Escapade

Chapter Fourteen

He plucked off his hat as he approached us. He was smiling that big boyish smile of his, the boxy teeth gleaming like old polished ivory beneath his bristling white mustache.

“Excuse me for interrupting,” he said, bobbing his big pink head at Mrs. Corneille.

I stood up. “Mrs. Corneille, this is Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.” As though she hadn’t figured that out already. “Sir Arthur, Mrs. Corneille.”

Still sitting, she smiled as she held out her hand. Doyle took it gently between his bulky fingers and he bobbed his head again.

“Delighted,” he said.

“What a great pleasure to meet you,” she said. “I’ve enjoyed your writings for many, many years.”

Doyle beamed and released her. “Not that many, surely?” His hands clasped behind him, he hovered over her like a schoolteacher over a prize pupil. “I know that I’m been writing them for many, many years. But surely it’s impossible that you’ve been reading them for so very long.”

“You are most gallant,” she said, smiling up at him from the shade he cast.

“Ah, well,” he said, standing upright and shaking his head sadly. “I’m afraid you may have cause to revise your kind opinion. As it happens, I’ve come to disconvenience you, and most ungallantly. Would you mind terribly if I absconded with Mr. Beaumont for a few moments? It’s a rather pressing matter or I shouldn’t think to disturb you. I promise you that I shall return him to you in perfect health.”

“You disturb me not at all,” she said. “Actually, I was just about to return to the house. The sunshine is wonderful, but I believe I’m beginning to burn.” She stood up. “Mr. Beaumont, thank you so much for entertaining me.” I couldn’t tell whether she was playing around with the word entertaining. “Perhaps we can continue our discussion at some other time.”

“I’d like that,” I told her.

His face concerned, Doyle asked her, “Are you certain that I’m not intruding?”

“Entirely,” she told him. “It’s been lovely to meet you. I hope I’ll be seeing you again.”

“That you shall,” said Doyle, giving her another bob of his head, “if I have anything to say about it.”

With a final glance at me, she lightly turned and lightly walked away, her dress as white as a wisp of cloud against the brightly colored rows of flowers.

Gallantly, Doyle edged his big body to the side, so he couldn’t watch her leave. He put on his hat and he lowered his head toward me and lowered his voice and he said, “What a handsome woman.”

“And then some,” I said.

“And clever into the bargain, I’ll wager.”

“That’s not a wager I’d take.”

He chuckled, and then we both glanced over at the retreating Mrs. Corneille. She was floating up the flagstone walkway now, toward the house. A gust of breeze flapped at the hem of her skirt. The broad brim of her straw hat fluttered. She inclined her head forward as she put her hand atop the hat.

“Well,” said Doyle, turning to me again, eyebrows raised. “Shall we walk for a while? Need that at my age, you know. Don’t get out as much as I’d like.”

We walked through the garden and turned right at the gravel walkway, heading back toward the tall tree with bronze-red leaves. His long legs churning up the gravel, Doyle set a pace that would probably get us to Labrador by nightfall.

We scurried along for a while. I didn’t say anything the footrace had been his idea. At last he said, “You know, I've met William Pinkerton.”

“Yes?”

“Several times. A fascinating man, I thought. And a wonderful raconteur. We traveled on the same ship once, a transatlantic crossing, and he was kind enough to provide me with some splendid material. Really gripping stuff. I used bits of it in one of my novels.”

“No kidding.” The Valley of Fear. Everyone in the Agency knew that Doyle had used the story of McParlan and the Molly Maguires in the book, and everyone knew that William A. Pinkerton had been steamed at Doyle for doing it without his permission. But the smart money was on the notion that the Old Man had really been angry because Doyle hadn’t given him credit for the story.

Doyle said, “He also told me quite a lot about his agency. I was most impressed. He made the point that all of his agents operatives, isn’t that right? — that all of them were responsible, intelligent, reasonable men.”

I smiled. “Harry’s been talking to you,” I said. “He’s been trying to persuade you to persuade me to forget about the police.”

Doyle chuckled. “His agents were insightful as well, Mr. Pinkerton told me. Is that the tree, up ahead?”

“Yes.” The bronze-red tree.

“May I examine it?”

“Be my guest.”

When we reached the shade of the tree, Doyle reached into his inside coat pocket, found an oblong leather case, opened it, took out a pair of spectacles. He slipped the case back into his pocket and then slipped the spectacles over his nose. I showed him where we had all been standing when the shot was fired. I showed him the hole in the tree trunk, where I’d dug out the slug.

“And the shot,” he said, “was fired from where?”

I pointed down the long green rolling slope. “There. At the back of the garden. That small opening in the tree line.”

“A fair distance.”

“Yeah.”

He frowned. “You were both on the walkway, and the walkway passes within thirty yards of that opening. Why is it, do you think, that he didn’t wait until you’d approached more closely?”

“We weren’t walking on it at the time. We were standing around, talking. Maybe he’d just gotten there himself, maybe he didn’t know we’d be coming closer.” I shrugged. “Or maybe he got tired of waiting.”

Doyle nodded. With his big hand he indicated one of the white wrought-iron benches. “Shall we sit?”

We sat. Doyle exhaled deeply. Once again, now that he was sitting, some of his vitality seemed to escape with his breath. Almost wearily he reached into his coat pocket and took out the leather case. He removed his spectacles, folded them, put them in the case, slipped the case back into his pocket. He leaned forward, parked his heavy forearms on his knees, clasped his hands together. He turned to me. “Mr. Beaumont,” he said. “Houdini does, of course, realize that you’re in the right, so far as informing the authorities is concerned. He knows full well that so long as Chin Soo’s whereabouts are unknown, the guests here are quite possibly in jeopardy. It goes without saying that he’s deeply concerned about them.”

Went without saying by the Great Man, anyway. At least to me. “But he’s also concerned,” said Doyle, “as you know, about the effect that the arrival of the police will have on his career. And in this, I believe, he is correct. Purleigh is a small town and doubtless has its share of gossips. Houdini’s career, as you know, depends almost entirely upon his reputation.”

“I’m not worried about his reputation. I’m worried about his life. And the lives of all the other people here.”

“Of course. And your concern does you credit.” Slowly, wincing very slightly, he sat back. He crossed his arms over his chest. “But hear me out. What Houdini proposes is that we inform New Scotland Yard, in London.”

I shook my head. “According to Lord Purleigh, they can’t get here in time.”

He smiled. “Ah, but you see they can send a telegram to P.C. Dubbins, and to the police station at Amberly, the nearest large town. They can insist, in the telegrams, that Dubbins and the Amberly constabulary preserve the absolute confidentiality of this matter. I know a man at the Yard, quite highly placed, who could help arrange this. I could get in touch with him by telephone, after tea, after we’ve discussed this with the other guests.”

I thought about that for a moment. I looked at him. “Houdini proposes, Sir Arthur?”

He smiled. “Well…”

“This was your idea, wasn’t it?”

“Well. Yes.” His smile widened and he bobbed his head. “I confess. Forgive me for saying so, but it seemed rather a good solution to the problem.”

“It is,” I told him.

He grinned now, pleased. “Do you really think so?”

“It’s good. Have you talked about it with Lord Purleigh?”

“Not as yet. But he’s already agreed that the police are necessary. Why should he object to keeping confidentiality?”

“Okay.”

“Then you’re agreed?” Doyle asked me.

“Sure.”

“Excellent!” he said. “Topping!” He held out his big hand and I took it. He put some more creases in my palm."

We walked back to the house more slowly. Maybe Doyle was growing tired now. Or maybe, now that he had confronted me with his compromise, he was no longer in a hurry.

I asked him, “Have you known Harry for a long time?”

He looked up, blinking at me. “I beg your pardon? Oh. Not terribly long. We met just last year. And you, I take it, you’ve known him for only a month or so.”

“A little over a month.”

He nodded. “A truly exceptional man, don’t you think?”

“One of a kind.”

“Brave and gifted. I’ve never seen any man display such absolutely reckless daring. The man is constantly risking life and limb.”

The Great Man was brave, I knew that. But I had seen him prepare for his performances and I knew that he was anything but reckless. He was risking life and limb more by staying here, out in the English countryside, than he ever risked them on stage.

“He’s an extraordinary showman,” said Doyle. “A marvelous performer.”

“Yeah. Marvelous.”

“And a medium, of course.”

I looked at him. “A medium what?”

He smiled. “Come now, Mr. Beaumont. A medium. A clairvoyant. And most assuredly more. This is a man who clearly possesses stupendous powers. How else could he achieve the miracles he achieves? Oh, he denies it, I realize, for reasons of his own.” The smile became indulgent and he shook his head. “Modesty, perhaps.”

“Modesty,” I repeated. I was still looking at Doyle. He seemed completely sincere. Just to make sure, I said it again. “Modesty?”

He nodded. “I realize, of course, that on the face of it he does sometimes seem rather taken with himself. I’ve heard people refer to him as conceited, and I suppose I can understand their confusion. But as I see it, his assurance is but the supreme selfconfidence of a unique individual who has, through a God-given gift, overcome the boundaries of time and space.”

He looked over at me, smiling. “But you know all this, of course. You know the man. You’ve traveled with him. No doubt you’ve actually seen him dematerialize.”

“Dematerialize.”

“I envy you, I must say. I’ve read through the literature, it goes without saying. Comprehensively. The accounts in the Bible. The stories of Daniel Dunglas Home. And of Mrs. Guppy-you know that she actually teleported herself from Highbury to Bloomsbury? How I should’ve loved to see that!” He unclasped his hands, slipped them into his pants pockets, shook his big head a few times, then looked over at me. “But to live, as you’ve been doing, at close quarters with such a marvel. I truly envy you, Mr. Beaumont.”

He looked down, at the gravel walkway, and he sighed.

“Sir Arthur,” I said.

“Hmm?”

“Harry doesn’t dematerialize.”

He looked over at me and he furrowed his wide brow. And then, after a moment, he smiled at me, the way a father smiles when his son tells him that the missing cookies were stolen by a band of gypsies. “Come now,” he said.

“He’s a magician, Sir Arthur. Those are tricks up there, on stage. Good tricks. But tricks.”

For another few moments he stared at me. Then, once again, he smiled. He nodded sagely. “I understand completely. Not another word.”

I didn’t have any other words. Neither of us spoke any until we reached the entrance to the manor house.

“And here we are,” he said. “Back again.” He looked at me thoughtfully. “I do hope this Chin Soo business won’t affect the seance tonight. Madame Sosostris is acutely sensitive, you know. Her abilities may be impaired by all the ill will drifting about.”

He looked around him and then up at the sky, as if the ill will might have gathered into storm clouds up there.

He turned to me. “You’ll find her remarkable, I’m sure. She’ll be joining the rest of us for tea. Well, I believe I’ll rest for a bit. Long drive from London. It’s been delightful talking with you.” He held out his hand. I gave him mine and let him crush it for a while.