Death at Dartmoor (14 page)

I
t was quite late, after eleven, in fact, but Charles had scarcely noticed the passing of time after Kate's departure for Thornworthy earlier that evening. A brandy at his elbow, his pipe in his mouth, he was deeply engrossed in Charles Darwin's
The Origin of Species,
which he was rereading for the fourth or fifth time. Darwin's book had come as an epiphany when Charles had first encountered it in his youth, and he returned to it often, as to a dearly loved teacher. Here was not only a clear, all-encompassing evolutionary scheme but what was more, a scheme with an entirely rational and eminently logical motive force. After Darwin, Charles often thought, the natural world could hold few secrets.

Still, there were aspects of the theory which seemed incomplete and over which Charles himself continued to puzzle as he turned the pages of the book. That a single species could change over time to better adapt for survival in a changing environment seemed self-evident to anyone familiar with the breeding of domestic animals. But how did one species evolve into two in the same environment? It seemed rather too anthropomorphic that some members of a species should, say, suddenly choose to eat insects while others choose berries and thus evolve in separate directions. Nor was it likely that multiple, identical, perfectly adapted mutants could occur simultaneously, thus founding a new line. Was it possible that the isolation of a small portion of a population might permit it to evolve according to the requirements of a different environment in a different direction? Here at Dartmoor, for example, were there populations of animals and plants so isolated as to have evolved into new species? Charles smiled to himself as it occurred to him that the gigantic hound that Doyle found so fascinating and mysterious might be explained in that way—as a new species, that is. If it were real, of course, which it was not.

Charles's reflections were interrupted as the door opened, and Kate came into their sitting room, accompanied by Patsy Marsden. He took his pipe out of his mouth and laid it in the ashtray, noticing with some surprise that the clock on the mantel was about to strike half eleven.

“Good heavens,” he exclaimed, “I had no idea it was so late!”

“You never do, my dear, when you're reading.” Kate hung up her cloak and went to the fire, rubbing her hands together. “Patsy, shall we have a brandy?”

“Are you sure?” Patsy asked apologetically. “It is late. If you'd rather I go along to my own room—”

“Not a bit of it,” Charles said. He stood and went to the cupboard, where he poured two snifters of brandy and refilled his own. “Were the spirits more cooperative tonight?”

“There were several surprising events,” Kate replied. Her russet hair had tumbled loose when she pulled off her hood, and now she ran her hands through it. Her cheeks were pink with cold, her eyes hazel green and steady, and Charles thought, as he did often, how remarkably beautiful she was, how inexpressibly dear, and how amazingly fortunate he was to have found a wife who was both lovely and intelligent. As Patsy turned to hang her coat on the coat tree, he went to Kate and lifted her hair, kissing the back of her neck.

“Are you going to tell me about them?” he asked, handing her the brandy. “The spirits, I mean. Was there a great deal of table-tilting and mysterious rappings in the wall?”

With a serious, frowning look, Kate took her glass and went to sit beside the fire. “Well, to begin with,” she said, “we weren't all there. You begged off, of course, and Mr. Crossing did not come.”

“Mr. Robinson declined as well,” Patsy said, seating herself and spreading out her skirts. “But Mr. Doyle brought another friend, a Miss Jean Leckie, who has come to stay here at the Duchy for a day or two. A rather striking young woman,” she added, in a significant tone. “Curly, dark-blond hair, green eyes, beautiful features.”

“Very attractive,” Kate agreed, and Charles noticed that she and Patsy seemed to be exchanging secret, coded glances. “Miss Leckie and Mr. Doyle appear to be on quite intimate terms.”

Charles pulled his eyebrows together. He found it difficult to imagine that Conan Doyle, a gentleman of the old school whose life and fiction seemed so fully shaped by the codes of chivalry and sportsmanship, would form a friendship with an unmarried woman. However, such things were done all the time (many of Charles's friends had relationships of various sorts outside marriage), and Doyle's wife had been ill for a number of years. One might not judge the man too harshly if—

“Don't beetle at us, Charles,” Kate said playfully. “We're just telling you what we saw, not passing moral judgment. Actually, I quite like Miss Leckie. She is not only attractive but intelligent, with the gift of being entertaining, as well. Dr. Doyle is usually very serious, but in her company, he laughs a great deal.”

Patsy went back to the previous subject. “Sir Edgar wasn't there, either, so we were a much smaller group.”

“Indeed,” Kate replied. “Sir Edgar has, it seems, gone up to London, quite unexpectedly. He drove himself to Okehampton to catch the train this morning.”

Charles, still thinking about Doyle and his friend, answered absently. “Business, I suppose.”

The comings and goings of people he scarcely knew were not of great importance. But the idea that Conan Doyle might have a relationship outside marriage somewhat complicated his view of the man, whom he had judged—perhaps rather hastily—as not having a great deal of emotional depth. In an odd way, the idea that Doyle might harbor a deep affection for another woman made him somehow more ... well, more human. And perhaps it explained that novel of his, A
Duet with an Occasional Chorus.
It was a love story, not a piece of crime fiction, and most critics and readers had found it completely inexplicable.

“Yes, business.” Kate replied. “That's what Lady Duncan said. But his absence did not inhibit the spirits. Not a bit of it.”

Charles crossed one leg over the other knee and put a match to his pipe, which had gone out. “I want to hear about the table-tilting,” he said. “I suppose ectoplasm floated about the room, did it? Great, glorious gobs of the stuff?”

“Charles,” Kate said in mock reproof, “you are being skeptical again. Perhaps we should go away and leave you to your Darwin.”

“What? And miss the fun?” Charles chuckled, loving his wife's frowning glance, especially since he knew that she no more believed in such things than he did. He pulled on his pipe. “Tell me about Mr. Westcott's spirit contact. Pheneas—isn't that his name? A scribe from ancient Sumeria, I think you said? What did the venerable Pheneas have to say for himself tonight?”

“A very great deal,” Kate said, “since you were not there.” But she smiled to show that she was teasing.

“That's right,” Patsy said. “Pheneas began by suggesting to Mr. Delany that he should purchase the farm near Tavistock which he's been considering, but that he should offer only three hundred pounds for the property, not the four hundred that is asked. He said that Mr. Delany is certain to obtain the property at the lower amount.”

Charles was amused. “And what did Mr. Delany say to this piece of financial advice from the spirit realm?”

“He seemed quite genuinely surprised,” Kate replied. “He had not mentioned the purchase to anyone, and certainly not the proposed amount. That, at least, is what he told us afterward.”

“My goodness,” Charles said mildly. “Score one for Pheneas. What then?”

“Well, after that success, Pheneas addressed the vicar by name and complimented him on his sermon of the week before—on forgiveness, it was. He suggested some additional sources the vicar might want to consult on the topic.”

“Hmmm.” Charles pulled on his pipe, thinking that this Pheneas-entity, whatever he was, had access to some interesting specifics: information about the purchase of property, about the vicar's sermon. He was an unusually well-informed spirit.

“And then,” Patsy took up the story eagerly, “Pheneas relayed a message to Lady Duncan from her dead sister Charlotte. It was a very disturbing message, warning her against the perfidy of someone dear to her.”

Charles blew out a wreath of pipe smoke. “And how could Lady Duncan be so sure that it was her sister speaking?”

“Oh, Mr. Doyle took care of that,” Kate replied promptly. “He was quite scientific, Charles. You would have approved his line of questioning. He insisted on substantiating Charlotte's identity by requiring Lady Duncan to ask for private information, something that no one but she and Charlotte would know. She requested the name of their grandmother, the color of the dress their mother was buried in, even the name of a pet that she and Charlotte had as girls—a monkey, as it turned out. Lady Duncan confirmed every one of Charlotte's replies.” Kate's smile was amused. “The monkey's name was Darwin.”

“I see,” Charles replied thoughtfully, thinking that he did, indeed. He was sorry that he had not gone to the séance, although he suspected that if he had been there, Pheneas might not have been so forthcoming. Darwin, indeed!

“And when Charlotte's identity was established to Mr. Doyle's satisfaction,” Kate went on, “she repeated her warning and added that Lady Duncan will soon receive evidence that will confirm this betrayal. Her ladyship took this quite badly and left the table in tears. The vicar went with her to offer whatever comfort he could, and we didn't see anything more of the two of them. Mr. Westcott came out of his trance at that moment—understandably, I suppose, because of the commotion. Mr. Delany was lighting the lamp when I turned to Mrs. Bernard, who was sitting next to me, and saw that she was pale and looked quite ill.”

“Just then, poor thing,” Patsy said sympathetically, “she toppled out of her chair and onto the floor in a dead faint. It took quite a few moments to revive her.”

“It sounds to me,” Charles murmured in a wry tone, “as if Pheneas more than compensated for his previous night's silence. Tips on the purchase of property, sermon notes, dire warnings from dead sisters, fainting ladies. Better than a show at the Hippodrome.”

Kate frowned. “Wait, Charles, there's more. Patsy and I took Mrs. Bernard home, as I'd promised. The cold air revived her, and she was able to speak a little by the time we delivered her to her door, although she had to be coaxed. And then—” She turned toward him, her face grave. “And then, Charles, she said the
strangest
thing.”

“Really, Kate.” Charles took his pipe out of his mouth and gazed at his wife, amused by her intensity. “How could it have been any stranger than all the other strange things that were said during the evening?”

“No,” Patsy replied, very seriously. “This is different, Charles. It's much more ... more
real.”
She put her hand on Kate's arm. “Tell him, Kate.”

Kate spoke slowly. “She said that Sir Edgar is dead. That his spirit came to her, just at the end of the seance, to warn her not to believe anything she had heard, to tell her that it was all lies.” Kate's gaze was fixed on the fire. Her voice was low and quite husky, and there was an odd, fierce note in it. “I
believed
her, Charles.”

“And I did as well,” Patsy said.

There was a long silence. A coal fell from the grate with a faint hiss. Out in the hallway the grandfather clock whirred, then began to strike twelve, a hollow, metallic bong that seemed to echo through all the rooms. When it was finished, Charles tossed back what was left of his brandy.

“I'm sure Mrs. Bernard believed it, too,” he said in a reasonable tone. “After all, the evening was a dramatic one. Emotions must have been running quite high, especially after Lady Duncan left the table in tears. As you described Mrs. Bernard to me earlier, you mentioned that she seemed quite nervous—that the vicar thought her an hysteric. Is it any surprise, then, that this excitable lady was able to persuade herself that she had received some sort of spirit message? Especially one that discredited the other spirits that might be passing messages along the same wire, as it were.”

Kate turned a searching look on Charles's face. “You think that's all it was? That she was merely distraught? That she made it up?”

“Of course,” Charles replied, a little unsettled by Kate's probing eyes. “What else could it be? You don't really believe that she was visited by Sir Edgar's ghost, do you?” He chuckled dryly. “I think we had better keep this among ourselves. Sir Edgar might not be delighted to return from London and to the news of his early demise.”