Death Comes to Dartmoor Page 13

  “You did see the man who spoke to me? When you came down the stairs? He was real?”

  Raven stood in front of her and eyed her. “Yes, he was real. Why do you ask? Do you suddenly think you are a victim of delusions?” He held her gaze, forcing a wan smile. “We’re not on a moving train, so it can’t be that.”

  Merula returned the half smile. “No, but … I do desperately want to know more about my parents. Perhaps I … want it so badly that I’m imagining things. Everything has been so strange since we came here. The grim atmosphere, people’s peculiar behavior, the …”

  “Threats.” Raven sighed. “I wanted to take you away from London so you could recuperate from the shock of Lady Sophia’s murder and having to flee, hide from the police. I was also not sure if those involved in what they called the butterfly conspiracy would not come after you to take revenge for what you did to them. I wanted you to be away, be safe, have a good time. But now it seems we’ve only ended up in more deep waters.”

  “Waters.” Merula stared ahead. “It’s all connected to water. The wreckmaster and his men on the estuary beach doing something no one is allowed to see. Tillie getting strangled by some monster from the deep, her body found beside the river. The Tasmanian devil hidden in a well. Traces of Oaks’s horse left in the soft riverbank. How can it all be connected?”

  “Shipwrecks,” Raven added. “Don’t forget the sudden increase in shipwrecks. Yes, it’s all connected to water. You’re so right.”

  His tired expression lit in a smile. “I hate it that our quiet journey causes so much anxiety now, but I can’t deny I immensely enjoy sleuthing with you.”

  Merula stared into his eyes, feeling the same sensation rush through her veins. Suddenly, despite the darkness outside, there came the joy and warmth of being with someone she trusted and with whom she’d be able to conquer any hurdle.

  Raven held her gaze as if he wanted to say more, then he suddenly, almost impatiently, averted his eyes and collected the javelin off the floor. Its end clattered against the tiles. He said curtly, “To bed, then. It has been a long day. And we have an even longer one ahead of us tomorrow if we want to save Oaks from the peril he’s in. It’s obvious he can’t save himself, as he’s in no state to defend himself or prove his innocence. He has no friends here who will stand up for him, and the local people want to see him hang anyway, so they will tell that inspector from London anything he wants to hear. Imagine that blacksmith declaring that the hoofprints found near the river were undoubtedly made by Oaks’s horse. How can he know? To my knowledge, horses’ shoes look pretty much the same.”

  “The blacksmith is the victim’s father. If he believes Oaks is to blame, he might have lied about the shoes just so Oaks would be arrested. The poor man already lost his wife, now his only daughter. He must be blinded by grief, desperate to see the guilty party hang. And Oaks is a wealthy man, so perhaps our blacksmith believed he would never get convicted unless he helped the police by providing solid evidence?”

  Raven nodded. “Unfortunately, the police are often reluctant to go after someone with status and money, especially if there are other suspects to be had. We’ll have to talk to the blacksmith first thing in the morning. He can also tell us more about what kind of girl his daughter was. The picture we might form of her can help us determine what she might have been caught up in. I cannot shake what Fern told us. Tillie’s belief she would be rich. Can it be a coincidence that she died so soon after?”

  He looked at the dark window again, shaking his head with a grim expression. “It would be a sad story indeed if her shortcut to riches turned out to be a shortcut straight to the grave.”

  CHAPTER 11

  The next morning Merula awoke with a start, her mind full of screaming voices and animals that stared at her with malicious eyes. But it was quiet outside her bedroom window, except for the wind knocking gently upon the pane.

  She dressed, lingering a moment as she put on her necklace carrying the pendant that connected her to Dartmoor. At least that was what she had always believed. The pendant formed an odd irregular shape with ragged ridges on the top, and it was engraved with the words HARCOMBE TOR. Merula had always taken it to be a memento of some kind, but as she stood there now, she wondered if the shape of it represented the actual tor it was named for. Was there such a place around here? Could she go there?

  As she asked herself the question, she almost had to laugh. Dartmoor was full of tors, of standing stones and other landmarks. How would she ever search out this place?

  And even if she could go there, what did she expect to find?

  Some clue to the identity of her parents?

  That might be found in a church archive, or in a graveyard. But certainly not on a windswept hill, two decades after her parents had supposedly been there.

  She dropped the pendant in place and finished dressing, half angry at herself for the hope she had had when coming here. It was irrational to believe she could find out something about the past. Aunt Emma had often warned her not to, as it would only make her unhappy.

  Still, the unknown man had addressed her, saying he had recognized her name as she had been introduced to others. He had claimed she looked like her mother. But Merula didn’t look at all like the woman in the photograph on her dressing table at home, the photograph of her alleged parents. Had Aunt Emma lied to her? Why?

  Where had the mysterious man disappeared to? Where was he now? Could she find him, ask him about the past?

  Coming out of her room, Merula saw Bowsprit carrying a tray with a coffeepot, cups, sandwiches, and boiled eggs to the library. She followed him quickly. Raven had said he wanted to go see the blacksmith, and perhaps, on their way over to the smithy, they could discuss a way to contact the man she wanted to talk to?

  Raven stood at the large table in the library’s center. He had cleared it of all that had been on it and was now putting books on it here and there, forming some sort of errant pattern. He waved Bowsprit and the breakfast tray to the desk, roaring that he needed space and quiet.

  Bowsprit, feigning a hurt expression, deposited the tray on the desk and poured the coffee. Merula approached the table to see what Raven was doing.

  On the right he had put several blue books and designated them the sea, creating an estuary and a river from more books. Other books formed the houses of Bixby and Oaks and the village—with Ben Webber’s shop specifically flagged. A house outside the village was marked with a note reading smithy. Merula recalled that smithies were often required to stand apart from other houses, as the fire from the forge was a risk to thatch roofs and wooden sheds holding people’s valuable livestock.

  Raven followed her gaze and gestured. “I sent the stable boy to the blacksmith’s with a message that he’s wanted here. He must know Oaks was arrested last night, so I trust in his curiosity to come out here and see who asked for him to come. I want to talk to him away from what is familiar. To unbalance him and get some answers as to why he lied to the police about having recognized the hoofprints by the river as belonging to Oaks’s horse specifically.”

  “If he believes Oaks is guilty, he might not be willing to come to this house. And do please be gentle with a man who has just suffered the shock of his daughter’s violent death.”

  Merula felt uncomfortable with Raven’s reference to wanting to “unbalance” the blacksmith. Not just because he was a grieving father, but also because he had influence in the village. It was upon his signal that the villagers had retreated after Bixby had warned them about the risks of burning down the house. If the blacksmith felt ill-treated, even accused of lying to the police, he might lead the villagers against them anew and this time succeed in doing serious harm.

  Raven ignored her request and swept the table with the books and notes with both hands. “This is the scene of our murder. The environment in which it took place. This is also a stage for the key players.” Raven pointed at the estuary. “That is the terrain of the wreckmaster. The place where h
e’s in charge and can do almost anything he wants. We know he moves upriver as well and is friendly with tinners, millers, farmers, people who might be part of a smuggling route. He’s old elite, so to speak: part of the traditionally influential people on the moors who create the income the villagers have relied on for centuries. Then we have the village where men like Ben Webber try to take control. He told us that, with the railway coming and tourists flocking in, there should be tearooms and souvenir shops. He wants to change not just the appearance of the village but also the way in which money is earned. That means power will shift from those who have traditionally controlled the money sources to new people, like Webber himself.”

  Raven pointed at other books he had placed in isolation. “And here are the houses of our host and Bixby, which are more or less islands, not just in the wild moorland, but also in the perception of the townspeople, as both Oaks and Bixby are outsiders. They do not fit in and are watched with suspicion.”

  Merula nodded. “Attacked, even, if Bixby’s Perseid poster and the placement of the Tasmanian devil in the well are anything to go by. And where is the inn where Tillie worked before she came to serve Oaks?”

  “I hadn’t come to that yet. I think it should be …” Raven studied his scheme.

  Bowsprit came up to him with a cup. “Your coffee, my lord. If I may?” He handed Raven the cup, took a book from a chair beside Raven, and placed it before the village, seen from the estuary. “The inn. And if I may make one further suggestion about your scene?”

  Raven rolled his eyes at Merula, but he didn’t protest.

  Bowsprit walked to one of the long shelves and pointed at some tin soldiers that were standing there. “These could be your key players. You could place them at the various locations. They can also be moved about so you can determine who had access to places or who was familiar with whom.”

  “Give them to me.” Raven accepted the tin soldiers and began to put them on the books. “The wreckmaster and his aide who tore your notebook apart.” He threw Merula a quick look from under his lashes, indicating he hadn’t yet forgotten her aversion to showing him what she had sketched.

  “Here, Ben Webber and his mother. We should not forget about her. She seems to be a force in her own right.”

  “You don’t think,” Bowsprit said, “that a decent lady has anything to do with murder? If it had been Fern who had died, my lord, and the means had been poison, I would have agreed that it might have been Mrs. Webber. A drop of something in a cup of tea and the unwanted prospect for the beloved son is gone. But the victim was Tillie, not Fern. And strangulation? Out in the open? I can’t see a respectable woman resorting to it. And the strange markings on the neck—how would she have made those?”

  “The kraken is missing an arm,” Merula said.

  Raven walked around the table, as if he wanted to see his tableau from another angle. “Yes, but Ben Webber’s mother never came to this house. How would she have laid hands on the arm?”

  He threw his head back and stared up at the ceiling. “I don’t think she came out at night and strangled that girl, no. But she might be the influence behind it all, the undertow, if you will. Place yourself in Ben Webber’s position. He’s ambitious, he wants to work hard and get on in life. He has a position to do so as he’ll inherit his father’s shop in due time. But his mother is watching him, and she can decide about the shop until he turns thirty. She can make life hard for him if she wants to. He likes girls.”

  Merula felt a moment’s stab of sadness for Lamb.

  Lamb. Where was she, anyway?

  “Did Lamb help you with breakfast, Bowsprit?” she asked. “Is she still in the kitchen?”

  “She’s in the kitchen, but not cooking or cleaning. She’s making a hat.”

  “A hat?” Merula echoed.

  “Yes, she seems to think she needs a better hat and is adorning it with feathers she found.”

  “Found where?” Raven asked with a suspicious look. “I hope she hasn’t been plucking them from Oaks’s mounted specimens. Some of them are extremely valuable, but only if they’re intact.”

  “Do you know where she got the feathers?” Merula asked Bowsprit.

  The valet shook his head. “She wasn’t very communicative about it,” he said with a sour expression that suggested he had asked and Lamb had told him to his face it was none of his business.

  Merula sighed. “Well, as long as she stays around the house and takes care, it’s not too bad, I suppose.”

  “I assume”— Bowsprit pursed his lips—“that she’s making the hat to go someplace and show it off to someone.”

  “Aha.” Merula studied his face a moment, trying to determine whether he was just agitated by Lamb’s furtive behavior or worried for her sake.

  Raven waved both hands in the air. “Anyway, we were putting together this playing field. I was just saying that Ben Webber likes girls. He was involved with Fern, who worked at the inn. He went there regularly, I suppose. Tillie also worked there, but if we can believe the information given to Bowsprit when he was at the inn, she wasn’t as popular as Fern.”

  Raven frowned. “I wonder if, after Fern snubbed him to his face, he transferred his interest to Tillie. He did seem to know a lot about what stories she told. Of silverware and such. How would he know about that unless he spoke with her, after she exchanged the inn for this house? Can we conclude that he also learned more about the zoological collection? That he knew, for instance, about a Tasmanian devil in it?”

  “Would Tillie have gone near the specimens room?” Merula wondered.

  Bowsprit made a so-so gesture with his hand. “Webber did emphasize that she liked to make herself important with stories. She might have looked in. Or she was put up to it. In my experience, people who like to tell tales can easily be challenged into doing something by implying they don’t dare do it.”

  “An excellent point. And who would have put her up to it?”

  Bowsprit shrugged. “Webber comes to mind. Perhaps Tillie believed she could prove to him she was more interesting than Fern by giving him information about the zoological collection.”

  “Question is,” Raven interrupted, “why Webber would want to know about the collection at all. He is busy with the railway coming, tearooms and toby jugs, and somehow Tasmanian devils and two-headed calves don’t really fit into that image. Now on with our little scene. Here!”

  With a flourish, Raven put a soldier at Oaks’s house. “Our friend Oaks. World traveler, collector of rare animals. An outsider and a man about whom strange gossip abounded.”

  “You have to place another soldier,” Merula said, “for the stable boy. I talked to him and … I’m not quite sure what it was, but he seemed to be upset. About the dead girl and about Oaks.”

  Raven stared at her. “Wait. Wait! Oaks told me that the girl came on to him suddenly when he was coming back from a walk. That she kissed him and tried to coax him into marrying her. What if the stable boy saw that? As it happened out in the open, there’s a chance of it.”

  “Especially if he fancied the girl and was following her around,” Bowsprit added. “When he saw her kissing Oaks, he got angry, and later he went after her to kill her in such a way that Oaks would be blamed for it. Then he could punish them both.”

  Raven didn’t seem completely convinced. “Tillie’s sudden interest in Oaks never made much sense to me. Why would the stable boy be so mad about it he committed murder for it? Wouldn’t he have realized that Oaks would turn her away and it would be an ideal chance for him to comfort her and endear himself to her? No, no, that doesn’t fit at all.”

  He weighed the tin soldier representing the stable boy on his palm. “I think I will have to go out to the police station, to ask for more information. As they’ve arrested Oaks, they must have something solid against him. Once we know what it is, we can find a way to discredit that information and prove his innocence.”

  He tossed the tin soldier to Bowsprit, who caught it with one hand
and turned away from the table briskly.

  “I’ll threaten the inspector a little with mention of lawyers and suits if he doesn’t tell me what I want to know.”

  “He didn’t look like a man you can intimidate,” Merula said doubtfully. “And besides, you invited the blacksmith over. What if he arrives while you’re not even here?”

  “Then you can try a feminine touch on him. You didn’t seem pleased with the way I proposed to handle it. Fine, try it as you see fit. Sympathize with him and his loss and try to build a mental picture of the murdered girl. We must all do our bit.” Raven gulped down his coffee, picked up two sandwiches, and rushed to the door. “I’ll tell you all later when I’m done.” The door closed behind him with a thud.

  Merula exhaled. “Brilliant. He leaves to let me deal with the blacksmith. I have no idea how I can face his grief and learn something new. Especially as Fern’s story to us in the village church suggested that Tillie wanted to get rich to help her father. If he ever finds out about that, he might conclude that she died trying to help him. That it was somehow his fault. That would be terrible. He already lost his wife and daughter, everyone he cares for. He need not also be weighed down by the suggestion that Tillie took risks for his sake.”

  “His lordship’s idea might not be a bad one,” Bowsprit countered. “Assuming the blacksmith believes that Oaks is his daughter’s killer, then his lordship’s acquaintance with Oaks makes him a natural enemy of the blacksmith. You, however, have nothing to do with it. You were invited here for a pleasant holiday that turned into a terrible tragedy. You are truly shocked by this girl’s death, so you need not simulate your feelings. You’re not doing the blacksmith any harm.” Bowsprit looked her over and frowned. “Before he arrives, you need to eat. You look terribly worn.”