Death at Dartmoor (15 page)

To his surprise, Kate did not answer. She only looked at him for a long time, her gaze unfathomable. And then she looked away, at the fire.

A
t that same hour, in another room at the Duchy Hotel, an entirely different scene was being played in a very different mood and tone. As the last sound of the striking clock shimmered into silence, Conan Doyle pushed himself out of the chair in front of the fire in Jean Leckie's sitting room and stood up.

“I must go,” he said. Even as he spoke, he felt the reluctance as a heavy weight on his spirit. “I don't want to compromise you in the eyes of others.”

Jean put out her hand. “Arthur, my love,” she said in a soft voice, “I have told you before that I cannot be compromised. If that were not so, I should not have come here.”

“But Jean—” he began.

She raised a finger to his lips, silencing him. “For every moment of the last four years, I have known in my heart that our love is right and true. I will wait, if I must, for another four years, or for forty, if it come to that, to be yours in the sight of others. In my heart, I am yours already, until death, and beyond, through all eternity.”

Doyle seized her small, white hand. “It already seems an eternity,” he said gruffly, bending over to kiss it. “If it were not for these rare moments we have alone together, I think I should go mad.” He gazed down at her, at the shadows of her lashes on her cheek, the long, pale curve of her throat, and felt the desire grow inside him. “Loving and desiring you as I do, but married to a woman whose death is the key to our eternal happiness—”

He paused. Was it right to burden Jean with his apprehensions ? Was it fair? But he went on, knowing that whether it was right or fair, he had to speak. “Do you know that I fear, each time I open one of your letters, that you have met someone else? That I often believe that you would be much happier if you met and fell in love with someone else—someone nearer to your own age and unencumbered with wife and children?” He cleared his throat painfully. “If you should, you know, I would entirely understand.”

“I know you would,” Jean said. Her green eyes were swimming in tears. “That's why I love you so much.” Her voice became coaxing. “Stay just for a moment more, Arthur. It's been so long since we've been together—weeks and weeks, with nothing but letters. So let's not speak of things we can't change. Let's do be kind to one another, and cheerful.” She blinked away the tears, smiling, and her tone lightened. “I want to hear about your story, the one you are writing with Fletcher Robinson. Is it progressing?”

Still holding her hand across the space between them, Doyle sat back in his chair, matching his tone to hers. “The story is progressing quite well, now that I've brought Holmes and Watson into it. But Robinson and I are through, and I have told him so.” He frowned at her, a playful, make-believe frown. “I hope you won't say ‘I told you so,' even though you did, of course, in one of your letters. You knew better than I that this was not a useful collaboration.”

“I just didn't think that Mr. Robinson had anything to offer you, dear,” Jean replied seriously. “You are an artist, and he is merely a journalist.” She dimpled. “And now that you've brought Holmes back to life—”

“Not so fast, my love,” Doyle cautioned. “Sherlock is dead, and dead he stays.”

Jean gave him a confused look. “But I thought you said—”

“I'm dipping into Watson's old case files for this one story, that's all. I don't mind arranging an occasional reappearance to please a few readers, and Smith, at
The Strand,
who will pay well for this transient reincarnation. But the wretched fellow's dead, and there will be no resurrection. To tell the truth, I wouldn't be using him now if it weren't for the money—and to be rid of Robinson.”

“Oh, you'll bring him back sooner or later,” Jean said lightly, “mark my words, my dear.” A small frown puckered her brow, and she fell silent, watching the fire. At last, she asked, “Tell me, Arthur, what did you think of the séance tonight?”

Doyle considered her question. “I'm a man of science, and slow to form an opinion on the subject of psychical research. I must say, though, that Mr. Westcott quite impressed me, if only because the messages relayed by his spirit control could be so easily verified. The business about Delany's land transaction, for instance, and Charlotte's ability to truthfully answer the questions I put to her—answers Mr. Westcott could not have prepared beforehand.” He smiled a little. “One has to be persuaded by a monkey named Darwin, wouldn't you agree?”

“I suppose,” Jean said doubtfully. “I did wonder, though—”

“Of course, my love,” Doyle said, becoming more earnest, “this sort of thing is a treacherous and difficult ground, like those bogs out there. Frauds and self-deceptions are rampant, to be sure. But when certain messages can be tested and proved true—as we saw and heard tonight—then it is only reasonable to suppose that what we cannot test is also true.”

Jean sighed. “Well, then, it appears that poor Lady Duncan is in for trouble. She seemed quite affected by her sister's warning. I wonder who she fears might betray her. Her husband, perhaps? A friend?”

“We shall see,” Doyle said. “If trouble develops, I myself will take it as yet another sign of the authenticity of Mr. Westcott's spirit contacts.”

He stood, this time with greater determination. “Now, my dearest Jean, I really
must
go.” He held out his hand, and his voice became softer. “I love you, and I have loved being with you this evening, as I always do. I look forward with all my heart to the day when we will no longer have to part.”

Doyle had said this before and meant it, but each time he heard the words, he knew with a shudder of cold guilt what they meant. He could not marry the woman he loved until his wife was dead. And although he worshipped Jean with a fiery passion, he would not, could not consummate their love while his wife was alive, no matter how strong the temptation, no matter how deeply he was torn by desire. He would not be unfaithful to Touie, for whom he had nothing but respect and affection, nor would he divorce her or do anything that would cause her pain. He was uncomfortably aware that his restraint and circumspection was the source of a great deal of pain to Jean, but he could only pray that she would stand with him until the end, however long that might be.

“I love you, too.” Jean bent her head and kissed his hand. “Good night, my dearest,” she whispered softly, her lips warm against his skin. “Sweet dreams.”

It was terribly unfortunate, Doyle thought afterward, that he should encounter Miss Marsden in the hall, just as he was leaving Jean's room. He tried to be nonchalant as he greeted her, but he could feel his face flame. Jean might be free of the fear of compromise, but he was not.

T
he next morning, Charles breakfasted with Kate and Patsy Marsden in the hotel dining room. The two women were discussing their plans to hire a cart and drive out to Grimspound with a woman Patsy had met on the moor, a student of archaeology. Kate remarked that she should like to go to Hexworthy to see how Mrs. Bernard was feeling, but Charles frowned at the idea.

“Perhaps it would be better for her if she spent the day quietly,” he said. “Sometimes strange ideas are encouraged through an exchange with a sympathetic listener.” He heard his lecturish tone and managed an uncomfortable smile. “But you must do as you think best, of course.”

Kate returned his smile with a toss of her head. “I shall indeed, thank you, my dear.”

After breakfast, as they stood on the hotel porch, Charles looked out at the fog that was draped like a white cotton shawl over the bare shoulders of North Hessory Tor. “It looks to be a misty morning,” he said. “Are both of you sure you want to go out on the moor?”

“On the other hand,” Patsy replied nonchalantly, “it might clear up. And anyway, I promised Miss Jenkyns that we would go today.”

“We'll be fine,” Kate said in a reassuring tone. “We have our macintoshes and boots, and a little mist won't hurt us.”

“After one more day's work,” Charles said, “I should be able to join you. I want to visit Grimspound, too.”

“Then we promise to leave everything just as we find it,” Kate said gaily, waving as they set out. “Have a good day, dear.”

Charles went off in the other direction, smiling as he walked. He and Kate had been married for over five years, but he was still getting used to the fact that he had married an independent woman who enjoyed the company of like-minded women almost as much as she did his own and who didn't need him to guard or protect her. Of course, that American freedom of spirit was the trait that had first attracted him to her, but ironically, it was the hardest of all to live with, day to day. Without exception, the English-women he knew had been trained to put more trust in a man's strength and understanding than in their own, even when their strength and understanding were perfectly adequate. Kate's self-confident belief in her own abilities had taken quite a bit of getting used to.

Once inside the gate, Charles went to the Administrative Block to say good morning to Oliver Cranford. In the governor's office, he met Constable Chapman, Princetown's only police officer, who had happened to stop in on business. The constable was a youngish man with an attentive look that seemed to say that he was happy in his work, and when he expressed an interest in the fingerprint project, Charles asked if he would like to see what they were doing.

“I wud, sir,” the constable replied eagerly, and they went down the hall to the room that had been set aside for the work. The guards assigned to the project were still tending to morning duties, so Charles and the constable had the room to themselves. Charles showed him what had been done so far and explained what was yet to be done, not only at Dartmoor but at every British prison.

“When we're finished,” he concluded, “we'll have the fingerprints of every convicted criminal in the Empire. If anyone commits a crime after his release and leaves his prints behind, we'll be able to identify him.”

“I see,” said the constable. He pulled at his lip, frowning. “Although I fear I don't see, sir, exactly wot you mean when you say that he leaves his prints behind.” He held up his hand, staring at his fingertips, as if pondering how this difficult task might be done.

Charles understood the constable's confusion. “Here, let me show you,” he said. On the shelf stood an empty glass. Lifting it by the rim, he handed it to the constable, who took it with a puzzled look on his face. Charles then retrieved the glass from the man's grasp and held it up to the light that fell through the window.

“There,” he said, pointing. “Do you see those marks? They are your fingerprints, which you deposited when you grasped the glass. Are you with me so far?”

“Yes,” the constable acknowledged doubtfully.

“Now, watch,” Charles said. He dusted the glass with black fingerprint powder so that the prints were even more clearly visible, then carefully applied a strip of sticky celluloid film over the powder. When he peeled off the strip along with the powder and stuck it to a white card, the powdery images were prominently displayed.