Escapade (31 page)

“Anyone else?” I asked her. “Anyone angry with you?”

“No.” She shook her head. “No, no one.” But for an instant her eyes widened again. Then she narrowed them, shook her head once more. “No.”

“What?” I said. “You remembered something.”

“It’s ridiculous.”

“What?”

She inhaled again. “It’s nothing, really. Sir David . . . This morning . . .” She turned to Mrs. Corneille. For the first time in a while, she seemed unsure of herself. She didn’t like doing this. “Before all of you motored into the village.” She turned back to me. “This morning, Sir David made . . . well, a kind of advance, I suppose. And I rejected it. And he did seem upset at the time. But I can’t believe that he was upset enough to harm me.”

I nodded. “Sir David.”

“But really, Mr. Beaumont,” she said. “I shouldn’t want you to think that it was anything more than it was. He made an advance, I rejected it, and that was the end of it.” But she frowned then, as if she weren’t so sure.

“And you were out there on the lawn,” I said. “This afternoon, with the rest of us. When the shot was fired.”

Mrs. Corneille said, “You can’t be thinking that the shot was meant for
Jane
?”

“The knife was,” I said.

“But—” She stopped herself. She pressed her lips tightly together and she reached for her cigarette case and the box of matches.

I said, “And Sir David wasn’t out there this afternoon.”

She sat back, holding the case and the matches in both hands. “Mr. Beaumont,” she said. “If David killed every woman who rejected his advances, the streets of London would be piled high with female bodies. ”

She opened the cigarette case. She shook her head. “It’s all just too absurd.” Suddenly she looked up at me. “What of the knife? Wouldn’t it be possible to learn who owned it?”

“It probably came from the collection in the Great Hall,” I said. “Like all the other weapons floating around here.”

Mrs. Corneille put a cigarette in her mouth, struck a match, held it up. The flame flared, the tip glowed. With the fingers of her left hand, she took the cigarette from her lips. She blew the match out with a streamer of smoke and she dropped it into the ashtray.

“You know,” she said, “there is something we all seem to be forgetting.”

“What?” I asked.

“The Earl,” she said. “The Earl of Axminster.” She pronounced the name as though it were heavily salted. “And
those
things.” She nodded to the table. “And the wig Jane found. She
must
be right about him.” Suddenly she frowned. “You don’t suppose that Alice and Robert know?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“No,” she said firmly. She shook her head, inhaled on the cigarette. “They couldn’t possibly.” It seemed to me that I wasn’t the one she was trying to convince.

WE TALKED FOR a while. We made some decisions. For one thing, we decided that Miss Turner would stay in Mrs. Corneille’s suite for the rest of the night.

Maybe half an hour later, I left. It was nearly two in the morning. I had an appointment with Sir David in another five hours.

Out in the hallway, I thought for a minute about slipping into Miss Turner’s room and taking a quick look around. I decided against it. No matter how soundly Mrs. Allardyce slept, I didn’t want to take a chance on her waking up while I was creeping through there. I wasn’t sure that either one of us would survive.

I could take a look in the morning. Before the boxing match.

AFTER ALL THE excitement today—the rifle shot, the Earl s death, the seance, Lord Bob’s performance, the rendezvous with Mrs. Corneille, Miss Turner’s story—I was exhausted. I was yawning when I opened the door to my room and turned on the overhead light.

Cecily Fitzwilliam sat on my bed, her back propped against the headboard, her legs stretched out and crossed along the covers. She was wearing the white silk robe she’d worn last night. Her arms were folded beneath her breasts and she was trying to scowl. The scowl wasn’t working very well because she was also blinking against the brightness of the light. “Where have you been?” she said.

“I’m glad you’re here, Cecily,” I said, as cheerfully as I could. “I need—”

“It’s nearly
dawn
.”

“I need to talk to you. Something’s come ”

“Where
were
you?” She was pouting now. She pouted better than she scowled.

“Outside. I went for a walk. Listen, Cecily, it’s about your grandfather.”

She threw her arms down along the bed. “Isn’t it terrible?” she said. “He was ancient, of course, but no one expected him to go and die on us.”

“That’s what I want to talk about,” I said. I hooked my hand around the back of the writing chair, swung it out, turned it around and straddled it. Keeping the wooden back between me and Cecily.

“And why on earth would he commit suicide?” she said. “He did, you know. Mother told me.
Because
he was so ancient, do you think?” She was speaking more quickly than she usually did, and her face was more animated. Her eyes were shiny. I wondered if she’d been playing around with her father’s brandy.

I said, “That’s one of the things—”

“Mother’s heartbroken,” she said, “and Daddy’s . . . oh, well, you’ve seen Daddy, of course. At the seance.” She rolled her eyes. “God,
everyone’s
seen Daddy. It was mortifying, utterly. I’ve never been so humiliated in my entire life. That’s not at all like him, you know. He’s very proper. For a Bolshevist, I mean. He’s an absolute stickler, really. He always dresses beautifully, and he’s always on time for every single one of his appointments. Mother says he’s in shock now.”

“Probably. Listen—”

She was pouting again. “But they’re all so wrapped up in themselves that no one’s bothered to ask me how I feel. Not even Mother. I’m miserable, too, you know. I loved him just as much as everyone else did. Even if he
was
ancient and strange sometimes.”

“Strange how?” When you’re swept away by a river, you go with the flow.

She waved a hand. “The way old people get. Forgetful. Mumbling to himself.” She made a face. “And drooling all over himself sometimes, too, which was a bit sick-making, really.” She raised her chin. “But I loved him regardless. He was my grandfather, after all. And he wasn’t always like that. Sometimes he was perfectly normal.”

“You spend much time with him?”

“Of course I did,” she said. “I mean, I wasn’t up there every waking hour of every single
day
. That would’ve been completely impossible. I’ve masses of chores and things to do, you can t imagine, and most days there simply wasn’t time. But I saw him in the afternoons, sometimes. As often as I could. Quite often, actually.”

“What did you—”

She smiled suddenly and pushed herself up. “But that’s not important. Let me explain why I’ve come. I wanted to apologize!”

She said this as if she were talking about a Christmas present she’d made with her own hands. Lately, more and more often, more and more people were reminding me of the Great Man.

“Apologize,” I said.

“Yes. I realized afterward that I was rude to you. This afternoon. In the hallway? Before tea?”

“Yeah?”

“Yes! I realized that it was rude and utterly immature of me to say all those dreadful things. About you being a servant, I mean. They would’ve been rude and immature, of course, even if you actually
were
a servant, which you’re not, thank goodness.” She cocked her head. “But in a way that makes it
doubly
rude and immature, doesn’t it?”

“Don’t worry about it, Cecily.”

She didn’t. “I came around earlier,” she said, “before dinner. To apologize. And to talk to someone. I was so upset about Grandpere. But you weren’t here and Mr. Houdini was hiding in the other room.” She put her hand to her mouth to hide a giggle. “I was awful, I’m afraid. I teased him terribly. I kept knocking on his door and I wouldn’t go away. But he was being so silly. Does he always get so frantic when there are women about?”

“He’s shy,” I said.

She lowered her head and tilted it slightly to the side and she eyed me obliquely from beneath her blond bangs. “It’s not because he thinks I’m a nymphomaniac?”

“No. Listen—”

“You’re certain?”

“Yeah. Cecily—”

“Because I’m not, you know.”

“Yeah. I—”

She took a breath. “Anyway, after that horrible seance, Mother went off with Daddy and it was obvious that no one cared in the least what happened to me. So I came around again and I waited. And I’ve been waiting for hours, all by myself, just sitting here, while you’ve been God knows where. And you haven’t even noticed that I’ve picked up after you.” She plucked invisible bits of something out of the air. “Pick, pick, pick. Like a pickaninny.” She giggled, then covered that over with a stem frown. “You left this place a terrible mess, you know. There were clothes and things scattered everywhere.”

She sounded like a tipsy young girl playing house, but that was pretty much what she was. She was working herself back into a pout, or maybe even another scowl.

“Thanks, Cecily. But—”

“Do you have something to drink here?” she asked me, looking around the room. “Whiskey or brandy or something?”

I had kept my bag locked since the first night here. Probably, if I hadn’t, she would’ve found the bottle of bourbon inside it.

“Only water,” I told her. “Sorry.”

She made a face. Then she glanced toward the Great Man’s door, turned back to me, and smiled. “Why don’t you come over here?” she said, and patted the bedspread.

“In a minute. But first, tell me something about your grandfather.”

Her brow furrowed. “My grandfather?”

“He fell from a horse, what was it, three years ago?”

She nodded. “From Rosebud, his mare.”

“He’s been paralyzed ever since?”

“Yes.” She tilted her head to the side. “But why do you want to know about my grandfather?”

“I’m curious. He broke his back?”

“Not his back. The nerves got all twisted. Or torn or something. Some sort of complicated medical thing. She waved a hand vaguely. The gesture reminded me of her father.

“Was there any chance he’d be walking again?

She shook her head. “The doctor said it was impossible. Dr. Christie.”

“He’s a specialist, Dr. Christie?”

“He’s the family doctor. Grandpere didn’t trust anyone else. Daddy and Mother wanted to bring in someone from London, but Grandpere refused.” She frowned. She said, “Do you think it just finally become too much for him? Not being able to walk? Trapped in that room all day?”

“Did he seem depressed?”

“No. Not at all, really.” Her brow furrowed again. “In fact, sometimes, you know, I thought he actually enjoyed it. Lying there, reading his books, having people waiting on him hand and foot.” She made a face. “I’d hate it. It would drive me utterly mad.”

“There’s a maid here named Darleen.”

“In the kitchen.” Her face clouded. “What about her?”

“Her name came up. I just wanted—”

She was frowning. “Do you like her?”

“I’ve never met her.”

“Why are you asking all these questions?”

“That’s my job.”

“You haven’t asked me any questions about me.”

“Okay,” I said. “Where were you this past afternoon?”

She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“Yesterday afternoon, between twelve-thirty and one o’clock. Where were you?”

“Why?”

“I’m an investigator. I’m investigating.”

“But what is it you’re investigating?”

“The rifle shot that was fired this afternoon. Where were you when that happened?”

She looked at me blankly. “But what difference would that make?”

“Maybe you saw something. Or heard something. Something that could help me figure out who fired the shot.”

“I haven’t the faintest idea who fired the shot. I was in the village.”

“Where?”

She rolled her eyes, exasperated. “Does it really matter?”

“Yeah.”

She sighed heavily, to prove how bored she was. “I was at Connie’s house.”

“Who’s Connie?”

“She was my nanny. Ages ago.”

“You were there between twelve-thirty and one?”

“Yes, ” she said, leaning toward me. She sat back and smiled. “Now. That’s settled.” She patted the bedspread again. “Aren’t you coming over here?”

“Nope. Time for you to leave, Cecily.”

She stared at me. “Pardon me?”

“Time to go.”

She frowned. “You’re joking.”

“Nope.”

“But I came to see you. I waited for hours. I apologized.”

“Yeah. I appreciate it. But you’ve got to go.”

“But I don’t want to leave.”

“Sorry, but that doesn’t matter.”

She shook her head. Once again she crossed her arms. “I won’t leave. You can’t force me.”

“So I’ll go. And find someone who can carry you back to your room. Your mother, maybe.”

She hardened her face. “I’ll scream. People will come. I’ll tell them you attacked me. You
raped
me.” She raised her chin. I'll do it, I promise you I will.”

“Swell. When they come, you can explain what you were doing here at two o’clock in the morning.

She put her hands on the bed and she leaned toward me. I'll tell them . . .” Her face was growing red and she was nearly sputtering. “I’ll . . .”

“Come on, Cecily. It’s time to leave.”

She stared at me again. She widened her eyes. “You only let me stay so you could ask all those boring stupid questions of yours. Didn’t you? You don’t care about me at all!” She narrowed her eyes and she slapped at the bed with both hands. You . . . you took what you wanted and now you're
throwing
me out!

“Yeah,” I said.

“You were
toying
with me!” Her eyes were slits now. She swung around and tore away the bedspread and grabbed a pillow with both hands. Her mouth open, her teeth clenched, she spun back and hurled it at me. I caught it.

“You
used
me!” She jumped off the bed. “You . . . filthy rotten
bastard
!”

She stalked around me, her shoulders hunched, keeping as much distance from me as the bed allowed. At the door she turned around. Her face twisted into a snarl and she said, “I hope David beats you to a
pulp
!”