“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.
Lord Bon led Dubbins and me through the corridors to the Earl’s suite. Lord Bob weaved a bit but he stumbled only once, on the stairwell. He said nothing to me all the way. As we came down the hallway toward the Earl’s suite, he said to Dubbins, “When will your colleagues be arriving from Amberly?”
“Momentarily, your lordship. Superintendent Honniwell is with ’em, sir.”
“Indeed. We can all rest easy now.”
“Yes sir, your lordship. What I meant, sir, he’ll hurry ’em along, the Super will.”
“Yes, of course. And how is the villainy business these days, Dubbins?”
“Well, your lordship, Florrie Chubb’s oldest, Little Tom, he smashed the window of the chemist’s shop on Monday last. Old Mrs. Hornsby banged Jerry over the head with a teapot again. That was Wednesday, your lordship. And someone nicked Wilbur Dent’s bicycle today.”
“A veritable crime wave. We must nip that in the bud, eh?”
“Yes sir, your lordship.”
“I have every confidence in you, Dubbins.”
“Thank you, sir, your lordship.”
When we arrived at a doorway a few doors away from the Earl’s rooms, Lord Bob stopped, Dubbins and I stopped, and Lord Bob knocked on the door. A thin voice called out for us to come in.
Lord Bob opened the door. The room was small, half the size of the anteroom next door. A curtained window, a dresser, a wardrobe, a small desk that held a lighted electric lamp and the emergency telephone. Still fully dressed but with his tie loosened at his neck, Carson was trying to raise himself off the small single bed. “I do apologize, milord-”
“No, no,” said Lord Bob. “Be a good fellow now, and lie down. Good. You’ve met Mr. Beaumont. He’ll be asking you a few questions about what happened today. He’s a Pinkerton, but we won’t hold that against him, eh? Feel up to it, do you?”
Carson had eased his white head back onto the pillow and put his small frail hands on his chest. The hands still trembled. Maybe they always did. “Yes, milord. I feel quite useless, sir, lying here like this. I should be very
