The Morning Post

12 Yeoman’s Row, Knightsbridge

August 15,1921

Dear Evangeline,

No catty complaints from me today. Today I have some good news, really quite splendid news, in fact. Tomorrow morning, the Allardyce and her paid spinster companion are romping off to Devon for a seance.

Yes, you poor envious wretch, a seance. In Devon. In a haunted manor house, no less. Clanking chains and spectral voices and dripping ectoplasm and one of those overweight mediums with cryptic messages from dear departed Aunt Delilah. And a train ride through the West Country! The wild moor, the open countryside: an escape from the grime of grim grey London! I’m really quite witless with excitement!

The Allardyce has spent the last two days crowing about her aristocratic connections. She’s a cousin-no doubt distant (meow)-of Alice, Viscountess Purleigh, whose husband, Robert, the Viscount, is the son of the Earl of Axminster. The seance will be held at Maplewhite, the Earl’s estate. So, Evy, as of tomorrow, I’ll be mingling with the peerage. But you needn’t worry-I’ll never forget the simple honest folk, like yourself, who were so terribly kind to me before I rose to greatness.

I’m packing the luggage (hers and mine), so I haven’t time, just now, to scrawl more than a few lines. But I did want to tell you that I’ve begun to read the book you sent to me, Mrs Stopes’s ‘Married Love’. It’s curious and rather delicious to see all those body parts swaggering so boldly across the printed page, cool Latin names draped like togas over their smooth warm shoulders. I’ll be ferrying the book to Devon, but discreetly of course.

Should the Allardyce ever suspect what it is I’m reading with such zeal she would become quite puce with shock. I’ve very cleverly stripped away its original cover and replaced it with the cover to ‘Mansfield Park’. I suspect that this would delight Miss Austen nearly as much as it would dismay Mrs Stopes.

How is that charming brother of yours? How is Mary?

I must go. I shall write to you when I arrive at the haunted mansion and I shall let you know everything.

All my love,

Jane

The Great Man was skating the big Lancia around blind turns on the slick road as though he had received a personal telegram from God that guaranteed his immortality.

“You’re driving too fast, Harry,” I said. I had said it before and it hadn’t accomplished anything. I didn’t really expect it to accomplish anything now. But occasionally you want to put these things on the record.

The Great Man smiled at me. He had a wide, wild, charming smile. It made you believe that he felt extremely lucky to be in your company, and usually it made you believe that you were extremely lucky to have your company to offer. It hadn’t been working so well since he got behind the wheel.

“Phil, Phil,” he said. “You worry too much altogether. I have spent countless years honing my reflexes. As you know. With a lesser man, yes, for certain, you would be in jeopardy. But with me, you are as safe as a little tiny baby in its cradle.”

That was the way he talked.

“Don’t look at me,” I said. “Look at the road.”

“Peripheral vision,” he said, and he smiled again without taking his eyes off me as he coasted around another turn. His teeth were white. His eyes were grayish blue and shiny and the smile deepened the lines that angled from their corners. “That, too,” he said. “With practice, with work, it can be brought to a level of achievement most men would never believe possible.”

“Harry,” I said. “Look. At. The. Road.”

He laughed. But he turned to face the road, showing me his profile. Curly black hair, a bit unruly and a bit gray at the temples. A strong nose, a wide mouth, a strong chin. Not a handsome face, in fact almost an ugly face. But a dynamic face, as forceful as the blade of an axe.

I squinted through the smeared windshield. The wipers squeaked back and forth, slapping water around the glass without ever getting rid of it.

We had left Dartmoor behind us, the cold gray mist and the endless rollers of bald gray hill. It had been grim and empty, but at least you could see the cars that were coming your way. It had been better than this.

This was gray rain ahead and tall black hedgerows looming up on either side, and endless possibilities of collision. Sometimes there were trees just behind the hedgerows, left and right, and their black branches and black leaves arched over the road and formed a long dark tunnel. The headlights were on but they weren’t working any better than the wipers.

I sat back and sighed.

Usually I was the driver. It was part of the job I had been hired to do. Usually, the Great Man and his wife sat in the back seat. But the Great Man’s wife had been too ill to leave Paris and we had gone to Amsterdam and then to London without her. The Great Man hadn’t cared for that.

He had sulked until Lord Endover offered him the Lancia- “Keep her as long as you like, old boy.” The Great Man had glanced out the window of Lord Endover’s Belgravia town house at the Lancia parked at the curb, its long white body as sleek and as promising and as dangerous as a banker’s second wife. A gleam had come into his eye and at that moment I knew I would probably never get behind the wheel of the beast.

The rain sizzled along the hood of the car, splattered along the glass. The wipers chirped.

In England, you’re supposed to drive on the left. But on this road there wasn’t much difference between left and right. If I stuck my arm out the passenger window, I could have touched the hedgerows. Except they weren’t really hedgerows. Hedgerows were plants and they gave way when you hit them. These were stone walls thinly screened with ferns and bushes and they would have snapped my arm in two.

Once again now, he went racing through a left-hand turn. But this time the Lancia’s rear wheels slid away beneath us and the car lurched toward that towering wall on the right. I stopped breathing and I braced myself.

As though being braced would make a difference when a ton of speeding metal met a hundred tons of rooted rock.

The Great Man eased up on the gas pedal, steered ever so slightly into the skid as the Lancia swept within inches of the wall. Black branches snatched at the bodywork, scrabbled at my window. Then, in the last possible fraction of a second, just when I knew it was all over, the tires bit into the road again. The Great Man downshifted, punched the pedal, and the car surged forward into the gray rain. He turned to me and laughed. “Reflexes,” he announced gaily.

He was a wonderful driver. He was better than I was, and I was good. But enough was enough.

I exhaled. Then I inhaled. Then I said, “Okay, Harry. Stop the car.”

He turned to me and he frowned. “What?”

“The car. Stop it. Now.”

The frown reached his eyes. “You want me to stop?”

“Now.”

“But…”

“Now.”

He stopped the car and looked over at me, still frowning. I grabbed my fedora from the back seat. I opened the door, stepped out into the rain, and slammed the door shut behind me. I screwed on the hat. I tugged up my coat collar, buttoned the buttons, tied the belt, and I started marching back the way we’d come.

The rain wasn’t all that heavy when you weren’t racing through it at sixty miles an hour. But it was as wet as rain usually is, and it was cold. The air temperature was probably in the forties. This was August. Oh to be in England now that summer’s here.

I heard the car come up behind me.

“Phil?”

The car was in reverse. He had the window down and he was leaning across the seat so he could talk to me through it. Rain was pattering onto the leather seats, but I doubt that he noticed, or cared. If the seats were damaged, he would buy Lord Endover a new Lancia. He could afford it.

I saw all this without looking at him directly. Peripheral vision. I kept walking and he kept driving. The car remained at exactly the same distance from me all the while, about two feet away. He was a wonderful driver, even in reverse.

“Phil? Where are you going?”

I didn’t look at him. “Back to New York.”

“But what about your job?”

“I can’t do my job if we’re both dead.”

“But what about Bess? What will I tell her?”

Bess was his wife. It had been her idea to hire me.

I said, “Tell her whatever you want.”

“Phil,” he said. “You’re upset.”

He said it as though he had just now figured it out. Probably he had. He was one of those men who honestly believed that everyone was as thrilled by him as he was.

“Yeah,” I admitted. I still hadn’t looked at him.

“Why don’t you drive the car, Phil?”

I stopped walking and he stopped driving. I turned and looked down at him. Some water toppled from my hat and splattered onto my shoes. He was peering up at me through the window, blinking against the rain. His face was earnest.

He hadn’t apologized. Why should he? He hadn’t done anything wrong. He couldn’t do anything wrong. Ever. But I was upset, for whatever reason, and he liked me, and so he would mollify me. He was a generous man.

Despite myself, I smiled. His self-involvement was so total it was almost a kind of innocence.

“Harry,” I said, “you are really a piece of work.”

He smiled up at me, that wide charming smile, and he nodded. He already knew that.

It was a big room, tall stone walls and a beamed ceiling. The wooden floors were spread with carpets. To the left was another door, opened, and beside this, a small writing desk and a chair. Directly ahead, against the wall, was an antique cupboard and an antique dresser that held a ceramic basin and a ceramic pitcher. To the right was a huge four-poster bed covered with white satin. White satin curtains were drawn back to each of the posts. Large night tables stood on either side of the bed.

Briggs set the Great Man’s bag down on the nearest of these. “The bathroom is through here, gentlemen.” Carrying my battered bag, he moved through the open door. Inside, he opened a door on the left, to show us the bathroom. A sink, a towel rack hung with heavy white towels, a huge tub squatting on big brass lion’s paws. Paws from the same lion, probably, whose head was trapped in the front door.

Briggs opened a door on the right to show us the toilet. It was a fine toilet.

The second room was beyond, and smaller than the first. But it was as comfortable as the other, with a second writing desk and chair, a second cupboard and a second four-poster bed. The bedspread here was also white satin.

“Your room, Mr. Beaumont,” said Briggs. He placed my bag on the nightstand. “Will there be anything else, gentlemen?” “No,” said the Great Man. “Thank you, Briggs.”

Briggs nodded, his face still expressionless. “When you’re ready, please ring the bellpull beside the bed. Someone will come for you.”

The Great Man nodded. “Yes, certainly, thank you.”

Briggs glided off.

The Great Man looked around, smiling. “Not bad, eh, Phil? This is a very pleasant room, don’t you think?”

“Well, Harry,” I said, “I’m glad you like it. Because this is the room you’ll be taking.”

He frowned.

“I’ll take the outer room,” I said.

He looked at me for a moment and then he said, “But Phil! Surely you don’t believe that anything will happen here? With people present, with all those servants?”

“Something happened at the Ardmore. With all those house dicks and all those cops.”

“But that was a hotel! And the newspapers had announced that I was there. No one knows that I am staying at Maplewhite.”

“Maybe that’s true,” I said. “Maybe it’s not.”

“But Phil-”

“Harry. You remember when you made me take that oath? About not giving away your secrets? You promised me something too, remember? And you promised Bess.”

He stared at me. Finally he nodded. He drew himself fully upright. This usually meant that an announcement was coming. “Houdini always keeps his promises,” he announced.

“I know that,” I said. “So we’ll switch rooms.”

He nodded and he compressed his lips. He had made a promise and he would keep it, but no one had said he couldn’t sulk.

He looked around the room with a sour expression on his face. I took my suitcase into the main room, exchanged it for the Great Man’s bag, carried his bag back into the other room. The Great Man was sitting on the bed with his shoulders slumped, staring at the floor. He didn’t say anything when I put the suitcase down.

“Harry,” I said.

He looked up.

“It’s for your own good,” I told him.

He nodded glumly.

“Let me know when you’re finished washing up,” I said. “We shouldn’t waste too much time. They’re all waiting for you.”

He frowned for a moment, considering this. Then he smiled. “Yes. Yes, of course. You are right, Phil.”

As we crossed the Oriental carpet, walking toward the trestle table, the Great Man asked Lord Bob, “And the medium? She has arrived?”

“Tomorrow sometime,” said Lord Bob. “With Conan Doyle. You know Doyle?”

“Yes, certainly. We are close friends. We correspond frequently.”

Lord Bob nodded. “Beyond me how he invents those stories of his. Ah, there you are, my darlings.”

Two women were standing before the table. They turned, saw Lord Bob, and they smiled. The older woman’s smile was friendly and open. The younger woman’s was thin and bored, and then it was gone.

“Look what I’ve bagged,” announced Lord Bob. “The famous Mr. Harry Houdini himself. And this is his assistant, Mr. Phil Beaumont, also from America. His first time in England. Gentleman, my wife, Alice, and my daughter, Cecily.”

They were obviously mother and daughter. They were the same height, about five feet six inches, and they had the same fine coloring and the same fine bones. In her fifties somewhere, the mother had aged nicely. Her hair was pale blond, shoulder length, its soft waves threaded with silver. She wore a pearl necklace and a black dress that would have been simple if it hadn’t been made of silk.

Unlike most of the aristocrats I’d met since we arrived in England, she actually looked like one. Regal without being cold, composed without being stiff. But according to the Great Man, she hadn’t been born one. She came from a family that had made its money, a lot of money, in publishing, here in England and on the Continent.

Her daughter looked aristocratic, too, but there was no silver in her blond hair. The hair was straight and neatly bobbed just below her ears, cut longer in front to emphasize her slender neck. The gauzy scarlet scarf loosely wrapped around her throat helped with this. So did the scooped neckline of her pale gray dress, also silk.

She was maybe a bit too aristocratic. She held a champagne glass in her left hand. Her right hand hovered just to the side of her face. Between her extended first and second fingers, she held a lighted cigarette. When she decided that she wanted a puff, all she had to do was swivel her head a few inches. You got the impression that even this would be a terrible chore.

“Hello,” she drawled at a space somewhere between the Great Man and me. She was maybe a year or two younger than Miss Turner.

“How do you do,” said Lady Alice. There was more life in her eyes than in her daughter’s entire body. “I’m so very pleased that the two of you could join us. I do hope you’ll enjoy yourselves while you’re here. If you need anything, you’ve only to ask.” Then she turned to her husband and put her hand along his tweeded arm. “I was just coming after you, darling. I’m afraid we have a small problem.”

“Eh?”

She glanced at us very briefly, looked back at her husband. “Upstairs,” she said, and her shoulders moved in a small quick elegant shrug.

Lord Bob’s bristling eyebrows dipped downward, two pale beetles struggling to embrace each other. “Carrying on again, is he?” Scowling, he stroked his white mustache. “The swine. Comes the revolution, we’ll string him up with the rest. He’ll be the first to go.” He punched his right fist into the palm of his left hand.

“I know, darling,” said Lady Alice, “but let’s deal with today first, shall we? I’ll go up there with you.”

He nodded. Her hand still held his arm, and now he put his own hand atop hers. “Thank you, my love.” He turned to his daughter. “Cecily, be the good little Girl Guide, would you, and introduce Mr. Houdini and Mr. Beaumont to the other guests?” He turned to us. “Sorry. Domestic problem. Back as soon as I can. Come along, my darling.”

Lady Alice said to us, “I’m so sorry. Please, do have something.” She smiled apologetically, and then she and Lord Bob went off, arm in arm.

The Great Man said to Cecily, “There is some trouble?” He was only making polite conversation. Other people and their troubles didn’t interest him much and didn’t trouble him at all.

“It’s such a bore,” she drawled, and swiveled her head to inhale on her cigarette. “My grandfather,” she said, exhaling smoke. “He has these fits.”

“Ah.” He nodded sympathetically. He had learned to do that somewhere. “Brain seizures. A great pity.”

“Temper tantrums, actually,” she said in her flat drawl. She tapped her cigarette against an ashtray on the trestle table, then raised her hand and put the cigarette back within reach. “You know, of course, that Daddy’s a Bolshevist.” With her cigarette hand she plucked a flake of tobacco from her lower lip.

We hadn’t known, or I hadn’t. If the Great Man had known, he had probably forgotten. It had nothing to do with him, so it was irrelevant.

“Daddy’s only waiting,” she said, “for Grandpere to die so he can give Maplewhite to the peasants and workers. And that makes Grandpere furious, of course. He’s bedridden, he’s been that way since the accident, years ago. So he can’t flog Daddy, which of course is what he’d like to do.” She swiveled her head, inhaled on the cigarette. “Once a week or so he starts screaming and throwing things about his room. It drives the poor servants mad.” She showed us her thin smile again. “What would you like to drink? Champagne? We’ve whiskey, as well, I should think.”

Houdini shook his head. “Thank you, no. I neither drink alcohol nor smoke tobacco products. I never have. They sap the strength and deplete the will. And without strength and will, I would never have become what I am.”

Her left eyebrow edged upward. She took a puff from her tobacco product. “Yes,” she said, and blew out some smoke. “Some sort of magician, I gather.”

A lesser man might have been derailed by this, which is maybe what she intended. The Great Man steamed ahead at full throttle.

“Not merely a magician,” he said, and smiled indulgently. “Anyone can become a magician. A few gimmicked props, some sleight of hand. Child’s play. Nothing. I, on the other hand, am an escape artist. A self-liberator. I was the very first self-liberator, anywhere. I have many imitators, in many countries, but it was I who invented the art. And, if I may say so, with no false modesty, Houdini is still the greatest of them all.” He turned to me. “Would you agree, Phil?”

“Sure,” I said. It was true, after all.

“Really,” she said, pronouncing every letter in the word. A faint light had begun to flicker behind her eyes, and a faint note of irony had slipped into her voice. “And just what is it you escape from, exactly?”

Irony, faint or otherwise, was wasted on the Great Man. He waved a hand. “Everything. Anything. In the beginning it was handcuffs and shackles. But anyone can escape from handcuffs and shackles. Always, you see, I try to go beyond what others can do, what even I can do, and that is the greatest challenge of all, naturally. Nowadays Houdini escapes from everything. Locked trunks. Coffins. From coffins under water, or buried in the earth. And naturally this requires enormous physical strength and stamina. Tremendous stamina. Would you like to hit me in the stomach?”

“I beg your pardon?” she said.

He opened up his suit coat. “Go ahead. Hit me. As hard as you like. Years of conditioning have turned Houdini’s muscles into steel.” He nodded toward his stomach. “Please. Feel free.”

“Ah,” she said. I saw that she was blushing. Quickly, she glanced around the room. She wasn’t as jaded as she pretended to be. She looked back at him and cleared her throat. “Thanks awfully, of course,” she said. “But perhaps some other time.”

Houdini flexed his arm and held his biceps out to her, like a proud butcher presenting a prime slab of porterhouse. “Here. Go ahead. Feel.”

She looked over to me, as though expecting a rescue. I didn’t have one. She hesitated. The Great Man still held out his arm.

She said, “Oh, well,” and she shrugged lightly, as though it didn’t really matter in the long run. And she reached out and touched it, tentatively, experimentally.

“Amazing, isn’t it?” he said. “Exactly like steel. Feel it.”

“Yes,” she said. She touched it some more. She blinked again as her fingers moved along the tight black fabric. “Yes, it’s really quite… firm, isn’t it?”

“Yes, naturally,” he nodded. He let his arm drop. “Conditioning, exercise,” he said, “years and years of it, every day without exception. Alcohol would ruin that in an instant. It destroys muscle tissue, you know. Eats it away, like sulfuric acid. A glass of plain water is what I would like, if I may.”

She was staring at him with her lips slightly parted. She blinked again, like someone waking from a daydream, and she closed her mouth. Blushing once more, she glanced around the room. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, of course.” There was a faint sheen of perspiration on her forehead.

I had seen it happen before. People were never prepared for the Great Man’s bald, boundless ego. Some people were repelled by it. But a lot of them were attracted.

And some people are also attracted to firm muscles.

The Great Man hadn’t noticed the girl’s reaction. He had turned away from her and he stood now with his hands behind his back, his head held high. He glanced thoughtfully around the room, like a theater director gauging the house and its profits.

She turned to me. She cleared her throat. She had wrapped her world weariness back over herself, but I think she realized that it didn’t fit nearly as well as it had before. “And you, Mr. Beaumont?”

“A whiskey, thanks. With a little water.”

She turned and she stabbed her cigarette into the ashtray. Her movement was so quick and violent that I felt sorry for the cigarette.

She ordered the drinks from the servant. She didn’t look into the Great Man’s eyes when she gave him the glass of water, but her hand was rock-steady. She handed me the whiskey and water. No ice. The English don’t trust it. “You must meet the other guests,” she told me.

The gramophone was tinkling out a Scott Joplin rag as she led us from the trestle table. We walked across some Oriental carpets and past a fireplace big enough to roast a woolly mammoth. There was no mammoth inside. There was no fire either, even though the air was chilly. The English don’t believe in heating their homes before January. If then.

Beyond the fireplace, we came to another cluster of people, three men and a woman sitting in a circle around another coffee table. One of the men was saying, “And it is this, you see, this completely wish-fulfilling nature of the dream, that Herr Doktor Freud discovered.”

He was a small, slight man with a thick German accent and a thick beard, neatly cut and shot through with curling wires of gray. His scalp was completely bare and it gleamed as though it had been waxed and buffed. He wore sparkling black pince-nez glasses, a neatly pressed black suit, glistening black patent leather boots, a crisp white shirt with a stiff wing collar, and a tiny, tidy black bow tie. He was immaculate. He was spotless. Dust and disarray would never touch him. They wouldn’t dare.

“Excuse me, Dr. Auerbach,” said Cecily. The flat, weary drawl had returned to her voice. “Daddy’s appointed me hostess. This is Mr. Phil Beaumont, from America, and Mr. Harry Houdini.” I thought she gave the word Houdini a soft, sour spin.

The other men and the woman remained seated, but Dr. Auerbach bounded to his small shiny feet. “Mr. Houdini! he said. He displayed his small shiny teeth as he groped for the Great Man’s hand. The Great Man granted it.

“Dr. Erich Auerbach,” said the doctor. “What a truly gigantic pleasure this is! I witnessed myself your magnificent performance in Vienna several years ago! Astonishing!”

The Great Man looked down at the doctor and smiled his charming smile. “Thank you so much.” Flattery always brought out the best in him.

Dr. Auerbach whirled toward Cecily. His brown eyes were opened wide behind the glasses. “You will please permit me, Miss Fitzwilliam, the introductions?”

She smiled her thin listless smile, and she shrugged indifferently. “Yes. Certainly.”

“Wonderful!” he said. “Thank you so very much. Well, then, gentlemen. Gracious lady.” He bowed toward the seated woman to our right. “Allow me to introduce the extraordinary Mr. Harry Houdini. As you heard, I had myself the honor to witness in Vienna his performance there. Overwhelming, absolutely! Mr. Houdini, allow me to introduce to you first the extremely charming Mrs. Corneille.”

The extremely charming Mrs. Corneille was the seated woman. She was probably over thirty years old and she was probably under fifty. That was all that I could tell about her age and it was probably more than she would ever tell. She wore black high-heeled shoes, sheer silk stockings, and a pleated black silk dress that exposed her long pale arms and her smooth pale shoulders. Her hair was cut like a pageboy’s and it was straight and black and glossy. Her cheekbones were feline, her nose was small, her mouth was red and wide. Beneath long black lashes, her eyes were large and almond shaped. They were the same color as her hair and they looked like there wasn’t anything in the world that they hadn’t seen at least twice.

In her hand, lightly, she held a long brown cigarette. She inclined her head toward the Great Man and she smiled.

“And this gentleman,” said Dr. Auerbach, “is Sir David Merridale.”

Sir David was in his forties. His shoulders were broad beneath his tailored black coat, his stomach was flat beneath his tailored black vest. His hair was black, too, except for the elegant waves of gray that lapped elegantly back over his temples. He had a high forehead, a strong nose, a black mustache, and a dark broad mouth. He sat comfortably, sprawled back in a padded leather chair, his hands along its arms, his legs crossed at the knees. He held a glass of champagne in his left hand, comfortably. He seemed permanently bemused.

Sir David nodded hello. The Great Man said, “And this is my secretary and close personal friend, Mr. Phil Beaumont.”

I nodded and I smiled. Politely. It was easy once you got used to it.

Sir David said, “Do join us. Dr. Auerbach was just explaining psychoanalysis.”

“Oh no, no,” said Dr. Auerbach quickly, and semaphored his small manicured hands. He had obviously taken charge. “We finish this now, with the great Houdini here. Please, Miss Fitzwilliam, you will sit beside me?”

She did, on the embroidered love seat. The Great Man chose the empty leather chair at the head of the table, which wasn’t much of a surprise. The only seat remaining was the one beside Mrs. Corneille, on the sofa, and I took that. She inhaled a puff from the cigarette and exhaled pale blue smoke through her delicate nostrils, and she looked at me from beneath slightly lowered eyelids. She was wearing a perfume that had been distilled from flowers grown in the Garden of Eden.

Sir David was studying the new arrivals. He was still bemused. “So,” said Dr. Auerbach, leaning toward the Great Man, rubbing his hands together. “You are here for a test of the medium, isn’t it? To verify her genuineness, yes?”

Houdini nodded judiciously. “I see you know of my work. Yes, I have had much success uncovering the fraudulent techniques used by these people. But in my youth I was a noted stage medium myself-although only for a brief time, and only for the purpose of healthy family entertainment. Since then, I have made a lifelong study of the occult. I have put together the finest and most extensive library on this subject in the world. And so naturally, Houdini is better equipped than most men to determine trickery and fraud.” He smiled. “Only as we grow older do we acquire wisdom.”

Sir David said, “Do you really think so? In my experience, people seldom actually acquire wisdom. They merely accumulate evidence.”

Houdini put a polite expression on his face. “Oh?” he said.

“Evidence of what, Sir David?” asked Dr. Auerbach.

“Their own fundamental correctness,” said Sir David.

The Great Man kept the polite expression on his face while he waited for the others to stop talking.

Mrs. Corneille glanced at Sir David. “You include yourself, do you, David?” Her voice was dark and thick, like sealskin.

“Certainly.” He smiled. “But of course, my own correctness is more fundamental.”

“Of course.” She turned to the Great Man. “So you’re not a believer then.”

“I am neither a believer nor a disbeliever, madam,” the Great Man announced. “I approach these things objectively, in the manner of a careful scientist. But a scientist who has had much experience in this field.”

“Dr. Auerbach,” said Sir David. “Does your colleague Dr. Freud have an opinion about Spiritualism? He seems to have one about everything else.”

Once again Houdini put a polite expression on his face and waited.

Dr. Auerbach said, “Herr Doktor Freud has yet to write about Spiritualism specifically. But he is rationalist, yes? I think it is not presumptuous of me to say that he would consider it a form of superstition. And as such, he would of course see it as a regression.”

“A regression?” said Mrs. Corneille.

He nodded. “A retreat, so to say, to an earlier level of development. Even the most well-adjusted individual, as a relief from anxiety, does this from time to time. He may bite his nails, for example, or indulge in unusual sexual activities, or read mystery stories.”

“I’m all for unusual sexual activities, of course,” said Sir David, smiling. “But if I were you, I shouldn’t mention mystery stories in the same context to Conan Doyle when he arrives.”

“As a psychic evaluator,” said the Great Man, “I often discover that medical doctors and academic professors, when they approach this field, are the most easily misled of investigators. They work with matter, you see, and with physics. And neither of these, no matter how complicated they might be, possesses an intent to deceive. But all the so-called psychics I have unmasked in my career, they have possessed this.”

“How fascinating,” said Mrs. Corneille. She turned to me and said, “And what of you, Mr. Beaumont? Are you a skeptic?”

“I never gave it much thought,” I told her.

She smiled. Her black, almond-shaped eyes looked into mine. “You mean to say you’ve never wondered what happens to us when we die?”

“Seems to me there’s only one way to find out. I’m not in any hurry.”

She smiled again, more widely. Her teeth were very white. “Personally,” said Sir David, “the Spiritualist notion of the Great Beyond sounds terribly tedious to me. Not a single caneton a Vorange in sight. Nor a single grisette. I much prefer Paris.”

Mrs. Corneille smiled at him. “But David, they wouldn’t let you in. You’ve spent so much time there already. You’ll probably be sent somewhere quiet and unpretentious. Like Brighton.”

“I will go to Paris,” he said. “I shall travel incognito.”

“Yes,” said the Great Man. “It is a wonderful city, Paris. The good people of Paris have always been very kind to me, very appreciative. It was in Paris, several years ago, that I introduced my famous Milk Can escape.”

Cecily raised her champagne glass and drawled, “Mr. Houdini escapes from things.” She sipped at the champagne.

Sir David was bemused again. “Whatever were you doing in a milk can?”

“Escaping from it,” said the Great Man. “No one had ever attempted this before.”

“I can well imagine,” said Sir David.

Sir David, Dr. Auerbach, and the Great Man. It was like watching a three-way taffy pull. If you scooped up all the ego gathered around that table and dumped it on an ocean liner, the ship would keel over and sink like a stone.

“It is a most extraordinary illusion,” said the doctor. He was back in charge. “Into a milk can somewhat larger than normal, and filled with water, Mr. Houdini is locked. With four padlocks.”

“Six,” corrected the Great Man.

“Six, yes, better still. You must imagine-he has no air to breathe, no key, no means of escape. Before the milk can a screen is drawn, to conceal it from the audience. The audience awaits. Time passes. One minute, two minutes, three. The people grow concerned, yes? They grow apprehensive. Surely no one can, under the water, survive for so long? But then at last, suddenly, Mr. Houdini steps out from behind the screen and he waves. Great, great applause. The screen is withdrawn, and there is the milk can, still locked. When unlocked, it is shown to be filled, still, with water.”

The Great Man spoke. “A very accurate description. Except, if you will excuse me, for the word illusion. The milk can is real. The water is real. Houdini is real.”

Dr. Auerbach nodded quickly. “Yes, yes, of course, it is a word only.”

The Great Man smiled and waved a hand, grandly forgiving.

Dr. Auerbach didn’t notice that he had been forgiven. His eyes narrowed and he said, “It is almost mythic, yes? In a way, it is a recreation of the trauma of birth, the escape from the womb. The darkness of the womb you have there, inside the milk can. And the amniotic fluid, which is the water, yes? You yourself are quite curled up, like the fetus. And then, like the fetus, you burst all at once into the light of day.” He shook his head in admiration. “Extraordinary.”

Houdini had shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Dr. Auerbach, if you will excuse me, perhaps such language is not entirely appropriate at the moment.” He made a courtly nod toward Mrs. Corneille, and then toward Cecily.

Dr. Auerbach frowned.

Sir David blandly said, “Pity you weren’t here when the good doctor was explaining Dr. Freud’s Oedipus complex. Really a wonderful notion. Seems we’re all of us men a bit fonder of our mothers than we ever imagined. Secretly we’d like to topple the old dear onto the breadboard and have a go at her. Did I get that right, Doctor?”

“You oversimplify, Sir David, I am afraid.” Dr. Auerbach turned to the Great Man. “What Herr Doktor Freud has established, you see, is that the young male child craves exclusive sexual possession of the mother. After the witnessing of the Primal Scene-that is, of sexual intercourse between the parents-the child develops a hostility toward the figure of the father.”

“Dr. Freud has obviously never met my mother,” said Sir David. “One look at Evelyn and he’d chuck that theory straight away. Along with dinner, I expect. Any child in his right mind”-he smiled at Mrs. Corneille-“and I include my younger self, of course-any child would be perfectly happy to let an entire rugby team take their chances with the old cow.”

“David,” said Mrs. Corneille, “you really are a dreadful man.” “If you think me dreadful, Vanessa, then you really must meet Evelyn.”

Dr. Auerbach was shaking his head. “It is not at all important what the mother looks like, Sir David. It is only important that-”

“Excuse me.” This came from the Great Man, who was rising from his chair. His face was white. His voice was weak and his body seemed unsteady. “I feel not well. Excuse me.”

Holding his hand against his stomach, he nodded once, to no one in particular, and then he turned and stiffly walked away.

Mrs. Corneille looked at me. “Is it something he’s eaten?”

Sir David raised his eyebrows blandly. “His mum, perchance?”

Mrs. Corneille turned to him, frowned, turned back to me. “He looked quite ill. Will he be all right, do you think?”

“Probably,” I said. “But it’s been a long trip.”

“You motored down from London?” asked Sir David.

I nodded. “And took the boat from Amsterdam, day before yesterday.”

“That explains it then,” he said. “English food on top of Dutch. A marvel he can still walk.”

I said to Mrs. Corneille, “I’d better go check on him.”

She raised an eyebrow, as though mildly surprised. “Yes,” she said. “Perhaps you’d better.”

I knocked.

“Who is it?” The Great Man’s voice, sounding flimsy through the thick oak door.

“Beaumont.”

“Come in.”

The Great Man was sprawled, face up, on the bedspread as though he had toppled there from the edge of a cliff. He was wearing all his clothes and his right arm was flung over his eyes.

“What’s up, Harry?” I asked him.

“Filth,” he said. Even though I was in the same room with him, his voice still sounded flimsy. “Filth. I have never in my life heard such filth.”

“Which filth is that, Harry?”

He swung his arm from his eyes. He sat up and swept his feet off the bed. “You heard him, Phil? That vile little German dwarf?”

“I thought he was Austrian.”

He shrugged. “Austrian, German, what difference? Did you hear him? The child craves sexual possession of his mother! His mother!” He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again. “Phil, if my own dear mother were alive to hear this, the shock of it would kill her in an instant. Did you ever hear such an obscenity? I was afraid I would vomit.”

“Well, Harry,” I said. “I’ve read about these psychoanalysts. I don’t think you have to take them all that seriously. They’ve got a lot of theories.”

He shook his head and looked off into the distance. “And this Sir David-how could he possibly talk like that?”

“Sir David likes to shake people up, I think.”

“But to say that about his mother.” He looked at me and said earnestly, “Phil, I truly believe that if ever an angel walked the earth, it was my mother.”

He had said that before, and often.

It was the death of his mother, I think, that had sent him chasing after mediums. Looking for one he could trust, but knowing too much to trust any of them.

I said, “Sounds like Sir David doesn’t feel the same way about his.”

Abruptly, he stood up. “We are leaving, Phil. I cannot remain here, among such people.”

I leaned back against the stone wall and put my hands in my pockets. “What about the seance?”

He waved a hand. “They can hold their ridiculous seance without Houdini.”

“Won’t look good,” I said.

He frowned. “What do you mean?”

“You leave now, you’re admitting defeat.”

He drew himself fully upright. “Houdini never admits defeat.”

“That psychic, Madame Sosostris, she’ll claim you lammed out because you couldn’t prove fraud.”

He snorted. “The famous Madame Sosostris. Where is she? She hasn’t arrived yet, even.”

“Looks worse, then. You wouldn’t even hang around till she showed up.”

He screwed up his face and chewed pensively at his lower lip. He turned and walked over to the window. He put his arms behind his back and grasped his left fist in his right hand and he stared out through the glass.

Maybe he wasn’t staring through it. All he could see through it was darkness. Maybe he was staring at his own reflection.

“Why not just ignore them?” I said. “You’ve got the rest of the world in your pocket, Harry. After this weekend, you’ll never see those two again.”

“Filthy vermin,” he said. He stared at the window.

“What about Conan Doyle?” I said. “Isn’t he a friend of yours? Won’t he be disappointed if you’re not here?”

What I wasn’t saying was that my job would be a lot easier out here in the country than it could ever be in London.

I also wasn’t saying that if we left now, the drive back to London would take us all night. I was too tired to do it myself and too fond of living to let him do it.

“And Lord Bob and Lady Alice,” I said. “You’ll hurt their feelings. That might get around. Maybe you wouldn’t get invited to any more of these soirees.”

He thought for another moment and then he turned from the window. “Yes. Yes, of course. You are entirely right, Phil. They are extremely fine people, Lord and Lady Purleigh, are they not? Extremely gracious. I cannot abuse their wonderful hospitality.”

“Right.”

He nodded. “Very well. We will stay. I can rise above this, above the other two. The vermin. I can ignore them, as you say. What are they to me? Nothing. Less than nothing.”

“Right.”

“Yes. Good.” Once more, he nodded. “But now I think I shall retire for the night. I find myself curiously fatigued.”

“I think I’ll pack it in myself. Mind if I use the bathroom?”

“No, no. Of course not.”

I left his room, walked past the bathroom into mine. I circled around the four-poster bed to the night table. I opened my bag. I hadn’t locked it. People don’t usually bother with an unlocked bag.

But when I dug around a bit, I realized that someone had bothered with this one. Someone had gone through it. Carefully, but not carefully enough.

I lifted out the clothes and set them on the bed. I took out the case that held my razor and my toothbrush and I put it beside the clothes. I lifted out the pint bottle of bourbon and put that beside the case.

“Phil?” The Great Man stood at the doorway between our two rooms.

I straightened up and looked at him across the satin bedspread. “Yeah?”

He was frowning, puzzled. “Someone has attempted to unlock my bag.”

I nodded. “Anything missing?”

He shook his head impatiently. “No, no. The locks are made to my own design and, naturally, they are impregnable. But someone has clearly tried to pick them. To an expert like myself, the signs are unmistakable.” He frowned again. “You seem very calm about this, Phil.”

“Someone got into mine. Didn’t take anything, looks like.” “But who would do such a thing?”

“Couldn’t be any of the others. They were all downstairs. One of the servants, maybe.”

He was standing fully upright. “Phil,” he said, “we must report this at once.”

“Let’s hold off on that for a while, Harry.”

Another frown. “But this is a personal violation. A defilement. And if one of his servants is a thief, Lord Purleigh must learn of it.”

“Whoever he was, he didn’t take anything. And if we tell the boss, all the servants will know we know. Including the one who did it. Maybe things will work out better if he doesn’t know.”

The Great Man considered this. Then he nodded. “We shall possess knowledge that he does not.”

“Like a magician and his audience.”

He nodded again. “It provides us an advantage. And possibly it will enable us to catch him in the act.”

“Right.”

He grinned. “Excellent. I approve. Mum is the word, eh?”

“Mum,” I said.

“Excellent.”

After the Great Man went back inside his room, I reached down into the empty bag and pressed the two concealed snaps with my thumbs. I raised the bag’s false bottom. The little Colt. 32 was still in there. So were the spare magazines.

I replaced the bottom. I hung some clothes in the wardrobe, took my watch from my pocket, placed it on the night table. I undressed, climbed into my pajamas and robe, grabbed the toilet case, went into the bathroom and washed up.

When I opened the bathroom door, the Great Man was standing outside it in his own pajamas. They were impressive. They were black silk and the lapels were piped with gold, and a large ornate golden H was stitched over the chest pocket. He was carrying his toothbrush in one hand and his tooth powder in the other and he was wearing his black silk blindfold across his forehead.

“Good night, Harry,” I said.

He stuck the toothbrush into his left hand, with the tooth powder, and then reached up to his ear and twisted out the lump of beeswax. “What was that?”

“Good night.”

He smiled and nodded. “Good night, Phil. Many pleasant dreams.” He corked up his ear again.

At night he put the blindfold across his eyes and the lumps of wax into his ears because he believed he was an insomniac. He wasn’t. All night long, maybe, he dreamed he was awake. But I had slept in the same compartment with him on the train from Paris to Amsterdam, and for hours I had listened to snores that sounded like coupling hogs. In the morning he told me he hadn’t slept a wink.

I returned to my room, shutting the dividing door behind me. I took off my robe and hung it on a hanger in the wardrobe, then slipped into bed and turned off the light.

I lay there for a while wondering who had broken into my bag. I decided there was nothing I could do about it now. A few minutes later I was asleep.

Something had awakened me.

The door to the suite opening? A footstep?

My eyes were wide open. I narrowed them slightly. I was lying flat on my back. My head was facing the door, my hands were outside the covers.

I kept my breathing slow and regular.

The clouds must have cleared away outside. A slab of moonlight slanted across the room and painted a rectangle of colorless design on the dark Oriental carpet.

I listened.

I heard the faint ticking of my watch on the night table. Nothing else.

With my eyes still narrowed, I peered through the gloom toward the door.

Was there something there, someone there, a lighter shade of gray lurking over there in the darkness?

There was. Something tall and thin. Something the color of ash. It had moved toward me.

It moved again. Very slowly. Silently.

I found myself wishing that I had taken the Colt from the suitcase and tucked it beneath my pillow. I hadn’t thought I would need it tonight.

The thing came closer. It was only a pale smudge against the sooty background and it made no sound at all. And then it floated into the spill of frosty moonlight and I saw that it was a figure shrouded from head to toe in white. It wore a hood that made an empty hole where the face should have been. It held something in its right hand, something that gleamed for an instant in the light of the moon.

It came still closer. It glided out of the moonlight and it became a silhouette, black against silver.

Four feet away.

Three feet.

Two feet from the bed.

It leaned toward me.

I whirled over, swinging my arm. Aiming my fist into the hood, at the spot where its chin should be.

My knuckles clipped the corner of something.

The figure toppled to the carpet, boneless and slack.

I sat up, turned on the light, jumped from the bed, bent down and turned the figure over. The hood fell away

Cecily Fitzwilliam lay there, out cold.

I said an impolite word.

The illumination in the corridor came from dim electric lights set in brass sconces along the stone walls. Sir David Merridale stood in front of the next doorway to my left-the door to the suite occupied by Mrs. Allardyce and Miss Turner. Just as I saw him, Sir David opened the door and plunged into the room. I sprinted toward the door-with one hand jammed in my pocket, it was an awkward sprint.

I went inside. I stuck my other hand, my right, into the right pocket of the robe. With both hands in my pockets, I might be able to pass for a normal person. Out for a casual stroll.

By the dim light of the electric lamp on the nightstand I could see three figures in the far corner of the room. Two of the figures had their backs to me. One was Sir David. The other had to be Mrs. Allardyce. Unless there were two or three people under that bulky robe, traveling as one.

The third figure stood with her back against the stone wall. She was tall. She wore a long pink flannel nightgown and her head was lowered and her hands were covering her face. Her long brown hair was loose and it spilled down over her shoulders. Miss Turner.

The door to the next chamber was open. A light was on in there.

“She’s had a nightmare,” said Mrs. Allardyce to Sir David.

Miss Turner’s head jerked up. “It was no nightmare!” she said. “I saw him.”

“Saw whom?” said Sir David. He was patting Miss Turner on the shoulder. Paternally. He was also admiring her body, I noticed. I didn’t blame him. The thin pink material clung to the curves and it draped nicely over the hollows. All the curves and all the hollows seemed to be in exactly the right places. Miss Turner, at nighttime, was a surprise.

“The ghost,” she said. “Lord Reginald.” She looked from Sir David to Mrs. Allardyce to me. “I know it sounds absurd, but he was in there!” she said, and pointed to the open door of her room.

“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Allardyce. Her make-up was gone and I could understand now why she wore so much of it. She had no eyebrows and no lips. “You’ve had a long day. All this talk of ghosts has overstimulated you.”

“I saw him!” With her glasses gone, her thick toffee-brown hair streaming free, she looked five years younger.

“Now Jane, for goodness’ sake,” said Mrs. Allardyce. She spoke with that elaborate patience that always conveys its opposite, and always intends to. “Do stop making a nuisance of yourself. It’s time we all went back to bed.”

Sir David curled his paternal arm around Miss Turner’s shoulder. “I suspect that the young lady could do with a stiff tot of brandy. I happen to-”

Miss Turner turned and pushed his arm away with her forearm. She backed up. “Please don’t patronize me,” she said stiffly. “I’m telling you, I saw him.”

Sir David smiled his bland smile. “I’m sure you saw something,” he said. “Something that appeared to you to be-”

“I saw a bloody ghost, you fool!”

“Jane!” said Mrs. Allardyce. “You forget yourself!”

Miss Turner turned to her. Her hands were down at her sides, balled into fists. “He was there!” she said.

“Even if he had been,” said Mrs. Allardyce deliberately, “which I do not for one moment believe, there would certainly be no need to use such language.”

For a moment Miss Turner’s blue eyes flashed and her wide lips parted. It seemed to me that Mrs. Allardyce was about to learn something interesting about language. Maybe I could have picked up a thing or two myself. But then Miss Turner shut her mouth and bit her lip and looked away.

I said, “What did he look like?”

She turned to me and frowned and she narrowed those dazzling eyes as though trying to figure out what I was up to. Finally, hesitantly, she spoke. “He was an old man,” she said. She turned to

Mrs. Allardyce. “Just as you said.” She turned back to me and took a deep breath. I don’t think she really cared whom she talked to, so long as it was someone who listened. “He was very old. Ancient. And thin. Skeletal. His beard was white, white and yellowish and long, like his hair.”

“You had the light on when you saw him?”

“Yes. I switched it on as soon as I heard a noise. I wasn’t sleeping.”

“What noise?”

She frowned, remembering, trying to get it right. “A sort of clicking sound,” she said. “Like claws on stone.” She put her hands to her shoulders, holding herself, and she closed her eyes.

“What was he wearing?”

The blue eyes opened. She took another breath. “A long white gown. A sort of nightgown.”

“He was tall? Short?”

“Tall,” she said. “Not so tall as you, but tall. And his head was bent over to the side. Tilted. Twisted.” She shivered again. “It was horrid. It made him seem demonic.”

“Did he say anything?”

“He said-” She caught herself. She shook her head. “No. He said nothing.”

For the first time I got the feeling she was lying. She had imagined the ghost, maybe. But if she had, she had also imagined him saying something. “Did he do anything?” I asked her.

Once again she shook her head. Once again I thought she was lying. “No,” she said. “But he was there!”

“Gentlemen,” said a female voice. I turned. It was Mrs. Corneille in a belted red silk robe. Her heavy black hair was still sleek, still perfectly groomed.

“I suggest,” said Mrs. Corneille in that dark furry voice, “that you all return to bed and permit me to care for Miss Turner.”

“For some reason, Vanessa,” said Sir David, “I have a difficult time imagining you as Florence Nightingale.” I thought I could hear irritation in his voice, running through it like a tight thin wire.

“For some reason, David,” she said, “I have a difficult time imagining you as Dr. Livingstone. Miss Turner? Would you like to come with me? I should imagine that you’d rather not attempt to sleep just yet. And, if you feel you need it, I’ve some brandy, as well.” She smiled sweetly at Sir David. He smiled blandly back. To Miss Turner she said, “And there’s another room in my suite. You’re quite welcome to it.”

Miss Turner glanced toward the open door of her room, looked around at the rest of us, finally turned back to Mrs. Corneille. She raised her head. “Thank you. Yes. It’s very kind of you. I would like a brandy. But I must fetch my robe.”

Mrs. Corneille said, “I’ll be happy to fetch it for-”

“No, no,” said Miss Turner. “Thank you.” She dropped her arms to her sides, turned, and walked into the door that led to her room. She kept her head held high, as proud as an Egyptian queen. And Egyptian queens almost never wore pink flannel nightgowns.

Mrs. Allardyce said in a stage whisper, “You really shouldn’t encourage her.”

Mrs. Corneille smiled pleasantly. “I’m sure you’re right, of course. But what harm can it do if she gets away for a bit? No doubt she could do with a few moments to pull herself together. She seems basically a sound young woman.”

Mrs. Allardyce frowned. She was dubious but she would go along. Maybe because Mrs. Corneille was being sensible, but more likely because Mrs. Corneille somehow outranked her. “Very well,” she said. “But I’m not entirely sure that I approve of brandy at this hour.”

Mrs. Corneille smiled again. She was better at that than I would have been, if I’d been the one smiling at Mrs. Allardyce. “You needn’t worry,” she said. “Only a thimbleful.”

Sir David started to say something to Mrs. Corneille but just then Miss Turner returned to the room. She was wearing her glasses now and she was buttoning up the front of a shapeless gray bathrobe. None of Miss Turner’s clothes lived up to her blue eyes. Not many clothes could.

“Come along, then,” said Mrs. Corneille. She took Miss Turner’s left arm and patted it. She turned to the rest of us. “Pleasant dreams.”

Miss Turner glanced at all of us again but she said nothing.

They walked off. They made an interesting pair-Mrs. Corneille sleek and glossy in her red silk, Miss Turner taller and stiffer and almost drab now in her gray wool. You wouldn’t think it was possible for someone to look drab and proud at the same time, but Miss Turner somehow managed to pull it off.

Without looking back, the two of them walked out the door into the hallway.

I said to Mrs. Allardyce, “What was it, exactly, that woke you up?”

She blinked. She was surprised, I think, by my asking. “Why, that awful screaming, of course. The silly girl gave me a horrible start. I thought my poor heart would stop.” She put her hand on her heavy chest. Probably she had a heart and probably it was in there somewhere.

“Miss Turner screamed twice,” I said. “Which scream woke you up?”

“The first one. It would’ve awakened the dead. ”

“When you heard the scream, what did you do?”

“I sat up and I switched on the electric light.” She frowned. “Why on earth do you ask?”

“An excellent question,” said Sir David. “What are you playing at, Beaumont? Amateur sleuth?” He was annoyed at Miss Turner, I think, for calling him a fool. And probably at Mrs. Corneille, for plucking Miss Turner away. He was taking his annoyance out on me, probably because I was a witness, and a male. I could live with that for a while, if I had to.

“Mr. Houdini will want to know,” I said. “This is the kind of thing he came here to investigate.” It sounded reasonable to me, but it seemed to bother Sir David.

I looked at Mrs. Allardyce. “You turned on the light as soon as you heard the scream?”

“Yes, of course.”

“What happened then?”

“Well, the-the poor girl screamed again, a dreadful scream, absolutely pitiful. ” She was on her best behavior now. She was assisting the Great Houdini with his research. “I had no idea what to think. But I got out of bed and I put on my robe-I was concerned about Jane, you see, and I thought I should go and have a peek at her. And then she came running through the door. She was completely hysterical.”

“You didn’t see anybody else coming from her room.”

“No, of course not. Only Jane. There was never anybody else in her room. Jane’s a charming person, good-hearted, but clever, of course, and terribly imaginative. It’s all those books she reads. And last night, you see, Lord Purleigh told us all some truly horrifying stories about the ghost who’s supposed to haunt this part of the manor. An ancestor of his, the third Earl, Lord Reginald Fitzwilliam. Far be it from me to criticize, Robert’s a dear sweet man, but really, he ought to have known better-anyone can see that Jane’s an excitable person. What must’ve happened is that after hearing all that, Jane dreamed she saw Lord Reginald, and then, of course, because she was sleeping in a strange bed, she was disorientated. And so she thought the dream was real, you see.”

I nodded. “You heard two screams,” I said.

“Yes, didn’t I just say so?”

“Uh-huh. You mind if I take a look in Miss Turner’s room?”

If she’d had eyebrows, she would’ve raised them. Instead she raised the ridge of her forehead. “Is that absolutely necessary, do you think?”

“Absolutely. I’ve got to make sure everything’s okay. Mr. Houdini will ask about it.”

She frowned. “Well, if you think…”

“Thanks.” I walked through the doorway.

It was the same set-up as the Great Man’s room-first a bathroom and a toilet and then the sleeping area. There was no one in it, anywhere. The bed was a tangled mess and one of the pillows was on the floor, near the door. There was no one under the bed and nothing in the wardrobe except Miss Turner’s clothing and the clean smell of talcum powder. The floor was wooden and the walls were made of stone. The window was too narrow to let anyone in or out.

Sir David had followed me in. Like mine, his hands were in the pockets of his dressing gown. Maybe he was hiding a pair of hand-cuffs of his own. His smile had gone from bland to ironic. He said, “Searching for clues, are we?”

I glanced once more around the room. “Right,” I said.

“Aren’t we going to produce our magnifying lens?”

I looked at him. “You think it was a really small ghost?”

His smile became bland again. “As an American,” he said, “you probably wouldn’t know this. But a gentleman never enters a lady’s room without her permission.”

I nodded. “Then I guess we’d both better leave.” He stood in my way, so I walked around him and back out into Mrs. Allardyce’s room.

“Thanks for your trouble,” I told her.

“Not at all,” she said. She put her hand to her chest again. “Will Mr. Houdini wish to speak with me?”

“Sure he will,” I said. “Count on it. Thanks again. Good night.” I nodded to Sir David. He didn’t return the nod.

But I could feel someone behind me as I walked out into the hall. I took a few steps down the corridor and he called out, “Oh, Beaumont?”

I stopped and turned. “Yeah?”

He approached me. His handsome face was thoughtful. “You know,” he said, “I don’t think I care for your manners.”

“No? You in the market for a new set?”

He nodded as if that was pretty much the answer he had expected. He stroked the left side of his mustache with the tip of his index finger. “Perhaps we’ll have an opportunity to discuss this at some other time.”

“Look forward to it,” I said. “See you later.”

“ORGHH.”

“Harry?”

“Orgh.”

“ Harry?”

“Whumph?” In the light from the open doorway I could see him tug up the silk blindfold and stick it to his forehead. He unscrewed the wax from his ears. “Humph? What?”

“Sorry to wake you up,” I said.

“No no no. I was merely resting my eyes.” Probably the wax had kept him from hearing the snores.

“Okay if I turn on the light?” I asked him.

“Yes, yes, certainly. What is it, Phil? What is wrong?”

I turned on the light and held out my left hand. “I was wondering if you could get these off.”

Cecily must have slipped away from my room while everyone was talking next door. If she had found the key to the handcuffs, she hadn’t left it for me.

The Great Man looked at the handcuffs dangling from my wrist. He raised his eyebrows, surprised. “A Mueller and Kohl spring-loaded. An antique. Where did you find it, Phil?”

“A long story, Harry. Tell you in the morning. Can you get it off?”

He smiled. “Phil, a child could remove those. Here. Observe.” In less than a second, the cuffs were off.

The Morning Post

Maplewhite, Devon

August 18

Dear Evangeline,

You’ll be appalled, I know. You’ll be disgusted with me. I can scarcely blame you: I’m thoroughly disgusted with myself. I’ve been an absolute and utter fool. If the earth suddenly groaned open before me, I would leap immediately into the smoking chasm and I would feel, I promise you, nothing but intense gratitude and relief as I whistled down toward the Abyss.

Oh, Evy, I’ve been such an idiot! If you had seen me standing there, half naked, with all those people gaping at me! If you had heard me babbling like a lunatic about the ghost-

Yes, the ghost. A real ghost, or so he seemed at the time, slathering and foaming and hissing obscenities. Those wild eyes, that leering mouth, and that monstrous thing of his rampant and red!

But now, as the light of dawn begins to sift through the window, pale and cold and relentless, I begin to suspect that I must have suffered some attack of mania.

I’ve returned to my own room. The ghost is gone, if indeed he was ever present. In the room beyond, which reeks of her mint bonbons, the Allardyce sleeps, as always, the sleep of the just. One of the other guests, Mrs Corneille, was kind enough to offer me a brandy and, had I wanted it, the extra room of her suite. She’s a wonderful woman, but I knew that wherever I might be I shouldn’t sleep at all tonight, and so I returned here, determined to write to you and describe this fantasy that terrified me so. For a fantasy it must have been.

And yet, Evy, he seemed so very real! I can still hear his beastly cackle and the dreadful, filthy things he said. I can still taste the fear in my mouth, stale and slippery and bitter, like old pennies.

I’m babbling again. I shall do this properly.

Ah well. I’m afraid the ghost must wait. I hear something stirring next door. Either the Allardyce is awakening or a hippopotamus has wandered into her room in search of a place to wallow. If he spies the Allardyce, he will no doubt attempt to breed; the clamour will unnerve the entire household. In any event, I must go. I shall get this in the morning post, and I shall send its continuation to you this afternoon.

All my love, Jane

When I awoke the next morning, a bright bolt of sunlight lay across the room. Tiny motes of dust floated slowly through it like microscopic creatures drifting in a golden shaft of sea.

It was the first sunshine I had seen since we left Paris. I had started to think that I would never see it again.

I picked up my watch from the night table. A quarter to nine. Late.

I eased out of bed, climbed into my robe, padded to the Great Man’s door and knocked.

“Come in,” he called out.

He was wearing his gray socks and his gray pants, a shirt and a tie, an opened gray vest. He was sitting on top of the bedspread, his back against the tall dark wood headboard. There was a pen in his hand and a notebook on his lap.

“Good morning, Phil,” he said cheerfully.

“Morning, Harry. Why aren’t you downstairs?”

He smiled. It was an innocent smile, and his innocent smiles always made me nervous. “But, Phil,” he said. I am under orders not to leave without you, am I not?”

“Being under orders isn’t the same as taking them.”

“But for me it is, Phil. I gave my word.” He changed the subject. “Did you sleep well?”

“When I slept,” I said.

His face became thoughtful. “Do you know, I must have actually slept myself last night-for a time, at any rate-because I had a dream. It was a most curious dream. You were in it and you were wearing a pair of handcuffs. You asked me to remove them for you.

“That was no dream, Harry. That was my life.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You weren’t dreaming. I was wearing a pair of handcuffs last night, and I asked you to take them off.”

“They were made by Mueller and Kohl?”

“According to you. Spring-loaded, you said.”

“Amazing. Where did you get them?”

“They were a gift. From Cecily Fitzwilliam.”

“A gift? Why would Miss Fitzwilliam give you a gift? And why a pair of handcuffs?”

“They weren’t really for me. They were for you. Mind if I sit down?”

“No, no,” he said, and waved a hand toward the seat by the writing desk. “For me? What do you mean?”

I sat down. “Well, Harry, it looks to me like Miss Fitzwilliam is smitten.”

He frowned, puzzled. “Smitten? What are you saying, Phil?”

“She wanted to get to know you better. So she came to the room. She got me instead.”

“Better?” Suddenly he blushed. “You mean…? Miss Fitzwilliam?” His voice had risen slightly. “Phil- no. Her father is an English lord. ”

“Harry. Calm down.”

“But doesn’t she know that I’m a married man?”

“She’s just a kid, Harry. She only wanted to talk.”

He looked off, toward the window, and stared at it for a moment. Then he took a deep breath and slowly let it out in a kind of moaning sigh, long and low. He shook his head. “So it begins again,” he said.

“Again?” I said.

He looked at me sadly. “This has happened before, Phil. Many, many times. It is a terrible curse. Women of a certain… ah… animal nature, they inevitably find me irresistible. Perhaps my great physical strength attracts them. Or my virile demeanor. Perhaps it is merely the fact that Houdini is the most famous man alive.”

He shrugged sadly. “Who knows, Phil? Who can plumb the hearts of these women? Certainly I never encourage them, never give them reason to believe, even for a moment, that I would respond to their advances. You know that my darling wife is the light of my existence. She is my beacon in life’s storm-tossed sea, the only woman who has ever meant anything to me. Except, of course, for my dear departed mother. I would never betray Bess, Phil.”

He looked off again. “I suppose I must try to find it within me to forgive them, these women. They cannot help themselves, naturally.” He shook his head. “But I would never have believed that the daughter of an English lord…”

He looked back at me. “What shall we do about this, Phil? Shall we go to Lord Purleigh and ask him to keep a closer watch over this daughter of his?”

I smiled. “I don’t think so, Harry. Cecily won’t bother you again.”

He raised his dark eyebrows hopefully. “Really? What did you say to her?”

“All the stuff you just said. About Bess and all. The beacon in the storm-tossed sea. I explained everything. She understands.”

“Ah. Wonderful, Phil. A good thing that you are a man of the world, like myself.” He frowned suddenly. “But why on earth did she bring the handcuffs?”

“She wanted you to see them. They’re her grandfather’s. She thought you might be interested.”

“In an ancient pair of Mueller and Kohls?” Mildly indignant. “She didn’t know, Harry. She was only trying to be friendly. After she left, I was playing around with them and I accidentally locked myself up. Sorry I had to wake you up.”

He shook his head. “You did not actually awaken me. As you know, I have difficulty sleeping. I was merely resting.”

I nodded. “There’s one other thing you should know, though.”

He frowned. Worried, probably, about some other woman with an animal nature. “And what is that?”

“Looks like we had a ghost here last night.”

“A ghost?”

I told him about Miss Turner.

When I was finished, he asked me, “How did she seem to you, Phil? Miss Turner?”

“Like someone who’d just seen a ghost.”

“She was hysterical?”

“Not hysterical. Upset. Whatever she saw, she thought it was a ghost, and it scared her. But she seemed to be handling it fairly well.”

“Yes. From my brief meeting with her, I would say that she has a good head on her shoulders.”

And a good pair of shoulders under her head.

“As I may have told you, Phil, hauntings do not much interest me. If the accounts are true, ghosts seem to be completely unaware that they are actually dead. Which makes them, in my view, remarkably stupid creatures. What would be the point of communicating with them, even assuming that one could? But, you know, perhaps our Miss Turner is a sensitive. A natural medium. Unwittingly, without her own knowledge. I have heard of this, although never encountered it.” He nodded thoughtfully. “I shall speak with her.”

“Right.”

“Shall we go have breakfast?” he asked me.

I looked down at my bathrobe, looked back up at the Great Man. “I thought I’d get into some clothes first.”

“Excellent. I shall finish up this letter to Bess.”

The Great Man and I went up the stairs and down the halls. He didn’t say anything, but his mouth was set in a thin petulant line and I knew that trouble was coming. When I closed the door to our suite, he turned to me. And on me.

“Phil,” he said. “This is entirely unfair. You are treating me as though I were a child.”

“It’s for your own good, Harry.”

“But you said yourself that we have a few hours of leeway.”

“Sounds like you’ve got something on your mind.”

He drew himself to his full height. “I refuse to stay here, cooped up in that tiny room.”

“Cooped up? Harry, you’re the guy who spends his time in coffins.”

“From which I can escape whenever I wish.” Somehow he managed to draw himself still taller. He shook his head. “No,” he said. “I refuse.”

“Harry, you told me-”

He shoved his hands into his pockets. He raised his strong chin. “I know what I told you. That I would do whatever you said, whenever it involved matters of security. But this does not. You’re insisting on this because you wish to punish me for that silly article in the Times.”

There was maybe some truth in what he said.

“That was Carlyle,” he announced. “I had nothing to do with it. If I had been responsible, the article would have been more than an insignificant little filler.”

I didn’t really believe that he was innocent, but I believed that, right now, he believed it. “So you’re suggesting what?”

“That I come along while you inspect the grounds.”

I shook my head. “It’s too open out there.”

“But Chin Soo is not there. He cannot be. You said so. And what if he is? Tell me, Phil, am I in any less danger inside the building? What about the Hotel Ardmore? Was it not you who pointed out that he nearly reached me there? What happens if he comes for me here, in my room, while you are outside?”

He had a point.

I walked over to the bed and sat down. I looked over at him. “Harry. Listen. Maybe it’s time to bring the cops in on this.”

“No. I told you. That is out of the question.”

“Or at least let me wire New York,” I said. “Have them send some people from London.”

“And how would I explain those? Shall we tell Lord Robert and Lady Alice that they are all my secretaries?”

“Why not just tell them the truth, tell them-”

He shook his head. “Absolutely not.”

“Harry, why is seeing the grounds so damned important?”

“The grounds of Maplewhite are celebrated, Phil. The forest, the extensive lawn, the fabulous gardens.” He pulled his hands from his pockets and held them out to me. “Would you deny me a chance to see all these, to drink in their legendary beauty? And what will I say when people ask me about them? Shall I say that Houdini never saw them, because he was busy cowering in his room?”

I slipped my watch from my pocket. Ten minutes to eleven.

It was probably safe out there. Better to give way now, I told myself. If I did, maybe he would listen to me later, when it wasn’t safe.

“An hour or two,” he said. “Only an hour or two. And then we can return to the rooms.”

I sighed again. “Okay,” I said.

“Ah, Phil, wonderful!” He stepped over to the bed, clapped me on the shoulder. “ Wonderful!” When I was sitting down, his eyes were level with my own. They were shimmering with pleasure.

He was easy to please. All you had to do was give him whatever he wanted.

“Okay, Harry,” I said. “Okay. Go on downstairs. I’ll be right there.”

“Certainly, Phil,” he beamed.

When he left, I opened my traveling bag and lifted the false bottom. I removed the small automatic Colt and one of the spare magazines. I replaced the bottom, closed the bag, dropped the magazine into the left pocket of my coat.

I hefted the Colt. It wasn’t much of a gun and it didn’t really have much heft. But that was why I’d brought it along-if anyone found it, it would seem like the sort of gun that might be carried by the sort of person I was supposed to be.

I pulled back the Colt’s slide and released it. The slide jumped forward, chambering a cartridge. I flicked on the safety and slipped the pistol into the coat’s right pocket.

In a few minutes, when she was closer, I could see that it was Miss Turner. She wore a small black bowler hat, a white blouse, a black bow tie, a black jacket, a pair of black riding breeches, and black leather riding boots. It seemed to me like a lot of clothes for such a warm day. But English people don’t pay much attention to the weather. If they did, they wouldn’t live in England.

Miss Turner’s blue eyes were squinting a bit as she approached us. I realized she wasn’t wearing her glasses.

She sat stiffly upright but she looked like someone who knew what she was doing. She knew how to put on the brakes, and the horse stopped a few yards from us and moved its head up and down. Her long legs straight against her stirrups, she leaned forward and stroked its strong sleek neck. The horse moved his head up and down some more. He liked that. I didn’t blame him.

“Mr. Houdini,” she said. “Mr. Beaumont. How are you this morning?” A few strands of her brown hair had freed themselves and draped down against her slender neck. Her face was bright and shining and once again she looked younger than she was.

“Quite well, Miss Turner,” said the Great Man, taking off his hat. “And you?”

“I’m fine, thank you,” she said, and suddenly she smiled. It was a big, fine, delighted smile. It went very well with her eyes. “It’s really a marvelous day, isn’t it?”

“Magnificent,” agreed the Great Man.

I removed my hat and I said, “You’re feeling better?”

She blushed, looked down, looked back up. “I’m glad of a chance to apologize for last night. I made a complete idiot of myself.”

“You don’t owe anyone an apology,” I said.

“Oh, but I do. I was a silly hysterical child.”

“Miss Turner,” said the Great Man. “If possible, when you have a free moment, I should like to discuss with you this apparition you witnessed last night.”

She shook her head. “But that’s just it, you see. There was no apparition. There couldn’t have been. It was all just a terrible dream, and like a fool I persuaded myself that it was real.”

I said, “Sounds like you’re trying to persuade yourself today that it wasn’t.”

She frowned and her face flushed again, with anger this time. She sat back, stiffer than before. “It wasn’t,” she said curtly. “I was a fool. I apologize for disturbing you last night. Good day. Good day, Mr. Houdini.”

She tapped her heels lightly against the horse’s flanks and the animal edged forward, around us. We put our hats back on and watched the horse move from a walk to a trot to a canter.

“A temperamental woman,” said the Great Man.

“Uh-huh.”

We walked and walked. As we came into the home stretch along the walkway, I was coming to the conclusion that no one could be kept safe here at Maplewhite. Not outside it, at least. Not unless he had an army of his own. There were too many approaches to the house, too many places to hide.

Just ahead, to the right of the path, a huge tree with dark bronze-red leaves towered over it. Two white-enameled wrought-iron benches were planted in the shade of the tree and I saw that one of these was occupied. Mrs. Allardyce and Mrs. Corneille.

“ Yoo hoo! Mr. Houdini?” Mrs. Allardyce. She was wearing a brown dress and white gloves and she was holding a pale blue parasol over her head, maybe to protect it from all that shade. “Won’t you join us?”

The Great Man and I joined them. We took off our hats and said hello and sat down on the other bench. I pulled the watch from my pocket, glanced at it. Twelve-fifteen.

Still safe, I thought.

I was wrong, but I wouldn’t know that for a few more minutes.

“Are we keeping you from something, Mr. Beaumont?” said Mrs. Corneille, smiling. On her lap was a white straw hat with a broad brim. On the rest of her was a white linen dress that made her shiny black hair seem even blacker. The hem of this dress was lower than the hem of last night’s dress, but it was high enough to show off a fair amount of her legs. They were still very good legs.

The broad blue sky, the broad green lawn, Miss Turner’s eyes, Mrs. Corneille’s legs. There were a lot more distractions around here than I liked.

I slid the watch back into my pocket. “Mr. Houdini and I had a bet. How long it would take to circle the grounds on foot.”

“And who won?”

“We haven’t finished yet.”

She turned to the Great Man. “Are you feeling better today, Mr. Houdini?”

“Very much so,” he said. “Thank you.”

“I shouldn’t attempt to circle the grounds,” said Mrs. Allardyce. “Not even on a horse.” She frowned. “Did you see Jane? She’s off riding somewhere.” She glanced around vaguely.

“Yes,” said the Great Man. “We spoke with her a while ago. She seems a very accomplished rider.”

“Yes, I suppose she is. And that’s surprising, really, when you consider that basically she’s such a bookish sort of person. When she’s not writing one of those interminable letters of hers, she has her poor head buried in a book. Personally, I’ve never found Jane Austen all that fascinating.”

She heaved her heavy bosom forward and looked eagerly at the Great Man. “Mr. Beaumont did tell you about our excitement last night? Jane’s ghost? Well, today, of course, the poor girl realizes that it was all merely a nightmare, a figment of her imagination, but last night she was absolutely hysterical, wasn’t she, Mr. Beaumont? It was all I could do to calm her. She can be so emotional sometimes.”

The Great Man nodded. “Mr. Beaumont has told me of this. I-”

He was interrupted by the cheerful toot toot of a horn. We all turned toward the south.

A big motorcycle raced toward us along the walkway, gravel and earth spitting from its wheels. Lord Bob and his Brough Superior.

Lord Bob hit the brakes. The motorcycle skidded for ten or twelve yards on the gravel, wavering left and right, and finally it stopped in front of us.

Lord Bob was wearing the tweed suit he had been wearing earlier, but now he also wore a leather cap and a pair of goggles. He ripped up the goggles and let them slap back against his forehead. He grinned. Except for the white circles at his eyes, like a raccoon’s mask, his face was coated gray with dust. His mustache had been swept back along his cheeks. “Capital machine! Capital! What an adventure! Reached a hundred on the main road!” Beaming beneath his goggles, he looked around at all of us. “Anyone care to give it a go? I’d be-” Suddenly he looked off, down the walkway. “Good Lord. Is that Miss Turner?”

Once again, we all turned.

About fifty yards away, the big black horse had just burst from the forest. It reared up, forelegs clawing at the air, but somehow Miss Turner held on. Then the powerful legs came back to earth and the horse wheeled toward us and began racing along the walkway. The reins were flapping loose against its neck. Miss Turner was bent forward, her arm groping for them. Her bowler hat was gone and her long brown hair was streaming like a banner in the wind.

“Oh dear,” said Mrs. Allardyce. Mrs. Corneille stood up from the bench, maybe thinking she could do something. I realized that the Great Man and I were already standing.

But Miss Turner had found the reins and brought the horse under control. About twenty yards away she started slowing it, and by the time she reached us the animal was moving in a walk. The horse was panting. So was Miss Turner. Its eyes wide, the horse stopped and pawed the ground, once, twice, then raised its head and shook it and whinnied.

A few feet away, Lord Bob was standing now, too, his legs braced on either side of the big motorcycle. “Miss Turner! You gave us a terrible fright! Are you all right?”

“ Jane. What on earth did you think you were doing?” Mrs. Allardyce. She was still sitting down.

Miss Turner’s face was white and it was shining with sweat. She took a breath. She put her hand against her forehead. She licked her lips and she looked around at all of us. “I… I’m so sorry. I.. ”

Just then a number of things happened very quickly.

From somewhere in the forest behind us, to the south, came the flat hard crack of a rifle.

And something made a thunking noise somewhere as I spun to look at the Great Man. He had turned toward the sound of the shot and I knew without being able to see it that his chin was raised and he was daring the rifleman to try again.

All the others had turned, too, and frozen in position.

I shoved my hand into my pocket, going for the Colt.

And then, behind me, Miss Turner said “Oh,” very quietly, and I turned back to her and her eyelids fluttered and her blue eyes rolled upward and became white and she slumped sideways off the horse.

I ripped my hand from my pocket and I sprinted toward Miss Turner. Just as her leg slipped over the saddle, I caught her shoulders with my left arm and I scooped my right arm up beneath her knees. She sagged into the crooks of my elbows, her head lolling, her arms loosely swinging. I carried her over to the bench and laid her out on it and I squatted down beside her. I was looking for the bullet wound. I couldn’t find it.

I sensed the people crowding around me. Mrs. Corneille, Mrs. Allardyce, Lord Bob. I searched for the Great Man, found him standing just behind me. He looked puzzled, maybe even worried, but he was alive and unwounded. There hadn’t been a second shot.

Miss Turner was breathing but her face was white. I put my hand against her forehead. Cold and damp. I put my fingertips against her wrist and felt for her pulse. It was there, fluttering like the wings of a wounded bird.

Mrs. Corneille said “Is she…?”

I said, “I think she’s just fainted.”

“A bloody poacher!” growled Lord Bob. “Filthy sod!” His beetle brows were lowered and a bright furious red was glowing beneath the gray dust that coated his face. He snapped his goggles down over his eyes, leaving two rings of indented flesh on his forehead. “I’ll show the swine!”

He scurried off to the motorcycle, a flurry of tweed. I turned back to Miss Turner. I heard the howl of the motorcycle behind me as I unknotted the tie at her throat. Lord Bob, revving up the machine.

“Mr. Beaumont!” said Mrs. Allardyce.

The motorcycle exploded away with a roar of engine and a clatter of gravel.

“She needs air,” I said. I unbuttoned the first two buttons of her blouse. Lightly, I tapped Miss Turner’s cheek. Nothing from her. I noticed that her skin was as soft as a child’s. I ignored that.

“May I?” Mrs. Corneille. She was beside me now, on my right. Her shiny black hair swung forward like a silk curtain as she leaned toward Miss Turner. I could smell her perfume. I ignored that too.

She took Miss Turner’s right hand between hers and rubbed it gently.

I tapped the cheek again. “Miss Turner?”

She took a deep staggered breath and her lids snapped back and those dazzling blue eyes looked at me.

Twice now in less than twelve hours I had been the first thing a young woman saw when she came back to earth. Miss Turner didn’t seem any more thrilled than Cecily Fitzwilliam had seemed last night.

She frowned. “What happened?”

“You’ve fainted,” said Mrs. Corneille.

Miss Turner looked at her. She raised her head from the bench, as though trying to sit up. Mrs. Corneille touched her shoulder gently. “Not just yet, Jane. Rest a moment.”

I stood up.

Mrs. Allardyce said to Miss Turner, “You gave us a terrible fright. What on earth — "

Mrs. Corneille turned and glanced back at her. She didn’t say anything, but her eyes were narrowed and her lips were grim. Mrs. Allardyce shut her mouth.

Off to my right, two small black figures were running toward us, down the slope from the manor house. Servants.

I stepped over to the Great Man. Under my breath, I said, “Go back to the house with the rest of them. Wait for me in your room.”

“Phil-”

“Just do it, Harry. I’ll be back.” I set off in a run after Lord Bob.

"Let me see,” said Lord Bob, “If I understand you.”

We were in his study, a large room on the ground floor. It smelled of new flowers and old money. It had probably always smelled of old money, but the smell of flowers came from a tall vase of red roses on Lord Bob’s desk. The desk was big enough to make the vase look like a tiny skiff floating on a lake of cherry-wood.

The Great Man and I were sitting in red padded leather chairs studded with brass tacks. On the dark paneled walls hung framed etchings of elegant hunting dogs. Beyond the casement window hung a postcard view of green grass and distant trees.

Lord Bob was staring at me as though I had just offered him a bite of tarantula sandwich. “You’re not a personal secretary,” he said.

“No,” I said.

“You work for the Pinkerton Detective Agency, in America.”

“Right.”

He stroked his mustache. “It was a Pinkerton spy, wasn’t it, broke the Molly Maguires in Pennsylvania?”

I nodded. “James McParlan.”

“And it was Pinkertons got sent in to protect those blacklegs in Homestead. Big workers’ strike against that Scottish swine, Carnegie.”

“Right.”

“Armed thugs. Capitalist mercenaries.”

I nodded. “We don’t do that anymore.”

His furry eyebrows climbed up his forehead. “Oh? Work for the labor unions now, do you?”

“Right now I work for Harry.” I shrugged. “You don’t like the Pinkertons, Lord Purleigh.” He didn’t ask me to call him Bob. “That’s your privilege. But I’m not here to clobber steelworkers. I’m here to protect Harry.”

Lord Bob scowled. He turned to the Great Man. “You’ve retained Beaumont here-” He looked back to me. “It is Beaumont? You’re not traveling under some sort of…” He paused, searching for the word, or maybe for a nasty equivalent. “Alias?”

I said. “No.”

Back to the Great Man. “You’ve retained Beaumont because someone is attempting to kill you?”

The Great Man frowned. “It was not actually an idea of my own. I believed, personally, that I could deal with the matter myself. But my dear wife, Bess, was concerned. She worries about me, you see. And after what happened in Philadelphia, she insisted I hire someone who might be able to guarantee my safety.”

Lord Bob was looking puzzled. “What was it,” he said, “that happened in Philadelphia?”

“I was staying in a hotel. The Ardmore. Chin Soo entered my suite in disguise, dressed as the room service waiter. He attempted to kill me. Or the person he believed to be me. In fact, he nearly killed a member of the Philadelphia Police Department. A Sergeant Monahan.”

“Lanahan,” I said.

Lord Bob frowned at me. So did the Great Man-he didn’t like being corrected any more than he liked being interrupted. “Whoever he was,” he said, “he was masquerading as me. It was a trap, you see. The police were there to apprehend and arrest Chin Soo.”

“Which they failed to do,” said Lord Bob.

“Yes. He escaped down a fire escape.”

Lord Bob stroked his mustache. “And so you employed the Pinkertons. In the form of Beaumont.”

“Yes. As I said, it was my wife’s idea.”

That was true. But it was obvious that Lord Bob didn’t like the Pinkertons, and probably the Great Man didn’t mind putting some distance between himself and me.

Still stroking his mustache, Lord Bob nodded. “This Chin Soo person. He’s a disgruntled magician, you say?”

“A rival, yes.”

“Takes his rivalries damn seriously, I must say.”

“The man is deranged. Completely demented. He claims that I stole my coffin escape from him. This is total nonsense, of course.

I was performing the coffin escape years ago, while Chin Soo was still catching bullets in second-rate vaudeville houses.”

“Catching bullets?” said Lord Bob. His bushy eyebrows floated up his forehead.

The Great Man shrugged dismissively. “With his teeth.”

The eyebrows dipped. “Good Lord.”

The Great Man shrugged again. “It is dangerous, yes, to some extent, but it is merely a trick.”

“And you honestly believe that this chap would follow you all the way from America?”

I said, “I got a wire from my agency while we were in Paris. A man who was probably Chin Soo bought a ticket on the La Paloma. It arrived in Rotterdam last Monday.”

Lord Bob looked at me. “Why didn’t your chaps notify the Dutch police?”

“They did. The guy never got off the boat. He disappeared.”

“Disappeared?”

“No one knows what Chin Soo looks like. He wears make-up on stage. No one knows what his real name is. Chin Soo’s a stage name. We’re pretty sure he’s not Chinese. And we know he’s good at disguises. When he came for Harry at the Ardmore, he made himself up to look like an Italian.”

Lord Bob frowned.

“He’s smart and he’s determined,” I said, “and right now there’s no way at all to locate him.”.

“How d’you expect to capture him, then?”

“That’s not my job. My job is to keep Harry alive. Which is why getting him out of London, coming to Devon, seemed like a pretty good idea. There wasn’t supposed to be any publicity.” I glanced at the Great Man, who blinked and glanced away. “I thought it’d be safe. I was wrong. Chin Soo must’ve seen that article in the London Times. ”

Lord Bob stroked his mustache again. “But you can’t know that it was your Chin Soo who fired the shot this afternoon.”

“Whoever he was, he missed Harry by about two inches. That’s good enough for me.”

“But you can’t be certain, can you. Not absolutely.”

“I’ll only be certain about anything when Chin Soo’s in jail. Or when Harry’s dead. But in the meantime, seems to me, all your other guests are in danger.”

He frowned at me again. He was doing a lot of frowning today, most of it at me. He sat back in his chair and put his elbows on its arms and he steepled his hands together beneath his chin. “And what is it you propose we do?”

“Harry and I can leave. Go back to London. That’s one possibility. That way, at least your other guests aren’t in danger. And that’s what gets my vote.”

“But Houdini’s the only one this chap wants to kill. Eh?”

“If he’s trying to kill Harry, he could miss him and hit someone else. He could’ve hit Mrs. Corneille this afternoon.”

He nodded. Reluctantly. “Fair enough. But you’re putting people in danger wherever you go, eh? Isn’t that right?”

“Yeah. It’s something I’m not too happy about. I’d like to have another twenty men working with me. But Harry wants to keep this thing simple. Only one man. Me.”

Lord Bob turned to the Great Man. “And why is that?”

“The more people who become involved,” he said, “the greater the likelihood that the press will learn of it. My entire career is based upon the remarkable dangers into which I place myself. If it should be thought that I was frightened by a mere individual, another magician, and an inferior magician at that-”

“Got you,” said Lord Bob. “Got you. Well, look here, old man, naturally if you’d like to leave, no one at Maplewhite would hold it against you. Entirely up to you.”

The Great Man bobbed his head lightly toward Lord Bob. “I am sorry, Lord Robert, but I disagree. It is up to you, entirely. But so long, of course, as you and Lady Purleigh wish my presence, I should prefer to remain.”

“Goes without saying,” Lord Bob said. “Welcome as long as you like.” He grinned. “No jumping ship, eh? Stout fellow.”

He turned back to me, without the grin. “You’re welcome as well, of course. In the circumstances.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“So you remain here,” he said to the Great Man. “That’s settled. What now?”

I said, “We tell all the other guests what’s going on.”

Lord Bob glared at me.

I said, “They’ve got a right to know the score-to know what the situation is. If they want to stay, fine.”

He glanced down at his desktop and thought for a moment. At last, he said, “We could tell ’em all at tea time, I suppose.”

“Next,” I said, “we tell the local police. Have them mount a guard on this place.”

He looked across the desk at me and he snorted so hard that his mustache flapped. “Got an inflated idea, I see, of the local constabulary’s resources. Their competence, too.”

“Anything’s better than nothing.”

“Not in this case. Met the Superintendent a time or two, over in Amberly. Honniwell. A nincompoop. And Constable Dubbins, down in the village, he’s a buffoon, plain and simple. Besides, even if they were geniuses, both of’em, they haven’t got enough people to watch over us here. Simple as that.”

“What about the police in London?” I asked him. “Couldn’t they send someone down here?”

He shook his head. “Too busy up there. Your sort of work- breaking strikes, bullying workers. Even if they could spare some of their thugs, they wouldn’t be able to get ’em here till tomorrow, at the earliest. And all the guests are leaving tomorrow, eh? Not much point in that, is there.”

He paused. “Tell you what. I’ll have MacGregor get some of the tenants together. The local farmers. Have them search the grounds. They’re good lads, all of’em. Know the country like the back of their hands. If Chin Soo’s anywhere about, they’ll flush him out.”

I said, “They’re not cops, Lord Purleigh.”

“My point exactly.”

Someone knocked at the door.

“Yes?” Lord Bob called out.

The door opened and the butler stood there, looking as magnificent and as blank and expressionless as he had looked last night. “Forgive me for disturbing you, milord.”

“Yes, Higgens?”

“Sir Arthur Conan Doyle has arrived. With Madame Sosostris and her husband.”

“Ah,” said Lord Bob. “And what have you done with them?” “The lady and her husband are being shown to their room. Sir Arthur is waiting in the library.”

Lord Bob nodded. “Very good, Higgens. Please tell Sir Arthur that we’ll be joining him shortly.”

Higgens inclined his head. “Very good, milord.” He pulled the door shut.

Lord Bob turned back to the Great Man. “Doyle’s something of an expert on all this, eh? Guns, disguises, mystification. Let’s put this before him, shall we, and see what he has to say?”

"What an extraordinary tale!” said Doyle. He sat on one of the padded leather library chairs, his great red head thrust forward, his heavy forearms planted on knees the size of pineapples. He shook the head a few times in amazement and then turned it toward the Great Man. “And you’re quite all right, are you?”

“Oh yes,” said the Great Man, tapping his palm lightly against his thigh. He sat opposite Doyle in another leather chair, beside my own. “I am in perfect health, as always.”

Seated, Doyle was more subdued. It was as though his age somehow caught up with him when he stopped moving, and then settled over his heavy shoulders like a shawl. “And the young woman? Miss Turner?”

“She’s fine, considering,” said Lord Bob, who sat to my right. “Resting in her room. Poor girl’s had rather a thin time of it. Disturbances last night, and then her horse ran away with her. And now this. Some filthy sod firing a bloody rifle. Can’t blame her for feeling a bit under the weather, eh?”

Beneath his white mustache, Doyle’s lips tightened. “Disturbances, you say? Last night? What sort of disturbances?”

Lord Bob waved his hand lightly. “A nightmare.”

“She believed,” said the Great Man, “that she had seen the ghost of Lord Purleigh’s ancestor.”

Doyle nodded his big head at the Great Man and said to Lord Bob, “That would be Lord Reginald?”

“Yes. My fault, I expect. Shouldn’t have told her the story. Cousin of my wife’s pried it out of me. Persistent woman.”

“But perhaps Miss Turner did see Lord Reginald.”

Lord Bob frowned, as though he didn’t want to discuss this possibility. “Irrelevant, isn’t it?” He held up a placating hand. “Sorry, Doyle, know you’re fond of all that-ghosts, spirits, et cetera. Fair enough. One man’s meat, eh? Agree to disagree, eh? But just now, seems to me, we’ve got to deal with this Chin Soo fellow.”

“I concur,” said Doyle. He sat back in his chair and I noticed a small brief wince of annoyance flicker across his mouth. Rheumatism, or arthritis, or maybe just ligament and bone that had grown wary of sudden movements. Whatever it was, he wasn’t as limber as he would’ve liked to be. Probably no one was, except the Great Man.

Doyle reached into the right-hand pocket of his coat, looked over at Lord Bob. “May I smoke?”

Lord Bob waved his hand. “Course you may.” He smiled. “A two-pipe problem, eh?”

Doyle smiled back, but wanly, as though he had heard this before, often. He pulled from the pocket a meerschaum pipe and a leather tobacco pouch. He opened the pouch and dipped the pipe into it and he glanced over at the Great Man. “When did all this begin?”

The Great Man put his arms on the arms of the chair. “One month ago,” he said. “In the city of Buffalo, in New York State. Both Chin Soo and I were performing there. I was at the Orpheum, he was at the Palace. You know, perhaps, that the vaudeville houses in America are extremely competitive these days, due to the increasing popularity of the cinemas.”

Doyle had pulled out a small box of Swan Vespa matches. He struck one alight. Nodding at the Great Man, he held the flame to the bowl of his pipe.

“Naturally,” said the Great Man, “I myself have no trouble filling a house, even in these difficult days. But for a performer of lesser magnitude, such as Chin Soo, the situation can be truly formidable. And when Houdini is playing the same town, at the same time, well, of course, the situation becomes in fact hopeless.” With a lot of puffing at the stem of his pipe, Doyle had finally gotten the thing lit. He slipped the matches back into his coat pocket and blew out a streamer of smoke. The smoke drifted across the room, smelling like smoldering burlap.

“Not surprisingly,” said the Great Man, “Chin Soo’s ticket sales were very poor. He grew desperate. He ordered his minions, common hoodlums of the street, to begin pasting his boards-his advertising posters-over my own. Naturally, to protect myself, I retaliated by having my assistants do the same to his. But interfering with my advertisements was not enough for the man. He began denouncing me on stage, before his performance, calling me a fraud, a charlatan. He went so far as to claim, in a press interview, that I had stolen my legendary coffin escape from him. Him, a mediocre trickster who had never in his life given a coffin a second thought.”

“Only fair to point out, though,” said Lord Bob to Doyle, “that the chap does catch bullets in his teeth.”

“A trick, merely,” said the Great Man. “But no matter. What then happened, I called a press conference and I revealed the truth to the assembled reporters. That it was Chin Soo who was the fraud. That the man was a liar and an incompetent. I challenged him to appear on stage with me, bringing any restraint of his own choosing-chains, handcuffs, shackles, whatever he liked-and attempt to render me captive. I would, in turn, provide a restraint of my own choosing, for him. Whoever succeeded in escaping in the least amount of time would be considered the winner. This seemed to me utterly fair-minded.”

Doyle nodded, puffing at his pipe.

The Great Man shrugged. “But naturally, Chin Soo declined the challenge. And, naturally, as a result, he was ridiculed in the newspapers. His last performance played to an empty house. Or it nearly played, I should say. When he discovered that most of the seats were unoccupied, he stormed from the stage. Typical behavior, from such an egomaniac. He left the theater and removed all his things from his rooming house. He simply disappeared.”

The Great Man paused for a moment, letting that sink in. Then he said, “That night, as I left the Orpheum by the stage door, someone attempted to shoot me.”

“Good heavens,” said Doyle, and raised his eyebrows.

“He missed me, but by a matter of inches only. My quick reflexes enabled me to dash back to the safety of the theater. The police were notified, and when they arrived I explained the situation. They immediately suspected Chin Soo, of course. But when they attempted to locate him, they learned he had gone.”

“One moment,” said Doyle, taking his pipe from his mouth. “You said earlier that no one knew what Chin Soo actually looked like, without his stage make-up. And yet he had taken lodgings. Wouldn’t the people there-the landlord, for example-wouldn’t someone have seen him as he truly appeared?”

“No,” announced the Great Man. “Before Chin Soo arrived in a city, he retained someone to engage a room for him, and pay for it in advance. Chin Soo would arrive on the date specified, but he would be wearing his make-up. No one would ever see him without it, at least wittingly.” He sniffed dismissively. “It was something he did to make himself appear fascinating. Part of his so-called mystique.”

“And you’re quite sure,” said Doyle, “that it was make-up?”

“Oh yes. No one has ever seen Chin Soo arrive in any city in which he was performing. Not by automobile, by train, or by boat. He travels undisguised. Or perhaps disguised as someone else.”

“But how-and just when, exactly-does he transform himself into his Chin Soo identity?”

The Great Man shrugged. “If he travels by means of an automobile, perhaps he changes inside it. Perhaps he uses public lavatories. Perhaps he engages some other lodgings, from which he can come and go unseen.”

“Extraordinary,” said Doyle, and shook his head. “And you’re certain that it was Chin Soo who attempted to shoot you?”

“He himself admitted as much to me. On the day after the incident, I returned to my home in New York City, and that evening he telephoned me-on my private number-and spoke with me. He used his stage voice, and he asked me whether I would like him to give me lessons in catching bullets. I told him, of course, that I needed no lessons of any kind from him. And I suggested to him that perhaps he required some lessons himself, in marksmanship.”

Doyle smiled around the pipe stem. “Good man. Giving him his own back.” He frowned slightly. “But you say he used his stage voice?”

“On stage he speaks in a singsong Oriental manner. It was in such a voice that he spoke with me.”

“And this Oriental voice is assumed, I take it?”

“Yes. He possesses, I admit, some accomplishments as a mimic. He has telephoned me several times since then, and each time he used a different voice, a different accent. A feeble attempt at wit, I suppose. But always he has made his identity clear.”

“How did he obtain your private telephone number?”

“From someone in the telephone company, no doubt. No doubt he paid bribes. I have had the number altered several times, and each time he has somehow acquired the new one.”

“And he threatened you, you say, before you went to Philadelphia?”

“Yes. That was my first appearance after the engagement in Buffalo, and it was to be my last in the United States, before I sailed for Europe. He telephoned me two days before I left, and said that he was looking forward to seeing me in Philadelphia. At my wife’s suggestion, I discussed the matter with the Philadelphia Police Department. As I told you, they attempted to capture him, and they failed.”

Doyle nodded. “And between the time you appeared in Buffalo and the time you appeared in Philadelphia, no one has seen Chin Soo?”

“No one. He had several bookings, small theaters in insignificant cities, but he canceled them all.”

“And he made no attempt to harm you while you were in New York City?”

“No. Perhaps he is aware of the esteem in which I am held there. Or perhaps he wishes to harm me only while I am on tour. Perhaps he feels that this would be more dramatic.”

“And it was at the start of the tour that you retained Mr. Beaumont’s services?”

“Correct, yes.”

Doyle turned to me and took the pipe from his mouth. “Do you have anything to add, Mr. Beaumont?”

Across the carpet, Lord Bob scowled.

“A couple of things,” I said. “First off, although Harry doesn’t agree with me, I think that maybe Chin Soo isn’t really trying to kill him.”

“We have discussed that, Phil,” said the Great Man. Suggesting that there was no point discussing it again.

“What do you mean?” Doyle asked me.

“Maybe Chin Soo is just trying to rattle Harry. Shake him up. Make him nervous, so he’ll lose his concentration on stage, botch up the performance. Bungle it.”

“Phil,” said the Great Man, “ nothing could make me lose my concentration. I have never bungled anything in my life.”

I smiled. “Like I told you, Harry, maybe Chin Soo figures there’s a first time for everything.”

Doyle said to me, “You’re basing this notion upon what? Your understanding of Chin Soo’s character?”

“Partly,” I said. “I think Chin Soo would love the idea of Harry screwing up-making a mistake. But also, Harry’s told me about this bullet-catching trick. In order to pull it off, you’ve got to know a fair amount about guns and bullets. You’ve got to be a pretty good shot yourself.”

“Just how is the trick performed?” Doyle asked me.

“Sorry,” I said. “It’s Harry’s cat.” I turned to the Great Man. “He’ll have to let it out of the bag himself.”

The Great Man smiled sadly. “I regret to say, Sir Arthur, that-”

Doyle held up the palm of his hand. “I understand completely. I should never have asked.” He turned back to me, took hold of the bowl of his pipe, puffed. “You were making a point about Chin Soo’s marksmanship.”

“Yeah. He’s a good shot. But one of our ops-operatives, agents-examined that alley in Buffalo. The one where the shooting took place. Harry was standing only about fifteen feet from the spot where the gun was fired.”

Doyle nodded. “And yet Chin Soo’s bullet missed him.”

The Great Man shifted in his seat. “The alley was dark, Phil.”

“The gas lamps were lit,” I said. “Harry, you were a sitting duck, and he missed you.”

Doyle said to me, “But I understood that he did shoot a police officer in Philadelphia.”

“When the guy was trying to nab him.”

The Great Man said, “But you have no way of proving that Chin Soo wouldn’t have shot me, if I had been in the room.” He was dead set on getting shot at.

Doyle said to him, “The shot that was fired today.” He puffed at the pipe. “That missed you, as well.”

“Yes,” he said, “but it was fired from-what was it, Phil? — something like two hundred yards.”

“A hundred and fifty.”

“Still, his missing me is entirely understandable.”

“Why didn’t he fire again?” I asked him. “You were standing there and he just walked away.”

“A single-fire rifle, perhaps?” suggested Doyle.

Lord Bob said, “Filthy sod spotted me chasing after him.”

“A single-shot rifle, maybe,” I said to Doyle, and I turned to Lord Bob. “But if it wasn’t, he had plenty of time to let off another shot before you got to him. And plenty of time to shoot you, if he wanted to.” I looked at the Great Man. “And, Harry, it was a handgun he used in Buffalo. A Colt forty-five, a semi-automatic. Cops found the slug and the spent cartridge. Why didn’t he empty the whole clip into your back?”

“Phil,” he said, “as I have explained to you countless times, I moved too quickly for him to attempt a second shot.”

“Seems to me,” I said, “if he was serious, he would’ve given it another try.”

Doyle took his pipe from his mouth and narrowed his eyes and he said, “You do realize, Mr. Beaumont, that even if these speculations of yours are correct, your own position remains essentially the same.”

“Sure,” I said. “Even if he’s just trying to spook Harry, I’ve still got to stop him. He could make a slip, and kill him by mistake. But the idea that he’s trying to shake him up, not kill him, that’s the only thing that gives me a sliver of hope. Because if I buy the idea that he really wants to kill Harry, I might as well pack up and go home. There’s no way that one man can stop him.”

“And,” Doyle said, “despite your doubts, you must proceed as though the man were in fact determined to effect Houdini’s death.”

“Yeah,” I said. “That’s why I want to bring in the cops. Lord Purleigh and Harry disagree with me.”

Lord Bob leaned forward in his chair. “What do you think, Doyle?”

The Evening Post (continued)

Again, as I had before, I simply stood there. Sir David held the crop; I held still; so did Time.

Evy, I wish I could tell you that I drew upon some secret reservoir of courage; but in fact I was still functioning on another plane, in a dimension slightly out of step with this one, slightly behind it. I had not yet reached even the stage of disbelief. If he had hit me, I think that I should not have realized it until sometime the next day.

He didn’t hit me. He lowered the crop and grasped its ends in his hands. Slowly, the wickedness and the fury left his face. He drove them away, Evy, by an effort of will, an effort I could sense and could, from within my curious remoteness, very nearly admire. When he spoke, his voice was completely under control and laced with that familiar mocking irony. ‘A saint,’ he said lightly, ‘would turn the other cheek.’

I said, ‘A saint would have no need to.’

He reached up and touched the cheek. The marks of my fingers were stencilled bright red against the pale skin. ‘You are,’ he said, ‘a plucky young woman, Jane.’

‘And you, Sir David, are a boor.’ I said it without thinking; had I stopped to consider, had I remembered the wickedness I’d glimpsed, I should have said nothing, perhaps.

But he merely smiled again, then faintly shrugged. ‘We’ve done the introductions and exchanged the mutual appraisals. What do you say to our getting to know each other better?’

‘The others are waiting for you. May I have my crop?’

With a small bow, he presented it. He smiled. ‘We’re not finished, Jane. You know that, don’t you?’

‘They’ll be wondering why you’re late, Sir David.’

He smiled once more, looked deep into my eyes, or, rather, pretended to, and then, with another bow, turned and walked away.

And that, Evy, is the story of the fondling and the proposition.

But I do think I did that rather well, don’t you? ‘A saint would have no need to.’ Mrs Applewhite would have been proud of me, don’t you feel?

He alarmed me, though, I admit it. I saw, for a moment, the cruelty and the evil that lie beneath his surface. There is a great deal more of it, I think, than there is of surface. I wonder how many others have seen it.

But we move now from the swine to the horse. And the ghosts.

Cecily had given me directions to the stable, where a young groom saddled my mount, a gorgeous black gelding named Storm, and equipped me with a handful of sugar lumps to offer as bribes. The horse was lovely. Despite his name, and his size- above fifteen hands-he was a lamb, gentle and responsive; I scarcely used, scarcely needed, the reins. Initially, at any rate.

He and I sauntered out onto the grounds. For a while we drifted lazily along, following the footpath that ambles around the edge of the vast park of Maplewhite. Evy, how I wish I could convey to you the beauty of it all. No; not convey it; somehow present it, actually hand it over to you, physically, so that you might share it with me.

The sun was shining, gloriously. I sometimes believe that we poor English are allowed only a specific (and very small) number of bright, madly beautiful sunny days; and often it seems to me that I spent my entire allowance in childhood. Sunlight sweeps through all my early memories: streams through the lace curtains in the family parlour, dapples the rosebushes in Mrs Applewhite’s garden, rolls in from the flat blue sea at Sidmouth to wheel down that broad green ribbon of meadow along the cliff tops. But since the War, since my parents died, the days seem to have clouded over. The world has gone grey.

I speak here of meteorology, not sentiment. The weather was better then.

Today, however, was spectacular. The sky was a dome of blue, with only a few fluffy white clouds slowly sailing beneath it. Larks trilled. Thrushes and blackbirds flitted between the elms and the maples and the oaks. Squirrels scampered along the tree trunks and played hide and seek with me as I passed. To my left,

Maplewhite rose grey and stately from the lake of emerald grass, like a castle in a dream.

But dreams, in the end, must surrender to reality, and mine finally buckled under to the prickle and itch of the riding habit. Perfectly appropriate to any other day of the year, the black woollen habit hung on me this afternoon like a penitential suit of sacking. I began, as Mrs Applewhite would have put it, to glow. I began, in fact, to melt.

At the very moment that I was thanking Fortune for not flinging witnesses helter-skelter about the landscape, I saw, at some distance, two people strolling toward me on the path. I had put my spectacles in my pocket, for fear of losing them, and I couldn’t identify the two until I was nearly on top of them. They were Mr Houdini and Mr Beaumont.

In the larger scheme of things, I suppose it hardly matters that Mr Houdini and Mr Beaumont should observe my disarray. But, Evy, you know that I tend to live within the (much) smaller scheme of things; and of course it did matter. I resolved to confront the catastrophe with typical British fortitude: by denying it. This is not perspiration; this is dew.

We chatted a while, inconsequentially. Anxious to be away, I was somewhat abrupt, I suspect; but I doubt that Americans would notice this.

As soon as I was free, I made a run for the shade of the forest. Some twenty or thirty yards ahead, a small trail led off from the main path, into the trees, and I urged Storm onto it.

The smaller path hadn’t been used in some time. Our progress was slow and unpleasant. Brambles crowded in on us from either side. Spider webs as thick as shrouds stretched like great bats across the track. Gnarled muscular roots with flaking bark twisted from the earth and snaked along it.

At last we came to another, broader path in the looming forest; an ancient road, it seemed, roughly perpendicular to the track. I gave Storm-my brave unflinching mount-some sugar and then urged him to the left.

The forest was dark and silent. In light of what happened, you will claim that, now, retrospectively, I invent the silence. Forests, you will claim, are never silent, no matter what the poets say. Always, birds whistle and chirp, insects buzz and whine and whiz annoyingly about. But, truly, all I could hear was the dry whisper of Storm’s hooves as they moved through brown decaying leaves, and an occasional sharp crackle as they snapped a dead twig.

Beside the path ran a narrow brook, its water clear but tinted the colour of rust, as though some large creature had bled away its life upstream; and even the brook was soundless.

I’ve whimpered often enough about the noise and bustle of London, but I found this stillness unsettling. The trees, with their black, deformed trunks, seemed to grow taller, wider, blacker and more deformed, and to edge more closely together, and closer to the path. Overhead, the dense netting of limb and leaf seemed to grow denser. My brave unflinching mount, perhaps sensing its rider’s unease, twitched his ears and flicked his head from side to side. He whickered-nervously, I judged. I was about to turn him back, return to the comfort and safety of the manor, when I saw that, up ahead, the path opened onto a sunlit clearing. I kicked Storm lightly, and he trotted reluctantly forward.

We stopped when we reached the light. In the clearing was a pond, perhaps fifty feet across, smooth and glossy in the sunshine, but as black as a pool of tar. Grey rushes sagged along its banks.

To the right, some twenty feet away, crouched an old mill house.

It was a ruin: the grey thatched roof was torn and tufted, the grey stone walls were crumbling, the big grey wooden wheel, collapsed from its shaft, lay atilt in the murky stream, buckled and smashed.

Beneath that gaudy sun, under that taut blue canopy of sky, the ruin should have seemed quaint, rustic, picturesque. It did not. It seemed to me (and again you will claim that I invent) ominous, even sinister. The exposed ribs of the roofing, gaunt and rotting, seemed somehow grotesque. The grey stones of the disintegrating walls seemed to radiate a kind of bitter, empty cold. One got the feeling, I got the feeling, that the mill had been abandoned because of some long-ago, horrific death which took place here: some slaughter or pestilence.

I suddenly realized that this was the old mill Cecily had mentioned at dinner. The old mill where came, so she said, the two mysterious ghosts, the mother and the small boy.

I glanced to my left, and there, across the pond, was the willow tree, its pale branches draped over the black water like a woman’s hair over a basin. And there, in the shade beneath it, as real and as substantial as everything else, as real as anything I have ever seen, the two of them stood. A tall slender woman and a slender young boy.

Do you know the opening to Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D minor? Those three abrupt notes from the organ, so swift and harsh and chill? When I saw the two figures silently standing there, exactly where they ought to be, but could not be, I felt those notes hammer through me, blood and bone, as if my spine were an organ, and some demented organist were flailing at it.

They were there, Evy. I saw them. They were there, under the willow tree, the woman and the young boy.

At first they were gazing at each other, the woman’s hand along the boy’s cheek. She was wearing white, he was wearing black. Then, as I watched, she dropped her arm and the two of them turned toward me. They gazed at me from across the glistening, pitch-black pond.

I feel that, whatever my faults, I am a woman of basically sound mind. Or so I once felt, before I arrived at Maplewhite. At any rate, my reaction, when they turned to me, was less stalwart than I should have hoped. And certainly less so than Mrs Applewhite would have demanded of me.

I panicked completely. I tugged at the reins, snapping poor Storm’s head around. As he spun about, lunging back down the path, I raked his flanks with my spurs. I whacked at him with the crop, again and again, like a maniac.

But how we raced! Storm was a marvel, swift and strong and powerful, and we thundered over the earth like some mythological beast. Trees whisked by us, the path spun away beneath. It’s been years since I’ve had a horse under me: if I hadn’t already been reeling with fear, I should have been reeling with excitement. I think that perhaps I was, even so.

I rose higher in the stirrups and turned around, to look back. This was an error. A low-hanging branch smashed into my shoulder and I toppled, buttock over bonnet, from the saddle.

I cannot remember alighting. I was unconscious for a time-I couldn’t say for how long-and then I was lying on my back and something was thumping me in the side.

Storm.

I attributed his concern, at first, to a laudable equine loyalty; but realized, when his nose nudged at me again, that he was after his sugar. I clambered to my feet and determined that I was more or less intact. No bones appeared to be broken.

The horse, big boorish brute, was still prodding me. I gave him a few lumps of his damnable sugar and then climbed stiffly back into the saddle.

Speed seemed less crucial now. No ghosts pursued me. My body throbbed all over. I let Storm walk at his own pace for a bit, and then, when we came to a path that looked as though it led back toward the manor, I eased him onto it. I didn’t see the snake until Storm reared up and nearly tossed me from the saddle again.

I haven’t the faintest idea what sort of snake it was. It was no adder, I believe, and it was perfectly harmless, and far more terrified than I.

But not more terrified than Storm. His forelegs came pounding down and he thrust his head forward and bolted up the path, muscles pumping, hooves thudding. The reins slipped from my grasp. I was only barely holding on, one arm around his wide slick neck, the other groping frantically for the reins, when we burst from dimness into sunshine and green. I realized that we were on the pathway that circled Maplewhite; and, just then, finally, I managed to snag the reins.

When I had the horse under control again, I discovered that my return to civilization had not been effected in altogether the privacy I should have preferred. Ahead of me, in an excited group by the side of the pathway, beneath a big copper beech, were Lord Purleigh, Mrs Corneille, Mr Houdini, and Mr Beaumont. And, of course, the Allardyce.

As soon as I was near enough, they all began to hurl questions at me. I couldn’t find my voice, Evy. I could only stare at them, hopelessly, and mumble.

And then, off to my left, there was a bright quick flicker of light, and a sharp explosive crack. I believed-in a kind of delirium, I suppose-that my two ghosts had stalked me all this way, followed me back to the manor, and that now they were shooting at me. And so, with the quickness of mind common to all gothic heroines, I fainted dead away.

Enough for now. My hand is cramping. I’ll post this and I’ll write again, later.

All my love, Jane

Doyle crossed his right leg over his left knee, and again a small wince flickered quickly across his lips. He puffed once more at his pipe and then took it from his mouth. “To begin with,” he said, “I think that in these matters we should defer to Mr. Beaumont s expertise. He is, after all, the professional here. I am merely an amateur, a simple scribbler.”

“Come, come,” said Lord Bob, sitting back. “Don’t be modest, old man. Whole country knows how you saved that Hindu fellow’s life. Nuralji, Moralji, whatever.” He turned to the Great Man. “Poor devil was arrested for maiming some animals. Cattle, dreadful thing, all the locals in an uproar. Shropshire, this was. Bloody police needed a scapegoat, ran this fellow in, no real evidence. Bloody court convicted him. Typical capitalist cockup. Then Doyle got onto it. Sniffing about. Just like that Sherlock Holmes chappie of his, eh? Deductions right and left. Digging up clues and whatnot. Proved the fellow innocent. Got him released, eh, Doyle?”

Doyle looked over at me and smiled sadly. “I’m afraid that Lord Purleigh overstates both my efforts and their results. By the time I took an interest in his case, George Edjali had already been pardoned and released. He was completely innocent, of that I had no doubt. But I was far from being the only one who felt so. I merely attempted to persuade our Home Office that his conviction should be quashed, and that he should be paid some compensation for having been unjustly imprisoned for three years.’

He put the pipe back in his mouth. “Unfortunately,” he said, puffing smoke, “I was unsuccessful.”

“No surprise there,” said Lord Bob. “Typical capitalist bureaucracy, eh? Protecting themselves and their lackeys. Gutless swine, the lot of ’em. Still, you’re the one found the evidence. Saw the proper direction to take, eh? That’s what we need here, Doyle. Bit of direction. Be grateful for it, don’t mind telling you. Crazed magicians, assassins, not my thing at all.”

Doyle smiled and puffed again at his pipe. “But neither, really, are they mine. As I say, this is Mr. Beaumont’s parish. And I must admit, Lord Purleigh, that I believe he’s entirely justified in insisting upon informing the police.”

“Bob,” said Lord Bob. “But look here, Doyle. Local police simply haven’t enough men to do us any good. Told Beaumont the same thing. And what men they do have are dolts. Won’t have those louts tramping across the lawn, tracking muck about, pestering the guests. My guests, Doyle. My responsibility. Being spied on by the police, not what they came here for, is it? Wanted a bit of company, relaxation, spot or two of fun with that medium of yours.”

Doyle took the pipe from his mouth, rested his hand on his thigh. He frowned thoughtfully and he said, “Lord Purleigh, I know your feelings regarding Spiritualism. However much I may disagree with them, I do, of course, respect your right to express them. But I really must point out that Madame Sosostris is a gifted and remarkable woman, possibly the most remarkable woman I have ever met. She has come here at your invitation, and at no small sacrifice to herself. She believes, as I do, that Spiritualism-”

“Quite right, Doyle,” said Lord Bob, holding up his hand again. “Rotten bad form. Put my foot in it, I admit. All apologies. But the police? Here at Maplewhite? Prowling around all weekend? You see my point, of course. Simply wouldn’t do, would it?”

It seemed to me that the Great Man had been silent for a long time. Probably it seemed the same way to him, because now he leaned slightly forward and he said, “Sir Arthur, I am inclined to agree with Lord Purleigh. As I explained to him before, I know that I, personally, would prefer that the police not become involved in this. And I suspect that Lord Purleigh’s other guests will feel much the same way.”

“Harry,” I said. Three faces turned toward me, and two of them were unhappy. “You’re not thinking this out. These other people don’t have any reason to avoid the cops. Once they find out about

Chin Soo, they’re going to want to leave, or they’re going to want protection.”

I turned to Lord Bob. “And if they want it, real protection, are you going to tell them they can’t have it? A regiment of farmers and kitchen staff doesn’t really make the grade.”

Lord Bob glanced at Doyle. Doyle said, “I’m afraid I must agree.”

Pursing his lips, Lord Bob stared down at the pattern in the carpet.

The Great Man was staring, too, but at me. In pretty much the same way that Jesus had stared at Judas.

Doyle puffed at his pipe. “Lord Purleigh?” he said.

“Bob,” he said without looking up. He took in a deep breath and he slowly sighed it out. He looked up, at Doyle. “Very well. We’ll discuss it with them at tea time. Four o’clock. Suit you?”

“Entirely,” said Doyle. “I do believe that this is the right decision.”

“Expect we’ll find out,” said Lord Bob. He stood up. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve some things to attend to.”

Everyone stood. Lord Bob crossed the carpet, held out his hand to Doyle. “Good to see you again, Doyle. Glad you could come. Apologize for all this excitement, eh?”

Doyle pumped his arm. His vigor had returned and once again he seemed larger even than he was. “Not at all,” he said. “It’s a delight to be here, in any circumstances.”

Lord Bob turned to the Great Man and smiled. “Houdini,” he nodded. He turned to me and frowned. “Beaumont.” He didn’t nod. To the others he said, “See you at four. The drawing room.” And then he left.

It was a bit abrupt, I thought. But maybe that was the way the aristocracy did things. Even when they were Bolshevists.

I was about to sit down again when the Great Man aimed his charming smile in my direction. Either he had recovered from his betrayal or he had decided he wanted something. “Phil. Would you excuse us, please? I should like to speak with Sir Arthur for a short while.”

Fair enough. The two of them were old friends, they had lives and wives to catch up on. “Sure, Harry,” I said. “Just do me a favor and don’t go wandering around outside.”

He nodded impatiently. “Yes, yes. I understand. But please, Phil, do not mention any of this to anyone until tea time.”

“Okay, Harry. Tea time. Nice to meet you, Sir Arthur.”

I held out my hand to Doyle, so he could pump my arm some more. He did.

“I very much look forward,” he said, “to talking with you at length.”

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."

The Great Man wasn’t in his room when I returned to our suite. I looked at my watch. Three-thirty, and tea was at four. I undressed and took a quick shower. I put on clean underwear and a clean shirt.

My suit had been harvesting fruits of the forest all day-twigs and leaves, a thorn or two. I brushed them off and then I climbed back into it. The. 32 Colt was still in my jacket pocket and it was going to stay there until I left Maplewhite.

I left the room. I was opposite the door to the suite that held Mrs. Allardyce and Miss Turner when Cecily Fitzwilliam sailed around the corner up ahead. She was walking toward me and she was wearing some clothes this afternoon, a long-sleeved red dress.

I stopped.

“Mr. Beaumont!” she smiled. “What a wonderful coincidence.

I was just coming to see you.” She stopped and curled up her shoulders in a soft quick shrug, then put her hands together below her stomach, left hand cupping right. “How are you?” She looked sweetly up at me as if she expected a kiss on her pert little mouth.

I tried to remember the jaded young thing who had drawled at me in the drawing room last night.

“Bringing back the key to your handcuffs?” I asked her.

She frowned, puzzled. “But what… You have the key. I put it"-she glanced quickly around, lowered her voice-“I put it on your bed.”

I shook my head.

She nearly stamped her foot. “But I did,” she said. “I found it under the bed, after you left, and I put it exactly in the center of the mattress. Where you’d be certain to find it.”

“I didn’t.”

“But that’s impossible. You did look?”

“I looked. How’d you manage to get back to your room without anyone seeing you?”

“The front stairs.” With a nod of her head she indicated the end of the corridor, behind me. “Mr. Beaumont, I swear to you, I put the key on the bed. I’d never have left you…” She shrugged, smiled. “Well… you know… stranded like that.”

“Okay,” I said. “You put the key on the bed.”

Her smile vanished, buried beneath a pout. “I did.”

“Okay,” I said. She hadn’t asked me how I’d gotten out of the cuffs. Probably she was too busy thinking about whatever it was that had brought her here.

She glanced around again, leaned slightly toward me. She fluttered her eyelashes a few more times and she smiled again. A coy smile. “You didn’t tell anyone about last night, did you?” This was why she’d come-to learn if I’d been spilling any beans lately.

“I told Mr. Houdini,” I said.

She leaned back and her face went suddenly stiff and red. “How could you?” she said.

“I needed to get the cuffs off.”

Her brow puckered up, her lower lip dropped. “But I left you the key.” A wail was quavering just behind her voice.

“I never found it,” I said. “Look. Don’t worry. I told him you wanted to talk. I told him you brought the handcuffs because you thought he might want to see them.”

“But you told him I was there!”

“He won’t repeat it.”

Some kind of understanding flashed across her face. “Is that why he was avoiding me? Just now? Every time I came near him, he was blinking like a madman. And then he went racing away.” Her eyes opened wide in horror. “He thinks I’m a nymphomaniac!”

I smiled. “He doesn’t think-”

“I’m not a nymphomaniac!”

At that moment, the door opened to my left. Miss Turner stood there, looking out at us with her mouth turned down in disapproval. Her hair was wrung back behind her head again and she was wearing another shapeless dress. Brown, this time.

For a second or two she stood there and those wide blue eyes silently stared. And then she flinched and her long body jerked abruptly forward, as though she had been whacked in the back. The voice of Mrs. Allardyce shrilled out-“Get along with you, Jane, don’t dawdle so.” And then both of them were out in the hallway and Mrs. Allardyce was coming around Miss Turner like a hungry crab scuttling around a pearl. She clutched her purse against her stomach as though it were a shield. A broad eager smile was pasted to her round shiny face. “Why, Cecily. How very lovely you look.” The smile slipped only a bit when she nodded to me. “And good day to you again, Mr. Beaumont.”

I nodded. Politely.

“Aren’t you taking tea, dear?” Mrs. Allardyce asked Cecily, and put her hand on Cecily’s forearm. Cecily seemed to shrink away, but Mrs. Allardyce didn’t notice, or didn’t care. She said, “I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to meeting Sir Arthur. I adore his work, just adore it. I saw Mr. Gillette in that wonderful Sherlock Holmes play at the Lyceum and he was simply brilliant! He’s so terribly handsome, isn’t he? So terribly distinguished. " She edged her bulk closer to Cecily. “And tell me, dear. Has Sir Arthur brought along that medium of his?”

“Yes,” said Cecily. “Everyone is in the drawing room.” Her aristocratic drawl had returned, but it lay over the strain in her voice like a first coat of paint, thin and transparent. “Mr. Beaumont asked me to show him around Maplewhite.” She was too young, maybe, to know that you never volunteer a lie. Or maybe too upset to remember.

Once again, Mrs. Allardyce didn’t seem to notice. “How fortunate for him,” she said, “to have you as a guide.” She patted Cecily’s forearm. “Well, dear, we’ll leave you to your tour. I’m sure we’ll see you later. Au revoir! And you too, Mr. Beaumont. Come along, Jane.”

“Mr. Beaumont?” Miss Turner had stepped closer to me.

I turned. Behind her, Mrs. Allardyce wobbled to a surprised halt.

Miss Turner’s uncanny blue eyes looked into mine and they were unwavering. She held herself straight, her back rigid. “I don’t recall much of what happened,” she said. She pressed her lips briefly together. “My fainting spell, this afternoon. But Mrs. Corneille told me that if you hadn’t been so quick to help, I should have injured myself. I wanted to thank you.

“No need to,” I said.

“There is,” she said, “and I do. And I apologize, once again, for causing you trouble.”

“No trouble. I’m glad you’re all right. Mrs. Corneille said your horse saw a snake?”

“Yes. It startled him. In any event, I thank you for your efforts.” She nodded once, as if pleased with herself for pulling something off, and then she nodded to Cecily. “Miss Fitzwilliam.”

“Come along, dear, come along,” said Mrs. Allardyce, and she swung her thick arm like a gaff into the crook of Miss Turner s elbow. She smiled again at Cecily, quickly, almost fiercely, and then she led Miss Turner off, toward the stairs.

As they disappeared around the corner, Cecily said, What a perfectly horrid little woman.”

I smiled. “Miss Turner?”

“No, silly. That awful Allardyce person. She’s a cousin of my mother’s. And what a positively sick-making idea that is.” Suddenly she turned to me. “She couldn’t have heard what I said, could she?”

“Mrs. Allardyce?”

“Miss Turner. What I said about…” She raised her eyebrows, took a deep breath, let it out in a weary sigh, “ You know…”

“About being a nymphomaniac?”

“ I am not — " She heard herself squeal, glanced around, leaned toward me. “I am not a nymphomaniac,” she said between clenched teeth, and then she thumped me on the chest.

“I know,” I said. “And no, I don’t think she heard. And no, Mr. Houdini doesn’t think you’re a nymphomaniac either. No one thinks you’re a nymphomaniac. Except maybe you.”

She eyed me suspiciously. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. Look, Cecily. I’ve got to go. Don’t worry about Mr. Houdini. He won’t say anything.”

She canted her head thoughtfully to the side. “Do you think she’s prettier than I am?”

“Mrs. Allardyce?”

She made that almost-foot-stomping motion again. “No. Miss Turner.”

“She behaves better,” I said.

She tried to thump me again and I caught her wrist and held it. “See what I mean?” I said.

Her eyes were narrowed and she was staring at my hand. “Let me go, ” she said, her voice low and threatening. The rules of the game had been changed, and she didn’t like it.

“No more hitting,” I said.

She tossed her head back and she aimed her glance down along her cheekbones. “Or what?”

“Or we’ll talk to Daddy.”

“He won’t believe a word you say.”

“I guess we’ll find out.”

She glared at me for a moment, and then her shoulders slumped and she scowled. I let go of her wrist. Wincing furiously, her mouth twisted open, she rubbed at the wrist as though she had been shackled for a lifetime to an overhead beam.

“I don’t know why I care what you think,” she said darkly, glowering up at me. She raised her head. “I’m sure I don’t care. After all, you’re only a servant, really, aren’t you?”

I nodded. “That’s right.”

“And why on earth should I care what a servant thinks?”

“No reason at all.”

“Well, I don’t,” she said, and she wheeled about and stalked away. She whirled around the corner and I could hear her feet go stomping down the stairs.

I waited there in the hallway for a while, to give her time to find her drawl again.

It was a broad massive wooden door studded with black wrought-iron nails and belted with black wrought-iron bands. The little man named Carson who was the Earl’s valet showed us with trembling hands that his big metal key wouldn’t fit into the keyhole. He was in his white-haired seventies and right now he didn’t look as if he would make it very much further. “It won’t fit, sir,” he kept saying, stabbing the key again and again into the hole, looking back frantically at the Great Man.

“Of course not,” said the Great Man. “The interior key is blocking the channel.”

We stood behind them-Lord Bob, Doyle, Higgens, the butler, and me. Most of us were panting. Lord Bob was gasping, leaning forward with his hands on his knees like a marathon runner at the end of the race and the end of his tether. His face was as red and shiny as a glazed beet.

We were at the northwest corner of the manor house, on the third floor, and it had taken us a while to dash over here. Along the way, puffing, Lord Bob had explained to the Great Man and Doyle that Carson had been in the anteroom-where we stood now-when he heard the shot. He had tried to open the door, discovered he couldn’t, and gone next door to his own room, to call Higgens on the emergency telephone. Higgens had found Lord Bob, Lord Bob had come up here, tried the door, and then come for the rest of us.

The anteroom was a kind of antique parlor with bare stone walls and heavy, roughly finished oak furniture scattered around, and another Oriental carpet on the floor. It was a strange room, looking like something out of the Middle Ages. But all of us were more interested in what was on the other side of the massive wooden door.

“Permit me,” said the Great Man and stepped forward. Carson glanced anxiously at Lord Bob, who was upright now but still puffing. Lord Bob nodded and weakly waved his hand. Carson tottered back and wrapped his arms around himself as though he were afraid he was going to explode.

The Great Man reached into his back pocket, pulled out his wallet, opened it, slipped out a thin steel pick. He bent over, peered for an instant into the keyhole, eased the pick into the hole and gave a sudden flick of his wrist. Then, gently, once, he tapped the pick into the lock. Its length vanished in the hole and I heard a distant slapping sound that might have been a big copper key landing on a wooden floor.

“Child’s play,” said the Great Man. He flicked the pick again and I heard a metallic click that might have been a bolt snapping back into a lock housing. The Great Man smiled and straightened up and pushed on the door. Nothing happened.

He turned to Lord Bob and frowned. “It is barred, unfortunately.” He looked around the room, searching for something. “I need-”

“ Blast! ” said Lord Bob. His white mustache was limp. He staggered around the Great Man and raised his fist and pounded it down on the door. The door didn’t move but the Great Man stepped nimbly aside, his eyebrows raised in alarm. Lord Bob pounded at the door again. “Open up!” he roared. He sucked in a deep ragged breath. “Open up, you blithering old fool! You reprobate! You filthy, sniveling, whining, reactionary swine! Open the bloody door!”

“Calm yourself, Lord Purleigh,” said Doyle. He put his big hand on Lord Bob’s shoulder. “This doesn’t advance us. Is there no other way in?”

Lord Bob wheeled away from the comforting hand and he shouted, “Not unless we fly in, like bloody ducks!”

The Great Man said, “Gentlemen…”

“The bench,” I said. I pointed to a long oak bench that ran beneath the windows. It had been a section of single peeled log once, years ago, before someone sawed away one side of it and stuck eight tapering wooden legs into its curved bottom surface.

“Perfect!” said Doyle. “Lord Purleigh! Higgens! Quickly now!”

“Sir Arthur,” said the Great Man, but Sir Arthur was busy.

The four of us scrambled over to the bench and each of us grabbed a leg and we lugged the thing off the floor. It didn’t weigh much more than a ton. We gripped it beneath our curled right arms and swung it awkwardly up into the air. Doyle was at the front, Lord Bob and Higgens followed, I was last. I noticed that Higgens’s face was as blank and expressionless as usual. Maybe this was something he did every day. Carson still hovered off to the side, hugging himself, shaking his gray head, biting his lower lip. The Great Man stood with his hands on his hips, frowning. “Phil,” he said to me.

“Careful now,” said Doyle, who had taken charge. “Step back a bit, would you, Houdini, there’s a good chap.”

The Great Man threw up his hands in frustration and then backed off to stand beside Carson.

“On the count of three, men,” bellowed Doyle, like a scoutmaster. “One. Two. Three!”

We ran forward and the end of the bench slammed into the door with a huge booming crash. The bench jumped and shivered under my hands. The door shuddered but didn’t give way.

“Once more, men!” cried Doyle. “Back!”

We took some clumsy shuffling steps backward. Doyle called out, “Ready? One. Two. Three!” We ran forward again and the end of the bench whammed into the door and this time metal screeched suddenly against stone and the door burst suddenly inward and slammed itself against the wall.

“Down!” said Doyle, and we lowered the bench to the floor.

Doyle was the first one into the room, then Lord Bob, then Higgens, then me. The Great Man and Carson trailed in behind us.

The smell of gunsmoke hung in the stifling, musty air. A fire was burning in the huge stone fireplace and all the windows in the room were shut. It was a big room but a simple one, like the living room-a rough oaken dresser to the right, a rough oaken wardrobe to the left, a rough oaken bookcase beside it. In the center of the room, set against the far stone wall, was a huge bed with a towering, carved oak headboard. Beside the bed, on the left, sat a wheelchair of chrome and leather, smaller and more spindly than the wheelchair used by Madame Sosostris. Lying on the bed, the covers drawn up to his chest, was a very old man. He was cleanshaven and nearly bald. His thin right arm, sleeved in white flannel, lay above the covers and it was stretched out sideways. The withered right hand hung over the floor, palm up, long yellow fingers curled toward the ceiling. Beneath the hand, on the floor, was a dark revolver.

There was a small black hole in the old man’s temple.

“Dear God,” said Lord Bob.

“Steady,” said Doyle, and clapped him on the shoulder.

I moved toward the body. I put my fingertips against the wrist of the frail old arm. The thin translucent skin was still warm but there was no pulse beating beneath it. I looked over at Doyle, looked at Lord Bob, shook my head.

Lord Bob said, “The swine’s gone and killed himself.” He took a step toward the pistol and he bent to pick it up.

“Don’t!” I said.

He glared up at me once, a quick annoyed glare, then picked up the weapon.

“Not a good idea,” I said. “The police won’t want anything moved. And now your fingerprints are on the gun.”

Lord Bob was inspecting the pistol. He moved it from his right hand to his left, frowned at his right hand, idly wiped it against the breast of his suit coat. “Dust,” he said vaguely.

Doyle was glancing around the floor. “Ash,” he said. “From the fireplace. It’s everywhere. Blew out when we forced open the door.”

On this side of the bed, the ash lay everywhere, a thin gray coating atop the wooden floor. I could see the footprints we'd made. There weren’t any others.

Lord Bob was still looking at the gun, and still frowning.

I said, “He didn’t keep a gun in here, did he?”

Not looking up, Lord Bob shook his head.

“Lord Purleigh,” I said. “Put the gun back on the floor.”

Lord Bob glared at me again. He was dazed, I think, but even through the daze his indignation was automatic. “I beg your pardon.”

“That’s an American thirty-eight Smith and Wesson,” I said. “Not a very common weapon over here, I’m guessing. It looks a lot like a Smith and Wesson I saw downstairs, part of that collection in the big hall.”

Lord Bob looked down at the gun. “Yes.” Puzzled, he looked over at the old man lying in the bed. “But why… how did he get it?”

“That’s what the police will want to know. Please, Lord Purleigh. Put the gun back.”

Doyle said, “Best do as he says, Lord Purleigh.”

Lord Bob glanced at him. “The police,” he said. “But I won’t have the police…” His voice trailed off. He stood there staring off into the distance.

“You’ve no choice, I’m afraid,” said Doyle. “Not in a situation like this.” He put his hand on the man’s shoulder again. “Please, Lord Purleigh. Replace the gun.”

Lord Bob looked at me, his face empty. He bent forward and put the gun on the floor, then stood up.

Lord Bob turned to Doyle. He still seemed dazed. “And now… what now?”

“We touch nothing else,” said Doyle. “We keep the room sealed and guarded.” He turned to the valet, who stood at the foot of the bed. “Carson? It’s Carson, isn’t it?”

Carson looked up at him, his face pale. “Yes, sir.” His voice was quavering and his eyes were blinking. He raised his head. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said to Doyle. “I apologize. It’s just the shock of it, sir. The Earl… he seemed indestructible, sir.” He blinked again. He pulled himself up, looked at Lord Bob. “I’m very sorry, milord.” To Doyle, he said, “Sorry, sir.” He moved his shoulders in a small sad shrug, a gesture without hope. “It’s the shock, I expect.”

Behind the valet, the Great Man had moved to the massive wooden door, and he was bending forward to peer with what looked like professional curiosity at the wooden crossbar that had blocked our entrance to the room.

Carson’s shock had jarred Lord Bob out of his. He crossed the room and came around the bed to the old valet. “Carson,” he said. His voice was soft. “Are you quite all right?”

“Yes, milord.” He was staring straight ahead, over the body of the dead man.

Behind them, the Great Man looked up from his examination of the wooden bar, and he examined Lord Bob and the valet.

Lord Bob gently said to Carson, “Course you are. Course you are. But still, you know, all this excitement, better to catch our breath, eh? Snatch a bit of rest while we can. You go have a lie down. I’ll ask Mrs. Blandings to look in on you. And I’ll be ’round myself, once we’ve sorted all this out.”

His lips compressed, still staring ahead, Carson nodded. “Yes, milord.” He blinked again, turned to Lord Bob. “Thank you, milord.”

Lord Bob reached out and briefly put his fingers against the man’s arm. “Good man. Good man.” Carson blinked. Lord Bob turned to Doyle. “Eh, Doyle?” he said heartily. “That’s for the best, don’t you think?”

Doyle nodded his big head. “I agree completely, Lord Purleigh.”

“Right,” said Lord Bob to Carson in the same bluff tones. “Off you go, then.”

“Very good, milord.” His glance flickered down at the old man in the bed. He blinked and then turned and walked away. His body was still rigid, his movements stiff.

Lord Bob turned to Doyle. “You were saying, Doyle?”

“We keep the room sealed. And guarded.”

“Higgens can perform guard duty,” Lord Bob said. “Temporarily. We’ll be needing him downstairs. Eh, Higgens? I’ll send someone up to relieve you.”

Higgens nodded. “Very good, milord.”

Doyle said to Higgens, “No one to enter the room until the police arrive.”

“Very good, sir.”

“The police?” said Lord Bob.

“We must inform the police.”

Lord Bob frowned.

“If I may use the telephone,” said Doyle, “I can speak with a friend of mine at Scotland Yard. I feel certain that he’ll be helpful. And discreet.”

After a moment resisting the idea, Lord Bob finally surrendered. “Very well.”

Doyle turned to me. “Do you have anything to add, Mr. Beaumont?”

I said, “I’d like to take a look at that gun collection.”

Doyle nodded. He turned to Lord Bob. “Lord Purleigh, no doubt you wish to inform Lady Purleigh of this tragedy.”

Lord Bob lowered his bushy eyebrows, as though just now remembering that Lady Purleigh existed. “Yes. Yes, of course.” He shook his head slightly, looked away. “She’ll take it badly. Fond of the swine.” He glanced at the body on the bed. “Mustn’t tell the guests, though.”

“ Not tell them?” said Doyle.

Lord Bob turned to him. “Put a bit of damper on the weekend, wouldn’t it? They’d leave, wouldn’t they?”

“No doubt they would. But in the circumstances…”

Lord Bob shook his head. “Won’t have it. Came for a pleasant weekend, that’s what they’ll get. Not their fault the old swine died. Alice will agree with me. Sure of it.”

“And how will you explain the presence of the police?”

“Don’t see that I need to. Trot ’em in, trot ’em out. Stop ’em tracking muck about, of course. And no one the wiser, eh?” Doyle looked doubtful, but he said, “As you wish.”

I said, “You are going to tell them about Chin Soo.”

He looked at me, blinked. Irritation flickered briefly across his face. “Yes, yes.”

“Houdini?” said Doyle.

The Great Man was bent at the waist, peering at the big copper key that lay on the floor, just inside the door. He looked over at Doyle.

“Have you anything to add?”

The Great Man looked at him for a moment. He pursed his lips. Finally he said, “No. Houdini has nothing to add.”

“Very well, then,” said Doyle. “I propose that we all meet again in the Great Hall.” He slipped a watch from his vest pocket, glanced down at it, looked up. “In, shall we say, half an hour. Is that acceptable?”

It was.

“You forgot to mention, Harry,” I said, “that Sir Arthur is crazy.”

The Great Man frowned. “Sir Arthur? Not at all. He has, I think, been reacting to all this with great intelligence.”

The two of us were in the Great Hall, at the end of the long table, near the gun collection. We were sitting on uncomfortable wooden chairs with tall straight backs, waiting for Doyle and Lord Bob.

“I don’t mean that,” I told the Great Man. “I had a talk with him this afternoon. He thinks you pull off your tricks by demate-rializing.”

“Ah. Yes.” He nodded sadly. “I have tried to persuade him otherwise, of course, but he refuses to believe me. Spiritualism has become with him an idee fixe. A fixed idea, that is, in French.”

“Thanks.”

He remembered something. “Incidentally, Phil, you must never mention fairies.”

“Fairies,” I said.

“Yes. You must never mention them to Sir Arthur. He believes that fairies exist, you see. He has some photographs, two young girls playing with a tribe of fairies in an English garden. They are an obvious hoax-the girls are clearly holding cardboard cutouts-but Sir Arthur believes them to be genuine. He has actually written a book about them. If you mention fairies, he will begin to explain the photographs, as he did in the library this afternoon, after you left. Much as I like and respect Sir Arthur, I have already heard as much about fairies as I care to.”

I shrugged. “Like I said, Harry. He’s crazy.”

“Phil, he is perhaps the best-known and the most respected author in the world. He was knighted. By Queen Victoria. Aside from his credulousness in these matters, he is an extremely rational and intelligent man.”

“Pretty big aside. ”

“Phil, he lost his son in the War, and his dear mother only this past year. He wishes to believe, and so he believes.” He shrugged his muscular shoulders. “Who knows? Perhaps if I lacked my extraordinary expertise, perhaps I too should become a credulous believer.” He looked off, frowning, as he considered that.

I read his mind for him. “No,” I said. “Not you, Harry. You re too sharp.”

He nodded. “Yes. That is true, of course.”

"Impossible,” said lord Bob, glaring at the Winchester rifle as though it had just passed gas.

Holding the rifle by its butt plate and the tip of its barrel, I carried it around the table and set it down carefully on the wooden tabletop, between Doyle and Lord Bob on one side, and the Great Man and me on the other. “Impossible or not,” I said, “that rifle’s been fired today.”

I sat back down in my chair.

Lord Bob reached out for the rifle. Doyle said warningly, “Lord Purleigh.”

Lord Bob froze and glanced over at Doyle.

“Fingerprints,” Doyle told him.

Lord Bob scowled and withdrew his hand. “But damn it, Doyle,” he said. “It’s bloody impossible. No one could simply dash in here and grab the bloody thing!”

I said, “Harry? Could Chin Soo have gotten into Maplewhite?”

The Great Man frowned. “Get in? Yes, certainly.” He turned to Lord Bob. “The locks here are very fundamental, Lord Purleigh.”

“Impossible,” said Lord Bob, and looked down at the rifle. He swallowed some brandy.

I asked Lord Bob, “When was the last time the gun was fired? That you know of.”

Still staring at the Winchester, he said, “No idea. Spring sometime.” He looked up at me. “Target practice out on the lawn. Had some guests here, they wanted to give it a go.”

Doyle turned to me. “You said that you still possess the slug that was fired this afternoon. There are scientific tests that can determine whether it was fired from this weapon.”

“That won’t work here,” I told him. “The slug was too damaged. But the caliber is right.”

Lord Bob turned to Doyle. “How could he possibly have known where the guns were kept?”

Doyle puffed at the pipe, took it from his mouth. “Well, Lord Purleigh, there are written accounts of Maplewhite, you know. Descriptions of its rooms, its architecture.”

Lord Bob’s furry eyebrows shot skyward. “You mean the filthy bugger investigated me? Investigated my bloody home? Is that what you’re saying?”

Doyle shrugged. “It’s possible, I suppose.”

“The swine.” Lord Bob snatched up the decanter of brandy, splashed a couple of inches into his glass.

Doyle frowned. “But would he’ve had the time to do so, I wonder?” He turned to me. “As I understand it, Chin Soo couldn’t have known until this morning that Houdini would be at Maplewhite this weekend. It was this morning that the article appeared in the Times. Even if he read it first thing in the day, would he have had time enough to study the accounts of the house and appear here as quickly as he did?”

“I’ve been thinking about that,” I said. “Maybe Chin Soo had already figured out that Harry would be here.”

Doyle raised his left eyebrow. “How so?” he asked.

I asked, “How long have you known you’d be coming here, Sir Arthur? For the seance.”

He stroked his mustache with the mouthpiece of the pipe as he thought about it. “Since Monday last,” he said finally. “Lady Purleigh asked me then, over the telephone, whether Madame Sosostris might be available this weekend. I rang up Madame and I asked her. She was available, she said, and she agreed to come. I telephoned Lady Purleigh and accepted her invitation, on both our behalfs.”

Suddenly he smiled at me. “I see. Yes, of course. There was something in the Times on Wednesday, an article about Spiritualism. It mentioned my forthcoming visit to Maplewhite, and the seance here. Houdini’s name wasn’t mentioned-” He turned to the Great Man. “I didn’t discuss it with you until Thursday, did I?”

“Thursday, yes,” said the Great Man. “Exactly.”

Doyle looked back at me. “But it’s common knowledge that he and I are friends, that we attend seances together.”

“And Chin Soo knows,” I said, “that Harry is in England. It’d make sense to him that Harry would show up at Maplewhite.”

Doyle nodded thoughtfully. “He should have had ample time, then, to study the accounts of the building.”

“Yeah,” I said. “And he could’ve arrived here anytime over the last week, from Wednesday on.” I turned to Lord Bob. “He could’ve been in and out of this place twenty times.”

Lord Bob slammed his fist against the table. “Rotten stinking sod!”

Doyle asked me, “But wouldn’t someone have noticed that the rifle was missing?”

“It was here Friday night,” I said, “when we got here. I saw it.”

“Lord Purleigh…” said the Great Man, and leaned forward.

“Filthy bloody swine,” Lord Bob snarled. He tossed back some more brandy.

“Lord Purleigh?” said the Great Man.

Another voice said, “Milord?”

We all looked over to the Great Hall’s entrance. Briggs stood there, and another man.

“Police Constable Dubbins,” announced Briggs.

“Yes, yes,” said Lord Bob. “Show him in.”

The Great Man sat back.

Constable Dubbins, a tall, bulky police officer wearing a blue uniform, marched into the room behind Briggs. He held a bulky blue helmet under his left arm. Above his right shoe, a bicycle clip bunched his pants leg around his ankle. When they reached us, Dubbins stopped and stood rigidly at attention. He saluted Lord Bob, his head held stiffly forward, his stiff palm facing outward. “Good afternoon, your lordship. If I may be so bold, sir, I’d like to say that I’m dreadful sorry for the tragic loss of the Earl, sir. And I believe I speak for all the folk in the village when I say that, your lordship.”

“Yes,” said Lord Bob. “Yes, thank you, Dubbins. Most kind. Briggs, would you wait in the hallway, please.”

“Very good, milord,” said Briggs. He nodded once, turned and left. Dubbins was still standing at attention.

Lord Bob rose from the table, wavering only a little, and he shuffled behind his chair. “Dubbins, this is Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. That gentleman is Mr. Harry Houdini, and the man beside him is Mr. Beaumont, from the Pinkerton Detective Agency, in America.” He was pronouncing his words carefully.

Dubbins swiveled his head stiffly, nodded stiffly. “Afternoon, gentlemen.”

“Dubbins,” said Lord Bob, “there’s really no need, you know, for you to stand at attention.”

“No sir, your lordship,” said Dubbins. He relaxed his body slightly but his face remained immobile. He turned to Doyle. “You’d be the gentleman, sir, what wrote them stories about Sherlock Holmes, would you?”

Doyle smiled. “Yes, I would.”

“Smashin’ stories, if I may say so, sir. Smashin’. Read ’em when I was a nipper. It was them, the stories, what made me take up my career in the Law. That’s the God’s honest truth, sir.”

Doyle smiled. “And very flattering to learn, Constable Dubbins.”

“Yes sir. Smashin’, sir. Boggle the mind, they do, sir.”

“Dubbins?” said Lord Bob.

“Yes sir, your lordship?”

Lord Bob was leaning both his forearms against the top of the chair’s back as he looked over at Dubbins. “What precisely are your orders, Dubbins?”

“Your lordship, accordin’ to my orders, I am to proceed to the scene of the tragic accident and make it secure, like, sir, until I am relieved of my duties. No one is to enter or exit the scene of the accident, sir.”

Lord Bob nodded. “Not very likely, anyone making an exit. In the circumstances.”

“No sir, your lordship.” Dubbins had noticed the Winchester on the table.

“Right,” said Lord Bob. “Partridge-one of the footmen-is up there now. My suggestion, he stays there with you. Two heads better than one, eh?”

“Yes sir, your lordship.” He took a step toward the table and reached for the rifle. “Would this be the weapon in ques-”

" Good lord, man! ” barked Lord Bob, and Dubbins whipped back his hand and snapped to attention. Lord Bob stepped back from the chair and cleared his throat. “Fingerprints, Dubbins. Surely you know about fingerprints?”

“Yes sir, your lordship. Forgot myself for a moment. The tragedy and all, sir.”

“Yes, yes,” said Lord Bob. “And to answer your question, no, that is not the weapon in question. That weapon was used, was perhaps used, I should say-in a vile attack against one of my guests. A different incident entirely. Different swine entirely, eh? We’ll let the Amberly chaps deal with it, shall we?”

“Yes sir, your lordship. Your lordship?”

“Yes?”

“Would it be permitted for me, sir, to pay my last respects to the late Earl?”

Lord Bob frowned. “Pay them how?”

Dubbins shifted slightly on his feet. “Well, you know, your lordship. Run in there, right quickly like, and say a quiet word over ’im, sir. My last goodbyes, sir.”

Lord Bob took a deep breath, blinked, and focused his glance on Dubbins. “No, Dubbins,” he said. “That is not, I think, an altogether splendid idea. Best, I think, that the room remain sealed for now. Eh, Doyle?”

“I think that best, Lord Purleigh.”

Lord Bob turned back to Dubbins, and studied him for a moment. “Perhaps,” he said, “I should come with you. Have a word or two with Partridge.”

“Yes sir, your lordship.”

I said, “Lord Purleigh?”

He frowned at me. “What is it?”

“Mind if I tag along? I’d like to talk to the Earl’s valet.”

“Carson? Whatever for?”

“Maybe it’s a good idea for me to hear his story before somebody else does.” I glanced at Constable Dubbins.

Lord Bob looked from Dubbins to me, back to Dubbins, back to me. He narrowed his eyes and nodded sagely. “Got you. Better the devil you know…” he concentrated for an instant then waved a dismissive hand “… than some other bloody devil. Right. Right. Come along then.” He looked at Doyle and the Great Man, nodded to the Winchester. “You gentlemen will watch over this?”

“Certainly,” said Doyle.

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.

“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.”

“Thanks. I’ll see you later.”

“Harry?”

Nothing.

I knocked on the Great Man’s door again. “Harry?”

Nothing.

I tried the knob. The door was locked.

I rapped again at the wooden panel. “Harry. Open the door.” Nothing.

I said, “It’s about Bess, Harry.”

I waited. After a long moment, I heard his voice on the other side of the door. “What about her?”

“Open the door,” I said, “and I’ll tell you.”

I waited.

Finally I heard a click at the lock. I turned the knob and the door opened. The Great Man was walking away, his back to me. He was naked except for a pair of the black briefs he ordered by the gross from France. I looked down at the lock. No key. There hadn’t been one earlier.

I said, “You used a pick to lock it. And unlock it.”

But where had he put the pick afterward? His hands were empty.

He turned to me and he moved his muscular shoulders in a small shrug. He wasn’t going to tell me anything he didn’t want me to know. He crossed his arms over his chest and he said flatly, “What is it about Bess?”

Probably he’d just thrown it across the room, behind the bed. “The Earl’s death,” I said. “It’s going to make the newspapers. The London Times for sure, and maybe the French papers, too. Bess is going to read about it, in Paris. You know she’s worried about Chin Soo. She’s going to wonder, maybe, if there’s any connection.”

He thought about that. “Perhaps,” he said. He lowered himself gracefully to the floor and lay down along the rug. He didn’t look at me as he locked his hands behind his head and began to do sit-ups. “I shall ask Lord Purleigh,” he said, touching his left knee with his right elbow, “if I can send a wire. To reassure her.” He sank back to the floor.

I walked over to the desk, sat down in the chair.

“Listen, Harry,” I said. “I’m sorry I kicked you.”

He grazed his right knee with his left elbow.

“Harry, I apologize. I just didn’t want you saying anything to Honniwell about getting out of that room.”

“The man is a cretin,” he said to the ceiling.

“Exactly,” I said. “And if you started explaining how someone could get out of there, he would’ve hung around all night.”

“I was about to explain,” he said, on the upswing, “that no one had escaped from the room.”

“Honniwell’s not a guy you want to confuse with too many theories, Harry. This guy Marsh, the one who’s coming tomorrow, Sir Arthur says he’s smart. He’s the one you should talk to.”

“I intend to.” On the upswing again.

“Good. That’s good, Harry. You should. He’ll probably be glad to hear whatever you have to say. Look, I didn’t mean to hurt you-”

He straightened out his legs and sat up, his hands against the floor, and he looked at me. “Hurt me? Pain is nothing to Houdini. You should understand that by now. No, Phil, what disturbs me is the rudeness of it. Have I ever kicked you in the ankle?”

It was an interesting conversation to be having with a semi-naked man. “No, Harry,” I said, “I’ve got to admit you haven’t.”

“Surely you could have devised some other means of signaling me?”

“Probably, yeah, but nothing sprang to mind. Maybe we could work out a code.”

“And, to tell you the truth, I do not understand why you are so fascinated by the death of the Earl. As I have established, this was definitely a suicide. And it has nothing whatever to do with Chin Soo. Who is, if my memory serves me, your sole reason for being here.”

“Well, Harry,” I said, “I’m not so sure that Chin Soo and the Earl’s death are unconnected.”

The Great Man frowned. “What are you saying?”

“Someone takes a rifle from the gun collection, uses it to shoot at you, and then puts it back. And then someone takes a revolver from the same gun collection, probably within a few hours, and the Earl gets shot with it.”

“But no one could have shot the Earl. Except himself. As I told you, Phil, I examined that door very carefully. No one had tampered with it. And if Chin Soo had done so-which is totally impossible-what reason would he have for killing the Earl?”

“I don’t know. But how did that revolver get into the Earl’s room?”

He shrugged. “Perhaps the Superintendent is right, and the Earl’s valet brought it to him.”

“I don’t think so. I talked to the valet.”

“It was another servant, then. One of them, perhaps, who was fond of the Earl. He brought the gun at the Earl’s request.”

“He was fond of the Earl, so he helped him commit suicide?”

“Perhaps the Earl told him he wanted the gun for some other reason. Lord Purleigh suggested as much.”

“A lot of guns were being moved in and out of that hall today. He shook his head. “It is a coincidence, Phil. Nothing more.”

“I don’t like coincidences.”

“Phil, I do not like being kicked in the ankle. But there are some things, apparently, that we must learn to live with.”

I smiled. “Harry, I said I was sorry.”

He put up a hand. “Yes, yes. I accept your apology, of course.”

“Thanks,” I said. “Okay. Have you changed your mind about staying here?”

He seemed surprised. “Why should I change my mind?”

“Harry. That rifle, the Winchester, I’m pretty sure it was the rifle that shot at you. If it was, and if Chin Soo fired it, that means he came into the house, took the rifle, left the house, fired the rifle, came back into the house, and put the rifle back.”

“Yes. So you said to Lord Purleigh. But Phil, I must tell you, in all honesty, that it would be impossible for Chin Soo to run in and out of the house in this manner. I tried to say as much to Lord Purleigh, earlier. Chin Soo is simply not skilled enough. He could manage the locks, yes, perhaps. But as for lurking within the house, and scooting back and forth to the outside-impossible.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Phil, I believe that it was not Chin Soo who fired that weapon.”

“Why?”

“Is it logical to believe that Chin Soo would go to all the trouble you describe, putting himself in jeopardy several times over, simply to obtain a rifle from the Great Hall? Why did he not merely bring along, to Maplewhite, a rifle of his own? He could have purchased one, or even stolen one.”

“Good question,” I admitted. “I don’t know. But the fact is, that Winchester was the rifle that got fired today.”

“Perhaps it was. But consider this, Phil.” He crossed his legs and leaned forward, like a small boy at a campfire. He was smiling the smile he smiled on stage whenever he was about to pull off some especially spectacular stunt. “Perhaps when the rifle was fired today, it was not, in fact, being fired at me.”

“Harry, the slug missed you by a few inches.”

“Yes,” he said, holding up a finger and smiling that smile, “but it also missed everyone else. By very much the same distance.” He put his hands on his knees. “You remember that we were all gathered together beneath that tree. You have been assuming all along that the famous slug was meant for me. But how do we know this is true?”

I sat back in the chair. I thought about it. “We don’t.” I nodded. “That’s pretty good, Harry.”

He shrugged with what he probably thought was modesty, but what looked more like satisfaction. “It is merely logical,” he said.

I was thinking. “It makes more sense that way,” I told him. “Your way. Somebody who was already here at Maplewhite would be able to get into the Great Hall a lot easier than a stranger.”

“Of course.”

“But if you’re right, who were they shooting at? Who was there?” I thought back. “Miss Turner, Mrs. Corneille. Mrs. Allardyce. Lord Bob.”

“Lord Purleigh,” he corrected me. “The more interesting question, I believe, is-who was not there?”

“Right. Madame Whosis and her husband weren’t even here at Maplewhite yet. Neither was Sir Arthur. So who was? Cecily. Lady Purleigh. Dr. Auerbach. Sir David.”

“And a host of servants, do not forget.”

I smiled. “Everybody wants to blame everything on the servants.”

“But Phil, these are all cultured, wealthy people.”

“Wealthy people kill each other all the time, Harry. It’s what they do when they’re not counting their money.”

“You are a cynic, Phil.”

“Or maybe Sir Arthur’s right. He’s beginning to think it was some goblin who did it.”

The Great Man nodded sadly. “Yes. I sometimes worry about Sir Arthur.”

He lay back down on the rug, raised his knees, and put his hands back behind his head. “We have established the important thing,” he said, lifting his shoulders, touching his right elbow against his left knee. “That it was not Chin Soo who fired the rifle. Which means, therefore, that both of us can relax now.”

“Not exactly,” I said.

He looked over at me but didn’t stop his sit-ups.

“We’ve established,” I said, “that it probably wasn’t Chin Soo who fired the rifle. Even if it wasn’t, that doesn’t mean that he’s not hanging around somewhere.”

“But there are police guards here now, Phil.” Down went his shoulders.

“Chin Soo has gotten past the police before.”

“In Philadelphia. These are British police.” Down again. “Could you get past a pair of British cops, Harry?”

“Of course. But Chin Soo is not Houdini.” Down.

“Uh-huh. Well, listen. I’m going to go snoop around for a while. Do me a favor and put a chair up against the door?”

“It is completely unnecessary, Phil. And why do you plan to snoop around?” Up went his shoulders.

“I want to make sure you’re right about the rifle.”

“It is only logical, Phil.” Up again.

“Right. You’ll put the chair up against the door?”

He sighed theatrically. This isn’t an easy thing to do while you’re in the middle of a sit-up.

I said, “Humor me, Harry.”

“Oh, very well. If you insist.” With another sigh, he swung himself up again.

I stood.

He said, “Oh. Phil?” Down went the shoulders.

“Yeah?”

He smiled. “It was very obvious, what you were doing when you mentioned Bess. You merely wanted me to open the door.” Down.

I smiled back. “It worked, though, Harry. There’s more than one way to get through a locked door.”

“It worked,” he said, coming back up off the floor, “only because it is impossible for Houdini to hold a grudge.”

As usual, he had the last word.

I went looking for Briggs.

Briggs wasn’t in the drawing room and neither was anyone else.

I went wandering through the corridors and after a while I found another servant who told me he had seen Briggs near the conservatory. I trudged off in that direction.

The outer door to the conservatory was open. It led onto a flagstone terrace, where a group of the guests were gathered around a circular white table beneath a tall oak tree. Sir Arthur was there, and he saw me and waved for me to join them. The others were Mrs. Corneille, Dr. Auerbach, Madame Sosostris in her wheelchair and her amazing hair, Mr. Dempsey, and Sir David. They all had drinks in front of them, so maybe a servant would be coming soon, and maybe it would be Briggs.

It had been a long day but the air was still warm and the sky was still bright. To the west, across the enormous lawn, the sun was finally sliding down through the expanse of blue. It hadn’t reached the treetops yet, but its light was yellow now as it slanted from beneath the flat bottom of a small white cloud.

“Mr. Beaumont,” Doyle said. “Please. Have a seat.”

There was an empty white-enameled chair to Mrs. Corneille’s right. I took it and I smiled at her. “Hello,” I said, and breathed in the scent of her perfume. She was wearing the white dress but not the straw bonnet. Sunlight shimmered along the black gloss of her hair.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Beaumont,” she said, smiling back at me. “It is Mr. Beaumont, isn’t it? You haven’t some other, cryptic, Pinkerton sort of name?”

“Just Beaumont.”

She said, “But you haven’t been entirely honest with us, it seems.”

“Didn’t have any choice,” I told her.

“I sensed somet’ing,” said Madame Sosostris, narrowing the dark shrewd eyes in her round white face. “Did I not, Charles? I said, t’ere is some dark deep currents in t’at man.”

Grinning, Mr. Dempsey patted her hand. She wore big jeweled rings on every finger and he was careful not to hit any of them. They would have poked holes in his palm. “You sure did,” he said. He looked at me proudly. “Dark deep currents, that’s what she said, word for word.”

“I was explaining,” said Doyle, “that it was most likely Chin Soo who fired that rifle this afternoon.”

I shook my head. “I was just talking to Mr. Houdini. He made a good point. I’ve been assuming that the rifle shot this afternoon was fired at him. But, like he says, there’s no reason to assume that. It could’ve been meant for anyone.”

Doyle frowned. “Yes,” he said. “Houdini mentioned that notion to me earlier.”

Mrs. Corneille said to me, “It wasn’t Chin Soo who fired the rifle?”

“It makes more sense,” I said, “that somebody else was firing it, and at somebody besides Houdini.”

“And who,” said Sir David blandly, “do you conclude it was?”

“The person doing the shooting?”

He smiled. Blandly. “Whichever. The shoot-er or the shoot-ee.”

“No idea. But the police will probably figure it out. There's an inspector coming down here tomorrow morning, from London. He’ll want to talk to all the people who weren’t out on the lawn this afternoon. Between twelve-thirty and one o clock. Like you, I guess, Dr. Auerbach.”

Dr. Auerbach adjusted his pince-nez. “I? But I was nowhere near to Maplewhite at that time.”

“And where were you, Doctor?” I said. “If you don’t mind my asking.”

“Of course not,” he said. “Not at all. Between twelve-thirty and one, you say? Yes, I was in the village then. In the lovely little cemetery behind the church. I was making the rubbings from the tombstones. It is a hobby of mine. And this cemetery, it has some truly quite beautiful stones. Some of them date back even to the fourteenth century.”

“Anyone see you?”

He nodded. “Aha, yes, I understand, for the purposes of verification. As it happens, yes, I had a long and a quite fascinating discussion with the vicar of the church. An extremely charming man. He also has an interest in these stones.” He looked at me hopefully. “I have the rubbings, if you would like to examine them?”

“That’s okay,” I told him.

Just then a servant with a drinks tray came gliding through the conservatory door. It was Briggs. His face was expressionless again as he replaced Sir David’s empty glass with a full one. I asked him for a whiskey and water.

When he glided away, I turned back to Dr. Auerbach. “Everyone went into the village together today, is that right?”

“In Lord Purleigh’s motor car,” he nodded. “That is correct.”

“And you all came back together? In the car?”

“I did not, no,” he said. “I walked back. It was a beautiful day, yes? And it remains so even now,” he added, looking around happily.”

“So you didn’t get here until when?”

“Oh my.” He turned to Mrs. Corneille. “It was at approximately two-thirty that we spoke, was it not?”

She nodded. “Shortly afterward, I believe. I’d just come from Jane’s room.”

“Then at two-thirty, almost exactly,” said Dr. Auerbach. “I had returned a few minutes before I spoke with Mrs. Corneille. She requested that I look in on Miss Turner.”

“Look in on her?”

“To offer her a brief medical examination. As you know, the young woman had fainted. I am a psychoanalyst, yes, but like most psychoanalysts I am a medical doctor also.”

I nodded and turned back to Mrs. Corneille. “You came back in the car, Mrs. Corneille?”

“Yes. With Alice and Mrs. Allardyce. We arrived back here at twelve or so.”

“And the others?”

“The others stayed in town. But really, Mr. Beaumont, you don’t honestly believe that one of us fired that shot?”

I shrugged. “There was a Winchester rifle in the gun collection. Someone loaded it, took it from the Great Hall, fired it at someone out on the lawn, then brought it back to the hall and put it back up on the wall. Mr. Houdini is right. It probably wasn’t Chin Soo who did all that.”

“If you’re correct,” said Doyle, “in your belief that it was the Winchester which fired the shot in question.”

Briggs came floating back just then with my drink. He set it on the table in front of me. I thanked him. No one else wanted anything, and he tucked the tray under his arm and floated away.

I shrugged. “Makes sense that it was the Winchester.”

“Nonsense,” said Sir David, and took a sip from his glass. Ignoring me, he said to Doyle and Mrs. Corneille, “It was obviously a poacher who fired the shot. It’s the season. For miles around, every property in Devon is acrawl with purblind peers squinting down the barrels of rusty rifles.”

“It’s the grouse season, you know,” said Doyle. “They’ll be peering down the barrels of shotguns.”

“And Lord Purleigh,” said Mrs. Corneille to Sir David, “has forbidden blood sports on the grounds of Maplewhite.”

I raised my drink and saw through the amber liquid that a scrap of paper had been stuck to the bottom of the glass. Library, fifteen minutes, someone had scrawled across the paper.

The message was easy to read. As usual, there was no ice in the glass.

Looking at Mrs. Corneille, Sir David shrugged comfortably. “Which means that the poaching would be infinitely superior here.” He turned to Doyle. “For every sort of fauna. As I’m sure the poachers are well aware.”

As I set the drink down with my left hand, I used my right to slip the paper from the bottom of the glass. I palmed it, crumpled it into a small damp wad.

“But the Winchester was fired,” said Doyle.

“Perhaps,” said Sir David. “But we have no way of knowing when. Today? Yesterday? Last week sometime?”

I scratched casually at my thigh and I dropped the wad to the flagstones.

Doyle said, “Mr. Beaumont believes that it was fired today.”

“Ah well,” said Sir David, and smiled blandly.

“Mr. Beaumont.” Doyle raised his eyebrows in surprise and looked over at me.

I said, “What about you, Sir David?”

Sir David turned. “I beg your pardon?”

“You mind if I ask you where you were this afternoon?”

“I very much mind,” he said. “I can’t, for the life of me, see that it’s even remotely any of your business.”

“David,” said Mrs. Corneille. “Please. There’s no need to be offensive.”

“It’s not I who’s being offensive, Vanessa. It’s Our American Friend. I put it to you-why on earth should any of us let ourselves be interrogated by some threadbare enquiry agent? After we chat with this lout, shall we run off and bare our souls to the scullery maid?”

“ David,” said Mrs. Corneille.

“Really, Sir David,” said Doyle. “I don’t think-”

“This has all suddenly become very tedious,” Sir David said. He stood up without any hurry. “I believe I shall rest for a bit.”

“ Really, Sir David,” said Doyle. The pink of his face had grown a couple of shades more red, which made the gray of his big mustache seem a couple of shades more white.

“Until dinner, then,” said Sir David, and ambled away.

“My dear Beaumont,” said Doyle, leaning toward me urgently with his face still red, and getting redder. “I am most dreadfully sorry. That was absolutely unforgivable. I’ve half a mind to run after the wretch and give him a damned sound thrashing. By God,” he said, and he opened his eyes wide and bunched his big shoulders as he wrapped his big hands around the arms of his chair, “I believe I will!”

Mrs. Corneille leaned over and put her hand atop Doyle’s. “No, Sir Arthur. Please.”

“It’s okay,” I said to Doyle.

Doyle kept his shoulders bunched, as though he were still planning to leap from the chair. “But he was unconscionably rude.”

“It’s okay,” I said. “Everyone’s a little upset today. Don’t worry about it, Sir Arthur.”

Madame Sosostris said, “Mr. Beaumont is correct, Sir Art’ur. T’e Et’eric Vibrations, t’ey are very violet today. Very much so. I sense t’em. You must not to let yourself fall prey to t’ese and become violet in your own self.”

“Yes,” said Doyle. He sat back, plucked the handkerchief from his suit coat pocket, lightly patted it against his wide forehead. Mrs. Corneille sat back, too. I think that everyone sat back.

“Yes,” Doyle repeated, to Madame Sosostris, “you’re right, of course. No violence.” And then, patting his forehead, he said to no one in particular, “What is this country coming to?”

I pulled out my watch.

“Mr. Beaumont,” said Doyle.

I looked over at him.

“I wonder if you and I could have a few words.”

“Sure,” I told him.

Doyle and I excused ourselves and walked in through the conservatory door. Doyle was looking for a place to talk. He found one, a small parlor to the right. We slipped in there and he glanced quickly around the room and shut the door. We sat down opposite each other on a pair of love seats. His face had gone back to its normal pink.

“First off,” Doyle said, “I want to apologize again for the manner in which Sir David behaved. It was abominable.”

“You don’t need to apologize, Sir Arthur. It wasn’t your fault.”

“But the man is English. He’s a baronet, Mr. Beaumont. For a so-called gentleman, I must tell you, it was an unforgivable display.”

“I’m not worried about it. You shouldn’t be, either.”

He leaned toward me, wincing slightly. “Whenever I’ve traveled in America, wherever I’ve gone in that remarkable country, I’ve received nothing but the kindliest and most gracious treatment from everyone I met. Virtually everyone. I want you to know that I feel personally embarrassed that this has happened today.”

“You shouldn’t. But thank you, Sir Arthur. You said there was something you wanted to say?”

“Yes. Yes.” He sat back with another small wince. He stuck his hand into his coat pocket, burrowed around for a while, came out with his pipe and tobacco pouch. “D’you mind?”

I shook my head.

“Well, look here,” he said, as he searched for his matches, “did you really mean what you said out there? You genuinely believe that some member of the house party fired that shot?” He fiddled with the pipe.

“It makes sense to me.”

“But I’m afraid that it doesn’t make sense to me, you see.” He got the pipe lit. The smell of burning potato sacks drifted across the room. He stuffed his matches back in one pocket, his tobacco pouch in another. “As I told Houdini earlier today, I simply can’t credit the idea that one of Lord Purleigh’s guests would do such a thing. Not even Sir David.” He puffed at the pipe, looked at me with narrowed eyes through the pale blue streamers of smoke. “I’ve begun to suspect that something very strange, and very sinister, is occurring here at Maplewhite.”

“And what’s that, Sir Arthur?”

He frowned. “I really can’t say as yet. But what I should like to do, with your permission, is attempt to learn something from Running Bear tonight.”

“Excuse me?” From running bare?

“Running Bear. The Spirit Guide summoned by Madame Sosostris. Her control. A Shoshone Indian chieftain who died during your French and Indian War.”

“Running Bear,” I said. “Right.”

“You’ve no objection to my discussing this with him?”

“Not me,” I said. “Ask him whatever you want.”

“Good. I thank you.”

“Don’t mention it, Sir Arthur.” I stood up. “Well, I’m sorry, but I’ve got to run myself. I need to talk to Harry about something.”

The closet door swung open. Mrs. Corneille stepped out in her white dress, her sleek black hair swaying along her shoulders. She saw the gun in my hand and she smiled. “You’re not going to shoot me, I hope.”

I put the gun away. “You saw me drop that piece of paper,” I said. “Out on the patio.”

“Yes,” she said. “And I read it.” Her smile faded and she lifted her elegant chin. “Alice is a good friend of mine. I shouldn’t want you or anyone else to harm her. It seemed to me that if you were having secret meetings with one of her servants, someone ought to be there to represent her interests.”

“You think her interests are in jeopardy?”

“Not at all. But she might need looking after.”

“You feel better now?”

“Not remarkably so.” Suddenly she frowned. “Oh dear, what time is it?”

I pulled out my watch. “Twenty minutes to eight.”

“I’d forgotten-dinner. I must run and change.” She crossed the carpet, put her hand along my arm, looked up at me with those big black eyes. “Come to my room tonight,” she said urgently. “After the seance. We’ll discuss this.”

“Sure,” I said.

Under Doyle's direction, the men moved three rectangular coffee tables together into the center of the drawing room and then set chairs around them. Once or twice, while both of us were lugging chairs, Sir David glanced over at me and blandly smiled. Whatever he’d promised Lady Purleigh, I didn’t think that he’d dismissed tomorrow’s fight from his mind. But then I hadn’t dismissed it from mine.

There were thirteen of us, and Lady Purleigh arranged us around the tables so that the men alternated with the women. I sat down next to Cecily. She glanced at me as if she had never seen me before and didn’t expect to see me again. Sir Arthur sat to Cecily’s left. To Sir Arthur’s left, at the head of the table, sat Madame Sosostris and her husband, Mr. Dempsey. After Mr. Dempsey came Lady Purleigh herself, and then Sir David. After Sir David, and opposite me, came Mrs. Allardyce and then Dr. Auerbach. On the doctor’s left, and at the table end opposite Madame Sosostris, sat Miss Turner and the Great Man. To the Great Man’s left sat Mrs. Corneille and her perfume. I was the one sitting to her left.

Lady Purleigh had rung for a servant. The man who arrived was short and heavyset and his name was Parsons. At Doyle’s request, he pulled the entrance doors shut, drew the thick curtains over the mullioned windows, and then marched across the carpets clicking off electric lights.

The seance was what we had all come here for, and no one said anything as the air grew more dusky, click by click. I looked at the Great Man. He was smiling at Madame Sosostris. I looked at Miss Turner. She had been watching me, and her glance skipped away. I looked at Mrs. Corneille. She looked back at me and smiled.

Finally there was only one lamp left, burning on a table that stood at the base of a tapestry. Shadows streamed along the floor and pooled in the corners of the room.

Doyle asked Parsons to sit down beside the lamp and wait, and then he turned to Madame Sosostris. “Madame?” he said.

Madame Sosostris’s hair was the same tonight, a white thicket above her round white face, but she was wearing a different silk gown. This one was black and shiny and spangled with golden astrological signs. Her hands, small and plump and jeweled, were perched along the wooden arms of her wheelchair. Slowly, in the hazy gray, she looked around the table like a general inspecting his troops. The glance from her shrewd dark eyes met the glance of each of us, one by one, before it moved on. Her glance didn’t waver when it met the Great Man’s.

Finally she spoke. “T’e first t’ing you must all to understand,” she said, her heavy jowls quivering, “is t’at once we have, all of us, in the circle wit’ our hands toget’er joined, we must not to break t’e circle. Yas?”

Doyle translated. “Once we join our hands,” he said, surveying the table, “we must not break the circle. This could be dangerous.”

“Yas,” said Madame Sosostris. “The second t’ing. At t’e beginning, my husband will be to asking t’e questions for Running Bear. Afterwards, others may to speak wit’ him.”

“Initially,” said Doyle, “Mr. Dempsey will ask the questions of Running Bear, Madame’s Spirit Guide. When Running Bear gives his permission, the rest of us may ask what we like.”

“Yas,” said Madame Sosostris. “Now. We will all to join our hands toget’er, pliss.”

I took Mrs. Corneille’s left hand. It was small and cool and soft. She smiled at me, then turned to the Great Man and offered him her right. He took it, but he was still studying Madame Sosostris, and still enjoying himself.

I turned to Cecily, reached for her right hand. She gave it to me and looked away. Her fingers were warm. Suddenly they made a quick squeeze against mine, and her sharp little fingernails nipped into my palm. She was still looking away.

“Yas,” said Madame Sosostris. “Now we are ready.”

“Parsons?” said Doyle. “The lights, please, if you will.”

The light clicked off, the room was suddenly black. Cecily squeezed my hand. Her thumb stroked my little finger. Her nails nipped at my palm. It seemed to me that Cecily wasn t throwing herself into this seance business the way she was supposed to.

Then, out of the total darkness, came a droning sound. Madame Sosostris’ had begun to make a kind of hum. It was a drawn-out single note, low and stony and unwavering, and it went on for a long time. Then it stopped. She made a deep raspy noise, like a broken snore, and she was silent.

And then things started happening. A small bell rang, from far away. Cecily’s hand clenched at mine. Something rapped at a table. Once, twice, three times. Some heavy chains clattered somewhere nearby. A sudden trumpet blared, and Mrs. Corneille s hand tightened on mine but relaxed almost immediately. Then there was a soft swishing sound, and then a quick muffled rattling, and the air was suddenly laced with the smell of flowers. Cecily jerked her hand from mine and said, “ Ouch! ”

“Parsons,” called out Doyle, “the light, please.”

The light clicked on. Someone hissed, sucking in a breath.

The tops of all three tables were strewn with roses, covered with them, maybe fifty or sixty flowers. Heavy blossoms, dark red and looking almost black in the muted light. Each was attached to a leafy, thorny stem about a foot long.

At the head of the table, Madame Sosostris flipped open her eyes. “Someone has broken t’e circle!”

“It hit me,” Cecily pouted. She held up a rose as proof, and then peered at it more carefully. She raised her eyes toward the ceiling, puzzled, and then she turned to her mother. “But how could that be?”

Lady Purleigh smiled faintly, shook her head. “I don’t know, darling.” She turned to Madame Sosostris.

“Please, my good girl,” said Madame Sosostris to Cecily. “You must not to break t’e circle.”

I looked at the Great Man. He was smirking.

I was still holding Mrs. Corneille’s hand. She was staring at the roses. She felt my glance, turned to me, arched her eyebrows, smiled.

“Now,” said Madame Sosostris. “We will to try again, yas? We will all to join our hands toget’er.”

Cecily made a face and tossed the rose to the table. She narrowed her mouth and she curled her fingers around my hand in a death grip.

Doyle called out, “The light, please, Parsons.”

The light clicked off.

In the dark, Madame Sosostris hummed again, and snored again. The bell rang. The table rapped. The chains rattled, the trumpet blew.

Then someone said, “Ugh.” A low voice, masculine, smoky, nothing like the voice of Madame Sosostris. Cecily tightened her grip around my fingers.

Mr. Dempsey spoke. “Running Bear? Are you here?”

“Ugh,” said the voice. “It is Running Bear, come to speak.” Cecily squeezed. My fingers were beginning to feel like grapes in a wine press. Somewhere along the table, someone stirred.

“Greetings,” said Mr. Dempsey. “We’re pleased that you could join us tonight.”

“Running Bear comes to the aid of those who seek.”

This was pretty good English for Madame Sosostris. It was also pretty good English for a dead Shoshone Indian.

“Running Bear,” said Mr. Dempsey, “is there someone present you want to talk to?”

“Ugh. I will touch her. But do not break the circle.”

Suddenly Mrs. Corneille’s hand jumped within mine.

Mr. Dempsey spoke. “Did Running Bear touch someone?”

“I was touched,” said Mrs. Corneille. Her voice was flat. “Don’t be frightened,” said Mr. Dempsey. “Running Bear is a being of great kindness. Open yourself to him now, and he’ll speak to you. Open yourself.”

“You worry,” said Running Bear, “for many moons about the death of your brave, Gerard, who passed over during the Great Destruction. I tell you now that the worry may stop. He is at peace. He salutes you in love.”

“I see,” said Mrs. Corneille, in the same flat tone.

“Open yourself,” said Mr. Dempsey, “and Running Bear will comfort you.”

“I’m feeling quite open, thank you,” said Mrs. Corneille.

“There is another loved one,” said Running Bear. “Your young daughter. Esme. She of the golden hair.”

Mrs. Corneille’s hand clutched at mine, just for an instant.

“She is well also,” said Running Bear. “She is happy, there by the banks of the Shining Water. She salutes you in love.”

“Thank you,” said Mrs. Corneille. Her voice was still flat. But-maybe I imagined it-it also seemed a little shaky, as though she were hammering it flat with force of will.

“Running Bear?” said Mr. Dempsey.

“Ugh?”

“Sir Arthur Conan Doyle wishes to speak.”

“I greet Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.”

“Good evening, Running Bear,” said Doyle conversationally. They had talked before, they were old pals. “How are you?”

“Running Bear is unhappy.”

“And why might that be?”

“There has been a death in this house.”

Someone moved, somewhere along the table. Mrs. Allardyce said, " What? ”

“Please,” said Doyle sharply. “Don’t break the circle. Running Bear?”

“Ugh.”

“You know, then, of the death that took place here.”

“Ugh. The Elder One has passed over. Running Bear gives much sympathy to his family.”

“Thank you. Could you give us any assurances, I wonder, as to whether the Earl is at peace?”

“The Earl’s died?” said Mrs. Allardyce.

“ Please,” snapped Doyle. “Running Bear?”

“Running Bear cannot do this thing.”

“Why is that?”

“The spirit of the Elder One is troubled. He lived a life of greed and lust. In recent times he imposed his sick desires on an innocent young woman. Now he has seen the error of his ways. He is poisoned by guilt. His spirit is tortured.”

“And was it for this reason,” said Doyle, slowly and cautiously, like a hunter following spoor, “that he ended his life?

“The Elder One did not end his life. His life was taken.”

“By restless spirits?” said Doyle. There was excitement in his voice now, the hunter cornering his prey. “By elemental forces?” Suddenly the doors to the drawing room swung open and smashed against the walls. A bar of light toppled onto the table and all at once we were blinking at each other.

A stocky figure stood in silhouette at the doorway, its right shoulder slumped against the jamb. “What is this?”

A commanding aristocratic voice, testy but blurred. Lord Bob. “The light, please, Parsons,” said Doyle.

The light clicked on.

“Lord Purleigh,” said Doyle, and stood.

Lord Bob was looking a little testy and blurred himself. His collar was askew. His necktie drooped outside his vest, and the vest bulged where a button had hooked into the wrong hole. His eyes were puffy, his white hair and his bushy white eyebrows were rumpled. “What is this?” he said again, and tugged loose from the dooqamb. He overbalanced, then righted himself, tottering. He squinted toward us. “Bloody seance, is it? Bad form. Damnably bad form, I must say.”

Lady Purleigh stood up. So did the rest of the men, joining Doyle on foot. “Robert, darling,” she said. She spoke as though she were talking to a small child.

“But Alice,” he said. He scowled and shook his head. “Never do, my love. Never do. No respect. Old swine only kicked the bucket this afternoon. Not even buried yet. He took a step, swayed, then glared around the room. What happened to the bloody lights? Dark as pitch in here.”

“Parsons?” said Lady Purleigh. “Please see to the lights.” Parsons scurried around the carpets. Click by click the room grew brighter.

Lord Bob took another unsteady step. He was staring at the flowers scattered around the tabletops. He lowered his brow.

“Someone been mucking about in the garden? Not the bloody police, was it?”

“Robert,” said Lady Purleigh gently.

Lord Bob tugged at his vest and eyed us gravely. “Terribly sorry, ladies and gentlemen. The party is over.” He waved his arms up through the air and almost collapsed backward.

Lady Purleigh sighed.

“Steady as she goes,” said Lord Bob, and pulled himself upright. He tugged down his vest again. “Witching hour has arrived, I’m afraid. Bedtime. No ghosts, no phantoms, no spookey-wookies. Abandon ship. Disengage. Retreat.” He swept his arm toward the door, but swung too far and aimed his wavering finger at a tapestry on the wall. “Fall back, lads!”

“I apologize,” said Lady Purleigh, looking around the table. “My husband is unwell.”

“Far from it!” said Lord Bob, spinning to face her, overspinning, then correcting his spin. He straightened up. “I am pissed,” he announced. “Your husband, my love, is as pissed as a bloody lord.” Suddenly he grinned proudly and adjusted the lapels of his suitcoat. “I really am a bloody lord, you know. I really am, now the old swine’s gone belly up.”

“Lady Purleigh,” said Doyle softly.

Lady Purleigh shook her head wearily. “It’s quite all right, Sir Arthur.” She looked around the table. “As you’ve all just learned, my father-in-law has died today. My husband and I were hoping to spare you any distress.”

“Bloody right,” said Lord Bob, and waved his arm. “Didn’t come here for a bloody funeral, did you? Eh?”

“I apologize to you all,” said Lady Purleigh. “But, if you don’t mind, I’m afraid that we should, all of us, retire just now. We shall see you at breakfast.”

“Call it a night,” said Lord Bob, nodding.

Lady Purleigh turned to Madame Sosostris. “I apologize in particular, to you, madame.”

“Not at all, my lady,” she said. She wrapped her plump jeweled fingers around the wheels of her chair and rolled herself back a few feet. “Pliss,” she said to Mr. Dempsey. “We are to going now.”

“Splendid to see you,” Lord Bob told her merrily. “Must do this again sometime, eh?”

Doyle said, “Lady Purleigh?”

She turned to him. “Sir Arthur?”

“Perhaps we should cancel the boxing match?”

“Eh?” said Lord Bob.

“I shall explain, Robert.” Lady Purleigh turned to Doyle. “I see no reason to cancel it, Sir Arthur. If you have a moment, we can discuss the arrangements.” She looked around the table. Good night to you all. We shall see you at breakfast.”

“Boxing match?” said Lord Bob.

Beside me, Mrs. Corneille stood. She leaned toward me and whispered. “Twelve-thirty.”

People were moving. From across the table, Sir David called out, “Beaumont.”

I turned.

He smiled. “In the morning, then.”

“See you,” I said.

The Morning Post

Maplewhite, Devon

August 19 (early morning)

Dear Evangeline,

A few more boulders have landed.

First off, the Earl of Axminster, who was merely wounded at tea time, was dead at dinner.

I shouldn’t make light of it, I know; Lord and Lady Purleigh were apparently keeping the death secret as a kindness to their guests. I do feel badly for both of them. They’re such wonderful people, admirable in every way. Why is that tragedy always slashes out at those who will most intensely feel it, and ignores those who would be insensible to its presence if it toppled onto them from the roof of a barn? Or is this, as Mrs Applewhite would have said, one of those foolish questions which contain their own answers?

From what the Allardyce was able to pry out of Lady Purleigh, after the seance, the Earl committed suicide, but Lady Purleigh cannot imagine why. Perhaps the schedule of events here at Maplewhite was simply too much for him.

Dinner was dreadful. Neither the Allardyce nor I knew, at the time, of the Earl’s death; but I suspect that all the others did. No one said much of anything, except for the Allardyce, who flirted shamelessly with Mr Houdini, and for Mr Houdini, who regaled us with several seemingly endless stories the hero of which was invariably himself.

Things rather livened up afterward, however, in the drawing room. Sir David stuck Mr Houdini in the stomach, and then very badly wanted to strike Mr Beaumont, almost anywhere on his person, I expect; but Sir Arthur intervened. Sir David and Mr Beaumont will battle it out tomorrow morning. Fisticuffs at dawn. Sir Arthur will act as referee.

As to the seance, it was moderately interesting as well, until Lord Purleigh appeared and made a terrible scene. The poor man was clearly deranged with shock, and not a little inebriated.

It was at the seance that I learned of the Earl’s death. Roly-poly Madame Sosostris, masquerading as her Red Indian Spirit Guide, revealed the truth. No doubt she bribed it loose from one of the servants.

You’ll notice that I’ve become rather blase about all this. I am becoming a woman of the world, Evy. Death, deceit, ghosts, goblins, boulders, maskings and unmaskings: they bounce off my back like water off a burnished duck.

Madame Sosostris did say something curious this evening, during the seance, and it has given me an idea. I am going to investigate.

The time is nearly one o’clock; the house is hushed, no one is moving.

It’s unmannerly of me, I know, to go prowling about Maplewhite in the dark, on my own. But already, and especially after today’s spectacular display of horsemanship, my reputation is so crippled that no additional eccentricity could possibly maim it further. Moreover, I’ll be bringing along this letter, enveloped and addressed and stamped. Should someone be lurking in the hallways, I shall simply explain that I was swept from bed by an urgent need to plump this into the post box.

It isn’t much of a plan, I realize; but then I’m not much of a planner. I am exceedingly weary of being acted upon. And tonight I will act.

So, Evy: the game is afoot!

All my love,

Jane

Fraud always brought out the best in the Great Man. Back in my room, he was in dandy form. For nearly an hour he sat on my bed and laughed and snickered. Now and then he waved his arms. He explained all the tricks that Madame Sosostris had performed during the seance, and then he explained them all again.

“She is an absolute amateur, Phil,” he said. He was still wearing his dinner jacket but he had taken off his shoes. His legs were crossed like a yogi’s and he was tilted cheerfully toward me. “A twelve-year-old child could produce more spectacular effects.”

“Right,” I said from my chair by the desk. I hauled out my watch. Quarter to twelve. “Harry,” I said. “Look, I’m sorry, but I’m exhausted.”

“That bell!” he said, and laughed. “And those chains!” He waved his arms. “Clanging chains! Phil, over thirty years ago, when I gave my own performance as a medium, I refused to use the clanging chains. Imagine, Phil. They were passe even then.

“Right, Harry. But-”

“And did you like her Spirit Guide?” He lowered his head and lowered his voice-“Running Bear, him come to aid of those who seek. Ugh. Ha!” He curled up his body and slapped at his thigh.

I smiled. “Harry, listen…”

“I cannot wait,” he said, “to tell Sir Arthur what I think.”

“Maybe Sir Arthur won’t be as thrilled as you are.”

He looked at me and he frowned. “No. Perhaps not.” He raised his head. “But the truth must prevail, Phil.”

“Uh-huh. Meantime, Harry, I need some rest. I’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

“What?” He sat up. “Oh yes, yes, of course! Your famous boxing match with Sir David! Phil, I must tell you, you were very impressive, standing up to that man for my sake.”

“Doing my job, Harry. Guarding the body.”

“But it was unnecessary, you know. I was suffering not at all.”

“You, maybe. I was getting a pain in the neck.”

He grinned happily. “The man is a pig, is he not, Phil? Tomorrow, when you fight your great battle, you must teach him to mind his manners.” Sitting there on the bed he mimed a prizefighter, fists jabbing at the air. “Pow, pow,” he said. Take that, Sir David! Ha ha!”

Suddenly he raised a finger in the air. “Phil,” he said, “I have it!”

“Have what?”

Excited, he clasped his hands over his knees and he leaned forward. “Tomorrow morning, when you go to the scene of the combat, I will come along as your-how do they call it? Yes, your second. How would that be, Phil? Houdini will be your second!”

He said this as if it were the biggest favor he could possibly do for me. Maybe it was. The Great Man was never second to anyone, in anything.

“That’d be great, Harry,” I told him.

Smoothly, in what looked like a single movement, his legs untied themselves and his hands slapped against the mattress and he bounded off the bed. “But now you must conserve your strength, eh? You must sleep, Phil. Would you like to borrow some ear wax?”,

I smiled. He meant the beeswax he used as plugs. “No thanks.

“You are sure? Perhaps a blindfold?”

“No thanks, Harry.”

He bent over and scooped up both his shoes in his right hand, fingers hooked beneath the tongues. He padded lightly across the room and clapped me on the shoulder. “Very well. But you must rest, Phil. It is an important business, this fight. Everyone will be there.”

“My audience,” I said.

“Exactly, yes!” He squeezed my shoulder and then dropped his arm, beaming at me like a proud father.

“Everyone but Lord Bob, probably, I said.

“Lord Purleigh,” he corrected, sadness in his voice. “Poor Lord Purleigh. The death of his father has affected him deeply.”

“Yeah.”

“Tomorrow, no doubt, he will feel terrible about his behavior tonight.”

“He’ll feel terrible anyway. He put away a quart of brandy this afternoon. And more, maybe, later on.”

“Alcohol,” he said, and shook his head. “It destroys muscle tissue, you know. Eats it away, like sulfuric acid.”

“I’ve heard that, yeah.”

“Well,” he smiled, and clapped me on the shoulder again. “To bed then, eh? Pleasant dreams, Phil.”

“You too, Harry.”

“Ugh,” he said. “Ha ha.” Cackling, shaking his head, he padded from the room.

I waited on the bed. In ten minutes, I heard him finish in the bathroom. In another fifteen, I heard his snoring start in the bedroom. At twelve-thirty, I got up and left.

“COME IN,” SAID Mrs. Corneille. I stepped in and she shut the door.

I was still wearing my rented dinner jacket. She was wearing her red robe, its dark silk looking sleek and bright below the bright sleek spill of black hair. Between the scarlet neck of the robe and the marble neck of Mrs. Corneille, on both sides, ran a slender frill of black lace nightgown. She wasn’t wearing a corset beneath the nightgown, or much of anything else.

“Please,” she said, “do sit down.” She indicated a small love seat along the wall, braced by two end tables. “May I pour you a brandy?”

“Sure,” I said. “Thanks.”

I sat.

This room, which was a bedroom in the suite I shared, and in the suite shared by Mrs. Allardyce and Miss Turner, was a kind of parlor here. Off to the left was the door that led to her bedroom.

The furniture here was just as old as the furniture in mine, but it was light and feminine, with a lot of fluffs and flounces and floral patterns. There were old paintings on the walls misty landscapes and pictures of vases filled with flowers. There were more flowers, maybe just as old, embroidered into the carpets on the floor. And more of them, older still, embroidered into the scent of her perfume.

She poured brandy from a pale green bottle into two snifters that sat on a dark wood sideboard. She set down the bottle, lifted the snifters, and carried them over. She stepped lightly around the coffee table and she handed me a snifter and sat down on my left. She moved like someone who had practiced moving, years ago, until she got it exactly right and then never needed to think about it ever again.

She sat with her body leaning slightly toward the room and her knees together beneath the robe. To the late Earl, she said, and raised her glass.

I raised mine. “To the Earl.” I sipped at the brandy. “You knew he was dead,” I said. “Before the seance.”

“Alice told me.” She lowered the snifter to her lap and held it with both hands. “Are you really planning to fight with David tomorrow morning?”

“Looks like it.”

“You feel that this is absolutely necessary?”

“It is now.”

“I’ve heard that David’s a very good boxer.”

“He probably is.”

“And what does Mr. Houdini think about this?”

“He thinks it’ll be a swell performance.”

She raised an eyebrow. “He isn’t concerned for you?”

“Everything Harry does, he does better than anyone in the world. He probably thinks that I wouldn’t have gotten into this unless I could pull it off.”

“And can you?”

“I guess we’ll find out.”

“You aren’t concerned for yourself?”

“Wouldn’t help any.”

She sipped at her brandy, eyed me over the snifter. “Is that bravery speaking, or stupidity?”

“Stupidity, probably.”

She smiled. “But just now, shouldn’t you be getting some rest?

I know I asked you here, but that was before this bout of yours was arranged. I shouldn’t be offended if you wish to leave.”

“Thanks,” I said, “but I’m not tired. What did you think about the seance?”

“We’re changing the subject, are we?”

“Yeah.”

“Well,” she said. She looked down, smoothed the robe along her thigh, looked up again. “I thought it was a charming piece of theater. I understand how they did most of it, I think. They re working together, of course. Madame Sosostris and her husband.”

I nodded, sipped at my brandy.

“The roses,” she said. “They were in her wheelchair, beneath that gown of hers. Mr. Dempsey released her hand and she simply reached down and retrieved them. And then tossed them onto the table.”

I nodded again.

“And the bell and the trumpet,” she said. “She keeps them beneath her gown as well.”

“The chains, too.” I had figured most of this out, too, even before the Great Man explained it all.

Her red lips tightened thoughtfully. ‘ That thing that touched me on the shoulder. Could that’ve been one of those extending tools that shopkeepers use? Do you know what I mean? To reach something on an upper shelf?”

“Probably.”

“When Running Bear-” She smiled suddenly, amused at herself. “When Madame Sosostris was talking about the Earl, she said that he’d imposed his sick desires upon an innocent young woman. Presumably she meant the kitchen maid, the woman that Briggs mentioned to you in the library.”

“Darleen.”

“Yes.” She frowned. “Briggs is a bit of a cad. Telling tales on his employer. And on a former sweetheart.”

“Not a very nice guy,” I agreed.

“He must’ve given the same information to Madame Sosostris. And told her of the Earl’s death.”

“If it was Briggs, he didn’t give it to her.”

She smiled. “He sold it, you mean. I’m sure you’re right.” Her face went serious again. “But what did she mean, do you think- Madame Sosostris-when she said that the Earl hadn't ended his life? She said that his life had been taken.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “That was when Lord Purleigh showed up.”

“Yes.” She sighed, softly shook her head. Lamplight shimmered along the black sheen of her hair. “Poor Robert. For years he’s been telling people he wanted his father dead. Now that it’s actually happened, I think he’s rather at a loss. I feel terribly for him. He’s such a sweet man.”

“What does Lady Purleigh think?”

“Regarding the Earl’s death?”

“Yeah. Was she surprised?”

“Surprised? Yes, of course. Wouldn’t anyone be?”

“Sometimes people see it coming.”

“But Alice didn’t. She was shocked. She told me she couldn’t imagine why he’d do such a thing.”

Just then, I think, she realized she was talking about friends of hers, and to a stranger. Smiling, she changed the subject. “But the two of them are quite good, aren’t they? Madame Sosostris and her husband. It was quite an accomplishment, I thought, producing all those apparitions without giving themselves away. And with people sitting on either side of them, holding their hands.”

“Practice,” I said.

She cocked her head. “But in a way, you know, I was… rather disappointed.” She moved her shoulders in a small, dismissive shrug. “I’d been hoping for something more, I suppose.”

“Real ghosts?”

“Something with a less obvious explanation. A more persuasive apparition, perhaps. Something surprising.”

“You seemed a bit surprised there, for a second or two.”

Her face was calm but those black, almond-shaped eyes were watchful. “Oh?”

“When your daughter was mentioned.”

“Yes,” she said.

“It caught you off guard,” I said.

“Yes.” She looked down, lightly ran the tip of her finger along the rim of the snifter. “Not everyone knows about my daughter.” She looked up at me. “But Alice does, which no doubt means that her servants know as well. Including Briggs, I imagine.”

I nodded.

“But why should they bother learning about my daughter?” she asked me. “Why choose me?”

“You have money.”

She blinked her long black lashes. Money was something that wasn’t discussed in polite conversation. Then she understood what I meant and her eyebrows lowered. “You’re saying that they found out about Esme, and they deliberately used the information to impress me, to bring me into… To…” She frowned impatiently. “What is the word I’m looking for?”

“Enlist?”

“To enlist me as one of their followers?”

“Probably.”

She stared at me for a moment, her wide red mouth open, her black eyes narrowed. Finally she said, “But that’s filthy.” She looked off, her mouth grim now. “That’s vile. ”

“Yeah.”

She drank some more brandy.

“How old was your daughter?” I asked her.

Still looking off, she said, “Five.”

“When did she die?”

“Six years ago.” She turned to me. “I’d prefer not to talk about her, if you don’t mind.”

“Fine.”

“Tell me something,” she said. I think she heard her own voice, heard how curt it sounded. She added, “Would you?”

“Sure.”

“Why were you asking Briggs all those questions?”

“That’s what I do for a living.”

“Yes, but why those questions, and why Briggs? The Earl committed suicide. It’s a tragedy, of course, a terrible tragedy, but it has nothing to do with this magician you're after, this Chin Soo.”

“Probably not. I’m just basically nosy.”

“Tell me about this Chin Soo.”

I told her. It took a while but she listened well. When she asked a question, which wasn’t often, it was a good question. From time to time her glance dipped down toward my mouth and then slipped back up. It made me very conscious of my mouth. And very conscious of hers-I realized that my own glance was doing pretty much the same thing, sliding down along her cheekbones to flick against her wide red lips, then darting back up to her almondshaped eyes.

When I was finished, she said, “You no longer believe that it was Chin Soo who fired that rifle this afternoon.” She looked at the clock on the end table, looked back at me, smiled. “Yesterday afternoon.”

“No,” I said.

“You believe that it was one of us. One of the guests.”

I nodded. “Yeah. There were four guests who weren’t on the lawn. Four guests who could’ve fired the rifle. Lady Purleigh, Cecily Fitzwilliam, Dr. Auerbach, and Sir David. Can you think of any reason why one of them would want to shoot at anybody?

Shoot at you, for example?”

“ Me?” She laughed. “You can’t really think that someone was shooting at me?”

“Someone was getting shot at. If it wasn’t Harry, it had to be one of you.”

“But it couldn’t possibly have been me. It couldn't have been any of us, but who on earth would shoot at me?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t really see Lady Purleigh or Cecily using a rifle. Dr. Auerbach has an alibi, or says he has. Besides, you never met him before this weekend. Or did you?”

“No. He’s a friend of a friend of Alice’s. He learned about the seance and asked Alice if he could attend.”

“That leaves Sir David.”

She laughed again. “David? Why would David want to shoot me?”

“I don’t know.”

“Really, Mr. Beaumont, the idea is ridiculous. I’ve known David for years. He can be unpleasant, he often is unpleasant, as you saw for yourself, but he’d never shoot anyone. And he certainly wouldn’t shoot me.”

She leaned slightly toward me and gave me a martini smile dry, with a twist of lemon in it. The scent of her perfume grew stronger. She said, “I think you’ve been letting your imagination get the better of you.”

“Maybe. That happens.”

She leaned away but her perfume hung there in the air between us like an invitation, or a promise. She said, “And why are you so concerned about the gunshot in any case? If, as you say, it wasn’t fired by Chin Soo?”

“Habit.”

“Ah,” she said. “You told me in the garden that smoking cigarettes wasn’t one of your bad habits. Is this one of them?”

“Which?”

“Asking these questions.”

I shrugged. “Like I said. It’s what I do for a living.”

She eased herself comfortably back against the love seat and she looked over at me. “What are your bad habits?”

“Is that why you asked me here? To find out about my bad habits?”

“Among other things.” She raised the snifter to her mouth, sipped at it.

“Which other things?”

“I told you in the library. Alice is a friend of mine. If you’re asking questions about her household, I’d like to know why.”

“And like I said then, do you feel better now?”

She smiled. “Not remarkably so. Not yet.”

“Not yet?”

The black eyes were staring steadily into mine. She was holding the brandy snifter lightly in both hands, the index finger of her right hand pointed upward. The polish on her long nail was the same bright red as her lips.

She said, “Are you quite certain you don’t feel like resting?”

I could hear the ticking of the clock on the end table. I took in a breath. It seemed to me that all the air in the room had been replaced by the scent of her perfume. “Not yet,” I said.

“Then don’t you think,” she said, “that you’re a trifle overdressed?”

I smiled. I turned, set my brandy on the end table, turned back to her. I reached for her glass and she handed it to me. I set it beside my own. When I turned back again, her head was back and her black hair was fanned across the cushion of the love seat. The black eyes were staring up at me, the wide red lips were parted in another smile.

I leaned toward her.

Someone knocked at the door.

It had a tentative sound, two or three light raps, as though the knocker, whoever it was, didn’t really want to bother anyone this late at night.

I sat up.

Without moving her head from the cushion, Mrs. Corneille reached out and put her hand on my arm. “They’ll go away,” she said softly.

The knocking came again, harder.

“I don’t think so,” I said.

She sighed, lightly squeezed my arm, and stood up. “Don't move,” she said.

She waltzed around the coffee table and across the carpet to the door. She opened it a few inches, craned her head around its edge, and suddenly she said, “Jane!”

She opened wide the door and stepped out into the hallway, then stepped back into the room with her arm around Miss Turner’s shoulders.

Miss Turner’s brown hair was loose, tumbling to her shoulders. She was wearing her gray robe. It was streaked with dust and spotted with clumps of what looked like fur. Her arms were hanging limply at her sides and in her right hand she held a shiny double-bladed dagger.

I stood up.

Miss Turner saw me and she said, “Oh!” Her blue eyes flew open as she wheeled to face Mrs. Corneille. She put her hand to her chest, the hand that held the dagger, its bright blade aimed toward the floor. “I didn’t know, I didn’t realize you had a guest. I’m so sorry!”

“It’s quite all right, Jane,” said Mrs. Corneille, and led her to the love seat. “Mr. Beaumont and I were just talking. Here. Do sit down.”

A gentleman might have offered to leave the parlor right about then. I took a few steps sideways, to give Miss Turner room on the love seat. Still gripping the dagger between her breasts, her knuckles white, she sat down and she leaned forward, balancing herself on the edge of the cushion. She looked up at me and suddenly her face and her throat went red. It made the blue of her eyes seem deeper and brighter. She looked away and then looked back, her lashes fluttering. “I’m sorry,” she told me. “I truly am. I didn’t mean to disturb anyone.”

She looked up at Mrs. Corneille, who stood bending over her, her hand on Miss Turner’s shoulder. “I think it would be best if I left,” Miss Turner said.

“Jane, really, don’t be silly,” said Mrs. Corneille. She looked at me. “Please, Mr. Beaumont. Sit.”

I sat.

Miss Turner said, “I…” She looked down at the dagger. She held it out, away from her, and she stared at it as if she couldn't understand how it gotten there.

“Why don’t I just take that,” said Mrs. Corneille. I didn’t say anything-if there had been any other fingerprints on the knife, they were gone now, smeared by Miss Turner’s. Mrs. Corneille reached out and Miss Turner surrendered the weapon, then winced and wiped her hand on her thigh as if her palm were bloody.

Standing upright, Mrs. Corneille examined the knife. Both the blade and the ornately carved handle were silver. “It’s very pretty, Jane,” she said. “Wherever did you find it?”

Miss Turner’s hands clutched at each other on her lap. She looked up said, “It was in my bed. I think someone tried to kill me.” She turned to me. “Does that sound utterly insane?”

I said, “Not if they used that knife.”

“You were in bed,” said Mrs. Corneille, “and someone tried to kill you?”

Miss Turner shook her head. “No, no. I was in the Earl’s room when it happened.”

Mrs. Corneille looked at me, looked back at Miss Turner. She nodded. “This sounds as though it may take a while. Would you like a brandy, Jane?”

“Yes,” said Miss Turner. “Please. Very much.”

“You sit back,” said Mrs. Corneille. “Relax. No one will harm you here.”

“Yes,” said Miss Turner. She sat back, glanced quickly around the room again. She took a long deep shuddery breath. “Yes,” she said.

She peered down at herself and she sat forward. “Oh dear,” she said. Her voice was higher now, and it sounded as if it might crack. “What a fright I look.” She brushed at the front of her robe and then plucked away a tuft of what I’d thought was fur. It wasn’t fur. It was a flattened dustball, the kind that grows underneath sofas and beds if you don’t sweep often enough. Wincing again, her mouth twisted, she shook it from her hands, then quickly rubbed her fingers on the robe.

Those sapphire eyes were a bit wild and I thought she might leap up and run away. Out the door, maybe out the window.

She didn’t. The eyes closed and she took another deep breath. She set her mouth in a firm straight line. Then she opened her eyes and looked over at Mrs. Corneille, who was pouring brandy into another snifter. With only a thin ribbon of strain left in her voice, she said, “I feel as though I’ve been pestering people and making a fool of myself all weekend.”

She was a real surprise, Miss Turner. A stronger woman than she seemed.

“Not at all,” said Mrs. Corneille. She set down the botde and carried the snifter over to Miss Turner. She had left the dagger beside the brandy bottle on the sideboard. “Only a fool,” she said, “can actually make a fool of herself.”

Miss Turner smiled with a kind of tentative irony. “Perhaps that’s why I’ve succeeded so well.”

“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Corneille. “Here you are. Have a big swallow now.”

“Thank you,” said Miss Turner. Her right hand was unsteady and the brandy shivered against the curved walls of the glass. She put both hands around the snifter and raised it to her mouth and she took a swallow that would’ve done Lord Bob proud. She sat back and closed her eyes and screwed up her face.

Mrs. Corneille smiled. “You needn t swallow like that again. Unless you want to, of course. I’ll fetch a chair.

I stood, but she waved me back down. She stepped over to a spindly wooden desk, lifted the spindly wooden chair from beneath it, carried it over to us and placed it a few feet from Miss Turner.

She picked up the two brandy snifters from the end table, leaned around Miss Turner to hand me mine, and then she sat down, her back straight. “Now,” she said to Miss Turner. “Do you feel better?”

Her lower lip caught between her teeth, Miss Turner had been staring at the snifter on her lap as though there were a message floating across the surface of the brandy. She looked up at Mrs. Corneille. “Yes,” she said. Her voice was small. “I think I do. Thank you.”

“Not at all. Now. You must tell us all about it.”

Miss Turner moved her shoulders in a frail shrug. She smiled hopelessly. “I’m not at all sure where to begin, really.”

“Well,” said Mrs. Corneille. “We tried starting in the middle and that didn’t work terribly well. At the risk of sounding obvious, why don’t we try starting at the beginning. Why did you go to the Earl’s room?”

Miss Turner took another swallow of brandy. “Because of something Madame Sosostris said. At the seance.” She looked at me.

I smiled and I nodded. That was supposed to encourage her. “Madame Sosostris?” said Mrs. Corneille.

“Yes. She was talking about the Earl-she was Running Bear then, do you remember?”

“Yes?”

“She was Running Bear-playing the part, I mean-and she was talking about the Earl. She said that the Earl felt guilty now, because he’d imposed his sick desires on an innocent young woman. He felt tortured about it, she said. Well, it occurred to me that I was the woman Madame Sosostris meant.”

Mrs. Corneille smiled as though she hadn’t really followed all that. “You?”

“Yes,” said Miss Turner. She leaned toward Mrs. Corneille. “Don’t you see? The ghost. Lord Reginald. The ghost that came to my room last night. That was no ghost. It was the Earl.” She looked at me. I remembered to smile and nod some more.

Mrs. Corneille glanced at me and then looked back at Miss Turner. “But Jane,” she said. “The Earl was bedridden. Paralyzed.” “Yes,” said Miss Turner, nodding, excited now, “that’s what I told myself. But then I thought, what if he weren’t? What if he were only shamming? He knows Maplewhite. He’s lived here all his life. It would’ve been so easy for him to sneak into my room, and then run out again, while I was behaving like an hysterical schoolgirl. He could’ve slipped right past Mrs. Allardyce. It takes her forever to wake up.”

I said, “Mrs. Allardyce said she woke up when you screamed the first time.”

Miss Turner shook her head. “But that’s not possible. He had to run past her, in order to leave the room. I’m sure he must have done. I’ve been going over it tonight, trying to remember.”

“You told me,” I said, “that you weren’t sleeping when it all happened.”

“No.” She drank some brandy. “I was just lying there, in the darkness. And then, as I told you, I heard a sound, a sort of clicking noise, and I rolled over and switched on the light. And he was standing there. At the foot of the bed. Wearing an old nightgown. He had long white hair and a long white beard-I mentioned

that, didn’t I?”

I nodded. “And you screamed?”

“No,” she said. “No, not then. I think I was too frightened. To do anything, really. And then he…” Her eyelashes fluttered. “And then he did something. And said something.”

So she hadn’t told me the truth before, or all of it. “Did what?”

I asked. “Said what?”

She took another deep breath, and I got the feeling that she was steeling herself to get through this. It was the same feeling I’d gotten this afternoon, when she thanked me in the hallway.

But she didn’t talk to me this time. She turned to Mrs. Corneille. “He pulled up his nightgown,” she said, her voice flat and deliberate, “and raised it to his stomach. He was… naked. And he said”-she swallowed-“he said, ‘Want a nice little piece of this, dearie?’ ”

She was trying to be cool and detached, but the skin of her face had gone pink. I hadn’t noticed before, but it was very nice skin. It was a very nice face.

Mrs. Corneille frowned, looked at me, looked back at Miss Turner. “You honestly believe that the Earl of Axminster did that?”

“Yes,” said Miss Turner, leaning toward her over the brandy snifter, as if trying to convince her by intensity alone. “It must have been the Earl.”

“Okay,” I said. “What happened then?”

She swallowed again and sat back. “He made a move toward me, as if he were going to climb onto the bed. He was still holding up his nightgown. That was when I screamed. I screamed once, and he stopped moving. He seemed rather alarmed himself, actually.”

She smiled faintly. “In a different context, I suppose, it might have been almost comical. He dropped his nightgown and he looked around the room as though he were afraid that someone had heard me. And then I screamed again and I snatched up a pillow and threw it at him. Then I rolled off the bed, to the floor.” She took a breath. “I don’t know what I was thinking to do down there-simply trying to get away, I expect. I scrambled across the carpet to the wall. And then I turned around, and he was gone. Vanished. I pulled myself up from the floor and I looked all around and I couldn’t see him. That was when I ran into the other room. The-Mrs. Allardyce was just getting out of bed.”

“So there was time,” I said, “for the ghost, or whoever, to get past her.”

“There must’ve been,” she told me. She looked back at Mrs. Corneille. “Don’t you see? It was the Earl.”

“Jane,” said Mrs. Corneille, and her voice was kind. “You said at breakfast this morning that you’d dreamed the ghost.”

Miss Turner shook her head. “I was embarrassed. And confused.

I didn’t want to believe that I’d actually seen… what I’d seen. She turned to me. “You suggested as much, when I saw you on the lawn this afternoon. You said that I sounded as though I were trying to persuade myself. And you were right.”

“But Jane,” said Mrs. Corneille, “do I understand you correctly? Are you saying that the Earl’s ghost is actually feeling guilty about this attack on you, and that somehow that Spirit Guide of Madame Sosostris-”

“No, no, no.” Miss Turner shook her head so vigorously that her hair whipped back and forth. “No, I don’t believe in any of that. Spirit Guides, the afterlife. But I’ve read about mediums, people like Madame Sosostris. They obtain their information from whatever sources they can find, don’t they? From newspapers, from servants, wherever. And that’s what she must've done, don't you see? One of the servants must’ve known it was the Earl in my room last night, and he told Madame Sosostris.”

“But Jane,” said Mrs. Corneille. Then she frowned, as if reconsidering what she’d been about to say. Her cigarette case and a box of matches lay on the coffee table. She set her snifter on the table and picked them up.

“Okay,” I said. “So you went to the Earl’s room. You were looking for proof.”

She nodded to me and then turned to Mrs. Corneille. “It was wrong of me, I realize. Sneaking about at night. But I could hardly go to Lady Purleigh and ask her about it. And I simply had to know. Can you understand that? I’d been thinking I was going mad.”

Mrs. Corneille smiled at her. “I told you last night, Jane. You’re probably the sanest of us all.” She had one of her brown cigarettes free now. She put it between her lips.

“I very much doubt that,” said Miss Turner, and smiled another weak smile. “But thank you.”

I leaned toward Mrs. Corneille, reaching for the matches, but she shook her head. She struck a match herself and held the flame to the cigarette.

Miss Turner turned to me. “So, yes,” she said, “after the seance I asked the footman, Parsons, where the Earl’s room was located. And then later, after midnight, I went up there.” For some reason she blushed again. Again it deepened the blue of her eyes. She looked away from me.

Mrs. Corneille had blown out the match. She sat there, immobile, holding it over the ashtray, watching Miss Turner. She said, “But you didn’t find anything?”

“Not at first.”

Mrs. Corneille arched her eyebrows and dropped the match into the ashtray.

She looked everywhere, Miss Turner said. In the wardrobe, in the bookcase, in drawers of the cabinet. She had no idea what she was looking for-but whatever it was, she didn’t find it. After a while she gave up. She had closed the door before she turned on the overhead light. Then she walked over to the entrance, turned off the light, and opened the door a crack to peek out.

She saw candlelight moving toward her in the darkness, through the parlor.

“Who was holding the candle?” I asked her.

“I don’t know. I couldn’t tell. All I could see was the light, coming closer.”

“What happened?”

“I closed the door,” said Miss Turner, “and I fumbled about in the darkness until I found the bed. And then I crawled beneath it.

She waited there, lying on the hard wooden floor amid the dust and the bits of fluff. The door opened and the thin wobbling light of the candle moved through the room. Miss Turner tried not to breathe.

From beneath the bed, in the dimness, she could just make out the feet of the person holding the candle. It was a woman.

I said, “What kind of shoes was she wearing?”

“Boots,” said Miss Turner. “A woman’s boots. And a long dress or skirt. Black. It came down to her ankles.”

Mrs. Corneille took a drag from her cigarette.

“Okay,” I said to Miss Turner. “Then what happened?”

The woman sat down on the bed, said Miss Turner. Just sat there. Said nothing. Did nothing. Miss Turner kept herself frozen in position. Pale yellow light trembled around the room.

And then she realized that the woman was crying.

“Not loudly,” she said. “Not sobbing or wailing. Just a small, quiet sort of private weeping. The way people sometimes do when they’re alone, remembering someone.”

Mrs. Corneille pursed her lips and sighed out two small silent streamers of smoke.

Miss Turner turned to her. “I felt badly for her,” she said. “Isn’t that absurd? I was lying there under the bed like a spy, and I had virtually no idea who she was or why she was crying, and I felt badly for her.”

Mrs. Corneille smiled. “It isn’t absurd at all, Jane.”

“How long was she there?” I asked her.

“Five minutes,” she said. “Perhaps longer. I don’t know, really. It seemed like years.”

Finally the woman got up from the bed and walked out, closing the door behind her. Miss Turner waited a few moments, and then began to move out from beneath the bed. As she did, her hand plunged through the floorboards, down into a kind of hole. She felt something inside there.

“At first,” she said, “I thought it was a rat, something alive, and I nearly screamed.”

But whatever it was, it didn’t move. Miss Turner slid away from the bed, turned on the end table’s electric lamp, and looked more closely.

One rectangular section of planking had been sawed free and made into a kind of lid for a box built under the floorboards.

“And it wasn’t a rat I’d found,” she said, and there was a small light of triumph in her blue eyes. Miss Turner was coming to her proof. Holding the brandy snifter in her right hand, she reached into the left-hand pocket of her bathrobe and pulled something out. “It was this.”

It looked pretty much like a dead white rat. About eight inches long, dense and furry. Then Miss Turner bent forward, set down her brandy, and spread the thing out along the coffee table.

It had scraggly white sideburns and, in its middle, an opening for a mouth.

A false beard.

“There was a wig in there as well,” said Miss Turner. “Made of the same material. And these.” She shifted the snifter to her left hand and reached into the right pocket of her robe and pulled out a handful of small items. She dumped them onto the table.

“Jane!” said Mrs. Corneille, sounding surprised. “You took them from the Earl’s room?”

“He took them first,” she said. She set down the brandy snifter and she picked up one of the items. “This is my comb. Here on the back, you can see where I’ve scratched my initials into the tortoise shell. It went missing sometime today. I didn’t think much about it-so much else has happened. But it was taken from my room. And it was taken by the Earl.”

Mrs. Corneille stubbed her cigarette into the ashtray and looked up at me.

I looked at the knickknacks scattered across the table.

An inexpensive metal watch fob. A pencil stub. A copper button. A metal nail file with an ebony handle. A shaving brush. A small key.

“My goodness,” said Mrs. Corneille. She reached forward, picked up the file, examined it. “But this is mine, ” she told me. I hadn’t even realized it was gone.”

I leaned forward and lifted the key from the table. A simple key, base metal. I could just make out, stamped along its shaft, tiny letters that spelled out Mueller and Kohl.

“Is it yours?” asked Miss Turner.

“No,” I said. “But I know what it opens.”

“And what’s that?” asked Mrs. Corneille.

“A pair of handcuffs.”

“The handcuffs belong to Mr. Houdini?” Mrs. Corneille asked me.

“In a way,” I said. I slipped the key into the pocket of my dinner jacket. I said to Miss Turner, “Tell me about the knife.”

She sat back. She was a bit breathless again, as though she had just physically relived the whole thing. She drank some brandy.

“Well,” she said, and she inhaled deeply once more. “I wanted to tell someone. Show someone what I’d found.” She looked over at Mrs. Corneille. “I thought about coming to you, to discuss it. But it was late, and there didn’t seem to be any real urgency. I told myself that it could wait until tomorrow morning. So I returned to my room.”

She paused to sip her brandy. “Mrs. Allardyce was still asleep, and she didn’t wake when I tiptoed past her. She’s a very sound sleeper.” She blinked. “But I’ve said that.” She turned to me. “Haven’t I?” I think she was beginning to feel the brandy.

I nodded.

“Yes,” she said. “Well. I’d put a bolster on the bed, under the blanket, when I left, and I’d arranged it to look like someone sleeping. To look like me sleeping, on my side. I didn’t really expect Mrs. Allardyce to come into my room, but I wanted to make certain that if she did, she’d think I was still asleep. When I came back and switched on the light, the bolster and the blanket were just as I’d left them. But the knife was… sticking out. I stood there and I went through one of those incredibly stupid moments, telling myself, But I didn’t leave that there. It seemed so strange-the knife, I mean-so bizarrely out of place. And then I understood what must’ve happened, and I started to shake. The knife was in exactly the spot where my chest would've been.”

She turned to Mrs. Corneille. “It was extraordinary, really. You read about people shaking when they’re frightened, and you think it’s a figure of speech. But I was literally quaking.” Her voice was level, but she used both hands again when she lifted her brandy to her lips.

Mrs. Corneille touched her knee. “But it’s all over now, Jane. And you removed the knife and you brought it here.”

“Yes. And I apologize for-”

“Hush, dear,” said Mrs. Corneille. “You did absolutely the right thing. You’ve been terribly brave.” She sat back and looked at me. She said, “Who could’ve done that?”

“The knife?” I said. “I don’t know.”

“But it’s horrid.”

I nodded.

“Someone meant to kill her?” she asked me.

“Sounds like it.”

“But that’s insane,” said Mrs. Corneille. “Why? Why would anyone want to harm Jane?”

I looked at the young woman. “Miss Turner? You have any ideas?”

She widened her eyes and arched her eyebrows, surprised at the question itself, or maybe at my asking it. Then she smiled another small smile that was both tentative and ironic. “Well,” she said, “Mrs. Allardyce wasn’t altogether pleased with the way I packed the luggage.”

I grinned. A real surprise, Miss Turner.

“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.

“Phil?”

My eyes fluttered open. Slowly. Reluctantly. While I was asleep someone had pried out my eyeballs, dipped them in sand, then hammered them back into their sockets.

“Phil?”

The Great Man. He stood beside my bed, wearing a dark gray three-piece suit. He looked fresh and chipper and eager. If I’d had the Colt in my hand I would have shot him.

“Phil,” he said, “it is a quarter after six.”

“Uh-huh.”

“It is time. Sir David.” He grinned at me and clapped his hands together. “Up and at him, Phil!”

“Yeah.” I closed my eyes. “Yeah. You go ahead, Harry. I’ll meet you downstairs.”

“But Phil. I am your second. We must arrive together.”

I opened my eyes again and looked up at the ceiling. It hung over me like a huge white anvil about to fall. “Right. Right. Okay.”

I rolled out of bed, groaning, and I cranked myself upright. My muscles were stiff, my joints were grainy.

Sunlight was trembling throughout the room. England is only a few miles south of the North Pole and in summer the days are longer, at both ends, than they have any right to be.

I staggered past the Great Man into the bathroom. I stripped off my pajamas, stepped into the bathtub, got down on my hands and knees, and turned on the cold water. I leaned my head into the stream. It hit me like a sledgehammer.

"Well now, MR. Beaumont,” said Inspector Marsh. “You’ve been at Maplewhite for a while now. A houseguest since Friday evening, I take it. And you’re a Pinkerton, a trained investigator, hmmm?” He smiled. “Really a stroke of luck for us, our having you here.”

I wondered if he were pulling my leg. It was something I wondered the entire time I talked to him.

He turned to Sergeant Meadows. “ ’ Tis a lucky day, boy, and we’ll do good deeds on’t. ” Sergeant Meadows nodded, without taking his eyes off me. Marsh turned back to me. “The Winter’s Tale. You know Shakespeare, do you, Mr. Beaumont?”

“Not personally.”

He chuckled. “Lovely. We’ll get along famously, you and I.” He smiled. “So you’ve been rattling about the manor house for two days now, in the very midst of all these mysterious goings-on. And no doubt you’ve kept your eyes open? Asked a question or two, have you? Confess now.” He smiled slyly, narrowing his eyes, and he waved a slender finger at me. “I see a strange confession in thine eye, do I not?”

I smiled. “Yeah. A question or two.”

“Well of course you have. Leopards and spots, eh? I couldn’t expect anything else.” He sat back comfortably, adjusted his pants legs to spare the crease, and he crossed his legs, right over left. “Well then, if you don’t mind, why not put the good sergeant and me into the picture.”

The three of us were in the library. Marsh and Sergeant Meadows sat on the sofa, across from my chair. The sergeant sat on Marsh’s left, a small notebook in his ample lap. In his late thirties, wearing a black suit, he was a big man, nearly as tall and as broad as Doyle. From a sharp widow’s peak, his black hair ran slick as a coat of lacquer back along his wide rectangular skull. His heavy jaw was sheened with blue-he had the kind of beard that probably grew back while he was rinsing the soap from his razor. There was a small scar, shaped like a comma, running vertically through the center of his thick left eyebrow, and his nose had been broken at least once and then badly reset. Police sergeants in England, it looked like, didn’t have any easier a life than police sergeants in the U.S.

Inspector Marsh was in his forties. His nose had never been broken. It was a narrow, aristocratic nose in a narrow, aristocratic, mobile face. The nose was delicate, like almost everything else about him-his fine brown hair, his eyebrows, his cheekbones, his pointed chin, his small chiseled mouth. The gray wool suit he wore, delicately pin-striped, had been delicately tailored to his slim athletic body. The point of a powder-blue handkerchief peeked delicately from the breast pocket of the coat. He looked so delicate that I was afraid he might float off the ground and sail away.

But delicate cops don’t last very long. And Marsh’s eyes-hazel, almost green-weren’t delicate at all. His face seemed open and without guile. He smiled as he bantered at me, and he pursed his lips together, or nibbled the lower lip between small white teeth. Every so often he wiggled his eyebrows, or dipped them, or raised them in surprise or amusement. But whenever he looked at me his eyes were always the same-cool and shrewd and watchful.

It had been his idea to talk to me alone. Out on the patio, Lord Bob had introduced himself to the Inspector, and then introduced everyone else. Lady Purleigh, Cecily, Sir Arthur, the Great Man. And Sir David, who was up off the ground now but still a little blurry. Lord Bob had introduced me last, as “Houdini’s Pinkerton bodyguard.”

Marsh had smiled at me and said, “Lovely! A Pinkerton. In the flesh. Wonderful!” He had turned to Lord Bob and his thin, mobile face had suddenly gone grave. “Lord Purleigh, permit me to offer you my condolences. Irreparable is the loss, and patience says it is past her cure. The Tempest.”

Lord Bob blinked. “Yes. Well. Thank you very much.”

Marsh leaned toward him. “Now, you’ll think me terribly rude,

I know, and I do beg your forgiveness, but is there some secluded little corner into which I can tiptoe with Mr. Beaumont? We’ve things to discuss.” He lowered his voice and his eyebrows. “Rather important matters, you understand. Hush hush.”

Lord Bob had seemed a bit surprised. By the request, or maybe by Inspector Marsh himself. Inspector Marsh would surprise almost anyone. But Lord Bob was a gentleman, and he said, “Well, yes. Yes, of course. There’s the library.”

“The library!” said Marsh, eyes wide with pleasure. “Perfect!” He cocked his head. “ Come and take choice of all my library, and so beguile thy sorrow. Titus Andronicus.”

Lord Bob stared at him. Marsh turned to me. “Do you know the library’s location?”

I nodded.

“Lovely. Lady Purleigh. Lord Purleigh. Ladies and gentlemen. I hope you’ll all forgive this intrusion. Police, officialdom, nasty business you’ll be thinking, and I couldn’t agree with you more. But I do hope you’ll all bear with me whilst I briefly huddle with Mr. Beaumont. I do so much look forward to chatting with each and every one of you.”

Lord Bob wasn’t the only person staring.

And Marsh had turned to me, smiling. “Lead on, MacDuff. Now, as I sat there in the library, still in my shirtsleeves, I asked him, “Shall I start at the beginning?”

He smiled as if that was an idea he wouldn’t have thought of himself, and one he kind of liked. “Yes, at the beginning. The very commencement of things. Mr. Houdini hired you in the United States, did he?”

“Yeah.” I told him the whole story, the Great Man and Chin Soo in Buffalo, the failed attack at the Hotel Ardmore in Philadelphia, our trip to Paris and then to London, the wire from the agency telling me that Chin Soo had probably sailed from New York to Rotterdam.

After a while, March listened with his head resting against the back of the sofa, his eyes watching the ceiling. His right elbow was perched on the sofa’s arm, his forearm was raised and his index finger extended, its tip resting against the delicate hollow of his right cheek.

“Hmmm,” he said, still staring at the ceiling. He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “So, really, you’ve no evidence that this other magician ever arrived in England at all.”

“No,” I said. “But Houdini’s itinerary was published in the American newspapers before we left. And there was the wire from my agency. I had to assume that Chin Soo knew where to find him.”

He lowered his head and smiled at me. “But my dear fellow, of course you did. I’m in no way criticizing, I assure you. I’ve the utmost respect for your organization, and I’m confident you’ve acted with complete propriety. Absolutely certain of it. I'm merely organizing my thoughts.” He smiled and waved his hand. “ Unbridled children, grown too headstrong for their mother. Troilus and Cressida.”

I nodded.

“So,” he said. “You arrived here on Friday night, yes?” “Right.”

“At what time would that’ve been?”

I told him. I told him about meeting the other guests, and about leaving the drawing room to return to the suite I shared with the Great Man. Told him I’d discovered that someone had gone through my bag, told him the Great Man had discovered that someone had tried to go through his.

“Aha,” he said. “The plot thickens. Was anything taken?” he asked me.

“No.”

“Didn’t you find that just a trifle curious?”

“No. There wasn’t anything worth taking.”

He smiled at Sergeant Meadows. " They are but beggars who can count their worth.” To me he said, “Romeo and Juliet.

“Uh-huh.”

“And you did-what exactly? Reported the attempted theft to anyone? To Lord Purleigh, perhaps?”

“No. Everything was still there. I went to bed. During the night I heard someone screaming.”

Marsh looked at Sergeant Meadows. “Thicker and thicker, eh, Sergeant?” He looked at me. “And did you make any attempt to discover the cause of this screaming?” He smiled his sly smile and waved his finger again. “If I know my Pinkertons, I’ll wager you did.”

“Yeah. It was Miss Turner, next door.” I didn’t mention that I was awake at the time, and talking to Cecily Fitzwilliam. I told him about the scene with Miss Turner and Mrs. Allardyce, Mrs. Corneille and Sir David.

“Wonderful!” he said, smiling brightly and raising his hands. “A ghost! I adore ghosts. Lord Reginald, you say.”

“She said. I didn’t.”

“No,” he agreed. “So you didn’t.” He leaned back. “And what sort of ghost was he, exactly? He wasn’t, by any chance, the sort who hobbled about with his head tucked beneath his arm?”

“No.”

“Rattling his chains?”

“No,” I said. “You want me to skip ahead? To what I found out about the ghost?”

He waved his hand quickly. “No, no, no. Please. I much prefer a straightforward narrative. An honest tale speeds best being plainly told.” Even when he didn’t tell you what play the quotation came from, you could still tell it was a quotation. His voice got more precise and even more delicate. “Tell me,” he said. “Was Miss Turner in any way harmed by this… visitation?”

“No. Shaken up. Frightened. Not harmed.”

He nodded. “And what then?”

“I went back to my room and back to sleep.”

“No more ghosts?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Pity. And the next day? Saturday?”

Someone knocked at the library door. “Come in,” Marsh called out.

The door opened and Briggs stepped in. He had no expression on his face this morning, but now he was carrying my coat and tie draped over his left arm. “Excuse me, gentlemen. Mr. Beaumont, sir, Lady Purleigh desired me to convey your clothing to you.”

I stood up. “Thanks, Mr. Briggs.” He crossed the room and handed me the tie-formally, as if it were a national flag. Then just as formally, he handed me the coat. I said, “Thank you. And tell Lady Purleigh thanks for me.” I swung the coat and tie over the arm of the chair and I sat back down.

“I shall, sir. She also desired to know, sir, whether you might wish to have your breakfast delivered here.”

“Yeah. That’d be fine, Mr. Briggs. Tell her that’s kind of her.”

“Yes, sir.” Briggs turned to Marsh. “And she requested that I ask you, sir, whether you and the other gentleman would care for something as well.”

Marsh smiled. “What a lovely idea.” He turned to me and confided “We’re both ravenous. Not a bite since London. Though the chameleon Love can feed on the air, I am one that am nourished by my victuals.” He turned to Briggs. “Two Gentlemen of Verona.”

Briggs nodded. Maybe he already knew that. “Yes, sir, he said. “I’ll tell Higgens, sir, and someone will be here shortly.”

“Lovely. Oh and-Briggs, is it?”

“Sir?”

“Briggs, would you please ask Lord and Lady Purleigh whether it might be convenient for them to join us here in, oh, say an hour?”

“Yes, sir. I shall, sir.”

“Thank you so much.”

Briggs turned and left. He closed the door behind him.

I hooked my tie over my head, slipped it beneath my collar. “You want me to take off when Lord and Lady Purleigh get here?”

For the first time Inspector Marsh seemed genuinely puzzled.

“Take what off?”

I smiled. “You want me to leave? Go away?”

“No, no. Of course not, my dear chap. We’re colleagues, aren't we. Allies to the end. And here being thus together, we are an endless mine to one another. The Two Noble Kinsmen.”

“Right.” I finished tying my tie.

He pursed his lips. “Of course, scholars disagree as to precisely how much of that particular work was actually written by the Bard.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Now,” he said. “We were about to review the events of Saturday.”

“Yeah.” I told him about breakfast with Lord Bob and about strolling with the Great Man along the gravel walkway. About the meeting with Miss Turner and her horse. I told him about sitting under the bronze-red tree with Mrs. Allardyce and Mrs. Corneille, and about Lord Bob arriving on his motorcycle. Told him that Miss Turner and the horse had suddenly come bolting from the forest, and that she had reined it in before she reached us.

Marsh had been staring at the ceiling but now his glance swung down to me once more. “What caused her to bolt from the forest? Do you know?”

“A snake, she said. It frightened her horse.”

“I see. And then what?”

Someone knocked at the door. “Come in,” called out Marsh.

It was a servant, pushing a wheeled cart. He arranged a low table in front of my chair, then slid a plate, covered with a silver lid, from one of the shelves of the cart and he placed it on the table. He arranged silverware and a linen napkin and a cup and saucer and a small pot each of tea and coffee. Then he did the same thing for Marsh and Sergeant Meadows, on the coffee table. Then he pushed the cart off into a corner, turned, and asked us, “Will there be anything else, gentlemen?”

Marsh smiled up at him. “No. Thank you very much.”

The servant said, “Very good, sir,” nodded, and marched from the room.

“They set a lovely table, Lord and Lady Purleigh.” Marsh nodded to my food. “Please. Eat. Enjoy your meal. Unquiet meals make ill digestion. ”

I lifted the lid from my plate. Fried eggs, bacon, sausage, fried tomatoes, buttered toast, a dead fish. I picked up the fork.

With his knife and fork, as precisely as a surgeon, Marsh cut a geometrically perfect square of egg white. He dipped the tip of his knife lightly into the bright yellow yolk, carefully spread yolk along the surface of the white, and then placed the result neatly in his mouth. He kept the fork in his left hand, the way English people do. He chewed with small even bites. Thoughtfully. Delicately. He swallowed and looked up at me, dabbing at his mouth with his napkin.

“Miss Turner had just arrived,” he said. “What happened at that point?”

I swallowed some sausage. “Someone fired a rifle.”

Marsh raised his eyebrows. “Fired a rifle. From where?” He cut off another perfect square of egg white.

Sergeant Meadows had set aside his notebook and he was eating as though he hadn’t eaten since the War. He was bent over his eggs and his heavy elbows were flapping like wings.

“From the forest,” I said. “About a hundred and fifty yards off. At the time, I thought he was aiming at Harry.” I cut off a piece of bacon, ate it.

Marsh carefully spread some yolk along the square. “You believed it was-what was the name? The magician?”

I swallowed. “Chin Soo.”

“You believed it was Chin Soo who fired the rifle.” He put the morsel of egg into his mouth.

“At the time, yeah.”

He chewed. Neatly. Regularly. He swallowed. He dabbed at his mouth. “You’re implying, of course, that you’ve since changed your mind.”

“Yeah.”

“Refresh my memory, would you? Which of the guests, exactly, were out gamboling on the lawn?”

Someone knocked at the door again.

“Rather like Victoria Station, isn’t it?” Marsh smiled. He called out, " Come in.”

The door burst open, banged against its stop, bounced back.

The Great Man caught it with his left hand as he stepped into the room, and he held it. “Phil,” he said. “We must leave.”

I swallowed some egg. “Why’s that, Harry?”

His brow was furrowed. “Bess.” He let the door swing shut and he walked into the room. “I spoke with her on the telephone just now. She rang from Paris. She intends to leave tonight. She will be in London tomorrow morning. Tomorrow morning, Phil. I must be there when she arrives.”

I looked at Inspector Marsh. He was smiling pleasantly up at the Great Man. “Forgive me,” he said. “Mr. Houdini?”

The Great Man turned to him, frowning impatiently.

Marsh said, “Who might Bess be, exactly?”

I kept eating. I had a feeling that breakfast would be over pretty soon.

“My dear wife,” said the Great Man. “She has been deathly ill in Paris. Her stomach. That awful food, all those sickening French sauces. She is better now, thank goodness, well enough to travel now. It has been a huge pleasure to meet you, Inspector, and I am sorry we shall have no opportunity to talk. But Mr. Beaumont and I must leave Maplewhite.”

I finished off my egg.

“Yes,” said Marsh. “So you said. You do understand, don’t you, Mr. Houdini, that this is a police investigation?”

Sergeant Meadows was pouring himself a cup of coffee. It looked like a good idea, so I did the same thing.

The Great Man was frowning. Impatiently. “Of course I understand. But I am merely a guest here. The investigation has nothing to do with me. Phil, will it take you long to pack?”

I sipped at my coffee. “Well, Harry,” I said.

“I imagine,” said Marsh, “that it shouldn’t be difficult for you to arrange for someone in London to meet your wife. I-”

“Impossible,” said the Great Man. “Bess expects me to be there.” He raised himself fully upright. “In all our married years together, I have never disappointed my wife, Inspector.”

Marsh smiled. “That does you great credit, Mr. Houdini,” he said. “But I regret to tell you that no one will be permitted to leave Maplewhite until such time as the preliminary investigation has been concluded.”

Impatience had become disbelief. “ Permitted?”

“Harry,” I said.

Marsh said, “Sergeant Meadows and I-”

“Inspector,” said the Great Man. “You fail to understand the situation. My wife is arriving. In London. In the morning. I will be there.”

“Mr. Houdini,” said Marsh.

The Great Man spoke slowly, to make sure that Marsh understood. “Inspector, do you know who I am?”

“Oh yes,” said Marsh, smiling brightly. “I could hardly fail to understand that, could I? Not a day goes by that I don’t admire those colorful advertisements of yours. They’re posted all over London, aren’t they? Ubiquitously, one might say.”

“Then perhaps it has occurred to you,” the Great Man pronounced, “that I am not without influence, even here in England.

I feel I must warn you-”

“ Harry.” I stood up. “Come on, Harry. Outside. Let’s talk.

We’ll be back in a minute, Inspector.”

He turned to me. “But Phil-”

“Come on.” I took him by the arm. He resisted, his muscle bunching under my hand. He held his head up, his gray eyes glaring at Marsh. Marsh was smiling up at him, pleasantly.

I tugged at the arm. “Harry, come on. We’ll get this straightened out.”

Reluctantly, his head high, he came along.

Marsh and Meadows and I stood up.

“Thank you both so very much for joining us,” said Marsh. I do realize, of course, that my presence in your lovely home is a terrible imposition.”

“Got a job to do, haven’t you,” said Lord Bob. His color had come back and his face was florid again. Maybe the breakfast eggs had buffed it back to normal. Maybe the breakfast fish. Couldn't stomach it myself,” he said. “Prying, snooping about, tracking muck everywhere. But that’s the job, isn’t it. Duty. Responsibility.

Understand completely.”

He escorted Lady Purleigh to a high-back chair, held it while she sat. She was wearing black again, and looked as regal as she always looked. Her ash blond hair was swept above her ears and it glistened up there like a crown. She smiled at Lord Bob, then turned and smiled at us.

Lord Bob sat down in the chair beside hers. Marsh and

Meadows and I found our seats.

“Can’t stay for long, though,” said Lord Bob. “Either of us Services down in the village. Ten o’clock. Don’t usually go myself, of course. Opiate of the people, eh? And the vicar’s a nincompoop. Still, in the circumstances. Death in the family, et cetera. No choice, really.”

“No, of course not,” said Marsh. He turned to Lady Purleigh.

“Lady Purleigh, permit me to say how sorry I am for your loss. And I apologize to you, as I have to his lordship, for imposing myself at such a time. It is, I’m afraid, a necessary evil.”

“I do understand, Inspector. And I thank you.”

Marsh nodded. “And as perhaps, you know, honest plain words best pierce the heart of grief. Love’s Labour Lost.”

In the background, the servant glided discreetly around the room, picking up the breakfast dishes, marching them over to the cart in the corner with great care, as if they were the relics of a saint.

“Oh, Beaumont,” said Lord Bob. “Haven’t had a chance to congratulate you. Did a crackejack job on Merridale. Very cool. Know your onions, no question. Looked like an expert out there.” He leaned forward, narrowed his eyes. “Don’t suppose you’ve ever boxed professionally, eh?”

I nodded. “Before the War.”

He slapped his thigh and turned to Lady Purleigh. “Hear that, Alice? What’d I tell you?” He turned back to me, frowning. “Never mentioned that to Merridale, though, did you?”

“He never asked me,” I said.

He frowned again, unsatisfied. “Still. Fellow owes it to the other chap. Let him know these things.”

Lady Purleigh put her hand on her husband’s forearm. “It’s over now, Robert. It’s finished. And the boxing match wasn’t Mr. Beaumont’s idea. Sir David insisted.”

Lord Bob didn’t want to let it go. “Yes, well,” he grumbled. “Still.”

Lady Purleigh squeezed his arm, turned to Inspector Marsh. “You wished to ask us some questions, Inspector?”

Finished with the dishes, the servant wheeled the cart from the room.

“Yes, milady,” said Marsh. He turned to Lord Bob. And I assure you I shall ask them with alacrity, Lord Purleigh. The spirit of the time shall teach me speed. The Life and Death of King John.”

“Is it?” said Lord Bob, sitting back. “Take your word for it. Don’t read as much as I should. The occasional Punch. And Marx, of course.”

Marsh smiled a small swift smile. “Yes. Now, Lord Purleigh. Concerning the death of the Earl. Before the event, had he given you any reason to believe that he might be… despondent? Depressed?”

Lord Bob shrugged. “Well, he was mad, you know. And one never knows what a madman will do. Definition of madness, really, isn’t it?”

“Mad in what way?” asked Marsh.

“Still living in the nineteenth century. Sixteenth century, more like it. Complete reactionary. One solution for every problem. Flog ’em! Tenants behind on the rents, Flog ’em! Workers rallying, Flog ’em! Two million unemployed in this country, Inspector. And yet the bankers, the capitalists, done damn well off the War, haven’t they? Snatched the oil fields from the Arabs-Lawrence’s lot. Took over the Suez. German reparations pouring into the treasury.” He shook his head. “Damn criminal, you ask me.”

“Yes,” said Marsh. “But getting back to your father, Lord Purleigh. Had he changed recently, in your opinion? Had he evidenced-?”

“The old-’’Lord Bob glanced at me. “The old man wouldn’t change, Inspector. Couldn’t. Stuck in his ways. Made Mettemich look like a radical.”

“Thank you,” Marsh said. Sergeant Meadows made a note in his notebook.

“And what of you, Lady Purleigh?” said Marsh. “Had you perhaps detected any recent changes in the Earl?”

She shook her head. “No I hadn’t, Inspector. He seemed to me as vital as he’d always been.”

“So this came as a shock to you?”

“Utterly. I can’t think how it could have happened. Unless, as Robert suggests, it was some sort of tragic accident.”

“Oh?” Marsh turned to Lord Bob. “You believe your father’s death was accidental, Lord Purleigh?”

“Possibility, isn’t it,” said Lord Bob. “Been mulling things over, you know. Gives a man pause, something like this. Makes him think, eh?”

Marsh nodded soberly. “Certainly. What is pomp, rule, reign, but earth and dust? ”

“That sort of thing, yes. Try to be a bit less morbid, though, myself.”

“Yes, but tell me, Lord Purleigh. How might the death of your father have been an accident?”

“Easiest thing in the world,” said Lord Bob comfortably. “Say he sends one of the servants to fetch him the pistol. Wants to pot at pigeons. Place is crawling with ’em-told Beaumont that. Say he loads the gun, keeps it ready. No telling when they’ll show up, pigeons. Wily birds. Unpredictable. But say he spots one at the window. Suddenly, eh? Might get excited, mightn’t he? Might pull the trigger? Eh? And then, bang, Bob’s your uncle.”

Marsh nodded. “Pull the trigger while the gun was pointed, by happenstance, at his head.”

“Exactly. Getting on, you see. Past his prime.”

“But I understood from Mr. Beaumont that the bedroom window was closed at the time. If the Earl were of a mind to shoot at pigeons, wouldn’t he have opened it?”

“Ah. But he was mad as well, remember. To a madman, what’s a window or two, eh? Follow me?”

“Yes, of course. Had he ever shot at pigeons before? To your knowledge?”

Lord Bob shrugged. “First time for everything, though, isn’t there.”

“Yes. So there is.” Marsh nodded. “Thank you, Lord Purleigh. This is a possibility we shall certainly wish to consider.”

Sergeant Meadows wrote something in his notebook.

“Only a theory, mind,” said Lord Bob. “No proof, of course. And other possibilities exist. Incline toward suicide myself, though. Contradictions of Capitalism, Historical Necessity. Explained all that to Doyle and Beaumont.”

“Yes,” said Marsh. “Now about this pistol. The American Smith and Wesson. It was taken, I understand, from the collection in the Great Hall.”

“Yes.”

“The collection is yours?”

“The Earl’s. My father’s. Don’t much hold with guns myself. No shooting allowed at Maplewhite. Not since my father's accident. Fell from a horse, you know. Paralyzed. Years ago.”

“I see. Is it fair to say, your lordship, that anyone in the house would have had access to the weapons, and to the ammunition for them?”

Lord Bob shook his head. “Higgens-that’s the butler-hid all the ammunition yesterday afternoon. Locked it away. Doyle's suggestion. But the idea was Beaumont’s.” He turned to me, nodded once. “Credit where credit’s due.”

“Yes,” said Marsh, “but previous to that time. Anyone at all could have removed that pistol. Or the Winchester repeating rifle.”

“Beaumont told you about the rifle, did he?” He glanced at me, disapproving. “Still some question in my mind about that,” he told Marsh. “It being fired, I mean. But your chaps have it now. Honniwell took it.”

Marsh smiled. “Yes. And before he did, anyone at all could have removed it, or the pistol, at his leisure. Is that substantially correct, Lord Purleigh?”

“Could’ve done, I suppose. Have my doubts, though.”

“Thank you. Now, Lord Purleigh. You do understand, I hope, that in order for me to come to some glimmer of an understanding about your father’s death, I must determine, first of all, where everyone at Maplewhite was situated at precisely the time it occurred.”

“That right?” said Lord Bob. “As I say, not my line, police work. Makes perfect sense, though. How can I help?”

“My Lord, Mr. Beaumont has disclosed to me that all the guests, and Lady Purleigh, were present in the drawing room when the shot occurred. But evidently you were not. Might I ask where you were?”

Lord Bob nodded in agreement. “Got you. Good question. What time would that be, exactly?”

Marsh turned to me. “You said the valet heard the shot at a quarter past four?”

“Yeah.”

His eyebrows raised, Marsh turned expectantly to Lord Bob. Lord Bob frowned. “A quarter past four.” He thought for a moment and then he nodded. “Right. Got it. Just returning from MacGregor’s. The gamekeeper. Had an idea, you see. Told Doyle about it, and the others. Houdini, Beaumont. This Chin Soo chap, running loose, hot and bothered. Miffed at Houdini. Know about him, do you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, what I thought, why not ask the tenants, keep an eye peeled, eh? Scout the area. If the sod’s anywhere nearby, they’ll flush him out, won’t they. Spoke with MacGregor about it, asked him to sniff up some volunteers.”

“But from what Mr. Beaumont tells me,” said Marsh, “you had at that point already agreed to alert the constabulary to Chin Soo’s presence.”

“Well, yes,” said Lord Bob. “But I wasn’t entirely sure that the local constabulary were up to it, you see. Nothing personal, mind. But better safe than sorry, eh? Spoke to my wife about it. She agreed.” He turned to Lady Purleigh and smiled. She smiled back.

He turned back to Marsh, pursed his lips. “Now. Where was I?”

“You were asking Mr. MacGregor to sniff up some volunteers.”

“Paght. He agreed. All arranged. I left. Just getting back here when Higgens came running after me. Couldn’t open the door to my father’s room, he said. Locked, Carson unhinged. A shot fired, he said. Went up there at a gallop, don’t mind telling you. You know the rest?”

“Yes,” said Marsh. “Thank you. And you were where, exactly, when Higgens found you?”

Lord Bob thought. “In the west wing. The hallway. On my way to the drawing room.”

“But that must have been,” said Marsh, “sometime after a quarter past four, mustn’t it? If Higgens were already aware that the shot had been fired?”

“Must’ve been, absolutely right. Higgens had already spoken with Carson, of course. So four-twenty, let s say, four twenty-five. Promised my wife I’d be back at four-thirty.”

Marsh nodded. Sergeant Meadows wrote something.

“Do you think, Lord Purleigh,” Marsh said, “that you could estimate the time of your arrival at Mr. MacGregor's, and the time of your departure?”

“Arrival? Three-thirty, thereabouts. Departure? Four o’clock, I’d say. Spent half an hour there. Chatting and what not.” He paused. “Sounds about right.”

“Thank you. Now. As to the other incident of yesterday. That mysterious rifle shot, out on the lawn. Have you any idea who might have been responsible for that?”

“But that was Chin Soo.” Lord Bob looked at me, puzzled. “We’d agreed on that, I thought.”

“I thought it was,” I said. “I don’t think so now.” I explained what I’d already explained to Inspector Marsh, what I’d explained earlier to Doyle. “So it makes more sense,” I said, “that whoever fired the rifle was someone who was already here at Maplewhite.”

“Rubbish,” said Lord Bob. “One of my guests, you mean? Rubbish. Why should the guests start potting at each other? This isn’t Afghanistan. No bloody Pathans on the guest list here.” He turned to Lady Purleigh. “Sorry, my darling.”

He turned to Marsh. “Not that I’ve anything against Pathans, mind. Resourceful chaps, I hear.”

Marsh gave him another quick smile. “Yes,” he said. “So. Given the assumption that the individual firing the rifle was not in fact Chin Soo, you have no idea who he may have been. Or at whom he may have been firing. Is that correct?”

“Not a clue,” said Lord Bob. He turned to me. “Where’s this bloody Chin Soo then? Sorry, my love. You saying it was all a false alarm? Eh? Made a compete arse of myself in front of the guests- sorry-babbling about some lunatic magician doesn’t even exist? That what you’re saying?”

“He exists,” I said. “But maybe not in the immediate vicinity.”

He stared at me. “That’s pretty thick, Beaumont. Sent the tenants out for nothing, did I? Made the poor devils go tromping through the forest for no reason at all?”

Lady Purleigh patted her husband’s forearm. “Robert. Mr. Beaumont was merely doing his job.”

“And he had to do it here, did he?” He scowled at me and crossed his legs. He put his elbow on the arm of the chair and his chin on his fist and he looked away. Beneath the bushy white mustache, his mouth was as thin as a razor scar.

“Excuse me,” said Inspector Marsh. “Lady Purleigh. Returning for a moment to that rifle shot. Do you happen to recall where you might have been at the time it was fired?”

“Hang on,” said Lord Bob, turning to Marsh. His beetle eyebrows were lowered. “You’re not suggesting my wife fired the damn thing?”

“Certainly not. But as I told you, I must determine where everyone was situated at the time of the events in question.”

The beetles danced upward. “Wanted to know about my father’s death, you said.”

“And so I do.” Marsh smiled. “But a rifle was fired on the same day that the death occurred. This seems to me to be at the very least curious. I shouldn’t be doing my job properly, my Lord, if I didn’t make some attempt to account for it.”

“Hmph,” said Lord Bob. He uncrossed his legs, then crossed them again the other way. “Rum sort of job,” he said. He glanced from me to Marsh. “Both of you.”

“And perhaps,” added Marsh, “Lady Purleigh saw something at the time which might help us determine the individual responsible.”

“I’m afraid I shall disappoint you, then, Inspector,” said Lady Purleigh. “I saw nothing. Nothing that might help you, at any rate.

I was in the conservatory with Mrs. Blandings, the housekeeper, going over the arrangements for dinner. "We heard the shot, both of us-it was quite loud-and we crossed over to the window. It surprised me, the shot. As Robert has told you, shooting is no longer allowed here.”

Marsh nodded. “And what did you see, milady?”

“I saw Robert riding his motor bicycle toward the garden. Everyone else was still under the copper beech tree by the walk, gathered around one of the benches. I learned later, of course, that Miss Turner had fainted. And then one of the men began running down along the lawn, in the same direction Robert had gone, toward the rear of the garden. I recognized him as Mr. Beaumont. He disappeared into the woods as well, and I rang for some servants and asked them to run down to the copper beech. To make certain that no one had been hurt.”

Marsh asked her, “What did you think had happened?”

“I hadn’t the faintest idea, really. I did wonder about poachers, because of the shot. But they’ve never dared come so close to the house before. Even so, I was concerned.”

“I thank you, Lady Purleigh,” said Marsh. “And I thank you, Lord Purleigh. I think that should do us for the moment. I am most grateful for your help.”

Lord Bob looked surprised. “That it, then?”

“For the moment,” said Marsh. “I really must beg your forbearance, both of you. These things inevitably take longer than anyone would wish them to. But I assure you that I'll attempt to finish it as quickly as I can. And it will, I promise you, be finished. C ome what come may, time and the hour runs through the roughest day. Macbeth.”

“What about the others?” said Lord Bob. “The guests. They’re all roaming about, wondering what’s happening. You wanted to speak with them, did you?”

“Very much so, yes. I should be very grateful, Lord Purleigh, if you’d ask Miss Turner to join us for a few moments.”

“Miss Turner?” said Lord Bob. “Why Miss Turner?”

Marsh smiled. “No particular reason,” he said. “I select her entirely at random. So we profess ourselves to be slaves of chance, and flies of every wind that blows. The Winter’s Tale.”

When Lord Bob and Lady Purleigh had gone, and the three of us had sat back down, Marsh turned to me and smiled and said, “So. Beaumont. What are your thoughts?”

“I don’t buy the pigeons,” I told him.

He chuckled. “Lovely. You Americans. And what are your feelings regarding Lord Purleigh himself?”

“I like him. But he inherits.”

“Yes. The old bees die, the young possess their hive.”

“There’s no son,” I said. “What happens to this place when Lord Purleigh goes?”

“Maplewhite, you mean? It would be held in trust somehow, I imagine. Depending, of course, on the marriage settlement between him and Lady Purleigh. But most of it, I expect, and possibly all of it, would ultimately go to the daughter. And ultimately, on her death, to her children, should she have any. With a life interest, perhaps, to her husband.”

“It all goes to Cecily.”

“Cecily?”

“To Miss Fitzwilliam, yes.” He smiled. “You don’t suspect Cecily Fitzwilliam of murder, do you?”

“Not yet.”

He smiled. “And Lord Purleigh?”

“Not yet. What about you?”

Another smile. “Oh, it would be foolish of me to venture an opinion at this stage, don’t you think? Opinion’s but a fool, that makes us scan the outward habit by the inward man. Timon of Athens. But I do hope that Lord Purleigh was not responsible.”

“Why?”

He looked at me. “Yes, of course. As an American, you wouldn’t know, would you? Well, things become rather complex in that event. He’s a lord now, you see. A peer. And, as such, he cannot be tried in a normal court of law. If an inquest returns a verdict of wilful murder, he can be tried only by the entire House of Lords, in special session. An elaborate procedure. The King himself becomes involved.”

“Messy.”

“Very. If in fact he is guilty of murder, it would be far better for everyone concerned, and doubtless more easily accomplished, for him to be declared insane, and then tucked away somewhere warm and cozy.”

“I don’t think he’s insane.”

Marsh smiled. “He is, you know, if he expects me to believe that his father mistook his own head for a pigeon.”

“It could still be suicide. Maybe he’s right. Maybe the Earl was crazy. The guy was running around in his pajamas, remember, pretending to be a ghost. And he was stealing junk from people’s rooms and hiding it away like a pack rat.”

“According to Miss Turner.” He smiled. “And, even if she’s telling the truth, none of that constitutes evidence of a predisposition toward suicide.”

“I notice you didn’t mention Miss Turner’s theory to Lord Purleigh.”

“Naturally not. I must speak with Miss Turner first.”

“There’s something else about Miss Turner you should know.” “Yes? And what might that be?”

“Someone tried to kill her, it looks like.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Indeed.” He turned to Sergeant Meadows. “Thicker and thicker grows our plot, eh, Sergeant? We have a proper vichyssoise here.”

The sergeant said nothing, which is what he’d been saying all along. He looked down and wrote something in his notebook. Maybe vichyssoise.

Marsh turned back to me. “And when did this happen?” “While she was in the Earl’s room last night.” I told him about the knife she’d found in her bed, told him about my checking the bolster this morning.

“A knife,” said Marsh, nodding thoughtfully. “Purloined, you think, from the Earl’s collection of weapons. Not a rifle, not a pistol.”

“The ammunition’s been locked up.”

“Since yesterday afternoon, Lord Purleigh said. Intriguing. That would suggest that the knife was stolen from the collection at some time afterward.”

“Or before, by someone who likes knives better than guns.”

“Of course,” said Marsh. He made a sour face. “Not vichys-soise. Lamb stew. Carrots and celery and onions, and a gravy like cement. Thickness is all. How I should have preferred a simple, unadorned broth, limpid and clear.” He looked at me. “You haven’t told Lord Purleigh of the knife.”

“I wanted to talk to you first.”

Someone knocked at the door.

“Miss Turner, no doubt,” said Marsh. “A turnip for the pot.” He looked toward the door. “Come in,” he called out.

The Great Man knew how to make an entrance.

Inspector Marsh knew how to stand there and smile delicately. “Mr. Houdini,” he said. “What a pleasant surprise.”

The Great Man ignored him and he aimed his grin at me. “You see, Phil? Already I have discovered something absolutely crucial.”

“I see that, Harry. Where does it go?”

“There is a stairway here.” He held the lamp up to the opening in the wall. Inside, a narrow stone stairway led down into the blackness. He turned back to me. “It goes down to a kind of tunnel which seems to encircle all of Maplewhite. From this tunnel, additional stairways lead upward to various rooms of the house.”

“How’d you find it?” I asked him.

“Simple logic,” he said. He turned to Marsh. “May I explain?”

“But of course,” said Marsh. “I swoon to hear it.” He turned, dusted off the bedspread with a delicate hand, and sat down on the bed as if it were a theater seat. He put his hands on his lap and looked up at the Great Man with his eyebrows raised in attention, or maybe an impersonation of it. Sergeant Meadows was still looming with his notebook over by the window. He crossed his arms over his thick chest and leaned back against the sill.

The Great Man set the lantern on the floor. He rubbed his hands together. “Well,” he said. “We have been presented here at Maplewhite with a series of totally baffling events. Even Houdini was, for a while, baffled by these. But then it occurred to me that all of them were very similar, in form, to simple magic tricks, of the sort performed by mediocre magicians.” He looked at me. “And what do magic tricks require, Phil?”

I smiled. “You tell me, Harry.”

Inspector Marsh had lowered his eyebrows and his head, and he was carefully studying the manicured fingernails of his left hand.

“Timing,” said the Great Man. “Misdirection. And, of course, gimmicked props.” He shoved his hands into his pockets and he began to pace up and down as he talked. He spoke seriously and slowly, like a professor at a college for dimwits. “Now. In order to understand the mechanics of a successful trick, we must begin with no preconceptions. None whatever. But in the case of the Earl s death, even Houdini had in fact entertained some of these. I had believed that the Earl was paralyzed and bedridden. So had all of us believed. But Miss Turner’s story-of the Earl coming to her room, disguised as a ghost-clearly cast some doubt on this.”

I said, “I thought you didn’t believe her story.”

“Aha,” he said. “That was before I pondered my preconceptions. But suppose, I told myself, suppose Miss Turner’s story were true. Suppose that the Earl were, in fact, mobile. If he had actually invaded the privacy of her room on Friday night, how had he done so without being seen?”

Marsh looked up from his fingernails and he frowned. “It was the middle of the night. There was no one about to see him.”

“But could he be certain of that? A single witness would have given away his game. And, assuming that the Earl did, in fact, commit suicide on the following day, how did he obtain the pistol from the hall without being seen?”

Marsh held up his hand. “Yes, yes, all right. There are other means by which he could have accomplished that. But quite clearly there’s also this stairway you’ve stumbled upon.”

The Great Man drew back his head. “Stumbled upon? Hardly, Inspector Marsh. I worked it out, with complete logic. As to the Earl, you see, and his death, I considered the other possibility that he had not committed suicide. That he had been murdered. In such a case, how had the murderer escaped? I have examined that door very carefully, and I knew-”

“Yes,” said Marsh. “Mr. Beaumont has informed me. So you deduced there was another entrance to the room.”

“I deduced, yes, exactly! And I obtained this from the housekeeper, Mrs. Blandings!” He reached into his coat pocket and plucked out a cloth tape measure. He waved his arm through the air in a theatrical circle, so the length of yellow tape streamed into a single hoop. “And I came up here.”

He stalked to the door to show us, the tape rippling in the air behind him. On the bed, Marsh turned to follow him. The Great Man spun around. “I examined the room visually. Then I walked to the window.”

He strode to the window. Sergeant Meadows stood there watching him, his arms crossed, his face blank. “Excuse me,” the Great Man said, and reached out and took hold of Meadow’s hips, as though he were going to pick him up and drop him somewhere. Maybe he would have. But Sergeant Meadows looked at Inspector Marsh, who nodded once, and Meadows stepped aside.

“I examined the window very carefully,” said the Great Man. “Measuring, measuring.” Bending over, he showed us. He stood up. “Then I went all around the room, measuring its dimensions. All of its dimensions.” He waved the tape measure through the air. “Then I went to the room next door.”

For a second I thought he was going to stalk over there, expecting us to follow him. He didn’t.

“I examined its dimensions,” he said. “I-”

“Yes,” said Marsh. “I do believe I follow. You determined where the passage must have been.”

“Exactly! And then, when I rushed back here, I set about finding it. And, of course, I did.”

He went over to the opening in the wall. “It is an ingenious mechanism. You see.” He pushed shut the rectangle of stone. It moved back into place, silently and smoothly. The wall seemed completely solid now. “Counterweighted. Simple but effective. The key is here.”

He pressed one of the stones to his left. Silently and smoothly, the rectangle swung open.

Smiling widely, the Great Man turned back to us. “You see? Houdini succeeds before others even attempt.”

“How very enterprising of you,” said Inspector Marsh.

“Yes,” said the Great Man. “Thank you.”

“And have you by any chance examined this tunnel?”

“Only a small portion of it.” He folded up the tape measure. “I climbed up one of the stairways. It leads into another room. Not a bedroom. A small parlor.” He stuffed the tape back into his pocket. “But there are many of these stairways. I feel certain that one of them leads into Miss Turner’s room.”

“But you haven’t actually established that,” said Marsh.

“There is no question in my mind,” said the Great Man. “And no doubt one of the stairways also leads to the Great Hall.” He turned to me. “And so, Phil. The Earl could have removed the gun from the collection with no one being the wiser.”

“Or somebody else could’ve taken it,” I said. “And used that stairway to come up here and kill him.”

“Yes.” He nodded. “Both are possible, of course.”

“Oh?” said Marsh. He was smiling. “You don’t mean to say that you still remain baffled by something?”

The Great Man raised his head. “I shall determine the truth. And very shortly, I believe.”

Marsh nodded. “Yes. Mr. Beaumont has apprised me of your plan. By afternoon tea, isn’t that right?”

“Yes. That is correct.”

“ He that is proud eats up himself. Troilus and Cressida.”

“Pride is irrelevant,” said the Great Man. “What Houdini sets out to do, he does.”

“By tea time.”

“Exactly.”

“You will permit me to harbor a stray doubt or two?

“Harbor as many as you like. Harbor a fleet of these. I shall succeed, nonetheless.”

“Are you a betting man, Mr. Houdini?”

The Great Man drew himself up. “Houdini never wagers.”

“No,” said Marsh. “I shouldn’t have thought so.”

“But,” said the Great Man, “Houdini has been known, on occasion, to accept a challenge.” He looked at Marsh. “Are you offering a challenge, Inspector Marsh?”

“I prefer to think of it as a wager. A gentleman’s wager, if you like. With no money passing hands. I’ll wager that you will not solve this case by the time of afternoon tea.”

“And that you will?”

“Oh,” said Marsh, smiling, “I fully expect to solve it long before then.”

“Oh yes?”

“Oh yes.”

The Great Man studied him for a moment. “Very well,” he said. “I accept.” He stepped forward holding out his hand. Marsh rose from the bed and took it.

The Great Man dropped Marsh’s hand, took a look around the room, and then drew himself up. “I must go,” he announced, and then he did, stalking out the door.

Marsh looked over at me. He smiled wryly. “Silly of me. But your employer has rather a way of getting under one’s skin.”

“Yeah.”

Marsh reached into his pants pocket, eased out a watch, glanced at its face. He nodded, slipped it back. He turned to Sergeant Meadows. “Grab that lantern, will you, Meadows, and take a look at the tunnel. Follow all the stairways. Determine into which rooms they lead. Discreetly, of course.”

Beneath his heavy brow Sergeant Meadows glanced at me. He looked back at Marsh. For the first time he spoke. “And you, sir?”

“Oh, I’ll muddle along on my own for a while.” Marsh turned to me. “Unless you’d care to come along?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” I told him.

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.”

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.”

"What tunnel?”

“The tunnel that runs from here to the manor. It must exist.” He looked around, narrowed his eyes. “You saw how the pathway curved back to the south? I estimate that we are perhaps sixty yards from the house itself. The west side of it.” He nodded toward another wall of trees and brambles. “Beyond the forest there.”

“Why a tunnel, Harry?”

He looked at me. “But Phil. How else could the ghosts get from here to the house without being seen?”

I remembered the gun again. “Harry-”

“Please, Phil. We do not have much time. We must find it. It cannot be far.”

It wasn’t. It was built into the side of a hill about twenty yards from the mill, hidden behind the overhanging leafy branches of a big oak. At its entrance was a pair of broad wooden doors, like the doors to the freight tunnel beneath the formal garden. Lying beside the doors, in the weeds, was a small wicker picnic basket.

“Harry?” I called out.

He was maybe forty feet away, thrashing through some bushes. He stopped and came running toward me. There were scratches on his cheeks that looked like African tribal marks.

“Aha!” he cried. He reached for the door. “You see, Phil!”

It swung open before he could reach it. He danced back.

“Miss Turner!” he said.

She stood there in the opening, a lantern in her hand. Her cheek was smudged and strands of pale brown hair were trailing across her face. She was smiling anyway.

“I heard you coming, Mr. Houdini! Look! I found it! She said this as if she were talking about El Dorado.

“But Miss Turner-”

“Wait a minute,” I said. I turned to her. “Miss Turner, you told me you wouldn’t wander off on your own. We agreed. Last night, in Mrs. Corneille’s room.”

“I know, I know,” she said in a rush. “But everyone else had gone to church and I was sitting out on the patio, where it was perfectly safe-there was a policeman on patrol every ten minutes, nearly-and then Mr. Houdini appeared and spoke with me, and I understood what he was thinking from the questions he asked, what he must be thinking, about the ghosts-”

“Okay,” I said. “Hold on. What’s the story on these ghosts?”

“Ladies,” said inspector Marsh, “and gentlemen. I do thank you all for being present.”

Smiling delicately, he looked around the drawing room.

Once again, everyone had plates of food on the tables in front of them, and pots of tea and coffee. Lord Bob and Lady Purleigh and Cecily sat together on one of the sofas. Mr. Dempsey sat beside the wheelchair of Madame Sosostris. Mrs. Allardyce and Miss Turner were together, and so were Sir David and Mrs. Corneille and Dr. Auerbach. Sergeant Meadows was looming against one wall, and Doyle stood a few feet away, looming even larger. I was sitting about a yard from where Marsh was standing. The Great Man sat by himself across the room. He had faintly nodded to me when I entered, and I knew that everything was set up.

Lord Purleigh,” said Marsh, “has graciously permitted me this opportunity to speak with you all, to discuss the recent curious events at Maplewhite. How very bizarre these have been, have they not? A gun suddenly fired across a sunny lawn. An elderly man abruptly dead in his own locked bedroom. It is a reeling world indeed, my lord, and I believe will never stand upright. Richard the Third, of course.”

He smiled and glanced around the room. “Now. All of you know of the late Earl’s death. But what do you know, really, of his life? Did you know that, on the testimony of his own son, the man was mad? Mad, yes, and no longer paralyzed.”

There was a small, well-mannered flutter of response. Heads turned, eyebrows arched. Cecily Fitzwilliam leaned toward her mother. Lady Purleigh pressed her lips together and she took her daughter’s hand. Mrs. Corneille frowned and glanced over at Lady Purleigh.

“At night,” said Marsh, “when the houseguests were asleep, the late Earl prowled through a network of secret passageways that connect the room and chambers of Maplewhite. Dressed as his own ancestor, Lord Reginald, he stalked into the rooms of certain female guests and attempted to assault them.”

More turning heads. More arched eyebrows. Lord Bob and Lady Purleigh sat still and stared forward, like a pair of officials witnessing an execution.

“He did this two months ago,” said Marsh, “and he did this again on Friday night, when he entered the room of Miss Turner.” Heads swiveled toward Miss Turner.

“Earlier on that same evening,” said Marsh, “Lord and Lady Purleigh had spoken with the late Earl in his room.” Heads swiveled toward Lord Bob and his wife. “No one else was present, but I believe it likely that in view of the Earl’s attempted assault of two months earlier, Lord Purleigh warned his father not to make another attempt that night.”

Marsh shrugged. “But as we all now know, the Earl did make an attempt.”

He lifted a glass of water from a nearby table, sipped at it, set it back down. “According to his own statement, voluntarily given to Mr. Beaumont, Lord Purleigh spoke with his father on the following morning. He informed the Earl that he planned to place him in a madhouse. Several hours later, when a party of the guests, and Lord Purleigh, were gathered out on the lawn, someone fired a rifle toward the group.”

Marsh smiled. “Is it not patently obvious, ladies and gentlemen, who fired that rifle? And is it not patently obvious at whom the rifle was being fired? It was aimed at Lord Purleigh, of course. And it was fired by his father.”

“ Rubbish! ” said Lord Bob. “See here, Marsh-”

Marsh smiled. “All the weapons in the collection were the Earl’s. The Earl knew how to use them. He knew, too, that his son intended to remove him, ignominiously, from his own home. And he took the one course that, to his damaged brain, seemed appropriate. He attempted to murder his own son. He made his way down to the Great Hall, loaded the Winchester rifle-”

“What perfect rubbish!” Lord Bob was half out of his seat. Lady Purleigh reached for him and he turned to her, his face red. She murmured something and he sat back, shaking his head. “But it’s rubbish, Alice. Codswollop!”

“And he proceeded outside,” continued Marsh, “and concealed himself in the woods by the formal garden. And when he saw his son return to Maplewhite on his motor bicycle, the Earl fired at him. Fortunately for Lord Purleigh, the Earl missed.”

Lord Purleigh’s brows were raised. “The old swine would never miss a shot like that!”

Marsh paid no attention. “Lord Purleigh understood, of course, what his father had done. He knew who had fired that rifle. And he now knew that his father was even more unbalanced than he had believed. Perhaps-and here I speculate-perhaps he realized how nakedly this unbalance might be revealed in any enquiry, any attempt to institutionalize the Earl. And perhaps, too, he was angered by the attempt on his life. Whatever the truth, later that day, while everyone was in the drawing room, Lord Purleigh removed a Smith and Wesson revolver from the Great Hall, used the secret passageway to enter his father’s room, and he killed him.”

“What?” said Lord Bob. He looked more confused than angry.

“Only Lord Purleigh was absent from the drawing room at the time of the murder,” said Marsh. “Only Lord Purleigh had an opportunity to kill the Earl. And only Lord Purleigh had a motive. His father’s death would remove not only an embarrassment, but also an actual threat to his own life. And it would, of course, bring him his father’s entire inheritance.”

“This is sheer nonsense.” It was the Great Man, up on his feet, his head raised high. “I will listen to no more of this.”

Across the room, Sergeant Meadows leaned away from the wall. Marsh glanced at him, shook his head slightly. Meadows leaned back and Marsh turned to the Great Man. “Do you have some other explanation, Mr. Houdini?”

“I have the explanation.”

Marsh smiled. “Then I shall gladly, if temporarily, surrender the floor.” He sat down and looked up at the Great Man with the same theatrical interest he’d shown in the Earl’s bedroom.

The Great Man put his hands behind his back and he glanced slowly around the room. “We have been presented here at Maplewhite,” he finally announced, “with a series of totally baffling events.”

Then the Great Man said, and pretty much word for word, the same things he’d said when he was explaining how he figured out the secret passageway. That the baffling events had baffled even him. That he’d finally realized they were a lot like mediocre magic tricks. “Now,” he said, “in order to understand the mechanics of a successful magic trick, we must begin with no preconceptions whatever.”

Marsh rolled his eyes. Delicately.

The Great Man looked around the room again, as though to make sure that everyone was still following. “Yesterday afternoon, while Miss Turner was horseback riding, she saw what she believed to be a pair of ghosts under a willow tree, near the old mill. Why did she believe them to be ghosts? Her preconceptions. She had been told that a pair of ghosts often had been seen under that tree, a woman and a young boy. And, when she saw two individuals standing there, her preconceptions led her to believe that these were they. She is an intelligent and resourceful woman, but she is not a trained observer. And, perhaps most important, she was not wearing her spectacles at the time. Without them, she is extremely nearsighted. Is that not true, Miss Turner?”

Heads swiveled. “Yes,” she said. Her voice was strong and clear. Beside her, Mrs. Allardyce frowned.

Inspector Marsh yawned, pretending to hide it behind his hand.

The Great Man nodded. He turned back to the audience. “But these were not ghosts that Miss Turner saw. What she saw were the two people who were conspiring to murder Lord Purleigh.

A rustling sound rippled through the audience.

“And, of course,” said the Great Man, “they saw her. So far as they knew, she had recognized them. And for these two to be recognized together would have meant disaster for them both.

He glanced around again. “They acted swiftly. Together they returned to Maplewhite, using a tunnel that runs from the mill to a concealed pantry beside the kitchen. From there, one of them ran to the Great Hall and snatched the Winchester rifle. Perhaps this individual loaded the weapon at that time. Perhaps the two of them had planned ahead, for emergencies, and the weapon was already loaded. No matter. It would have been a matter of seconds only to ready the rifle. Taking the weapon, this individual ran back into the hidden pantry and used the other tunnel, the freight tunnel, to emerge outside the formal garden. From nearby, a clear shot was available at Miss Turner, when she appeared.”

The Great Man frowned. “This individual was fortunate. Had Miss Turner known how, she could have returned to the house by a more direct route. But she was unaware of this. And then her horse, bolting, led her past the path she had originally followed. And then she struck her head on the limb of a tree and she was ejected from the animal. She remained unconscious for a time. All of this assisted the would-be assassin. When Miss Turner finally did appear, under the tree by the walkway, the assassin was more than ready. He fired. One shot, and one shot only. Why should he fire another? He saw Miss Turner fall from her horse, and he assumed he had hit her. ”

“Fascinating,” said Inspector Marsh. He smiled, “But just who was this so-called assassin? And who was his conspirator?”

“A more interesting question,” said the Great Man, “at the moment, is what were they doing out by the old mill? Why meet there? And to this, I am pleased to say, I have discovered the answer.”

He narrowed his eyes again. “I believe that it was there, at the old mill, that these two, over a period of time, planned their conspiracy. It is there that they practiced the technique by which they very nearly succeeded in deceiving us all.”

“Oh really?” said Marsh.

The Great Man ignored him. “I examined the old mill with my associate, Mr. Beaumont. On the floor inside it we found the remains of a fire. Not a fire of weeds and brush, such as might have been built by some passing tramp”-he glanced at me, underlining the point-“but a fire that had been constructed of pieces of lumber. And why lumber?”

He cocked his head. “Suppose you take a piece of lumber and you saw it neatly in half. Suppose you create a small hollow in one of these halves, and that, within the hollow, you place a live cartridge. You have, previously, removed the slug from the cartridge and crimped shut the opening. Suppose you then carefully glue the halves of lumber back together. Now suppose you place this piece of lumber into a tire. W^hat will happen? At some point, when the heat of the fire at last reaches the cartridge, it will explode. As a consequence of its explosion, some ash may be expelled from the fire itself. Much like the ash that Mr. Beaumont and I found on the floor of the old mill. And much like the ash that was found on the floor of the Earl’s bedroom. It is obvious to me that our two conspirators experimented with lumber and cartridge there at the mill, until they discovered exactly the proper combination of both to suit their nefarious purposes.

He turned to Doyle. “It was not our entrance into the room, Sir Arthur, that blew ashes from the fireplace. It was the eruption of a cartridge, hidden within a piece of firewood.

Doyle was frowning. “But no one found a spent cartridge in the fireplace.”

“Ah,” said the Great Man. “But no one ever looked for it. We did not, because the fire was still burning when we arrived. Superintendent Honniwell and his men did not, because the Superintendent was more interested in currying favor with Lord Purleigh. Afterward, of course, the cartridge was removed.”

“By whom, exactly?” asked Marsh.

At the moment, Doyle was more interested in how than whom. He said, “You’re telling us that when Carson heard the shot fired, the Earl was already-”

“Dead, yes!” said the Great Man. “Several minutes before that shot, perhaps as much as half an hour, using the hidden stairway, the murderer had entered the room with the revolver. A single shot was fired, muffled by a cushion, perhaps, and the Earl was dead.”

“But according to Superintendent Honniwell,” said Doyle, “there were powder burns near the wound. Would these have been present if the pistol had been fired through a cushion?”

“Mr. Beaumont assures me that this is possible, so long as the muzzle of the weapon is brought close to the point of impact of the bullet. It is possible, too, that the autopsy will detect threads of fabric in the wound, thus substantiating my statement.”

“And the murderer,” said Doyle, “then wiped his fingerprints from the weapon, and placed on it the fingerprints of the Earl.”

“The murderer did so,” said the Great Man. “Correct. And then, after carefully putting the piece of lumber in the fire, probably off to the side, so as to postpone the explosion, the murderer left. And came down to the drawing room, to join us all in tea.”

“And who is this murderer of yours?” asked Marsh. “Who are these conspirators?”

“Who?” said the Great Man. “Is that not patently obvious, Inspector Marsh? They must be two people who knew that if they were seen together, and intimate, their plan would be foiled. One of them, at least, must know Maplewhite, must know its hidden tunnels and passageways. And one of them must be of a stature small enough, slight enough, to be mistaken at a distance, by a woman suffering from nearsightedness, for a young boy. There are no young boys at Maplewhite, ghostly or otherwise.” He turned to face the audience. “Therefore, the two conspirators must be Lady Purleigh and Dr. Auerbach.”

The audience made a ragged hissing sound, like a large beast drawing breath. Lady Purleigh looked puzzled. Dr. Auerbach looked alarmed. Lord Bob looked poleaxed, and he stared at the Great Man with his mouth open. Inspector Marsh stood up from his chair. “This is preposterous,” he said. “Dr. Auerbach was seen in Purleigh. He walked back from there to Maplewhite. He couldn’t possibly have got here by the time that shot was fired.”

I took a look at Sergeant Meadows. He was still leaning against the wall.

The Great Man smiled. “Had you investigated thoroughly, Inspector, you would have learned that a bicycle was stolen in Purleigh yesterday. Mr. Beaumont learned this from the local constable, Dubbins. Riding a bicycle, using pathways through the woods, pathways detailed for him by Lady Purleigh, Dr. Auerbach easily reached the old mill before one o’clock. The bicycle is no doubt resting at the bottom of the millpond. And had you investigated further, you would have telephoned the University of Leeds, as I did today, and learned that Dr. Auerbach was not in Devon, but in Edinburgh. Where I telephoned and spoke with him.” He pointed his finger. “ That man is not Dr. Auerbach.’

The little bald-headed man sprang from his chair and darted for the drawing room doors, running in front of Miss Turner and Mrs. Allardyce. Miss Turner put out her leg. He snagged his foot on it, swung his arms forward as though he were reaching for a trapeze, and went sailing over the coffee table. By the time he landed, I was on top of him with the Colt. I yanked him to his feet. He squirmed like a polliwog until I stuck the pistol in his ear.

Other people were up, too-Sir David, Mrs. Allardyce. Mrs. Corneille was rising.

But the Great Man wasn’t finished. He turned back to Marsh. “And the reason, Inspector Marsh, that you did not investigate thoroughly, as you should have done, is that you are a most thoroughly incompetent Inspector Marsh.” He turned to the audience and smiled. “Ladies and gentlemen, permit me to introduce a man who is almost as inept a policeman as he is a magician.” He held out his arm. “I give you Chin Soo!”

This was the signal. The drawing room doors burst open and what seemed like a hundred cops tumbled in, some in uniform, some not. One of them was Superintendent Honniwell. One of them was an angry-looking man who turned out later to be the real Inspector Marsh. Over against the wall, “Sergeant Meadows” reached into his coat pocket, but Doyle was ready and he grabbed the man’s hand with his own left and he popped him a very good right on the point of his chin and the man went crashing to the floor.

It took a few days to get everything straightened out. The key, as the Great Man liked to put it, was Moseley.

Carl Moseley was the man who had been impersonating Dr. Auerbach. Questioned by Honniwell and Marsh, he broke.

A journalist and an unsuccessful playwright, he had met Lady Purleigh in London a year ago, among a group of people who lived in Bloomsbury. It was there, he said, a month or so later, that their affair had begun. One member of the group, a poet named Sybil Prescott-Vane, knew about the affair and let Lady Purleigh and Moseley use her home for their London rendezvous. Her testimony, at the trial, was damaging to both of them.

Lady Purleigh and Moseley had seen each other whenever she went to London, and twice he had visited Maplewhite, both times traveling out there with other members of the Bloomsbury group. They met in his room, or out by the old mill. In both cases, Lady Purleigh used the secret passageways and tunnels. Moseley said that Lady Purleigh had known about the tunnels for some time.

According to Moseley, the original plan had been to kill Lord Bob. Lady Purleigh, he said, didn’t want any part of Lord Bob’s proletarian golfing club, and didn’t really want any part of Lord Bob either. She did want Moseley, said Moseley. The plan was changed during his most recent visit to Maplewhite, when the late Earl wandered into Moseley’s bedroom while he was amorously engaged” with Lady Purleigh. This was the same night the Earl made a grab for a woman named Dora Carrington. The Earl, who was pretty much a loony by then, agreed not to reveal what he'd seen, so long as Lady Purleigh didn’t interfere with his sport.

That cooked the Earl, as far as Lady Purleigh was concerned. She wasn’t, she’d told Moseley (according to Moseley), going to gain control of Maplewhite “only to have it ripped from my hands by a drooling sex fiend.” This didn’t sit too well with the jury, either.

She and Moseley worked out another plan-kill the Earl, and let Lord Bob take the blame. Even if he were never tried for the murder, she was sure she could get him locked up as a nut case.

Moseley had met Dr. Auerbach in Vienna, while he was doing an article about psychoanalysis, and he knew that Auerbach was in Edinburgh now. It was his idea to shave his head and wear a false beard, which made him nearly Auerbach’s double. At the trial, the prosecutor asked him what would have happened if the Edinburgh police had talked to the real doctor. Moseley said he’d mentioned exactly that to Lady Purleigh, and she’d said that in that case “we should take care of Dr. Auerbach.”

Moseley admitted to firing the shot that missed Miss Turner. As the Great Man said, he thought he’d killed her. He also admitted to a rough time an hour later, when he “examined” her, as Dr. Auerbach. It was then he realized that she was nearsighted, and that she hadn’t recognized him and Lady Purleigh. She didn’t volunteer anything about ghosts, and he didn’t ask.

Lady Purleigh, he said, refused to believe that Miss Turner was no threat. It was Lady Purleigh who had stabbed the dagger into Miss Turner’s bed. Moseley, so he claimed, came running after her, using the secret passageway, and dragged her back to her room. In the excitement, both of them had forgotten to retrieve the knife.

The autopsy on the Earl’s body had proved that he hadn’t committed suicide. As the Great Man had predicted, traces of fabric were found in the fatal wound. Moseley and Lady Purleigh hadn’t counted on that. No one ever found the cushion that had been used to muffle the sound of the shot. Moseley said that Lady Purleigh burned it.

And it was Lady Purleigh, said Moseley, who had actually fired the pistol. While her husband was off talking to MacGregor, organizing his posse of tenant farmers, she used the secret passage to go up the Earl’s room. She brought along the cushion and the chunk of lumber with the prepared cartridge inside it. According to

Moseley, she killed the old man, put the chunk of lumber into fireplace, and then come downstairs to join the others at tea. She knew when Lord Bob would be coming back-he was always punctual, as Cecily had told me-and she knew he would have no real alibi for the time the shot was fired.

Lady Purleigh’s lawyer tried to shift the blame to Moseley. But Moseley had been in plain sight all afternoon. Lady Purleigh hadn’t. She was the only one who could’ve gone up to that room.

From the time she was arrested, Lady Purleigh calmly denied everything. During the trial, Lord Bob told the newspapers that she’d never do such things, had never known about the secret passageways. He was convincing, but I think he realized that she had known, and that she had done all the rest.

They were both convicted. Moseley was hanged. Lady Purleigh is still in prison, serving a life sentence. Lord Bob has given up the idea of a golfing club, and he doesn’t give weekend parties anymore.

As for Chin Soo, his real name was Archibald Crubbs and he was English. He’d been an acrobat, a contortionist, and, for a while, a Shakespearean actor before he sailed to America and made his name as a magician. “Sergeant Meadows” was actually a man named Peter Collinson, an old friend of Crubbs’s and a former cop who still had connections to Scotland Yard. As Doyle had suggested, Chin Soo had learned on Wednesday, from the newspaper article, that Doyle would be going to Maplewhite for the weekend. Chin Soo assumed, and correctly, that Houdini would also be there. He and Collinson had been staying in Cumbermoorleigh, a village not far from Purleigh, since Thursday.

When the two of them learned that Inspector Marsh would be arriving at Maplewhite on Sunday morning, they brought down a couple of thugs from London, and they all waylaid him. Marsh and his real sergeant, Maynard Vine, spent most of Sunday trussed up in a barn about ten miles south of Maplewhite, guarded by the thugs. They were only discovered because Miss Turner, doing a pretty good imitation of Lady Purleigh’s voice, telephoned the Amberly police and demanded that they start looking for them.

The police wanted to move in on the phony Marsh right away, but Lady Purleigh’s voice carried a lot of weight with Superintendent Honniwell, even when it wasn’t really hers. Miss Turner persuaded them to listen to the Great Man.

Crubbs and Collinson were tried and convicted for kidnapping and for impersonating a police officer, which in England is almost as serious. Both of them were sent to Dartmoor, but while their train was on its way to the prison, they disappeared in what the English newspapers called “the most audacious escape of the century.” Neither one of them was ever seen again.

It’s a good word, audacious. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle used it that Sunday afternoon, after all the excitement had died down, to describe Chin Soo. “It was audacious of him, really, wasn’t it? Pretending to be a policeman while an actual police investigation was going on. Wasn’t he the least bit bothered by the notion that Scotland Yard would be expecting reports from the real Inspector Marsh? Didn’t he realize that Honniwell might return here at any moment from Amberly? The Amberly police are still examining the rifle and the pistol. The autopsy on the Earl has yet to be performed. How could he possibly put himself in such a position?”

I shrugged. “Like you said. He was audacious.”

We were in the library, where Doyle had towed me.

He puffed at his pipe. “Yes, but why put himself in such jeopardy?”

“He wanted to show Harry up. Like I said before, I don’t think he ever really wanted to kill him. He was counting coup, in a way, like a Sioux Indian. Getting close enough to kill him, and taking pride in that. Later, probably, if he’d pulled it off, he would’ve told Harry what he’d done, somehow. And I don’t think he planned to hang around long enough to get caught. He wouldn’t have stayed as long as he did, probably, if he hadn’t gotten involved in that bet with Harry. The idea of beating Harry to a solution was too good for him to pass up.”

Chin Soo admitted as much at his trial.

“Yes,” said Doyle, “but it was extraordinarily dangerous.” “This is a guy who catches bullets in his teeth.”

“But that’s merely a trick, you said.”

“Harry tells me that two magicians died trying to perform it.”

Doyle frowned around the stem of his pipe. “Hmmm. And Lady Purleigh. She was audacious, as well.”

“Yeah.”

“I should never have suspected her. I’ve always believed she was a charming woman, and devoted to her husband. I very much admired her.”

“I liked her, too,” I said. “But if murderers always looked like murderers, and always acted like murderers, we wouldn’t need cops.” I smiled. “Or mystery writers.”

“Hmmm. Yes. Quite so.” He looked at me. “Do you suppose that Lord Reginald somehow influenced Lady Purleigh? Somehow warped her perceptions, twisted her nature?”

“You’d have to ask Running Bear,” I said. “But he’s already been wrong once.”

He frowned. “Not as to Mrs. Corneille’s daughter. Nor to the Earl’s imposing himself upon Miss Turner.”

I still thought that Madame Sosostris had gotten her information from Briggs, and that the innocent woman she’d been talking about had been Darleen. But I knew that Madame Sosostris would never admit it.

“You’d think he’d be right about everything,” I said.

“Passing over into the next life doesn’t make one infallible, you know. One is improved, but one is still subject to human error.”

“Then what’s the point of dying?”

He smiled. “Still pretending to be a skeptic, eh, Beaumont? Ah well.” He stood up. “Nonetheless, it’s been a pleasure to meet you. Most instructive. I hope we see each other again at some time. I do mean that. Perhaps we can get together in London.’

I stood up. “You’re taking off?” I asked him.

“Taking off? Oh yes, yes, I’m returning to London with Madame Sosostris and Mr. Dempsey. We’ve work to do. Much work.”

“Have you talked to Harry yet? About the seance?”

He puffed at the pipe. “Briefly, yes. He isn’t as impressed as I d hoped. He claims that all the miracles she performed at the seance could have been performed, just as well, by a fraud.”

“He’s right.”

“Well, of course he is. I don’t dispute that for a moment. But as Madame Sosostris is not a fraud, the point is irrelevant. The woman is a marvel, Beaumont. She’s brought comfort and peace to literally hundreds of people. How many of us can say that?”

“Not many.” Not me, for one.

“I began as a doctor, you know. Medicine. I was helping people. And then I became a writer, and for years all I did was amuse them, really. Entertain them. Now, once again, I can be a part of something that helps them.”.

I nodded. It seemed to me that being amusing and entertaining was maybe more helpful than confusing them with ghosts, but I didn’t think there was much point in bringing it up.

“Well,” he said. “I wish you the best of luck.”

“I wish you the same, Sir Arthur.” We shook hands and he doubled the number of creases in my palm.

He smiled at me again and then he walked off, trailing the smell of burning burlap.