Death at Dartmoor Read Online Free PDF Page A

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    â€œForget the plumbing and the fires,” the major said, putting a spoonful of seafood salad on his plate. “Fingerprinting, now—that’s a task we can accomplish, Charles. Knowing you as I do, I’m sure you have already organized the whole thing in your mind. I suppose you’re ready to move forward with it. What can I do to help?”
    â€œPolice Commissioner Henry and I have drafted a set of instructions for those who will be implementing the system,” Charles said. He unfolded a snowy white napkin across his knees. “As important as collecting the prints is their labeling and cataloguing, which ought to be consistent across the Empire.”
    â€œThe Empire!” The major raised his eyebrows. “Well, well. You are up to something, old chap.” He held up his wineglass, scrutinizing the color. He took a sip, smiled, and took another.
    â€œIt’s extensive but manageable,” Charles said mildly, around his sandwich. “If all do their individual parts.”
    â€œWhich won’t be done as eagerly you imagine, of course.” The major set down his glass. Under his fastidiously trimmed mustache, his smile was dry. “There’ll be plenty of foot-dragging. Prison officials are not known for being open to change, you know. We’re a conservative lot—much worse than the police.”
    â€œOf course,” Charles said. “But we must make a start.” He was not in the habit of blaming people for being unwilling to adapt to new ideas. But as police collected fingerprint evidence and prosecutors began to use it in obtaining convictions in court, it was only a matter of time before everyone involved would be forced to accept this new and virtually foolproof method of identification. “This afternoon,” he added, “I should like to meet with your deputy governor and the guards he’s selected to do the actual work.”
    â€œVery good.” The major finished his salad and took a sandwich. “One or two may be a bit late, however. A missionary from the Salvation Army Prison Gate Mission is here to distribute Bibles to the Scottish inmates.” He grinned. “We can threaten their souls with the fires of Hades, even if we can’t warm their shanks. Since most of the men are illiterate, however, I doubt that a Bible or two will make much of a difference.”
    â€œSpeaking of Scottish inmates,” Charles said, “I wonder what you might know of Dr. Samuel Spencer, who arrived here fairly recently.”
    â€œNovember, I believe.” The major chewed and swallowed. “I spoke with him myself. A well-educated, thoughtful fellow. But he’s in the right company. At last count, we are housing two other inmates who are here because they bludgeoned their wives to death.”
    â€œYou think he’s guilty, then?”
    â€œGuilty?” The major licked his finger. “I hadn’t given it much thought. He pled guilty, didn’t he?”
    â€œIf he was guilty, why didn’t he hang?”
    The major frowned. “Dash it all, Sheridan, you know why he didn’t hang. A petition was got up by his friends in Edinburgh, fifty or sixty names—”
    â€œFour hundred,” Charles said.
    â€œFour hundred, then.” The major sounded cross. “And then that magazine, Truth, began needling the home secretary, who knuckled under and commuted the sentence to life imprisonment.” He put down his plate with a clatter. “If you ask me, Spencer ought to be grateful for all that’s been done on his behalf.”
    â€œHas he said whether he’s guilty or innocent? Since he arrived at the prison, I mean.”
    â€œHe told the court that he’s guilty, and that’s enough for me,” the major replied, taking a slice of cheese.
    Charles contemplated the fire in silence for a moment, then remarked, “The reason some signed the petition was that the