—had reneged on the bargain. Jack was upset about this, quite naturally, and went to the man to remonstrate. One thing led to another, and there were ... words. The man produced a revolver, Jack disputed his possession of it, and there was a fight, in the progress of which the gun went off and the man was killed.”

“I see,” Charles murmured. He put down his cup, tenting his fingers under his chin.

“Luckily for Jack, there were witnesses to the accident, and they reported what they had seen to the Okehampton constable, exonerating Jack of wrongdoing in the matter. The coroner's inquest returned a finding of accidental death. Of course, there were some—the dead man's friends and family—who did not agree with the finding. If you go about inquiring into Jack Delany's background, you are quite likely to hear their side of the matter.”

Charles sat quietly for a moment, staring into the fire, absorbing this information and considering the courses of action that might have led up to Sir Edgar's death. “I wonder ... Did you form any conclusion from your autopsy this afternoon as to the possible course of the bullet?”

“Only that whoever shot him was standing fairly close,” the doctor replied. “The bullet traveled up through the throat and into the—” He broke off as Kate came into the room, and stood. “Lady Sheridan.”

Charles stood, too, and went to the tea tray, where he poured a cup of tea for Kate and sloshed brandy into it.

“I left Avis with your patient, Doctor,” Kate said, taking the cup from Charles. She took his chair, too, with a glance of thanks, as Charles put a block of peat on the fire and pulled another chair around. “What do you think of her condition?”

“I am frankly surprised,” Dr. Lorrimer said, “and worried.” He tossed his cigarette into the fire. “Mrs. Bernard has been suffering from consumption, but she was much improved in the last few months. I hadn't expected to see her situation deteriorate quite so rapidly.”

“Has she spoken to you about Sir Edgar?” Kate asked.

Charles glanced sharply at her, but she didn't add any explanation.

“Only a few broken words,” the doctor said with a little grimace. “Difficult to make out.”

“Did she mention a gun or a rock, or dogs?”

“Yes,” the doctor said slowly. He glanced at Charles. “I'm a trained man of science, hardly a believer in demon dogs or the fairy folk of the moor. But I have heard and seen things in my time that suggest that there are things in heaven and earth other than those we ordinarily take account of.” He paused and added in a lower voice, “Mrs. Bernard knew of unnatural deeds, and her knowledge has bred in her an unnatural trouble.” He peered at Kate. “She spoke to you, then, about what she dreamed?”

“Dreamed or somehow envisioned, or actually saw.” Kate held her cup with both hands, warming them, and she stumbled over her words, as if her lips were numb. “Apparently she spoke of his death—his murder—yesterday, to Jenny and Avis.”

“And nothing was known of it until today,” Charles said reflectively. “Until this afternoon.”

Jenny appeared at the door. “Doctor,” she said urgently. “Avis sez ye must come quick.” Dr. Lorrimer nodded and went after her.

When they had left the room, Charles said, “How does Mrs. Bernard seem?”

“Very low,” Kate said, sipping her tea.

“The gun and the rock—she knew these details?”

“And the dogs.” Kate sighed. “But when I asked her if she had seen anyone else besides Sir Edgar, she only said she had not. But there was something about a struggle.” She shook her head. “Was he quite terrible to ... to look at, Charles?”

“Yes,” Charles said, and added, “I'm glad you didn't have to see him, my dear.”

“But
she
did.” She sighed again. “And does, each time she closes her eyes. She loved him, Charles, although she says that he never knew. How she can live with what she sees, I don't know. I keep thinking how I would feel if you...” She swallowed painfully.

Charles reached for her hand and held it to his lips, then let it go again. They sat for a few moments, looking at the fire. At last, Charles said, “She may have loved him, but I think we can safely assume that Mrs. Bernard is not the woman who was mentioned in the letter Lady Duncan received.”

“I'm sure she wasn't,” Kate said decidedly.

“The question remains, then, how she learned what she knows.”

“Yes, that's the question,” Kate said. “But I—”

There was a step on the stair, and Kate stopped. Charles looked up as the doctor reentered the room, his eyes bleak.

“She's gone,” he said.

Kate let out her breath in a little cry.

“So quickly,” Charles said wonderingly. In his life he had often had occasion to marvel at how easily the line between life and death could be crossed, and how irrevocably.

“Yes,” the doctor replied in a matter-of-fact tone, and reached for the brandy bottle. “She died with his name on her lips,” he said, and added, “God have mercy on her soul.”

A
fter Kate and Charles had gone off to Mrs. Bernard's, Patsy Marsden sat for a few moments, sipping her wine and half listening to Dr. Doyle, who was making some comment or other on the progress of the story he was writing, which was set on the moor and seemed to be filled with escaped murderers and demon dogs. But Patsy's thoughts were elsewhere at this moment, with Evelyn Spencer, whom she now knew as Mattie Jenkyns, and with Evelyn's brother, whom Charles Sheridan believed was innocent of the crime for which he had been imprisoned—innocent, too, of the murder of Sir Edgar. And if Charles Sheridan believed these things, Patsy did, too, for she had known him long enough and well enough to be able to place her whole trust in his judgment.

But those who were hunting the escaped man believed, with an equal conviction, that he was guilty of both murders and would be inclined to shoot him on sight. Suddenly aware of Spencer's danger, she was seized by a sense of terrible urgency. She had to do
something,
although she wasn't sure what. She pushed her chair back and stood.

“Forgive me, Dr. Doyle,” she said, breaking into his remarks. “I've enjoyed hearing about your work, but I must ask you to excuse me. I am going out.”

“Out?” Mr. Doyle drew his eyebrows together. “My dear young lady, it is storming!”

“Yes, isn't it,” Patsy said, standing.

He was openmouthed. “Where in the world do you mean to go? You can't possibly—”

“Indeed, I must,” Patsy said firmly.

“Then I will go with you,” he said, and stood, too. “You must have an escort. It is unthinkable that you—”

“No, thank you,” Patsy said. She smiled. “I'm afraid that a man would be of no use in this matter. Good night, Dr. Doyle.” And with that, she marched out and down the hall to her own room, where she pulled on a coat and a macintosh, wrapped her head in a scarf and tied another around her neck, and took up her umbrella.

But out on the street, the umbrella was ripped inside out by the wind the instant she put it up. She struggled to furl it again, then bent into the cold, driving rain, pushing as quickly as she could toward the feeble circle of light around the next lamppost, and the next, and so on down the street until she finally reached Mrs. Victor's boardinghouse, a two-story frame dwelling on the corner of Station Street. There, she climbed the stairs and rang the doorbell, sheltering as best she could under the narrow canopy over the stoop, until at last an astonished Mrs. Victor opened the door and allowed her in.

Three minutes later, she was climbing the stairs, to be greeted by an equally astonished Mattie Jenkyns, in a flannel nightdress and dressing gown, her dark hair tied back with a ribbon, at the open door to her room. Behind her, a small gas fire burned against the wall, a chair pulled close up before it, a book and a shawl on the chair. A paraffin lamp gave off a circle of light. Evelyn saw that a double bed covered with a thin blanket was pushed into one corner of the room and a rod suspended across another, hung with Mattie's clothing, a blue dress, a black skirt, a white blouse, the red cloak.

“Patsy Marsden!” Mattie exclaimed. “Whatever in the world are you doing out on such a wretched night?” She clutched her gown close around her neck and pulled Patsy's sleeve. “Oh, do come in, for heaven's sake! You must be wet through.”

“Hello, Evelyn,” Patsy said. She stepped inside, closed the door behind her, and began unwrapping her scarves. On the way, she had decided that surprise was the best attack against Mattie's substantial defenses. “I think it's time that you and I talked about your brother.”

Evelyn Spencer stared at her for a moment and then burst into tears.

The storm of violent sobs lasted for several moments, abating only when a light rapping was heard at the door and Mrs. Victor handed in the tray Patsy had requested, containing a china teapot bundled into a knitted cozy, and two china cups, with sugar and lemon and a little pot of milk beside. Patsy put the tray on the gateleg table beside the window, where the net curtains—there were no draperies—fluttered with every blast of the wind. It was no wonder the room was cold.

“Milk?” she asked, and at Evelyn's tearful nod, added milk to both cups. By this time, Evelyn was huddled in the chair, her bare feet tucked under her, the shawl pulled over her shoulders. Patsy handed her a cup and took the other chair, noticing how much the woman seemed to have changed in the course of a few hours. There were dark puffs beneath her eyes, her skin was mottled, her hair was tangled.

“How did you ... find out?” Evelyn asked, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “I was afraid someone might remember my name, but I had no idea you would connect it with—” She stopped.

“Lord Charles Sheridan related your brother's story at dinner tonight.”

Evelyn stirred in her chair, fingering the cheap gold locket she wore on a ribbon around her neck. “His ... story
^?
”

Patsy nodded. “He believes that he has proof of your brother's innocence in the murder of his wife. He bases this on his fingerprint analysis and on the information he got from a newspaper clipping he found in Spencer's cell—and on his own personal observations.” The hem of her serge skirt was wet almost to her knees, and her feet were cold inside her boots. Shivering, she moved closer to the fire, although it gave off so little heat that it could not warm her. “He doesn't believe your brother killed Sir Edgar, either.”

Evelyn's eyes were huge. “Sir Edgar? That's the name of the man who was found dead on the moor this morning?”

“Yes,” Patsy said. “Unfortunately, most people assume that your brother shot him. There's a great hue and cry about it.”

“I know,” Evelyn said miserably. “I heard them talking when I went out to buy food.” She gave Patsy an oblique glance. “How did you connect me and my brother?”

“Lord Sheridan saw your name in the newspaper clipping. When he mentioned it, I recalled seeing you when you gave the address in London two years ago, to the prison reform meeting.” Patsy paused. “He thinks that you made a recent visit to the prison, claiming to be a Salvation Army missionary, and that you distributed Bibles. Is that true?”