Death at Dartmoor (36 page)

“Delany,” Doyle said with satisfaction. “It was just as I suspected. Jack Delany, next in line for Thornworthy.” He drank deeply of his tea and set his cup and saucer on the table between them. “The man who left the rig in Yelverton looked nothing at all like Sir Edgar, you see. According to the stable master's testimony, he was around thirty-five years of age, tall, thin, clean-shaven, and fair-haired.”

Charles shook his head, frowning. “It certainly sounds like Delany. Although I wouldn't have thought—” His frown deepened. “If what you're suggesting is true, then, Jack Delany would have met Sir Edgar at some point after he left Thomworthy that morning. He shot him, mutilated his face with a rock, and stuffed his body into the kist.”

“Precisely,” Doyle said with an energetic gesture. “Then Delany drove on—not to Okehampton, where Sir Edgar was liable to be known to the people at the livery stable, but to Yelverton, which, like Okehampton, is on the rail line to the port of Plymouth. He stabled the horse and gig, wrote to Lady Duncan in a fair imitation of his cousin's hand—to which he would have had ready access over the course of years—and posted the missive to Thornworthy.”

“And his purpose in writing?”

“Elementary, my dear Sheridan, elementary!” Doyle beamed. “He intended to give the impression that Sir Edgar was continuing his flight to Plymouth and the wide world beyond, thereby obscuring the possibility of murder.” He leaned back, puffing out clouds of blue smoke. “Then he returned to Princetown on the afternoon train. Both the postmistress and the railway conductor recalled noticing him when I questioned them, you see. A tall, thin, handsome man with fair hair. Jack Delany.”

“But
why?”
Charles asked.

“Why?” Doyle looked at him, somewhat vexed. “Greed is the strongest motive on earth, is it not? The man stood next in line to gain Thornworthy.”

“I can understand why he would kill Sir Edgar,” Charles said, frowning. “Greed is indeed a powerful motive. It's the rest of it that I don't understand. Jack Delany would require his cousin's dead body to support any claim to Thornworthy. But your reconstruction of the crime has him concealing that body and creating, with the stabling of the gig in Yelverton and the writing of the letter, the false impression that Sir Edgar was leaving the country. Why would he do these things?”

“I can't tell you why,” Doyle said crossly. “I can only assert that he
did,
and offer the testimony of three eyewitnesses: the stable master, the postmistress, and the railway conductor.” He peered over the tops of his glasses. “My dear fellow, do you doubt these people's testimony as to what they saw with their very own eyes? A tall, thin, fair-haired—”

“No. No, I don't doubt it at all. I am simply raising the question of motive, for it seems to me that a man who must prove his cousin dead before he is recognized as the beneficiary of his estate will hardly beat the man's face until it is unrecognizable and then bend every effort to creating the fiction of his departure from the country.”

Doyle frowned. Saying nothing, he puffed out several more clouds of smoke, which hung around his head in a haze. “I quite take your point,” he said at last, “and I confess that I have no answer. Delany is without a doubt the man who stabled the horse and mailed the letter. As to why he would do these things when he had no reason, I cannot say. It is a mystery—a very deep mystery.”

“Well, then,” Charles said, “let me add to the mystery. The constable and I spoke this morning to Jack Delany, who put us onto a woman named Mrs. Redman, whom Sir Edgar set up in millinery business in Mortonhampstead. When we went to see her, we found—” And he related what he and the constable had learned, including Mrs. Redman's report of Sir Edgar's ambiguous remark about “hocus-pocus.”

“Well,” said Doyle in a comfortable tone, “I shouldn't take those words to refer to Mr. Westcott's mediumistic work, if I were you. I have satisfied myself that his abilities and those of his spirit contact, Pheneas, are entirely genuine and quite impressive.” He settled himself deeper into his chair. “I am reminded of my investigation into the spiritual phenomena at the home of Colonel Elmore in Dorset, where a restless spirit, perhaps that of a small child whose remains were later discovered in the garden—”

“Charles!” Kate suddenly appeared in the doorway. “Oh, my dear, I am so
glad
to see you! You must come upstairs and hear what Avis Cartwright has to say. But first, I must read you this letter from Patsy.” She reached into the pocket of her blue dress. “You will be amazed at what she and Evelyn have—”

Tactfully, Doyle cleared his throat, and Kate turned, catching sight of him. “Oh, I'm sorry, Dr. Doyle. I didn't realize that you were here. You must hear Avis's tale, as well. But first, I should like a moment's privacy with Charles.”

“But we were about to go over to the stable to have a look at Sir Edgar's gig,” Charles protested. “Doyle located it in Yelverton and has brought it back. We are hoping that it may contain some further clue to—”

“Oh,
bother
the gig!” Kate exclaimed, stamping her foot. “You don't need any further clues to Sir Edgar's murder. Avis Cartwright is waiting for you upstairs. She was an eyewitness to the crime, and she will tell you who did it.” She stopped, looking around. “By the way, where is the constable? Wasn't he with you?”

“He has gone home to tea, I believe.” Charles frowned. “Who the devil is Avis Cartwright?”

“Did I hear you say that she is an
eyewitness?”
Doyle was thunderstruck.

“Exactly,” Kate said. “Really, Charles, the constable must be sent for at once. There is no point in asking poor Avis to repeat her dreadful story over and over. It is quite difficult for her.”

“I'll send for the constable,” Doyle said, rising.

“And I have a letter to read to you,” Kate said to Charles, taking the chair Doyle vacated. When he had left the room, she added, “Mrs. Victor's little boy brought me this an hour ago, so they are well on their way, I hope.”

“Well on their way?” Charles asked. He stared at his wife, amazed as he always was by her resourcefulness. How in the name of heaven had she managed to locate an eyewitness? He shook his head, bringing himself back to the more immediate question. “Who is well on their way?”

“Patsy, Evelyn, and Evelyn's brother. Listen to this. It's from Patsy.” Leaning closer and lowering her voice, Kate began to read:

“So the good doctor was persuaded to leave the moor with his sister and Patsy?” Charles asked in some surprise. “How was that managed, I wonder.”

“I think Patsy had more than a little to do with it.” Kate folded the letter and put it back in her pocket. “It seems that Evelyn's brother and Patsy had a brief but significant encounter on the moor a couple of days ago, and none of us knew it. Even Patsy herself had no idea who he really was. But it's a long story. It shall have to wait until we have both leisure and privacy.” She rose, holding out her hand. “All we can do for the moment is hope and pray for their safe journey.”

Charles took his wife's hand and stood. “Poor Lady Marsden.” He grinned. “She would have apoplexy if she knew what her wayward daughter is up to now.”

T
he eyewitness to the crime was uneasily seated, with her younger sister, before the fire in Kate and Charles's sitting room, where the two women had spent most of the day. Kate, Charles, Doyle, and Constable Chapman arranged themselves around the room and listened intently as, fortified by yet another cup of tea, Avis Cartwright began her story, with Kate's gentle questions as a guide.

“Avis,” Kate said quietly, “I would like you to repeat what you told me this morning, while Constable Chapman takes notes.”

“An' I need t' remind ye, young woman,” the constable said with a stern look, “that ye must tell the truth, just as ye wud in any court o' law, fer ye'll shortly be testifyin' at the coroner's hearing, an' ye'll be asked t' swear on the Bible t' tell th' truth an' nothin' but the truth.”

“Oh, yessir.” Avis looked nervously at Kate. “Where shall I begin, yer ladyship?”

“Why don't you tell them who you are and where you were employed, and then tell them what you saw,” Kate said. “I'm sure that if they don't understand something, they'll ask you about it.”

Avis nodded. “Well, then, me name is Avis Cartwright.” She gestured toward Jenny, who was sitting on a stool in the corner. “Me 'n Jenny are sisters. Her works fer Mrs. Bernard and I am—I wuz—upstairs maid at Thornworthy Castle, for Sir Edgar an' Lady Duncan. I wuz employed there fer three years, near as might be.”

“You were an upstairs maid?” the constable asked, making hasty entries in his notebook.

“Yessir. I left four days ago, sir.” She clasped her hands tightly in her lap, as if to keep them from trembling. “I wuz ... afeard to stay at Thornworthy.” She stopped, biting her lip. “I ... I—”

“I know it's difficult,” Kate said, putting her hand over Avis's, “but I'm sure the gentlemen would like you to tell them why you were afraid.”

“I wuz afeard 'cuz of wot I saw,” Avis said in a low voice. “It happened on the mornin' after the spir't seance, when ever' body wuz at Thornworthy for the party.”

“That would be the day Sir Edgar disappeared, I take it,” Doyle said sotto voce to Charles, who nodded.

“I wuz cleanin' the windows in Sir Edgar's bedroom upstairs,” Avis went on, “when I heard Sir Edgar an' Mr. Westcott. They wuz talkin' loud, in the yard next to th' stable.”

“And what time was this?” Kate asked.

“ 'Twas early, just afore eight, 'cuz the stair clock chimed eight right after. It sounded like them wuz havin' a quarrel, harsh words, anyway.”

Charles stirred. “Was it just the two of them?”

“No, sir. Lady Duncan wuz there, too, standin' near the wall. Her wuz wringin' her hands, like her wuz distressed, an' cryin' to ‘em to stop, but them di'n't. Sir Edgar, him pushed Mr. Westcott, hard, an' Mr. Westcott pushed back. An' then there was a lit'le pop, an' Sir Edgar fell down—” She shivered and clutched her shawl close around her shoulders, turning her face away.

Conan Doyle cleared his throat as if he intended to say something, then thought better of it and coughed into the back of his hand.

“And what happened after that, Avis?” Kate asked gently.

Avis took a deep breath, her chest rising under her flowered dress. “Lady Duncan, her rushed to him, cryin', an' Mr. Westcott bent down an' rolled Sir Edgar over. His arm flopped, loose-like, an' there was blood on his throat, lots of blood, an' blood in the dirt. Lady Duncan got down on her knees, but Mr. Westcott pulled her up an' made her go into the stable, quick-like. And then him took Sir Edgar by the arms an' drug him into the stable, too.” She stopped, breathless after this long speech.

“Did you see the gun?” Charles asked.

“Yes, it fell on the ground, after. After Sir Edgar fell down, I mean. Mr. Westcott, him picked it up an' put it in his pocket.”

“But you didn't see who had it before?” Charles persisted. “Before Sir Edgar was shot, that is?”

“Nossir.” Her answer was barely audible. It had grown quite dark outside, and the firelight flickered on her face, dimpling it with shadows. The silence lengthened.

“You were at the window while all this was going on,” Kate said finally. “And afterward? Did you wait at the window after they went into the stable?”