Death at Dartmoor (28 page)

Evelyn stared at the flame over the rim of her cup, her lips pinched and blue. “He knows
that?”
she whispered. Her hands were shaking.

“He thinks you inserted a map in the flyleaf of the Bible you gave your brother, with directions to a cache of food and clothing, and possibly a disguise. He assumes that you plan to meet him, so that the two of you may go off together.” Patsy smiled bleakly. “By the way, he suggests South America, rather than Switzerland, Evelyn. He says that's what he would do if he didn't expect to receive justice here.”

Evelyn's cup rattled in its saucer. She gulped down the rest of the tea and set the cup and saucer on the floor, clasped both hands in her lap, her knuckles white. “Why are you ... telling me all this?” she whispered.

“Because you should know that others believe in your brother's innocence and may be willing to help,” Patsy said with conviction. “And because he's the object of a manhunt. He may not have murdered Sir Edgar, but people believe that he did. If they see him, they may just shoot him.”

Evelyn's blue eyes were swimming with tears. “It's too late,” she whispered. “If I had known about Lord Sheridan's proof, I don't suppose I would have agreed to help—” She bit her lip. “But it's too late now. Sam has escaped. Whatever his lordship's evidence, the authorities won't believe—”

“It is never too late,” Patsy said decidedly, although she spoke with more assurance than she felt. After all, Spencer was the object of a massive manhunt. It would be a miracle if he weren't captured—or simply shot on sight.

“I wish I could believe that,” Evelyn said.

Patsy nodded. “It's true, then, as Lord Sheridan has guessed? It was your brother Malcomb who killed Elizabeth Spencer?” The other woman's face twisted with pain, and Patsy, feeling a quick remorse said, “I'm sorry, Evelyn. If you'd rather not talk about it—”

“No, actually I think I ... I'd like to,” Evelyn said. She picked up the edge of her shawl and wiped her eyes with it. “They took Sam away before he and I could do more than exchange a few words.” She swallowed. “And Malcomb was beside himself with guilt and grief, and there was no use trying to talk to him. And then he—” The tears were flowing freely now, running down her cheeks and dripping off her chin. She made no more effort to wipe them away.

“Malcomb did drown himself, then?” Patsy asked gently. The outlines of the tragedy that Charles had sketched out at dinner were beginning to emerge more clearly now. “After your brother Samuel pled guilty to save him?”

Evelyn nodded, staring at the gas fire as if she were conjuring up ghosts of the past in the flickering blue flame. When she spoke, it was so low that Patsy had to strain to hear her words. “Elizabeth was very beautiful, you see, and young, barely twenty. Before Sam married her, she and Malcomb... They had an affair and she became pregnant.”

“Why didn't Malcomb marry her?” If Charles had said, Patsy didn't remember.

“Malcomb was married, and he and Clementine—Clemmy, we've always called her—had a child, a little girl, only eight years old. In fact, he was terrified that Clemmy would find out. He thought she might leave him. Isn't that ironic?” Evelyn sighed, rubbing her eyes.

“Would you like another cup of tea?” Patsy asked. “There's more in the pot.”

Evelyn shook her head. “Sam offered to marry Elizabeth,” she said, “and give the child his name. I don't think he loved her—in a romantic way, I mean—but he was fond of her and wanted to take care of her. Perhaps he thought it was his duty. Or perhaps he wanted to... atone for the way Malcomb had used her. Whatever his reason, I hoped that Elizabeth would be grateful to him. I hoped their marriage would be the answer, and I think he did, too.” She fell silent, watching the flames.

“But it wasn't, was it?” Patsy said quietly, thinking of the misery of her parents' marriage, and her sister's. Whatever the question, marriage was so seldom the answer. But what else could Elizabeth have done, except say yes to her lover's brother?

Evelyn shook her head. The ribbon that bound her dark hair had come loose, and a tangled lock fell forward, over her cheek. “No,” she said sadly. “It might have been, but Malcomb couldn't leave Elizabeth alone. In some ways, I think it was harder for him, after Sam married her. There was always a kind of rivalry between them, even when they were boys, so it was almost as if Sam had... well, stolen her from Malcomb, you see, and Malcomb couldn't bear the thought of it.”

“It sounds irrational,” Patsy said. “Malcomb should have been glad that his brother was willing to help Elizabeth.”

“Yes, but Malcomb was not always entirely rational, you see.” The words were coming faster now, tumbling out, like a genie out of a bottle. “He wrote to Elizabeth and then came to Edinburgh. Sam tried to tell her that it was improper for her to be alone with Malcomb, now that they were married, and even dangerous. Once or twice he spoke quite angrily to her, which I suppose only made her more determined. She was... willful.”

“Was your brother afraid that something might happen?”

Evelyn looked away. “He didn't trust Malcomb. Our brother—he was always so reckless, you see, quite heedless, and by that time, he was drinking quite a bit. He came to see Elizabeth one evening while Sam was in his laboratory in the attic, and there was an argument, and he lost control and—” She stopped.

“He killed her,” Patsy said.

“Yes, although neither Sam nor I understood why. Sam heard Malcomb shouting and ran downstairs and saw what had happened. He sent Malcomb away. He thought that people would believe him when he said that an intruder had killed her, especially since there was no blood on his hands. He was so obviously innocent, he never thought he'd be arrested, let alone brought to trial. But the police didn't seem to care about the evidence, and then the prosecutor got hold of Malcomb's letters and intended to introduce them to prove that Sam had a motive. Sam changed his plea to guilty—not for Malcomb's sake, but to protect Clemmy and Rachel.”

“And then Malcomb killed himself?”

“Yes. On the anniversary of Elizabeth's death.”

“And you decided to help Sam escape?”

“Wouldn't you have done?” Evelyn turned to face Patsy. “If your brother was sent to prison for life, for a murder he did not commit, wouldn't you do all you could to free him?” She pulled the locket over her head. “Here. Here is his picture. I want you to see the face of the man I would die to defend!”

She opened the locket and held it out. Patsy glanced at the picture, then carried it to the light, studying it closely, her heart pounding. The man looked enough like the man she had encountered on the moor—the man to whom she had been so immediately, so powerfully attracted—to be his brother. Was it possible that she had already met Sam Spencer? She looked again. She could not be sure, but—

Evelyn's voice seemed to come from a great distance. “And now that you know the whole story,” she was saying, “now that you understand everything that's happened, you can't stand in the way of his getting free.” Her voice became fierce. “You can't.”

“No,” Patsy said. “Of course I can't.” She closed the locket with a snap and went to the window. She parted the curtain and rested her forehead against the cold glass, wishing she hadn't heard Evelyn's story. Whatever the crime, too much understanding, too much knowledge of the motive behind it and the context of human emotions and passions around it, made one complicit. In the pale light of the lamp on the street corner, she could see the rain sheeting down, running in rivulets across the cobbles.

“Out on the moor, in this terrible weather,” she said in a low voice. She held the locket tight. “You must be dreadfully worried about him.”

“Worried?” Evelyn laughed. “My brother isn't a fool. He's dry and sheltered, and he's had better food since he escaped than he had in that awful place. Fruit, for the first time in over a year, and cheese. And he's free.” There was exultation in her voice. “He's free!”

“But he can't stay on the moor forever,” Patsy said, dropping the curtain and returning to her chair. “And he can't leave, either. They've lifted the roadblocks, but there are patrols out, and they're watching the docks at Torquay and Plymouth.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Evelyn start and grow pale, and she added, “Whatever your plan for getting your brother off the moor and away from England, Evelyn, you can't do it without help.”

“Help?” Evelyn pressed her hands together, her face taut. “Aiding an escaped convict is a felony. Who would be willing to risk it?”

“I would,” Patsy said. She put the locket into the palm of Evelyn's hand and closed her icy fingers over it. “I think Lord Sheridan would also be willing to help, but only if the two of you agree to take his lordship into your confidence.”

“Lord Sheridan? But what can he do?”

“I don't know that, either,” Patsy said truthfully. “I do know that he is convinced of your brother's innocence, and that he isn't optimistic about his obtaining justice in British courts. Perhaps he will be willing to help him get out of the country. But Sam and Lord Sheridan will have to meet. They'll have to talk. Your brother will have to agree.”

Evelyn regarded her for a long moment, her eyes at first hopeful, then dispirited. “It's no use,” she said finally. “Sam won't do it. You don't know my brother. He'd rather—”

“Rather be returned to Dartmoor Prison for the rest of his life? Or go to the gallows for the murder of Sir Edgar?”

Evelyn dropped her face into her hands, her shoulders shaking. After a moment she asked, in a thick, muffled voice, “What ... what do you want me to do?”

Patsy thought quickly. “Do you plan to visit the cache tomorrow? Leave more food?”

Hesitantly, Evelyn nodded.

“And when do you sail?”

“On—” Her glance slid away, as she thought better of what she was about to say.

Patsy understood that she had already given too much away and feared to give more, feared to trust. “I understand,” she said. “I'll talk to Lord Sheridan and come back in the morning.” She paused, uncertain, not knowing how far she could trust, either. “Will... will that be all right?”

Evelyn laughed acidly, understanding her unspoken question. “Do you mean, will I be here? Yes, of course, I'll be here. Where else would I be?” She turned, listening to the rain. “The storm's getting worse. Perhaps you should stay the night. The bed is large enough for two. Or Mrs. Victor could put you up. I'm sure she has an empty room.”

Patsy glanced from the thin blanket to the meager gas fire. “Thank you,” she said, “but I need to go back to the hotel. Lord Sheridan has gone out, and I would like to be there when he returns.”

She was ashamed to admit it, but what really drew her was the Duchy's warm rooms, the windows covered with heavy velvet drapes, wool blankets on the beds, and a bright fire blazing on the hearth. She thought again of the man on the moor, and she shivered.

 

It was two hours past midnight and still storming when Charles returned with Kate to their rooms in the Duchy, to find Patsy Marsden, in a bedraggled skirt and wet boots, shivering in front of their fire. She barely seemed to take in Kate's announcement of Mrs. Bernard's death, and even before Charles had shrugged out of his overcoat, had begun to relate her visit to Evelyn Spencer. By the time he had progressed to his boots, she had finished her tale and was making a plea.

“You
must
help him get away, Charles,” she said in a taut voice. “It happened just as you surmised, in almost every particular. The escaped prisoner is an innocent man, but he'll never receive justice from the British courts—you've said as much yourself. You
must
find a way to get him safely out of the country!”

Charles finished pulling off his boots, loosened his tie, and sat back, his stockinged feet propped in front of the blaze. He closed his eyes, feeling at once surprised and gratified by Patsy's report, and deeply troubled. What had begun as the merest intuition of a man's innocence, glimpsed in the dry, factual language of an Edinburgh trial transcript, had given rise to a scientific exercise in analytic logic and careful forensic investigation—a successful exercise, he had felt this afternoon, as he reviewed the items of evidence on Oliver Cranford's desk as if they had been elements in a laboratory demonstration, drawing his conclusions and feeling their persuasive weight as they tipped the scale from guilt to innocence. But all of that mental activity had been unrelated to the human realm, somehow, as if the problem of Spencer's guilt or innocence were only an academic puzzle to be solved, a riddle to be unraveled, like one of Sherlock's exploits. Now, having heard Patsy's passionate retelling of Evelyn's story, the problem of Spencer had ceased to be a logical exercise and had become a perplexing human quandary. Now, he was going to have to take some sort of action.

But what sort of action could he take? It was impossible to imagine himself participating in the return of the unfortunate Dr. Samuel Spencer to the punitive embrace of the British penal system. But it was almost as difficult to imagine himself abetting an escaped felon, especially one who was believed to have committed two vicious murders, escaping the ultimate punishment for the first through a miscarriage of justice and committing the second in the course of his flight from a lenient sentence. Still, that was what had to be—

“Charles!” Patsy exclaimed. “You haven't gone to sleep, have you? What can we
do
about Dr. Spencer?”