Escapade (21 page)

“That won’t work here,” I told him. “The slug was too damaged. But the caliber is right.”

Lord Bob turned to Doyle. “How could he possibly have known where the guns were kept?”

Doyle puffed at the pipe, took it from his mouth. “Well, Lord Purleigh, there are written accounts of Maplewhite, you know. Descriptions of its rooms, its architecture.”

Lord Bob’s furry eyebrows shot skyward. “You mean the filthy bugger investigated me? Investigated my bloody home? Is that what you’re saying?”

Doyle shrugged. “It’s possible, I suppose.”

“The swine.” Lord Bob snatched up the decanter of brandy, splashed a couple of inches into his glass.

Doyle frowned. “But would he’ve had the time to do so, I wonder?” He turned to me. “As I understand it, Chin Soo couldn’t have known until this morning that Houdini would be at Maplewhite this weekend. It was this morning that the article appeared in the
Times
. Even if he read it first thing in the day, would he have had time enough to study the accounts of the house and appear here as quickly as he did?”

“I’ve been thinking about that,” I said. “Maybe Chin Soo had already figured out that Harry would be here.”

Doyle raised his left eyebrow. “How so?” he asked.

I asked, “How long have you known you’d be coming here, Sir Arthur? For the seance.”

He stroked his mustache with the mouthpiece of the pipe as he thought about it. “Since Monday last,” he said finally. “Lady Purleigh asked me then, over the telephone, whether Madame Sosostris might be available this weekend. I rang up Madame and I asked her. She was available, she said, and she agreed to come. I telephoned Lady Purleigh and accepted her invitation, on both our behalfs.”

Suddenly he smiled at me. “I see. Yes, of course. There was something in the
Times
on Wednesday, an article about Spiritualism. It mentioned my forthcoming visit to Maplewhite, and the seance here. Houdini’s name wasn’t mentioned—” He turned to the Great Man. “I didn’t discuss it with you until Thursday, did I?”

“Thursday, yes,” said the Great Man. “Exactly.”

Doyle looked back at me. “But it’s common knowledge that he and I are friends, that we attend seances together.”

“And Chin Soo knows,” I said, “that Harry is in England. It’d make sense to him that Harry would show up at Maplewhite.” 

Doyle nodded thoughtfully. “He should have had ample time, then, to study the accounts of the building.”

“Yeah,” I said. “And he could’ve arrived here anytime over the last week, from Wednesday on.” I turned to Lord Bob. “He could’ve been in and out of this place twenty times.”

Lord Bob slammed his fist against the table. “Rotten stinking sod!”

Doyle asked me, “But wouldn’t someone have noticed that the rifle was missing?”

“It was here Friday night,” I said, “when we got here. I saw it.” 

“Lord Purleigh . . .” said the Great Man, and leaned forward. 

“Filthy bloody swine,” Lord Bob snarled. He tossed back some more brandy.

“Lord Purleigh?” said the Great Man.

Another voice said, “Milord?”

We all looked over to the Great Hall’s entrance. Briggs stood there, and another man.

“Police Constable Dubbins,” announced Briggs.

“Yes, yes,” said Lord Bob. “Show him in.”

The Great Man sat back.

Constable Dubbins, a tall, bulky police officer wearing a blue uniform, marched into the room behind Briggs. He held a bulky blue helmet under his left arm. Above his right shoe, a bicycle clip bunched his pants leg around his ankle. When they reached us, Dubbins stopped and stood rigidly at attention. He saluted Lord Bob, his head held stiffly forward, his stiff palm facing outward. “Good afternoon, your lordship. If I may be so bold, sir, I’d like to say that I’m dreadful sorry for the tragic loss of the Earl, sir. And I believe I speak for all the folk in the village when I say that, your lordship.”

“Yes,” said Lord Bob. “Yes, thank you, Dubbins. Most kind. Briggs, would you wait in the hallway, please.”

“Very good, milord,” said Briggs. He nodded once, turned and left. Dubbins was still standing at attention.

Lord Bob rose from the table, wavering only a little, and he shuffled behind his chair. “Dubbins, this is Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. That gentleman is Mr. Harry Houdini, and the man beside him is Mr. Beaumont, from the Pinkerton Detective Agency, in America.” He was pronouncing his words carefully.

Dubbins swiveled his head stiffly, nodded stiffly. “Afternoon, gentlemen.”

“Dubbins,” said Lord Bob, “there’s really no need, you know, for you to stand at attention.”

“No sir, your lordship,” said Dubbins. He relaxed his body slightly but his face remained immobile. He turned to Doyle. “You’d be the gentleman, sir, what wrote them stories about Sherlock Holmes, would you?”

Doyle smiled. “Yes, I would.”

“Smashin’ stories, if I may say so, sir. Smashin’. Read ’em when I was a nipper. It was them, the stories, what made me take up my career in the Law. That’s the God’s honest truth, sir.”

Doyle smiled. “And very flattering to learn, Constable Dubbins.” 

“Yes sir. Smashin’, sir. Boggle the mind, they do, sir.” 

“Dubbins?” said Lord Bob.

“Yes sir, your lordship?”

Lord Bob was leaning both his forearms against the top of the chair’s back as he looked over at Dubbins. “What precisely are your orders, Dubbins?”

“Your lordship, accordin’ to my orders, I am to proceed to the scene of the tragic accident and make it secure, like, sir, until I am relieved of my duties. No one is to enter or exit the scene of the accident, sir.”

Lord Bob nodded. “Not very likely, anyone making an exit. In the circumstances.”

“No sir, your lordship.” Dubbins had noticed the Winchester on the table.

“Right,” said Lord Bob. “Partridge—one of the footmen—is up there now. My suggestion, he stays there with you. Two heads better than one, eh?”

“Yes sir, your lordship.” He took a step toward the table and reached for the rifle. “Would this be the weapon in ques—”

"
Good lord, man!
” barked Lord Bob, and Dubbins whipped back his hand and snapped to attention. Lord Bob stepped back from the chair and cleared his throat. “Fingerprints, Dubbins. Surely you know about fingerprints?”

“Yes sir, your lordship. Forgot myself for a moment. The tragedy and all, sir.”

“Yes, yes,” said Lord Bob. “And to answer your question, no, that is not the weapon in question. That weapon was used, was
perhaps
used, I should say—in a vile attack against one of my guests. A different incident entirely. Different swine entirely, eh? We’ll let the Amberly chaps deal with it, shall we?”

“Yes sir, your lordship. Your lordship?”

“Yes?”

“Would it be permitted for me, sir, to pay my last respects to the late Earl?”

Lord Bob frowned. “Pay them how?”

Dubbins shifted slightly on his feet. “Well, you know, your lordship. Run in there, right quickly like, and say a quiet word over ’im, sir. My last goodbyes, sir.”

Lord Bob took a deep breath, blinked, and focused his glance on Dubbins. “No, Dubbins,” he said. “That is not, I think, an altogether splendid idea. Best, I think, that the room remain sealed for now. Eh, Doyle?”

“I think that best, Lord Purleigh.”

Lord Bob turned back to Dubbins, and studied him for a moment. “Perhaps,” he said, “I should come with you. Have a word or two with Partridge.”

“Yes sir, your lordship.”

I said, “Lord Purleigh?”

He frowned at me. “What is it?”

“Mind if I tag along? I’d like to talk to the Earl’s valet.” 

“Carson? Whatever for?”

“Maybe it’s a good idea for me to hear his story before somebody else does.” I glanced at Constable Dubbins.

Lord Bob looked from Dubbins to me, back to Dubbins, back to me. He narrowed his eyes and nodded sagely. “Got you. Better the devil you know ...” he concentrated for an instant then waved a dismissive hand “. . . than some other bloody devil. Right. Right. Come along then.” He looked at Doyle and the Great Man, nodded to the Winchester. “You gentlemen will watch over this?”

“Certainly,” said Doyle.

LORD BON LED Dubbins and me through the corridors to the Earl’s suite. Lord Bob weaved a bit but he stumbled only once, on the stairwell. He said nothing to me all the way. As we came down the hallway toward the Earl’s suite, he said to Dubbins, “When will your colleagues be arriving from Amberly?”

“Momentarily, your lordship. Superintendent Honniwell is with ’em, sir.”

“Indeed. We can all rest easy now.”

“Yes sir, your lordship. What I meant, sir, he’ll hurry ’em along, the Super will.”

“Yes, of course. And how
is
the villainy business these days, Dubbins?”

“Well, your lordship, Florrie Chubb’s oldest, Little Tom, he smashed the window of the chemist’s shop on Monday last. Old Mrs. Hornsby banged Jerry over the head with a teapot again. That was Wednesday, your lordship. And someone nicked Wilbur Dent’s bicycle today.”

“A veritable crime wave. We must nip that in the bud, eh?” 

“Yes sir, your lordship.”

“I have every confidence in you, Dubbins.”

“Thank you, sir, your lordship.”

When we arrived at a doorway a few doors away from the Earl’s rooms, Lord Bob stopped, Dubbins and I stopped, and Lord Bob knocked on the door. A thin voice called out for us to come in.

Lord Bob opened the door. The room was small, half the size of the anteroom next door. A curtained window, a dresser, a wardrobe, a small desk that held a lighted electric lamp and the emergency telephone. Still fully dressed but with his tie loosened at his neck, Carson was trying to raise himself off the small single bed. “I do apologize, milord—”

“No, no,” said Lord Bob. “Be a good fellow now, and lie down. Good. You’ve met Mr. Beaumont. He’ll be asking you a few questions about what happened today. He’s a Pinkerton, but we won’t hold that against him, eh? Feel up to it, do you?”

Carson had eased his white head back onto the pillow and put his small frail hands on his chest. The hands still trembled. Maybe they always did. “Yes, milord. I feel quite useless, sir, lying here like this. I should be very happy to be of help, if I could.”

“Splendid. Good man. I’ll have someone look in on you later. Need anything, use the telephone and ask Higgens, eh?”

“Very good, milord. Thank you.”

“Right. Dubbins? Ah, there you are. Right. Come along.” They left, Lord Bob pulling the door shut behind them. “There’s a chair, sir,” said Carson, “over by the desk.”

I eased the chair out from under the desk, turned it around, straddled it. I said, “I’m sorry to bother you with this now, Mr. Carson.”

“No bother, sir. As I told his lordship, I’m happy to help, sir.” His hands were white, spattered with liver spots. They lay on the front of his coat, trembling like a pair of small pale frightened animals.

“Appreciate it,” I said. “How long have you worked here, Mr. Carson?”

“Over sixty years now, sir. Since I was a child.”

“And how long have you been the Earl’s valet?”

“Forty years, sir.”

“You must’ve known him fairly well.”

“I believe so, sir,” he said.

“It’s been a big shock to you, his death.”

He blinked. His hands clenched slightly. “It has, sir, yes.”

“So the Earl hasn’t been acting differently lately?”

He blinked again. “Differently, sir?”

“Worried. Unhappy.”

Blink, blink. “No, sir.”

“You would’ve known if he was worried.”

“I like to think so, sir, yes. But the Earl, he was a man who kept his own council.”

I nodded. Forty years with the Earl. It was a relationship that was longer and maybe more complicated than most marriages. And sixty years here at Maplewhite. Wherever Carson’s loyalties lay, they didn’t lie with me.

“But as far as you know,” I said, “he wasn’t depressed. Wasn’t worried.”

“No, sir.”

“Anything unusual happen today?” I asked him.

Blink. “How do you mean that, sir?”

“Visitors, letters. Anything that didn’t usually happen.”

“No, sir.”

“No visitors?”

“No, sir.”

“Any visitors yesterday?”

“Lord and Lady Purleigh, sir.”

“In the evening.” When Lord Bob and his wife had left the drawing room.

“Yes, sir.”

I nodded. “No one else?”

“No, sir.”

“I noticed there was a fire in the fireplace today.”

“Yes, sir. There’s always a fire.”

“Always?”

“The Earl required it, sir.”

“Required it?”

“For his circulation, sir. Ever since the accident.”

I nodded. “He fell off a horse, I heard.”

“Yes, sir.”

This wasn’t much more difficult than pulling teeth from an eel. “And when was that, Mr. Carson?”

“Three years ago, sir.”

“Wasn’t the Earl a little old to go riding?”

“He was a great sportsman, sir.”

“Right. So the fire stayed lit all the time. Day and night.”

“Yes, sir. Mornings, I raked the coals and got a new one started.”

“The Earl hasn’t walked since the accident?”

Blink, blink. “No, sir.”

“He had a wheelchair. He could use that by himself.”

Blink. “For short distances, yes, sir.”

“He could get in and out of it himself?”

“On some days, sir. Some days he required assistance.”

“Did you give him the gun, Mr. Carson?”

The pale hands clenched at the lapels of his coat. “The gun, sir? No, sir, I never did, sir. I swear on my life I didn’t.”

“You know that the gun was kept in the Great Hall.”

“I heard you say so, sir, to Lord Purleigh.”

“You haven’t seen it there?”

“Not to notice it, sir. I know very little about guns.”

“How do you think it got to the Earl’s room?”

“I can’t imagine, sir.” He shook his white head. “For a fact, sir, can't.”

“Could the Earl have gone down the stairs by himself? In the wheelchair?”

“No, sir. When he came downstairs, I needed help with the chair. It’s very heavy, sir.”

“When was the last time he came downstairs?”

“Last week, sir. It was a sunny day, and the Earl wanted to see the gardens.”