by Robin Paige
“Well, then,” Sheridan said. “I hope you won’t object if I indulge my interest in these ballistic matters.” He turned to the doctor. “Did you retrieve the bullet, Dr. Lorrimer?”
“Well, yes,” said the doctor, “although I believe I left it in the pan, along with the—”
“Good enough,” Sheridan said cheerfully. “Thank you, Doctor. We’ll find it.” Motioning to Doyle, he turned toward the door into the back room. “Let’s have a look at our victim, shall we, Doyle?”
The body was laid out upon a table. Doyle, who had witnessed a fair share of bloody wounds in the three months he had spent supervising the field hospital in South Africa, flinched when he saw it and glanced quickly away, for the victim’s injuries were quite gruesome, and the doctor’s autopsy had not been neat. Sheridan, however, prowled around the inert form, looking first at the battered and bloody head and then at what was left of the face and throat and one hand and arm, partially eaten. Then he stood for a moment, gazing at the victim. At last he turned to Doyle.
“Do you recognize him?” he asked abruptly. His eyes were narrowed, his look intent. “Is he like anyone you know?”
“I? Recognize him?” Doyle replied, surprised. “I fear there is not much left to recognize—nor do I have any recollection of having encountered the poor wretch before this minute.” He paused. “Do you?”
For answer, Sheridan strode to the door and flung it open. “Mr. Delany,” he said, “Mr. Garrett, please be so good as to come here.” When the two men had reluctantly entered the room, followed by the constable, he pointed to the dead man’s left hand, the right one having been eaten away by predators. “The scar on that hand: Do either of you recall having seen it before?”
The vicar gasped and his eyes opened wide, his face going white as a sheet of paper. “But it can’t be! It’s not possible!”
“And you, Mr. Delany?” Sheridan asked. “What do you think?”
As Doyle turned, he caught a fleeting glimpse of something that looked like surprised satisfaction on Delany’s face, but when he looked again, it was gone. Delany gazed at the victim’s body, averting his glance from the ruined face.
“I must admit that there is a certain resemblance of form and figure,” he said. “But I understood that he had gone to—” He broke off with a perplexed glance at the vicar.
Doyle frowned. They were talking in circles, all of them. “A certain resemblance to whom, Mr. Delany?”
“Sir Edgar,” Delany said, and this time there was no mistaking the pleased, almost triumphant tone.
“Sir Edgar Duncan?” the constable said, surprised. “Of Thornworthy?”
The vicar spoke in a hoarse whisper. “But it cannot be he. Sir Edgar wrote to Lady Duncan from...” His words died away.
Delany cleared his throat, and when he spoke again, he had pitched his voice at a more somber level. “I’m afraid that it is Sir Edgar,” he said gravely. “The scar on the left hand is proof enough for me. I was there the day he received it, a careless wound suffered when he was dressing a deer. He was not above twenty, then, and I was just a lad.”
Doyle frowned. “Then Sir Edgar must not have gone up to London after all,” he remarked, watching Delany closely.
“Or perhaps he went and returned,” Delany replied. “From Okehampton, London is no more than a five-hour journey by rail.” He sighed. “Poor Edgar. We’re cousins, you know. We haven’t been close since he and his wife came to live at Thornworthy, but I am sorry to think of his being done in by an escaped convict. Truly sorry.”
The vicar, bewildered, was shaking his head. “It is all most confusing,” he said. “Most confusing.”
“And what about the letter that you mentioned earlier, Mr. Garrett?” Sheridan asked quietly. “The one that was posted from Yelverton.”
The vicar made an uneasy gesture. “I fear that I am not at liberty to speak of the contents of the letter, your lordship. I received the information in a private communication from Lady Duncan during an hour of spiritual counseling. She—”
“I quite understand,” Sheridan said. He turned to Doyle. “I have some urgent business at the prison that cannot any longer be delayed. Would you care to accompany me? And you, too, Constable, since my errand has to do with this case.”
“I suppose,” Doyle replied, without a great deal of enthusiasm. He had never liked prisons, and Dartmoor, he had heard, was the worst of the lot.
The constable frowned. “The victim has a wife, did I hear?”
“Lady Duncan is his ... widow,” the vicar said, scarcely above a whisper.
“Well, then,” the constable said, “somebody’s got to inform Lady Duncan. Mr. Delany, since you’re a relation of Sir Edgar‘s, p’rhaps—”
Delany raised both hands. “Not I,” he said. “Lady Duncan will not want to hear this from me.” He turned. “Mr. Garrett? You say you are the lady’s spiritual adviser. The lot, then, must fall to you.”
“Right,” said the constable. “That ’ud be the best, Mr. Garrett. It’s up yer line, so to speak.”
“Oh, dear,” said the vicar faintly. “Oh, dear, oh, dear, oh, dear.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Let us try to realize what we do know, so as to make the most of It, and to separate the essential from the accidental.
“The Adventure of the Priory School”
Arthur Conan Doyle
Kate sat thoughtfully in front of the fire for some time after Patsy had left to accompany Mattie back to her boardinghouse. She picked up her needlepoint for a half hour—a piece that was ultimately destined to serve as a chair cushion—but she found her mind continually straying to Mattie’s strange behavior on the street, which seemed to her (although she had to acknowledge that this was merely an intuition) to have something to do with the escaped convict. And it wasn’t just this morning’s events, but what had happened on the day of the escape, after the convicts had stolen their pony and cart. Charles had spoken of his interest in Spencer, and Mattie, listening, had questioned him quite closely. Not understanding the significance, Kate hadn’t paid much attention, and she wished now that she could recall more of the conversation.
But Mattie had given them no clue to her interest in the third escaped convict. Fortified with brandy-laced tea, she had regained something like her usual composure. When asked, all she would say was that a relative had once been killed under dreadful circumstances, and that the accidental sight of the blanket-covered figure in the wagon had brought the memory rushing back with a crushing force. Kate did not entirely trust this explanation, but she could not say why.
Finally, her restlessness got the better of her, so she rose from her chair and put on her coat and fur hood and pulled on woolen gloves. The afternoon sky was beginning to clear, and patches of sun illuminated the moor, and she wanted fresh air. She hadn’t seen Saint Michael’s and All Angels yet; she would walk in that direction.
The church was quite nice, Kate thought, after she had seen all there was to see of it, especially the large stained glass window through which a cascade of bright colors fell onto the flagstone floor. She had come out and was closing the oaken door behind her when she bumped into Vicar Garrett, striding up the walk, his hands clasped behind him and a deeply troubled look on his face.
“Good afternoon, Vicar,” she said. “I was just admiring your church. It is quite lovely.”
Hurriedly, the vicar lifted his hat. “Oh, yes, indeed, Lady Sheridan,” he said, making a bow. “Thank you for the compliment. It is a fine building, especially given the remoteness of the place.” He replaced his hat and added, half to himself, “We are so out of the way here.”
She fell into step beside him as they went around the back. “It must be rather lonely for you,” she said in an encouraging tone. “A man of your refinement, I mean. I imagine that it is difficult to find friends among the moor dwellers.”
The vicar sighed heavily. “Yes. I do my best, of course, to be of service to my little flock, but I must c
onfess to a certain loneliness. I have been here only since last October, but this is my first living, you see, and not being married—” He broke off.
She stole a glance at him, thinking that he was indeed very young, certainly not thirty yet, and inexperienced. No wonder he felt flattered when someone like Lady Duncan, who must be one of the moor’s few gentry, chose him as her confidante. But Mr. Garrett did not appear flattered at the moment. He was obviously distressed.
“Forgive me for remarking on it, Mr. Garrett,” she said gently, “but you seem ... uneasy.”
“I am troubled,” he said simply. “There has been a ... tragic death in the parish, and it is my unhappy task to impart the sad news to the widow.” He suddenly stopped and turned to face her. “I wonder if your ladyship would do me the favor of agreeing to accompany me. This sort of thing...” He bit his lip. “It requires a lady’s touch. I dare-say that your presence will bring comfort to the grieving.”
Kate was surprised, until she reflected that he had perhaps not had an occasion to break such unhappy news to the bereaved during his short time at Saint Michael’s. “I am complimented by your request,” she replied, “truly I am. But I should scarcely be of comfort to someone with whom I am not acquainted. I fear this is a task that you yourself must—”
“Oh, but you are acquainted!” the vicar exclaimed. He dropped his voice. “Dear Lady Sheridan, I regret very much to tell you that Sir Edgar Duncan was found on the moor this morning, most dreadfully murdered. It is Lady Duncan who must be informed and comforted.”
“Sir Edgar?” Kate was now completely astonished. “Then it was his body I saw being brought in on the wagon! Killed by the escaped convict, the constable said—the one who is still at large.”
As Kate spoke, she thought of Mrs. Bernard, who had whispered the word murder during the first séance, and who had fallen into a faint after having been visited by the spirit of Sir Edgar during the second. Kate was seized by a violent shiver. Had the poor man been lying dead at that very moment? Had Mrs. Bernard seen an actual apparition, or—
“Sir Edgar may have been killed by the convict, yes,” the vicar said soberly, breaking into Kate’s chaotic thoughts. “But Dr. Lorrimer reports that he was shot to death, and it seems unlikely that the escaped man has managed to procure a gun. Unless, of course, an accomplice provided it to him,” he added. “That is the current line of thinking, I believe.”
An accomplice? And now Kate’s thoughts flew to the odd behavior of Mattie Jenkyns, who, she could almost swear, had some connection to the escaped man. Was it possible that Mattie had somehow placed a weapon at his disposal, and the man had encountered Sir Edgar on the moor and shot him to make good his escape?
“But there is no need to worry,” the vicar added reassuringly. “Mr. Doyle has been put in charge of the case, at Mr. Delany’s suggestion, and Lord Sheridan has agreed to assist him. To be his Watson, as it were.” He managed a small smile. “I have every confidence that they shall be able to sort out the essential facts and bring matters to a quick resolution.”
This information put quite a different face on the question before her, Kate realized. If Charles were playing Watson to Doyle’s Holmes, he would certainly be in need of any information she might bring back from Thornworthy.
“I should be glad to go with you, Mr. Garrett,” Kate said in a decided tone. “I need only to stop at the Duchy and leave a note for his lordship, so that he won’t expect me for tea.”
Fifteen minutes later, Kate and the vicar were in his gig, bowling smartly along the road out of Princetown. As they drove, the vicar related the events that had transpired at the Black Dog—as many as were fit for a lady to hear, that is. He stopped frustratingly short of revealing all the pertinent details.
“If the victim’s face was unrecognizable,” Kate inquired delicately, “how was he identified?”
“Lord Sheridan pointed out a scar on the dead man’s left hand. I believed that I recognized it, and Mr. Delany confirmed that the body was that of Sir Edgar.” The vicar was silent for a moment. “I confess that I found it difficult to believe at first, because I understood from a letter Sir Edgar wrote to his wife that he was...”
He stopped and said nothing more for a moment, as they passed a slower-moving hay cart being pulled by a moor pony. When they were safely by, he continued slowly, “I am reluctant to confide this to your ladyship, since it was communicated to me in confidence. But I believe you should understand the entire situation before you speak with Lady Duncan, in case she might mention it.”
“What is it that I should know?” Kate asked, her curiosity aroused.
“Sir Edgar apparently did not intend to go up to the city as he told his wife. Instead of driving to the station at Okehampton to catch the up train to London, he drove in his gig to Yelverton, I suppose to take the train to Plymouth. In point of fact, he posted a letter to Lady Duncan from Yelverton, telling her that he was leaving Thornworthy and would not return. He was leaving with another woman. I read the letter myself, yesterday,” he added. “Lady Duncan asked me to give her my spiritual counsel, and in the process, shared the letter with me.”
“Oh, dear,” Kate said, and thought again of Mrs. Bernard, but this time in a rather different light. Was it possible that she was the woman? “How very dreadful, for all concerned! Did the letter mention the woman’s name?”
“No, it did not. But Lady Duncan realized immediately that this was the betrayal of which the spirit of her sister Charlotte had warned her during the seance, and which we all heard.” He paused, and a note of something like satisfaction crept into his voice. “That is, Charlotte’s prediction has come true—further testimony, I feel, to the power of Mr. Westcott’s spiritual control.”
Kate wanted to retort that it was testimony to the terrible capacity of humans to hurt one another, but the vicar was continuing.
“Two terrible blows in as many days,” he said, lifting the reins to hurry his horse. “It will be no wonder if poor Lady Duncan breaks down under the news.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
You did not know where to toot, and so you missed all that was important. I can never bring you to realize the importance of sleeves, the suggestiveness of thumb-nails, or the great issues that may hang from a boot-lace.
“A Case of Identity”
Arthur Conan Doyle
At Dartmoor Prison, Charles introduced Doyle to Major Cranford. After the obligatory exchange about Sherlock Holmes (Charles could see why Doyle might become quite irritated at continually being associated with his fictional detective), the conversation turned to the manhunt for the missing convict.
“It is our practice to discontinue the roadblocks forty-eight hours after an escape,” Major Cranford told them. “If the escapee has not been found within that time, we assume that he has left the moor, so we widen our search to Exeter, Torquay, and Plymouth. We have done so in this case, too, and we’ve put a watch on the docks.” He paused, frowning slightly. “Which is not to say that we’ve slacked up on our search of the moors. The off-duty guards are armed and out on horseback, looking. If he’s still on the moor, he’ll be found.”
“They’ve been warned not to use those arms, I hope,” Charles said uneasily, remembering an incident in the North, where an escaped prisoner was gunned down by his pursuers when he attempted to surrender.
“They’ve been cautioned,” the major said. “But this murder—it’s put everyone on edge. In a situation like this, it’s hard to tell what will happen.”
“How do the searchers know who they’re looking for?” Doyle asked. “Do you have photographs of the man?”
“We have a set of photographs taken when he arrived,” the major replied. “Prisoners at Dartmoor have been photographed since ’71, using a Gandolfi camera. We take a full-face view with hands held in front of the chest and a profile view with the man posed before a mirror. Copies of these photographs have been given to the searchers.”
“But a man’s ap
pearance can be altered to the point where photographs serve no purpose,” Doyle objected, frowning. “Does the prison take measurements according to the anthropometric system? Bertillon’s method of identification is by far the most accurate yet devised.”
The major shook his head. “As you no doubt know, Mr. Doyle, the success of anthropometry depends on the accuracy and consistency of those making the measurements.” He smiled dryly. “All well and good for an intellectual genius like Bertillon or Holmes, but far too complicated a system to delegate to ordinary prison warders.” He cleared his throat. “However, we are in the process of developing a fingerprinting system, which the Home Office expects to be much more reliable.” He turned to Charles. “Do you recall whether Spencer was among the men fingerprinted before the escape?”
“No, he was not,” Charles replied regretfully. “But if you’ll excuse me for a few moments, I will see what I can do.” He glanced at Doyle. “Would you like to come with Constable Chapman and me to the prisoner’s cell?”
Doyle’s eyes went from the fire to the laden tea tray, which had just arrived. “If it’s all the same to you,” he said, “I believe I’ll stay and chat with Major Cranford.”
Charles left the two men in the warmth of the major’s office and went with the constable to Spencer’s cell. It seemed even colder and darker than it had at his first visit, the air even more foul and oppressive, if that were possible. He could not blame Doyle for preferring to stay where it was warm. He could not even blame the prisoner for preferring the open moor to this awful place. If he had been in Spencer’s shoes, no doubt he’d have made a break for it, too.
At Charles’s request, a paraffin lamp was brought and set on the floor, and he and the constable went about the task of searching the place carefully.