Death at Dartmoor (34 page)

The constable cleared his throat. “Indeed, Lady Duncan,” he said humbly. “P‘rhaps you 'ud feel more comfort' ble if his lordship would ask the questions, m'lady, rather 'n myself.”

“That is very kind of you, Constable,” Lady Duncan said with a small smile. “Please, Lord Sheridan, ask what you must.”

Charles nodded. “I understand that, when Sir Edgar left Thornworthy, you believed that he was going up to London on the train. Is that correct?” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Constable Chapman was beginning to write.

“Yes,” Lady Duncan said, turning away from the constable, so that she wouldn't have to see what he was doing. “Yes, that's correct.”

“For the day? Or did he intend to stay in the city?”

“I believed he intended to stay, but he did not make that clear, at least to me.” Her face was in shadow. “It seemed to be a matter that he had just decided. At least, he did not mention it the previous day.”

Charles nodded. “In fact, that is why I asked. As I recall, his lordship invited the guests who attended the first séance to return the next night for a second. It seems a bit odd that he would suddenly decide to go up to the city when he was expecting to entertain guests that evening.”

Lady Duncan sighed. “The truth of the matter, Lord Sheridan, is that the entertainment was mine. While Sir Edgar had something of a curiosity about Mr. Westcott's spiritualist work and was certainly supportive of my interest, he was not himself a great enthusiast. So when he said that morning that he had business and meant to go up to London, I did not think anything of it. Nor did I question him about when he planned to return.”

“That explains it, then,” Charles murmured. “It is also the case that he drove himself to the station?”

“Yes. This was quite often his practice. He would take the gig to Okehampton, stable the horse in the livery stable near the railway station, and retrieve it upon his return, for the trip to Thornworthy.”

Charles spoke with sympathy. “Since it was your understanding that he had driven to Okehampton, you must have been quite surprised to receive his letter from Yelverton, then.” To her look of surprise, he added apologetically, “Lady Sheridan took the liberty of telling me about the contents of your husband's letter. I do hope you will forgive that breach of confidence. She would not have told me if it had not been for the questions surrounding Sir Edgar's death.”

Lady Duncan nodded, twisting her fingers in her lap. “The letter was a terrible shock,” she said in a low voice. “You see, I had no idea that he—” She took a deep, painful breath. “I will be completely candid with you, Lord Sheridan. I had no idea that my husband had an interest in any other woman.”

Charles cleared his throat and asked carefully, “You were aware that he occasionally visited Mrs. Bernard?”

“I know that he helped her with decisions regarding her farm,” Lady Duncan said in a level tone. “She may have had—indeed, I believe she
did
have—a more personal interest in him. But he was merely being helpful to her, and I am sorry if she misinterpreted his very natural concern that the farm be managed to its best advantage.” She looked at him. “You do understand that matters such as these are very difficult for me to discuss.”

“Oh, of course,” Charles said. “That was why I thought perhaps you might be willing to let me read his letter, so that I might understand without asking you anything further.”

Lady Duncan shook her head. “I'm afraid that's not possible. I did not keep the letter, you see. It happened that Mr. Garrett, the vicar, was here when it arrived. I was upset, of course. I felt betrayed, and quite naturally, I shared my feelings with Mr. Garrett, and even showed him the letter. But when he had gone, I burned it.” She took out a black lace handkerchief. “Had I known that my husband was dead, I would certainly not have done so. But I hope you can appreciate my feelings.”

“Certainly,” Charles said. “Am I correct, then, in assuming that Sir Edgar did not return to Thornworthy after he departed that morning? That you never saw him again?”

“That's true,” Lady Duncan said sadly. “And I did not learn of his death until yesterday afternoon, when Mr. Garrett and Lady Sheridan came bearing the news. Of course, the spirits had given us some indication that a tragedy was pending, but I could have imagined nothing so terrible as—” Her voice broke, and she swallowed.

“Mr. Westcott is still with you, I believe? He plans to stay on for a time?”

“He had originally planned to stay with us for a fortnight. He offered to leave immediately upon learning yesterday of Sir Edgar's death, but I am frankly glad of his company. I'm sure you can appreciate that.” She paused. “Do you find it necessary to speak with him? I'm sure he wouldn't mind, although I can't think he would have anything to tell you. The servants, too, are at your disposal.”

“I don't think it's necessary,” Charles said. He paused. “My wife tells me that you mentioned to her that Mr. Delany and Sir Edgar were not on the best of terms.”

Lady Duncan spoke ruefully. “There was a great deal of animosity between them, I'm afraid. I didn't want to mention it, but Mr. Westcott reminded me that it is best to tell all the truth under circumstances like these. And the truth is that Sir Edgar was angry at Mr. Delany's contesting an entailment that was rightfully his own, while Mr. Delany quite resented Sir Edgar for, as he thought, taking Thornworthy away from him. And now—” Her eyes filled with tears. “And now, of course, Mr. Delany shall have what he has always wanted. He will obtain this place, and I shall have to leave.” She wiped her eyes.

“Do you know of any recent encounter between the two of them?”

“No,” she replied. “In fact, when I suggested inviting Mr. Delany to the séance, Sir Edgar did not oppose it. I hoped, you see, that their association would become easier if they saw one another socially. It is uncomfortable to be on bad terms with one's nearest relation, especially when he lives so close by. I have no idea about Mr. Delany's feelings—he has always seemed to me quite inscrutable—but I know that Sir Edgar felt badly about the situation.”

Charles nodded. “One more thing,” he said quietly, hating to bring it up but feeling it necessary. “I wonder if you are acquainted with a Mrs. Redman, in Mortonhampstead. A millinerness, I believe. Does she perhaps make your hats?”

“A millinerness in Mortonhampstead?” Lady Duncan replied, raising her eyebrows. “My hats come from London, of course. I would hardly employ—”

“She may be an acquaintance of Sir Edgar's,” Charles said quickly. “Did he have business that took him to Morehamptonstead on occasion?”

“He had property there, so he went twice or three times a month. But I don't think—” She pulled her brows together. “A Mrs. Redman, you say? Why do you ask?”

Charles saw nothing for it but the truth, although he was unwilling to inflict more pain. “It has been suggested that Mrs. Redman might be the woman to whom your husband referred in his letter. He is said to have helped her to establish her millinery business.” He paused, watching her closely. “There was no mention of that name in the letter he wrote you?”

“No,” Lady Duncan said, lifting her eyes to his. “But now that I think of it, I do seem to recall Sir Edgar's mentioning that some person in Mortonhampstead had requested his help in a small matter of business. I assumed that it had to do with his property there. And I had no idea that it might be a woman.” Her eyes widened. “You don't think that this ... this person had anything to do with his death, do you?”

“We are sure of nothing at the moment,” Charles said. “You cannot suggest anyone else who might have wished him harm? Had he received any threats, or had any partners in business who—”

“I've told you all I know,” Lady Duncan said. Her head drooped wearily. “And now, if you don't mind—”

“Yes, of course.” Charles stood, bowing. “I thank you very much for your time and your courtesy, Lady Duncan. I trust that we will not have to intrude again upon your grief. If there is anything I can do—”

“Thank you, your lordship,” Lady Duncan said, with a sad glance. “I can think of nothing that anyone can do.”

I
t was just after noon by the time Charles and the constable arrived in Mortonhampstead, a village some three miles to the east of Thornworthy. They stopped for hot mutton pies and a glass of ale at the pub, a small, dingy room which seemed also to serve as the grocery, the apothecary, and the post office. After their meal, which was surprisingly good, they went in search of the shoemaker's shop. It was not difficult to find, for above the front door into the small stone building hung a large wooden boot with the name Lyons painted on it in faded red letters and the year of establishment: 1822.

The shoe trade had changed since the first Lyons had hung that sign, Charles thought as he opened the door. Most shoes were now manufactured cheaply and in large quantities, owing to a leather sewing machine and a riveting process that had revolutionized the shoemaking trade, and working-class people who lived in the cities could now afford more than one pair of the flimsy, machine-produced shoes that were sold by goods dealers and drapers. But in out-of-the-way rural areas, the shoes and boots of country folk were still produced with the old tools and the old methods by craftsmen like Lyons, who made footwear which far outlasted the modern sort, especially when regularly and judiciously mended by the very man who had made it in the first place.

Lyons was at his work just now, straddling a long wooden shoemaker's bench directly under the large front window, hunched over a lasting jack that supported a worn leather boot to which he was applying a new sole. At his feet lay the other boot, badly in need of his expert attentions, and a wooden bucket half filled with water in which were soaking pieces of sole leather. Wooden lasts and a few pairs of shoes and boots were arranged on a low shelf, and an assortment of tools and leather hides hung on the walls, along with some pieces of mended leather harness. The rich smell of tanned leather pervaded the place, vying with the fragrance of burning peat from a small iron stove in one corner.

Lyons looked up from his work, peering through gold-framed glasses. “Sirs?” he asked, seeing Charles, with the uniformed and helmeted constable standing a step behind him. His eyes dropped, quite naturally, to the fine leather boots that Charles wore on his feet—they bespoke work of Charles's own London bootmaker—and came back up to Charles's face. “Wot c'n I do fer ye, sirs?”

“We've come to speak to your sister. I am Charles Sheridan, and this is Constable Chapman from Princetown. Is Mrs. Redman here?”

Lyons's eyes narrowed, and he looked again at the constable, whom he seemed to recognize. He put down the hook-shaped knife he was using to trim the sole, planting his palms on his thighs. He was a small man but his arms and shoulders were powerful, and Charles thought that he would likely hold his own in a pub brawl. “This b‘ain't yer turf, Chapman,” he growled. “Wot d' ye want wiv me sister, anyway? Her doan't know nothin' 'bout nothin'.”

“We want to talk with her about her friendship with Sir Edgar Duncan,” Charles replied.

“Sir Edgar's dead,” Lyons said gruffly. He wiped his hands on the front of his leather apron. “Killed by th' ‘scaped convict. Ever'body 'round here knows that.”

The constable stepped forward. “Doan't make it hard fer yer sister er y‘self, Lyons,” he said, lapsing into the man's own broad dialect. “Us'uns need t' talk with her. Where c'n us find her?”

“Right here, sirs,” said a quiet voice, and Charles looked up. The woman was standing in the shadows at the back of the room, having entered through a rear door and down several wooden steps. Beside the door, on the wall, was a small sign that said Hats for Sale Here. “If ye'ud like t' speak t' me,” she said, “come this way.”

“No, Laura!” Lyons said. He slid one leg over his bench and fumbled for a crutch that was leaning against the wall, and Charles saw that one foot was swathed in bandages. Struggling to stand, he shouted, “I forbid ye t' talk wiv 'em!”