Escapade (22 page)

“Did he go anywhere near the Great Hall?”

“No, sir. Briggs helped me with the chair, getting it downstairs, and I rolled it out to the gardens myself.”

“Was someone with him all the time?”

“I was, sir. The entire time. Near to half an hour. And then Briggs helped me get him back up to his room.”

“Okay,” I said. “What happened today?”

“When, sir?”

Bit by bit, I got it out of him. At four o’clock, as usual, Carson had brought the Earl his afternoon tea. As usual, the door between the anteroom and the Earl’s bedroom was shut. As usual, Carson

waited in the anteroom for the Earl to ring a bell by his bedside, signaling that he was ready for the tea. No bell rang. At a quarter after four, Carson heard the sound of a gunshot. He ran to the Earl’s door, tried to open it, discovered it was locked. He tried his own key. It wouldn’t work. He pounded on the door. No answer. He ran into his room, used the emergency telephone to call Higgens. A few minutes later, Higgens arrived, with Lord Bob. The two of them couldn’t open the door. Lord Bob went off for help.

“Okay,” I said. “When you heard the gunshot, did you know what it was?”

He blinked. “I wasn’t quite sure
what
it was, sir. But a gunshot is what it sounded like. It was very loud, sir, even through the door.” “Did the Earl usually lock his door?”

“No, sir. He never did.”

“Where was the other key? The one that was in the lock this afternoon?”

“In his cabinet, sir. The bottom drawer.”

“And you’re sure you heard the shot at a quarter after four?” “Yes, sir. I’d just looked at my watch, sir.”

“Why look at your watch?”

“It was getting late, sir. Most times, the Earl rang for tea by ten minutes past four.”

“Mr. Carson, I’ve heard that there’s been some bad feelings between the Earl and Lord Purleigh.”

He blinked. The hands stirred. “Bad feelings, sir?”

“I heard that the Earl didn’t like what Lord Purleigh planned to do with Maplewhite, after the Earl was gone.”

He shook his head earnestly. “Oh no, sir. They had their disagreements, sir, as you might expect. It happens in every family, doesn’t it, sir? But there were no bad feelings, sir.”

“No arguments, no fights?”

“Oh no, sir. Nothing like that.”

Just then, I heard a noise coming from the hallway outside Carson’s room. The stomp of heavy feet, the mumble of male voices. I got up from my chair and went to the door.

WALKING OUT INTO the hallway was like walking into a Mack Sennett movie. It was crowded with people who seemed to be rushing in a dozen different directions at the same time. They all stopped rushing when I came out, and they all looked at me and I looked at all of them. There were a couple of burly uniformed cops, and two other burly men in black suits carrying a rolled-up stretcher. A short man in a gray suit held a doctor’s bag. There was a tall thin man in a brown suit, with the strap from a bulky camera hanging around his skinny neck. And there was a tall man in a vested, military-looking black suit who had square shoulders and a square jaw and wavy gray hair that swept back from a nice widow’s peak above a square forehead and a pair of pale gray eyes. He looked like someone who had wandered into the wrong movie, and who resented it. He was the one who did the talking.

“And what have we here?” he said to me.

“Phil Beaumont,” I told him.

He nodded crisply, once. “You’ll be the Pinkerton.”

“I already am,” I said.

After a moment, he smiled bleakly. His must have practiced that smile, because he did a good job with it. “Superintendent Honniwell,” he said. “Lord Purleigh has put us into the picture. We’ll carry on from here.”

“Fine.”

He nodded crisply toward the door I’d just closed. “The valet’s room?”

“Yeah.”

He nodded again. “You may go, Beaumont. I may have some questions for you later.”

“Swell. There’s one thing, though.”

He smiled faintly, to let me know he was humoring me. Or maybe he was letting himself know. “Yes?”

“The gun. The Smith and Wesson. You’ll be checking it for prints?”

“Of course.”

“Lord Purleigh’s prints are on it.”

He pursed his lips. “Lord Purleigh and Sir Arthur have already apprised me of that fact.”

“Right. Well, I don’t know how good your laboratory people are, but you could tell them to look for prints under the ash.”

He raised one of his handsome gray eyebrows. “Under the ash?” “When we broke open the door,” I said, “it blew ash from the fireplace all over the room. It was on the gun before Lord Purleigh picked it up. His prints will be on top of the ash. If you find any prints under the ash, they belong to whoever used the pistol.”

“I expect,” he said, “that our technicians are quite capable of making that determination on their own.” He turned back to the rest of them. “Proceed, gentlemen. Touch nothing until I arrive.” In a jumble, the others began shambling and shuffling toward the Earl’s room. Honniwell reached for the knob to Carson’s door, then stopped and looked at me as if he were a little bit surprised to find out I was still in the same universe that he was.

“You may go, Beaumont,” he told me.

“Thanks,” I said, and went.

I WENT BACK to the drawing room. It was empty. Even better, no one had bothered to clean up after the tea party. There was still food lying untouched on the tables. I had just finished wolfing down my second smoked salmon sandwich, and I was reaching for the third, when two servants came into the room. They were carrying large metal trays. One of them was Briggs.

“Mr. Briggs,” I said. “Could I talk to you for a minute?”

Briggs glanced at the other servant, looked back at me, and said, “Certainly, sir.” He set his tray down on one of the tables and came over to where I was standing.

I said, “You’ve heard about the Earl?” It was probably impossible to keep it a secret from the servants.

“Yes, sir,” he said. “A great tragedy, sir.”

“I was just wondering, Mr. Briggs. Do you know anything about any visitors the Earl might’ve had in the past few days?”

For the first time, Briggs’s pale, pinched face showed some expression. His glance darted over to the other servant, who was very busy being busy, and then it darted back to me. His small eyes narrowed with that slow appraising slyness that mothers and employers hate but Pinkertons love. “I’m sorry, sir,” he told me. “I couldn’t say.” He glanced at the other servant again, in case I hadn’t gotten the message.

“Okay, Mr. Briggs,” I said. “Thanks. See you around.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

SUPERINTENDENT HONNIWELL WAS already in the Great Hall when I got back there. He stood facing the table, where Doyle, Lord Bob, and the Great Man were all sitting. The Winchester rifle was gone. Honniwell ignored me as I sat down next to the Great Man. His hands were clasped behind him and he was summing up.

“It was Carson, of course,” Honniwell said to Lord Bob. “There’s no question in my mind. The Earl ordered him to obtain the pistol.”

“Absurd,” said Lord Bob. He was slouched down in his chair, slump-shouldered and sleepy-eyed. On the table before him, the decanter of brandy was nearly empty.

“With all due respect, Lord Purleigh,” said Honniwell, “I beg to differ. The man was literally quaking with guilt.”

“Guilt?” said Lord Bob. He raised his balloon glass, drank some more brandy. “Been quaking with it, then, for seven bloody years. Bloody palsy, Superintendent.”

Honniwell wasn’t the kind of cop who let facts interfere with a summing up. “Be that as it may, sir, the man is guilty. If I had him alone for a few hours, I’ll wager I’d shake the truth out of him.” Lord Bob looked at him for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was sober and dangerously level. “Lay a finger on Carson, Superintendent, and you’ll not believe the trouble in which you find yourself.”

“But Lord Purleigh,” said Honniwell, “you mistake my meaning.”

“Forgive me,” said Doyle, diplomatically. “Superintendent?” 

Honniwell turned to Doyle and this time he raised both of his handsome eyebrows. “Sir Arthur?”

Doyle said, “I take it, Superintendent, that you don’t believe Carson to be responsible for the Earl’s death.”

“Not responsible, Sir Arthur, no. But he did assist in the death, indirectly, by making the pistol available.”

“Perhaps so,” said Doyle. His hands on the table, fingers interlocked, he leaned forward. He winced faintly. “But you’ve no doubt that the death itself was self-inflicted.”

“None at all. Powder burns at the wound. Nothing else is possible, not with the door locked and bolted as it was.”

The Great Man sat up and Doyle shot him a subtle warning glance. Subtlety wasn’t the Great Man’s strong point, so I kicked him in the ankle. He spun his head and glared at me, then he pursed his lips and looked away and sat back. He crossed his arms over his chest, silent and sulky.

“Precisely,” said Doyle to Honniwell. “And so, even if you could verify your belief that Carson provided the pistol, which I very much doubt, you’re still left with a suicide.”

“That’s correct,” said Honniwell. “And that is what my report will read.” He turned back to Lord Bob. “As I was about to say, Lord Purleigh. I am merely attempting here to do what’s best for all concerned.”

Lord Bob scowled and waved his hand slowly, as if shooing away sluggish flies. He reached out, snared the brandy decanter, poured what was left into his glass.

Honniwell said to Doyle, “As I told you earlier, it’s an utter waste of time, sending this Inspector Marsh from London. The autopsy and the examination of the pistol will establish that, of course.” He turned to Lord Bob. “As to the rifle, Lord Purleigh, I shall inform you when that examination is completed.”

Lord Bob nodded. “Can’t wait.”

I said, “You know about Chin Soo, Superintendent?”

He gave me the faint smile he reserved for Pinkertons. Or maybe he reserved it for Americans. Or maybe it wasn’t reserved at all, and he gave it out to anybody he thought it was okay to smile faintly at. “Yes,” he said. “Mr. Houdini and Sir Arthur have explained that situation. I think it extremely unlikely that this person could make his way into Maplewhite. I agree with Lord Purleigh that the rifle that was fired this afternoon was most likely fired by a poacher. The man is long gone by now.”

He glanced at Lord Bob to see how he took that. Lord Bob didn’t take it at all. He was staring at the empty brandy decanter as though it were the philosophers’ stone.

“How do you explain the Winchester?” I asked him. “It’s been fired recently.”

“One of the servants, perhaps.”

“Uh-huh. But you’ll leave some police on the premises?” Another faint smile. “I shall be posting two of my men outside. I’ll see to it that they’re relieved in the morning.”

“Only two?” I said.

He let himself get faintly amused again. “I’m quite sure that two trained British police officers will be more than sufficient. And, in deference to Lord Purleigh and his guests, I wish to keep our presence to a minimum.” He glanced hopefully at Lord Bob.

“Long as they stay outside,” said Lord Bob, talking to the empty decanter. “Don’t want ’em in here. Tracking muck about.”

The Great Man said, “And you will not be informing the press?

“Not as to your difficulties, Mr. Houdini. I will of course defer to Lord Purleigh’s request. But, Lord Purleigh, I’m afraid the news of the Earl’s death will soon reach the newspapers.”

“Swine’s a swine for a’ that,” Lord Purleigh told the brandy decanter.

Honniwell nodded crisply. “Yes. Well, then. I must be getting back to Amberly. I came here only to make certain that Lord Purleigh wasn’t unduly troubled by the arrival of my men.”

He looked at Lord Bob, who ignored him again.

Doyle stood up. “Perhaps you’d permit me to accompany you, Superintendent.” More diplomacy.

“Certainly, Sir Arthur. Lord Purleigh.” Still peering at the brandy decanter, Lord Bob scowled and waved a limp hand. “Mr. Houdini.” The Great Man nodded. “Mr. Beaumont.” I nodded.

He had decided, I guess, that there was no point in asking me any questions.

Doyle escorted him from the hall.

The Great Man turned to Lord Bob. “Excuse me, Lord Purleigh. I shall be going to my room for a short while.”

“Bloody nincompoop,” Lord Bob told the brandy decanter.

The Great Man stood.

“Harry?” I said.

He looked down at me, his face cold. Without saying a word, he pursed his lips and looked away. Then he strode off.

Lord Bob was still studying the decanter.

I got up and went after the Great Man.

Doyle was coming back from the main entrance, and he intercepted me. “Mr. Beaumont?”

“YES?” I SAID.

“Well,” he said, and his wide pink forehead was creased with thought. “What did you think of our Superintendent?”

“Not a whole lot,” I told him.

“No. I gathered as much. But I’d like to assure you that he’s not truly representative of our police officials.”

“Good.”

“I’ve heard, for example, excellent reports of Inspector Marsh.” 

“Marsh is still coming tomorrow?”

“Well, I doubt, personally, that Scotland Yard will give any great credence to Superintendent Honniwell’s report. He and his people spent only about ten minutes in the Earl’s room.”

“They took away the body?”

“For the autopsy, yes.”

“You think it was a suicide, Sir Arthur?”

He considered the question for a moment. “Let me put it this way,” he said. “I should like to persuade myself that if it was not a suicide, then all other human agencies have been entirely ruled out.”

“Human agencies,” I said.

“Yes.”

“Uh-huh.” I looked back at Lord Bob. He was still contemplating the empty decanter. I turned to Doyle. “You might talk to Lord Purleigh about moving the rest of the ammunition and locking it up somewhere.”

“The ammunition? Oh yes. Yes, of course. If it
is
Chin Soo, why should we provide him any more it?”

“Right.”

“An excellent idea.” He glanced at Lord Bob. “Lord Purleigh is rather under the weather at the moment. But I’ll have a word with Higgens.”