Escapade

Chapter Thirteen

Doyle crossed his right leg over his left knee, and again a small wince flickered quickly across his lips. He puffed once more at his pipe and then took it from his mouth. “To begin with,” he said, “I think that in these matters we should defer to Mr. Beaumont s expertise. He is, after all, the professional here. I am merely an amateur, a simple scribbler.”

“Come, come,” said Lord Bob, sitting back. “Don’t be modest, old man. Whole country knows how you saved that Hindu fellow’s life. Nuralji, Moralji, whatever.” He turned to the Great Man. “Poor devil was arrested for maiming some animals. Cattle, dreadful thing, all the locals in an uproar. Shropshire, this was. Bloody police needed a scapegoat, ran this fellow in, no real evidence. Bloody court convicted him. Typical capitalist cockup. Then Doyle got onto it. Sniffing about. Just like that Sherlock Holmes chappie of his, eh? Deductions right and left. Digging up clues and whatnot. Proved the fellow innocent. Got him released, eh, Doyle?”

Doyle looked over at me and smiled sadly. “I’m afraid that Lord Purleigh overstates both my efforts and their results. By the time I took an interest in his case, George Edjali had already been pardoned and released. He was completely innocent, of that I had no doubt. But I was far from being the only one who felt so. I merely attempted to persuade our Home Office that his conviction should be quashed, and that he should be paid some compensation for having been unjustly imprisoned for three years.’

He put the pipe back in his mouth. “Unfortunately,” he said, puffing smoke, “I was unsuccessful.”

“No surprise there,” said Lord Bob. “Typical capitalist bureaucracy, eh? Protecting themselves and their lackeys. Gutless swine, the lot of ’em. Still, you’re the one found the evidence. Saw the proper direction to take, eh? That’s what we need here, Doyle. Bit of direction. Be grateful for it, don’t mind telling you. Crazed magicians, assassins, not my thing at all.”

Doyle smiled and puffed again at his pipe. “But neither, really, are they mine. As I say, this is Mr. Beaumont’s parish. And I must admit, Lord Purleigh, that I believe he’s entirely justified in insisting upon informing the police.”

“Bob,” said Lord Bob. “But look here, Doyle. Local police simply haven’t enough men to do us any good. Told Beaumont the same thing. And what men they do have are dolts. Won’t have those louts tramping across the lawn, tracking muck about, pestering the guests. My guests, Doyle. My responsibility. Being spied on by the police, not what they came here for, is it? Wanted a bit of company, relaxation, spot or two of fun with that medium of yours.”

Doyle took the pipe from his mouth, rested his hand on his thigh. He frowned thoughtfully and he said, “Lord Purleigh, I know your feelings regarding Spiritualism. However much I may disagree with them, I do, of course, respect your right to express them. But I really must point out that Madame Sosostris is a gifted and remarkable woman, possibly the most remarkable woman I have ever met. She has come here at your invitation, and at no small sacrifice to herself. She believes, as I do, that Spiritualism-”

“Quite right, Doyle,” said Lord Bob, holding up his hand again. “Rotten bad form. Put my foot in it, I admit. All apologies. But the police? Here at Maplewhite? Prowling around all weekend? You see my point, of course. Simply wouldn’t do, would it?”

It seemed to me that the Great Man had been silent for a long time. Probably it seemed the same way to him, because now he leaned slightly forward and he said, “Sir Arthur, I am inclined to agree with Lord Purleigh. As I explained to him before, I know that I, personally, would prefer that the police not become involved in this. And I suspect that Lord Purleigh’s other guests will feel much the same way.”

“Harry,” I said. Three faces turned toward me, and two of them were unhappy. “You’re not thinking this out. These other people don’t have any reason to avoid the cops. Once they find out about

Chin Soo, they’re going to want to leave, or they’re going to want protection.”

I turned to Lord Bob. “And if they want it, real protection, are you going to tell them they can’t have it? A regiment of farmers and kitchen staff doesn’t really make the grade.”

Lord Bob glanced at Doyle. Doyle said, “I’m afraid I must agree.”

Pursing his lips, Lord Bob stared down at the pattern in the carpet.

The Great Man was staring, too, but at me. In pretty much the same way that Jesus had stared at Judas.

Doyle puffed at his pipe. “Lord Purleigh?” he said.

“Bob,” he said without looking up. He took in a deep breath and he slowly sighed it out. He looked up, at Doyle. “Very well. We’ll discuss it with them at tea time. Four o’clock. Suit you?”

“Entirely,” said Doyle. “I do believe that this is the right decision.”

“Expect we’ll find out,” said Lord Bob. He stood up. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve some things to attend to.”

Everyone stood. Lord Bob crossed the carpet, held out his hand to Doyle. “Good to see you again, Doyle. Glad you could come. Apologize for all this excitement, eh?”

Doyle pumped his arm. His vigor had returned and once again he seemed larger even than he was. “Not at all,” he said. “It’s a delight to be here, in any circumstances.”

Lord Bob turned to the Great Man and smiled. “Houdini,” he nodded. He turned to me and frowned. “Beaumont.” He didn’t nod. To the others he said, “See you at four. The drawing room.” And then he left.

It was a bit abrupt, I thought. But maybe that was the way the aristocracy did things. Even when they were Bolshevists.

I was about to sit down again when the Great Man aimed his charming smile in my direction. Either he had recovered from his betrayal or he had decided he wanted something. “Phil. Would you excuse us, please? I should like to speak with Sir Arthur for a short while.”

Fair enough. The two of them were old friends, they had lives and wives to catch up on. “Sure, Harry,” I said. “Just do me a favor and don’t go wandering around outside.”

He nodded impatiently. “Yes, yes. I understand. But please, Phil, do not mention any of this to anyone until tea time.”

“Okay, Harry. Tea time. Nice to meet you, Sir Arthur.”

I held out my hand to Doyle, so he could pump my arm some more. He did.

“I very much look forward,” he said, “to talking with you at length.”

I ambled through the big house and out of it. The place seemed empty, no other guests around, no servants. I followed a flagstone path that stopped at the gravel walkway and started again on the other side of it. It meandered toward the formal garden, and so did I. In the garden a few wrought-iron benches were scattered among the neat rows of flowers, benches painted with white enamel like the two under the bronze-red tree. I sat down on one.

The air was still warm, the sun was still shining, the sky was still blue.

The Great Man was still alive, and so were all the other guests. Fairly soon, the other guests would find out what the situation was and they would all have a chance to decide whether they wanted the police here. I was getting my own way, which didn’t happen very often around the Great Man. Except to him.

I should have been happy.

But I was bothered.

It was too big a job for one man. If the cops didn’t show up soon, somehow I had to convince the Great Man to bring in some more people.

I looked off at the forest, dark green and dense and draped with shadow. Chin Soo could have been anywhere in there. Maybe he was watching me right now.

I heard the crunch of gravel to my right and I wheeled around on the bench.

“I’m sorry,” said Mrs. Corneille. “I didn’t mean to startle you.” She held out her slender hand and she gently waved me down.

“No, no, please don’t get up. Do you mind if I join you?”

“No,” I said, “of course not.” It was the truth. She was as much of a distraction as she had been before, but I was in the mood for a distraction now.

Hanging from her trim shoulder was a white leather purse. Beneath her white straw hat, the wings of thick black hair were sleek and glossy. Her white linen dress was as bright as a spill of snow. She sat down and crossed her long legs and the sunlight shimmered on her pale silk stockings. From the purse on her lap she removed a silver cigarette case and a silver lighter. She opened the case and held it out to me. I could smell her perfume again, and again it put me in mind of Gardens and temptations.

“No thanks,” I said. “I don’t smoke.”

She lightly arched one eyebrow and it disappeared behind her shiny black bangs. “You have no bad habits, Mr. Beaumont?” she asked me.

“Not that one,” I said, and reached for the lighter. She handed it to me and I clicked it alight and held it out. She leaned forward and touched the tip of the brown cigarette to the flame. Below the broad brim of the hat, below the sleek bangs, her large eyes gazed calmly into mine. The eyes were so dark that the pupils melted into the irises. She took a deep drag and plucked away the cigarette and sat back to exhale a slow billow of blue smoke. I handed over the lighter and she put it into the purse, along with the cigarette case.

“Thank you,” she said.

I asked her, “How is Miss Turner?”

“Much better.”

“What happened?” I asked. “How did she lose control of the horse?”

“The horse saw a snake,” she said, exhaling smoke, “and it bolted.”

“But why did she faint?”

“I’m not sure. She has had a rather trying time of it lately. But it’s fortunate for her that you were there. When she fell.” Even in the glare of sun, there were very few lines in the pale soft skin beneath those almond-shaped eyes. Thirty-six years old? Thirty-four? “If you hadn’t managed to catch her, she might have been seriously injured.” She inhaled on the cigarette. “You’re extremely resourceful, for a personal secretary.”

I was a personal secretary until tea time. “You should see my shorthand,” I said.

She smiled, but her eyes narrowed a bit. “What were you reaching for?”

“Reaching for? When?”

“When the man, the poacher, whoever he was, when he fired that rifle. We all turned toward the shot, and when I turned back and looked at you, you were reaching into your pocket.”

“Yeah?” The little Colt automatic was still there. I shrugged. “I don’t remember. Looking for some chewing gum, maybe.”

She smiled again, but briefly this time, and patiently. In a polite way, she was letting me know that she didn’t believe me. “You let it go, whatever it was, when you ran to help Jane.”

“You can’t worry about chewing gum when it’s time to be resourceful.”

She laughed. She took another drag from the cigarette, exhaled another streamer of smoke. “It’s just that you’ve never really impressed me as looking very much like a personal secretary.” “No? What does a personal secretary look like?”

“Well,” she said, “I confess that I’ve met only a few of them. But most of them were little men, rather prissy and self-important. And physically cautious, I should’ve thought.” She smiled. ‘I can't imagine any of them running off into the forest after someone, as you did. Particularly someone in possession of a rifle.”

“No big deal. Just trying to help out. Would you mind if I asked you a question?”

“Are you any better at asking them than you are at answering them?”

“Maybe we’ll find out.”

She nodded. “Go ahead, then.”

“Is this something you usually do? Attend seances?”

“Heavens, no.” She inhaled some smoke, exhaled. “It’s my first time, and probably my last. Sitting around a table in the dark, holding the damp hand of some stranger, isn’t exactly my idea of fun.”

“But not all these people are strangers. Sir David, for example. I got the feeling you knew him pretty well.”

“David? For ages. He was a friend of my husband’s.” She paused. “By the way. Have you said anything to David to upset him? Or done anything?”

“Not that I know of. Why?”

“I could be wrong, of course, but he seems to be harboring some sort of resentment toward you.”

“It’s news to me,” I told her. “You said he was a friend of your husband’s. Past tense. They’re not friends these days?”

“My husband died in the War.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. The phrase sounded thin and frail, the way it always sounds when it comes up against endings.

“There’s no need to be,” she said.

“No?”

She looked at me. “Were you in the War, Mr. Beaumont?”

“For a while.”

She smiled briefly. “Then perhaps you know that not everyone who died in the course of it was a hero.”

I nodded. I said nothing. There was a bitterness simmering beneath her words, and I was curious about it. But to learn more, I would have to open her up-and to do that, I would have to open up myself.

She took a final drag of the cigarette, long and deep. Exhaling, she said, “My husband and I separated from each other a very long time ago.” She dropped the cigarette to the ground. Elegantly, she uncrossed her legs and bent forward, her hands against the bench. She watched as the sole of her white pump carefully crushed the cigarette into the grass and buried it there. She sat back, knees together, hands atop the purse on her lap, and she looked over at me. “At the time he died, we hadn’t seen each other for nearly ten years.”

I nodded. “Getting back to the seance. Why’d you come?”

She smiled. “You are rather better at asking questions.”

I smiled back.

“Well,” she said, “in the end it’s difficult to say no to Alice. Impossible, really. She’s been a friend for years, and a good one. She’s quite enraptured with this woman, this Madame Sosostris, and she wanted me to meet her. And when she mentioned that Sir Arthur Conan Doyle would be coming, she knew she had me.”

“When did she ask you?”

“On Tuesday. We lunched together.”

“Did Lady Purleigh say anything about Houdini being here?”

“No. I didn’t know about that until I arrived yesterday.” She looked at me, her eyes narrowing slightly once again. “Why do you ask?”

I shrugged. “Curious.”

She nodded, but I think she had scratched another mental chalk mark against my honesty. “Have you been working with Mr. Houdini for a long time?”

“Not long, no.”

“He’s quite a legend in his own right, isn’t he?”

“Yeah. Quite.”

“Ah, there you are, Mr. Beaumont!” It was Doyle, striding tall and hardy down the walkway between the flowers.