Purleigh, Cecily, and Dr. Auerbach sat directly ahead, on the west side. On the coffee table in front of them, beside the teapot, was a large copper cowbell.
Sir Arthur stood next to Lady Purleigh, behind an empty chair, and he was bending forward, listening carefully. Madame Sosostris and Mr. Dempsey sat to the right, on the north side. Between these last two groups, Lord Bob stood talking to Sir David Merridale. Sir David was in shirtsleeves, his collar open, his cuffs rolled back. His black mustache and his wavy black hair glistened in the early morning sunlight and he looked very fit.
When Lord Bob saw the Great Man and me, he muttered something to the other two and then bustled over to us.
“Houdini! Beaumont! Good to see you!” His black suit and white shirt were neatly pressed this morning. All the buttons were in all the right holes and his tie was firmly trapped inside his vest. He sounded as brisk and lively as ever, maybe more so. But the ruddiness had drained from his face and left most of it waxy and pale. On his cheeks, beneath the pallor, purple veins were coiled like tiny snakes. Below his bloodshot eyes the skin was the color of fried liver. He turned to me and proudly waved a hand at the ring. “Look all right, does it?”
“I’m impressed,” I told him.
He beamed. “Sir Arthur and my wife. Up at the crack of dawn with the servants. Damned ambitious, eh?” Stroking his mustache, he turned to the Great Man. “Eh? What d’you think?”
The Great Man nodded, smiling. “Most impressive, Lord Purleigh.”
Lord Bob grinned. “Alice explained it to me last night. A boxing match. You and Merridale. Splendid idea, I thought. Symbolic, in a way, eh? The bourgeoisie versus the aristocracy, New World versus the Old. And a rousing bit of sport for the guests, eh? Get their minds off the old swine and the ghosts and whatnot. Ah.” He frowned suddenly, as if he’d just remembered something.
He glanced quickly over at the others, then back to us. “About last night.” He frowned, shook his head. “Disgraceful performance on my part. Scandalous. Made my apologies to all the rest, owe one to both of you. Damn sorry it happened. Don’t know what came over me. Quart or two of Napoleon brandy, eh?” He chuckled, but the chuckle sounded empty and forced, and beneath the bushy eyebrows he was watching us. I think he was embarrassed, and I think that embarrassment was something he didn’t experience very often.
The Great Man said, “No apology is necessary, Lord Purleigh.”
Lord Bob grinned. “Good of you to say so. But it’s Bob, eh?” He turned to me, the eyebrows raised. “Hale and hearty, are we? Ready for the main event?”
“Yeah.”
“Good man.” He leaned toward me and gave me a wink. “Got a fiver riding on you. Don’t let me down, eh?
He was a lot happier with me today than he'd been yesterday. Or maybe he was just unhappy with Sir David. “Who took your bet?” I asked him.
“Madame Whatsis’s husband. The skinny chap. Tunney, is it?”
I smiled. “Dempsey.”
“Whatever. In any event, good luck, eh?” Grinning, he moved into a boxing stance. “Keep up that left, eh?”
“I’ll try.”
“Good fellow. Ah, Doyle, there you are. About ready to begin, are we?”
Towering over us all, Doyle nodded his big pink head. “Very nearly, Lord Purleigh. But I must speak briefly with Mr. Beaumont.”
“Right you are,” said Lord Bob. “I’m off.” He turned back to me, grinning again, and he held up his left hand, balled into a fist. “The left, eh?”
I smiled and nodded, and he bustled away.
“Now,” said Doyle. “Mr. Beaumont, do you still wish to go through with this?”
“Yeah.”
For a moment his glance traveled around my face like the beam of a searchlight. “Are you really quite sure, Beaumont? No offense, but you do look a trifle”-he frowned-“worn this morning.”
“I’m fine.”
He nodded. “Very well.” He smiled slightly. But I dare say you’ll be a shade more mobile without your coat and tie.”
As I pulled off the coat, Doyle turned to the Great Man. “You’ll be in Mr. Beaumont’s corner? Acting as his assistant?”
“As his second,” corrected the Great Man.
“Yes,” said Doyle. “Here, permit me to take that.” He took my coat, draped it over his arm, took my tie, draped that over the coat. “You’re ready, then?” he asked me.
“Yeah.” I unbuttoned my left shirt cuff.
“Very well. Houdini, you and Beaumont will have that corner.” He nodded toward the southeast. The Great Man gave me one of his wide smiles and then capered off to the corner.
He’d already forgotten about Miss Turner and the Earl and everything else I’d told him when we tramped down the stairs. He was genuinely excited, I think. Maybe because, for a change, he got to be part of the audience, and he wasn’t in any kind of competition with the performer.
Doyle called out, “Sir David?”
As I rolled back my sleeves, Sir David strode toward us along the grass, tall and lithe. He moved well for someone as big as he was. His eyebrows were raised as he smiled at me. I nodded to him. Without lowering his eyebrows or nodding back, he turned to Doyle. “Yes?”
“I should like to be quite certain,” said Doyle, “that we all understand the rules.” As he spoke, he looked back and forth between me and Sir David. “The rounds will be of three minutes duration, with a rest period of one minute between each. Any man who falls during the course of a round will have ten seconds to get up, unassisted. A man on one knee is considered down, and if struck wins the match by forfeit. There will be no wrestling or hugging. No hitting below the belt, no hitting over the kidneys or the back of the neck. No kicking, gouging, or biting. Is that clear?”
Sir David smiled. “Quite.”
“Mr. Beaumont? Clear?”
“Yeah.” But it took away a big chunk of my repertoire. “Good,” said Doyle. “To your corners, then, gentlemen.”
I walked over to my stool. The Great Man was dancing around beside it, grinning and rubbing his palms together. I turned and looked over at Sir David. His second was Dr. Auerbach.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” announced Doyle, his big voice booming out across the lawn. “Welcome to the contest. This is to be a boxing match of ten rounds, fought by modified Marquis of Queensberry rules. Each round will last for three minutes. Lady Purleigh will be acting as timekeeper. The round will end when she rings the bell. Lady Purleigh, could you demonstrate, please?” The copper cowbell on the table was attached at the top to a strip of ribbon. Lady Purleigh smiled and then raised the bell, using the ribbon as a handle. She tapped the bell with a small metal hammer. It made a sharp pleasant ring that faded off across the wide empty lawn.
“Thank you,” said Doyle. He turned to the others. “I shall be acting as referee, and my decisions are final.”
“Here, here,” said Lord Bob loudly, and clapped his hands. The rest of them applauded.
“In this corner,” announced Doyle, “we have Sir David Merridale, from London.”
People applauded politely. Behind me, the Great Man hollered, “ Boooo! ” Heads swung, stiffly, in his direction. Most of the clapping seemed to be coming from Cecily Fitzwilliam. Lady Purleigh leaned toward her.
Smiling, Sir David nodded in the direction of each table.
Just in case they hadn’t heard it the first time, the Great Man hollered it again-“ Boooo! ”
The applause had stopped. Doyle was frowning at us. “And in this corner,” he said, “we have Mr. Phil Beaumont, from America.”
Behind me, the Great Man beat his hands together wildly. “ Hooray for Phil! ” he called out. The guests applauded politely again. Except for Cecily Fitzwilliam, who sat with her arms locked across her chest. Lady Purleigh leaned toward her.
“ Hooray! ” the Great Man shouted. I turned to him and under my breath I said, “Easy, Harry.”
