Death at Dartmoor (21 page)

So Malcomb had been the “loving brother” who had given Dr. Spencer the volume of Shakespeare. His drowning must have been a shock to the prisoner, coming, as it did, so soon after his own conviction. Charles stared for several moments at both the photograph and the obituary, while an idea began to glimmer. He considered it for a time, then turned to the constable.

“Are you having any luck with the books?”

“No, sir,” the constable said, laying all three on the bed boards. “Nothin' at all in any of 'em, sir.”

Charles picked up the Bible and turned it over in his hands. It appeared to be new, the cheap black leather covers stiff, the pages unthumbed, many of them still adhering together. But as he scrutinized the binding more carefully, he noticed something odd.

“Look here, Constable,” he said, opening the Bible at the back. “What do you make of this?”

The constable bent forward. “Not sure, sir. It don't look quite right, but I'm not up on books. I can keep the peace and collar a thief if need be, but books—” He shrugged apologetically.

“You're correct that it doesn't look right,” Charles replied. “The back flyleaf should be free, like that in the front. D'you see?” He demonstrated that the front flyleaf, of marbelized paper, could be turned, like a page. “Instead, the back flyleaf is glued down—but only at the top and bottom, creating a pocket.” He inserted the tips of his fingers between the marbelized flyleaf and the leather cover. “Something might have been concealed here, wouldn't you say?”

“I s'pose,” the constable said doubtfully. “Nothin' so large as a gun, though.” He brightened. “Could've been a razor blade, or a key.”

“Yes, both are possible.” Charles agreed. “It might also have contained a letter. Or a map.”

The constable looked at him, frowning, and Charles could see him sorting through the implications. “A map, sir? Of the moor, d' ye think? But that ‘ud mean he didn't just jump when he saw Black and Wilcox goin'. It 'ud mean he had a plan, and that somebody helped him.”

“Yes,” Charles said thoughtfully. “That somebody helped him.” He paused, recalling his first day at the prison, when Oliver had mentioned that a missionary from the Salvation Army Prison Gate Mission was at Dartmoor that very day, distributing Bibles to Scottish inmates. Samuel Spencer was from Edinburgh; he might have been one of those Scottish inmates who received Bibles. And the missionary—

“I think, Constable,” he said, taking up the tin cup carefully, “that we should have a talk with Major Cranford. But on the way to his office, there is one more chore I must perform. You will please bring the other items.”

L
ady Duncan did indeed break down under the brutal news of her husband's death, although Mr. Garrett did all he could to spare her feelings. In fact, Kate thought that the vicar's first delicate telling of the tale was terribly muddled and incomplete, for he unfortunately failed to make clear exactly how or where Sir Edgar had died, intending, perhaps, to soften the truth by revealing it by degrees. For all that could be understood from his story, Sir Edgar might have suffered a stroke at a London railway station or met with an accident on the road.

Lady Duncan's disbelief and astonishment at the news that her husband was dead turned quite naturally into a violent fit of weeping, which was gradually calmed by her maid's deft application of salts and Kate's offer of brandy. When Lady Duncan was partially recovered, she lay back on the sofa in her private apartments, her face quite pale.

“It does seem such a mystery,” she said wanly. “Sir Edgar had gone, I thought, to London. And then I received his letter from Yelverton.” Her glance went to Kate, who patted her hand. “And to die so suddenly,” she said sadly, “before we could resolve our differences.” She turned to the vicar. “Where is it that he died, Mr. Garrett?”

The vicar glanced helplessly at Kate, who, feeling that some clarity must be brought to the situation, replied, “Sir Edgar's body was found on the moor, Lady Duncan. Near Chagford, not far from here.”

Lady Duncan's dark eyes widened disbelievingly. “On the moor? But that's not possible! He wrote to me from Yelverton! He was going to—”

She began to weep, her tears mixed with words spoken so distractedly that Kate could not make them out. At last she seemed to gain some control over herself and said, wretchedly, “Forgive me, Lady Sheridan, but I cannot lie, not even for the sake of appearances. My husband betrayed me for another woman, with whom he planned to leave the country. I thought that was the worst of all possible tragedies. But now I learn that he has died!”

“Of course,” Kate said comfortingly. “You cannot be blamed for being distraught.” Over Lady Duncan's shoulder, on the table behind the sofa, she glimpsed a large wedding photograph of Sir Edgar and his new wife, a fairly recent photograph, judging from the ages of the bride and groom. It hadn't taken long, Kate thought sadly, for the marriage to go to pieces.

Lady Duncan looked from one of them to the other, holding out her hand beseechingly. “You have not said how my husband died. Was he ... was he stricken suddenly? Tell me, please, I
must
know. However badly he has behaved toward me, I pray, oh I
pray
that he did not suffer.”

Kate appealed wordlessly to the vicar, but one glance was enough to see that he was of no use at all in this situation. Like it or not, she was going to have to handle this herself. She took a steadying breath.

“I am very sorry to have to tell you this, Lady Duncan,” she said quietly. “Your husband was murdered, here on the moor. He was shot, and then beaten. He—”

For the space of a breath or two, Lady Duncan was as if petrified. Her lips fell apart, and all the little color in her face left it in an instant.

“What's this? My dear Lady Duncan, whatever is the matter?”

Startled by the sound of the voice, Kate turned. Nigel Westcott was framed in the doorway.

“Oh, Mr. Westcott,” Lady Duncan cried, stretching out a hand. “It is so dreadful, you cannot imagine it! Lady Sheridan and the vicar tell me that Sir Edgar's body has been found....” She fell back on the sofa cushions, gasping for breath, unable to speak. Kate reached for the vial of lavender salts the maid had left behind and applied it quickly.

“His body found?” For a moment, Mr. Westcott, too, seemed frozen. But then he came swiftly to the sofa and knelt down, grasping Lady Duncan's hand in his own. “Such awful news,” he said, in his deep, compelling voice. He leaned over her and spoke commandingly. “But you must recover yourself, dear lady. Strength, not weakness, is what is required from us in such difficult circumstances. You must be strong.”

Lady Duncan seemed to respond to this, or perhaps to the lavender salts, for her lashes fluttered and her color returned a little. “Yes, Mr. Westcott, of course,” she murmured dazedly. She appeared to make an effort to pull herself together, repeating, “Strength. I must be strong. I will be strong. I—”

Nigel Westcott put his finger to her lips. “No more, now,” he said firmly. “Rest.” He looked from Kate to the vicar. Not having observed him so closely before, or in daylight, Kate thought that his eyes had an almost mesmeric intensity, perhaps accounting in part for his success as a medium.

“It's true, then?” he asked. “Sir Edgar is dead?”

The vicar's head bobbed. “Indeed, I am sorry to say, Mr. Westcott, that he ... that he ...” He swallowed.

Dismissing the vicar, Mr. Westcott turned to Kate. “Lady Sheridan? What can you tell me?”

“Sir Edgar's body was discovered this morning on the moor,” Kate replied. “He was shot and beaten and assaulted by dogs.” A low moan came from Lady Duncan. Kate took a deep breath and added, “I am sorry to be so blunt, but the horror will not be diminished by drawing it out.”

“No, no, of course. You are quite right to speak forth-rightly.” Nigel Westcott's eyes narrowed. “Poor Sir Edgar was killed by the escaped convict, no doubt. We understood that two were apprehended but that the third remained at large. Lady Duncan has been dreadfully frightened at the thought of a crazed man roaming across the moor, free to attack at will. And the servants, of course, are terribly fearful. Thornworthy is quite remote, and it would be difficult to summon help if the convict—”

Lady Duncan started up, as if she had just now fastened on what Nigel Westcott was saying. “The convict!” she cried, with a wide-eyed shudder. “Of course, that's who killed him, I'm sure! Is there any chance that the man will be apprehended quickly?”

“It's difficult to say, I'm afraid,” the vicar said apologetically. “Search parties were sent out in the beginning and the roads closed, but so much time has passed that I believe that it is now thought that the third man has left the moor. Every effort is being made to recapture him, of course.”

Kate frowned. She did not know where the investigation stood, but she did know that Charles believed the convict to be innocent of the murder for which he was incarcerated, and she wondered whether they might be jumping to too quick a conclusion.

“Perhaps it is too early to assume that the convict murdered Sir Edgar,” she said quietly. “I know this is a difficult question, Lady Duncan, but I wonder if you know of any person who might have wanted to kill your husband. Did he have any enemies?”

“Enemies?” Lady Duncan asked confusedly. “Sir Edgar? Why, no, of course not. He was a kind man. I know of no—”

Mr. Westcott shook his head. “Dear Lady Duncan,” he murmured, taking her hand again, “you are charitable to a fault, I fear. But in this instance you
must
say what you know. Sir Edgar deserves no less.” He glanced up at Kate. “I saw them together only twice, Lady Sheridan, but it did not take a special intuition to recognize the depth of Mr. Delany's envy and animosity toward poor Sir Edgar.”

“Mr. Delany?” Worriedly, the vicar knitted his brows. “I, too, must confess that I have noticed a certain covetousness in him. But not enough animosity to result in—” His frown deepened. “Surely you are mistaken, Mr. Westcott.”

Seeming to draw strength from Nigel Westcott, Lady Duncan took a deep breath. “I am grateful to Mr. Westcott for reminding me of my duty to my dear husband. Mr. Delany is a relation of Sir Edgar's and has always insisted that his claim to Thomworthy is superior to that of Sir Edgar's. In fact, some four years ago, before we removed here from London, he went to court in a misguided attempt to prove it.”

The vicar leaned forward. “To court?” Kate thought that his eyes seemed to glitter.

“Yes, indeed. It was
most
unpleasant. His claim was defeated, of course, but he has remained envious and quite resentful, in spite of Sir Edgar's efforts to conciliate him. And now, with my husband dead, he stands to inherit Thornworthy.” Lady Duncan pressed her lips together, half overcome at the thought. “Of course, I don't say that Mr. Delany is capable of murder—”

“Quite right, Lady Duncan,” Nigel Westcott said. “No one here is in a position to make any accusations.” He glanced at the vicar. “I think, however, that the possibility must be considered, especially since it would appear that Mr. Delany stands to profit from poor Sir Edgar's death. Perhaps, Mr. Garrett, you could pass it on to the proper authority.”

Kate hesitated. She had one other question to ask, but she was not sure to what extent Lady Duncan had taken Mr. Westcott into her confidence. “You mentioned that Sir Edgar planned to leave the country in the company of ...” She paused delicately. “Did he say who that might be?”

Lady Duncan's mouth trembled. “If you mean to ask,” she murmured indistinctly, “whether my husband revealed the name of the woman for whom he betrayed me, the answer is no. I have no idea who she might be, nor do I wish to know. It would only further sully his memory.”

Nigel Westcott frowned. “Are you suggesting,” he asked, “that Sir Edgar's female companion might be involved in his death?”

“I don't know,” Kate said, aware that she had received two answers in one. But it was not surprising that Lady Duncan had taken Mr. Westcott into her confidence, through whom, after all, the letter's arrival had been predicted. “I believe, however, that the more information is known to the authorities, the sooner they are likely to find Sir Edgar's murderer.”

Lady Duncan gave a little moan and turned her head away.