“And he’s a demon at that, isn’t he.” She smiled at me.
Marsh asked his questions. Yes, she’d visited the Earl once or twice a week over the past four months. She couldn’t get away more often than that. Yes, she visited only at night. Yes, she’d waited until Carson, the Earl’s valet, was asleep, so she could creep past his room. Yes, she’d heard from other servants that the Earl had often argued with his son, Lord Purleigh, but she and the Earl had never spoken about his son. “Or much of anything else,” she smiled. And, no, she didn’t believe that the Earl had committed suicide.
“How, then, did he die?” Marsh asked her.
“An accident, wasn’t it? They say the door was locked when the gun went off.”
“How do you suppose he obtained the pistol?”
“One of the servants?”
“You seem to be doing an admirable job of containing your grief at the Earl’s death, Miss O’Brien.”
She glared at him for a moment. Then she said, “Listen to me, Mr. Inspector Marsh from London. I liked the poor sweet man. That toad Briggs, he’s told you about the money, I don’t doubt. And you’ll not hear me denyin’ the old man slipped me the odd crown or two, now and again. And why shouldn’t he? He wanted me to buy some lovely new dresses for myself, didn’t he, and nice handmade shoes, and silk stockings, so I could come to him looking like a lady. And who was I to tell him no? The good Lord knows he could afford it. But I liked him. He was dear with me, and he was as grateful for my bein’ with him as a wee young boy. Well, he’s dead now, and I’m sorry. I hope he’s happy as a lark wherever he is, that’s the God’s honest truth, but if you’re waitin’ for me to start wailin’ and weepin’ for your sake, then you’re in for quite a wait, Mr. Inspector.”
Marsh smiled. “But then you’ve already done your grieving, haven’t you? In the Earl’s bedroom. Last night.”
She stared at him. She turned and stared at me.
“You were seen, Miss O’Brien,” said Marsh.
“But who—” She lifted her chin. “Well, what of it? No crime, is it?”
“No. Tell me. Had the Earl ever given you cause to believe that he was recovering from his paralysis?”
“But, Inspector sir, it was only his legs that didn’t work proper. The rest of him worked perfectly fine.”
“But he was still unable to use his legs.”
She grinned. “He didn’t need them, did he.”
Marsh sat back and nodded. “Thank you, Miss O'Brien. I may speak with you again later.”
She shrugged as if she didn’t really care, one way or the other.
AFTER SHE LEFT, somehow the kitchen seemed even larger.
I turned to Marsh, who was staring down at the floor. I said, “You weren’t sure she was the woman in the Earl’s room.”
He looked up. “Hmmm? No, not until she admitted it. I took a bit of a chance there.”
“You were right.”
He smiled. “It does happen.”
“She didn’t seem to know about the passageway. Or about the Earl being able to walk.”
“No. If in fact he was.” He slipped his hand into his pocket, pulled out his watch, frowned at it. He looked at me. “Enough of the serving class for now, I think. Back to the gentry.”
A SERVANT TOLD us that most of the guests were in the drawing room. Sir David was there, and Cecily and Dr. Auerbach and Lady Purleigh. Everyone was gathered in the far comer of the enormous room.
They all looked up at us when we approached, but only Lady Purleigh spoke. “Inspector Marsh. And Mr. Beaumont. Did you need something?”
“I apologize for disturbing you once again, Lady Purleigh,” said Marsh.
“Not at all. Please, do sit down. Mr. Beaumont, please.”
The two of us sat on the same small sofa. “As I told you earlier,” Marsh said, “it’s rather important that I ascertain where everyone was located when these unpleasant events took place yesterday. All of you were here in the drawing room, I understand, when the Earl died. It remains for me to determine where everyone was when the rifle shot was fired.”
“Yes,” she said. “I understand. Did you wish to speak to any one of us in private?”
“Thank you, but that shouldn’t be necessary. I have only a few questions.” He looked at Cecily. “Miss Fitzwilliam?”
Cecily looked at him, her face composed and empty. “Yes?”
“Could you tell me where you were yesterday, at approximately one o’clock in the afternoon?”
“I was visiting with Mrs. Coburn in the village. She is an old friend of the family’s.” Cecily had found her drawl and she sounded like someone who planned to be more careful with it from now on.
“At what time, Miss Fitzwilliam,” said Marsh, “did you arrive there, and at what time did you leave?”
“I arrived at about eleven, I believe. I left at about two. Shortly after two o’clock. Yes. When Ripley came to fetch me, Mrs. Coburn told me it had just gone two.”
“Who is Ripley?” asked Marsh.
“One of the servants. Mrs. Coburn sent her nephew to the chemist’s to ring my mother. To tell her I was ready to return.” Marsh turned to the mother. “And you dispatched Ripley, Lady Purleigh?”
“Yes,” she said. “The time was a little before two. It takes perhaps fifteen minutes to reach Mrs. Coburn’s by auto, perhaps a bit more.”
Marsh nodded, turned back to Cecily. “And you were with Mrs. Coburn the entire time?”
“Yes.”
“Was anyone else present?”
“No.”
Marsh nodded. “Thank you. Dr. Auerbach. Where were you at that time, Doctor?”
Dr. Auerbach nodded. Light sparkled off the lenses of his pince-nez. “Aha, yah. As I explained to Mr. Beaumont, I was in the cemetery of the small church. I enjoy making the rubbings of the tombstones, you see. I have a collection of these.”
“And what time did you leave, Doctor?”
“One o’clock?” He ran his hand back over his shining skull. “Yah. One. I returned to Maplewhite on the foot, and this walk required of me an hour and a half, almost exactly. Six miles, it would be. I walk one mile in exactly fifteen minutes. Mrs. Corneille has explained to me that it was two-thirty when I went to examine Miss Turner.”
“And why did you examine Miss Turner?”
“Aha, yah. She had fallen off her horse. She was bruised, but otherwise unharmed. A strong, healthy young girl, in the physical sense.”
Marsh nodded. “And while you were in the cemetery, Doctor, did you see anyone? Did anyone see you?”
“Yah, Mr. Beaumont, the same thing he asked me. I spoke with the vicar. A very charming man.”
“Thank you, Doctor. And you, Sir David?”
“Yes?” said Sir David. He hadn’t looked at me since Marsh and I arrived. There was a small mouse beneath his right eye and a gray bruise on his left jaw.
“Where were you, Sir David, between twelve o’clock and one o’clock yesterday?”
“In the village.”
“Where in the village?”
“The Cock and Bull.”
“That’s a pub, is it?”
“It is the pub.” He smiled. Blandly. “Not by virtue of its cachet, I hasten to add, but by virtue of its uniqueness. It is the only pub in the village.”
“And you were in one of the bars?”
“You overestimate its splendors. It has but one. And, no, I was not in it. I had taken a room.”
“A room, Sir David?”
“Yes. I was feeling ill. A recurrent ailment—something I picked up in the Bosphorus, years ago. I took a room so that I might rest for a bit.”
“Why didn’t you simply return to Maplewhite?”
Sir David shrugged. “I should’ve needed to locate the means to do so, and then suffer through an unpleasant automobile journey back here. I was there, in the pub. A room was available. It was bearable, just. I took it.”
“And at what time did you leave the pub
, Sir David?”
“Three-ish, I’d say.”
“And how did you return here?”
“The landlord laid on transport. A car and driver.”
“And what was the landlord’s name?”
“I can’t imagine.” He smiled. “But he oughtn’t be difficult to find.”
“Do you know the name of the driver, Sir David.
“Of course not.”
Marsh nodded. He stood up. So did I. “Thank you all," he said.
Chapter Thirty-five
OUTSIDE THE DRAWING room, Marsh turned to me. “Charming fellow, Sir David. Tell me. I saw only the finale to your boxing match with him, the last few minutes. For how long did it last?”
“You saw most of it.”
“Ah,” he said. “Lovely.” He smiled. “Well, then. Do you feel up to visit to the metropolis?”
“Purleigh?” I said. “Why not.”
“Phil?” It was the Great Man, scurrying toward us down the hallway.
“Yeah, Harry?”
He reached us. His hair was wilder than usual, bristling from his temples like the stuffing from an old couch. He adjusted his tie and nodded curtly to Inspector Marsh. “Phil,” he said, “I need your assistance for a few moments.”
I looked at Marsh.
“You run along,” he said, “I’ll use the auto and dash into the village on my own.” He turned to the Great Man. “Making progress, are we, Mr. Houdini?”
“Certainly. And you, Inspector?”
“One small step at a time.” He smiled. “I’ll see you at tea, shall I?”
“Naturally.”
Marsh nodded, turned, and walked away.
When he was out of earshot, I looked at the Great Man. “What’s up, Harry?”
He glanced at the departing back of Inspector Marsh, then turned to me. “Phil,” he said, his voice low, “we must proceed to the old mill.”
“What old mill?”
“Out there.” He waved his hand—vaguely, impatiently—toward the lawn. “Come.”
“Why an old mill?” I asked him as we set off down the hall.
“To investigate.”
“Uh-huh. And why do you need me?”
He looked at me earnestly. “But Phil. Suppose Chin Soo is out there, waiting? It was your idea that we should be careful, was it not?”
“Come on, Harry. You don’t think Chin Soo is out there. What is it? You need someone to fetch and carry?”
We were trotting down a broad stairway now, old pictures of dead people on the walls, the glances from their dead eyes following us.
“It is possible, yes, perhaps,” he said. “But still, one is always wise to take precautions.” He cleared his throat. Casually more casually than he was walking—he said, “So. Phil. Have you had a pleasant time with Inspector Marsh?”
“A swell time.”
“And has he learned anything of interest?”
We were bustling down a corridor, toward the conservatory. “You think that’d be fair, Harry? Me telling you?”
He raised his head. “Never mind, Phil. Forget that I asked.”
I smiled. “It’s okay. First we talked to Carson, the Earl’s—”
"Beaumont! Houdini!”
Lord Bob, coming up behind us. He was looking rumpled again, and frantic. He strode toward us, his feet thumping against the floor. “They’ve found the bloody thing,” he said to me. He tugged at his big white mustache. “The police. You knew about it, didn’t you? That damn bloody tunnel?”
I nodded. “It was Harry who found it.”
Lord Bob looked from me to the Great Man and back. His shoulders rose and sank in a heavy sigh. The mustache fluttered as he blew out a long streamer of air. “That big chap, the sergeant. He blundered into Marjorie’s room. Mrs. Allardyce. She was resting. Went into fits. Marjorie did, I mean. Clubbed him with a vase. Huge uproar. A servant heard, called Higgens, he called me.
He shook his head sadly. “French. Eighteenth century, I think. A thousand pieces now.”
I said, “Why didn’t you tell us about the tunnel, Lord Purleigh?”
“I—” He looked around him, then back at us. He nodded. “Come along. We’ll talk.”
“I’VE TOLD YOU that my father was mad,” said Lord Bob.
He and the Great Man and I were in the same small parlor that Doyle and I had used yesterday, not far from the conservatory. Lord Bob sat across the room.
“He was a perfect lunatic,” he said. “And not only because he wanted to flog everyone—although that was bad enough, of course. But he did worse. He loved to dress up, you see, as Lord Reginald—the family ghost—and terrify young women. Guests. Wore a nightgown, a false beard, a wig. Attached them with spirit gum, looked quite convincing. Waited till they fell asleep. Used the tunnel to sneak into their rooms. Woke them up with a howl and bellowed that he wanted to ravish ’em. This was before his accident, of course.”
“How’d he get away with it?” I asked him. “None of the women reported it? None of them complained?”
“Well, there weren’t that many, you know. Five or six over the years. And all of ’em actually believed he was Lord Reginald. Swooned dead away, or went screaming out into the halls. One of ’em—strange woman, a writer—actually insisted he ravish her. And the old swine did, I’m sorry to say. Shocking, I know, but there it is. The Earl boasted of it for weeks.”
“He never raped these women?”
Lord Bob’s eyebrows sailed upward. “Good Lord, no. Rape? The man was deranged, Beaumont, but he was a Fitzwilliam.”
“Miss Turner felt she was in danger of—”
“Yes.” Wincing, he held up his hand like a traffic cop. “Miss Turner. I feel dreadful about Miss Turner. All that, the other women, that all happened before his accident, as I said. When we learned he was paralyzed, I breathed a sigh of relief, I don’t mind telling you. No more hysterical women running through the hallways. No more silly stories of hauntings.”
He took a deep breath. “What must’ve happened, over the years, he changed. Lying there, he festered. Like a wound, eh? Been mental before, got even worse. Forgot even who he was. Forgot he was a Fitzwilliam. By the time he could walk again, he'd gone completely round the bend. He never told us, you know. That he could walk. Kept it a secret.”
“How’d you find out?”
“A weekend party. Few months ago. Group of people up from London. Friends of Alice—artists, writers, that sort. She meets them there, in town, takes them under her wing. One of the women, young thing named Cora—Dora? Harrington or something. Doesn’t matter. Middle of the night, she woke up the entire east wing with her screaming. She’d seen him, she said. Reginald. He’d grabbed at her, she said. He’d never done that before. Actually touched them, I mean. Except for that writer woman, of course. I learned about all this in the morning.”
“Did you talk to him? Your father?”
“Of course. Within the hour. Stormed up there, read him the riot act. He denied everything. How could he do it, he asked me. He was paralyzed, wasn’t he? All innocence. Nearly persuaded me,
I confess. Told myself, this Harrington girl was a nervous sort, mebbe. Had woman troubles, eh? She’d heard the stories, she hallucinated. Talked myself into believing it.”
The Great Man asked, “Did you take any precautions, Lord Purleigh, to prevent a repetition of the incident?
“Locked the entrance to the tunnel. Just in case. His entrance, from the tunnel side. Loops of metal in there, made for that purpose. Centuries ago. Ran a crowbar through ’em. Impossible for him to get through.” ^
“But there was no bar present,” said the Great Man, when I discovered the entrance.”
“I know that,” said Lord Bob. “Looked for it myself, yesterday.” He turned to me. “After I brought you to Carson’s room. Used another entrance, down the hall, to get into the tunnel and then back up. Bloody thing had gone missing.”
I said, “Your father could’ve used the same entran
ce earlier, and taken the bar.”
He nodded. “What must’ve happened. It was still there, though, on Friday morning. I looked.”
I asked him, “Who else knew about the tunnel?”
“No one. Family tradition. Only the firstborn son is told. Sworn to secrecy, lots of feudal mumbo-jumbo. Absurd, of course. But so long as he was alive—the Earl—I kept to the oath.”
“But Lady Purleigh had to know your father was impersonating the ghost.”
“Of course she did. Kinder about the whole thing than I was, Alice. More forgiving. Said it was a sickness, nothing we could do. Except attempt to prevent it happening again. But she never knew about the tunnel. Thought he simply wandered through the halls.” “When were the tunnel and the entrances built?” the Great Man asked.
“The Civil War, so the stories say. Cromwell, the Roundheads, that lot. Think it’s older, myself. Late Norman, mebbe. Some of the stonework—”
“Lord Purleigh,” I said. “Yesterday, when we were trying to get into the Earl’s room, Sir Arthur asked you if there was another way in. You said there wasn’t.”
He took in another deep breath, slowly sighed it out. He nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I know. Wrong of me. Completely. But there was the oath, you see. The tradition. Hundreds of years.” He frowned, shook his head, sighed again. “But that wasn’t the real reason.”
“You didn't want anyone to know about your father.”
“No. I didn’t. Everyone knew he was a reactionary swine. Most of ’em approved, of course. Preferred him that way. But no one knew about the other.”
He looked uncomfortable. “Look, Beaumont, there are things I want to do. Important things. Helping the workers. The farmers. Poor buggers have had a thin time of it for centuries. Exploited by everyone. The aristocracy, the Church, the bourgeoisie, the government. I could do something, you see. Oh, they think I’m a fool. Society. All of ’em. I realize that. Lived with it for years, doesn't bother me. But what would they think of me, think of the earldom, if they learned about this? However could I get anything done?”
“Do you think your father committed suicide, Lord Purleigh?”
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