CHAPTER 26
The hallway glowed from the same overhead crystal fixtures and flickering wall sconces that were everywhere in the castle. Eliot had left on all the lights, probably because of the promised post-dessert tour. After his lengthy discourses and Arch’s accident, however, I thought it unlikely anyone would stick around to explore.
Unlikely for anyone except me, that is.
By the entrance to the old chapel, I removed the Wet Paint sign and scraped the wall with my fingernail. Underneath the new splotch of paint was a dark spot. What was I looking for? Blood? If I found it, what would I do? And would the police accuse me of destroying evidence?
All right, think, I ordered myself as I studied the empty hallway. What exactly was I looking for? When Andy Balachek had been getting antsy, I was willing to bet, his partner-in-crime had strung him along with the information that the precious stamps were in the Hydes’ chapel. Andy’s father Peter had worked on the west range after the flood of ’82. According to Michaela, Andy had explored this side of the castle extensively as a child. So maybe Andy had figured in the Hydes’ chapel meant in the castle chapel. Say he had broken into the castle looking for those stamps. What was the one thing that had most haunted Tom and me since the discovery of Andy Balachek?
How he’d been electrocuted.
Using my fingernails to scrape was going to be too slow. I unscrewed the thin brass base from the bottom of one of the wall sconces. With this brass disk, I began to scrape random spots on the splash-painted wall. At last I uncovered another dark spot. Following it from the base of the wall to the door of the chapel/playroom, I quickly scratched out a dark, smoked arch.
This was it. It had to be. This was the arc left by a high-voltage bolt of electricity. Had Andy Balachek’s body been a part of the arc? Had the electrocution been delivered on purpose, or had Andy made a deadly mistake in trying to penetrate security? Why would this door have its own electric lock, anyway?
I was getting the creeps in that deserted hallway. I still had to replace the sorbet and finish the banquet. I sprinted across the courtyard toward the kitchen. Andy Balachek had sneaked into the castle because he’d thought the stamps were hidden in the castle chapel. I doubted very much that the stamps had ever been there; I’d found where they’d been stashed, in the chapel by the creek.
How had Andy gotten in here, anyway?
But even as I moved into the kitchen, I knew the answer to that question: Michaela and Sukie had given it to me. Michaela had mentioned that while Peter Balachek ran his excavation equipment to rebuild the moat dam, his little son Andy had been fascinated, and had followed the reconstruction each day. What would the boy have learned during all those hours of watching? What Sukie had told us that very first night: the same knowledge that attackers of Richard the Lionheart’s castle on the Seine had cleverly employed to invade—that the way in and out of the castle was into the water … and up through the garderobes.
Instinctively, I glanced up at the taped kitchen window. Could someone have been coming up a garderobe and through the window into the kitchen? I couldn’t imagine it, as there was no ledge on the outside wall. This had been a bedroom—that of the child-duke—and some of the garderobes were corbeled out from the living quarters, as in our suite. But Sukie had shown me the closest garderobe to the kitchen. It was down past the dining room, in the drum tower with the well.
Andy, on the other hand, had known exactly where the garderobe was that led to Eliot’s study. Believing the stolen stamps were in the castle chapel, Andy had planned to cheat his partner by sneaking in through the moat—wearing a wetsuit, perhaps? The moat was aerated for the ducks, so it wouldn’t freeze. Sukie herself had told me she’d had mesh grilles installed on the bottom of the garderobes to keep rodents from making their way into the castle. But grilles could be popped off, I knew, and loosely bolted tops could be crashed through with a hammer. In this way, a garderobe could open a way into the castle, a way unprotected by security.
I stared at the kitchen windows. Once in the castle, Andy had encountered some kind of electric force he hadn’t expected—a lock? A light? A security guard box? What had I found when I’d burst into the former chapel, a space that clearly had been ruined by the flood and never remodeled? I’d discovered a cheaply furnished playroom, with a new bolt that was missing one screw. The arc of electricity leading to the door seemed to point to an armed security device that had blown out when someone had unwisely tried to disarm it. Sukie had told me the room with the moat’s pump was the only dangerous place in the castle. But I’d discovered the moat pump room, with no pump. Had the pump been in a closet I just hadn’t seen? I doubted it.
No, I was willing to bet several rare stamps that that arc of electricity I’d just discovered was at the very spot where poor Andy had received his fatal or near-fatal shock. He’d been trying to break into the playroom, and had failed, miserably. And then he’d been discovered by someone. And shot by someone. And moved to the creek.
I stared down at the trestle table, almost forgetting what I’d come for. Oh, yes, the sorbet! But I couldn’t concentrate; my mind raced. In Hyde Chapel, down by the creek, where had the stamps been hidden? I’d found a solitary stamp, in the one place that represented the mystical treasure—the very heart of the rose window. Who would have hidden an eight-hundred-thousand-dollar stamp there?
My first thought was Eliot. Eliot was the one who was big on labyrinth symbolism. But he was also loaded with money, and didn’t need proceeds from a theft. Still, he dearly wanted his precious conference center to be a success, and anyone, no matter how rich, could be greedy for more cash. On the other hand, even before he’d profited from Henry VIII’s letter, he’d turned down Viv’s gambling idea, which could have garnered oodles of cash. But that didn’t account for the utmost importance of Eliot’s name to him. Illegal gambling would have been very bad for his beloved reputation, if he’d been caught.
I tapped the freezer door. You had to conclude that whoever hid the stamps in the center of the rose window knew Eliot’s passions. You have to think the way the thief does. If the stamps had been found by the authorities, who would have been blamed?
Why, Eliot, of course. He’d been my first suspect, and he’d surely be the cops’, too.
I snatched the second carton of sorbet from the freezer, but felt no compulsion to go rushing back to the Great Hall. I was in a mental zone, the kind where you know the ideas will keep coming if you persist in asking the questions. I didn’t intend to leave that zone until I’d explored every inch of it.
Okay: Say the person who hid the stolen stamps wanted Eliot to be blamed and arrested, and to take the fall, if anything went wrong. Something did go terribly wrong when Andy double-crossed his hijacking partners and tried to swipe the stamps himself. Then the killer shot Andy, and left him … near where the stamps had been. Somehow the killer must have figured out that Andy had broken into the wrong chapel in the process of trying to steal back the stamps. Since the killer couldn’t be too sure that Andy hadn’t told somebody “the stamps are in the chapel,” he or she had had to move the stamps again, before they could be discovered. But where would the killer hide them this time?
I whacked the frozen sorbet carton onto the counter. Figure it out, I ordered myself. Think. If you’re trying to think along the same lines as the murderer, aren’t you going to once again put the booty somewhere relatively accessible … but still somewhere that Eliot would be blamed if the booty were found?
Where would Eliot hide something?
What had Eliot said to me? The Elizabethans hid surprises in their desserts. Wait. I struggled to recall his exact words. A typical Elizabethan treat … to bake treasure into something sweet … Giving me cooking directions in a rhymed couplet, no less. But what something sweet was Eliot’s special preserve? What place would he be likely to hide something extremely valuable, where it probably wouldn’t be found? But if the loot were discovered, what place would point directly to
Eliot as the culprit—?
Wait a second. Eliot’s special preserve?
My eyes traveled to the jam cabinet. It was in plain sight, but locked with a key that was available to anyone who had the slightest knowledge of the ways of the castle. Too obvious? Still, like the labyrinth, the stillroom products were Eliot’s pride and joy … was there any other place where he stored them?
My mind cast up a memory. This is just half of his insomniac production, Sukie had told us, referring to the jams in the kitchen. Think.
Last night when we’d had lamb, I’d requested mint jelly. Julian had searched in the kitchen jam cabinet, with no luck. Then he’d disappeared into the buttery/dining room … the same place he’d gone to get the equally recherché sherry jelly….
No, that’s stupid, I corrected myself. This castle is enormous. You could hide something in a million places.
With trembling fingers, I shoved aside the rapidly softening sorbet and reached for the key ring where the team moms had left it, on the counter. Swiftly, I sorted through the keys, heart pounding, until I found the tiny skeleton key used for the kitchen preserves cupboard. Maybe … I thought. Tom was at the airport with his high-school sweetheart, thirty-some people were waiting for me to provide dessert upstairs, my son and Julian were racing to the doctor, and I intended to solve a major murder case by ransacking shelves of … jelly?
Tomorrow might bring better ideas, but for now, I moved in rows, holding each jam jar up to the light. Currant. Blackberry. Cherry. Blueberry. Marionberry. All these preserves were just what the labels said they were. Orange, Fig, and Grapefruit Marmalade, ditto. Feeling increasingly foolish, I began lifting the last row of jars: Strawberry Jam. Nothing.
I hastened into the buttery/dining room. The antique wine cabinet, an elegant mahogany piece with diamond-shaped leaded glass, had a tiny keyhole. I thought back. Julian had come in here, probably with the keys in his pocket. He’d only taken a moment to locate the mint and sherry jellies. I tried the smallest key on the ring. After a minute of my jiggling it in the lock, the glass door popped open.
The light in the dining room was dimmer than in the kitchen. I stared hard at each jam jar as I held it up to the light. Mint Jelly, Sherry Jelly, Pear Chutney. I was beginning to feel stupid. I started on the last row of jars, Lemon Curd.
On the tenth jar, I inhaled sharply. Pay dirt? Instead of being filled with pale golden curd, this jar was lined with … paper. I unscrewed the top and peered inside.
Clear plastic envelopes. I pulled out one and detected the unmistakable homely profile of Queen Victoria.
Unfortunately, before I could shout “Eureka” or even “God save the Queen,” the floor in the hallway creaked ominously. The hairs shot up on the back of my neck. As I pivoted toward the sound, Michaela burst into the kitchen, then ran into the dining room. She was clutching a saber.
“Where are they?” she demanded. She was enraged. Her white hair, lit from behind, made her look like a banshee.
“Where are who?”
Michaela’s wild eyes fastened on the jar in my hand. “What is that? What are you doing?”
“Trying to figure out why you put the stamps in here.” I took a deep breath. “It’s because you want Eliot to get caught, isn’t it? I know you hate him. I saw you fighting—”
She burst into a humorless laugh that was more like a cackle. “You don’t know anything! I don’t hate Eliot! Quite the opposite!”
At that moment, the lights in the kitchen and dining room went out. In the hazy light cast by the hall sconces, I could see only the silhouette of another human form, holding a glinting sword aloft. I heard two people grunting, fighting, pushing furniture over, whacking each other, shouting whenever they were hit.
Time to scram, my brain screamed, and I obeyed. I shoved the precious jam jar in my sweater pocket, pushed blindly forward, fell onto the dining-room table, then scrambled upright, knocking over a chair. The combatants in the kitchen barged into something. The crash of exploding glass shattered the darkness.
Run, I ordered my frozen legs. I groped out in the darkness; my knuckles whacked the china cupboard. Where was the door to the dining room? Run. I stumbled forward.
Someone was in the dining room with me. A sword slashed the air, with the sound of a cold wind. I screamed and reached out again. My hand closed around something—one of Eliot’s wine bottles. Again the rapier hissed, this time closer. I whirled and parried hard with the bottle. It broke as it smashed on my attacker’s shoulder. Whoever it was went reeling backward.
I had seconds to move. I stumbled. Found the edge of the dining-room door. Slipped through and ran for my life.
Down the hall, into the well tower, past the well and garderobe, into the spacious living room. Run, Run, Run, my mind screamed. The cell phone and jar of stamps bobbled around in my sweater pocket. I was still clutching the neck of the broken bottle. It would be little use against a sword. I had to get away from that slashing weapon, had to get out of the castle, had to escape.
Behind me, footsteps pounded. Whoever it was could move, I’d give ’em that. Run, I told myself. Run faster. I slammed through the glass doors to the gatehouse, punched the code into the security keypad, and waited for the portcullis to rise. Panting, I grabbed the front door.
Behind me, there were no more footsteps. Had whoever it was given up? Or had my attacker gone to get a confederate? I stared at the front door, wheezing. What next? It was cold outside, and I had no car keys. I had no car. What was I going to do—run all the way into town? Whoever was chasing me was in much better shape than I could ever hope to be.
I whirled and looked across the courtyard. Just a couple of hundred feet away were parents who could help. Should I chance it? Or should I run out into the night, over the causeway spanning the moat?
Indecision is the enemy of mortality. Overhead, there was a clunk. Without warning, a splash of boiling liquid bit into my skin. I screamed as pain flared from my shoulder to my elbow. I jumped out of the way of the steaming cascade.
“Help!” I yelled as I jumped aside. More boiling water poured implacably down. “Help!”
The water was coming through the arched ceiling, through the ancient murder holes. My elbow and left arm were alive with agony. From the floor above came a woman’s scream. I looked up and saw blond hair, a pretty child’s face. Then I heard a thwack, and another, followed by more struggling and crashing. I was shaking, trying to open the front gatehouse door. My skin was on fire. I couldn’t turn the knob.
“Flee, cook!” a child’s voice hollered over the din above me. “Flee!” There was the sound of whacking, followed by grunts. “We tried to warn you not to come!”
And so I ran, back the way I’d come, my arm on fire, my skin melting. Dear God, I prayed, help me.
And then, like a miracle, I had a vision of pulling Sukie to the sink when she’d burned her hands trying to rescue the scorched coffee cake. Water. Cold water.
I was slowing down. Could my attacker have made it back to the kitchen? I was going to faint. I was going to die from my burns. I’d never see Arch or Tom or Julian again.
I was sobbing now. My body was a current of liquid fear and pain. Water. The top of the well was sealed tight with canvas. Water. I was going to die if I didn’t find it. I unbolted the seat to the garderobe, yanked it up, and scrambled up on the ledge. Then I dropped feet first, down, down, down the latrine shaft. My feet whacked a grille and it gave way.
The shock of the icy moat was such an instant relief that I shouted with joy—underwater. I was rewarded with a choking lungful of creek water. Heaving and gasping, I flailed my way to the surface. Just as I thought Grab the cell phone and jar of stamps, I felt them fall away from my sweater pocket and drop, along with my shoes, deep into the dark water.
My head bumped against something and I recoiled. A duck? A fish? A rat? What else was there in this damn moat? I blinked, moved my arms and legs, and shoved through the icy water. The spotlights from the
castle revealed what I’d bumped into. The missing sorbet carton.
Huh?
Swim.
Suddenly I was so deathly cold I knew I was going to sink to the bottom. Swim, paddle, kick, do some damn thing, I commanded myself. And, miraculously, my body obeyed. A hundred feet away, I could see the edge of the moat. A swimming-pool length. No sweat. I lunged through the water. Swim. Kick. Move your arms.
My scalded arm was numb with pain. My feet felt bruised from crashing through the grille. When I reached the side, what was I going to do? Was someone still after me? Wet and chilled to the bone, how would I get through the dark woods that surrounded the castle? I didn’t have a clue.
Swim, dammit.
I raised one arm, then the other. The burnt arm wouldn’t obey my mind’s commands, so with great effort, I turned on my side and started an awkward, slow side-stroke. I gasped for breath. Swimming had never been so hard.
Finally, my fingers touched the slimy moat rim. The slippery rock wall, covered with algae, gave me no footing. Wheezing, I grabbed an overhanging aspen branch, only to slide backward into the icy water, gasping. With a huge effort, I hauled myself up on the rocks. One foot in front of the other. Get out of the water, get through the woods, go back to town. Call Boyd. Call the police. Get a grip.
Flee.
I heaved myself over the rock wall and tumbled hard into a bank of snow and leaves. All around, unseen trees rattled and swayed. I couldn’t feel my feet. But I was in snow, I knew that. My burning skin began to sweat and scream with pain.
I glanced back at the castle. The kitchen was lit by an eerie glow that did not come from the sconces or chandeliers. I squinted: There was a figure, a small figure, beside the window, which was once again open. Who was it?
I’d heard a child yell, “Flee, cook!” It had sounded like a girl, and she’d been in Michaela’s overhead rooms, by the murder holes. I peered at the figure, which stood motionless, framed by the open window. Was I dreaming, or was it a young boy wearing a ruff? None of the kids at the fencing banquet had been sporting one of those stiff Elizabethan collars.
Sticks & Scones Page 29
