Death at Dartmoor (12 page)

K
ate had declined Patsy's invitation to tramp across Walkhampton Common with her and Mr. Crossing. It was a fine morning for a walk, this last day of March, but she intended to take the public footpath in a different direction, eastward to Hexworthy, which was about four miles away near the River Dart. There, she planned to stop at Hornaby Farm to visit Mrs. Bernard, the widow she had met the night before. And if she grew tired or chose not to return on foot, she could no doubt hire someone to drive her back to Princetown.

Kate was the kind of woman who seldom acted without a purpose; but today's jaunt was entirely the doing of Beryl Bardwell, who could be even more purposeful than Kate herself. Beryl was not exactly snooping, but she knew she was putting her nose into someone else's business and felt just a little bit guilty about it. If it had not been such tempting business, so full of potential for story material, she would not have done it. But Lady Duncan's concealed glance had been dark with resentment, and there was also that odd occurrence during the séance, when little Mrs. Bernard, who was sitting next to Kate, had begun to tremble violently and then to cry out. The poor woman was incoherent and overwrought, but Kate had heard the word murder at least twice, and quite clearly. Mrs. Bernard might have said more if she had been encouraged, but their hostess had hushed her so that the spirits would not be frightened away. After the séance ended, Kate attempted to comfort Mrs. Bernard, but the woman was still too shaken to speak and had quickly accepted the vicar's offer to drive her home. When all this was taken together, Kate and Beryl felt almost justified in taking the liberty of calling on the widow this morning.

The moor glittered with the diamond-bright brilliance of the frost, and as Kate crossed a dancing stream on a granite-slab clapper bridge, she paused to admire the artistry of ice along the stream's verge. Every reed was set in a vase of crystal ice; every cupped leaf was a crystal goblet; every twig was encased in a crystal sheath. Overhead, the sky was a rare blue, the color of sapphire. The morning moor, it seemed to Kate, was an enchanted place.

The footpath led her before long to the hamlet of Hexworthy (the suffix
worthy,
she had learned, came from the Saxon word for settlement), and one inquiry took her to Hornaby Farm. Mrs. Bernard lived in an old stone cottage with multiple chimneys, a thick roof of thatch that came down low across the mullioned windows of the upper story, and a yew hedge separating a pretty front garden from the lane.

At the door, Kate was greeted and relieved of her coat and hat by a young woman in a sacking work apron and then shown into an old-fashioned black-beamed room with red geraniums blooming on the deep-set window ledges. Looking quite pretty in a soft blue morning dress with a lace fichu, Mrs. Bernard was seated in a chintz-covered easy chair on one side of a peat fire, writing what appeared to be a note, a fat white cat curled up at her feet. But when Kate came into the room she jumped up, nervously scattering pen and paper. The cat retreated behind her chair.

“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.”