Escapade (10 page)

I said, “Yeah.”

“You know,” he said, “being here, amidst this loveliness, this serenity, makes me think that perhaps I should begin to consider my retirement from the stage.”

“Yeah?”

“Have I not produced enough astonishments for mankind to marvel at? Have I not sufficiently baffled the most sophisticated audiences in the most cosmopolitan cities of the world?”

“Probably.”

He sighed. He shook his head. “You cannot imagine how fatigued I sometimes become, Phil. How weary. Always creating some new way to enthrall and astound them. Always devising some new and even more impossible escape. Sometimes I actually wish that I could . . .” His voice trailed off. He sighed again, shook his head again.

I smiled. “Escape from it all?”

He turned to me and nodded. “Exactly, yes. Exactly. Perhaps the time has come for me to live as other men do. Perhaps, finally, the time has come for me to think only of myself. And of Bess, too, naturally. Perhaps it’s time for the two of us to find a haven of our own, a place where we can—” He stopped walking. “Look there, Phil!”

I stopped and I looked. A squirrel bounded across the lawn, a ripple of red fur atop the grass.

I said, “It’s a squirrel, Harry.”

He grinned, excited. “But it is an
English
squirrel, Phil. My
first
English squirrel.”

“You’ve been in England before.”

“Yes, but I was trapped in London then. I’ve never seen the countryside, never seen the wildlife.”

“It’s a squirrel, Harry.”

“Think of it, Phil. Ancestors of that squirrel may have witnessed the signing of the Magna Carta.”

“Maybe even signed it themselves.”

He looked at me and frowned. “You have no romance in you, Phil.”

“Probably not,” I said.

We kept following the gravel walkway around that immense sunswept lawn. To our right, a hundred yards away, beyond some clumps of trees, the rear of Maplewhite rose up like a castle.

I kept telling myself that it was safe out here. That there was no one around who represented a threat. Not yet.

We were about halfway around the walkway when I saw someone coming toward us. On horseback, about a quarter of a mile away, at the far curve of the gravel path.

The Great Man had stopped drinking in the legendary beauty. He was telling me about the time he had jumped from the Belle Isle Bridge into the Detroit River. It had been in December, he said, and the river had been frozen, and he had jumped into a hole in the ice wearing handcuffs. The current had been stronger than he expected and it had carried him away beneath the ice, seven inches thick, and he had survived by breathing the thin layer of air just beneath the ice’s surface. Not much of this was true but I didn’t bother to point that out.

Then he said, “Someone is coming, Phil.”

“Yeah,” I said. “A woman.”

She was dressed in black. The big black horse beneath her moved in a lazy walk as they came toward us along the gravel path.

“Not Miss Fitzwilliam?” the Great Man said.

“Looks like Miss Turner.”

IN A FEW minutes, when she was closer, I could see that it was Miss Turner. She wore a small black bowler hat, a white blouse, a black bow tie, a black jacket, a pair of black riding breeches, and black leather riding boots. It seemed to me like a lot of clothes for such a warm day. But English people don’t pay much attention to the weather. If they did, they wouldn’t live in England.

Miss Turner’s blue eyes were squinting a bit as she approached us. I realized she wasn’t wearing her glasses.

She sat stiffly upright but she looked like someone who knew what she was doing. She knew how to put on the brakes, and the horse stopped a few yards from us and moved its head up and down. Her long legs straight against her stirrups, she leaned forward and stroked its strong sleek neck. The horse moved his head up and down some more. He liked that. I didn’t blame him.

“Mr. Houdini,” she said. “Mr. Beaumont. How are you this morning?” A few strands of her brown hair had freed themselves and draped down against her slender neck. Her face was bright and shining and once again she looked younger than she was.

“Quite well, Miss Turner,” said the Great Man, taking off his hat. “And you?”

“I’m fine, thank you,” she said, and suddenly she smiled. It was a big, fine, delighted smile. It went very well with her eyes. “It’s really a marvelous day, isn’t it?”

“Magnificent,” agreed the Great Man.

I removed my hat and I said, “You’re feeling better?”

She blushed, looked down, looked back up. “I’m glad of a chance to apologize for last night. I made a complete idiot of myself.”

“You don’t owe anyone an apology,” I said.

“Oh, but I do. I was a silly hysterical child.”

“Miss Turner,” said the Great Man. “If possible, when you have a free moment, I should like to discuss with you this apparition you witnessed last night.”

She shook her head. “But that’s just it, you see. There
was
no apparition. There
couldn’t
have been. It was all just a terrible dream, and like a fool I persuaded myself that it was real.”

I said, “Sounds like you’re trying to persuade yourself today that it wasn’t.”

She frowned and her face flushed again, with anger this time. She sat back, stiffer than before. “It wasn’t,” she said curtly. “I was a fool. I apologize for disturbing you last night. Good day. Good day, Mr. Houdini.”

She tapped her heels lightly against the horse’s flanks and the animal edged forward, around us. We put our hats back on and watched the horse move from a walk to a trot to a canter.

“A temperamental woman,” said the Great Man.

“Uh-huh.”

We walked and walked. As we came into the home stretch along the walkway, I was coming to the conclusion that no one could be kept safe here at Maplewhite. Not outside it, at least. Not unless he had an army of his own. There were too many approaches to the house, too many places to hide.

Just ahead, to the right of the path, a huge tree with dark bronze-red leaves towered over it. Two white-enameled wrought-iron benches were planted in the shade of the tree and I saw that one of these was occupied. Mrs. Allardyce and Mrs. Corneille.

“
Yoo hoo! Mr. Houdini
?” Mrs. Allardyce. She was wearing a brown dress and white gloves and she was holding a pale blue parasol over her head, maybe to protect it from all that shade. “Won’t you join us?”

The Great Man and I joined them. We took off our hats and said hello and sat down on the other bench. I pulled the watch from my pocket, glanced at it. Twelve-fifteen.

Still safe, I thought.

I was wrong, but I wouldn’t know that for a few more minutes.

“Are we keeping you from something, Mr. Beaumont?” said Mrs. Corneille, smiling. On her lap was a white straw hat with a broad brim. On the rest of her was a white linen dress that made her shiny black hair seem even blacker. The hem of this dress was lower than the hem of last night’s dress, but it was high enough to show off a fair amount of her legs. They were still very good legs.

The broad blue sky, the broad green lawn, Miss Turner’s eyes, Mrs. Corneille’s legs. There were a lot more distractions around here than I liked.

I slid the watch back into my pocket. “Mr. Houdini and I had a bet. How long it would take to circle the grounds on foot.”

“And who won?”

“We haven’t finished yet.”

She turned to the Great Man. “Are you feeling better today, Mr. Houdini?”

“Very much so,” he said. “Thank you.”

“I shouldn’t
attempt
to circle the grounds,” said Mrs. Allardyce. “Not even on a horse.” She frowned. “Did you see Jane? She’s off riding somewhere.” She glanced around vaguely.

“Yes,” said the Great Man. “We spoke with her a while ago. She seems a very accomplished rider.”

“Yes, I suppose she is. And that’s
surprising
, really, when you consider that basically she’s such a
bookish
sort of person. When she’s not writing one of those
interminable
letters of hers, she has her poor head buried in a book. Personally, I’ve never found Jane Austen all that fascinating.”

She heaved her heavy bosom forward and looked eagerly at the Great Man. “Mr. Beaumont
did
tell you about our excitement last night? Jane’s ghost? Well, today, of course, the poor girl realizes that it was all merely a nightmare, a figment of her imagination, but last night she was absolutely
hysterical
, wasn’t she, Mr. Beaumont? It was all I could do to calm her. She can be so
emotional
sometimes.”

The Great Man nodded. “Mr. Beaumont has told me of this. I—”

He was interrupted by the cheerful
toot toot
of a horn. We all turned toward the south.

A big motorcycle raced toward us along the walkway, gravel and earth spitting from its wheels. Lord Bob and his Brough Superior.

Lord Bob hit the brakes. The motorcycle skidded for ten or twelve yards on the gravel, wavering left and right, and finally it stopped in front of us.

Lord Bob was wearing the tweed suit he had been wearing earlier, but now he also wore a leather cap and a pair of goggles. He ripped up the goggles and let them slap back against his forehead. He grinned. Except for the white circles at his eyes, like a raccoon’s mask, his face was coated gray with dust. His mustache had been swept back along his cheeks. “Capital machine!
Capital!
What an adventure! Reached a hundred on the main road!” Beaming beneath his goggles, he looked around at all of us. “Anyone care to give it a go? I’d be—” Suddenly he looked off, down the walkway. “Good Lord. Is that Miss Turner?”

Once again, we all turned.

About fifty yards away, the big black horse had just burst from the forest. It reared up, forelegs clawing at the air, but somehow Miss Turner held on. Then the powerful legs came back to earth and the horse wheeled toward us and began racing along the walkway. The reins were flapping loose against its neck. Miss Turner was bent forward, her arm groping for them. Her bowler hat was gone and her long brown hair was streaming like a banner in the wind.

“Oh dear,” said Mrs. Allardyce. Mrs. Corneille stood up from the bench, maybe thinking she could do something. I realized that the Great Man and I were already standing.

But Miss Turner had found the reins and brought the horse under control. About twenty yards away she started slowing it, and by the time she reached us the animal was moving in a walk. The horse was panting. So was Miss Turner. Its eyes wide, the horse stopped and pawed the ground, once, twice, then raised its head and shook it and whinnied.

A few feet away, Lord Bob was standing now, too, his legs braced on either side of the big motorcycle. “Miss Turner! You gave us a terrible fright! Are you all right?”

“
Jane
. What on
earth
did you think you were doing?” Mrs. Allardyce. She was still sitting down.

Miss Turner’s face was white and it was shining with sweat. She took a breath. She put her hand against her forehead. She licked her lips and she looked around at all of us. “I . . . I’m so sorry. I . . .”

Just then a number of things happened very quickly.

From somewhere in the forest behind us, to the south, came the flat hard crack of a rifle.

And something made a thunking noise somewhere as I spun to look at the Great Man. He had turned toward the sound of the shot and I knew without being able to see it that his chin was raised and he was daring the rifleman to try again.

All the others had turned, too, and frozen in position.

I shoved my hand into my pocket, going for the Colt.

And then, behind me, Miss Turner said “Oh,” very quietly, and I turned back to her and her eyelids fluttered and her blue eyes rolled upward and became white and she slumped sideways off the horse.

I RIPPED MY hand from my pocket and I sprinted toward Miss Turner. Just as her leg slipped over the saddle, I caught her shoulders with my left arm and I scooped my right arm up beneath her knees. She sagged into the crooks of my elbows, her head lolling, her arms loosely swinging. I carried her over to the bench and laid her out on it and I squatted down beside her. I was looking for the bullet wound. I couldn’t find it.

I sensed the people crowding around me. Mrs. Corneille, Mrs. Allardyce, Lord Bob. I searched for the Great Man, found him standing just behind me. He looked puzzled, maybe even worried, but he was alive and unwounded. There hadn’t been a second shot.

Miss Turner was breathing but her face was white. I put my hand against her forehead. Cold and damp. I put my fingertips against her wrist and felt for her pulse. It was there, fluttering like the wings of a wounded bird.

Mrs. Corneille said “Is she . . . ?”

I said, “I think she’s just fainted.”

“A
bloody poacher
!” growled Lord Bob. “Filthy sod!” His beetle brows were lowered and a bright furious red was glowing beneath the gray dust that coated his face. He snapped his goggles down over his eyes, leaving two rings of indented flesh on his forehead. “I’ll show the swine!”

He scurried off to the motorcycle, a flurry of tweed. I turned back to Miss Turner. I heard the howl of the motorcycle behind me as I unknotted the tie at her throat. Lord Bob, revving up the machine.

“Mr.
Beaumont
!” said Mrs. Allardyce.

The motorcycle exploded away with a roar of engine and a clatter of gravel.

“She needs air,” I said. I unbuttoned the first two buttons of her blouse. Lightly, I tapped Miss Turner’s cheek. Nothing from her. I noticed that her skin was as soft as a child’s. I ignored that.

“May I?” Mrs. Corneille. She was beside me now, on my right. Her shiny black hair swung forward like a silk curtain as she leaned toward Miss Turner. I could smell her perfume. I ignored that too.

She took Miss Turner’s right hand between hers and rubbed it gently.

I tapped the cheek again. “Miss Turner?”

She took a deep staggered breath and her lids snapped back and those dazzling blue eyes looked at me.

Twice now in less than twelve hours I had been the first thing a young woman saw when she came back to earth. Miss Turner didn’t seem any more thrilled than Cecily Fitzwilliam had seemed last night.