Escapade by Walter Satterthwait Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Walter Satterthwait
forceful performance, by yourself, as a Roman.)
Another guest had arrived after dinner: a Dr Erich Auerbach, an Austrian psychologist. (Not a very interesting man, I think; and short; several inches shorter than I.) He was sitting at the other end of the vast room with the Merridales and Mrs Corneille. When Lord Robert—out of sheer kindness, I suspect—sat down with the Allardyce and me, she said to him, ‘Do tell us, Robert. This dreadful ghost of yours. What does he look like?’
‘Never saw him, Marjorie. Told you, I don’t credit all that nonsense.’
‘Rebecca said that he’s in his seventies. And that he has this terrible long white hair and a long white beard. He holds his head at a peculiar sort of angle.’
‘Rubbish.’ Here he turned to me and smiled. ‘Not to worry, Miss Turner. Hundreds of women have stayed in the East Wing, thousands of’em. And a fair share of virgins among ’em, I dare say. And not a one of ’em’s been bothered by a ghost.’
We were interrupted then by one of the footmen, who was escorting the two newest arrivals, one of whom was the famous American magician, Harry Houdini. He’s much shorter than I should have imagined, but very exotic looking and very energetic. And talented, as well: he ‘found’ a five-pound note in the Allardyce’s teapot (a lovely piece of rococo silver, flower-chased, that one of the footmen provided for her when she explained that she simply couldn’t drink coffee). Mr Houdini made her a present of the banknote, which thrilled her, needless to say. She would have been thrilled by a ha’penny, but of course he wasn’t to know that.
The other arrival was Mr Houdini’s secretary, a tall, swarthy American named Beaumont who seems to spend most of his time smirking. Obviously, and for no reason that I can determine, he is extremely taken with himself. Like Sir David, but without even his feeble wit.
Enough. I really ought to try to sleep, Evy. There is, in any event, scarcely anything else of note to recount.
So I shall tiptoe past the snorting form of the Allardyce and post this in the hallway, and then tiptoe back to my comfy nest. And perhaps during the dark hours I shall be visited by a ghost!
All my love,
Jane
Chapter Five
I KNOCKED.
“Who is it?” The Great Man’s voice, sounding flimsy through the thick oak door.
“Beaumont.”
“Come in.”
The Great Man was sprawled, face up, on the bedspread as though he had toppled there from the edge of a cliff. He was wearing all his clothes and his right arm was flung over his eyes.
“What’s up, Harry?” I asked him.
“Filth,” he said. Even though I was in the same room with him, his voice still sounded flimsy. “Filth. I have never in my life heard such filth.”
“Which filth is that, Harry?”
He swung his arm from his eyes. He sat up and swept his feet off the bed. “You heard him, Phil? That vile little German dwarf?”
“I thought he was Austrian.”
He shrugged. “Austrian, German, what difference? Did you hear him? The child craves sexual possession of his mother! His mother !” He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again. “Phil, if my own dear mother were alive to hear this, the shock of it would kill her in an instant. Did you ever hear such an obscenity? I was afraid I would vomit.”
“Well, Harry,” I said. “I’ve read about these psychoanalysts. I don’t think you have to take them all that seriously. They’ve got a lot of theories.”
He shook his head and looked off into the distance. “And this Sir David—how could he possibly talk like that?”
“Sir David likes to shake people up, I think.”
“But to say that about his mother.” He looked at me and said earnestly, “Phil, I truly believe that if ever an angel walked the earth, it was my mother.”
He had said that before, and often.
It was the death of his mother, I think, that had sent him chasing after mediums. Looking for one he could trust, but knowing too
Another guest had arrived after dinner: a Dr Erich Auerbach, an Austrian psychologist. (Not a very interesting man, I think; and short; several inches shorter than I.) He was sitting at the other end of the vast room with the Merridales and Mrs Corneille. When Lord Robert—out of sheer kindness, I suspect—sat down with the Allardyce and me, she said to him, ‘Do tell us, Robert. This dreadful ghost of yours. What does he look like?’
‘Never saw him, Marjorie. Told you, I don’t credit all that nonsense.’
‘Rebecca said that he’s in his seventies. And that he has this terrible long white hair and a long white beard. He holds his head at a peculiar sort of angle.’
‘Rubbish.’ Here he turned to me and smiled. ‘Not to worry, Miss Turner. Hundreds of women have stayed in the East Wing, thousands of’em. And a fair share of virgins among ’em, I dare say. And not a one of ’em’s been bothered by a ghost.’
We were interrupted then by one of the footmen, who was escorting the two newest arrivals, one of whom was the famous American magician, Harry Houdini. He’s much shorter than I should have imagined, but very exotic looking and very energetic. And talented, as well: he ‘found’ a five-pound note in the Allardyce’s teapot (a lovely piece of rococo silver, flower-chased, that one of the footmen provided for her when she explained that she simply couldn’t drink coffee). Mr Houdini made her a present of the banknote, which thrilled her, needless to say. She would have been thrilled by a ha’penny, but of course he wasn’t to know that.
The other arrival was Mr Houdini’s secretary, a tall, swarthy American named Beaumont who seems to spend most of his time smirking. Obviously, and for no reason that I can determine, he is extremely taken with himself. Like Sir David, but without even his feeble wit.
Enough. I really ought to try to sleep, Evy. There is, in any event, scarcely anything else of note to recount.
So I shall tiptoe past the snorting form of the Allardyce and post this in the hallway, and then tiptoe back to my comfy nest. And perhaps during the dark hours I shall be visited by a ghost!
All my love,
Jane
Chapter Five
I KNOCKED.
“Who is it?” The Great Man’s voice, sounding flimsy through the thick oak door.
“Beaumont.”
“Come in.”
The Great Man was sprawled, face up, on the bedspread as though he had toppled there from the edge of a cliff. He was wearing all his clothes and his right arm was flung over his eyes.
“What’s up, Harry?” I asked him.
“Filth,” he said. Even though I was in the same room with him, his voice still sounded flimsy. “Filth. I have never in my life heard such filth.”
“Which filth is that, Harry?”
He swung his arm from his eyes. He sat up and swept his feet off the bed. “You heard him, Phil? That vile little German dwarf?”
“I thought he was Austrian.”
He shrugged. “Austrian, German, what difference? Did you hear him? The child craves sexual possession of his mother! His mother !” He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again. “Phil, if my own dear mother were alive to hear this, the shock of it would kill her in an instant. Did you ever hear such an obscenity? I was afraid I would vomit.”
“Well, Harry,” I said. “I’ve read about these psychoanalysts. I don’t think you have to take them all that seriously. They’ve got a lot of theories.”
He shook his head and looked off into the distance. “And this Sir David—how could he possibly talk like that?”
“Sir David likes to shake people up, I think.”
“But to say that about his mother.” He looked at me and said earnestly, “Phil, I truly believe that if ever an angel walked the earth, it was my mother.”
He had said that before, and often.
It was the death of his mother, I think, that had sent him chasing after mediums. Looking for one he could trust, but knowing too