Bride of the Castle

by John Dechancie

“I am not satisfied,” Rance said.

  “As to your damnable curse,” said Benarus, “the only way you will get away from it is to leave the Earth! Do you hear me? Leave the Earth—forever!”

  “Do you have a spell that could do that?”

  Benarus said, “Eh?”

  “A spell that could transport me to another world. Perhaps one where the sky-stone came from. Are there not other worlds than ours? On some far star, perhaps?”

  Benarus scratched his head. “Perhaps. No telling, really. But as to sending you there . . . Gods damn it, you caused my house and home to be destroyed! You’re cursed! Get away from me!”

  Rance edged closer to him, menacingly. “I’ll stick like dung to your shoe.”

  Cringing, the philosopher backed away. “What? Get lost, you walking catastrophe!”

  “Walk? That I shall certainly do. I’ll dog your every step until you help me.”

  “Why me?” Benarus wailed. “What in the name of the gods can I do?”

  “You’re a natural philosopher, a wizard. You can figure something out to counteract this curse.”

  “But it’s hopeless! The Zinites were powerful magicians. You should have heeded the warnings, practiced safe grave-robbing, whatever.”

  “I’ll make camp right over there,” Rance said, pointing to an empty field across the road. “You can’t do anything about it. And there I’ll stay. Next it might be an earthquake.”

  Benarus sneered. “Heaven forfend, I’d hate to have my rubble bounced.”

  “Or a plague.”

  Benarus sobered. “Plague?”

  “Or locusts. Or any other disaster. The only thing you can do is abrogate this curse!”

  “But it’s impossible. I—”

  “Is that a boil on your forearm?”

  Benarus looked. “What? Oh, that, I hadn’t noticed . . . ye gods.”

  “Yes, looks like a case of the creeping flux.”

  “Damn! Here’s another one.” Benarus lifted the edge of his tunic. “My legs!”

  “Bad luck.”

  Benarus scowled at him. “I have a question. Why does this curse never seem to bring bad luck to you personally?”

  “The dead can have no luck, good or bad.”

  “I see. Not only is this curse cruel, it’s manifestly unjust! Only the innocent suffer.”

  “Life’s a bother, is it not?”

  “And then you get married. All right! You have me by the short hairs. I will do my best to rid you of your curse and me of your miserable company.”

  Benarus suddenly looked thoughtful.

  Rance asked, “Something?”

  “That sky-stone could be the answer. Celestial magic is powerful. Too bad the Earth sets up interference.”

  Rance suddenly had a thought. “Could sky magic be worked in a place that was partially shielded from the Earth’s influence?”

  “Yes, I suppose. But where would one find such a place?”

  Rance surveyed the ruins. “Your barn has survived almost intact. Have you a cart and an animal to pull it?”

  Benarus nodded, then eyed his tormentor suspiciously. “What exactly is going through that strange mind of yours?”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “i still say we should try to escape.”

  Thaxton put a finger to his lips as the door to the library opened. In walked the butler, bearing a tray. He was tall, thin, and white-haired.

  “Pardon me, gentlemen . . .”

  Thaxton said, “Quite all right, Blackpool.”

  “Would you take some sherry, gentlemen?”

  “Capital.”

  Blackpool served the sherry and left. Thaxton sipped, then asked, “You were saying?”

  Dalton crossed his legs, scowling. “I suppose you’re determined to see this thing through.”

  “See what through? You mean try to solve the murder? That’s a job for the police, old boy. No, we were witnesses—”

  “We didn’t see a thing.”

  “We heard shots, and that makes us witnesses.”

  “Maybe. We’ve given our testimony. Let’s bugger off.”

  “Now that would raise a bit of suspicion, wouldn’t it?”

  “I suppose, but we’ll be back in the Castle and beyond the reach of the law and anybody else.”

  “We should stay to see if Inspector Motherwell has any further need for us. Besides . . .” Thaxton sipped again. “These seem rather good people.”

  “One of whom is a murderer,” Dalton said sardonically.

  “Oh, well, that sort of thing can happen anywhere.”

  The library door opened again, and in walked Inspector Motherwell, whose jurisdiction was based in the nearby hamlet of Festleton-upon-Clyde. After him came Colonel Petheridge.

  “You gentlemen look quite comfortable,” Motherwell said with an edge of irony in his voice. “After a murder.”

  “Haven’t had time to get upset,” Dalton said. “Isn’t that right, Lord Peter?”

  Motherwell’s snide grin faded. “Lord . . .?”

  “Haven’t had time to think, what with all the hugger-mugger,” Thaxton said. “You were saying, Inspector?”

  Motherwell’s manner changed considerably. He was a large man with wispy red-orange hair and a ruddy complexion. “I was going to say that you gentlemen are free to go. Certainly you aren’t suspects, seeing as how you were with Colonel Petheridge when the shooting occurred. Thank you for your testimony, Lord Peter. And you . . . Mister—?” Motherwell hastily paged through his notebook.

  “Dalton. Cleve Dalton.”

  “Sorry, sir, yes. Mr. Dalton.”

  “I imagine you’ll be wanting to get back to Durwick Farm,” the colonel said.

  “Oh, the farm can wait,” Lord Peter Thaxton said. “Blasted nuisance, this, having a neighbor shot not a mile from my property.”

  Dalton rolled his eyes and looked innocently out the window.

  “No doubt, no doubt,” Motherwell said. “But these things do happen, now and then.”

  “Yes, they do,” Thaxton said. “Tell me, Inspector, would it be a breach of security to inquire whether you have any suspects?”

  “There are any number of suspects, or none, depending on how you look at it. Anyone could have done it. There were plenty of people out there with a shotgun today.”

  “Yes. Ten in all. I’ve heard all the names, but I wonder, Inspector, if you’d refresh my memory.”

  Motherwell consulted his notebook. “Well, let me see. There was Mr. Thayne-Chetwynde, Mr. Grimsby, Miss Daphne Pembroke, Sir Laurence Denning, Mr. Wicklow, Mr. Thripps, Amanda Thripps, a Mr. Geoffrey Ballifants . . . who incidentally is not a local—”

  “Honoria’s half-brother, from up Middlesborough way,” Petheridge supplied.

  “Yes. And another guest, this one hailing from a good deal farther away.”

  “The Mahajadi,” Petheridge said. “Not a bad young bloke, for a wog. Royalty, you know. Here to visit the Queen.”

  “His name’s . . . Pandanam.” Motherwell wrinkled his brow. “Panda-nam. Mouthful, that. Also Lady Festleton’s mentor, is he not?”

  “Oh, yes,” Petheridge said. “Bloody heathen nonsense. Dancing, yammering prayers. Hideous stuff.”

  “Strange,” Motherwell said, “him being invited to hunt.”

  “Honoria insisted. Broadminded girl, she is. As I said, though, not a bad bloke. For a wog.”

  “And the colonel, here,” Motherwell continued. “That completes the hunting-party roster. Oh, forgot the gamekeeper, with the dogs. He didn’t have a gun, though.”

  “Quite a list,” Thaxton commented.

  “But we have no suspects,” Motherwell stated, “unless you count Lady Festleton.”

  “By Jove!” The colonel’s monocle dropped from his eye. “What the devil do you mean by that, Motherwell?”

  “Sorry, Colonel. I realize you’re a longtime friend of the family. But I’m afraid we can’t establish that anyone else was near Lord Festleton a
t the time of the shooting. Ground’s quite mucky. Only two sets of footprints, his and hers. Her ladyship says he was dead when she got there. Yet there is the problem of the lack of powder burns, which would be expected if the gun had gone off in a fall.”

  “Well, someone shot him from cover, by Jupiter.”

  Motherwell shook his frizzy head. “Not a chance. The shot scattering won’t allow it. He was shot at close range. Not point-blank, but close, within the clearing. By someone standing about eight feet away.”

  “Well, good God, man. How did the old girl do it?”

  “Do what?”

  “How did she get the gun off him, her dressed in slippers and tutu? Did she overpower the poor bloke? Judo, perhaps?”

  “Colonel, the point is moot,” Motherwell said, ignoring the sarcasm. “The earl wasn’t shot with his own gun. It had not been fired.”

  “Well, there you have it,” the colonel said. “Honoria couldn’t have done it.”

  “She might have used another gun and hid it.”

  Petheridge scoffed. “You can’t be serious about this.”

  Motherwell stiffened. “His lordship, here, asked a question, and I answered it. I did not say I was about to arrest Lady Festleton for the murder of her husband. There’s simply no evidence. However, she did have the means, the opportunity, and . . .”

  The colonel’s right eyebrow arched imperiously. “And what?”

  “The motive.”

  The colonel’s sails spilled their wind. Apparently he did not find the notion out of the question. “Oh, I see.”

  Thaxton began, “I wonder if it would be indelicate of me to inquire . . .?”

  The colonel and the inspector looked at each other.

  Petheridge shrugged and turned away. “Bound to find out at some point.”

  Motherwell nodded. “Yes, well, how shall I put it? His lordship was a bit of a Don Juan.”

  “Cocksman extraordinaire, is how I’d put it,” the colonel muttered, looking away.

  “Yes, well. At any rate, it was a constant source of friction between the lord and lady. They had frequent arguments. In fact, Lady Festleton was not above physically attacking her husband, on occasion.”

  “Can’t be denied,” the colonel said, then suddenly turned on Motherwell. “But she’s not capable of murder. I’ve known her since she was a whelp. She’s spirited—but a murderess? No.”

  “I should have thought,” Thaxton said, “that an Orientalist such as Lady Festleton—and I gather she is . . .”

  “Oh, yes, quite,” the colonel said. “Loves all the bloody wogs.”

  “She was in the middle of something when she took a sudden notion to run out into the woods,” Motherwell commented. He paged through his notebook. “‘Dance-meditation,’it says here. In costume, which you noticed when you saw her from the road, Lord Peter.”

  “Er, yes, but as I said, I caught only a glimpse.”

  “Sorry, my lord, you were saying something about her love of Eastern lore?”

  “Yes,” Thaxton continued. “Isn’t that stuff about forbearance, peace of mind . . . you know, pacifism, asceticism, and all that bosh?”

  “Yes. Are you saying that her hotheadedness belies all that ‘bosh,’as you call it?”

  “Merely pointing out a possible incongruity,” Thaxton said with a smile. “Don’t pay me any mind, Constable. Just musin’, don’t you know.”

  Dalton grimaced.

  Motherwell nodded. “Yes, well, I’m open to suggestions. But I’m afraid I don’t quite know what you’re driving at, my lord.”

  “Let me ruminate awhile,” Thaxton said.

  “Very well, my lord.”

  A knock came at the library door. The door opened and a uniformed policeman stuck his helmeted head into the room. “Oh, there you are, sir.”

  Motherwell said, “Yes, Featherstone?”

  “Found something in the woods, sir.”

  Featherstone entered, carrying an object wrapped in a white handkerchief. He carefully set it on a library table and revealed it. It was a single-barrel shotgun, both barrel and stock sawed off severely. The resultant weapon was scarcely bigger than a pistol.

  “The murder gun, no doubt,” Motherwell said. “Well, this puts a different light on it.”

  “By Jove,” Petheridge said quietly.

  “Wonder who dropped this,” Motherwell said.

  “I’ll wager whoever shot him deliberately threw the weapon into the brush,” Thaxton said, bending close to scrutinize the curious thing.

  “Why?” Motherwell asked.

  Thaxton looked up. “Eh?”

  “If the murderer got clean away, why did he ditch the murder weapon?”

  Thaxton straightened up and said, “Maybe he didn’t want to take any chances being caught with it. How about this: the murderer secretes it on his person when everyone goes out to hunt. He sees Lord Festleton go off by himself and capitalizes on the opportunity. Follows him, shoots him with the sawed-off affair, arranges the body to make the shooting look like an accident, then throws the murder gun into the weeds. He returns to the hunt party with his own gun unfired, thereby fending off any suspicion.”

  “Plausible scenario,” Motherwell said. “Or . . .”

  “Yes, Inspector?”

  “Forgive me, Colonel Petheridge. The alternative is that this gun belongs to Lady Festleton.”

  Petheridge grunted.

  “Mind you, I’m not saying it’s probable,” Motherwell went on. “It simply remains a possibility, given the domestic situation at the Festleton household.”

  The colonel grunted again.

  Motherwell said, “Featherstone, find anything else out there?”

  Featherstone shook his head. “Not much, sir.”

  “Any more footprints?”

  “Not in the clearing, sir. Plenty elsewhere.”

  “Very good. Take this down to the station and get it checked for fingerprints.”

  “I doubt you’ll find any,” Thaxton commented. “I do believe the lady was wearing gloves.”

  “Yes, she was. Another curious thing, that, going out into the cold in a flimsy outfit, but with gloves. But there’s always the chance we’ll find some prints.” Motherwell sighed. “I think I’m obliged to question Lady Festleton again.”

  The colonel scoffed. “I can just picture Honoria down in the cellar, sawing off a gun barrel.”

  “Not a likely picture, I admit. But she could have had it done.”

  “An accomplice?” Thaxton said.

  Motherwell waited until Featherstone left the library. “Yes, the gamekeeper.”

  “Good God,” Petheridge muttered. “Well, all the dirty laundry’s out.”

  “Ah, I see,” Thaxton murmured.

  “As you said, Colonel, it’s almost common knowledge.”

  Thaxton asked, “What’s this man’s name?”

  “Stokes. Clive Stokes.”

  “Motive?”

  “Don’t know yet,” Motherwell said.

  “And Lady Festleton’s coverin’for him, or in cahoots?”

  “Two equally plausible conjectures, my lord. I must say, Lord Peter, you seem to have a keen mind for this sort of thing. Is criminology a hobby of yours?”

  “Oh, bit of experience. Solved some murders once. Peele Castle.”

  Motherwell’s orange eyebrows lifted. “Is that so?”

  “He did,” Dalton corroborated. “I was there.”

  “The Peele Castle murders. Remarkable. Can’t say as I’ve ever heard of the case, though. You solved it, you say?”

  “Lucky guess, really,” Thaxton said. “Tell me, Inspector, is there any chance—?”

  A bloodcurdling scream sounded throughout the house. In the library it was not loud, but the sound penetrated, and everyone froze for a second.

  “Good God,” Petheridge breathed.

  “Came from upstairs,” Motherwell said as he hurried toward the door, followed by the colonel, Dalton, and Thaxton.


  Blackpool was at the head of the stairs.

  “It’s Lady Festleton,” he intoned. “The upstairs maid found her.”

  The men, now joined by Featherstone and other uniformed policemen, rushed up the stairs, down the hall, and into Lady Festleton’s suite.

  The chambermaid, a young woman, lay on the bed in a swoon, being nursed by an older woman also wearing a maid’s outfit.

  Lady Festleton, still attired in her dance-meditation costume, was face down on the floor, her chestnut hair matted with blood. A fireplace poker lay very near.

  “Well,” the inspector said as he stood over the body. “No doubt as to the weapon this time.”

  “None,” Thaxton agreed. “And we also know that the murderer is in this house.”

  “Yes, quite. My men would have seen someone come and leave. Bloody hell.” Motherwell turned. “Featherstone! Don’t stand there, get your men out into the grounds. The murderer could be trying to escape at this very minute!”

  “Ooops, sorry, Inspector!”

  Here a slightly comic interlude as the men fell over themselves trying to get out the door. Meanwhile, Thaxton examined a few of the many Oriental artifacts in the room: vases, painted screens, exotic musical instruments, a huge gong . . .

  Motherwell sighed. “Bloody hell,” he said again.

  “Situation’s gettin’more and more dicey by the minute,” Lord Peter said, bending over to eye a bronze tea cozy. “Hope the maid recovers soon. I’d like to ask her a question or two.”

  He looked up at Motherwell with an ingratiatingly indulgent smile. “That is, if you don’t mind my meddlin’, Inspector.”

  Dalton let go a small groan.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  max stood flattened against the wall, waiting breathlessly for Hochstader to come out of the inner office. Max had sneaked in, heard noises in the other room, and peered in to find Hochstader hunting through some filing cabinets. Now he heard Hochstader’s footsteps approaching the door.

  Max got him in a chokehold as he came through.

  “I want my world back, Hochstader,” Max growled in the small man’s ear. “My world. I want it.”

  “Gahhhhh—” Hochstader answered.

  Max eased up a little and let him breathe.

  Hochstader tried craning his head around. “What the . . . hell do you . . . want?” he choked.