“I’ve told you that my father was mad,” said Lord Bob.
He and the Great Man and I were in the same small parlor that Doyle and I had used yesterday, not far from the conservatory. Lord Bob sat across the room.
“He was a perfect lunatic,” he said. “And not only because he wanted to flog everyone-although that was bad enough, of course. But he did worse. He loved to dress up, you see, as Lord Reginald-the family ghost-and terrify young women. Guests. Wore a nightgown, a false beard, a wig. Attached them with spirit gum, looked quite convincing. Waited till they fell asleep. Used the tunnel to sneak into their rooms. Woke them up with a howl and bellowed that he wanted to ravish ’em. This was before his accident, of course.”
“How’d he get away with it?” I asked him. “None of the women reported it? None of them complained?”
“Well, there weren’t that many, you know. Five or six over the years. And all of ’em actually believed he was Lord Reginald. Swooned dead away, or went screaming out into the halls. One of ’em-strange woman, a writer- actually insisted he ravish her. And the old swine did, I’m sorry to say. Shocking, I know, but there it is. The Earl boasted of it for weeks.”
“He never raped these women?”
Lord Bob’s eyebrows sailed upward. “Good Lord, no. Rape? The man was deranged, Beaumont, but he was a Fitzwilliam.”
“Miss Turner felt she was in danger of-”
“Yes.” Wincing, he held up his hand like a traffic cop. “Miss Turner. I feel dreadful about Miss Turner. All that, the other women, that all happened before his accident, as I said. When we learned he was paralyzed, I breathed a sigh of relief, I don’t mind telling you. No more hysterical women running through the hallways. No more silly stories of hauntings.”
He took a deep breath. “What must’ve happened, over the years, he changed. Lying there, he festered. Like a wound, eh? Been mental before, got even worse. Forgot even who he was. Forgot he was a Fitzwilliam. By the time he could walk again, he'd gone completely round the bend. He never told us, you know. That he could walk. Kept it a secret.”
“How’d you find out?”
“A weekend party. Few months ago. Group of people up from London. Friends of Alice-artists, writers, that sort. She meets them there, in town, takes them under her wing. One of the women, young thing named Cora- Dora? Harrington or something. Doesn’t matter. Middle of the night, she woke up the entire east wing with her screaming. She’d seen him, she said. Reginald. He’d grabbed at her, she said. He’d never done that before. Actually touched them, I mean. Except for that writer woman, of course. I learned about all this in the morning.”
“Did you talk to him? Your father?”
“Of course. Within the hour. Stormed up there, read him the riot act. He denied everything. How could he do it, he asked me. He was paralyzed, wasn’t he? All innocence. Nearly persuaded me,
I confess. Told myself, this Harrington girl was a nervous sort, mebbe. Had woman troubles, eh? She’d heard the stories, she hallucinated. Talked myself into believing it.”
The Great Man asked, “Did you take any precautions, Lord Purleigh, to prevent a repetition of the incident?
“Locked the entrance to the tunnel. Just in case. His entrance, from the tunnel side. Loops of metal in there, made for that purpose. Centuries ago. Ran a crowbar through ’em. Impossible for him to get through.” ^
“But there was no bar present,” said the Great Man, when I discovered the entrance.”
“I know that,” said Lord Bob. “Looked for it myself, yesterday.” He turned to me. “After I brought you to Carson’s room. Used another entrance, down the hall, to get into the tunnel and then back up. Bloody thing had gone missing.”
I said, “Your father could’ve used the same entrance earlier, and taken the bar.”
He nodded. “What must’ve happened. It was still there, though, on Friday morning. I looked.”
I asked him, “Who else knew about the tunnel?”
“No one. Family tradition. Only the firstborn son is told. Sworn to secrecy, lots of feudal mumbo-jumbo. Absurd, of course. But so long as he was alive-the Earl-I kept to the oath.”
“But Lady Purleigh had to know your father was impersonating the ghost.”
“Of course she did. Kinder about the whole thing than I was, Alice. More forgiving. Said it was a sickness, nothing we could do. Except attempt to prevent it happening again. But she never knew about the tunnel. Thought he simply wandered through the halls.” “When were the tunnel and the entrances built?” the Great Man asked.
“The Civil War, so the stories say. Cromwell, the Roundheads, that lot. Think it’s older, myself. Late Norman, mebbe. Some of the stonework-”
“Lord Purleigh,” I said. “Yesterday, when we were trying to get into the Earl’s room, Sir Arthur asked you if there was another way in. You said there wasn’t.”
He took in another deep breath, slowly sighed it out. He nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I know. Wrong of me. Completely. But there was the oath, you see. The tradition. Hundreds of years.” He frowned, shook his head, sighed again. “But that wasn’t the real reason.”
“You didn't want anyone to know about your father.”
“No. I didn’t. Everyone knew he was a reactionary swine. Most of ’em approved, of course. Preferred him that way. But no one knew about the other.”
He looked uncomfortable. “Look, Beaumont, there are things I want to do. Important things. Helping the workers. The farmers. Poor buggers have had a thin time of it for centuries. Exploited by everyone. The aristocracy, the Church, the bourgeoisie, the government. I could do something, you see. Oh, they think I’m a fool. Society. All of ’em. I realize that. Lived with it for years, doesn't bother me. But what would they think of me, think of the earldom, if they learned about this? However could I get anything done?”
“Do you think your father committed suicide, Lord Purleigh?”
For a moment he only looked at me. Then, slowly, he nodded. “I do, yes. I spoke with him, you know. Yesterday morning, after the others had left for town. Before I saw you at breakfast. I accused him of accosting Miss Turner. He denied it, of course. I told him I intended to have him put away. An asylum. He believed me, I think.” He looked away. “I suspect that this is why he took his own life.” He looked back at us. “So, in a way, of course, I’m responsible. I expect that’s why I drank so much yesterday. Made such an idiot of myself.”
“Sooner or later,” I said, “you’ve got to talk to the police.”
Lord Bob sighed sadly. “Yes. Yes, I realize that.” He shook his head, looked off again. “May mean the end of everything.”
“Excuse me, Phil,” said the Great Man. “But do you think it is absolutely necessary that Lord Purleigh tell Inspector Marsh about the late Earl? Immediately, at any rate? Perhaps he should wait until-”
“After tea time? Too late, Harry. Marsh already knows,” I turned to Lord Bob. “He’s talked to Miss Turner. She figured everything out. She went exploring in your father’s room last night. She found the phony beard and the wig.”
“Ah,” he said, and he sighed once more. “She did strike me as an intelligent woman, Miss Turner.”
“I’ll talk to them,” I said. “The police. See if I can get them to keep things quiet.”
Lord Bob smiled sadly. “Thank you, Beaumont. I appreciate the thought. Well.” He raised his head. “We’ll see what happens, won’t we?”
“Things’ll work out,” I told him.
“Yes. Yes, of course.” He looked around the room and blinked, like someone who’d just awakened from a daydream. He turned back to me. “I wonder. Do you know where my wife is? I really ought to let her know what’s happened.”
“She’s in the drawing room,” I said.
“Thank you.” He stood up. He still look rumpled but now he looked worn and defeated and about ten years older. We stood up and he stepped forward, holding out his hand. “Houdini. Beaumont. Thank you for listening.”
“Tell me, Phil,” said the Great Man as we walked across the patio outside the conservatory. “You say that Inspector Marsh has talked with Miss Turner.”
“Yeah.”
“She told him-”
