by Robin Paige
Charles frowned. “We’ll hire someone to drive you,” he said. “I don’t intend to have you going about the moor on your own while the escaped prisoner is still on the loose.” He paused. “Although I’m not at all concerned that he might attack you; it’s those who are hunting him that worry me.”
“I understand your concern,” Kate said, and she did. Charles wasn’t of the old school, but like most British gentlemen, it was difficult for him to imagine that a woman—he would have said a lady—might be perfectly capable of taking care of herself.
Doyle, obviously still puzzling over the letter written by the wayward husband, remarked, “You say that the letter was posted from Yelverton? And Lady Duncan is confident that it was written by Sir Edgar? It cannot be a forgery?”
Kate thought about that. “The question of the identity of the letter writer didn’t arise, so I assumed that Lady Duncan was sure her husband had written it. I didn’t see it, of course, but I believe I recall the vicar telling me that he had read it. You might ask him, although he may not be familiar with Sir Edgar’s hand and could not attest to its authenticity.”
“What are you thinking, Doyle?” Charles asked.
“I’m usually a fair judge of character,” Doyle replied, “and while I have not known Sir Edgar Duncan for very long, I should have to say that it is difficult for me to believe that the man would be so unfeeling as to write such a letter to his wife.”
“Oh, really?” asked Patsy archly. She was about to say more, but Kate intervened.
“Then perhaps you might be willing to go to Yelverton tomorrow, Dr. Doyle, and see if you can find a trace of him. As I understand it from the vicar, Sir Edgar announced to Lady Duncan that he was driving himself to Okehampton to catch the up train to London, but instead drove to Yelverton. Perhaps someone there happened to see him.”
“Since he drove himself,” Charles remarked, “he must have left a horse and gig somewhere. A livery stable, perhaps.”
“I think I’ll take the train to Yelverton tomorrow,” Doyle said, “and have a look in the stable. I doubt there’s more than one.” There was a pause, and he added, to Kate, “This property interest. You say that Delany stands to acquire Thornworthy, now that Sir Edgar is dead?”
“That’s right,” Kate said. “He is a cousin, as I understand it. He has Stapleton House and a small scrap of land which lies adjacent to Thornworthy. Lady Duncan said that he believed himself to have a superior claim to Thornworthy, and that he took Sir Edgar to court over the issue.” She glanced at Charles to see whether he attached any significance to this information. “He has apparently been unhappy about his loss ever since.”
“Well, there you have it!” Doyle exclaimed in a tone of triumph. He looked around the table. “A motive!”
“Then you think it might have been Jack Delany who killed Sir Edgar,” Patsy asked, frowning, “and not the prisoner?”
“Judging from what her ladyship has told us, it certainly makes a good deal of sense, wouldn’t you say, Miss Marsden? And I must say, I saw something in Delany’s face this afternoon—a look of satisfaction at Sir Edgar’s death—that prompts me to agree.” Doyle lifted his spoon in the air and began to emphasize his points with it, as if he were conducting an orchestra. “Delany hoped to round out his lands by receiving Thornworthy, but was disappointed in his expected inheritance. He tried by legal means to obtain the estate he thought should be his, and when he failed, he was prepared to use any tool or run any risk to have it.”
“But the lawsuit occurred over four years ago,” Kate pointed out. “Why would he wait so long?”
“He might have been waiting for the right opportunity,” Patsy replied. “Perhaps he was hoping to cast the blame somewhere else.”
“Precisely, Miss Marsden,” Doyle said. “And when the prisoner escaped, Delany saw a way by which Sir Edgar could be done to death and the guilt be laid upon someone else. Any violence on the moor would certainly be assumed to have been committed by the escaped felon.”
Patsy appealed to Charles. “How was Sir Edgar killed, Charles? No one has said, exactly.”
“He was shot,” Charles replied, “with a small-caliber gun. Dr. Lorrimer was able to retrieve the bullet. If we are successful in finding the gun, it may be possible to match the two.”
“But why didn’t the constable tell us it was Sir Edgar?” Patsy asked, puzzled.
“Because he didn’t know,” Doyle said. “The poor man was beaten about the face until he was unrecognizable. That, and the wild dogs which got to him later, made identification very difficult.”
“Beaten?” Kate looked at him. “Why, do you suppose?” she asked.
“Out of anger, probably,” Doyle said. “Delany—if he is indeed our murderer—must have been stewing about the situation for years. It wouldn’t be any surprise if he took out his anger and frustration on his victim.” He looked at Charles. “Wouldn’t you agree, Sheridan?”
“Perhaps,” Charles said, “although the question when is of equal interest.”
“Yes,” Kate said, “I was wondering that myself. If Sir Edgar drove to Yelverton and posted a letter announcing to his wife that he was leaving her, when and how did he return to the moor? Did he take the train from Yelverton to Princetown? Or did he drive himself back? And if so, where is the gig?”
Charles looked at her fondly. “Exactly, my dear,” he said. “When and how: two most important questions.” He paused. “Do you have any more to tell us about your adventure at Thornworthy?”
Kate shook her head. “I’ll see Mrs. Bernard in the morning,” she said. “Perhaps then I’ll learn something else.”
Doyle leaned back in his chair. “Well,” he said, “I call this quite interesting, hey? I couldn’t have known when I came to Princetown to write a mystery that I was going to step into the middle of one. I—”
Doyle was interrupted by a knock at the door. Charles got up and opened it. The hotel desk clerk spoke to him in a low voice, and after a moment, he turned. “Kate, there’s a woman here to see you, downstairs. Her name is Jenny Cartwright.”
Kate looked up, surprised. “Jenny Cartwright? I don’t know anyone by that name.”
The clerk said respectfully, “Cud ye come, m‘lady, an’ speak to ’er? She sez it’s urgent. Sez it’s a matter o’ life an’ death. An’ I b’lieve it, too,” he added in an earnest tone, “else why wud she come out in this awful weather?”
Greatly puzzled, Kate put down her napkin, stood, and followed the clerk. At the foot of the stairs stood a young woman, clutching a heavy cloak around her, so soaked with rain that it had dripped into a puddle.
“Oh, m’lady,” she cried, when she saw Kate, “I’m so sorry t’ take ye away from yer supper. But Mrs. Bernard—her’s took very sick, an’ her keeps callin’ fer ye. Kin ye come?”
The young woman’s hood fell back, and it was then that Kate recognized the pale young face, so white that the freckles stood out. It was Jenny, Mrs. Bernard’s maid-servant, whom she had last seen serving tea and cinnamon buns in Mrs. Bernard’s sitting room at Hornaby Farm.
“Mrs. Bernard is ill?” Kate asked, surprised. “Have you had the doctor?”
“He’s bin summoned,” Jenny said. “My sister Avis is with she now, but her’s askin’ after yer ladyship.” She clasped desperately at Kate’s hand. “Oh, please, will ye come, ma’am? Her’s coughin’ blood. Us fears her may not last th’ night!”
Not last the night! But she had seemed perfectly well, if a little high-strung, only three days before! But Kate had heard her cough and had wondered herself about the possibility of consumption. She felt a hand on her shoulder and turned to see Charles standing behind her on the stair.
“Of course you must go, my dear,” he said quietly, “and right away. Come upstairs and put on some warm things and get a blanket or two for the drive.” To Jenny, he said, “How did you come, Miss Cartwright?”
“On th’ pony, sir,” the young woman replied. Still clasping Kat
e’s hand, she said, “But ye kin ride, yer ladyship, if ye’ve got a umbreller. I doan’t mind walkin’.” She lifted her damp skirt slightly to show that she was wearing Wellingtons. “There’s mud, but my brother lent me his boots.”
“There’ll be no walking,” Charles said firmly. “We shall all three go in a carriage, and the pony can be tied on behind.” He looked over their heads to the clerk, who had gone behind the desk. “Henry, send a boy to the livery stable and ask them to bring round a horse and closed carriage. And see if one of the maids here has a dry cloak this young lady might borrow.”
Jenny’s lashes were wet, her eyes shining. “Oh, sir,” she whispered, “thank ye, sir. But please, will ye hurry?”
“We’ll hurry,” Kate promised, and turned to follow Charles up the stairs.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Them are more things In heaven and earth, Horatio,
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.
Hamlet, Act 1, Scene 4
William Shakespeare
It was indeed a wild night on the moor, so dark that the feeble light of the coachman’s lantern was swallowed up by the rain and wind, and it was impossible to see the road ahead until it was lit by a flash of lightning. The carriage pitched and tossed like a boat on a storm-wracked sea, its plunges punctuated by Jenny’s smothered screams, and more than once Kate thought they were about to dive off the road and tumble over and over to the bottom of a ravine.
Between these frightening moments, Kate questioned Jenny as intently as she could about Mrs. Bernard’s situation. According to Jenny, her mistress must have caught a chill on the night of the second seance, for by lunchtime on the following day, she was unable to eat. She grew worse over the next twenty-four hours, until Jenny felt she must call in her older sister Avis, who had helped to nurse another consumptive. Avis was available, fortunately, for she had just this week left her position at Thornworthy. To Kate’s further questioning about Mrs. Bernard’s condition, Jenny added, with a doleful shake of her head, “Her seemed terr‘ble dismayed ’bout somethin’, for her babbled an’ carried on like a wild woman. An’ all the time coughin’ somethin’ fierce.”
“Carried on?” Kate asked. “About what?”
Jenny shook her head. “Us can’t tell, fer ’twas all mix’t up like. Her’s bin callin’ fer you, an’ Sir Edgar.”
“Sir Edgar?” Charles asked.
“Yessir. Him wuz s‘posed t’ come an’ help her wi’ the accounts, which him did onc’t a month, reg’lar. But him di’n’t come, not that day nor the next, an’ this evenin’ us heard—” She looked up, her face white as alabaster, lit by the flash of the lightning. “Is’t true him be dead? Killed by dogs, as they say?”
“It’s true,” Kate said. “His body was discovered on the moor this morning. As to the dogs—” She cast a glance at Charles. “It’s difficult to say how he died.”
Jenny’s eyes were as large as saucers. “Not ‘til this mornin’?” She pulled in her breath. “Then how’d her know before? An’ wot is’t ’bout a gun?”
Kate felt a thrill go through her, and her skin prickled. “Before?” she whispered.
Charles leaned forward. “Mrs. Bernard knew about Sir Edgar’s death before his body was discovered?”
“Yessir,” Jenny said in a low voice. “I know ’t sounds strange, but her talked of it yestiddy an’ th’ day b‘fore. Avis an’ me heard she, rattlin’ on ’bout guns an’ rocks an’ such, like her was terr’ fied.”
Kate reached for Charles’s hand. “I told you, Charles,” she said in a low voice. “The night of the second séance, she knew.”
“And that was the day of his disappearance,” Charles said. “So she must have been involved in some way.”
“Perhaps,” Kate said. “But not in the way you—”
At that moment, the carriage made another impetuous leap, tumbling them all into a heap against one side. And by the time they had regained their seats and their breath, they had arrived at Hornaby Farm, and the coachman was opening the carriage door.
Charles went with the coach and horses around to the barn, while Kate and Jenny dashed through the pouring rain for the shelter of the door, held open for them by a stout, capable-looking woman, an apron tied around her middle, a shawl around her shoulders—Avis, Kate guessed, Jenny’s sister.
“How is Mrs. Bernard?” Kate asked anxiously.
“Not s’ good, m‘lady,” Avis replied, hanging Kate’s cloak on a peg. She had full, round cheeks that promised a cheerful nature, but her brows were pulled together in a worried look. “Dr. Lorrimer, him be wi’ the poor lady now. Him be terr’ble worrit.”
“Where is she?” Kate asked. The white cat she had seen three days before appeared out of the sitting room and gave a plaintive meow.
“Up th’ stairs,” Avis said. A stone hot-water bottle swathed in a towel sat on a table. She picked it up, cradling it in the crook of her arm, then lit a candle from the paraffin lamp on the wall. Turning to her sister, she said, “Tea, Jenny, quick-like, now, dear.”
Jenny scurried for the kitchen, while Kate picked up her skirts and followed Avis up the narrow, twisting stairs and into a low, dark room lit by another candle, flickering on the bedside table. The curtains were drawn against the drafts, but the room was nearly as cold as the out-of-doors, and the wind rattled the windows as if it were desperate to get inside.
Dr. Lorrimer turned from the bed. “Ah, Avis, thank you,” he said. “Give me the water bottle.” With a quick gesture, he thrust it under the blankets at the foot of the bed. Then he straightened, looking questioningly at Kate, who introduced herself.
“How is she?” she asked. The doctor shook his head with a somber look, muttered something under his breath about a difficult night, and stepped away from the bed so that Kate could come forward.
She drew in her breath sharply. Mrs. Bernard lay under a heap of quilts and blankets, her face so drawn and changed that Kate almost did not know her. She was muttering something in a low, cracked voice, and as the doctor left the room with Avis to get a cup of tea downstairs, Kate leaned over the bed, smoothing the tangled brown hair back from Mrs. Bernard’s pretty forehead, seeing with concern that she looked shrunken and fragile, her skin almost transparent.
“Hello, Mrs. Bernard,” Kate said softly. “I’ve come to stay with you for a time.”
Mrs. Bernard’s eyelids fluttered and she moaned, tossing her head feverishly, breathing hoarse, labored breaths. There was a damp cloth in a saucer on the table beside the bed, and Kate refolded it and placed it on the hot forehead. The doctor had been sitting on a wooden chair, and Kate pulled it forward for herself, reaching under the blankets for Mrs. Bernard’s hand, noticing as she did so that there was blood on the pillow.
At Kate’s touch, the eyelids flickered again, and Mrs. Bernard turned toward her. “Lady Sheridan?” she whispered. “It’s very dark. Is it you?”
“Yes, Mrs. Bernard. How are you feeling?”
The fingers, light as twigs, clutched hers. “He’s dead,” she said, forming the words slowly and with what looked like enormous effort. “They won’t tell me, but you will, I know. He’s... Sir Edgar is dead, isn’t he?”
With the sick woman’s eyes on her, Kate felt that she could speak only the truth. She said quietly, “Yes, he’s dead.” And then, thinking that it might relieve Mrs. Bernard’s mind to speak of it, asked hesitantly, “How did you know, my dear?”
“I... saw it,” Mrs. Bernard whispered. She closed her eyes, and tears squeezed out from under her eyelids and ran down her temple, into her tangled hair. “In my mind.” She coughed hollowly.
Did she mean that she had dreamed it? Kate was not a believer in the sort of spirits that were conjured up by mediums, but she did know that there were things that couldn’t be explained by ordinary means. She leaned closer. “How did it happen?” she whispered.
There was no answer for a long moment, while the wind tore savagely at the window and the candle flick
ered. Somewhere outdoors, there was a splintery crash, as of a tree limb coming down. Kate thought that Mrs. Bernard must have drifted back into sleep, but she was mistaken.
The fingers clutched hers again, and the pale lips moved. “A gun,” Mrs. Bernard said hoarsely. “It was a gun, and a ... a rock. And later, dogs.”
With her free hand, Kate stroked the feverish face. “Who?” she asked. “Did you ... see who killed him?”
Mrs. Bernard’s eyes came open, showing shadowed depths. Was it fear that Kate saw there?
“No,” she whispered. “Only Sir Edgar ... and the gun.”
Sir Edgar and the gun. So Mrs. Bernard understood, however the information had come to her, that he had been shot. Another question rose to Kate’s lips, a possibility that had not occurred to her until now. “Did he shoot himself?” she asked. Perhaps the bludgeoning was unrelated to the death.
Mrs. Bernard gave a little cry, and her head went from side to side. “No, oh, no,” she said. “The gun, struggling. The rock.” Her lips quivered, and her eyes widened, as if she were seeing this horrible vision now. “His face ... Oh, my God, his poor, dear face...”
“Don’t think of it, please,” Kate whispered.
“But I can’t stop!” A little whimper escaped her lips. “I loved him ... so desperately ... but he never knew. And now he’s dead!”
There was a sudden movement behind Kate, and Mrs. Bernard turned her head away. Avis came through the door with a bowl covered with a white napkin. “Th’ doctor wants her t’ have some hot soup,” she said in a low voice, and put the bowl on the table.
Mrs. Bernard had ceased speaking, and Kate had the feeling that she had learned all she was going to, at least at the moment. She released the hand that still clung to hers and rose. “I’d like to speak to the doctor before he leaves,” she said. “Can you give her the soup?”
“O’ course,” Avis said in a kindly voice. “There be hot tea downstairs, m’lady.”
Kate bent and kissed Mrs. Bernard’s forehead, then went to the door. There, she paused and turned, prompted by an impulse she didn’t quite understand. Avis had seated herself beside the bed and was removing the napkin from the bowl of soup.