Bride of the Castle c-8

by John Dechancie

  "No moon last night either," Petheridge said. "He can't swear it was a wog."

  "Nevertheless, Colonel," Motherwell said, "Mr. Pandanam interests me. This cult he heads up, know anything about it?"

  "All wog cults are bloody nonsense to me."

  "You suspect the Mahajadi of having something to do with the prowler?" Thaxton asked of Inspector Motherwell.

  "There's a killer on the loose. I suspect everyone."

  "Who else haven't we covered?" Thaxton said. "Let's see. Mr. Geoffrey Ballifants, who stands to inherit his half-sister Honoria's family income."

  "A likely suspect," Petheridge said. "And his alibi for the time of Honoria's death is as leaky as a sieve."

  "Yes, but not his alibi for Festleton's death. It's airtight."

  "What about Thayne-Chetwynde?" the colonel asked.

  "What about him?" Motherwell said.

  "Well… blast it all, more dirty wash. Oh, well, can't be helped. Honoria and he have been having it on for years. Now and then."

  "Really? I must say, they've kept that one under wraps," Motherwell marveled.

  Thaxton lifted his eyebrows. "The webs get tangled in these parts."

  "To err is human, old man,"

  Petheridge said. "There's more. He and Amanda as well. But I do believe that was only a fling."

  "Musical beds," Dalton observed.

  "And then there's Mr. Clarence Wicklow," Dalton said. "Anything on him?"

  "Not a thing," Petheridge said. "Except his family traditionally bore a grudge against the master of Hawkingsmere. Goes back generations. Someone did someone dirt, centuries ago. Not clear what. But I don't see that as having anything to do with the present situation. Wicklow and the earl were the best of friends."

  "One thing bothers me," Thaxton said.

  "What's that, my lord?" Motherwell said.

  "Everybody standin' around while Daphne pots away at a grouse. Odd, all clumped together like that. I think someone's not telling it straight."

  "Of course they're not," Motherwell said. "There were footprints all over the heath, some in pairs, some alone, and the same all over the woods. Not near the body, mind you, but-"

  "Wait!" Thaxton said, sitting straight up. "Just had a thought. No footprints but Lady Festleton's were found in the clearing. But the killer could have wiped out his prints by dragging the body over them and covering the trail with leaves."

  Motherwell put down his cup and saucer. "Never thought of that. Well, now." The Inspector was thoughtful. "But how did he get back to the woods without leaving more prints?"

  "Uh, yes, I see your point."

  "We'd better have another look at that clearing in the morning," Petheridge said.

  A crack of thunder sounded.

  "That is," Thaxton said, "if the rain doesn't wash everything out."

  Motherwell's shoulders sagged. "I'm done in. There's nothing to be accomplished till morning. You gentlemen had better get yourselves to bed. Did Blackpool-?"

  "We've been shown our quarters," Dalton said.

  "Good. Mind that you lock your doors, gentlemen. There's a killer loose."

  The men left the library and were surprised to see Clarence Wicklow, a young man with a sharp, thin face, coming through the shadows of the dining hall. He had on a blue bathrobe and slippers.

  "Eh, what's this?"

  "Had to have my glass of milk," Wicklow said. "Can't get to sleep without it."

  "You're rooming with…?"

  "Thayne-Chetwynde."

  "You'd best get back up. Was there anyone in the kitchen?"

  "Not a soul. Had a devil of a time finding anything."

  "Well, we're going up. Come with us."

  The five men proceeded up the great wooden staircase. At the top, Wicklow trotted off down the hall, waving goodnight.

  When Wicklow had gone into his room, Motherwell delayed Thaxton with a touch on the arm.

  "My lord, what do you make of Blackpool's going out at around the time of the earl's murder?"

  "Have we really fixed the time of his going out, exactly?"

  "Could have been a bit before, could have been immediately after. But his story didn't sit well with me. Clothesline from the shed, him wanting to tie off bundles of magazines for the church charity drive. Bundles of magazines indeed."

  Thaxton shrugged. "I see nothing suspect in that."

  "Blackpool's never gone to church in his life. Staunch atheist."

  "Rather out of character." Thaxton scratched his stubbly chin. "I see what you mean. But do you really suspect the butler of anything?"

  Motherwell shook his head. "I grant you I'm grasping at straws, but it seems awfully odd that-"

  "I say, you chaps… "

  Motherwell spun toward the voice that came from down the hall. "Yes?"

  It was Wicklow, his face chalky. "You'd better come in and see this. Nasty business."

  The clothesline had been tied securely to the footboard of the double bed and thrown up over the huge brass chandelier. The body, that of Humphrey Thayne-Chetwynde, slowly rotated, dangling by the neck. Beneath the body, on the floor, lay an overturned chair.

  A note was pinned to the trouser leg. On it was a scrawl:

  Honoria my darling cannot exist without you life meaningless-impossible to go on-we will live again

  Your Humphrey

  "Poor chap," Petheridge said.

  "'We will live again,"' Motherwell read with a frown. "Wonder what that's all about?"

  "An allusion to reincarnation," Dalton guessed, "or a more conventional religious sentiment?"

  "If it's the former, then the cult aspect might be involved," Thaxton said.

  "Nasty business." Wicklow couldn't keep from staring up at the limp body, the blackened face, the contorted features. "Nasty business," he repeated, his voice rasping.

  "Here, here," Motherwell said, taking his shoulder. "Steady on, Mr. Wicklow. Sit down, here."

  Wicklow sat. "He… he was completely fine when I left him. Didn't seem in bad spirits. Last thing he said was a joke, in fact. `Watch out for killer cows,' he said."

  "Did he mean to make a joke about your fetching some milk?" Motherwell asked.

  "Why, yes. That's the way I took it. Ghastly thing to say, under the circumstances. But I laughed in spite of myself. Bit of relief."

  "What else did you talk about when you were up here with him?"

  "Not a thing, really. Nothing. Maybe a few words about the weather."

  "Nothing about the murders?"

  "No. Not at all. We're all still a bit shaken by all that's happened. We didn't utter a word about it. Didn't have time, really."

  "And you say he wasn't at all despondent? He didn't appear so, or say anything to lead you to that conclusion?"

  "No. In fact, as I said, he seemed in jolly good spirits."

  "Blackpool's clothesline, I'll wager," Thaxton said, examining the taut length of cord. "Either Blackpool did it or someone stole the line out of his room."

  "Did what?" Motherwell demanded.

  "Hanged Thayne-Chetwynde and forged the note."

  "Good God. What makes you say that?"

  "Was Thayne-Chetwynde a navy man?"

  "No," Petheridge said. "Army."

  "Did he have a yacht?"

  "Didn't care for the sea much, as I recall."

  "This knot is a bowline hitch, a kind you tie off a taut cord with. It's a seaman's knot. Someone with nautical experience tied it. Hardly the thing a desperate person would do, anyway. And in any event, it's very difficult to tie with a loose cord."

  "Another murder," Motherwell groaned.

  Thaxton scratched his head, muttering, "Three. Three murders. Now this is getting bloody unusual."

  Dalton sidled over to him and whispered, "Still think this is merry old England?"

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  As the night wore on into morning, Max and Hochstader 3 hit dozens and dozens of alternate continua, each one with Dumbrowsky Taylor Burke o
r some variant smack in the middle of it.

  "I can't believe it," Max groaned, staring at the phone book in Hochstader 37's outer office.

  "Again?" Hochstader 3 asked wearily.

  "Again."

  Max was fascinated by the permutations on the agency's name, evidently the result of random factor at work among Max's would-be partners. There was Dumbrowsky Taylor Thompson, ditto ditto O' Hare, Dumbrowsky McNeil ditto, ditto ditto Tomassi, and even a Dumbrowsky Fenton Fineburg.

  "Herb Fenton. My God, why did I go into partnership with Herb Fenton? Well, he's in this universe. Close, but no cigar."

  "No more, please," Hochstader 3 begged.

  "We have to keep looking." Addressing Hochstader 56, Max said, "Thanks."

  "Do drop in again," Hochstader 56 replied.

  Later, even Max was getting tired.

  "How many alternates are there that might be close to the one I want?"

  "Do you know what a googol is?"

  "No," Max said.

  "It's a number. A one with a crapload of zeros after it. Take that number, and raise it to the power of itself. Googol to the googol power. You get a googolplex. Don't even think about how many zeros that has. That'll give you some idea of how many worlds we're talking about."

  Max blanched. "That many?"

  "It's insignificant," Hochstader 3 said, "to the number of slow ways to kill you I've devised in the last half-hour."

  "Have you ever looked into Biodynamics? When you achieve total body-system coordination, all that tension goes away."

  "Oh, shut up."

  Still later, Hochstader was beside himself.

  "Look, there's a limit to how many times you can de-tune a portal without losing a fix on your home world. My world! I'll never get back!"

  "I hear that, I really do. I know I've been using you as an object, but if you try to look at it in the context of its unique situational ethics-"

  "Cut the psychobabble!"

  "No, really, I mean it."

  "Heil Hitler!" Hochstader 106 shouted after them as they went back to re-tune the portal.

  Much later…

  "I have no idea where we are!" Hochstader screamed. "You don't know what you're getting us into. There are boondock worlds you wouldn't want to be caught dead in. Some you'd wish you were dead in. Strange places-"

  "I never saw this trough-convergence on my biorhythm chart."

  "You never…? For God's sake."

  Jeremy Hochstader hit the keys furiously. Out on the floor of the lab, the castle's mainframe computer hummed and whirred. An occasional spark snapped among the huge machines arranged along the far wall.

  "Jesus, this joint is creepy," Max said. "Who did you say owns the place again?"

  "The castle? Lord Incarnadine."

  "Lord Incarnadine." Max shook his head. "Strange, strange."

  "Yeah, really."

  "And you live here?"

  "Yeah. Please, I'm busy."

  "Sorry, but this is just so hard to believe. What's it like?"

  "What's what like?"

  "The castle. Living here."

  "It's more fun than a barrel of orangutans."

  "That so?"

  "Although it does get risky on occasion."

  As Hochstader worked, Max took in the lab again, still marveling. "I'd like to see the rest of the castle."

  "It's extremely big. And there are portals all over the place."

  "Like this one?"

  "Yes. Leading to worlds more weird than you can imagine. You think the castle's strange. You oughta see some of those worlds. They're not just variants of Earth, like this one. Damn!"

  Max was alarmed. "What?"

  "I think I just…"

  Hochstader got up and ran toward the curtain. Max began to follow but nearly ran into the little guy, who had stopped at the curtain to peer cautiously through.

  "What is it?" Max demanded.

  "Just checking to see if the office building is still here. Something happened."

  "What?"

  "Don't know. A glitch in the program. I might have hit a wrong key. Something tweaked, but it looks okay. This is just another minor variant world, looks like. Come on."

  Max followed Hochstader through the curtain and into the back room. Hochstader was still wary, treading softly. Max nearly bumped into him again in the outer office. And when he saw why, he nearly fell over.

  Something… some thing was seated at the desk, a nightmare of multiple pincers, green chitin, and wobbling antennae. It turned many-faceted bug-eyes on its visitors.

  "And… who… might… you… be?" it whirred, its horrible mouth working clickety clickety clickety click.

  "Sorry," Hochstader said. "A glitch. We were just leaving."

  "You… are… an… interesting… variant," the creature said. "Are… you… edible?"

  "Not very." Hochstader temporized, backtracking. He bumped up against a transfixed Max.

  "Move!" Hochstader whispered.

  "Huh? What the hell is that?"

  "Back through the curtain-now!"

  "Wha-? Oh, yeah."

  They ran back into the lab. Hochstader dove for the terminal and frantically banged away at the keyboard. Presently, he stopped typing and collapsed into his seat. "Jesus."

  Max was still looking back at the portal. "What the hell was that thing?"

  "I dunno, but we don't want to mess with it."

  "I should say not. Any chance it'll come after us?"

  "I tumbled the tuning program."

  "Eh?"

  "That world isn't out there any more. In fact, I closed the portal."

  Max's pale eyebrows shot up. "You closed the-"

  He dashed to the curtain and threw it aside. Behind it lay a blank stone wall.

  "Hey! I gotta get back to my world!"

  "Hold your friggin' horses!" Max said, a placating hand extended. "I have to do some calculations first before I tune the portal again."

  "I'll tune you like a cheap boom-box, you little asswipe. Why the-" Max halted. "Oh, for God's sake."

  Hochstader was puzzled. Someone had come into the lab, but he hadn't noticed until Max reacted. Following Max's gaze, he found himself confronted with yet another of his duplicates.

  "What. the flipping hell is going on here?" Hochstader 108 demanded.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The bedroom door opened. Linda Barclay stood in the doorframe, looking down the hallway outside.

  "Okay, see you later!"

  "You sure you're feeling better?" came Melanie's voice.

  "Don't worry about me. And don't worry about Gene, either. You know how he is. He can take care of himself."

  "I won't worry if you won't. I'm more concerned about you, Linda."

  "Don't be. Did they get a room for Rance?"

  "Yeah, he's okay for tonight. What do you think of him, by the way?"

  "Clean him up a little and he'd be a hunk."

  "Yeah, he's cute. Rough around the edges, but-"

  "Okay. Good-night."

  "Night!"

  Linda waved her hand. Around the room, candles mysteriously lit themselves, throwing a warm glow against stone walls. She came in, shut the big oak door, and threw the dead bolt.

  She crossed the room to the armoire and began to undress.

  "Excuse me…"

  She yelped, jumping two feet straight up.

  "Oh, dear," said the king. "Terribly sorry. Didn't mean to startle you."

  "My God! Lord Incarnadine!" Linda collapsed on the bed.

  Incarnadine had been sitting on the chair next to the bed but was now on his feet with a look of alarm. "Really, I'm awfully sorry. I should have said something when you came in, but I was sure you saw me. I was sitting right here."

  Linda took a moment to catch her breath. "I must have looked right through you. I mean, you just don't expect someone to be sitting in your room- But wasn't it dark?"

  "It was, I admit. I lit a candle but it must have guttered
out, and I'm afraid I dozed off."

  "Ohhh-" Still pressing a hand to her heart, Linda sat up. "Don't ever do that to me again."

  "This is very embarrassing. I don't know what to say."

  "Oh… forget it."

  "No, I shouldn't have presumed to enter your bedroom."

  "It's okay. Think nothing of it, Your Majesty."

  "Call me Inky."

  Linda looked at him strangely. "You've never asked me to call you that before."

  "It's about time, don't you think? After all- Well, we are friends, aren't we?"

  "Sure."

  Incarnadine smiled. He sat back down. "I'm glad."

  Linda asked, "Is there something you wanted to talk to me about?"

  The king appeared uncomfortable. He looked off. "Yes, there is. Actually… it's rather difficult to say, now, what with this little contretemps. Perhaps I should come another time." Incarnadine began to rise.

  "No, please stay. Tell me what it was."

  "Well… all right, but this is going to sound funny coming from a man who just surprised a woman in her bedroom."

  "Say it."

  "Uh… very well." He looked at her. "I'm in love with you.

  Linda was silent for a long moment. "You're… in love with me."

  "Yes, have been for quite a while. And… don't ask me how I know, but I do. You are in love with me." Linda regarded him in silence. Presently she got up and went to the window. She looked out into the night. Stars were out, a glittering array of them.

  "Boy, you know how to get right to the point."

  Incarnadine chuckled. "It's best that way. Another sticky point is that you're a few days away from being married. I admit this is a rather awkward time to bring it up."

  "Rather."

  Linda turned and leaned against the wall. "Why are you bringing it up?"

  "'Speak now or forever hold your peace.' Something like that."

  "I see." Linda shifted sideways and gazed out the window again. She brought up a hand to touch the lead tracery.

  He said, "Well?"

  Linda laughed. "Well!"

  The king frowned. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I see I was mistaken. My apologies. I'll go now."

  "No. Wait, please."