“I do understand, Inspector. And I thank you.”
Marsh nodded. “And as perhaps, you know, honest plain words best pierce the heart of grief. Love’s Labour Lost.”
In the background, the servant glided discreetly around the room, picking up the breakfast dishes, marching them over to the cart in the corner with great care, as if they were the relics of a saint.
“Oh, Beaumont,” said Lord Bob. “Haven’t had a chance to congratulate you. Did a crackejack job on Merridale. Very cool. Know your onions, no question. Looked like an expert out there.” He leaned forward, narrowed his eyes. “Don’t suppose you’ve ever boxed professionally, eh?”
I nodded. “Before the War.”
He slapped his thigh and turned to Lady Purleigh. “Hear that, Alice? What’d I tell you?” He turned back to me, frowning. “Never mentioned that to Merridale, though, did you?”
“He never asked me,” I said.
He frowned again, unsatisfied. “Still. Fellow owes it to the other chap. Let him know these things.”
Lady Purleigh put her hand on her husband’s forearm. “It’s over now, Robert. It’s finished. And the boxing match wasn’t Mr. Beaumont’s idea. Sir David insisted.”
Lord Bob didn’t want to let it go. “Yes, well,” he grumbled. “Still.”
Lady Purleigh squeezed his arm, turned to Inspector Marsh. “You wished to ask us some questions, Inspector?”
Finished with the dishes, the servant wheeled the cart from the room.
“Yes, milady,” said Marsh. He turned to Lord Bob. And I assure you I shall ask them with alacrity, Lord Purleigh. The spirit of the time shall teach me speed. The Life and Death of King John.”
“Is it?” said Lord Bob, sitting back. “Take your word for it. Don’t read as much as I should. The occasional Punch. And Marx, of course.”
Marsh smiled a small swift smile. “Yes. Now, Lord Purleigh. Concerning the death of the Earl. Before the event, had he given you any reason to believe that he might be… despondent? Depressed?”
Lord Bob shrugged. “Well, he was mad, you know. And one never knows what a madman will do. Definition of madness, really, isn’t it?”
“Mad in what way?” asked Marsh.
“Still living in the nineteenth century. Sixteenth century, more like it. Complete reactionary. One solution for every problem. Flog ’em! Tenants behind on the rents, Flog ’em! Workers rallying, Flog ’em! Two million unemployed in this country, Inspector. And yet the bankers, the capitalists, done damn well off the War, haven’t they? Snatched the oil fields from the Arabs-Lawrence’s lot. Took over the Suez. German reparations pouring into the treasury.” He shook his head. “Damn criminal, you ask me.”
“Yes,” said Marsh. “But getting back to your father, Lord Purleigh. Had he changed recently, in your opinion? Had he evidenced-?”
“The old-’’Lord Bob glanced at me. “The old man wouldn’t change, Inspector. Couldn’t. Stuck in his ways. Made Mettemich look like a radical.”
“Thank you,” Marsh said. Sergeant Meadows made a note in his notebook.
“And what of you, Lady Purleigh?” said Marsh. “Had you perhaps detected any recent changes in the Earl?”
She shook her head. “No I hadn’t, Inspector. He seemed to me as vital as he’d always been.”
“So this came as a shock to you?”
“Utterly. I can’t think how it could have happened. Unless, as Robert suggests, it was some sort of tragic accident.”
“Oh?” Marsh turned to Lord Bob. “You believe your father’s death was accidental, Lord Purleigh?”
“Possibility, isn’t it,” said Lord Bob. “Been mulling things over, you know. Gives a man pause, something like this. Makes him think, eh?”
Marsh nodded soberly. “Certainly. What is pomp, rule, reign, but earth and dust? ”
“That sort of thing, yes. Try to be a bit less morbid, though, myself.”
“Yes, but tell me, Lord Purleigh. How might the death of your father have been an accident?”
“Easiest thing in the world,” said Lord Bob comfortably. “Say he sends one of the servants to fetch him the pistol. Wants to pot at pigeons. Place is crawling with ’em-told Beaumont that. Say he loads the gun, keeps it ready. No telling when they’ll show up, pigeons. Wily birds. Unpredictable. But say he spots one at the window. Suddenly, eh? Might get excited, mightn’t he? Might pull the trigger? Eh? And then, bang, Bob’s your uncle.”
Marsh nodded. “Pull the trigger while the gun was pointed, by happenstance, at his head.”
“Exactly. Getting on, you see. Past his prime.”
“But I understood from Mr. Beaumont that the bedroom window was closed at the time. If the Earl were of a mind to shoot at pigeons, wouldn’t he have opened it?”
“Ah. But he was mad as well, remember. To a madman, what’s a window or two, eh? Follow me?”
“Yes, of course. Had he ever shot at pigeons before? To your knowledge?”
Lord Bob shrugged. “First time for everything, though, isn’t there.”
“Yes. So there is.” Marsh nodded. “Thank you, Lord Purleigh. This is a possibility we shall certainly wish to consider.”
Sergeant Meadows wrote something in his notebook.
“Only a theory, mind,” said Lord Bob. “No proof, of course. And other possibilities exist. Incline toward suicide myself, though. Contradictions of Capitalism, Historical Necessity. Explained all that to Doyle and Beaumont.”
“Yes,” said Marsh. “Now about this pistol. The American Smith and Wesson. It was taken, I understand, from the collection in the Great Hall.”
“Yes.”
“The collection is yours?”
“The Earl’s. My father’s. Don’t much hold with guns myself. No shooting allowed at Maplewhite. Not since my father's accident. Fell from a horse, you know. Paralyzed. Years ago.”
“I see. Is it fair to say, your lordship, that anyone in the house would have had access to the weapons, and to the ammunition for them?”
Lord Bob shook his head. “Higgens-that’s the butler-hid all the ammunition yesterday afternoon. Locked it away. Doyle's suggestion. But the idea was Beaumont’s.” He turned to me, nodded once. “Credit where credit’s due.”
“Yes,” said Marsh, “but previous to that time. Anyone at all could have removed that pistol. Or the Winchester repeating rifle.”
“Beaumont told you about the rifle, did he?” He glanced at me, disapproving. “Still some question in my mind about that,” he told Marsh. “It being fired, I mean. But your chaps have it now. Honniwell took it.”
Marsh smiled. “Yes. And before he did, anyone at all could have removed it, or the pistol, at his leisure. Is that substantially correct, Lord Purleigh?”
“Could’ve done, I suppose. Have my doubts, though.”
“Thank you. Now, Lord Purleigh. You do understand, I hope, that in order for me to come to some glimmer of an understanding about your father’s death, I must determine, first of all, where everyone at Maplewhite was situated at precisely the time it occurred.”
“That right?” said Lord Bob. “As I say, not my line, police work. Makes perfect sense, though. How can I help?”
“My Lord, Mr. Beaumont has disclosed to me that all the guests, and Lady Purleigh, were present in the drawing room when the shot occurred. But evidently you were not. Might I ask where you were?”
Lord Bob nodded in agreement. “Got you. Good question. What time would that be, exactly?”
Marsh turned to me. “You said the valet heard the shot at a quarter past four?”
“Yeah.”
His eyebrows raised, Marsh turned expectantly to Lord Bob. Lord Bob frowned. “A quarter past four.” He thought for a moment and then he nodded. “Right. Got it. Just returning from MacGregor’s. The gamekeeper. Had an idea, you see. Told Doyle about it, and the others. Houdini, Beaumont. This Chin Soo chap, running loose, hot and bothered. Miffed at Houdini. Know about him, do you?”
“Yes.”
“Well, what I thought, why not ask the tenants, keep an eye peeled, eh? Scout the area. If the sod’s anywhere nearby, they’ll flush him out, won’t they. Spoke with MacGregor about it, asked him to sniff up some volunteers.”