Escapade (8 page)

She blinked. She was surprised, I think, by my asking. “Why, that awful screaming, of course. The silly girl gave me a horrible start. I thought my poor heart would stop.” She put her hand on her heavy chest. Probably she had a heart and probably it was in there somewhere.

“Miss Turner screamed twice,” I said. “Which scream woke you up?”

“The first one. It would’ve awakened the dead. ”

“When you heard the scream, what did you do?”

“I sat up and I switched on the electric light.” She frowned. “Why on earth do you ask?”

“An excellent question,” said Sir David. “What are you playing at, Beaumont? Amateur sleuth?” He was annoyed at Miss Turner, I think, for calling him a fool. And probably at Mrs. Corneille, for plucking Miss Turner away. He was taking his annoyance out on me, probably because I was a witness, and a male. I could live with that for a while, if I had to.

“Mr. Houdini will want to know,” I said. “This is the kind of thing he came here to investigate.” It sounded reasonable to me, but it seemed to bother Sir David.

I looked at Mrs. Allardyce. “You turned on the light as soon as you heard the scream?”

“Yes, of course.”

“What happened then?”

“Well, the—the poor girl screamed again, a
dreadful
scream, absolutely
pitiful
. ” She was on her best behavior now. She was assisting the Great Houdini with his research. “I had no
idea
what to think. But I got out of bed and I put on my robe—I was concerned about Jane, you see, and I thought I should go and have a peek at her. And then she came running through the door. She was
completely
hysterical.”

“You didn’t see anybody else coming from her room.”

“No, of course not. Only Jane. There was never anybody else in her room. Jane’s a charming person, good-hearted, but
clever
, of course, and
terribly
imaginative. It’s all those books she reads. And last night, you see, Lord Purleigh told us all some truly
horrifying
stories about the ghost who’s supposed to haunt this part of the manor. An ancestor of his, the third Earl, Lord Reginald Fitzwilliam. Far be it from me to
criticize
, Robert’s a dear sweet man, but really, he ought to have known better—anyone can see that Jane’s an
excitable
person. What must’ve happened is that after hearing all that, Jane
dreamed
she saw Lord Reginald, and then, of course, because she was sleeping in a strange bed, she was
disorientated
. And so she thought the dream was
real
, you see.”

I nodded. “You heard two screams,” I said.

“Yes, didn’t I just
say
so?”

“Uh-huh. You mind if I take a look in Miss Turner’s room?”

If she’d had eyebrows, she would’ve raised them. Instead she raised the ridge of her forehead. “Is that
absolutely
necessary, do you think?”

“Absolutely. I’ve got to make sure everything’s okay. Mr. Houdini will ask about it.”

She frowned. “Well, if you think . . .”

“Thanks.” I walked through the doorway.

It was the same set-up as the Great Man’s room—first a bathroom and a toilet and then the sleeping area. There was no one in it, anywhere. The bed was a tangled mess and one of the pillows was on the floor, near the door. There was no one under the bed and nothing in the wardrobe except Miss Turner’s clothing and the clean smell of talcum powder. The floor was wooden and the walls were made of stone. The window was too narrow to let anyone in or out.

Sir David had followed me in. Like mine, his hands were in the pockets of his dressing gown. Maybe he was hiding a pair of hand-cuffs of his own. His smile had gone from bland to ironic. He said, “Searching for clues, are we?”

I glanced once more around the room. “Right,” I said.

“Aren’t we going to produce our magnifying lens?”

I looked at him. “You think it was a really small ghost?”

His smile became bland again. “As an American,” he said, “you probably wouldn’t know this. But a gentleman never enters a lady’s room without her permission.”

I nodded. “Then I guess we’d both better leave.” He stood in my way, so I walked around him and back out into Mrs. Allardyce’s room.

“Thanks for your trouble,” I told her.

“Not at all,” she said. She put her hand to her chest again. “Will Mr. Houdini wish to speak with me?”

“Sure he will,” I said. “Count on it. Thanks again. Good night.” I nodded to Sir David. He didn’t return the nod.

But I could feel someone behind me as I walked out into the hall. I took a few steps down the corridor and he called out, “Oh, Beaumont?”

I stopped and turned. “Yeah?”

He approached me. His handsome face was thoughtful. “You know,” he said, “I don’t think I care for your manners.”

“No? You in the market for a new set?”

He nodded as if that was pretty much the answer he had expected. He stroked the left side of his mustache with the tip of his index finger. “Perhaps we’ll have an opportunity to discuss this at some other time.”

“Look forward to it,” I said. “See you later.”

“ORGHH.”

“Harry?”

“Orgh.”

“
Harry
?”

“Whumph?” In the light from the open doorway I could see him tug up the silk blindfold and stick it to his forehead. He unscrewed the wax from his ears. “Humph? What?”

“Sorry to wake you up,” I said.

“No no no. I was merely resting my eyes.” Probably the wax had kept him from hearing the snores.

“Okay if I turn on the light?” I asked him.

“Yes, yes, certainly. What is it, Phil? What is wrong?”

I turned on the light and held out my left hand. “I was wondering if you could get these off.”

Cecily must have slipped away from my room while everyone was talking next door. If she had found the key to the handcuffs, she hadn’t left it for me.

The Great Man looked at the handcuffs dangling from my wrist. He raised his eyebrows, surprised. “A Mueller and Kohl spring-loaded. An antique. Where did you find it, Phil?”

“A long story, Harry. Tell you in the morning. Can you get it off?”

He smiled. “Phil, a child could remove those. Here. Observe.” In less than a second, the cuffs were off.

The Morning Post

Maplewhite, Devon

August 18

Dear Evangeline,

You’ll be appalled, I know. You’ll be disgusted with me. I can scarcely blame you: I’m thoroughly disgusted with myself. I’ve been an absolute and utter fool. If the earth suddenly groaned open before me, I would leap immediately into the smoking chasm and I would feel, I promise you, nothing but intense gratitude and relief as I whistled down toward the Abyss.

Oh, Evy, I’ve been such an idiot! If you had seen me standing there, half naked, with all those people gaping at me! If you had heard me babbling like a lunatic about the ghost—

Yes, the ghost. A
real
ghost, or so he seemed at the time, slathering and foaming and hissing obscenities. Those wild eyes, that leering mouth, and that monstrous
thing
of his rampant and red!

But now, as the light of dawn begins to sift through the window, pale and cold and relentless, I begin to suspect that I must have suffered some attack of mania.

I’ve returned to my own room. The ghost is gone, if indeed he was ever present. In the room beyond, which reeks of her mint bonbons, the Allardyce sleeps, as always, the sleep of the just. One of the other guests, Mrs Corneille, was kind enough to offer me a brandy and, had I wanted it, the extra room of her suite. She’s a wonderful woman, but I knew that wherever I might be I shouldn’t sleep at all tonight, and so I returned here, determined to write to you and describe this fantasy that terrified me so. For a fantasy it
must
have been.

And yet, Evy, he seemed so very
real
! I can still hear his beastly cackle and the dreadful,
filthy
things he said. I can still taste the fear in my mouth, stale and slippery and bitter, like old pennies.

I’m babbling again. I shall do this properly.

Ah well. I’m afraid the ghost must wait. I hear something

stirring next door. Either the Allardyce is awakening or a hippopotamus has wandered into her room in search of a place to wallow. If he spies the Allardyce, he will no doubt attempt to breed; the clamour will unnerve the entire household. In any event, I must go. I shall get this in the morning post, and I shall send its continuation to you this afternoon.

All my love, Jane

WHEN I AWOKE the next morning, a bright bolt of sunlight lay across the room. Tiny motes of dust floated slowly through it like microscopic creatures drifting in a golden shaft of sea.

It was the first sunshine I had seen since we left Paris. I had started to think that I would never see it again.

I picked up my watch from the night table. A quarter to nine. Late.

I eased out of bed, climbed into my robe, padded to the Great Man’s door and knocked.

“Come in,” he called out.

He was wearing his gray socks and his gray pants, a shirt and a tie, an opened gray vest. He was sitting on top of the bedspread, his back against the tall dark wood headboard. There was a pen in his hand and a notebook on his lap.

“Good morning, Phil,” he said cheerfully.

“Morning, Harry. Why aren’t you downstairs?”

He smiled. It was an innocent smile, and his innocent smiles always made me nervous. “But, Phil,” he said. I am under orders not to leave without you, am I not?”

“Being under orders isn’t the same as taking them.”

“But for me it is, Phil. I gave my word.” He changed the subject. “Did you sleep well?”

“When I slept,” I said.

His face became thoughtful. “Do you know, I must have actually slept myself last night—for a time, at any rate—because I had a dream. It was a most curious dream. You were in it and you were wearing a pair of handcuffs. You asked me to remove them for you.

“That was no dream, Harry. That was my life.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You weren’t dreaming. I was wearing a pair of handcuffs last night, and I asked you to take them off.”

“They were made by Mueller and Kohl?”

“According to you. Spring-loaded, you said.”

“Amazing. Where did you get them?”

“They were a gift. From Cecily Fitzwilliam.”

“A gift? Why would Miss Fitzwilliam give you a gift? And why a pair of handcuffs?”

“They weren’t really for me. They were for you. Mind if I sit down?”

“No, no,” he said, and waved a hand toward the seat by the writing desk. “For me? What do you mean?”

I sat down. “Well, Harry, it looks to me like Miss Fitzwilliam is smitten.”

He frowned, puzzled. “Smitten? What are you saying, Phil?” 

“She wanted to get to know you better. So she came to the room. She got me instead.”

“Better?” Suddenly he blushed. “You mean . . . ? Miss
Fitzwilliam
?” His voice had risen slightly. “Phil—
no
. Her father is an English
lord
. ”

“Harry. Calm down.”

“But doesn’t she know that I’m a married
man
?”

“She’s just a kid, Harry. She only wanted to talk.”

He looked off, toward the window, and stared at it for a moment. Then he took a deep breath and slowly let it out in a kind of moaning sigh, long and low. He shook his head. “So it begins again,” he said.

“Again?” I said.

He looked at me sadly. “This has happened before, Phil. Many, many times. It is a terrible curse. Women of a certain . . . ah . . . animal nature, they inevitably find me irresistible. Perhaps my great physical strength attracts them. Or my virile demeanor. Perhaps it is merely the fact that Houdini is the most famous man alive.”

He shrugged sadly. “Who knows, Phil? Who can plumb the hearts of these women? Certainly I never encourage them, never give them reason to believe, even for a moment, that I would respond to their advances. You know that my darling wife is the light of my existence. She is my beacon in life’s storm-tossed sea, the only woman who has ever meant anything to me. Except, of course, for my dear departed mother. I would never betray Bess, Phil.”

He looked off again. “I suppose I must try to find it within me to forgive them, these women. They cannot help themselves, naturally.” He shook his head. “But I would never have believed that the daughter of an English lord ...”

He looked back at me. “What shall we do about this, Phil? Shall we go to Lord Purleigh and ask him to keep a closer watch over this daughter of his?”

I smiled. “I don’t think so, Harry. Cecily won’t bother you again.”

He raised his dark eyebrows hopefully. “Really? What did you say to her?”

“All the stuff you just said. About Bess and all. The beacon in the storm-tossed sea. I explained everything. She understands.”

 “Ah. Wonderful, Phil. A good thing that you are a man of the world, like myself.” He frowned suddenly. “But why on earth did she bring the handcuffs?”

“She wanted you to see them. They’re her grandfather’s. She thought you might be interested.”

“In an ancient pair of Mueller and Kohls?” Mildly indignant. “She didn’t know, Harry. She was only trying to be friendly. After she left, I was playing around with them and I accidentally locked myself up. Sorry I had to wake you up.”

He shook his head. “You did not actually awaken me. As you know, I have difficulty sleeping. I was merely resting.”

I nodded. “There’s one other thing you should know, though.” 

He frowned. Worried, probably, about some other woman with an animal nature. “And what is that?”

“Looks like we had a ghost here last night.”

“A ghost?”

I told him about Miss Turner.

When I was finished, he asked me, “How did she seem to you, Phil? Miss Turner?”

“Like someone who’d just seen a ghost.”

“She was hysterical?”

“Not hysterical. Upset. Whatever she saw, she thought it was a ghost, and it scared her. But she seemed to be handling it fairly well.”

“Yes. From my brief meeting with her, I would say that she has a good head on her shoulders.”