He glanced at the departing back of Inspector Marsh, then turned to me. “Phil,” he said, his voice low, “we must proceed to the old mill.”
“What old mill?”
“Out there.” He waved his hand-vaguely, impatiently-toward the lawn. “Come.”
“Why an old mill?” I asked him as we set off down the hall.
“To investigate.”
“Uh-huh. And why do you need me?”
He looked at me earnestly. “But Phil. Suppose Chin Soo is out there, waiting? It was your idea that we should be careful, was it not?”
“Come on, Harry. You don’t think Chin Soo is out there. What is it? You need someone to fetch and carry?”
We were trotting down a broad stairway now, old pictures of dead people on the walls, the glances from their dead eyes following us.
“It is possible, yes, perhaps,” he said. “But still, one is always wise to take precautions.” He cleared his throat. Casually more casually than he was walking-he said, “So. Phil. Have you had a pleasant time with Inspector Marsh?”
“A swell time.”
“And has he learned anything of interest?”
We were bustling down a corridor, toward the conservatory. “You think that’d be fair, Harry? Me telling you?”
He raised his head. “Never mind, Phil. Forget that I asked.”
I smiled. “It’s okay. First we talked to Carson, the Earl’s-”
" Beaumont! Houdini! ”
Lord Bob, coming up behind us. He was looking rumpled again, and frantic. He strode toward us, his feet thumping against the floor. “They’ve found the bloody thing,” he said to me. He tugged at his big white mustache. “The police. You knew about it, didn’t you? That damn bloody tunnel?”
I nodded. “It was Harry who found it.”
Lord Bob looked from me to the Great Man and back. His shoulders rose and sank in a heavy sigh. The mustache fluttered as he blew out a long streamer of air. “That big chap, the sergeant. He blundered into Marjorie’s room. Mrs. Allardyce. She was resting. Went into fits. Marjorie did, I mean. Clubbed him with a vase. Huge uproar. A servant heard, called Higgens, he called me.
He shook his head sadly. “French. Eighteenth century, I think. A thousand pieces now.”
I said, “Why didn’t you tell us about the tunnel, Lord Purleigh?”
“I-” He looked around him, then back at us. He nodded. “Come along. We’ll talk.”
“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?”