"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 now. "Pandanam. 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. Broad-minded 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 at 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. "'Dancemeditation,' 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 wood's, 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."
&nb
sp; "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 choke hold 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.
"Don't be coy. You know damn well."
"Let go of me, you big creepazoid!"
Suddenly, a startling possibility occurred to Max, and he reduced the pressure of his forearm against Hochstader's Adam's apple. Hochstader tore himself away and staggered to the desk, coughing and massaging his throat. Max noticed now that Hochstader looked different, at least slightly. Max couldn't pin it down, but possibly the little squirt wasn't so little today. Had he put on weight overnight? And the hair-shorter? And perhaps Hochstader was slightly better dressed today. Or- Could it be?
"Now," Hochstader snarled, bracing himself with one hand on the desktop, "would you mind telling me who in the blue blazes-"
"You're really not him, are you?" Max marveled.
"Huh?" Hochstader took a breath and closed his eyes. "I think I understand." He went around the desk and plopped into the creaking swivel chair. "You probably had dealings with one of my alternate selves. Somehow I get the feeling the deal wasn't to your liking."
"Guess I owe you an apology," Max said weakly.
Hochstader waved it off. "Forget it. Occupational hazard. Occasionally I take the heat for one of my alternates' shenanigans."
"Sounds dangerous. I could have strangled you."
"No kidding," Hochstader said acidly, loosening his collar.
Max sat down in a mildewed armchair and thought. Presently he asked, "Are you for hire?"
"As your punching bag? Not likely."
"No. I want to get back to my home world."
"Yeah? And where is that?"
Max shrugged. "I don't know."
"I need coordinates. Precise ones."
Max slumped back in the chair. "Of course."
"I'm guessing it's a twentieth-decimal-place variant of this one. That means cutting things mighty close."
Max began to feel very depressed. He tried to remember his mantra, but it had been years since he'd chanted it. Hochstader seemed compelled to help in spite of himself. "Are there any landmarks you could look for?"
"Landmarks?"
"Not necessarily physical ones. A big whopping fact that could identify your world?"
Max straightened up. It was worth a try. The agency, Max 2's agency. If he could find a world in which it didn't exist…?
"Yeah, I think so," Max said.
"Good. Hochstader got up and walked past Max and into the other room. "Let's get you home."
Max followed him. "You'd do that for me?"
"To get you out of my hair, I'd carry you. Follow me."
Max obliged, dogging Hochstader's sneakered steps through the back room, under the arch and out into the mad scientist's lab. And this one really looked the part. Things had been moved around, new equipment added. The place looked even more spooky than it had yesterday, and Max hadn't thought that possible.
Hochstader got busy at the computer work station, hitting keys like a concert pianist.
Max looked over the kid's shoulder. (Well, this Hochstader looked a bit older. Maybe 27. No, 25, tops.) He watched numbers and symbols dance on the CRT screen.
"I think we've got it," Hochstader said.
"We do?"
"Yeah. Try the portal now."
"The portal? Oh, you mean just walk back into the office?"
"Right. Go through, and you should be in a world that's like the one you left."
"Can I use your phone?"
"It's not mine."
"It's not?" Max said as he pushed the curtain aside.
"You'll see."
Max passed through the back room and went out into the office.
And there, sitting at what looked like the identical desk, was another Hochstader.
"Jesus Christ," Max gasped. "Is there no end of you?"
"Nor is there of you, pal," Hochstader 3 said.<
br />
Max swallowed hard. "Have a phone book?" he asked quietly.
"Sure. Right here."
Max paced frantically through it. Burke Dumbrowsky Taylor was there in bold letters.
"Damn!" Max glared at the curtain in the back room. "That little creep."
"He's not back there, you know," Hochstader said.
"What do you mean? I just left him."
"No doubt he re-tuned the portal. Go back and look."
"I will," Max said.
He strode to the curtain and peeked through.
The lab was there, and again it had undergone a rearrangement. Less clutter, more neatly arranged. Hochstader 2 was nowhere in sight.
Max returned to the office. "The runt must've ducked out."
"No, I told you," Hochstader 3 said. "He and his world are gone. You're in my world now."
"It doesn't matter," Max said. "You'll do. I want to try it again?"
"Try what again?" Hochstader asked.
"Try a different world."
"You mean play musical bodies with one of your doubles? I'm afraid I don't indulge in that sort of thing. Very unethical."
"What? I thought that was your whole shtick."
Hochstader 3 leaned back in his swivel chair. This variant was different from the other two clones, hair less unruly, clothes impeccable-he wore a jacket and tie.
He said, "I'm well aware of what some of my alternates do. It's entirely their business. My organization, which is spread out over several million aspects, is nonprofit and dedicated to probability research. We collect and process data on different civilizations."
"Look," Max pleaded. "I'm a man without a world. You've got to help me. It was one of your alternates who got me into this."
Hochstader was shaking his head emphatically. "No, I'm very sorry."
Max paused. "I'm pretty desperate," he said meaningfully.
"Oh?"
"Very desperate."
"I see," Hochstader said cautiously, casually moving his left hand toward the middle desk drawer.
Max sprang. After a short tussle, he managed to wrest the bell-ended weapon out of Hochstader's small hand.
"You nearly broke my finger!" Hochstader 3 yelped, nursing a reddened left pinkie.
Bride of the Castle c-8 Page 8
