Death at Dartmoor (37 page)

Avis nodded, her face bleak. “For a long time. Th' stair clock strikes th' quarters, ye see, an' it'ud got to th' half afore Mr. Westcott drove the gig out of the stable an' out to the road. There wuz something—I reckoned maybe Sir Edgar—in the back, covered with a horse blanket.”

“Which way did Mr. Westcott go as he went out the gate?” the constable asked. “Down toward Chagford, or up, t' other way?”

“Up, t‘ward the commons,” Avis replied. “A little bit after Mr. Westcott drove off, Lady Duncan come in through the hall entrance. A few minutes later, I heard the door of her bedroom shut, an' her di'n't come out until they said the vicar wuz there.”

“And did you say anything to anyone about what you saw?” Kate asked.

“Oh, no, mum,” Avis said, with a violent shake of her head. “I wuz too afeard. The more I thought on‘t, the more I figgered that wot I saw wuz murder, an' that if Lady Duncan or Mr. Westcott knew wot I'd seen, it 'ud all be up with me. So I left, without even givin' notice. I di‘n't have nowhere to go, 'cept to Jenny, an' when Mrs. Bernard took bad the next day, I nursed her.” She looked at Kate. “Which is where I met ye, m' lady. When ye come t' see Mrs. Bernard.”

Charles shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Had you heard any unusual exchanges between Sir Edgar and Lady Duncan before this took place?”

Avis looked down. “Well, I doan't like—”

“I know you don't like to carry tales,” Kate said, “but this is a murder investigation, Avis, and these gentlemen need to know about anything that bears on the case.”

Avis nodded unhappily. “Yes, there was quarrels. It's not like I listened a-purpose, it's just that ‘em talked very loud:'

“What did they quarrel about?” Charles asked.

“Sir Edgar, him didn't much like Mr. Westcott. Him said him was a... a charl'tan.” She frowned.

“A charlatan?” Kate asked, to be sure.

Avis nodded. “I think that's wot him said. Something like that.”

“Did they quarrel about anything else?” Charles asked.

“Well, Lady Duncan, her di‘n't much like the country an' wanted to move back to London. Her was unhappy when Sir Edgar took his name out o' the runnin' fer the seat from Mid-Devon, 'coz it meant stayin'. Least, that's wot her said. An' Sir Edgar, him said him wuz sorry him married her.” She smiled sadly. “Ye know wot married folk sez when them're angry. That's wot 'twas like.”

“Thank you,” Charles said. He looked at the constable, then at Doyle. “Are there any more questions?” When they shook their heads, he added, “If you think of anything else that might help us understand what you've said, Avis, please let us know.”

“I will.” Avis rose eagerly. “C'n us'ns go now?”

The constable nodded, and Kate found the women's coats and went to the door with them. “There is one more thing,” she said, “if you don't mind. While you were nursing Mrs. Bernard, Avis, did you speak of what you saw from the window, either directly to her, or to Jenny, in her hearing?”

Avis shook her head emphatically. “Oh, no, m‘lady. I di'n't even speak of't to Jenny til this mornin'. It felt safer to keep it to myself.” Tears began to fill her eyes again. “I hope I di'n't do wrong.”

“It doan't matter, dear,” Jenny said quietly. “ 'Twill all rub out when 'tis dry.”

“Yes,” Kate said, “it will.” She squeezed Avis's hand. “Thank you for coming, Avis, and for telling us what you know. We appreciate it very much indeed.”

When they were gone and Kate had returned to the fire, there was a long silence. Finally, Doyle said, in a tone of something like chagrin, “I suppose, then, that the tall, thin, fair-haired man who left the gig at the Yelverton stable and posted the letter to Lady Duncan was Nigel Westcott, not Jack Delany.”

“Wot's that?” asked the constable, looking up from his notebook.

Doyle reported what he had learned in Yelverton and added, a bit sheepishly, “I was sure that the man described to me was Delany. I was—as Dr. Watson might say—entirely in the dark.”

“So Westcott came back to Princetown on the train?” Kate said thoughtfully. “That explains why the vicar and I saw him that afternoon, in one of the livery stable's pony carts, being driven in the direction of Thornworthy. He must have just returned from Yelverton.”

“Westcott and Delany do look something like,” Charles said. “And we can certainly make better sense of what happened when we know it was Westcott who battered Sir Edgar's face, hid the body, and wrote the letter.” He glanced at Doyle with a smile. “Reasoning backward is easier when you know the answer.”

“How's that?” the constable asked, frowning. “Reasonin' backward?”

“One of Sherlock Holmes's strategies,” Kate put in. She turned to Charles. “What do you think happened?”

“It looks as if Sir Edgar was killed in a struggle for the gun,” Charles said, “and Westcott and Lady Duncan decided to take advantage of the situation. They would not have wanted his death to be known, at least not immediately, to give them the opportunity to remove themselves from suspicion and as many of his portable assets as they might lay hands on. So Westcott mutilated the dead man's face to prevent easy identification and concealed the corpse in the kistvaen, with the hope that it would not be discovered for quite some time, if ever.”

“And then,” Doyle said, taking up the story, “Westcott drove the gig to Yelverton, where he stabled it, pretending to be Sir Edgar, and told the stable master that he was going abroad with a lady friend. He then wrote the letter to Lady Duncan.”

“And that night, at the séance,” Kate put in, “the spirits predicted that Lady Duncan would soon learn of someone's betrayal—”

“And she received the letter the very next day!” Doyle exclaimed. “Since she was in on the scheme, Westcott didn't even have to imitate Sir Edgar's hand. All she had to do was to read the letter aloud or show it to the vicar, whom she confided in for that very purpose.” He scowled. “Obviously, that fellow Westcott is an out-and-out fake—as a medium, I mean to say.” His scowl deepened. “I must confess that I am annoyed. I made sure to test his accuracy by requiring verification.”

“But because Lady Duncan was a part of the scheme,” Kate said, “she would quite naturally verify any answer Pheneas might give you.” She shook her head with a smile. “Darwin, indeed!”

“It's this letter business I don't understand,” the constable said, mulling it over. “If her ladyship knew Sir Edgar wuz dead, the way the upstairs maid tells it, then wot wuz the purpose of the letter?”

“It was all part of the fiction,” Charles said. “Every action after Sir Edgar's shooting was designed to create the impression that he was alive. Westcott and Lady Duncan wanted it to be believed that he had left the country and that Lady Duncan knew nothing of his departure until she received the letter. If you will recall, the letter arrived
before
the body was found. If the corpse had remained safely hidden, no doubt there would have been other letters posted from here and there—France, say, or Africa or India—and perhaps even spurious sightings. It's not difficult to arrange such things, given a few friends in distant places. But sooner or later—”

“Sooner or later,” Kate said excitedly, “a letter or telegram would arrive informing Lady Duncan that her husband was dead, a victim of some accident or illness in a foreign country. She could claim her widow's share of the estate, although there would have been plenty of time for her pillaging of the dead man's accounts.”

“The money was likely the reason she married him in the first place,” Charles said. “According to Dr. Lorrimer, when Sir Edgar was still in Africa, he contracted what his doctors expected to be a fatal illness. Then he married and came here to the moor, and was cured—so Lorrimer claims—by the fresh air and climate. Lady Duncan must have expected to become a widow, a
wealthy
widow, long before now.”

“But the estate would not include Thornworthy,” Doyle reminded them. “It goes to Delany, now that his cousin is dead.”

“Judging from Avis's report,” Kate replied, “I don't think Lady Duncan has much affection for Dartmoor. She probably doesn't want Thornworthy.”

“Yes,” Charles said. “It may be that she determined to take some sort of action when Sir Edgar decided not to stand for a seat in the Commons, which would have meant a return to London for at least part of the year.” He frowned. “In fact, I shouldn't be a bit surprised if she is planning a trip to the City this very moment—with Mr. Westcott, no doubt.”

The constable cleared his throat. “Well, then, we'd best take them both into custody, wouldn't you say?” He looked at Charles. “How d' ye think it should be done?”

A
fter some discussion, it was decided that Charles should discuss the situation with Oliver Cranford at the prison and procure from him a conveyance and a pair of armed guards, to follow Doyle, Constable Chapman, Charles, and Kate as they drove out to Thornworthy. Charles originally opposed Kate's being among the party, but she argued that Lady Duncan might speak more readily in the presence of another lady, and he finally gave in. These arrangements took the better part of an hour, so that it was full dark by the time the group set out in a closed carriage, a wagon containing two prison guards staying well back. The temperature had dropped dramatically, and the earlier drizzle had turned to snow, just heavy and persistent enough to dust the road with white.

As they approached Thornworthy, passing between the stone pillars and wrought-iron lodge gates, Kate thought sadly over the many things that had happened since they had first driven down the long avenue toward the great house at the end. The moon flickered through the clouds, painting the ancient granite walls and turrets with a phosphorescent silver so that they seemed to glow with their own eerie light. But the great double doors of the hall were not thrown hospitably open tonight as they had been at that first visit, and it was only with a loud ringing of the bell and repeated pounding at the door that the constable was at last able to summon the butler.

To his protest that Lady Duncan could not possibly see them so unexpectedly and at such a late hour, the constable replied in a flat voice, as if he had been rehearsing his speech the whole way, “I am Constable Chapman, of the Mid-Devon Constab‘lary. I require the appear'nce of Lady Duncan an' Mr. Westcott, to answer additional questions about the murder of Sir Edgar Duncan.” He placed a careful emphasis on
require.

Silenced by the constable's air of official authority, the butler showed the group into the morning room. He apologized for the lack of a fire, lit a pair of paraffin lamps, and set off to do as he was bid, while Kate seated herself on the sofa and Charles and Doyle found chairs. Taking out his notebook, the constable remained standing.

In ten minutes, Lady Duncan appeared in the doorway. She was still dressed in the same black gown she had worn earlier, and she held herself with immense dignity. She came forward and seated herself in the green chair she had occupied that morning. The lamplight illuminated the right side of her face, leaving the left in shadow. She was frowning.

“I am astonished,” she said coldly, “that you would return with such a precipitous demand, Lord Sheridan. I fail to see why—”

“Pardon me, Lady Duncan,” Charles interrupted, “but we need to see Mr. Westcott, as well. We have information that he—”

Kate caught a motion out of the corner of her eye and turned her head to see the butler standing in the doorway, seeming flustered. He hastened to Lady Duncan and bent over to whisper in her ear. But before he could say anything, the constable interrupted.

“Speak up, man,” he said sharply. “The rest of us need to hear wot ye're sayin'.”

The butler looked to Lady Duncan for confirmation. Her mouth tightened, but she made a short nod.

“Mr. Westcott is not... available,” the butler said indistinctly. Kate saw Lady Duncan stiffen and heard her draw in her breath in an audible gasp.

The constable stepped forward. “Not available?” he demanded gruffly. “Wot's that s'posed t' mean?”

“It means,” the butler said, “that he has taken his leave.” He cleared his throat. “He has departed. Perhaps one might say he has ... fled. He was last seen by the stableboy, making a rather hasty exit down the yew alley and through the moor gate.”