Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
AUTHORS’NOTE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
AUTHORS’ NOTE
REFERENCES
More praise for Robin Paige’s Victorian Mysteries:
“I read it with enjoyment ... I found myself burning for the injustices of it, and caring what happened to the people.”
—Anne Perry
“Good stories with a nice feel for the period. Intriguing and intelligent.” —Mysterious Women
“An original and intelligent sleuth ... a vivid re-creation of Victorian England.”—Jean Hager, author of Blooming Murder
“Absolutely riveting.... An extremely articulate, genuine mystery, with well-drawn, compelling characters.”
—Meritorious Mysteries
“An adventure worth reading.” —Romantic Times
“Robin Paige provides readers with an excellent historical mystery that will have genre fans searching for the previous novels in this special, one-of-a-kind series.”
—Midwest Book Review
Praise for
Death at Epsom Downs
“Enough danger and intrigue to keep readers turning the pages, which are filled with vivid historical detail.”
—Booklist
“Even-tempered prose, period conversation, historical characters, dialect, and culture will make this a solid addition to the series.” —Library Journal
“Readers who like their historical mysteries on the lighter side will find much to enjoy here.” —Publishers Weekly
“The cleverly arranged mystery absorbs the audience, but takes a back seat to the human drama at the tail end of the nineteenth century. Robin Paige provides a page-turning novel that will entice historical fiction buffs and Victorian mystery readers to seek her previous works in a strong series.” —Midwest Book Review
“If you like mysteries with real characters and historical settings, you will enjoy this series.”—The Stuart (FL) News
The Victorian Mystery Series by ROBIN PAIGE
Death at Bishop’s Keep
... in which our detectives Kate Ardleigh and Sir Charles Sheridan meet for the first time as they are drawn into a lurid conspiracy ...
Death at Gallows Green
... in which two mysterious deaths bring Kate and Sir Charles together once more to solve the secrets of Gallows Green ...
Death at Daisy’s Folly
... in which Charles and Kate discover that even the highest levels of society are no refuge from the lowest of deeds—such as murder ...
Death at Devil’s Bridge
... in which newlyweds Charles and Kate Sheridan begin their lives at Bishop’s Keep—only to find a new mystery right in their own backyard ...
Death at Rottingdean
... in which a seaside holiday for Charles and Kate becomes a working vacation when the body of a coast guard is discovered on the beach of Smuggler’s Village ...
Death at Whitechapel
... in which a friend of the Sheridans’ is blackmailed—by someone who claims to have proof that her son’s father was none other than the notorious Jack the Ripper ...
Death at Epsom Downs
... in which a jockey is murdered on Derby day, leaving Charles and Kate to embark on a race for justice that stands to be a photo finish ...
The Victorian Mysteries by Robin Paige
DEATH AT BISHOP’S KEEP DEATH AT GALLOWS GREEN DEATH AT DAISY’S FOLLY DEATH AT DEVIL’S BRIDGE DEATH AT ROTTINGDEAN DEATH AT WHITECHAPEL DEATH AT EPSOM DOWNS DEATH AT DARTMOOR DEATH AT GLAMIS CASTLE DEATH IN HYDE PARK DEATH AT BLENHEIM PALACE DEATH ON THE LIZARD
China Bayles Mysteries by Susan Wittig Albert
THYME OF DEATH
WITCHES’ BANE
HANGMAN’S ROOT
ROSEMARY REMEMBERED
RUEFUL DEATH
LOVE LIES BLEEDING
CHILE DEATH
LAVENDER LIES
MISTLETOE MAN
BLOODROOT
INDIGO DYING
AN UNTHYMELY DEATH
A DILLY OF A DEATH
DEAD MAN’S BONES
BLEEDING HEARTS
SPANISH DAGGER
CHINA BAYLES’ BOOK OF DAYS
Beatrix Potter Mysteries by Susan Wittig Albert
THE TALE OF HILL TOP FARM
THE TALE OF HOLLY HOW
THE TALE OF CUCKOO BROW WOOD
THE TALE OF HAWTHORN HOUSE
Nonfiction books by Susan Wittig Albert
WRITING FROM LIFE
WORK OF HER OWN
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
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DEATH AT DARTMOOR
A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the authors
Copyright © 2002 by Susan Wittig Albert and William J. Albert.
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Version_2
AUTHORS’NOTE
Four of the characters in this novel are “real,” and our representation of them is as faithful to life as we can make it. Arthur Conan Doyle and Fletcher Robinson visited Dartmoor during March and April of 1901, when this novel takes place, with the purpose of jointly authoring The Hound of the Baskervilles. We don’t know for certain that Jean Leckie joined Conan Doyle at the Duchy Hotel, but the two frequently arranged such meetings, and it is not impossible that she would have visited him there. William Crossing’s pioneering work as a topographical expert and as a folklorist has made it possible for tens of thousands of visitors to enjoy the beauties of Dartmoor and to appreciate the legends that Doyle used as the basis of his famous story.
ROBIN PAIGE
BILL AND SUSAN ALBERT
BERTRAM, TEXAS
CAST OF CHARACTERS
*Indicates historical persons
Lord Charles Sheridan, Baron Somersworth and amateur forensic detective
Lady Kathryn Ardleigh Sheridan, Baroness Somersworth and author, under the pen name of Beryl Bardwell
Miss Patsy Marsden, photographer and world traveler
*Arthur Conan Doyle (later, Sir Arthur), author
*Miss Jean Leckie, intimate friend of Conan Doyle, later Lady Conan Doyle
*Bertram (Bertie) Fletcher Robinson, journalist and self-styled “joint author” of The Hound of the Baskervilles
Sir Edgar Duncan, master of Thornworthy, Chagford, Dartmoor
Lady Rosalind Duncan, wife of Sir Edgar and mistress of Thornworthy
Avis Cartwright, upstairs maid, Thomworthy
Mr. Nigel Westcott, medium
Mr. Jack Delany, Stapleton House, Chagford, Dartmoor, Sir Edgar’s cousin
Mrs. Daisy Bernard, Hornaby Farm, Hexworthy, Dartmoor, Sir Edgar’s friend
Major Oliver Cranford, Governor, Dartmoor Prison
Dr. Samuel Spencer, former physician, sentenced in 1900 to Dartmoor Prison for the murder of his wife Elizabeth
Miss Mattie Jenkyns, archaeologist
Miss Charlotte Lucas, of the Salvation Army Prison Gate Mission
Miss Evelyn Spencer, prison reformer
*William Crossing, author of Guide to Dartmoor and expert interpreter of the moor and its people
Vicar Thomas Garrett, of Saint Michael and All Angels, Princetown, Dartmoor
James Lorrimer, M.R.C.S., medical officer for the parishes of Grimpen, Thorsley, and High Barrow, Dartmoor
Constable Daniel Chapman, Mid-Devon Constabulary
CHAPTER ONE
Princetown, Dartmoor
March 30, 1901
The chances are that you will either love Princetown or hate it.... There are those who view the mist-enshrouded town with its high rainfall, its gray buildings and grim prison as the end of creation.... There are others, though, who believe that its air is healthy and invigorating and that It is set in a landscape of unparalleled beauty.
Princetown of Yesteryear
Chips Barber
Constable Daniel Chapman of the Mid-Devon Constabulary loved his work with a passion that perplexed his wife and, truth be told, puzzled even him. It was not that he was well paid, for the eighteen shillings he brought in each week was not much above the rate paid to a common laborer, and, like a laborer, he was required to be out in all weathers. It was not that the work was easy, either, in spite of the fact that Princetown was a small town and that, for the most part, the moor dwellers of Mid-Devon were a peaceable lot. Since the prison—ill-famed Dartmoor Prison, which loomed like a gray granite ghost out of the lowering Dartmoor mist—required quite a number of guards and since the guards were not always of the highest moral character, Constable Chapman often found his work cut out for him, especially when Saturday and payday arrived, and the hard-drinking, short-tempered fellows crowded into Princetown’s two pubs to spend their money on ale.
But in spite of these things, Daniel Chapman felt profoundly proud when he buttoned the gold buttons of his navy blue uniform coat, put on his tall, blue helmet, and bade his wife and children good-bye at the front door of their small stone cottage at the top of the High Street. He felt even prouder when he walked around to the back of the cottage and unlocked the door of the tiny constable’s office (for Princetown’s constable, as was often the case, lived and worked in the same place). Stepping inside, the first thing he saw was the Ordnance map fixed to one wall, and on the other a board pinned full of official notices from the Devonshire Constabulary, signed with Superintendent Weaver’s official flourish. The sight of the map and the notices reminded him once again that he, Constable Daniel Dickson Chapman, was the only representative of the King’s law across all the west moor, from Okehampton down to Plymouth. (The constable did not count the governor of the Dartmoor Prison, of course, who was only a custodial agent for the men incarcerated there and had nothing to do with enforcing the law. That was Daniel Chapman’s business, and only his.)
The office was as cold as the outdoors. Constable Chapman went to the small iron stove in the corner of the room, scooped the ashes from the grate into a bucket, and carried them out to the ash heap in the rear. Back inside, he lit a fire of small faggots and added pieces of peat. There was enough water in the bucket to fill the kettle, and while he waited for it to heat, he sat down at a wooden table and attacked the mound of reports and papers that always seemed to be lying in wait for him, keeping him off the streets and away from the people whom he was committed to serve.
The constable was just getting well started when the door opened, letting in a whoosh of cold air. A small, ruddy-faced man stamped in, puffed out his breath, and in his musical Devonshire speech, announced, “Us’ve got dogs o‘er Chagford way, Constable. Two sheep dead an’ two down. There wud’ve bin more, only young Jemmy come up on ’um on his way to school and chased ‘um off. Knowin’ that ye be so partic’lar ’bout keepin’ informed as to goin’s-on here’bouts, I thought ye’d like t’ know.”
“Thank‘ee, Rafe.” The constable matched the man’s soft speech as best he could, although his Bristol tongue was harsher and more clipped. “ ’Tis the third such report i’ the last fortnight. I’ll let folks know t’keep they eyes open.”
“Us’ll be shootin’ on sight,” Rafe said darkly.
“Well, then, be certain t’ shoot dogs, not folks,” the constable said mildly.
“Aye, fay,” Rafe said, agreeing, and stamped out.
The kettle began to hiss, and Constable Chapman got up to make a cup of tea. Sheep-killing dogs, a lost child, a drunken prison guard locked up for breaking a window in the Black Dog—that would be the sum of his reporting for the entire fortnight. Cup in hand, he turned to gaze out the window, which opened onto wide fields and stone fences, with Beardown Hill in the distance, and beyond, Beardown Tor, its granite knobs black against the winter-brown moor. In spite of the occasional problems created by the prison, it was far easier to keep the peace on Dartmoor than to police the dirty streets of Bristol. And the land was lovelier and infinitely more fascinating than any city vista, the uplands rising and falling and rising again, their shoulders constantly swept by the fresh, clean wind, their soft flanks granite studded, their gray heads topped with s
tone tors that reared up like monsters out of antiquity.
The constable smiled to himself. Yes, the land, always the fresh, clean, vast land, beyond the reach of any man to sully it. That was the real reason he loved his work.
Vicar Thomas Garrett, of Saint Michael and All Angels, on the other hand, did not love his work—a fact that he freely acknowledged as he lit his pipe, stirred one small teaspoonful of sugar into his tea, and settled himself at his desk in the vicarage to work on his Sunday sermon. Oh, it was not that he disliked his Princetown parishioners or the moor dwellers, most of whom lived in a handful of unfortunate hamlets flung like rough stones, randomly coming to rest between the hills and along the dales. It was not that he disliked his clerical duties, either, for Thomas Garrett’s father and grandfather and great-grandfather had been clergymen, and when he donned surplice and stole and stepped up to the pulpit to speak to his flock, he felt that he was not only carrying out the work of the Lord but carrying on a noble family tradition as well. And of course there was no disliking Saint Michael’s, which for all its stony austerity was an impressive example of Devonshire granite work, its tall, square tower offering a splendid view northward across the valley of the West Dart and into the very heart of the moor.