Death at Dartmoor (19 page)

When Doyle looked puzzled, Charles Sheridan added, in an explanatory tone, “A kistvaen is a small stone-lined pit, used as a burial place by early dwellers on the moor.”

“I see,” Doyle said. He pulled at his mustache thoughtfully. “Well, then, is there any report of anyone gone missing in the Chagford vicinity?”

“Haven't heard of any,” Jack Delany put in, adding in a careless tone, “I live over that way, y' know. Stapleton House.” He leaned one elbow on the bar and pushed his empty glass toward the barman. “Another ale, Toby.”

“And how long,” Charles Sheridan asked the doctor quietly, “would you say that the man has been dead?”

“Impossible to say, sir,” the doctor replied. “More than twelve hours, certainly. Perhaps twenty-four.”

“One would think,” Doyle remarked, “that a gentleman farmer would be missed within twelve to twenty-four hours.”

“Well,” said one of the few remaining men, “there's ol' Asherson. He b'ain't round fer a week er more.”

Toby slid Jack Delany's refilled glass across the bar. “Asherson b‘ain't gone missin',” he said. “He be wi' his daughter, down Plymouth way. Saw him mesself, climbin' onto the train wi' his satchel.”

A silence descended on the group. A wagon rolled by in the street outside. A dog barked, and another joined in. Finally, the vicar cleared his throat.

“I know of a Chagford gentleman who is gone.” He made a delicate gesture. “Although I wouldn't say he's gone
missing.”

“Oh?” Charles Sheridan asked, with interest. “And who is that?”

The vicar looked as if he wished he had not spoken. Finally he said, in a regretful tone, “It is Sir Edgar.”

“But he's gone up to London on business,” Delany replied. He picked up his glass and drank deeply of the ale. “Two or three days ago, as I recall.”

“Three days, I make it,” Doyle said. “He went up to town before our second séance. He was absent that night.”

The vicar shifted uncomfortably. “That is what was believed at the time,” he said with evident reluctance. “The truth is that on the following day, Lady Duncan received a letter from Sir Edgar, posted from Yelverton. It revealed—” He stopped himself, obviously perturbed, and fluttered his long, pale fingers. “I fear that I am not at liberty to mention what it revealed. But suffice it to say that Sir Edgar is not the poor unfortunate who lies—”

“I hardly think this is relevant to the investigation,” Doyle interrupted, impatient with the young clergyman's habit of peddling irrelevant gossip. He turned to the constable. “What do you propose to do now, Constable Chapman?”

The constable was silent for several moments. “Well, sir,” he said at last, “if the convict did it, the matter'll be settled soon as he's caught. But if he didn‘t, I reckon Sup'rintendent Weaver—he has charge of the Devonshire Constab'lary—will call in the Yard.”

“Call in th' Yard?” Toby asked from behind the bar. “Why wud ye call in th' Yard, when Sherlock Holmes be a-standin' right here?”

Jack Delany chuckled. “Right you are, Toby. Why, we have the world's foremost consulting detective in our very midst, Constable. Put the fellow to work, why don't you?”

“Come, now, Mr. Delany,” Dr. Lorrimer said fussily. “Wouldn't you allow that Monsieur Bertillon must be accorded a higher fame in criminal investigations than Mr. Holmes? I must remind you—”

Doyle took a step back and raised his hands. “And I must remind everyone,” he said firmly, “that I am not Sherlock Holmes.” He paused, casting a sympathetic glance at the constable, who was so clearly out of his depth and knew it. “And yet I confess to a certain interest in crime, and a fair amount of expertise in solving puzzles.”

Jack Delany seemed pleased. “Well, then,” he said, taking another swallow of his ale, “it's decided. Agreed, Constable ? No need to bother your superintendent, at least for the moment. We'll give this investigation into the able hands of Mr. Doyle.”

The constable, who seemed not to know what to make of this turn of events, cast a questioning look at Charles Sheridan.

“And I,” Charles Sheridan put in quietly, “shall be glad to assist Mr. Doyle in his investigations. With his consent, and Constable Chapman's agreement, of course.”

“Oh, by all means, old chap,” Doyle said heartily, feeling quite flattered.

The constable now appeared very much relieved. “Right, sir.” He was looking at Charles Sheridan. “I'd be glad of a hand, sir. I'll report to Sup‘rintendent Weaver that ye're assistin'.”

“Very good, Constable.” Sheridan turned to Doyle. “Perhaps it would be helpful if we were to procure the fatal bullet from the doctor.”

“The bullet?” Doyle asked, frowning.

Sheridan nodded. “Do you recall the case a few years ago—'98, I believe it was—in which Paul Jeserich, the forensic chemist from Berlin, was called to testify?” When Doyle gave him a blank look, he went on, in an explanatory tone. “Herr Jeserich compared a bullet recovered from a corpse to one fired from a revolver owned by the accused, and determined that the markings of the grooves and lands on the two bullets were precisely the same.” He smiled dryly. “The sort of analysis Holmes would appreciate, I should think.”

“Perhaps,” Doyle said noncommittally, reflecting that if scientists were now going to take up the detection of crime, he was just as glad he had decided not to bring Holmes back from the dead. He should have to do a great deal more research.

“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.”

K
ate 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.