Death at Dartmoor (30 page)

“Oh, indeed. Ah, well, in that case,” Dr. Lorrimer said, and rewarded Doyle with an account of what he had heard from Mrs. Bernard.

Doyle listened attentively through to the conclusion of the doctor's tale. “And you, a trained man of science, believe that she actually witnessed Sir Edgar's death?”

“I do not know what to believe.” The doctor looked out the window, and Doyle followed his glance. The train had crossed Walkhampton Common and was circling down and around King Tor, and Doyle could look down upon the railroad track they would soon traverse in a great curving spiral some fifty feet below.

“Well,” Doyle said, “I cannot be sure about what Mrs. Bernard saw or did not see. But in my opinion, it is Jack Delany who has the strongest motive in the murder of Sir Edgar.”

The doctor frowned. “I suppose that is true,” he replied. “As I told Lord Sheridan last night, if you ask among the moormen, there will be those who will tell you that Delany is not a man to be trusted.” And with that introduction, he related a tale about Delany's involvement in an accidental shooting some years before.

“Well, there it is!” Doyle exclaimed.

The doctor looked out the window. “There what is?”

Doyle shook his head. “Can you not see the parallels between the two cases, Lorrimer? It is quite possible, is it not, that Delany and Sir Edgar quarreled, that Sir Edgar was shot in the passionate exchange, and that Delany—not wishing to be drawn into a police investigation, which would bring up the earlier case—disposed of the body on the moor? And as I said to Lord Sheridan last night, beat his victim with a rock out of sheer anger and frustration.”

“I suppose it is possible,” the doctor said slowly, “although I should hate to think it. Despite his own impecunious situation, Delany has been generous to those who have fallen on hard times, and he has often devised improvement schemes that would—should he be able to carry them out—be of value to his neighbors. His great downfall is his temper, I fear.” He shook his head sadly. “Quite an unpleasant situation, this. I should not like to be in Delany's shoes.”

There was a long silence as the train took a swing around the granite quarries and dropped down upon the commons again, the windows affording a charmingly misty view of barren moorland heath and richly wooded valleys. The two men said very little as the engine chugged over a granite bridge, past the Dousland Station and across the Devonport leat, and through a long cutting, finally emerging upon a high embankment. Ahead, the station was in sight.

Doyle glanced down at the black leather satchel. “You are making a house call, I take it,” he said, as the train began to slow. “You have patients in Yelverton, no doubt.”

“Oh, my heavens no,” said the doctor, his face breaking into a smile. “I am catching the train down to Plymouth to visit a friend who has an anthropological museum there.” He put his satchel on his knees and opened it. “This is for him. He will be quite pleased.” Having said that, he reached into the satchel and pulled out a gleaming ivory skull.

Startled, Doyle recoiled a little from the sight. “Quite ... remarkable,” he said.

“A splendid specimen, which I procured from the prison,” Dr. Lorrimer said, turning the skull with a long, loving look. “An extraordinary dolichocephaly and well-marked supraorbital development, wouldn't you say, sir? Do run your finger along the parietal fissure, Dr. Doyle. You will be enchanted, I promise you. I am told that its owner was quite the criminal mastermind. Not just a murderer, but a forger and blackmailer, as well.” As Dr. Lorrimer glanced up, the light glinted from his gold-rimmed glasses.

“Yes, yes,” Doyle said hastily, touching the skull. “I am indeed ... enchanted.” The train came to a full stop, and he stood, taking up his umbrella. “I hope your friend will be most appreciative.”

“I am sure he will,” said Dr. Lorrimer, affectionately replacing the skull in his satchel. He picked up his stick, and the two of them made their way to the carriage door. “If you are interested,” he went on, as they climbed down from the train, “you might stop at my office when you return to Princetown and see the other skulls in my collection. They are not as remarkable as this, most of them, but I do have several other fine specimens that I should be delighted to show you.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Doyle said courteously, and bowed. “I shall be glad to drop in, if I find myself able to take the time from my work.” And with that, they parted company, Doyle thinking that indeed, the doctor was a man of unusual interests.

Yelverton was a town about twice the size of Princetown. In answer to Doyle's question of where a gig might be hired, the stationmaster directed him to the Haverson Livery Stable. This proved to be only a short walk up the street, past several noisy pubs, a confectioner's shop from which the rich smell of chocolate wafted, and a small greengrocer's shop with a tempting display of oranges and lemons in the window.

As he walked, Doyle thought about what the doctor had said about Jack Delany's involvement in the earlier shooting and rehearsed in his mind the questions Holmes might ask if he were making this inquiry. As Doyle understood the facts, Sir Edgar had announced to Lady Duncan that he was driving himself to Okehampton to catch the up train to London but went instead to Yelverton, some fifteen miles to the south, where he met the lady with whom he intended to leave and posted the letter to his wife. Although it was not clear how or when Sir Edgar had gotten back to the moor, it seemed worthwhile to have a look in the livery stable at Yelverton to see if his horse and gig were stabled there.

But the conversation with the doctor had reminded Doyle of the importance of Jack Delany's motive, and the questions that rose to his mind had less to do with Sir Edgar and the mysterious woman than with the man—the impecunious man, according to the doctor—who stood to inherit Thornworthy, now that Sir Edgar was dead. Had Delany met Sir Edgar here in Yelverton and conveyed him back to the moor? Or had Sir Edgar taken the train back? But what had happened to the woman with whom Sir Edgar had intended to leave? Had Delany spirited her away somehow? Or was she also involved in Delany's murder-for-inheritance scheme? Who was she? These were the sorts of questions Doyle thought Holmes would ask, under the circumstances.

Haverson's Stable was fronted by a harness repair shop and a soot-stained smithy, from which the loud roar of the blacksmith's forge could be heard. Doyle turned the corner into the muddy alley and made his way to the rear of the establishment, where he saw a substantial stable and quite a number of conveyances—gigs, carts, Victorias, a barouche, most bearing the name Haverson in large red letters—parked in an open barn.

Mr. Haverson was thin and hatchet-faced, with a sour scowl that suggested a perpetual ill humor. In spite of the chill, his sleeves were rolled to his elbows, showing a thick mat of red hair on his forearms and a tattoo of a Union Jack.

“A gig?” he growled, in answer to Doyle's question. He swept his arm in the direction of the open barn. “There be three gigs fer ‘ire, sir. Which 'un d'ye want?”

“I don't want to hire a gig,” Doyle said patiently. “I am inquiring about a horse and gig that may have been stabled here some four days ago by a gentleman by the name of Duncan. Sir Edgar Duncan.”

Haverson's eyes narrowed. “Four days ago, eh? Oh, yay, I mind it now, I do. The last day o' March, ‘twere. A gig an' a sorrel mare. Gent'lman said he were goin' abroad.”

Doyle felt a surge of triumph. So Sir Edgar had been here! Well, then, his visit was already worth the effort.

Haverson opened the dirty ledger laid out on the table in front of him and leafed through the lined pages. “Ye've been sent to fetch it fer 'im, eh?”

Doyle, pleased that his investigation had borne such ready fruit, was about to tell Haverson that Sir Edgar was dead and would not be needing his gig. But he checked himself. Holmes would ask questions, not offer information.

Haverson was scratching marks on a dirty scrap of paper and making calculating noises with his tongue. “Five shillin's fer th' stablin',” he said, “an' half a crown fer hay an' oats.”

“Why, that's twice the price I'd pay in London,” Doyle exclaimed hotly.

Haverson shut the ledger. “D' ye want th' mare or no?” he asked. “Ev‘ry day, it's another shillin' for stablin', plus ‘er board. Leave 'er 'ere long enough, an' she'll be sold fer th' bill.”

Thinking that Lady Duncan's property ought to be returned to her, Doyle counted out the silver coins onto the ledger. “I'm curious,” he said, as he pushed the money toward the man. “How did Sir Edgar look when he left the horse?”

“Look?” Haverson asked, sweeping the coins into a wooden box. “Why, ‘ow should 'e look?”

Doyle was not quite sure what he meant to ask. But aftei all, Sir Edgar had been about to write a letter to his wife, telling her that he was leaving with another woman. Surely he would have given some indication of what was in his mind, revealed something of his intention by look or gesture. Perhaps the woman had even been with him.

“Oh, I don't know,” he said casually. “Was he excited? Upset? Was he accompanied, perhaps, by a woman?”

“Nah,” said Haverson. His tone was rather more genial, now that he had his money. “ 'E wuz all alone, 'e wuz. As fer excited, I wudn't say so. Cool-like, seemed t' me. Said ‘e was goin' abroad wi' a lady friend o' his an' that somebody 'ud be round in a week er so t' fetch th' mare an' gig.” He stepped out from behind the counter and went to the door. “I'll ‘ave th' boy hitch 'er up fer ye.”

Doyle followed him. “And how was he dressed?” he persisted.

“Dressed?” Haverson said, over his shoulder. “Dressed reg‘lar, 'e were. Tweed jacket, boots, a tweed cap pulled down over ‘is 'air. Blond ‘air, 'twas.”

Blond hair? Doyle stopped. “But Sir Edgar has gray hair,” he said with some excitement, “and thick gray mustaches. He's a man of some fifty years or so, somewhat less than my height and girth.”

“Not this Sir Edgar,” Haverson said positively. “Thirty-five, may‘ap, an' clean-shaven. Tall as me, an' thin.” He turned and squinted at Doyle. “Are ye sure ye know which ' orse ye were sent t' fetch?”

“Oh, I know,” Doyle said grimly. “I do indeed.”

Jack Delany was tall and thin and clean-shaven. Jack Delany had blond hair.

S
tapleton House was like many of the moorland farmhouses, a rectangular, two-story building constructed of gray Dartmoor granite and thatched with Dartmoor reed—although both stonework and thatch were in need of repair. It was surrounded by a straggly hedge and an overgrown garden that served as a run for a half-dozen scrawny red hens. Outside the green-painted farmhouse door stood a pair of rubber boots, freshly caked with barnyard mud, and a wire basket of eggs.

But before Charles and the constable announced themselves, they walked quietly around to the back of the house, where a small stable stood. The door was ajar, and when Charles went in, he saw only one horse and one dilapidated gig. The gig had evidently not been driven lately and was in the process of repair, for the axle was propped on a block and one dusty wheel leaned against it. In any event, not the sort of thing Sir Edgar was likely to have driven, Charles thought. If Delany was in possession of Sir Edgar's horse and gig, he had concealed it elsewhere.

They returned to the front of the house. The constable's knock, twice repeated, was finally answered by Jack Delany himself, wearing dirty brown corduroy trousers and a gray sweater knit of heavy wool, unraveling at the elbows. There was a stubble of blond beard on his jaw, as if he had not shaved that morning. Seeming not in the least surprised to see them, he let them in with the explanation that he kept no servants except a cook, who also did what little dusting and cleaning might be required, and so answered his own door.

“I have very few needs that I cannot meet myself,” he said, picking up the basket of eggs. He carried it off to what was most likely the kitchen, judging from the smell of cooked cabbage and onions that wafted through the air when he opened the door. Charles heard the murmur of voices, then Delaney returned to divest them of their coats and lead them into a large room that held only the most basic of furnishings: a well-worn wing chair in front of a small fire; a desk and paraffin lamp beside a tall, uncurtained window; a wall of books opposite the fireplace; a glass-fronted cabinet that housed a collection of rifles and shotguns, suggesting that Delaney enjoyed hunting. A large black dog, its thick fur clotted with mud and studded with burrs, lay in front of the fire. Seeing visitors, it leaped up, baring its teeth and growling.