Death at Dartmoor (22 page)

Mr. Westcott released her hand and stood. “Lady Sheridan, Mr. Garrett, I think we must all leave her ladyship now. She is a strong woman and will carry on bravely. But she needs time to recover from this terrible blow. I'm sure you understand.”

“Oh, of course.” The vicar bowed deeply. “I shall pray for you, Lady Duncan, and for Sir Edgar's soul.” Picking up his hat, he backed toward the door. “Shall we go, Lady Sheridan?”

“Please accept my condolences,” Kate said with genuine sympathy, “and those of Lord Charles as well. Our hearts are with you in this sorrowful time.”

“Thank you,” Lady Duncan whispered. “I'm grateful. Very grateful.”

C
onstable Daniel Chapman gathered up the items from the escaped prisoner's cell and followed Lord Charles to the room where the fingerprinting project was supposed to be taking place, although with the escape, the guards had been called away to help with the search, and the project had come to a halt. The stone-walled room was dank and cold, the air as thick with the prison's rank foulness as the air of the cell block, and the thought that men were doomed to spend their whole lives in such a place was enough to make the constable shudder. Locking up a drunken rowdy for a night or two in the Princetown jail was one thing—this,
this
was quite another. He was only glad that such decisions were in the hands of the Crown and of men who were made of sterner stuff than he. Daniel Chapman loved his work and had sworn to uphold the law, but he was a man who knew his limits, and he knew for certain that he'd never be able to bring himself to lock a criminal away for life, no matter what the poor bloke might've done.

Preoccupied with these troublesome and somewhat conflicted thoughts, the constable stood by while Lord Sheridan carefully and methodically went about his task, dusting the tin cup they had brought from the cell with black powder, using sticky celluloid tape to lift the fingerprints, placing the tape carefully on a card. As the constable watched, however, he was drawn more and more into what his lordship was doing, and it occurred to him that he would very much like to learn this interesting method of work. Perhaps Lord Sheridan wouldn't mind teaching him, once the prisoner was recaptured and the investigation of Sir Edgar's murder wrapped up.

The constable frowned. As far as that business was concerned, he didn't put much faith in Dr. Conan Doyle, for all his fine reputation for solving fictional crime-about which the constable could form no judgment, since although he had heard of Sherlock Holmes, he had never read one of his adventures. But Lord Charles Sheridan was a different kettle of fish entirely, if he was any judge of persons, which he was. From their little acquaintance, he knew that Lord Sheridan understood what sort of questions to ask, what line of inquiry to pursue, and how to conduct an investigation—although the constable had to confess that he didn't quite understand what they were doing here in Dartmoor Prison when they should be out there on the moor, pursuing the escaped convict who had killed Sir Edgar. Perhaps his lordship was coming to some conclusion or other about the identity of the escaped man's accomplice, although the constable couldn't quite fathom how he might do that, given the little evidence at hand, none of which seemed to implicate anyone here on the moor.

The job completed to his apparent satisfaction, Lord Sheridan unlocked a desk drawer and took out a large envelope. Taking up the card and gesturing to the other items, he smiled.

“Now, constable,” he said, “let us present our discoveries to Major Cranford and Dr. Doyle.”

A few minutes later, the two men were in the prison governor's office, where Major Cranford and Doyle were seated in front of the fire, chatting amiably, the tea tray on the table between them.

“Well, Sheridan, did you find anything of interest in the cell?” the major asked, rising.

“I did indeed,” Lord Sheridan replied. With a quiet word to the constable, he directed him to lay out the pieces of evidence they had assembled, one by one, on Major Cranford's desk. “If you will step over here,” he added, to the major and Doyle, “I will explain my current line of thinking about the matter of Dr. Spencer's guilt.”

“With regard to the murder for which he was imprisoned?” the major asked. “Or this latest murder?”

“I think both,” Lord Sheridan replied, “although you may of course arrive at a different conclusion.”

The constable stepped away from the desk and assumed a watchful stance, folding his arms across his chest. It seemed to him that there were hardly enough bits of evidence to form the basis for any coherent story. But he had the idea that if anyone could make sense of it all, it would be his lordship. He prepared himself to listen.

In a few moments' time, Lord Sheridan summarized what had happened in Edinburgh some eighteen months before, including the meager evidence that had been presented at Dr. Spencer's trial: the policeman's and servant's testimony, and Spencer's belated confession. “Unfortunately,” Lord Sheridan added, pointing to the enlarged photograph of the bloody handprint that he had taken out of the large envelope, “the police did not consider this evidence relevant, so it was never introduced to the court.”

The constable came a step closer to the desk and bent over to have a look at the photograph, which revealed several quite distinctive loops and whorls, of the sort that Lord Sheridan had shown him several days before.

“The jury wouldn't have known what to do with it if it had been introduced,” Doyle remarked with a shrug. “No criminal has ever been convicted by such evidence.”

“You are correct,” Lord Sheridan agreed evenly, “but that is a problem that will be remedied in time.” He took up the microscope slides he had made earlier. “These are the fingerprints of the prisoner's right hand, taken from a cup I obtained from his cell when the constable and I searched it.” He handed Doyle his hand lens. “Even a cursory examination will show that they bear no resemblance to the fingerprints in the photograph, which was made at the crime scene.”

While the constable and the major watched, Doyle bent over, studying the two sets of prints. At last he straightened. “I must agree that these marks are not at all similar,” he said. “But if you took Spencer's prints from a cup, how do you know that they are not the prints from his
left
hand?”

“Because of the position of the cup in relation to the plate,” Lord Sheridan replied. “When I noticed it during my earlier visit and when I found it again today, it was placed above and to the right of the plate, thus.” He moved Cranford's blotter and inkwell to demonstrate. “No left-handed man places a cup in such a position.”

Seeing Doyle's frown, the constable spoke up. “ 'Tis so, sir,” he said. “I thought as much myself when I saw the plate and the mug, there in the cell.”

The major stroked his chin, frowning. “I take it that you are suggesting, Sheridan, that Spencer did not murder his wife.”

“I am, indeed,” Lord Sheridan replied. “In fact, when the murder occurred, Dr. Spencer was working in his laboratory in the attic.”

The major's eyebrows went up. “How do you know that?”

“I guessed,” Lord Sheridan said, “and the prisoner confirmed it by his response when I questioned him. You see, the doctor was in the midst of an experiment that he abandoned when the crime occurred. Two open petri dishes were later found on his laboratory table, and the fact was recorded in the police report.”

Doyle knitted his brows. “Two
open
petri dishes? But surely no doctor would—”

“Exactly,” Lord Sheridan said. “No doctor would abandon an experiment at such a vulnerable moment unless he were galvanized into sudden action by the horrendous screams of his wife. Unfortunately, however, the open petri dishes were never introduced as evidence. Nor was the fact that when the policeman found Dr. Spencer standing beside the body, there was not a drop of blood on his hands or his person. Remarkable, I submit, if he had indeed bludgeoned his wife to death.” He picked up the photograph. “No, someone else left this bloody handprint on the wall. The real murderer, no doubt, fleeing from the scene.”

The constable stared at the photograph Lord Sheridan was holding. If what his lordship said was true, the escaped man was innocent of his wife's murder! But why in God's name would he plead guilty?

“Perhaps the handprint was that of the victim herself,” Doyle suggested.

“She was a small woman,” Lord Sheridan replied, “and the handprint is far too large. Moreover, she was killed in her bed and could not have risen after the first or second blow. The more significant question, of course,” he added thoughtfully, “is why Dr. Spencer would plead guilty to a murder he did not commit.”

The constable nodded eagerly. Yes, that was exactly the question. Of course, he had never before worked on a case like this one, but in his experience of human nature, a man would willingly yield up his freedom only in defense of someone he—

“Perhaps the killer was known to Dr. Spencer,” the major suggested, “and he wished to protect him. Or her. I suppose the killer could be a woman, although women are more apt to use poison than pokers.” He glanced obliquely at Doyle. “This is up your line, Doyle—or Holmes's, I should say. What do you make of it?”

Doyle hesitated, as if he were not quite sure how to respond. “Bewildering,” he said finally. “Most puzzling.”

“It certainly has a character all its own,” Lord Sheridan said. He pointed to the snapshot that the constable had placed on the desk. “Here, for instance, is Spencer's younger brother Malcomb, who is pictured in this photograph. According to the obituary notice the constable and I found in the cell, Malcomb Spencer's body was pulled from the Thames one month after Dr. Samuel Spencer pled guilty to his wife's murder—and a year to the day after that murder. The drowning was presumed to be accidental, but I think we may reasonably question that verdict.”

“Suicide, p'rhaps, sir?” the constable asked, thinking that a man in such a position must carry such a heavy burden of guilt that it would quite naturally sink him.

“I think it quite probable,” Lord Sheridan replied with a nod. “But we are advancing beyond the scope of our evidence here. We shall have to know more before we can form a conclusion as to the manner of Malcomb Spencer's death. To return to the central question, the sequence of events at the trial clearly suggests that Spencer pled guilty to protect the real murderer, who I agree must have been known to him. As I recall, the guilty plea—astonishing to some—occurred when the Crown was on the point of revealing letters from the man with whom Spencer's wife had fallen in love.”

The constable stared at Lord Sheridan. Perhaps the Crown was about to say that Spencer's wife had formed a relationship with—

Doyle pulled doubtfully at his upper lip. “You're suggesting that Spencer's brother was his wife's lover
and
her murderer?”

“And that Spencer pled guilty to protect his brother and prevent him from being connected with the dead woman?” the major put in.

“Yes,” Lord Sheridan replied. “The letters in the Crown's possession do not identify Malcomb Spencer as the victim's lover, for I have seen them myself. However, Spencer may have thought that the Crown had additional information, and that if the letters were introduced, his brother's name would ultimately be revealed. He pled guilty, I believe, to keep that from happening and to protect his brother's wife Clementine and her daughter Rachel.” He pointed to the obituary. “You see them named here. Their lives would have been irreparably destroyed by the knowledge of a husband's and father's betrayal. I imagine that Spencer would have done anything to keep them from learning what his brother had done.”

The constable pulled in his breath, feeling a wave of compassion sweep through him. That a man would give up his freedom, would allow himself to be locked away from the sun and the open air in order to shelter a woman and child—it was almost beyond imagination. If someone else knew this story, no wonder he was willing to help the prisoner escape.

“My dear Sheridan,” the major murmured, “this is quite a remarkable line of reasoning.” He glanced at Doyle. “Worthy of Sherlock, wouldn't you say, Doyle?”

“I seem to have walked right into the thick of one of Holmes's cases,” Doyle replied with an uneasy laugh.