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.
Miss Turner told her story well. She was calm today, and straightforward. Her voice was level and detached even when she described her visit from the ghost on Friday night, and when she described finding the knife in her bed last night.
“Can you think of anyone,” Inspector Marsh asked her, when she finished, “who would have reason to harm you?”
“No,” she said. “Not harm me. Not really.”
She was wearing the gray dress she’d worn when I first met her. Her hair was drawn back. She seemed less stiff now than she'd been that first time, in the drawing room. But she’d gone through a lot this weekend-a lecherous ghost, a snake, an advance from Sir David, a visit to a dead man’s room, a dagger in her bed. After all that, talking to a London cop and a Pinkerton man in broad daylight was probably pretty small potatoes.
But now Inspector Marsh had seen her hesitate. He might be delicate, but he didn’t miss much. “Not harm you, you say. Not really. Please, Miss Turner. Has anyone displayed any sort of hostility toward you? Any sort at all?”
She glanced at me again, then looked back at Marsh. Well. As I told Mr. Beaumont, there was an incident yesterday morning. Involving Sir David Merridale.”
“Yes?”
She told him pretty much the same thing she’d told me last night, in Mrs. Corneille’s room.
Marsh nodded. “And do you believe that Sir David was so frustrated by this rejection that he crept into your room? And plunged a knife into what he believed to be your sleeping form?”
“No,” she said quickly. “I don’t really.” She sat slightly more upright in her chair. “You asked me about hostility, Inspector. I was merely answering your question.”
“For which I thank you. Now. Has anyone else evinced hostility toward you? At Maplewhite?”
“No.”
“Getting back to this apparition you witnessed on Friday night.”
“Yes,” she said. “The Earl.”
“Miss Turner, have you ever actually seen the Earl?”
“Not before Friday night.”
“Disregarding Friday night. Had you ever visited the Earl in his quarters? Had you ever met him?”
“No.”
“Did you perchance see him after he died?”
“No.”
“Then how can you be so certain that the figure in your bedroom was the Earl?”
“I’ve seen his portrait.”
“His portrait,” said Marsh.
“This morning,” said Miss Turner. “I asked one of the footmen whether a portrait of the Earl existed. One did, he told me. In the Great Hall. I went there and examined it. It was dated 1913, only eight years ago. It was the same man. If you placed a wig on him, and a false beard, he would be indistinguishable from the figure in my room.”
Marsh smiled. “But so, I daresay, would anyone in a wig and a false beard. Sarah Bernhardt, say.”
“And had I discovered a wig and a false beard under Sarah
Bernhardt’s bed, then I should be persuaded it was she, and not the Earl, who visited me on Friday.”
“And you are willing to testify-in a court of law, for example, under oath-that you did discover the beard and the wig under the Earl’s bed?”
“Yes.”
“Where are these items now?”
“In Mrs. Corneille’s room. Mr. Beaumont suggested, last night, that Mrs. Corneille keep them there.”
“Have you discussed them with anyone besides Mrs. Corneille and Mr. Beaumont? With Lord and Lady Purleigh, for example?” “No,” she said. “Mr. Beaumont suggested that we should not do so.”
“Mrs. Corneille is a good friend of Lady Purleigh’s, so I understand.”
“I believe she is, yes.”
“And she agreed to this.'
“Yes.”
Mrs. Corneille hadn’t wanted to, and she hadn’t agreed until I reminded her that the servants seemed to know about everything that went on in Maplewhite. Someone had already tried to kill Miss Turner, I pointed out. I told her it would probably be safer for everyone, including Lady Purleigh, if we kept a secret or two for a while.
Marsh nodded. “What of this- knife you found in your bed? Where is that at the moment?”
“Also in Mrs. Corneille’s room.”
He nodded again. “All right. Tell me this, Miss Turner. Do you often receive ghostly visitations?”
