by Robin Paige
To his protest that Lady Duncan could not possibly see them so unexpectedly and at such a late hour, the constable replied in a flat voice, as if he had been rehearsing his speech the whole way, “I am Constable Chapman, of the Mid-Devon Constab‘lary. I require the appear’nce of Lady Duncan an’ Mr. Westcott, to answer additional questions about the murder of Sir Edgar Duncan.” He placed a careful emphasis on require.
Silenced by the constable’s air of official authority, the butler showed the group into the morning room. He apologized for the lack of a fire, lit a pair of paraffin lamps, and set off to do as he was bid, while Kate seated herself on the sofa and Charles and Doyle found chairs. Taking out his notebook, the constable remained standing.
In ten minutes, Lady Duncan appeared in the doorway. She was still dressed in the same black gown she had worn earlier, and she held herself with immense dignity. She came forward and seated herself in the green chair she had occupied that morning. The lamplight illuminated the right side of her face, leaving the left in shadow. She was frowning.
“I am astonished,” she said coldly, “that you would return with such a precipitous demand, Lord Sheridan. I fail to see why—”
“Pardon me, Lady Duncan,” Charles interrupted, “but we need to see Mr. Westcott, as well. We have information that he—”
Kate caught a motion out of the corner of her eye and turned her head to see the butler standing in the doorway, seeming flustered. He hastened to Lady Duncan and bent over to whisper in her ear. But before he could say anything, the constable interrupted.
“Speak up, man,” he said sharply. “The rest of us need to hear wot ye’re sayin’.”
The butler looked to Lady Duncan for confirmation. Her mouth tightened, but she made a short nod.
“Mr. Westcott is not... available,” the butler said indistinctly. Kate saw Lady Duncan stiffen and heard her draw in her breath in an audible gasp.
The constable stepped forward. “Not available?” he demanded gruffly. “Wot’s that s’posed t’ mean?”
“It means,” the butler said, “that he has taken his leave.” He cleared his throat. “He has departed. Perhaps one might say he has ... fled. He was last seen by the stableboy, making a rather hasty exit down the yew alley and through the moor gate.”
“Fled!” Lady Duncan started up from her chair, her eyes wide. “But that’s madness! I spoke to him not five minutes ago. He assured me that he would not leave me to—”
Doyle moved swiftly toward the door. “I’ll let the guards know,” he said over his shoulder. “They’ll go after him.”
“The guards?” Lady Duncan cried, making as if to follow Doyle. “What guards? What are you talking about?”
Kate rose and stepped in front of the woman and took her by the arm. “We must wait here, Lady Duncan,” she said in a quiet voice, leading her back to the chair. “Mr. Westcott will be found and returned shortly.”
“While we are waiting,” Charles said, “we would like to ask you some questions regarding your husband’s death.”
Lady Duncan seated herself, Kate thought, as if she were taking a throne. “I’ve told you all I know,” she said icily. “I told you everything when you were here this morning.”
“No,” Charles replied in a mild tone, “you didn’t. You failed to tell us, for instance, that Sir Edgar was shot here at Thornworthy, in the stable yard, and that Nigel Westcott loaded the body into the gig and drove off to the commons, where he battered the face to render it unrecognizable and then hid the body in an ancient stone coffin where he thought it would remain safely undiscovered.”
Lady Duncan became very still, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Kate thought it was as if she had suddenly become frozen in place.
“You also neglected to mention that it was Westcott who drove to Yelverton, where he stabled your husband’s gig and posted the letter—the letter that he himself wrote.”
A muscle moved in Lady Duncan’s jaw, but she said nothing.
“You see,” Charles said gently, “there are many things you failed to tell us, Lady Duncan, all of which we know and can corroborate by eyewitness testimony or other evidential means. All of which, I very much fear, expose you to a charge of murder.”
There was a long silence. When Lady Duncan spoke, it was in a controlled, almost conversational tone. “The eyewitness. I suppose it was one of the servants? The butler tells me that Avis Cartwright left without notice. Is she the one who told you what happened?”
Kate might have spoken, but Charles said nothing, so she held her tongue. After a moment, Lady Duncan went on.
“It was an accident, of course, that unfortunate business in the stable yard. Mr. Westcott and Sir Edgar quarreled, and the gun went off accidentally. Your eyewitness has no doubt told you that I had nothing to do with it.” She frowned. “It was an accident,” she repeated with a firm emphasis. “Mr. Westcott need not have given in to his fears and fled. I should have been glad to have testified in his defense that my husband was killed during a struggle.”
“And whose gun was it that killed him?” Charles asked.
She considered this for a moment, then gave a little shrug, as if to diminish the importance of what she was saying. “Mr. Westcott’s, I assume. My husband did not possess guns, as you will no doubt determine when you question the servants.” She made a wry face. “Such nuisances, servants, always spying and prying.” She turned to Kate with a slight smile. “I’m sure you quite understand, Lady Sheridan. One is scarcely permitted a private thought, let alone a private action.”
“And why,” Charles persisted, “was Westcott armed that morning?”
“What makes you think I should know what was in Mr. Westcott’s mind?” she retorted scornfully. “I have absolutely no idea why the man was armed. And if you are suggesting that Mr. Westcott and I plotted together to kill Sir Edgar—well, that is simply absurd.”
“We shall, of course, discuss the issue of collusion with Mr. Westcott, when he is found,” Charles said dryly. “No doubt he will be willing to tell us the truth of the matter, especially when he realizes that it will probably go easier on him if he cooperates.”
Kate had to admire Lady Duncan’s composure. There was a small tic at one corner of her lower lip; otherwise, her face was utterly immobile, her expression inscrutable.
After a moment, Charles went on, his voice measured and calm. “We do know, however, that you conspired with Westcott to construct a fictional explanation for Sir Edgar’s absence. You shared the counterfeit letter with the vicar. You pretended surprise and shock at the news of the discovery of the body. You even corroborated the bogus spirit messages that were supposed to point to your husband’s betrayal. There is incontrovertible evidence that you and Westcott schemed to cover up your husband’s death until some future time when you could arrange for a fictional death abroad. At that point, of course, you would inherit much of his property and be free to many—Westcott, no doubt.”
Lady Duncan rose. “Well, then,” she replied acidly, “since you are in possession of so many answers, you must have no more questions for me.” She turned toward the door. “This interview is concluded. Good night.”
The constable stepped in front of the door, blocking her exit. Charles stood. “Our interview may be recessed,” he said regretfully, “but hardly concluded. Lady Duncan, I must inform you that Constable Chapman has been authorized to detain you as an accessory to a felony.”
“Detain me?” For the first time, a hint of emotion showed in her voice. “Detain me?”
“Yes, ma‘am,” the constable said, carefully polite. To the openmouthed butler, he added, in a low voice, “Her ladyship will be leavin’ with us immediately. She will require a change of clothing an’ necess’ry personal articles.”
“You are making a very great mistake,” Lady Duncan said. “If you wish to take further action against me, I shall give you my solicitor’s name, and you may contact him at your leisure. In the meantime, I intend to re
main here.”
“I am sure, Lady Duncan,” Kate said quietly, “that you do not wish to make a scene before your servants. These gentlemen are fully prepared to take you forcibly, if you resist.”
Lady Duncan fastened a stony gaze on her. “Take me where? You can’t possibly mean to incarcerate me in that mean little jail in Princetown. The idea is utterly absurd.”
“You are not being taken to the jail,” Kate said. “You will be taken to Dartmoor Prison, where the governor is preparing a special accomodation for you.”
It was only then that Kate could see, quite clearly, the terror in Lady Duncan’s eyes.
It took thirty minutes for Lady Duncan to change into a traveling dress and see to the packing of a small valise, while Kate remained in her bedroom and watched, and the constable stood guard in the hall outside the door. At last she was ready, and the constable put her into the carriage. He and Kate waited beside it for a few moments, until they were joined by Charles and Doyle.
“Any sign of him?” the constable asked in a low voice.
“Afraid not,” Doyle said. “But the guards are bound to catch up with him.” He held out a hand to catch the flakes that were still drifting lightly from the skies. “He’s left a trail that only a fool could miss.”
“He’s headed west,” Charles said, with a meaningful look at the constable.
“West?” the constable replied, startled. “He’d best watch his step, then.”
“I thought everyone said that the moor was safe,” Doyle remarked dryly.
The constable shook his head. “Not to the west of here, it isn’t. That’s the Army artillary range—”
Suddenly there was a dull, muffled boom, somewhere in the distance. “Is that thunder?” Kate asked in surprise. “But it can’t be! It’s snowing!”
“It didn’t sound like thunder to me,” Charles replied grimly. “More like an explosion.”
“A high-explosive artillery shell, I’d say.” Doyle frowned. “But surely they can’t be firing at this time of night and in this weather.”
“True enough,” the constable replied. “But the shells they fire don’t always go off the way they should. That’s why it’s dang‘rous out there.” He held open the door to the carriage. “Lady Sheridan? Give ye a hand up, m’lady?”
It wasn’t until early the next morning that Kate and Charles learned that what they had heard was indeed an exploding artillery shell, and that Nigel Westcott was already dead when the guards who were following his trail stumbled across his mutilated body.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
A few words may suffice to tell the little that remains.
“The Final Problem”
Arthur Conan Doyle
“Aren’t they lovely?” Kate set the glass bowl of cabbage roses on the table in the library at Bishop’s Keep, where Charles was reading, and stepped back to admire the way the afternoon sunlight illuminated the blossoms. “Nothing is more beautiful than autumn roses, I always think.”
“Lovely,” Charles murmured absently, from the depths of his favorite leather chair.
“Well, you might at least look at them,” Kate retorted with a sniff. “What are you reading?”
Charles held up the September issue of The Strand. “The second installment of Doyle’s mystery,” he said with a smile. “Yes, my dear, the roses are very pretty. Thank you.”
Kate sat down in her own reading chair. “What do you think of it? The Hound, I mean.”
Charles closed the magazine and put it on the table. “Vintage Holmes, I should say. I’m sure Doyle’s followers love it. I understand that the magazine’s circulation has gone up by thirty thousand copies.” He smiled. “Dr. Lorrimer appears as a character in the story, you know, although Doyle has changed his name to Mortimer. And while I’ve read only the first two installments, I would say that a good deal of what happened on Dartmoor is finding its way into his story. I’ll be curious to see whether he includes an escaped convict, for instance, or whether Baskerville Hall looks anything like Thornworthy Castle.”
“Excuse me, m‘lord, m’lady.” It was Hodge, the butler, standing correctly at the library door. “Miss Patsy Marsden is here and wishes to see you.”
“Patsy!” Kate exclaimed, and jumped up from her chair to embrace her friend. “How wonderful you look! Traveling does agree with you. And what a surprise!”
“Indeed,” Charles said. He came forward to give Patsy a brotherly kiss on the cheek. “We didn’t expect you until next week.”
“My sister wrote to say that she needed me, so I came straight on to London. The four of us—Ellie brought her two babies—have come down to stay with Mamma for a few days.” Patsy began to pull off her kid gloves. “I bring you a message, Charles, from Sam. He says to tell you that he is quite well and looking forward to continuing his profession, under somewhat more primitive conditions.”
“Where the devil is he?” Charles asked. “The last time we heard, the three of you were in Saint Louis.”
“He and Evelyn have gone to Texas.” Patsy seated herself. “He wrote from San Antonio, but I understand that he is considering going farther west—to New Mexico, perhaps—and Evelyn plans to go on to San Francisco, where I hope to visit her in another year. We are still forwarding letters through the Saint Louis postal box.” She laughed. “With all these mail addresses and changes of name, it is a little like playing spy, although I rather think that Sam and Evelyn are beginning to dare to hope that he has got clean away.”
Kate looked at Patsy curiously. From her friend’s earlier letters, she had thought that Patsy and Spencer were very much in love, and she wondered why they hadn’t marned. But Patsy insisted on her independence and freedom to an extraordinary degree. Perhaps she just didn’t want to be tied down. Her sister’s marriage certainly hadn’t gone well.
“And your book?” Kate asked. “It’s being published soon?”
“Next month,” Patsy said proudly. “I do hope you’ll come up to London for the party. Ellie has promised to host it.” She turned to Charles. “Charles, I’m dying to know what happened on the moor after I left. I received only one letter, you know, and I’m not sure that I understood it correctly. Is it really true that Nigel Westcott blew himself up?”
“It’s true, all right,” Charles said. “The poor fellow stepped on an unexploded shell, and it detonated in his face. If the prison guards hadn’t already been on his trail—that is, if his body had lain there for any period of time—it might have been rather difficult to identify him.” He shuddered. “Not the kind of death one would wish on even the worst of murderers.”
“Then it’s clear that he killed Sir Edgar?”
Charles nodded. “A gun was discovered near the corpse, and proved to be the one that killed Sir Edgar. But he might not have been judged guilty of murder. After all, Sir Edgar died in a struggle, according to Avis Cartwright. It’s more likely that Westcott would have been tried for manslaughter.”
“And Lady Duncan?”
“That,” Kate said, “is a different story. She will be tried as an accessory to manslaughter, for her attempts, with Mr. Westcott, to cover up the crime.”
Patsy shook her head. “And poor Mrs. Bernard? Did you ever learn how it was that she knew the details of Sir Edgar’s death?”
“We’re still in the dark there,” Kate said ruefully. “I suppose that we shall just have to account it one of the mysteries of the universe.” She smiled. “Oh, by the way, Dr. Doyle and his friend Jean Leckie were our guests at a small dinner party last month in London. Both of them seemed to be getting on quite well. Miss Leckie was planning a short trip abroad. Dr. Doyle was pleased at the reception of his new story, and an American magazine is about to make him an enormous offer to resurrect Sherlock Holmes.”
“Bribe is the word I believe Doyle used,” Charles put in dryly. “And Greenhough Smith, at The Strand, has sweetened the inducement by bidding for the British rights.”
Kate nodded. “I think th
e only thing that troubles him is that Sherlock might not live up to his own reputation.”
Patsy laughed. “Is there any other news? Have you heard from that nice constable, or the vicar?”
“Constable Chapman was offered a promotion as a reward for his fine work on the Duncan case.” Charles picked up his pipe and began to pack it with tobacco. “But it meant that he should have to leave the moor, so he turned it down. And Major Cranford writes that the fingerprint identification project is finished. It is to be expanded to other prisons, and the Home Office has agreed to a special dactyloscopy department at the Yard.”
“Well done, Charles,” Patsy said with a small smile. “I do hope, however, that you have destroyed Sam’s fingerprints.”
“Of course,” Charles replied. He lit his pipe and leaned back comfortably. “It wouldn’t do to have those available in the event he was apprehended.”
“And I’ve heard from the vicar at Saint Michaels,” Kate said. “Mr. Garrett wrote to say that he is leaving Princetown for a village near Ely. Now that the Duncans are gone and Thornworthy is in the hands of Jack Delany, he has given up all hope of any real society on the moor.”
Patsy gave a little shake of her head. “If you were to ask me, I should say that the moor is better off without any society at all. Just the ponies and the sheep, wild and free in the wind and the heather.” She wore a reminiscent look. “I shall always treasure the days we spent there.”
Kate smiled at her friend, understanding. “The moor is a beautiful place,” she said, “and Thornworthy a delightfully Gothic castle—although not, I am bound to say, as ghostly as Glamis Castle, in Scotland. Charles and I were there last month and—But the story is a long one, I’m afraid. Perhaps you should hear it over tea. You will join us, won’t you?”