“What, Phil?”
“Someone stuck a knife into this thing last night.”
“A knife?”
“While Miss Turner was out.” I pushed myself off the bed.
“A knife?”
“Yeah.” I glanced around the room. Nothing.
“But for what purpose?”
“To kill Miss Turner, it looks like.”
He looked from me to the bed, looked back at me. Are you joking with me, Phil?”
“I’ll tell you about it on the way downstairs.”
A SERVANT—A new one, for me—told us that everyone was wait ing out on the patio, by the conservatory. When the Great Man and I arrived, I saw that everyone was.
Even Lord Bob was there.
During the night, or sometime this morning, someone had used a white powder—lime, maybe—to mark off a neat square on the grass, beyond the flagstones of the patio. The square looked to be the size of a standard boxing ring, about twenty-four feet on a side. There were no ropes and no posts, but two wooden stools squatted in opposite corners. Beside each stool was a straight-back wooden chair and, beside that, a small table supporting a heavy glass goblet, a crystal decanter filled with water, and a thick stack of white towels.
People were sitting in chairs arranged around three sides of the square and set back from it by a couple of yards, behind low tables that held big pots of tea and coffee. Nearly everyone was dressed in black, but most of them were chatting and sipping at china cups, and the whole thing seemed very jolly.
Miss Turner, Mrs. Corneille, and Mrs. Allardyce sat in a group to the left, on the south side of the ring. Lady Purleigh, Cecily, and Dr. Auerbach sat directly ahead, on the west side. On the coffee table in front of them, beside the teapot, was a large copper cowbell.
Sir Arthur stood next to Lady Purleigh, behind an empty chair, and he was bending forward, listening carefully. Madame Sosostris and Mr. Dempsey sat to the right, on the north side. Between these last two groups, Lord Bob stood talking to Sir David Merridale. Sir David was in shirtsleeves, his collar open, his cuffs rolled back. His black mustache and his wavy black hair glistened in the early morning sunlight and he looked very fit.
When Lord Bob saw the Great Man and me, he muttered something to the other two and then bustled over to us.
“Houdini! Beaumont! Good to see you!” His black suit and white shirt were neatly pressed this morning. All the buttons were in all the right holes and his tie was firmly trapped inside his vest. He sounded as brisk and lively as ever, maybe more so. But the ruddiness had drained from his face and left most of it waxy and pale. On his cheeks, beneath the pallor, purple veins were coiled like tiny snakes. Below his bloodshot eyes the skin was the color of fried liver. He turned to me and proudly waved a hand at the ring. “Look all right, does it?”
“I’m impressed,” I told him.
He beamed. “Sir Arthur and my wife. Up at the crack of dawn with the servants. Damned ambitious, eh?” Stroking his mustache, he turned to the Great Man. “Eh? What d’you think?”
The Great Man nodded, smiling. “Most impressive, Lord Purleigh.”
Lord Bob grinned. “Alice explained it to me last night. A boxing match. You and Merridale. Splendid idea, I thought. Symbolic, in a way, eh? The bourgeoisie versus the aristocracy, New World versus the Old. And a rousing bit of sport for the guests, eh? Get their minds off the old swine and the ghosts and whatnot. Ah.” He frowned suddenly, as if he’d just remembered something.
He glanced quickly over at the others, then back to us. “About last night.” He frowned, shook his head. “Disgraceful performance on my part. Scandalous. Made my apologies to all the rest, owe one to both of you. Damn sorry it happened. Don’t know what came over me. Quart or two of Napoleon brandy, eh?” He chuckled, but the chuckle sounded empty and forced, and beneath the bushy eyebrows he was watching us. I think he was embarrassed, and I think that embarrassment was something he didn’t experience very often.
The Great Man said, “No apology is necessary, Lord Purleigh.”
Lord Bob grinned. “Good of you to say so. But it’s Bob, eh?” He turned to me, the eyebrows raised. “Hale and hearty, are we? Ready for the main event?”
“Yeah.”
“Good man.” He leaned toward me and gave me a wink. “Got a fiver riding on you. Don’t let me down, eh?
He was a lot happier with me today than he'd been yesterday. Or maybe he was just unhappy with Sir David. “Who took your bet?” I asked him.
“Madame Whatsis’s husband. The skinny chap. Tunney, is it?”
I smiled. “Dempsey.”
“Whatever. In any event, good luck, eh?” Grinning, he moved into a boxing stance. “Keep up that left, eh?”
“I’ll try.”
“Good fellow. Ah, Doyle, there you are. About ready to begin, are we?”
Towering over us all, Doyle nodded his big pink head. “Very nearly, Lord Purleigh. But I must speak briefly with Mr. Beaumont.”
“Right you are,” said Lord Bob. “I’m off.” He turned back to me, grinning again, and he held up his left hand, balled into a fist. “The left, eh?”
I smiled and nodded, and he bustled away.
“Now,” said Doyle. “Mr. Beaumont, do you still wish to go through with this?”
“Yeah.”
For a moment his glance traveled around my face like the beam of a searchlight. “Are you really quite sure, Beaumont? No offense, but you do look a trifle”—he frowned—“worn this morning.”
“I’m fine.”
He nodded. “Very well.” He smiled slightly. But I dare say you’ll be a shade more mobile without your coat and tie.”
As I pulled off the coat, Doyle turned to the Great Man. “You’ll be in Mr. Beaumont’s corner? Acting as his assistant?”
“As his second,” corrected the Great Man.
“Yes,” said Doyle. “Here, permit me to take that.” He took my coat, draped it over his arm, took my tie, draped that over the coat. “You’re ready, then?” he asked me.
“Yeah.” I unbuttoned my left shirt cuff.
“Very well. Houdini, you and Beaumont will have that corner.” He nodded toward the southeast. The Great Man gave me one of his wide smiles and then capered off to the corner.
He’d already forgotten about Miss Turner and the Earl and everything else I’d told him when we tramped down the stairs. He was genuinely excited, I think. Maybe because, for a change, he got to be part of the audience, and he wasn’t in any kind of competition with the performer.
Doyle called out, “Sir David?”
As I rolled back my sleeves, Sir David strode toward us along the grass, tall and lithe. He moved well for someone as big as he was. His eyebrows were raised as he smiled at me. I nodded to him. Without lowering his eyebrows or nodding back, he turned to Doyle. “Yes?”
“I should like to be quite certain,” said Doyle, “that we all understand the rules.” As he spoke, he looked back and forth between me and Sir David. “The rounds will be of three minutes duration, with a rest period of one minute between each. Any man who falls during the course of a round will have ten seconds to get up, unassisted. A man on one knee is considered down, and if struck wins the match by forfeit. There will be no wrestling or hugging. No hitting below the belt, no hitting over the kidneys or the back of the neck. No kicking, gouging, or biting. Is that clear?”
Sir David smiled. “Quite.”
“Mr. Beaumont? Clear?”
“Yeah.” But it took away a big chunk of my repertoire. “Good,” said Doyle. “To your corners, then, gentlemen.”
I walked over to my stool. The Great Man was dancing around beside it, grinning and rubbing his palms together. I turned and looked over at Sir David. His second was Dr. Auerbach.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” announced Doyle, his big voice booming out across the lawn. “Welcome to the contest. This is to be a boxing match of ten rounds, fought by modified Marquis of Queensberry rules. Each round will
last for three minutes. Lady Purleigh will be acting as timekeeper. The round will end when she rings the bell. Lady Purleigh, could you demonstrate, please?” The copper cowbell on the table was attached at the top to a strip of ribbon. Lady Purleigh smiled and then raised the bell, using the ribbon as a handle. She tapped the bell with a small metal hammer. It made a sharp pleasant ring that faded off across the wide empty lawn.
“Thank you,” said Doyle. He turned to the others. “I shall be acting as referee, and my decisions are final.”
“Here, here,” said Lord Bob loudly, and clapped his hands. The rest of them applauded.
“In this corner,” announced Doyle, “we have Sir David Merridale, from London.”
People applauded politely. Behind me, the Great Man hollered, “Boooo!” Heads swung, stiffly, in his direction. Most of the clapping seemed to be coming from Cecily Fitzwilliam. Lady Purleigh leaned toward her.
Smiling, Sir David nodded in the direction of each table.
Just in case they hadn’t heard it the first time, the Great Man hollered it again—“Boooo!”
The applause had stopped. Doyle was frowning at us. “And in this corner,” he said, “we have Mr. Phil Beaumont, from America.”
Behind me, the Great Man beat his hands together wildly. “Hooray for Phil!” he called out. The guests applauded politely again. Except for Cecily Fitzwilliam, who sat with her arms locked across her chest. Lady Purleigh leaned toward her.
“Hooray!” the Great Man shouted. I turned to him and under my breath I said, “Easy, Harry.”
He leaned toward me, grinning. Over the sound of his own clapping, he said, “It is the show business, Phil!”
He had been the first to start clapping and he was the last to stop.
“Gentlemen?” said Doyle, and waved Sir David and me into the ring. “Shake hands, please.”
Sir David offered his hand. I took it. He showed off his grip, but I’d been expecting that. He smiled at me. Blandly. “Any last words, Beaumont?” he asked me.
“I hear Miss Turner turned you down yesterday. Too bad.”
He didn’t stop smiling, but the skin at the corners of his eyes tightened up. He didn’t look at Miss Turner either, but I think he wanted to.
“Back to your corners, gentlemen,” said Doyle. “When the bell rings, come out fighting.”
I went back to my corner. The Great Man grinned and pounded me on the shoulder.
Overhead, the sky was pale blue, not a cloud anywhere. The bright clear air smelled of warming earth. Far off across the broad green lawn, one red squirrel went bounding after another.
Doyle had moved to the north side of the ring, close to Lord Bob and Lady Purleigh. I glanced around the crowd. Mrs. Corneille was watching me. So was Miss Turner. So was Cecily.
Cecily looked away.
Lady Purleigh raised the cowbell and struck it with the hammer.
I stepped out into the ring.
Sir David held himself upright, his handsome head and his broad shoulders thrown back, his arms up, the left arm forward, the left fist making small, tight, controlled circles. His right fist was cocked back under his chin. He advanced on his left foot, his right foot perpendicular to it, his weight balanced. He moved flatfooted but he still moved well. He had done this before.
I went to him in a crouch, shoulders down. We circled each other slowly. I smiled at him. Keeping my voice low, I said, “She must’ve hurt your feelings, hey, Davey?”
He jabbed his left at me and I slipped it. He followed me and jabbed again, off balance. I weaved right, faked a left at his jaw, hooked a right to his heart. He was backing off but I connected. He swung a right at my head. I caught it on my left forearm, and he pitched a left and I caught that on my right forearm and I jabbed two quick lefts at his nose. He brought up his arms and I got him with a combination, left, right, left, in the stomach. His nose was bleeding. He opened his mouth and dropped his arms and I went over them and I hooked another left at the nose. His head jerked back and his chin stuck out and I brought up my right with everything I had, brought it up at an angle from my hip, going for the ridge at the back of his jaw. I hit it and I felt a knuckle pop in my hand.
Staring up at the sky, Sir David took a step back and then his legs buckled beneath him and he dropped. He landed heavily on his back, his arms flopping out along the grass. His head rolled to the side.
I stood over him beneath that blue sky in the center of a huge silence. Nothing moved.
Suddenly Doyle was there and I eased back. He glanced at me, his expression unreadable, and then he turned to Sir David and bent slightly forward and started counting aloud, swinging his arm down through the air to mark time. “One,” he said. “Two.”
I snapped my knuckle back into place. If you wait too long, the swelling starts and then you’re stuck.
“Five. Six.” Doyle was calling out the numbers louder now, maybe hoping that if he shouted, Sir David would hear them. And maybe Sir David did. His leg moved slightly. But he didn’t get up.
No one in the crowd had said anything. Not even the Great Man. I looked out there. Mrs. Corneille glanced away. Miss Turner was staring at me with the corners of her mouth turned down.
“Nine,” said Doyle. “And ten.” Sir David hadn’t moved again. “And the winner is Mr. Beaumont.” Grimly, Doyle wrapped his big hand around my wrist and raised my arm over my head. I had the feeling that if he wanted to, he could’ve plucked me from the ground like a dandelion.
Suddenly the Great Man was at my side, jumping from foot to foot, slamming gleefully at my shoulder. “Hip, hip, hooray! Hip, hip, hooray!”
The others were less enthusiastic. They applauded, but briefly and lightly. Some of their hands, probably, never made contact with each other. Even Lord Bob, who had just won five pounds, looked like a man who would rather be somewhere else. Cecily turned to her mother and said very clearly, “But is it over?” Her mother leaned toward her.
Doyle dropped my hand and slowly went down onto his knees beside Sir David. I could hear him exhaling with the effort.
Cecily backed away from her whispering mother and complained, “But there were supposed to be ten of those things. And he said they were supposed to last three minutes.”
On the ground, Sir David moved his leg again. Doyle looked up at me. “He’s coming around. I believe he'll be all right.”
I nodded. “Good.”
“Excuse me,” said an unfamiliar voice behind me.
I turned. So did Doyle and the Great Man.
There were three people standing on the flagstone patio. One of them was Briggs, and he was wearing his black uniform. Beside him stood two men wearing suits. One of the men was bulky in the shoulders and taller than I was. The other was shorter, and he was the one who smiled pleasantly. “Good morning to you all, he said. “And it is a lovely morning, isn’t it? Jocund day stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops.” He smiled again. “Allow me to introduce myself and my associate. I’m Inspector Marsh. This is Sergeant Meadows. We’re from London. The C.I.D.”
Part Three
Chapter Twenty-nine
"WELL NOW, MR. Beaumont,” said Inspector Marsh. “You’ve been at Maplewhite for a while now. A houseguest since Friday evening, I take it. And you’re a Pinkerton, a trained investigator, hmmm?” He smiled. “Really a stroke of luck for us, our having you here.”
I wondered if he were pulling my leg. It was something I wondered the entire time I talked to him.
He turned to Sergeant Meadows. “ ’Tis a lucky day, boy, and we’ll do good deeds on’t.” Sergeant Meadows nodded, without taking his eyes off me. Marsh turned back to me. “The Winter’s Tale. You know Shakespeare, do you, Mr. Beaumont?”
“Not personally.”
He chuckled. “Lovely. We’ll get along famously, you and I.” He smiled. “So you’ve been rattling about the manor house for two days now, in the very midst of all these mysterious goings-on. And no doubt you’ve kept your eyes open? Asked a que
stion or two, have you? Confess now.” He smiled slyly, narrowing his eyes, and he waved a slender finger at me. “I see a strange confession in thine eye, do I not?”
I smiled. “Yeah. A question or two.”
“Well of course you have. Leopards and spots, eh? I couldn’t expect anything else.” He sat back comfortably, adjusted his pants legs to spare the crease, and he crossed his legs, right over left. “Well then, if you don’t mind, why not put the good sergeant and me into the picture.”
The three of us were in the library. Marsh and Sergeant Meadows sat on the sofa, across from my chair. The sergeant sat on Marsh’s left, a small notebook in his ample lap. In his late thirties, wearing a black suit, he was a big man, nearly as tall and as broad as Doyle. From a sharp widow’s peak, his black hair ran slick as a coat of lacquer back along his wide rectangular skull. His heavy jaw was sheened with blue—he had the kind of beard that probably grew back while he was rinsing the soap from his razor. There was a small scar, shaped like a comma, running vertically through the center of his thick left eyebrow, and his nose had been broken at least once and then badly reset. Police sergeants in England, it looked like, didn’t have any easier a life than police sergeants in the U.S.
Inspector Marsh was in his forties. His nose had never been broken. It was a narrow, aristocratic nose in a narrow, aristocratic, mobile face. The nose was delicate, like almost everything else about him—his fine brown hair, his eyebrows, his cheekbones, his pointed chin, his small chiseled mouth. The gray wool suit he wore, delicately pin-striped, had been delicately tailored to his slim athletic body. The point of a powder-blue handkerchief peeked delicately from the breast pocket of the coat. He looked so delicate that I was afraid he might float off the ground and sail away.
But delicate cops don’t last very long. And Marsh’s eyes—hazel, almost green—weren’t delicate at all. His face seemed open and without guile. He smiled as he bantered at me, and he pursed his lips together, or nibbled the lower lip between small white teeth. Every so often he wiggled his eyebrows, or dipped them, or raised them in surprise or amusement. But whenever he looked at me his eyes were always the same—cool and shrewd and watchful.
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