Devil May Care (A Jonathan Harker Mystery)

by Evans, Tony

  ‘Release her, or I fire!’ she cried.

  In response the vicar clenched both fists and thrust them towards Mina. She staggered backwards, evidently as the result of some unnatural force unleashed by him, then fired.

  Off balance, Mina’s aim was misdirected. The full force of the shot struck Trewellard in the chest. He fell backwards as if kicked in the ribs. As a number of unlucky sportsmen have found to their cost, birdshot at close range is as deadly as any musket ball. Paxton – her intended target – was uninjured by the discharge but cried out as if in pain and dropped to the floor. The amorphous mass that had been looming over the altar drew even darker, then it swirled round Paxton like an inky cloud, temporarily obscuring his upper body and face. A moment later the vaporous shape dissipated, leaving him pale and unconscious, and the black candles recovered their full brightness.

  Mina ran towards me and I flung my arms around her. Meanwhile, finding that the Seal of Lucifer no longer had the power to prevent them, Charles and Dr Goodwin had reached the still figure stretched out in the shallow box on top of the altar.

  ‘My G-d!’ Charles cried. ‘It’s Lucy Wollas!’

  I realised that the close resemblance of the Ashbys’ young servant to my wife had been responsible for my error. Dr Goodwin held Lucy’s wrist.

  ‘She’s still alive, thank heavens,’ he said.

  As he spoke I heard the sound of dashing footsteps and turned to see Sir Owen racing towards a small inner door at the north end of the nave, through which I guessed he was intending to escape. Incongruously he led up the folds of his robe with one hand, like a woman running in a long skirt. I rushed after him, and as he passed through the door he turned and stared back into the church with a look of horror on his face. His gaze seemed to be directed at something very close behind him.

  To my surprise the low doorway led not to the churchyard but to a narrow spiral staircase which wound its way to the top of the tower. Every few yards an unglazed window slit let in a gleam of moonlight, allowing me to find my footing on the uneven steps. As I followed the sound of Sir Owen’s footsteps ahead of me, I wondered why he had chosen to enter the tower where he was sure to be trapped. Perhaps he too had thought that the door at the base led to the outside.

  A few moments later I emerged onto the summit. Sir Owen was standing opposite me and as soon as he saw me he reached inside his black robe and pulled out a large revolver.

  I ducked back inside the doorway as he fired, hearing the bullet strike the stonework above my head. I was about to hurry back down the staircase – reasoning that it would be better to leave Sir Owen cornered where he was than to confront an armed man – when I heard a sudden cry from the battlements and risked another glance out onto the roof of the tower.

  The baronet had his back against the stonework, his face contorted with fear, and fired twice more. His shots were not aimed at me, but at some invisible target in front of him. He lent back further, as if flinching from an imaginary danger. Then his feet appeared to slip from under him and he fell backwards between the massive stone battlements. As he disappeared into the darkness a shadowy human form appeared momentarily where he had been standing and turned towards me. Although it faded from my sight in an instant, I had no difficulty in recognising the apparition. The tall figure, glossy hair and pale face were those of the late Lady Velland. However, the expression of sadness which I had hitherto observed in her features had been replaced by an unmistakable air of grim satisfaction.

  Chapter Ten

  Thanks largely to Charles Ashby’s uncle, Lord –––, the shocking events of that night were kept out of the public realm. Charles had telegraphed to his noble relative the next morning and the considerable influence of that gentleman had been brought to bear on the Chief Constable of Cornwall. Thus the local inhabitants were officially informed by Sergeant Penworthy that the Reverend Trewellard had been killed in a tragic shooting accident, and that the distress had been too much for his close friend the baronet, who had taken his own life. It seemed that Lucy Wollas had suffered no permanent harm from her experience, and fortunately remembered little of it: her parents were easily persuaded that it would be in their daughter’s interest to let the matter rest. Sir Owen’s butler, Jennings, had obliged us all by disappearing and it hardly seemed worthwhile to pursue him, as his part in the business could never now be proved.

  As for Arnold Paxton, by lunchtime on the following day he also was dead. His experiences in the old church had brought on a sudden and most serious heart failure. Indeed it appeared that the interruption of the ritual intended to reinvigorate him had produced the opposite effect, triggering a reversion to his natural state of ill health that Trewellard had contrived to avert through diabolic means. In the hours before his death Paxton had expressed an anxiety to speak to me alone and I had visited him in the small cottage hospital in St Ives where he had been taken by Dr Goodwin.

  Paxton’s story was a strange one and seemed to belong more to the realm of sensational fiction than to the realities of modern England. However, there was little motive for the dying man to lie and my own experiences of the uncanny and the inexplicable made me more open to his account than would otherwise have been the case.

  Arnold Paxton confirmed that the late baronet – plain Mr Owen Velland at that time – had lived with him in London from 1884 until he had inherited the title in 1890. Paxton described Velland as clever but lazy and misguided, a largely ineffectual dabbler in black magic who was arrogant enough to think that his researches into alchemy might be able to improve his cousin’s chronic ill health. His motives were not altruistic: he was both impecunious and extravagant, relying on Paxton’s income and wishing to gain more influence over him. Velland’s efforts were quite hopeless, and when his cousin moved to Carrick Manor in 1890 Paxton was clearly a dying man.

  According to Paxton, shortly after he and the baronet took up residence in Cornwall they fell under the malign influence of the Reverend Trewellard. It appeared that Trewellard was himself financially embarrassed – Paxton believed that the vicar had parted with a large sum to avoid a criminal prosecution during his last appointment in India – and he had promised to help Paxton recover his health in return for a large sum of money. Unlike Sir Owen, Trewellard’s occult powers were genuine. Two months after the baronet returned to Cornwall, Trewellard and Sir Owen abducted a young girl from Penzance and she was the first to be sacrificed in order to restore Paxton’s health, using the same demonic ritual that I had observed in the church. The girl died and her body was secretly buried. Although the crime was never detected, Sir Owen swore that he would never again run such a risk. Instead of kidnapping a stranger, Trewellard next used his powers to enable Sir Owen to entice Ruth Lethbridge to marry him. The ritual which was conducted six months later proved fatal for Lady Velland, turning her into an emaciated corpse, and her body had then been thrown over the cliffs to obscure the real reason for her death. In order to sustain Paxton’s artificial recovery a further sacrificial victim was needed and Lucy Wollas had been beguiled for that purpose. Had the ceremony that we had interrupted been successful, the intention was to stage another accident to explain poor Lucy’s death.

  Paxton was certain that a similar fate would have soon befallen Flora Haywood, had she undergone her planned marriage. He added that his own funds were now much depleted – apparently the Reverend Trewellard had expensive tastes – and that the acquisition of Flora’s dowry was an added attraction for the baronet.

  *

  It was not until the dinner things had been cleared away that evening that I had the opportunity to relate Paxton’s bizarre tale to Charles, Edith and Mina. We had asked Dr Goodwin to join us and after I had finished my account he poured us all a glass of port. It was a superior vintage which Charles had opened to celebrate the successful conclusion of our adventure.

  ‘Tell me Jonathan,’ the doctor asked – we were by now on first name terms, ‘have Mr and Mrs Haywood yet heard the news?’
/>
  I chuckled. ‘I spoke to them both this afternoon. They were obviously sceptical about the official version of events, but well enough satisfied with the outcome. Mr Haywood asked me to give you his best wishes, and to say that he, his wife and his daughter would be delighted if you would take tea with them one afternoon next week. It seems his daughter has made a miraculous recovery from her unhealthy infatuation with the baronet.’

  Mina smiled at Dr Goodwin, who had turned noticeably pink. ‘That is just as well, given that the former object of her affections is now dead. Doctor, you really should call upon Flora – I mean the Haywoods – if only to ensure that she has made a full recovery from her entrancement.’

  Edith took pity on the doctor and interjected. ‘What of the Haywoods’ own unpleasant nocturnal experience?’ she asked.

  ‘I dare say that Sir Owen asked Trewellard to act on his behalf, after he had been thrown out by Mr Haywood,’ I said. ‘The vicar must have used his malign knowledge to conjure up the forces of evil. If so, Haywood’s success in repelling the demon – or whatever Trewellard had summoned to do his bidding – suggests that the vicar’s powers in that respect were not very great. It may be that that Trewellard also helped Sir Owen to dispose of Silas Fraddam, by instigating the poor fellow’s madness. I am afraid that must now remain a mystery, although the farmer’s sudden lunacy seems a little too convenient to be put down to coincidence. However, there are other mysteries which can be answered. Mina, my dear, it seems a somewhat uncharitable question after your heroic deeds of last night, but you have not yet told us where you went after you left Miss Copthorne. Is there some local swain who has commandeered your affections?’

  ‘Sadly no. I had just set out for home when Mrs Wollas – Lucy’s mother – approached me. Her daughter had disappeared earlier that evening, and the poor woman was distraught. I helped her look for Lucy, first giving Lucy’s younger brother a note to take to Rosehill explaining my absence. The shilling which accompanied my request was taken, but it seems that the task was never carried out. After I eventually reached home – without locating Lucy Wollas needless to say – Edith told me that you and Charles had gone to Carrick Manor thinking that I had been kidnapped. I borrowed one of Charles’ horses and followed you. It occurred to me that there might be danger, and being one of the weaker sex,’ Mina looked at Edith and smiled, ‘I took the precaution of arming myself. Fortunately the previous curate kept a supply of cartridges in the gun cabinet. When I arrived at the Manor, the butler told me that you had gone on to the vicarage. I think his honesty may have been inspired by the weapon I carried under my arm.’

  Charles stood up and put another log onto the blazing fire. ‘It is interesting, is it not, how an ounce of lead could cross a barrier impervious to three young men. The Seal of Lucifer is clearly not all-powerful.’

  ‘I think I may have an explanation,’ I said. ‘If the influence of the Seal was mental – acting upon the mind that controls the body, rather than directly upon the limbs – then a non-sentient object might cross it with impunity.’

  ‘And what of Lady Velland’s apparition?’ Edith asked. ‘Do you think the Sir Owen was in any real danger from her, other than in his imagination?’

  ‘Who can say?’ I replied. ‘She was certainly no threat to me on the two occasions that I saw her. Of course unlike Sir Owen I was not responsible for her death. I’m inclined to agree with Charles – that she was trying to warn us of impending danger. However, it is just as well that she failed to dissuade Mina and me from visiting Cornwall. That might well have resulted in young Flora Haywood having to endure an unfortunate – and probably brief – marriage.’

  *

  There is little more to tell. Mina and I stayed at Rosehill until the following Wednesday and made the most of the Cornish air and scenery. On our last day I reluctantly took Willow back to the George Hotel – promising myself that I would visit the faithful creature the next time we were in Cornwall – and returned in the afternoon to help Mina pack our belongings in preparation for our journey back to Exeter.

  When I enquired after Charles, Edith directed me to the far corner of the Ashbys’ orchard, where I found her husband dressed in his old clothes and tending a blazing fire with a pitchfork. Instead of the expected dead grass and leaves I saw that he was burning a mass of hand-written papers and printed manuscripts.

  ‘My goodness, Charles, have you joined the Inquisition and vowed to root out all heresy?’ I asked. ‘I’m no expert, but that page of type there,’ I prodded it with a stick, ‘looks no later than 1700 to me.’

  My friend leaned on his fork. ‘It appears that the Reverend Trewellard has died intestate. At the request of the bishop I searched his house this morning and could find no trace of a will. However, my investigations revealed some other materials of a most curious nature, kept in a locked cupboard in his study.’

  Charles pointed at the blazing documents with his pitchfork, stirred up the fire and continued. ‘Had I known nothing about Trewellard I would probably have suggested donating the whole collection to the Bodleian Library. Some of the items looked quite valuable. However, I’ve decided that in this instance the loss to historians and bibliophiles must be seen as a necessary price to pay for our peace of mind.’

  I nodded slowly. ‘Of course I agree. I for one will rest easier knowing that Trewellard’s peculiar knowledge has died with him.’

  We stood silently side by side, Charles steering the remaining fragments towards the dying flames. As he did so the October air chilled suddenly. Drops of rain fell onto the bonfire, hissing and spitting as they touched the fine white ash and turned all to darkness.

  If you enjoyed Devil May Care you might be interested in The Complete Hester Lynton Mysteries by Tony Evans, also published by Endeavour Press.

  Extract from The Complete Hester Lynton Mysteries by Tony Evans

  Introduction

  When a letter from Mrs Ivy Rogerson arrived in the morning mail a little over twelve months ago, I immediately recognised her handwriting. As I had only very recently heard from Ivy – my former secretary Miss Jessop – it seemed strange that she should write again so soon. For this reason, and because the large cream coloured envelope was not the type which Ivy generally used, I guessed that she had been asked to forward the contents. My desire for privacy means that my address in Dartmoor is known only to a small number of friends.

  I pulled out the single sheet of paper. There was a short note from Ivy pinned to the top, written in her clear copperplate hand, explaining that she had been asked to send the contents to me. The sheet had a printed letterhead, The Bond Street Press – a well-known firm of London publishers. My reading glasses were with an Okehampton optician awaiting repair, and I could not make out the small and crabbed handwriting below.

  I called to my housekeeper, Mrs Tompkins, who was cleaning the upstairs rooms.

  ‘Sarah, I’d grateful if you could read this to me,’ I said. ‘I have made out the attached note, but the rest is beyond me.’

  Mrs Tompkins cleared her throat.

  ‘It’s from a Mr Arthur Steadworth, Ma’am,’ she said.

  ‘Ah – he is the owner of The Bond Street Press. Please tell me what he has to say.’

  My housekeeper laid the page down on the kitchen table and read the letter out slowly and clearly.

  ‘Dear Miss Lynton, I hope that you are enjoying your retirement from public life, and that the wilds of Dartmoor have not proved too dull compared to the excitements and dangers of your previous occupation. No doubt you will remember our meeting some years ago, when I gave evidence at the trial of Sir David Gillespie, the Harley Street Poisoner. I am of course aware that the Gillespie affair was by no means the only example of your skills as a private detective. As some time has now passed since your investigations took place, would you be interested in writing an account of some of your most interesting cases, with a view to their publication in book form? I have already spoken to my partners and we would be w
illing to pay a substantial sum for such a work.’

  After some thought I accepted Steadworth’s offer. Just over a year later, the result is in my readers’ hands. I need only add that other than the very first case I undertook, which I felt should be placed at the beginning of this volume, the rest are just a small selection of my more puzzling or unusual enquiries, arranged in no particular order.

  Hester Lynton 15th February, 1913

  The Case of the Missing Governess

  It was ten o’clock on a chilly morning in early March 1881 when my cab dropped me at the entrance to Paddington Station. The trains from the suburbs had already disgorged their crowds of clerks, businessmen, shop assistants and other workers, but the busy station was still teeming with that mass of humanity which always seems to occupy the public spaces of London.

  The Great Western Railway local train to Reading was almost ready to leave when I reached the platform. The porters had finished securing a variety of trunks, hatboxes and other luggage to the roofs of the carriages, and steam was hissing from the cylinders of the huge locomotive at the head of the train. Luckily I was able to find myself a corner seat in an empty first class compartment. Travelling first class was something of a financial indulgence, but it had two distinct advantages: it provided a pleasant refuge from the ever-present London throng, and it made unwelcome male approaches far less likely. I was well aware of the dangers which could threaten an attractive twenty four year old woman travelling alone – dangers which were best prevented by sensible anticipation.