Death at Dartmoor (3 page)

“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 Sheridan 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?”

H
is 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.

“Spare the vanquished.” The inscription might have seemed odd to a visitor unaware of the awful history of this place, but Charles knew that Britain's most feared and hated prison had originally been purpose-built to house the vanquished: French prisoners taken during the Napoleonic wars. The men had been imprisoned for months in overcrowded, stinking hulks moored at Plymouth, and when five thousand of them left their rotting ships of death in 1809 and marched across the moor to the more commodious Dartmoor Prison, they might indeed have felt that they had been “spared.”