“They’re sending their best man,” he said, talking about Scotland Yard. “Fellow named Marsh. An inspector. I’ve heard of him, and he’s reported to be extremely good. Unconventional, so I understand, but intelligent and very thorough.” He turned to Lord Bob. And discreet. Lord Bob snorted.
“Unfortunately,” said Doyle, “he won’t be arriving until sometime tomorrow morning. Meantime, they’ll wire the Purleigh police. The constable from the village should be here presently.”
Lord Bob scowled. “That buffoon. Dubbins.”
Doyle and Lord Bob had arrived together, a few minutes ago, and now they sat opposite the Great Man and me. About ten minutes before that, a uniformed servant had ferried in a crystal decanter of brandy and four balloon glasses, along with a crystal carafe of water and four water glasses. He had poured four brandies, four glasses of water, and left.
Doyle said, “A medical examiner will be dispatched from
Amberly.”
“Still don’t get that,” said Lord Bob. “What’s wrong with Christie, eh? Been the family quack for years.”
“In the circumstances, Lord Purleigh, my friend at the Yard feels, and I agree with him, that an outside observer would be best.”
Lord Bob scowled again.
“I also mentioned,” said Doyle, “the matter of Chin Soo. I explained that it was quite unrelated to the death of the Earl, but that it was a situation which required immediate attention. An additional force of police will be sent here, these to come from Amberly as well.”
“More of them,” grunted Lord Bob. He shook his head. “Peering and prodding. Tracking muck about the house.”
“How is Lady Purleigh?” the Great Man asked.
Lord Bob sat back, raised his bushy eyebrows, sighed heavily. “Bearing up. She’s a wonder, Alice. Always has been. But she’s upset, of course. As I say, she was fond of the old swine.” He took a sip from his brandy glass.
I asked him, “Have you told the guests about Chin Soo?”
He looked at me. “Said I would, didn’t I?”
“Lord Purleigh,” said Doyle, holding his pipe tilted at an angle beside his wide red face. “May I make a suggestion?”
“Certainly,” he said, sitting back. “You’ve earned the right, Doyle. Appreciate the way you’ve handled things. The gun. Guarding the room. Never would’ve thought of it myself.”
He turned back to me, frowned. “You, too, Beaumont. Owe you an apology. Got a bit shirty upstairs.”
“No need to apologize,” I told him. I tasted the brandy. It was older than I was. Better, too, probably.
“Pay what I owe,” said Lord Bob, and sipped at his. “Even to a Pinkerton. Noblesse oblige, eh?” He turned to Doyle. “A suggestion, you said?”
Doyle took a puff from the pipe. “Yes.” As he shifted slightly on the uncomfortable seat, another small quick wince flashed across his face. “I suggest to you-and I do assure you, Lord Purleigh, that I have only your best interests at heart-I suggest to you that when the police arrive, you might perhaps refrain from referring to the Earl as an old swine.”
Lord Bob seemed puzzled. “Whatever for? Whole bloody county knows he was an old swine, and knows that I know it. He’s dead, mebbe, but a swine’s a swine for a’ that. Eh?”
“Yes, of course. But given the unusual circumstances of the Earl’s death-”
Lord Bob frowned impatiently. “You keep nattering on about the circumstances. Swine killed himself. Doesn’t happen every day, grant you, but it happens. Should have done it years ago. Inevitable, in a way, you know. Inherent Contradictions of Capitalism. Historical Necessity. Swine finally realized what he was, couldn’t stomach it, took the easy way out.”
“But I understood that your father suffered from paralysis.”
Lord Bob nodded. “Years now. Fell off a horse. Sorrel mare.” “And Mr. Beaumont has pointed out that the pistol found in his room came from that gun collection.” He pointed his pipe at the guns on the wall.
Lord Bob nodded. “Got you. Worried me for a bit. How’d the old swine get hold of it, eh? Well, no mystery there. One of the servants fetched it for him.”
“But why? What reason could the Earl possibly give a servant for wanting a pistol?”
“No idea. Told him he wanted to pot at pigeons, mebbe. We get them, you know. Poison doesn’t work. Costs me a fortune, cleaning up after the buggers. Filthy things.” He drained his brandy.
“But Lord Purleigh-”
“What is it, exactly, you’re after, Doyle?”
“Not I, Lord Purleigh. The police-”
“Look here.” Lord Bob grabbed the decanter, splashed some more brandy into his glass. “You’re not implying that this was something more than a suicide? You’re not saying, blast it, that it was murder?” He slapped the decanter back onto the table.
“Certainly not. But the police-”
“Bugger the police.” He swallowed some brandy. “Poor Carson heard the bloody gun go off. You saw the door. It was locked. Barred. From the inside.” He turned to the Great Man. “You re the lock-expert chap. Could you have nipped out of that room? Eh? In one piece? And left the locks the way we found them?”
“Of course,” said the Great Man. His timing, as usual, was perfect. “There are several methods by which I could have done so. With the simplest of these, I could have prepared the door in less than a few seconds.”
Doyle leaned forward, interested, and he said, “Really? By what means?”
Lord Bob sat back, scowling. “Rubbish.”
“Not at all, Lord Purleigh,” said the Great Man. “It is quite simple.” He turned to Doyle. “The lock is an ancient one, with the warded chamber set midway between the two lock plates, one on the interior of the room and one on the exterior. The channel passes straight through, from room to room. Let us say, theoretically, that I am in the bedroom, and that the door is locked from the inside when Carson attempts to open it. As in fact it was.”
My attention was wandering. The Great Man had already explained all this to me. I glanced over at the weapons on the wall. A lot of armament hanging up there.
“To deal with the bar,” the Great Man was saying, “I would require only a strong piece of wire, perhaps a coat hanger-which is exactly the item, of course, with which I would have opened the door, had I been given the opportunity.”
Up there, above an antique piece of furniture, a long dark wooden dresser, there were dirks and daggers, swords, halberds, pikes, rifles, and pistols.
“I unlock the door,” said the Great Man, “leaving the key in the lock. I open the door. I raise the bar and I use the wire to support it above the restraining posts, holding the wire along the edge of the door. I am standing outside now, in the other room. As I close the door, I slide the wire from beneath the bar. The bar descends into the restraining posts, and the wire slips around the frame of the door, and out. I then use a simple lock pick to turn the key in the chamber and drive the bolt home.”
Doyle laughed aloud. “Topping!”
Lord Bob said, “But how could you do all that with Carson standing right outside the door?”
“Excuse me,” I said. “Lord Purleigh?”
He glared at me.
“The guns on the wall,” I said. “They’re not loaded, are they?”
He made a face. “What sort of blockhead puts loaded weapons on the bloody wall?”
“Where’s the ammunition?”
“That cupboard there.”
“Mind if I take a look?”
He waved a brusque hand. “Do as you like.” He turned back to the Great Man. “Carson was standing outside the door,” he said. “No way on earth you could’ve performed all those fancy tricks of yours without him seeing you.”
I stood up, walked toward the cupboard.
“Ah, but remember,” said the Great Man. Carson left the room to summon help. He used the emergency telephone in his own quarters.”
Inside the cupboard, on the top shelf, the ammunition was neatly stacked in cardboard boxes.
