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.”
Chapter Thirty-two
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
