Death at Dartmoor (38 page)

“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 remain 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.

“A
ren'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.”