Escapade

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 entrance 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?”

For a moment he only looked at me. Then, slowly, he nodded. “I do, yes. I spoke with him, you know. Yesterday morning, after the others had left for town. Before I saw you at breakfast. I accused him of accosting Miss Turner. He denied it, of course. I told him I intended to have him put away. An asylum. He believed me, I think.” He looked away. “I suspect that this is why he took his own life.” He looked back at us. “So, in a way, of course, I’m responsible. I expect that’s why I drank so much yesterday. Made such an idiot of myself.”

“Sooner or later,” I said, “you’ve got to talk to the police.”

Lord Bob sighed sadly. “Yes. Yes, I realize that.” He shook his head, looked off again. “May mean the end of everything.”

“Excuse me, Phil,” said the Great Man. “But do you think it is absolutely necessary that Lord Purleigh tell Inspector Marsh about the late Earl? Immediately, at any rate? Perhaps he should wait until-”

“After tea time? Too late, Harry. Marsh already knows,” I turned to Lord Bob. “He’s talked to Miss Turner. She figured everything out. She went exploring in your father’s room last night. She found the phony beard and the wig.”

“Ah,” he said, and he sighed once more. “She did strike me as an intelligent woman, Miss Turner.”

“I’ll talk to them,” I said. “The police. See if I can get them to keep things quiet.”

Lord Bob smiled sadly. “Thank you, Beaumont. I appreciate the thought. Well.” He raised his head. “We’ll see what happens, won’t we?”

“Things’ll work out,” I told him.

“Yes. Yes, of course.” He looked around the room and blinked, like someone who’d just awakened from a daydream. He turned back to me. “I wonder. Do you know where my wife is? I really ought to let her know what’s happened.”

“She’s in the drawing room,” I said.

“Thank you.” He stood up. He still look rumpled but now he looked worn and defeated and about ten years older. We stood up and he stepped forward, holding out his hand. “Houdini. Beaumont. Thank you for listening.”

“Tell me, Phil,” said the Great Man as we walked across the patio outside the conservatory. “You say that Inspector Marsh has talked with Miss Turner.”

“Yeah.”

“She told him-”

A voice interrupted him. “ ’Scuse me, gents.”

It was a policeman, stepping away from the trunk of the tree. I’d forgotten that Superintendent Honniwell had assigned two cops to guard Maplewhite. This one was tall and bulky in his dark uniform. and he needed a shave.

“Sorry, gents,” he said, “but I’m s’pose to watch all the comin’s and goin’s hereabouts. And who-”

“I am Harry Houdini,” announced the Great Man. “And this is Phil Beaumont, a Pinkerton man. And, as you see, we are going. You have no orders that prevent anyone from going, do you?”

“No sir,” said the policeman, backing away toward the tree. “Sorry, sir. Just doing me job, sir.”

“Thank you,” said the Great Man. “Idiot,” he said, when we’d walked another ten or twelve yards, out onto the sunny lawn. “Like he said, Harry. He’s just doing his job.”

“He does not even have a gun, Phil.”

“English cops don’t carry them.”

He looked at me. “But how do they shoot people?”

“They don’t.”

His forehead furrowed. “They never carry guns? None of them? Not even detective officers, like Marsh and Sergeant Meadows?” “Marsh could probably get issued a weapon. If he were going up against a band of anarchists. Bombmakers, maybe. But generally, no.”

“Amazing.” He cocked his head and stared down at the passing ground. “Amazing.”

“You wanted to know something about Miss Turner?”

He turned to me. “Yes. Miss Turner told Marsh about the knife in her bed this morning?”

“I told him.”

“And what was his response?”

“He didn’t give one, Harry. Not to me.”

“Do you believe that he thinks it significant?”

“I don’t know what he thinks.”

He nodded. “To whom has he spoken?

I told him about my morning with Marsh as we walked down the slope of bright green grass and then along the gravel walkway. It was another beautiful day, the second in a row. The squirrels couldn’t get over it. They ran up and down the trees like this would be their last chance.

“The Darleen woman,” said the Great Man. “The kitchen maid. She had been visiting with the Earl on a regular basis?”

“Yeah.”

“But why, then, would the Earl feel obliged to accost these other women, including Miss Turner?

“I don’t know. Maybe the visits from Darleen were what started him wandering the halls again. Maybe Darleen wasn’t enough for him.”

He made a face. He didn’t like that idea. “And why would he steal trinkets from everyone’s room?”

“No idea. He was crazy, Harry. Maybe we should ask Dr. Auerbach.”

He shook his head, looked off, looked back at me. “And to whom else did you speak?”

I told him.

When I finished, we were at the rear of Maplewhite, the huge gray house rising above the faraway trees. And what did you find out, Harry?” I asked him.

“Well, Phil,” he said. “I believe I have solved the mystery.”

“Which one?”

“All of them. Ah, here is the path Miss Turner mentioned. Come along, Phil.”

There was a narrow opening in the wall of trees and brambles. The Great Man plunged into it. I followed him.

“So what’s the solution?” I asked his back.

“All in good time, Phil,” he said over his shoulder.

It wasn’t much of a path. As it twisted down into the forest, branches grew across it, and vines and spiderwebs. After a while it came to a wide passageway that looked like it had been a roadway once. This led left and right, off through the towering trees. The Great Man turned left.

I caught up with him. “Where are we going, Harry?”

“I told you, Phil. The old mill. I suspect that there is another path that leads there, closer to the house, but this is the path Miss Turner took.”

“When?”

“Yesterday. On horseback.”

“When she saw the snake?”

The Great Man smiled. “She saw much more than a snake, Phil. She saw the murderers of the Earl.”

I looked at him. “What are you talking about, Harry?”

“All in good time.”

I remembered the Colt in my pocket and I thought about using it. I decided not to. We marched along the old road for two or three hundred yards.

“Ah,” he said. “The mill.”

It was an old mill, made of stone but in ruins now. Its big wooden wheel had tumbled into the narrow rusty-looking stream. The stream flowed from a pool surrounded by drooping cattails. The water was dark and still and the branches of a big willow tree were reflected as they dipped down into it.

“And there is the willow,” said the Great Man. He turned to me. “Shall we take a look inside the mill?”

“It’s your party, Harry,”

He padded through the grasses and jumped over the stream. I followed. The wooden door to the mill was hanging inward on its hinges. We stepped inside. The place smelled of mold and burnt wood.

“Someone has built a fire,” said the Great Man.

The building was cylindrical, about fifteen feet across. Against the far wall, on the uneven stone floor, was a huddle of ash and charred lumber, bits of planking, chunks of two-by-four and four-by-four.

“Hobos,” I said.

“Are there hobos in England?” He crossed the floor and stood over the small pile.

“Two million unemployed, Lord Bob said. Probably a few of them on the road.”

“Lord Purleigh,” he corrected me. He looked up. “Do you notice anything interesting about the floor, Phil?”

“No one’s swept it for a while.” Dust and ashes were scattered over the slabs of stone.

He nodded. “Come.”

Outside, he stared across the pond to the willow tree. “They were standing there,” he said. “Under the willow.”

“Who was?”

“The ghosts that Miss Turner saw.”

“Harry.”

He turned to me. “You must help me find it,” he said.

“Find what?”

“The tunnel.”