Devil May Care (A Jonathan Harker Mystery) (13 page)

Paxton
was certain that a similar fate would have soon befallen Flora Haywood, had she undergone her planned marriage. He added that his own funds were now much depleted – apparently the Reverend Trewellard had expensive tastes – and that the acquisition of Flora’s dowry was an added attraction for the baronet.

*

It was not until the dinner things had been cleared away that evening that I had the opportunity to relate Paxton’s bizarre tale to Charles, Edith and Mina. We had asked Dr Goodwin to join us and after I had finished my account he poured us all a glass of port. It was a superior vintage which Charles had opened to celebrate the successful conclusion of our adventure.

‘Tell
me Jonathan,’ the doctor asked – we were by now on first name terms, ‘have Mr and Mrs Haywood yet heard the news?’

I
chuckled. ‘I spoke to them both this afternoon. They were obviously sceptical about the official version of events, but well enough satisfied with the outcome. Mr Haywood asked me to give you his best wishes, and to say that he, his wife and his daughter would be delighted if you would take tea with them one afternoon next week. It seems his daughter has made a miraculous recovery from her unhealthy infatuation with the baronet.’

Mina
smiled at Dr Goodwin, who had turned noticeably pink. ‘That is just as well, given that the former object of her affections is now dead. Doctor, you really should call upon Flora – I mean the Haywoods – if only to ensure that she has made a full recovery from her entrancement.’

Edith
took pity on the doctor and interjected. ‘What of the Haywoods’ own unpleasant nocturnal experience?’ she asked.

‘I
dare say that Sir Owen asked Trewellard to act on his behalf, after he had been thrown out by Mr Haywood,’ I said. ‘The vicar must have used his malign knowledge to conjure up the forces of evil. If so, Haywood’s success in repelling the demon – or whatever Trewellard had summoned to do his bidding – suggests that the vicar’s powers in that respect were not very great. It may be that that Trewellard also helped Sir Owen to dispose of Silas Fraddam, by instigating the poor fellow’s madness. I am afraid that must now remain a mystery, although the farmer’s sudden lunacy seems a little too convenient to be put down to coincidence. However, there are other mysteries which
can
be answered. Mina, my dear, it seems a somewhat uncharitable question after your heroic deeds of last night, but you have not yet told us where you went after you left Miss Copthorne. Is there some local swain who has commandeered your affections?’

‘Sadly
no. I had just set out for home when Mrs Wollas – Lucy’s mother – approached me. Her daughter had disappeared earlier that evening, and the poor woman was distraught. I helped her look for Lucy, first giving Lucy’s younger brother a note to take to Rosehill explaining my absence. The shilling which accompanied my request was taken, but it seems that the task was never carried out. After I eventually reached home – without locating Lucy Wollas needless to say – Edith told me that you and Charles had gone to Carrick Manor thinking that I had been kidnapped. I borrowed one of Charles’ horses and followed you. It occurred to me that there might be danger, and being one of the weaker sex,’ Mina looked at Edith and smiled, ‘I took the precaution of arming myself. Fortunately the previous curate kept a supply of cartridges in the gun cabinet. When I arrived at the Manor, the butler told me that you had gone on to the vicarage. I think his honesty may have been inspired by the weapon I carried under my arm.’

Charles
stood up and put another log onto the blazing fire. ‘It is interesting, is it not, how an ounce of lead could cross a barrier impervious to three young men. The Seal of Lucifer is clearly not all-powerful.’

‘I
think I may have an explanation,’ I said. ‘If the influence of the Seal was
mental
– acting upon the mind that controls the body, rather than directly upon the limbs – then a non-sentient object might cross it with impunity.’

‘And
what of Lady Velland’s apparition?’ Edith asked. ‘Do you think the Sir Owen was in any real danger from her, other than in his imagination?’

‘Who
can say?’ I replied. ‘She was certainly no threat to me on the two occasions that I saw her. Of course unlike Sir Owen I was not responsible for her death. I’m inclined to agree with Charles – that she was trying to warn us of impending danger. However, it is just as well that she failed to dissuade Mina and me from visiting Cornwall. That might well have resulted in young Flora Haywood having to endure an unfortunate – and probably brief – marriage.’

*

There is little more to tell. Mina and I stayed at Rosehill until the following Wednesday and made the most of the Cornish air and scenery. On our last day I reluctantly took Willow back to the George Hotel – promising myself that I would visit the faithful creature the next time we were in Cornwall – and returned in the afternoon to help Mina pack our belongings in preparation for our journey back to Exeter.

When
I enquired after Charles, Edith directed me to the far corner of the Ashbys’ orchard, where I found her husband dressed in his old clothes and tending a blazing fire with a pitchfork. Instead of the expected dead grass and leaves I saw that he was burning a mass of hand-written papers and printed manuscripts.

‘My goodness, Charles, have you joined the Inquisition and vowed to root out all heresy?’ I asked. ‘I’m no expert, but that page of type there,’ I prodded it with a stick, ‘looks no later than 1700 to me.’

My
friend leaned on his fork. ‘It appears that the Reverend Trewellard has died intestate. At the request of the bishop I searched his house this morning and could find no trace of a will. However, my investigations revealed some other materials of a most curious nature, kept in a locked cupboard in his study.’

Charles
pointed at the blazing documents with his pitchfork, stirred up the fire and continued. ‘Had I known nothing about Trewellard I would probably have suggested donating the whole collection to the Bodleian Library. Some of the items looked quite valuable. However, I’ve decided that in this instance the loss to historians and bibliophiles must be seen as a necessary price to pay for our peace of mind.’

I
nodded slowly. ‘Of course I agree. I for one will rest easier knowing that Trewellard’s peculiar knowledge has died with him.’

We
stood silently side by side, Charles steering the remaining fragments towards the dying flames. As he did so the October air chilled suddenly. Drops of rain fell onto the bonfire, hissing and spitting as they touched the fine white ash and turned all to darkness.

If you enjoyed
Devil May Care
you might be interested in
The Complete Hester Lynton Mysteries
by Tony Evans, also published by Endeavour Press.

Extract from
The Complete Hester Lynton Mysteries
by Tony Evans

Introduction

When a letter from Mrs Ivy Rogerson arrived in the morning mail a little over twelve months ago, I immediately recognised her handwriting. As I had only very recently heard from Ivy – my former secretary Miss Jessop – it seemed strange that she should write again so soon. For this reason, and because the large cream coloured envelope was not the type which Ivy generally used, I guessed that she had been asked to forward the contents. My desire for privacy means that my address in Dartmoor is known only to a small number of friends.

I pulled out the single sheet of paper. There was a short note from Ivy pinned to the top, written in her clear copperplate hand, explaining that she had been asked to send the contents to me. The sheet had a printed letterhead,
The Bond Street Press
– a well-known firm of London publishers. My reading glasses were with an Okehampton optician awaiting repair, and I could not make out the small and crabbed handwriting below.

I called to my housekeeper, Mrs Tompkins, who was cleaning the upstairs rooms.

‘Sarah, I’d grateful if you could read this to me,’ I said. ‘I have made out the attached note, but the rest is beyond me.’

Mrs Tompkins cleared her throat.

‘It’s from a Mr Arthur Steadworth, Ma’am,’ she said.

‘Ah – he is the owner of
The Bond Street Press
. Please tell me what he has to say.’

My housekeeper laid the page down on the kitchen table and read the letter out slowly and clearly.

‘Dear Miss Lynton, I hope that you are enjoying your retirement from public life, and that the wilds of Dartmoor have not proved too dull compared to the excitements and dangers of your previous occupation. No doubt you will remember our meeting some years ago, when I gave evidence at the trial of Sir David Gillespie, the Harley Street Poisoner. I am of course aware that the Gillespie affair was by no means the only example of your skills as a private detective. As some time has now passed since your investigations took place, would you be interested in writing an account of some of your most interesting cases, with a view to their publication in book form? I have already spoken to my partners and we would be willing to pay a substantial sum for such a work.’

After some thought I accepted Steadworth’s offer. Just over a year later, the result is in my readers’ hands. I need only add that other than the very first case I undertook, which I felt should be placed at the beginning of this volume, the rest are just a small selection of my more puzzling or unusual enquiries, arranged in no particular order.

Hester Lynton
15th February, 1913

The Case of the Missing Governess

It was ten o’clock on a chilly morning in early March 1881 when my cab dropped me at the entrance to Paddington Station. The trains from the suburbs had already disgorged their crowds of clerks, businessmen, shop assistants and other workers, but the busy station was still teeming with that mass of humanity which always seems to occupy the public spaces of London.

The Great Western Railway local train to Reading was almost ready to leave when I reached the platform. The porters had finished securing a variety of trunks, hatboxes and other luggage to the roofs of the carriages, and steam was hissing from the cylinders of the huge locomotive at the head of the train. Luckily I was able to find myself a corner seat in an empty first class compartment. Travelling first class was something of a financial indulgence, but it had two distinct advantages: it provided a pleasant refuge from the ever-present London throng, and it made unwelcome male approaches far less likely. I was well aware of the dangers which could threaten an attractive twenty four year old woman travelling alone – dangers which were best prevented by sensible anticipation.

I was disappointed when another woman entered my compartment and occupied one of the seats opposite me. She was neatly dressed in a long grey jacket and matching walking skirt, and carried a large leather portmanteau. There was a trace of the Yorkshire accent in her voice when she apologised for her sudden appearance.

‘Please excuse my intrusion, Miss. Oh – I’m sorry – you may of course be Mrs! It’s just that I took you for an unmarried woman.’ A faint blush coloured my unexpected companion’s pretty face and she blinked her eyes in confusion. I decided that it would be unkind to be annoyed by her arrival. She looked even younger than me, and had something of the air of a superior governess.

‘Think nothing of it. This carriage is after all not reserved. And you do not appear to me to be about to produce a pipe, cigar, pug dog, screaming infant or any of the other nightmares which are commonly inflicted by the travelling public. Now, since we have no one to introduce us, let us defy convention and introduce each other. I am Miss Hester Lynton, of 12 Newsome Street, London, and a private tutor of foreign languages.’

The young woman reached out and shook the hand I offered to her. ‘Ivy Jessop, Miss. I’m very please to meet you. Until very recently I was employed as the companion of Lady Eunice Laughton of Northway House, Chiswick. Lady Laughton sadly passed away last month, at the age of ninety-three.

‘And what is your current situation?’ I asked.