Read Online Death at Dartmoor by Robin Paige - Free Book Online Page B

to an impressive assortment of supper sandwiches of beef and ham and tongue, chicken rolls, puff pastries filled with lobster, cheeses, jam tartlets, fancy pastries, fresh fruit, and bonbons. A trio of uniformed servants moved among the crowd, pouring champagne.
    In spite of the gay congeniality of the other guests, Kate was not drawn into the party but stood on the fringes, observing the others as they ate and drank and chatted sociably. Moments like this frequently overtook her in crowds, especially when Beryl Bardwell had a writing project in mind and was on the lookout for promising ideas. (Some time ago, Kate had adopted the practice of referring to Beryl when she thought of her writing-self. It was useful when she was doing something that she wouldn’t ordinarily do in her own person, such as eavesdropping on a conversation or scanning the envelopes on someone’s hallway table. She was able to excuse herself for such inexcusable behavior only because it was Beryl who was doing the snooping, not she.)
    Just now, for instance, as she took mental notes of the room’s furnishings, Beryl’s gaze happened to alight on Mr. Delany, who was standing off by himself, his hands in his pockets, gazing up at the ranks of family portraits on one wall. The man—slim, clean-shaven, flaxen-haired, perhaps near forty years of age—was a relative of Sir Edgar, and lived nearby. Did he resent the chance that had bestowed Thornworthy and its wealth upon his elder kinsman, rather than upon himself?
    A gesture caught her eye, and Beryl turned in the direction of her hostess. Lady Duncan was replying absently to a question put to her by the vicar, but her attention was elsewhere. Her eyes were fastened intently on her husband, who was engaged in a serious conversation with the shy widow about a pair of lost ewes that had turned up in a neighbor’s enclosure and had to be fetched home. Some aspect of this seemed to strike the two of them as funny, and they leaned close together, laughing. Beryl saw that Lady Duncan’s luminous dark eyes held a flash of something—was it jealousy?—and that there was a masked tension in the line of the woman’s jaw. Surely there was the kernel of a plot here: a possessive wife whose emotions were obviously repressed; an attractive, exuberant husband; a pretty little widow who lived temptingly near; and a cousin who coveted his kinsman’s fortune. What if—
    â€œWell, Kate,” Patsy said in Kate’s ear, “what’s your impression of the castle?”
    Startled out of Beryl’s plottings, Kate pulled her attention back to the party. “I certainly do hope,” she replied, “that the private apartments are a little less ... daunting. It’s all well and good to put rooms such as this in a story, but I should not like to live in them.”
    â€œI must say I agree,” Patsy said. “Mr. Delany, who has lived in this neighborhood his whole life, says that this place is haunted. One of the family forebears—the second Marquis of Thorn, who was murdered in the 1840s—occasionally steps out of the fireplace and through those bookcases at the end of the room, where there used to be a door, and into the chapel where his body lay in state. Mr. Delany claims to have seen the apparition himself, when he was a boy.”
    â€œMarvelous!” Kate exclaimed. “Perhaps the marquis will put in an appearance tonight.”
    â€œI also talked to Mr. Crossing,” Patsy said. She nodded toward the table, where a gray-haired man was standing with Conan Doyle and Charles. “He’s compiling a guidebook to Dartmoor and seems to know quite a lot about the moor. He’s offered to guide me on a ramble down the Walkham River tomorrow, and I have agreed. What do you think?”
    Kate laughed. “Your mother wouldn’t approve of your going off with a married man, but I think you’ll enjoy every moment of it. Mr.