Devil May Care (A Jonathan Harker Mystery)

by Evans, Tony

  The last five minutes of our journey were spent in virtual silence and I gazed out of the carriage across the rough moorland, now in the midst of a thoroughly unpleasant storm. Periodic flashes of lightening illuminated the bleak landscape, until at length Carrick Manor loomed ahead of us, gleams of dim yellow light escaping from the shuttered mullioned windows on the ground floor.

  *

  hen I sat down in Sir Owen Velland’s formal dining hall later that evening and looked at my fellow guests we hardly seemed destined to answer the Reverend Trewellard’s wish for lively company. There were five of us in all: the Reverend, Sir Owen and his cousin Arnold Paxton, Elias Makepiece and I. Waiting upon us was the taciturn butler, Jennings, whose hulking presence and sombre deportment did nothing to lighten the mood of the company.

  Arnold Paxton – the only member of the party whom I had not met before – had been introduced to me ten minutes earlier in the drawing room. After Dr Goodwin’s intriguing testimony regarding Paxton’s medical history I had been looking forward to seeing the man himself and I was not disappointed. Paxton was of middling height, with an upright and energetic figure. He had a full head of curly brown hair and was clean shaven, with the tanned complexion of a farmer or sportsman suggestive of robust health and outdoor living. If I had not heard from several reliable sources that Paxton was fifty six years of age, I would have found it very hard to believe, for he looked a good deal younger. As for Dr Goodwin’s assertion – supported by Professor Van Helsing – that a few years ago Paxton was incurably ill, that seemed an equally foolish proposition. He seemed disinclined for conversation, responding to my conventional social overtures with the briefest of responses compatible with politeness.

  Trewellard smiled and nodded well enough, but it seemed to me that his preoccupations were elsewhere. As for Elias Makepiece, he seemed very conscious of his inferior social position and had said nothing beyond the formalities of greeting.

  Sir Owen at least was more sociable and after we had taken our seats he turned towards me.

  ‘Mr Harker, I know you are visiting my solicitors on Monday next,’ he nodded across the table to Makepiece, who bowed his head back at him sycophantically, ‘and having said that, let us agree now to banish all further talk of business. I’m afraid you’ve chosen a wild night to visit us. Fortunately the first occupants of Carrick Manor were well aware of the worst that the weather can do out on this headland and had the place built accordingly. If the storm worsens, you are all welcome to stay here for the night. But let us hope it does not come to that. Tell me, have you been to Cornwall before?’

  I responded as one does to such platitudinous questions and the meal gradually progressed, with Paxton, Trewellard and Makepiece contributing little to the desultory conversation. After we had finished our meal – a very creditable effort by the baronet’s cook, including an excellent sea bass – Sir Owen suggested that we retire to his study for a glass of port.

  When we sat down I took a surreptitious glance at my pocket watch – it was eleven o’clock and the storm outside showed no signs of abating. I was anxious to leave as soon as possible, but as I was reliant on the Reverend Trewellard’s carriage I could hardly make the decision myself. Jennings had now left us and I decided to hazard a question which might lead to some illumination of the mysteries I had encountered since travelling to Cornwall.

  ‘A wild night such as this would seem a suitable setting for one of Mrs Radcliffe’s gothic romances!’ I said with assumed cheerfulness. ‘Tell me, Sir Owen, does your house have its share of ancestral ghosts?’

  The baronet snorted sardonically. ‘I am glad that you have referred to Mrs Radcliffe and not Mr Poe,’ he said. ‘I would not wish Carrick Manor to suffer the fate of the House of Usher. To answer your question, I’m pleased to say that there are few if any alarming legends attached to the Velland family, although the setting, I admit, is suitable for a work of sensational fiction.’

  I reached for the decanter and refilled my glass.

  ‘I understand that you have yourself been interested in spiritualism, Sir Owen,’ I said.

  As I spoke I glanced at Arnold Paxton, who had fixed the baronet with a very stern gaze. It seemed that Paxton was conscious of my observation, for he turned to me with the semblance of a smile.

  ‘Sir Owen will be too modest to say so, but he shared that interest with many of the London literati,’ Paxton said. ‘I think we can make a distinction between spiritualism and mere superstition. Tell me, Mr Harker, are you by any chance the same gentleman who is said to have experienced an extraordinary adventure in Eastern Europe two years ago?’

  I nodded. ‘I will not deny it. But you must not believe all the lurid details which found their way into the newspapers at the time. I hope that one day a full account of the whole business will be written.’

  ‘In that case we must not ask you to pre-empt your story,’ said the Reverend Trewellard with a smile.

  After that our discussion reverted to the mundane and it was clear that I would get no more information from Sir Owen regarding his interests in the occult. It was now quite apparent that any attempt to return home that night would be foolhardy. With Sir Owen’s permission I opened one of the study window shutters and through the leaded window panes I could see that the line of stunted trees to the north-west was swaying violently in the wind. It seemed that Carrick Manor had been built on a slight elevation, as a solid stream of rainwater poured down the driveway away from the walls. When the baronet again invited us all to stay the night there was really nothing for me to do but acquiesce.

  As Jennings had been given permission to retire the baronet took us to our rooms one by one. It turned out that he had anticipated the need to shelter us, as all had been prepared for our reception.

  My own room was on the second floor, situated half way down a long corridor. It seemed that we were all to be accommodated in the same area of the house and Paxton and Trewellard had already been shown into rooms off the same passageway.

  The spacious chamber into which I had been ushered was illuminated by the glow of a log fire which had been laid in a stone inglenook at one end of the apartment. A good supply of fresh wood was banked on each side of the fire basket and I soon built up a warm blaze. A candle and matches had been thoughtfully placed on a side table, along with a carafe of water, but I decide that the light from the fire would suffice to allow me to undress and get into bed. Heavy curtains were hung over the windows and with these and the protection of the massive stone walls I was well insulated from the wild gusts which raged outside: a muffled whistling from the chimney pots two floors above me was the only reminder that I had of the storm. The combination of the warm fire, crackling logs, a good meal and fine port soon ensured that I fell soundly asleep.

  *

  I awoke suddenly, in the midst of a confused and half-remembered dream. Something had disturbed me, but I could not tell what. Then a bright gleam of light darted from the side of the bedroom curtains, followed an instant later by a violent clap of thunder. No doubt its predecessor had jolted me from my sleep.

  The embers of my fire were almost extinguished, but provided enough light for me to locate the matches and light my candle. I took out my pocket watch: it was half-past two in the morning. There was a further flash of lightening and this time the accompanying thunder was appreciably delayed. Hopefully the storm was moving away and might presage an end to the foul weather.

  I was just about to extinguish my candle and return to bed when I heard a fleeting sound from outside my bedroom door. It appeared to have come from further down the corridor and was too distinct to have been the creaking or groaning of old oak floors which can often be heard in ancient buildings in the silence of the night. I crept to my door, opening it carefully and looked up and down the corridor. The light from my candle provided sufficient illumination to assure me that the doors to all the rooms were closed.

  Then I heard more sounds – not a brief noise this time, but
more like a subdued rumble. Yes – it was the murmur of hushed voices and I realised that the earlier noise had probably been that of a door closing. I guessed that one of the occupants of the bedrooms nearby had received a nocturnal visitor.

  I decided there and then to eavesdrop. It was not perhaps a very gentlemanly course of action, but I had a duty to Mr and Mrs Haywood and I had as yet gained little from my visit to Carrick Manor. Fortunately the conversation continued without pause, until I was able to locate the door of the room from whence it came and station myself outside, my ear pressed to the panelled wood. The dialogue which I heard was barely audible. It was hard to identify the speakers, but the first seemed to be Sir Owen and the other Arnold Paxton.

  ‘For G—s sake lower your voice. Why could you not wait until morning?’

  ‘This matter is hardly one which could be discussed over breakfast. Any delay might be fatal. Everything must be done just as we have arranged.’

  ‘And what about the suspicion that it will cause?’

  ‘There is already suspicion enough, so we can hardly make matters worse. The transference must proceed as planned. Trust me, and make sure that all is ready in good time.’

  ‘Very well. Now return to your room, I implore you.’

  At those words I rapidly retraced my steps to my bedroom and closed the door behind me. For a moment I considered opening it a fraction to see who was about to emerge – then I realised that without my candle I could see nothing and with my candle I would inevitably be discovered. A moment later the door in the corridor opened and shut and there was the sound of faint footsteps. I then realised I had made a foolish error. I should have ascertained the location of the specific door at which I had been listening. Had I done so it would have been possible subsequently to have identified one of the speakers. However, if nothing else I now knew that a conspiracy was being planned at Carrick Manor, which in itself was a step forward. I resolved to leave Sir Owen’s house first thing the next morning, even if I had to walk back to Hayle in a downpour.

  *

  As it transpired the morning was bright and clear and the storm completely abated. The Reverend Trewellard drove me home in his carriage, his coachman and horses having been accommodated in Sir Owen’s stables overnight. For a moment I considered telling the vicar about the conversation overheard between Sir Owen and his cousin, but I soon decided against it, reasoning that Trewellard’s close friendship with the baronet could not guarantee his respecting my confidence.

  It was almost nine o’clock when I reached Rosehill and I found that Mina, Charles and Edith were anxiously awaiting my arrival.

  My wife flung her arms around me. ‘If I had known that you were to spend the night at Carrick Manor in such a vile storm...’

  ‘You would have insisted on coming with me!’ I said with a smile. ‘But here I am, safe and sound. My dear Edith and Charles – I am very pleased that you are both here this morning. I wish to tell all three of you what has happened. I have a plan of action in mind and would greatly value your opinion. Before I begin, could we ask Lucy to abandon the children to the care of cook and make us some tea? I did not take breakfast at the Manor.’

  *

  It was not long before I had recounted all that had taken place. I was pleased when my wife and our friends expressed their approval of my plan. My proposal was as follows: on Monday morning, after I had collected the final draft of the marriage settlement from the St Ives office of Penning and Makepiece, I would visit the Haywoods and suggest that they ask for an urgent meeting with Sir Owen to discuss one or two minor details. I would also attend and at that meeting I would confront Sir Owen with all that I had managed to discover, including the details of the suspicious conversation overheard last night in his house. I would put it to the baronet that if he insisted on his marriage to Flora the Haywoods would bring a civil action against him for conspiracy to entice and abduct their daughter: a charge which might well be hard to prove in a court of law, but which would involve questions and revelations that he might well wish to avoid.

  Having made that decision, there seemed little more that could be done before Monday. Mina and I therefore planned to spend the rest of the day quietly at Rosehill and to explore the attractions of St Ives on Saturday, staying at my room in the George Hotel that evening. However, as we were shortly to discover, the poet Burns was as usual correct in his observation that:

  The best laid schemes o' Mice an' Men,

  Gang aft agley,

  An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,

  For promis'd joy!

  Chapter Eight

  Friday morning passed very pleasantly with Charles ensconced in his study preparing his sermon for the coming Sunday, while Mina browsed amongst our hosts’ bookshelves and I read a copy of the previous day’s Times. Lucy Wollas had been given her weekly day off and so Edith was busy with Grace and Wilfred in the nursery.

  The fine autumn weather continued and after luncheon the four of us walked in the nearby lanes, leaving the children in the charge of the Ashbys’ kind and competent cook, Mrs Heather. After we had returned and taken tea, Charles announced that he had an appointment with his sexton at six o’clock and invited Mina and me to join him, as we had not yet seen St Elwyn church. Mina declined as she was feeling tired from her walk, but I gladly agreed, as I was interested to see the building: its architect, John Sedding had designed the fine church of Holy Trinity Sloane Street in the metropolis just five years ago.

  It was almost eight o’clock by the time Charles and I returned to Rosehill and the gathering shadows which had accompanied our departure had turned to a deeper darkness. Edith came to the hall to meet us, looking uncharacteristically troubled.

  ‘I’m afraid Mina isn’t here,’ she said. ‘An hour ago a message was sent over from Miss Copthorne, who lives just a mile south of here. She was the village schoolmistress in Hayle for thirty years before she retired. She had been taken ill earlier this week and had been prescribed a tonic, but was feeling very poorly. I tried to make Mina wait for Charles to return, but I’m afraid she insisted on going herself and on foot too. I’m sorry Jonathan.’

  ‘Don’t blame yourself,’ I said. ‘Mina seldom gives way to my wishes – why should she take account of yours? However, I shall take Willow and ride there straight away, if you can direct me.’

  ‘Not at all,’ Charles broke in. ‘I insist on going myself. You will only get lost and then there will be two Harkers unaccounted for instead of one. Mina can ride back on Nat and I will walk with her.’

  *

  When my friend returned half an hour later his normal good humour had been replaced with an air of grave concern. He had some worrying news.

  ‘Mina arrived at the cottage at a quarter past seven and left twenty minutes later,’ he announced. ‘Miss Copthorne said that she felt much happier after having talked to your wife. The old lady waited at the gate to see her walk down the road and just before Mina reached the corner another woman came up to her and they exchanged a few words. Then they walked off together – hurriedly. Miss Copthorne did not recognise the other woman, but she said she was in her fifties and was dressed like a respectable farmer’s wife.’

  The three of us had a swift conversation to decide upon our next step. Knowing Mina as well as I did, I was certain that there must have been a very good reason for her not to have returned promptly to Rosehill. She was certainly not going to be persuaded to leave with a strange woman on false pretences.

  ‘I dare say another parishioner in need of help has obtained Mina’s services,’ I said. ‘There seems little point in knocking on the doors of everyone within a two mile radius. My wife is a sensible and resourceful woman – I’m sure there’s no need for alarm. Let us wait until eleven o’clock. If by then Mina has not returned, and has sent us no message, then Charles and I will rouse our neighbours and form a search party.’

  Edith and Charles reluctantly agreed with my proposal. By half past ten Mina had still not retur
ned and Charles was insisting that we start our search when we heard a knock on the door. Charles introduced our visitor as Reuben Norris, an elderly working man who lived in a small cottage which lay on the road between us and Miss Copthorne.

  ‘Beggin’ your pardon, sir,’ he said to Charles. ‘Polly – my wife – sent me round, told me to tell you she saw the lady that’s staying with you, Mrs Harker. Thought you ought to know, like.’

  Reuben stood twisting his cap in his hands. I stepped forward and spoke to him.

  ‘Go on, man! Where is she? She’s not been home all evening.’

  ‘It was about eight o’clock. Polly was coming back from Gwithian and saw a carriage pass by. She got a quick glance in the back – she said she knew it was Mrs Harker on account of her fine fair hair and pretty face. There was a man in the back with her that the missus recognised. That’s why she thought I should tell you. I’ve only jest got home myself – been to see our daughter and grandson in St Ives – or I’d have come over sooner.’

  ‘And who was the man?’

  ‘It were Sir Owen Velland, sir. My wife was sure of it.’

  I stood very still, shocked by Reuben’s news. I could not help thinking that it would have been better if Mina had never accompanied me to Cornwall.

  ‘It was most kind of us to let us know, Mr Norris,’ I said. ‘When you get home thank your wife on my behalf. I will ask Mrs Heather to lend you a lantern to help guide you home.’

  ‘Should we send for the police?’ Edith asked.

  Charles shook his head. ‘The nearest officer is in St Ives. By the time Sergeant Penworthy is able to arrive, it could be too late.’

  ‘I agree,’ I said. ‘Charles, if you are willing, I suggest we both leave for Carrick Manor immediately and demand to see the baronet. Edith of course must stay here with the children. Something is very wrong and although I have every confidence in Mrs Heather, I would be happier if their mother was with them tonight.’