Escapade (17 page)

“Well,” said Doyle, turning to me again, eyebrows raised. “Shall we walk for a while? Need that at my age, you know. Don’t get out as much as I’d like.”

We walked through the garden and turned right at the gravel walkway, heading back toward the tall tree with bronze-red leaves. His long legs churning up the gravel, Doyle set a pace that would probably get us to Labrador by nightfall.

We scurried along for a while. I didn’t say anything the footrace had been his idea. At last he said, “You know, I've met William Pinkerton.”

“Yes?”

“Several times. A fascinating man, I thought. And a wonderful raconteur. We traveled on the same ship once, a transatlantic crossing, and he was kind enough to provide me with some splendid material. Really gripping stuff. I used bits of it in one of my novels.”

“No kidding.”
The Valley of Fear
. Everyone in the Agency knew that Doyle had used the story of McParlan and the Molly Maguires in the book, and everyone knew that William A. Pinkerton had been steamed at Doyle for doing it without his permission. But the smart money was on the notion that the Old Man had really been angry because Doyle hadn’t given him credit for the story.

Doyle said, “He also told me quite a lot about his agency. I was most impressed. He made the point that all of his agents operatives, isn’t that right?—that all of them were responsible, intelligent, reasonable men.”

I smiled. “Harry’s been talking to you,” I said. “He’s been trying to persuade you to persuade
me
to forget about the police.” 

Doyle chuckled. “His agents were insightful as well, Mr. Pinkerton told me. Is that the tree, up ahead?”

“Yes.” The bronze-red tree.

“May I examine it?”

“Be my guest.”

When we reached the shade of the tree, Doyle reached into his inside coat pocket, found an oblong leather case, opened it, took out a pair of spectacles. He slipped the case back into his pocket and then slipped the spectacles over his nose. I showed him where we had all been standing when the shot was fired. I showed him the hole in the tree trunk, where I’d dug out the slug.

“And the shot,” he said, “was fired from where?”

I pointed down the long green rolling slope. “There. At the back of the garden. That small opening in the tree line.”

“A fair distance.”

“Yeah.”

He frowned. “You were both on the walkway, and the walkway passes within thirty yards of that opening. Why is it, do you think, that he didn’t wait until you’d approached more closely?” 

“We weren’t walking on it at the time. We were standing around, talking. Maybe he’d just gotten there himself, maybe he didn’t know we’d be coming closer.” I shrugged. “Or maybe he got tired of waiting.”

Doyle nodded. With his big hand he indicated one of the white wrought-iron benches. “Shall we sit?”

We sat. Doyle exhaled deeply. Once again, now that he was sitting, some of his vitality seemed to escape with his breath. Almost wearily he reached into his coat pocket and took out the leather case. He removed his spectacles, folded them, put them in the case, slipped the case back into his pocket. He leaned forward, parked his heavy forearms on his knees, clasped his hands together. He turned to me. “Mr. Beaumont,” he said. “Houdini does, of course, realize that you’re in the right, so far as informing the authorities is concerned. He knows full well that so long as Chin Soo’s whereabouts are unknown, the guests here are quite possibly in jeopardy. It goes without saying that he’s deeply concerned about them.”

Went without saying by the Great Man, anyway. At least to me. “But he’s also concerned,” said Doyle, “as you know, about the effect that the arrival of the police will have on his career. And in this, I believe, he is correct. Purleigh is a small town and doubtless has its share of gossips. Houdini’s career, as you know, depends almost entirely upon his reputation.”

“I’m not worried about his reputation. I’m worried about his life. And the lives of all the other people here.”

“Of course. And your concern does you credit.” Slowly, wincing very slightly, he sat back. He crossed his arms over his chest. “But hear me out. What Houdini proposes is that we inform New Scotland Yard, in London.”

I shook my head. “According to Lord Purleigh, they can’t get here in time.”

He smiled. “Ah, but you see they
can
send a telegram to P.C. Dubbins, and to the police station at Amberly, the nearest large town. They can insist, in the telegrams, that Dubbins and the Amberly constabulary preserve the absolute confidentiality of this matter. I know a man at the Yard, quite highly placed, who could help arrange this. I could get in touch with him by telephone, after tea, after we’ve discussed this with the other guests.”

I thought about that for a moment. I looked at him. “Houdini proposes, Sir Arthur?”

He smiled. “Well . . .”

“This was your idea, wasn’t it?”

“Well. Yes.” His smile widened and he bobbed his head. “I confess. Forgive me for saying so, but it seemed rather a good solution to the problem.”

“It is,” I told him.

He grinned now, pleased. “Do you really think so?”

“It’s good. Have you talked about it with Lord Purleigh?”

“Not as yet. But he’s already agreed that the police are necessary. Why should he object to keeping confidentiality?”

“Okay.”

“Then you’re agreed?” Doyle asked me.

“Sure.”

“Excellent!” he said. “Topping!” He held out his big hand and I took it. He put some more creases in my palm."

WE WALKED BACK to the house more slowly. Maybe Doyle was growing tired now. Or maybe, now that he had confronted me with his compromise, he was no longer in a hurry.

I asked him, “Have you known Harry for a long time?”

He looked up, blinking at me. “I beg your pardon? Oh. Not terribly long. We met just last year. And you, I take it, you’ve known him for only a month or so.”

“A little over a month.”

He nodded. “A truly exceptional man, don’t you think?”

“One of a kind.”

“Brave and gifted. I’ve never seen any man display such absolutely reckless daring. The man is constantly risking life and limb.”

The Great Man was brave, I knew that. But I had seen him prepare for his performances and I knew that he was anything but reckless. He was risking life and limb more by staying here, out in the English countryside, than he ever risked them on stage.

“He’s an extraordinary showman,” said Doyle. “A marvelous performer.”

“Yeah. Marvelous.”

“And a medium, of course.”

I looked at him. “A medium what?”

He smiled. “Come now, Mr. Beaumont. A medium. A clairvoyant. And most assuredly more. This is a man who clearly possesses stupendous powers. How else could he achieve the miracles he achieves? Oh, he denies it, I realize, for reasons of his own.” The smile became indulgent and he shook his head. “Modesty, perhaps.”

“Modesty,” I repeated. I was still looking at Doyle. He seemed completely sincere. Just to make sure, I said it again. “Modesty?”

He nodded. “I realize, of course, that on the face of it he does sometimes seem rather taken with himself. I’ve heard people refer to him as conceited, and I suppose I can understand their confusion. But as I see it, his assurance is but the supreme selfconfidence of a unique individual who has, through a God-given gift, overcome the boundaries of time and space.”

He looked over at me, smiling. “But you know all this, of course. You know the man. You’ve traveled with him. No doubt you’ve actually seen him dematerialize.”

“Dematerialize.”

“I envy you, I must say. I’ve read through the literature, it goes without saying. Comprehensively. The accounts in the Bible. The stories of Daniel Dunglas Home. And of Mrs. Guppy—you know that she actually teleported herself from Highbury to Bloomsbury? How I should’ve loved to see that!” He unclasped his hands, slipped them into his pants pockets, shook his big head a few times, then looked over at me. “But to live, as you’ve been doing, at close quarters with such a marvel. I truly envy you, Mr. Beaumont.”

He looked down, at the gravel walkway, and he sighed.

“Sir Arthur,” I said.

“Hmm?”

“Harry doesn’t dematerialize.”

He looked over at me and he furrowed his wide brow. And then, after a moment, he smiled at me, the way a father smiles when his son tells him that the missing cookies were stolen by a band of gypsies. “Come now,” he said.

“He’s a magician, Sir Arthur. Those are tricks up there, on stage. Good tricks. But tricks.”

For another few moments he stared at me. Then, once again, he smiled. He nodded sagely. “I understand completely. Not another word.”

I didn’t have any other words. Neither of us spoke any until we reached the entrance to the manor house.

“And here we are,” he said. “Back again.” He looked at me thoughtfully. “I do hope this Chin Soo business won’t affect the seance tonight. Madame Sosostris is acutely sensitive, you know. Her abilities may be impaired by all the ill will drifting about.”

He looked around him and then up at the sky, as if the ill will might have gathered into storm clouds up there.

He turned to me. “You’ll find her remarkable, I’m sure. She’ll be joining the rest of us for tea. Well, I believe I’ll rest for a bit. Long drive from London. It’s been delightful talking with you.” He held out his hand. I gave him mine and let him crush it for a while.

THE GREAT MAN wasn’t in his room when I returned to our suite. I looked at my watch. Three-thirty, and tea was at four. I undressed and took a quick shower. I put on clean underwear and a clean shirt.

My suit had been harvesting fruits of the forest all day—twigs and leaves, a thorn or two. I brushed them off and then I climbed back into it. The .32 Colt was still in my jacket pocket and it was going to stay there until I left Maplewhite.

I left the room. I was opposite the door to the suite that held Mrs. Allardyce and Miss Turner when Cecily Fitzwilliam sailed around the corner up ahead. She was walking toward me and she was wearing some clothes this afternoon, a long-sleeved red dress.

I stopped.

“Mr. Beaumont!” she smiled. “What a wonderful coincidence.

I was just coming to see you.” She stopped and curled up her shoulders in a soft quick shrug, then put her hands together below her stomach, left hand cupping right. “How are you?” She looked sweetly up at me as if she expected a kiss on her pert little mouth.

I tried to remember the jaded young thing who had drawled at me in the drawing room last night.

“Bringing back the key to your handcuffs?” I asked her.

She frowned, puzzled. “But what . . .You
have
the key. I put it"—she glanced quickly around, lowered her voice—“I put it on your bed.”

I shook my head.

She nearly stamped her foot. “But I
did
,” she said. “I found it under the bed, after you left, and I put it exactly in the center of the mattress. Where you’d be certain to find it.”

“I didn’t.”

“But that’s impossible. You
did
look?”

“I looked. How’d you manage to get back to your room without anyone seeing you?”

“The front stairs.” With a nod of her head she indicated the end of the corridor, behind me. “Mr. Beaumont, I swear to you, I put the key on the bed. I’d never have left you . . .” She shrugged, smiled. “Well . . .
you
know . . .
stranded
like that.”

“Okay,” I said. “You put the key on the bed.”

Her smile vanished, buried beneath a pout. “I
did
.”

“Okay,” I said. She hadn’t asked me how I’d gotten out of the cuffs. Probably she was too busy thinking about whatever it was that had brought her here.

She glanced around again, leaned slightly toward me. She fluttered her eyelashes a few more times and she smiled again. A coy smile. “You didn’t tell anyone about last night, did you?” This was why she’d come—to learn if I’d been spilling any beans lately.

“I told Mr. Houdini,” I said.

She leaned back and her face went suddenly stiff and red. “How
could
you?” she said.

“I needed to get the cuffs off.”

Her brow puckered up, her lower lip dropped. “But I left you the key.” A wail was quavering just behind her voice.

“I never found it,” I said. “Look. Don’t worry. I told him you wanted to talk. I told him you brought the handcuffs because you thought he might want to see them.”

“But you told him I was
there
!”

“He won’t repeat it.”

Some kind of understanding flashed across her face. “Is that why he was avoiding me? Just now? Every time I came near him, he was blinking like a madman. And then he went racing away.” Her eyes opened wide in horror. “He thinks I’m a nymphomaniac!”

I smiled. “He doesn’t think—”

“I’m
not
a nymphomaniac!”

At that moment, the door opened to my left. Miss Turner stood there, looking out at us with her mouth turned down in disapproval. Her hair was wrung back behind her head again and she was wearing another shapeless dress. Brown, this time.

For a second or two she stood there and those wide blue eyes silently stared. And then she flinched and her long body jerked abruptly forward, as though she had been whacked in the back. The voice of Mrs. Allardyce shrilled out—“Get along with you, Jane, don’t
dawdle
so.” And then both of them were out in the hallway and Mrs. Allardyce was coming around Miss Turner like a hungry crab scuttling around a pearl. She clutched her purse against her stomach as though it were a shield. A broad eager smile was pasted to her round shiny face. “Why, Cecily. How very
lovely
you look.” The smile slipped only a bit when she nodded to me. “And good day to you again, Mr. Beaumont.”

I nodded. Politely.

“Aren’t you taking tea, dear?” Mrs. Allardyce asked Cecily, and put her hand on Cecily’s forearm. Cecily seemed to shrink away, but Mrs. Allardyce didn’t notice, or didn’t care. She said, “I can’t
tell
you how much I’m looking
forward
to meeting Sir Arthur. I
adore
his work, just
adore
it. I saw Mr. Gillette in that
wonderful
Sherlock Holmes play at the Lyceum and he was simply
brilliant
! He’s so terribly
handsome
, isn’t he? So terribly
distinguished.
" She edged her bulk closer to Cecily. “And tell me, dear. Has Sir Arthur brought along that
medium
of his?”