Escapade (39 page)

‘A secret passageway?’ I was beginning to feel rather like a parrot.

‘Correct.’

‘But I thought he simply came in through the door.’

He shook his head like a prim headmistress. ‘He has lived here all his life, and so must have known about the passageway. And why should he take a chance on being seen in the hallways? But, Miss Turner, a moment’s thought will tell you that if the Earl used the passageway, then someone else might have used it, at some other time.’

‘Yes?’ I said. I was still rather lost in visions of the Earl gliding in his long nightgown through dark vaulted passageways, torchlight flickering along stone walls, bats fluttering, rats squeaking.

‘Phil has also told me of the knife you found in your bed, last night,’ he said. ‘Whoever put it there may also have used the passageway.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I see.’

‘You comprehend what this means?’

And I did, Evy. It meant that if the passageway had been used last night, it had been used by someone familiar with Maplewhite. Someone other than the Earl, who was no longer among us. ‘Yes, but—’

‘I have been pondering my preconceptions, Miss Turner,’ he said. ‘Someone attempted to kill you last night. This, I believe, was an attempt to silence you. I believe that you have heard something, or seen something, that will provide me the explanation for the mysterious events that have occurred here.’

‘But what?’

He smiled. ‘It is precisely to determine this that I have tracked you down.’ He pulled a gold watch from his vest pocket, glanced at it, frowned, and looked at me. ‘Now, Miss Turner, I would be very grateful if you will tell me everything that has happened to you since you arrived at Maplewhite.’

And, Evy, finally, I did so. I told him everything, including the tale of the two ghosts at the mill. I hadn’t told anyone of this, not Mrs Corneille, not Mr Beaumont, and certainly not the imperious Inspector Marsh. I felt that I should be unable to convince them of the first ghost’s identity if I complicated the story by mentioning a second ghost, and then a third. One truth, I felt, would have blemished the other. And, as I said, I had honestly begun to doubt their existence.

I nearly
did
mention them to Inspector Marsh. But the man was so accusatory, so vain and self-satisfied, so prissily officious— how he ever managed to become a police officer I cannot imagine. The London underworld and its denizens must be a good deal less robust than the press accounts suggest. Inspector Marsh would survive for perhaps five minutes in Sidmouth.

Mr Houdini possesses a certain smugness of his own, but he listened carefully to everything, paying especial attention to my chronicle of the mother and the young boy. He asked countless questions, nodding thoughtfully all the while, and then asked to hear the rest of my tale.

I gave it to him, eliminating only the story of Cecily and Mr Beaumont, which is no one’s business, I think, but theirs. At the end, he began asking me a series of really quite remarkable questions. From the gist of them—no, I can’t tell you even that,

Evy. I’m not being coy, honestly. I promised him; I swore I would tell no one what he asked me.

‘And what shall I tell Inspector Marsh,’ I asked him, ‘if he asks about the ghosts?’

He raised his head, like a Caesar. ‘Then you must tell him. Houdini always plays fair.’

And with that, he stood up, thanked me, and set off quickly back into the house.

I really don’t know what to do, Evy. This is all extremely distressing. If the ghastly things that Mr Houdini suspects are true, then—

I cannot.

I shall post this. And then I shall sit down and think everything out.

All my love, Jane

MRS. BLANDINGS WAS a tall thin woman with a narrow mouth and a narrow chin and permanently narrowed brown eyes glinting from either side of a curved, narrow nose. She had been a handsome woman once, but time and care had deepened the hollows of her face and hardened the edges. Her hair was white and it was curled so tightly that patches of pink scalp glistened between the coils. She wore a long black cotton dress so heavily starched that it rustled like dead leaves whenever she breathed.

She kept her hands on the kitchen table, her fingers interlaced. The hands were thin and almost elegant but her knuckles were red, as though she’d been pounding them against bricks.

“I will not dally,” she told Inspector Marsh grimly. “I am incapable of dallying. Constitutionally.”

“We won’t take much of your time, Mrs. Blandings,” Marsh assured her. He hadn’t been doing much dallying himself. We’d come down here at nearly a run and he hadn’t quoted Shakespeare once.

We were sitting down at a table in the comer of the kitchen. It was a huge room, maybe thirty feet high. Fireplaces and ovens were built into the stone walls. There were five or six big wooden cupboards and six or seven long wooden shelves sagging beneath rows of heavy porcelain canisters. Four big sinks were built into the marble counter. Hanging on the walls were pots and pans and saucers and colanders and bowls and caldrons. There was a big metal drain in the floor, so you could hose everything down after you butchered your whale.

“Lady Purleigh tells me,” said Marsh, “that the two of you were together yesterday when you heard the rifle shot.”

“Poachers,” she said. “No respect at all these days.”

“And where were you, exactly, when you heard the shot?”

“In the conservatory. Discussing dinner with her ladyship.”

“How long have you been employed here, Mrs. Blandings?”

“All my life.”

“So, doubtless, you know the family well.”

“Yes.”

“Would you say it was a happy family?”

“Certainly.”

“No arguments, no dissension?”

“None.”

“But even in the best of families, surely—”

“It isn’t my place to speak of other families. You asked about this one. Was it happy. Yes, I said.”

Marsh nodded. “So you did. Are you prepared to speak about ghosts, Mrs. Blandings?”

She eyed him skeptically. “Ghosts?”

“Were you aware that one of the guests, a Miss Turner, claims to have been visited by a ghost on Friday night?”

“Nonsense. The woman must be hysterical.”

“You don’t believe in ghosts.”

“Of course not. But what I believe is hardly your concern, is it?”

Marsh smiled. “Do you believe, Mrs. Blandings, that the late Earl committed suicide?”

“I have no opinion on the matter.”

“None?”

“None.”

“The Earl had been infirm for some time,” said Marsh.

“For three years.”

“Had you been given any reason to believe that his condition might have been improving?”

“Improving? He was paralyzed.”

Marsh nodded.

Mrs. Blandings glanced impatiently around the room, looked back at Marsh. “Are we finished? I’ve things to do.”

“Yes. For the moment. But I should like to speak to one of the kitchen maids. A young woman named Darleen.”

“The O’Brien girl? Why?”

Marsh smiled. “Forgive me, Mrs. Blandings, but that s hardly your concern, is it?”

She blinked, and then she pursed her lips and stood. “I’ll send her in,” she said, and left.

Marsh turned to me and smiled. “Not exactly forthcoming, was she?”

“Maybe Darleen will be different.”

DARLEEN WAS DIFFERENT. She wore black patent leather shoes and white cotton stockings and a black button-up cotton dress printed with tiny pink fleurs de lis. It was a conservative outfit, or it was supposed to be, and probably she’d worn it to church this morning. I felt sorry for the minister.

She was in her early twenties and her body was so lush and ripe beneath the dress that she might as well be naked, and she knew it. She swept into the kitchen flickering like a colt and she tossed back her thick red hair and grinned at us. “And what’ve you done to poor Mrs. Blandings, you two? The poor old dear is givin’ off more steam than an express train.”

Both Marsh and I had stood. “Miss O’Brien?” he said.

“That’s me,” she said, and she cocked her head and smiled. Her eyes were green and bright and her cheeks were dusted faintly with freckles, cinnamon on cream. “And you’re the police, I hear. Come all the way from the great city of London.”

“I’m Inspector Marsh. This is Mr. Beaumont. Please, Miss O’Brien, be seated.”

She plopped down into the same seat Mrs. Blandings had used. She stretched out her long legs and she crossed them at the ankles and slapped her hands into her lap, like a little girl playing at being a grown-up. She smiled at me and then at Marsh.

Marsh and I sat down. “Miss O’Brien,” he said, “I intend to be straightforward with you.”

“Sure,” she said, and she sat back and opened her eyes in mock innocence, “and haven’t the police always been straightforward?” 

“You’ve had some experience of the police, have you, Miss O’Brien?”

“Haven’t all the Irish? Experience of the Garda and the English.” She smiled. “But that’s over now, isn't it? Home Rule has come—finally, but better late than never.”

“Yes,” said Marsh, “to be sure. Miss O’Brien, we know about your late-night visits to the room of the late Earl. We know that these have been going on for some time.”

She smiled again. “Briggs. He’ll be the little bird that sang. Nasty pommy poof.”

“So you don’t deny it.”

She shrugged. “And what would be the point?”

“No point whatever.”

“There you are, then. And now you’ll be runnin’ off to her ladyship with the story. And young Darleen is sacked again. Well, fair enough. It’s back to Ireland for me anyway. We kicked out the ruddy English, and once we kick out the ruddy priests we’ll have a paradise on our hands.”

“Miss O’Brien, so long as you cooperate, I see no need to apprise Lady Purleigh, or anyone else, of your relationship with the Earl.”

“Cooperate, is it?” She grinned and put her elbow on the table. “And just what sort of cooperation was it you had in mind?”

“Merely the answers to a few questions.”

“Well, get on with them then. Always a treat to answer questions from the police.” She looked at me, looked back at Marsh, jerked her head toward me. “He doesn’t have much to say for himself, this one, does he?”

“Mr. Beaumont is acting as an observer.”

“And he’s a demon at that, isn’t he.” She smiled at me.

Marsh asked his questions. Yes, she’d visited the Earl once or twice a week over the past four months. She couldn’t get away more often than that. Yes, she visited only at night. Yes, she’d waited until Carson, the Earl’s valet, was asleep, so she could creep past his room. Yes, she’d heard from other servants that the Earl had often argued with his son, Lord Purleigh, but she and the Earl had never spoken about his son. “Or much of anything else,” she smiled. And, no, she didn’t believe that the Earl had committed suicide.

“How, then, did he die?” Marsh asked her.

“An accident, wasn’t it? They say the door was locked when the gun went off.”

“How do you suppose he obtained the pistol?”

“One of the servants?”

“You seem to be doing an admirable job of containing your grief at the Earl’s death, Miss O’Brien.”

She glared at him for a moment. Then she said, “Listen to me, Mr. Inspector Marsh from London. I liked the poor sweet man. That toad Briggs, he’s told you about the money, I don’t doubt. And you’ll not hear me denyin’ the old man slipped me the odd crown or two, now and again. And why shouldn’t he? He wanted me to buy some lovely new dresses for myself, didn’t he, and nice handmade shoes, and silk stockings, so I could come to him looking like a lady. And who was I to tell him no? The good Lord knows he could afford it. But I liked him. He was dear with me, and he was as grateful for my bein’ with him as a wee young boy. Well, he’s dead now, and I’m sorry. I hope he’s happy as a lark wherever he is, that’s the God’s honest truth, but if you’re waitin’ for me to start wailin’ and weepin’ for
your
sake, then you’re in for quite a wait, Mr. Inspector.”

Marsh smiled. “But then you’ve already done your grieving, haven’t you? In the Earl’s bedroom. Last night.”

She stared at him. She turned and stared at me.

“You were seen, Miss O’Brien,” said Marsh.

“But who—” She lifted her chin. “Well, what of it? No crime, is it?”

“No. Tell me. Had the Earl ever given you cause to believe that he was recovering from his paralysis?”

“But, Inspector sir, it was only his legs that didn’t work proper. The rest of him worked perfectly fine.”

“But he was still unable to use his legs.”

She grinned. “He didn’t need them, did he.”

Marsh sat back and nodded. “Thank you, Miss O'Brien. I may speak with you again later.”

She shrugged as if she didn’t really care, one way or the other.

AFTER SHE LEFT, somehow the kitchen seemed even larger.

I turned to Marsh, who was staring down at the floor. I said, “You weren’t sure she was the woman in the Earl’s room.”

He looked up. “Hmmm? No, not until she admitted it. I took a bit of a chance there.”

“You were right.”

He smiled. “It does happen.”

“She didn’t seem to know about the passageway. Or about the Earl being able to walk.”

“No. If in fact he was.” He slipped his hand into his pocket, pulled out his watch, frowned at it. He looked at me. “Enough of the serving class for now, I think. Back to the gentry.”

A SERVANT TOLD us that most of the guests were in the drawing room. Sir David was there, and Cecily and Dr. Auerbach and Lady Purleigh. Everyone was gathered in the far comer of the enormous room.

They all looked up at us when we approached, but only Lady Purleigh spoke. “Inspector Marsh. And Mr. Beaumont. Did you need something?”

“I apologize for disturbing you once again, Lady Purleigh,” said Marsh.

“Not at all. Please, do sit down. Mr. Beaumont, please.”

The two of us sat on the same small sofa. “As I told you earlier,” Marsh said, “it’s rather important that I ascertain where everyone was located when these unpleasant events took place yesterday. All of you were here in the drawing room, I understand, when the Earl died. It remains for me to determine where everyone was when the rifle shot was fired.”