Death at Dartmoor

by Robin Paige

  “Lady Sheridan!” she exclaimed, her gray eyes wide. “Why, what brings you here?” She patted her dark-blond hair anxiously, as if to assure herself that it was properly arranged. In the light of day, she appeared to be younger than she had the previous night, certainly younger than Kate, perhaps in her middle twenties. She seemed pale and subdued, as well—less a flirtatious coquette and more a girlish and uncertain young woman.

  Kate pulled off her gloves. “The sun was shining so brightly that I could not bear to be indoors. And when I found myself going the direction of Hexworthy, I thought to drop in and see how you were feeling this morning, after last night’s excitement.” She gave a light laugh. “In the city, of course, it would be considered quite rude to call in the morning. I do hope I have not disturbed you.”

  “Of course not,” Mrs. Bernard said quickly, and added to the servant girl, “Bring a fresh pot of tea for her ladyship, Jenny, and some cinnamon buns.” She cleared a stack of newspapers off the other chair and pulled it closer to the fire. The white cat ventured out and sat on the floor in front of the flames, beginning to wash its paw. “How did you come? Is Tommy seeing to your horse?”

  Kate sat down in the chair. “Oh, I walked,” she said and added, truthfully, “Walking is one of my favorite pastimes. At home in the country, in Essex, I walk every day. It is so good for the constitution, don’t you think?”

  “Oh, indeed,” Mrs. Bernard exclaimed, seeming to lose a little of her apprehension. “Walking is one of the dearest pleasures of my life. I came here to Dartmoor for my health after my dear husband was killed in India, and have stayed for the pleasure of it. Country pleasures, of course,” she added, with a cough and a half-apologetic smile. “Walking on the moor, gardening, becoming acquainted with the customs of the people, occasionally going out into company. Nothing like the pleasures of city life,. I’m afraid.”

  “Wonderful pleasures,” Kate said emphatically. She gave Mrs. Bernard a sidewise glance. “Did you enjoy the company yesterday evening?”

  “Oh, I always enjoy Sir Edgar’s company,” Mrs. Bernard said artlessly. “He is very like my dear husband, such an amiable man, always willing to provide a bit of advice about this farm.” She gave a little wave of her hand. “Where crops and animals are concerned, I’m afraid I have a great deal to learn, and Sir Edgar has been a most companionable teacher.” She seemed to think about this for a moment and added, as if to forestall any possible criticism, “Although of course, our dealings with each other are strictly confined to farm business.”

  Seeing the light in Mrs. Bernard’s eyes, Kate wondered about the truth of that little disclaimer—at least as far as the widow was concerned. She changed the subject. “And Mr. Delany? One does not like to judge on short acquaintance, but he seemed rather aloof.”

  “Oh, I scarcely know Mr. Delany. He keeps to himself at Stapleton House; I fancy it is because he prefers his own company to that of others.” She smiled. “But the vicar often drops by for a cup of tea and a chat and brings the neighborhood gossip. He is rather new here and very young, and unmarried. We all believe him to be desperately lonely but unable to say so, of course.” Appearing to enjoy the opportunity to share her perceptions of her neighbors, she went on, without being prompted, “And Mr. Crossing is well known to all of us, for he is always going about the neighborhood, observing and making notes. He is writing a guidebook to Dartmoor, you know, which will be very valuable to those who tramp the moors. And he’s collected some fascinating folktales for the Devonshire Association, and published them in its journal.” She paused and gave a fluttery laugh, and coughed again, several times. “We are quite a small society here on the moor, Lady Sheridan, and apt to find ourselves caught up in trivialities. I hope you don’t find us utterly boring.”

  “Oh, not at all,” Kate said, genuinely. Then, noting that Mrs. Bernard had not mentioned her hostess, she asked, “And Lady Duncan? Does she go about the neighborhood as well?”

  Mrs. Bernard hesitated uncertainly, seeming relieved when Jenny arrived with a pot and a tray. The cat sat up straight and waited attentively. A few moments later, when they were both fully equipped with teacups and cinnamon buns and the cat had got her bit of bun as well, Kate posed her question again, but from a different direction.

  “It seemed to me that Lady Duncan was perhaps not so used to company as her husband,” she said in a chatty tone. She lifted her cup. “I wondered if they entertained often.”

  “No, indeed, they don’t,” Mrs. Bernard replied. “I scarcely know her, I am sorry to say. I overheard Mr. Delany remark that this is the first time they have entertained at Thornworthy since they came here from London, four years ago. Even he—Mr. Delany, that is—never goes to the castle, in spite of the family connection. There has been some sort of estrangement between them, I believe. It was only Mr. Westcott’s visit that occasioned the evening.” She leaned forward, lowering her voice. “Jenny’s sister works at Thornworthy. It was she who told me of the estrangement. It is of a private nature, I believe, and has something to do with inheritance, although I don’t know the details.”

  Kate, feeling that a “small society” often yielded a great many interesting relationships, remarked, “Then tonight’s gathering is somewhat surprising, don’t you think? Two entertainments in one week.”

  “I suppose,” Mrs. Bernard said. She put down her cup, avoiding Kate’s eyes. “Actually, when you arrived, I was about to send my regrets. I found last night’s experience rather ... trying.” She was seized with a fit of coughing, and when she had regained her breath, said, “I thought I should not like to repeat it.”

  Kate spoke with great sympathy. “I understand why you feel that way, Mrs. Bernard. None of the rest of us heard or saw anything out of the ordinary, of course, but you seemed...” She paused and added delicately, “Well, I did wonder if you might have experienced some sort of spirit manifestation of which the others of us were quite unaware. Perhaps you are more sensitive to such things than are ordinary people.”

  “Do you think?” Mrs. Bernard colored vividly, as if she were both pleased and frightened by the idea. “Actually, this was not my first séance, I had a similar experience some years ago, in India.” She shivered. “There, too, I was the only one who felt anything out of the ordinary. It was a rather ... alarming experience.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Kate replied. “Some people, I understand, have a special gift. They are able to see and hear presences that others do not.” She paused. “Perhaps you could tell me what happened last night.”

  Mrs. Bernard looked down. “I’m not sure what there is to tell, actually. One minute, I was enjoying the novelty of the experience, sitting with the others in pitch dark in that strange old castle, and the next I felt quite giddy and suffocated.” She lifted her eyes to Kate’s, her high color beginning to fade. “I ... I found myself ... thinking things, saying things. I scarcely remember what they were, only that they seemed rather dreadful to me.”

  Kate, who was now more intrigued than ever, prompted helpfully, “You spoke, I believe, the word murder, once or twice.”

  “Murder?” Mrs. Bernard’s mouth looked pinched.

  “You don’t recall?”

  “Only that—” Her fingers pleated a fold of her blue dress. “Only that I had a frightening impression of danger.” She looked at the fire, her face quite pale. “Did I truly say ... murder?” She dropped her voice on the last word, so that it was almost a whisper.

  Kate watched her carefully. If this was a melodramatic performance, it was remarkably convincing. “Can you remember whether you had some sense as to who might be in danger?”

  Mrs. Bernard’s eyes were large, her gaze clouded. “I had the impression that—oh, it’s so unaccountable, so wild that I hesitate to speak of it!”

  “I think you should,” Kate said firmly, in her best older-sister tone. “Dear Mrs. Bernard, I most definitely think you should.”

  Mrs. Bernard blew out her breath and the words came
in a tumble with it, giving the impression, at least, of spontaneity. “I was overcome with the sudden intuition that some sort of sinister fate awaited Sir Edgar, that some incomprehensible power had begun to weave a net round him. But I’m sure that murder is much too strong a term. If I said it, it was only because—” She twisted her fingers together and gave Kate a look that seemed to be full of honest bewilderment. “To tell the truth, Lady Sheridan, I don’t know why I said it! I don’t even remember saying it. And now, in the light of day, the whole thing seems so absurd.” She passed her hand over her eyes in a schoolgirl’s gesture of wretched embarrassment. “I must have looked an utter fool to everyone.”

  “Oh, not at all,” Kate said comfortingly. “I am sure that the others did not even notice.” She added, “Did you speak to Sir Edgar about your feelings?”

  “No. Afterward, I felt so ill that I only wanted to leave. I was grateful to the vicar for driving me home.” She broke into another fit of coughing. “I’m afraid that Mr. Garrett thinks me terribly silly, though. He actually said as much, which is part of the reason I think I shan’t go tonight.”

  Kate frowned. All this was none of her business, of course, and given what appeared to be a heightened case of nervousness, perhaps a kind of self-induced hysteria, it was probably best that Mrs. Bernard not submit herself to another such experience. But to her own surprise, she found herself putting down her teacup and saying, in a firm, directive tone, “My dear Mrs. Bernard, regarding tonight, I should take it as a personal favor if you would agree to go. I will stop for you myself and bring you back here afterward, and I promise to stay close by your side the entire evening.”

  Mrs. Bernard’s pretty little mouth dropped open, half amazed. “But ... but why?”

  “Because you may be of some help to Sir Edgar.”

  “Help to him?” Her eyes had widened. “But surely you don’t have any idea that—”

  “I know that I am asking a great deal,” Kate replied. “Last night’s experience must have been difficult for you. But the more I turn this over in my mind, the more I see in it.”

  Mrs. Bernard’s face had grown quite pale. “The more you see? But surely you don’t think that my silly imaginings—whatever they were, I can barely remember—that they have any truth in them!”

  “How can we be sure?” Kate asked seriously. She leaned forward. “You say you are a friend of Sir Edgar’s. If you knew that robbers lay in wait for him, would you allow him to go on the roads unwarned? Perhaps tonight we will learn whether your ‘imaginings,’ as you call them, have any merit. If not, there is nothing more to worry about. If so, you can tell him what you have experienced and allow him to be the judge of the matter. And I will be by your side; I promise it.”

  Mrs. Bernard appeared for a moment to shrink inwardly. “I suppose you are right,” she replied in a low voice. “I must confess to having a special fondness for Sir Edgar. That is,” she lifted her head with a quick motion, as if to deny some charge that Kate had not yet made. “That is, he has been most helpful to me and I quite naturally owe him a great debt of gratitude. If anything should happen to him, I should not like to think I might have prevented it.” She seemed to pull herself together. “For his sake, I will go with you tonight, Lady Sheridan. I only hope that you do not think me a giddy little fool.”

  “I think,” Kate said, extending her hand, “that you are very brave.”

  This seemed to please Mrs. Bernard, for she slipped her hand into Kate’s. “I don’t know about being brave.” She coughed once or twice, then managed a small smile. “I don’t think I would do this if you had not promised to stay beside me.”

  “You may expect me around seven,” Kate said. She stood. The cat rose, too, rubbing against her skirt. “Now, my dear, I shall continue my walk and allow you to return to your morning’s work. Thank you for permitting me to have this little chat with you.”

  “Oh, thank you, Lady Sheridan,” Mrs. Bernard breathed, putting out her hand. “I feel ever so much better, knowing that I am under your protection.”

  On an impulse, Kate bent over and kissed the other woman’s cheek. And when she reached the end of the path, she turned and gave an affectionate wave to the woman framed in the rustic doorway, her white cat in her arms, a pretty picture of a young countrywoman, at home in her thatched cottage.

  But as she walked down the lane, Kate thought again that Mrs. Bernard was very young and much more nervous and impressionable than she had thought, and her cough was troublesome. Was she consumptive? She wondered whether she and Beryl had done the right thing. It was all well and good to go looking for story ideas, but perhaps not to the extent she had carried it this morning. And as she turned in the direction of the road that would take her to Two Bridges, thinking to take a different route back to Princetown, for the sake of variety, she frowned inwardly at herself and at Beryl Bardwell. When would the two of them learn not to meddle in matters that could not possibly concern them?

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  After weighing the evidence (for belief in spiritualism), I could no more doubt the existence of the [spiritualistic) phenomena than I could doubt the existence of lions In Africa, though I have been to that continent and have never chanced to see one.

  Light, 1887

  Arthur Conan Doyle

  The vicar had driven out in his gig that morning to make his weekly call at Thornworthy. It had been a rather unusual session, for Lady Duncan appeared to have quite forgot that he was coming. In fact, the servant who had gone to announce him had returned to report, in a flustered tone, that it would be some moments before her ladyship was ready to receive him, and he was left to cool his heels in an anteroom with not even a cup of hot tea for his comfort.

  More than some moments, it had been nearly an hour before he was finally admitted to Lady Duncan’s private apartments, and when she appeared, she was not in the best of spirits; indeed, he felt that she was suffering from some deep depression or mental perturbation, for her face was ashen, her mouth pinched, the skin around her eyes reddened, as if she had been weeping. Mr. Garrett, who prided himself on his judgment of persons, deeply felt her ladyship’s constraint and sadness, which he observed to be underscored by a kind of nervous anxiety that had its outlet in a constant, fluttering movement of her pale fingers. Recognizing that these sensations most probably arose from some sort of unfortunate disruption in her normal affairs (perhaps, he speculated, in her relationship with her husband), he did not engage in their usual practice of discussing spiritual matters but merely read a few soothing passages of scripture, including the Twenty-third Psalm, and ended their meditation together with a brief prayer.

  But the readings and prayer did not alleviate Lady Duncan’s distress to any significant degree, and Mr. Garrett could not help feeling that there was something hidden in her soul about which she wished to speak but could not. A time or two, she seemed on the very brink of speech, then hesitated and checked herself. But Mr. Garrett was impressed by the stoic courage with which she seemed to bear whatever sorrows Fate had imposed upon her, and when he wondered out loud if it were wise to convene the second séance that evening, given (he ventured delicately) her present situation, she seemed to pull herself together, replying with a great firmness.

  “No, indeed, Mr. Garrett, whatever my personal state of mind, I shan’t be so frightfully cruel as to disappoint everyone—and especially Mr. Westcott, who was so unhappy about the outcome of last night’s séance. He felt that there was some negative presence that actively discouraged the spirits’ efforts to come through, and he trusts that this presence, whoever or whatever it was, will not make itself felt this evening.”

  Mr. Garrett perfectly agreed with this assessment. He didn’t say so, of course, but it was his private impression that it was Lord Sheridan who had thrown up the barrier, and he fervently hoped that his skeptical lordship would absent himself from tonight’s meeting. Now that they were speaking of spiritualist matters, Lady Duncan’s depression seemed t
o lighten somewhat, and her color improved. She turned the conversation to Mr. Westcott, saying that they had become acquainted through the Psychical Society, whose London meetings she attended regularly and whose membership had been enormously impressed by Mr. Westcott’s spirit contact.

  “He is an Arab scribe named Pheneas,” she added, with a trace of her usual animation, “from the ancient city of Ur. He was a leader of men in his own society, and is now a very high soul who speaks and works on the earth plane exclusively through Mr. Westcott. We are quite privileged to have him in our midst.” She gave him a small smile. “Although I fear that not all of our small group are of a mind to appreciate his contributions to spiritualist science as much as you.”

  “Oh, but one of us is,” Mr. Garrett replied, and, gratified that he was able to contribute some small something to Lady Duncan’s store of information about such matters, related that he had just the day before happened upon an article by Mr. Conan Doyle, published over a decade ago in Light, the journal of the London Spiritualistic Alliance. In the article, Mr. Doyle had written with enthusiasm about an encounter with a medium who had seemed able to read his very thoughts, and whose abilities he took to be proof of the fact that intelligence could exist in the universe, apart from the human body. He concluded by relating a remark about lions in Africa that clearly demonstrated Dr. Doyle’s convictions on the matter.

  “So I am confident that we can count Mr. Doyle among the believers in the group,” Mr. Garrett continued, “and Mrs. Bernard, as well, perhaps, since she seemed deeply affected last evening. In fact, when I conveyed her home, she confessed to having felt the quite distinct presence of a force that seemed to threaten—”

  The vicar stopped, suddenly thinking that it was perhaps not quite wise to relate Mrs. Bernard’s half-hysterical feelings and noticing that, at the mention of the other lady, Lady Duncan had abruptly pulled her brows together. He hastily changed the subject, but within a very few moments her ladyship precipitously closed the interview and he found himself on the way out the door.