The Great Man said, “Gentlemen…”
“The bench,” I said. I pointed to a long oak bench that ran beneath the windows. It had been a section of single peeled log once, years ago, before someone sawed away one side of it and stuck eight tapering wooden legs into its curved bottom surface.
“Perfect!” said Doyle. “Lord Purleigh! Higgens! Quickly now!”
“Sir Arthur,” said the Great Man, but Sir Arthur was busy.
The four of us scrambled over to the bench and each of us grabbed a leg and we lugged the thing off the floor. It didn’t weigh much more than a ton. We gripped it beneath our curled right arms and swung it awkwardly up into the air. Doyle was at the front, Lord Bob and Higgens followed, I was last. I noticed that Higgens’s face was as blank and expressionless as usual. Maybe this was something he did every day. Carson still hovered off to the side, hugging himself, shaking his gray head, biting his lower lip. The Great Man stood with his hands on his hips, frowning. “Phil,” he said to me.
“Careful now,” said Doyle, who had taken charge. “Step back a bit, would you, Houdini, there’s a good chap.”
The Great Man threw up his hands in frustration and then backed off to stand beside Carson.
“On the count of three, men,” bellowed Doyle, like a scoutmaster. “One. Two. Three!”
We ran forward and the end of the bench slammed into the door with a huge booming crash. The bench jumped and shivered under my hands. The door shuddered but didn’t give way.
“Once more, men!” cried Doyle. “Back!”
We took some clumsy shuffling steps backward. Doyle called out, “Ready? One. Two. Three!” We ran forward again and the end of the bench whammed into the door and this time metal screeched suddenly against stone and the door burst suddenly inward and slammed itself against the wall.
“Down!” said Doyle, and we lowered the bench to the floor.
Doyle was the first one into the room, then Lord Bob, then Higgens, then me. The Great Man and Carson trailed in behind us.
The smell of gunsmoke hung in the stifling, musty air. A fire was burning in the huge stone fireplace and all the windows in the room were shut. It was a big room but a simple one, like the living room-a rough oaken dresser to the right, a rough oaken wardrobe to the left, a rough oaken bookcase beside it. In the center of the room, set against the far stone wall, was a huge bed with a towering, carved oak headboard. Beside the bed, on the left, sat a wheelchair of chrome and leather, smaller and more spindly than the wheelchair used by Madame Sosostris. Lying on the bed, the covers drawn up to his chest, was a very old man. He was cleanshaven and nearly bald. His thin right arm, sleeved in white flannel, lay above the covers and it was stretched out sideways. The withered right hand hung over the floor, palm up, long yellow fingers curled toward the ceiling. Beneath the hand, on the floor, was a dark revolver.
There was a small black hole in the old man’s temple.
“Dear God,” said Lord Bob.
“Steady,” said Doyle, and clapped him on the shoulder.
I moved toward the body. I put my fingertips against the wrist of the frail old arm. The thin translucent skin was still warm but there was no pulse beating beneath it. I looked over at Doyle, looked at Lord Bob, shook my head.
Lord Bob said, “The swine’s gone and killed himself.” He took a step toward the pistol and he bent to pick it up.
“Don’t!” I said.
He glared up at me once, a quick annoyed glare, then picked up the weapon.
“Not a good idea,” I said. “The police won’t want anything moved. And now your fingerprints are on the gun.”
Lord Bob was inspecting the pistol. He moved it from his right hand to his left, frowned at his right hand, idly wiped it against the breast of his suit coat. “Dust,” he said vaguely.
Doyle was glancing around the floor. “Ash,” he said. “From the fireplace. It’s everywhere. Blew out when we forced open the door.”
On this side of the bed, the ash lay everywhere, a thin gray coating atop the wooden floor. I could see the footprints we'd made. There weren’t any others.
Lord Bob was still looking at the gun, and still frowning.
I said, “He didn’t keep a gun in here, did he?”
Not looking up, Lord Bob shook his head.
“Lord Purleigh,” I said. “Put the gun back on the floor.”
Lord Bob glared at me again. He was dazed, I think, but even through the daze his indignation was automatic. “I beg your pardon.”
“That’s an American thirty-eight Smith and Wesson,” I said. “Not a very common weapon over here, I’m guessing. It looks a lot like a Smith and Wesson I saw downstairs, part of that collection in the big hall.”
Lord Bob looked down at the gun. “Yes.” Puzzled, he looked over at the old man lying in the bed. “But why… how did he get it?”
“That’s what the police will want to know. Please, Lord Purleigh. Put the gun back.”
Doyle said, “Best do as he says, Lord Purleigh.”
Lord Bob glanced at him. “The police,” he said. “But I won’t have the police…” His voice trailed off. He stood there staring off into the distance.
“You’ve no choice, I’m afraid,” said Doyle. “Not in a situation like this.” He put his hand on the man’s shoulder again. “Please, Lord Purleigh. Replace the gun.”
Lord Bob looked at me, his face empty. He bent forward and put the gun on the floor, then stood up.
Lord Bob turned to Doyle. He still seemed dazed. “And now… what now?”
“We touch nothing else,” said Doyle. “We keep the room sealed and guarded.” He turned to the valet, who stood at the foot of the bed. “Carson? It’s Carson, isn’t it?”
Carson looked up at him, his face pale. “Yes, sir.” His voice was quavering and his eyes were blinking. He raised his head. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said to Doyle. “I apologize. It’s just the shock of it, sir. The Earl… he seemed indestructible, sir.” He blinked again. He pulled himself up, looked at Lord Bob. “I’m very sorry, milord.” To Doyle, he said, “Sorry, sir.” He moved his shoulders in a small sad shrug, a gesture without hope. “It’s the shock, I expect.”
Behind the valet, the Great Man had moved to the massive wooden door, and he was bending forward to peer with what looked like professional curiosity at the wooden crossbar that had blocked our entrance to the room.
Carson’s shock had jarred Lord Bob out of his. He crossed the room and came around the bed to the old valet. “Carson,” he said. His voice was soft. “Are you quite all right?”
“Yes, milord.” He was staring straight ahead, over the body of the dead man.
Behind them, the Great Man looked up from his examination of the wooden bar, and he examined Lord Bob and the valet.
Lord Bob gently said to Carson, “Course you are. Course you are. But still, you know, all this excitement, better to catch our breath, eh? Snatch a bit of rest while we can. You go have a lie down. I’ll ask Mrs. Blandings to look in on you. And I’ll be ’round myself, once we’ve sorted all this out.”
His lips compressed, still staring ahead, Carson nodded. “Yes, milord.” He blinked again, turned to Lord Bob. “Thank you, milord.”
Lord Bob reached out and briefly put his fingers against the man’s arm. “Good man. Good man.” Carson blinked. Lord Bob turned to Doyle. “Eh, Doyle?” he said heartily. “That’s for the best, don’t you think?”
Doyle nodded his big head. “I agree completely, Lord Purleigh.”
“Right,” said Lord Bob to Carson in the same bluff tones. “Off you go, then.”
“Very good, milord.” His glance flickered down at the old man in the bed. He blinked and then turned and walked away. His body was still rigid, his movements stiff.
Lord Bob turned to Doyle. “You were saying, Doyle?”
“We keep the room sealed. And guarded.”
“Higgens can perform guard duty,” Lord Bob said. “Temporarily. We’ll be needing him downstairs. Eh, Higgens? I’ll send someone up to relieve you.”