“Land Surveyor? Nope.”
“Guy says he’s the Land Surveyor and that he was sent to the castle.”
Gene shrugged.
“Uh, sir? I’m sorry, but there’s no one here who can help you at the moment … Yes … Uh-huh. You’re welcome.” She hung up. “I wonder what that was all about?”
“Who knows,” Gene said.
When they arrived at the lab, Jeremy was at his work station as usual, typing away at the mainframe terminal.
Gene asked, “Are Dolbert and Luster back in the graving dock?”
“They never come out,” Jeremy said. “I never see ’em.”
Gene, Linda, and Snowclaw walked to the back of the lab and went through a large oaken door.
The chamber on the other side was immense, but not as big as the lab. The ceiling was the same arabesque of stone arches.
In the middle of the floor sat a strange bell-shaped object, a craft of some sort, up on jacks. There was an oval window in the hull; otherwise the silver-colored machine was smooth and featureless.
Two pairs of legs stuck out from underneath the craft, one pair a lot longer than the other.
Gene stooped. “Hey, Luster?”
“Yo!”
“Uh, you got a minute?”
“Wull, ah reckon ah do.”
Luster slid out and stood up. He was tall, wheyfaced, and thin. He wore filthy brown corduroy pants and work boots, and was shirtless except for the top section of his long underwear, which had originally been white, probably sometime early in the last decade. He wore a tattered, sweat-stained baseball cap of the style not seen since the last time Ty Cobb led the American League in batting. His irises were so pale they were almost indistinguishable from the white of the eye.
“Hullo,” Luster said, smiling. “Ma’am,” a nod to Linda.
“Hi, Luster,” Linda said.
“Whut kin ah do for y’all?”
Gene said, “Gee, Luster, we hate to bother you, but we kinda wanted some idea of when you guys think you can get the Voyager back on-line.”
“Say whut?”
“Uh, get it working again. Have any idea when?”
“Dolbert? You hear that?”
A high-pitched cackling came from underneath the craft. It sounded at once derisory, ironic, and regretful.
“Dolbert says he heard you.”
“Uh-huh. Well?”
“Dolbert? Gene wants to know when.”
Chittering, with a hint of sarcastic skepticism.
“Dolbert says it beats the livin’ bejesus outta him,” Luster reported.
Linda sighed. “We’ll have to do it by magic.”
“How?” Gene asked.
“Conjuring. I’ll just conjure her.”
“Can you do that?”
“Never tried it. When Incarnadine was stranded last time, I was tempted. But this time I think I’m going to try it.”
“Well, that brings up a lot of philosophical questions,” Gene said.
Linda suddenly lost enthusiasm. “Yeah, I know. For instance, will it be the ‘real’ Melanie, or just some fake? Like most of the stuff I whip up.”
“Most of your stuff is pretty permanent,” Gene said.
“Yeah. Good thing, too. Imagine suddenly losing your clothes. Embarrassing. But that doesn’t mean they’re real. Even if it worked, if I could conjure Melanie, I could never really be sure that the real one wasn’t still off in a wild aspect somewhere, lost and alone.”
Linda slumped to a wooden crate. “Damn it.”
“Somebody in trouble?” Luster asked.
Gene explained.
“Wull, that shore is a pity. Hear that, Dolbert?”
Sympathetic chirring.
“Yeah, I know it. Dolbert says he’s shore sorry, but he don’t know whut all he kin do beyond whut he’s doin’ right now.”
“That’s okay, Luster,” Linda said. “I’m sure you guys are trying your best.”
Dolbert slid out from underneath the Voyager and stood. He didn’t look much like his brother. He was short and his eyes were darker. He wore no shirt under his bib overalls. His baseball cap was, if possible, even more rat-chewed and moth-eaten than his brother’s. Grime covered him. His smile was wide and perpetual.
He guffawed and pointed to the crate Linda was sitting on.
Gene turned to Luster. “What did he say?”
“He says maybe that new particulator we ordered’ll do the trick.”
“Particulator?” Linda said, getting up.
“Yup. We done ordered it in one of them whatchucall yore aspects. Lord Incarnadine told us it might be had there. And shore enough, it were.”
“What’s it do?” Gene asked.
“Danged if we know. Jus’ know that one that’s in the Voyager’s cracked.”
“Oh. And you think that might be the problem?”
“Could be. We replaced a couple parts so far. Dolbert even built one or two. They didn’t do the trick. But this one jes might.” Luster took off his cap, exposing a thicket of yellow hair. He scratched his head. “Then agin, maybe not.”
Gene asked, “When do you figure you can install this gadget?”
“Dolbert?”
Dolbert laughed and shrugged his narrow shoulders.
Luster said, “Dolbert says there ain’t nothin’ standin’ in the way o’ doin’ it right now.”
Gene dragged up another crate, this one empty. He sat.
“Mind if we watch you doctors operate?”
Dolbert giggled.
Chapter Thirteen
Seacoast
Peele Castle sat with its back to the sea atop a high chalk cliff. It looked like something out of a fairy tale, a fantasy of high towers and crenellated battlements. The sun declined behind it, throwing a sheen of reddish light over the water. Gulls wheeled in the evening sky, white against the darkening blue. Far out to sea, the dark stripe of a squall line edged the horizon.
Thaxton and Dalton sat on a knoll overlooking the scene.
“Looks like bad weather coming in,” Thaxton said.
“Yup. God, isn’t it picturesque?”
“It is that.”
“‘It was many and many a year ago, in a kingdom by the sea,’” Dalton recited. “‘That a maiden there lived, whom you may know, by the name of Annabel Lee.’”
“Keats?”
“Poe.”
“Oh, yes. American.”
“Here’s the princess.”
They both stood as Dorcas approached barefoot, sandals in hand.
“Good evening, gentlemen. It was a nice walk, wasn’t it? It seems we’re the first to arrive.”
“Couldn’t pick a more charming spot to spend the night,” Dalton commented.
“I’ve spent many a night in Peele,” she said. “When I was young we came here often. I spent whole summers here.”
“Are there any local inhabitants?” Thaxton asked.
“No. This land is deserted. The population disappeared long ago. Plague was the cause, it’s thought, though it happened so far back, no one is sure.”
“Pity. It’s beautiful country. Reminds me of England a bit.”
“This world is a variant of Earth, and this land was very similar to England.”
Dorcas looked landward across the grassy plateau. “Here comes everybody.”
A line of horse-and-riders was approaching, servants and others walking behind.
“Your Highness,” Thaxton said, “may I ask about the jewel you wear on your forehead?”
“Yes, of course. It symbolizes the Interior Eye, the Eye of Yahura the Seer. It has to do with the religion of my adopted country, my husband’s native land.”
“How interesting. I’d like to hear more about it.”
“Certainly. Later, if you wish.”
“May I ask, ma’am, whether you knew the viscount well?”
“I knew him, his wife. I saw them at various affairs over the years. I couldn’t say we were friendly. Stil
l, it’s a terrible thing that’s happened.”
“Oh, quite. Did the viscount have many enemies?”
Dalton seemed uncomfortable. “I’m sure Her Highness doesn’t —”
“I can understand your interest,” the princess said, “having discovered the body. It must have been a shock.”
“It was. I hope you don’t find my questions too impertinent, ma’am, but, as you said, our curiosity is naturally very high. And our concern, of course.”
“As is everyone else’s. The murderer must be brought to justice. He cannot be permitted to go free.” The princess seemed to retreat into herself, her gaze deflecting momentarily. Then she looked at Thaxton. “Yes. To answer your question, the viscount was not liked by many people. Whether he had enemies, I don’t know.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
She looked toward the sea. “I think I’ll sit by the cliff and watch the sunset before I go in. I must meditate.”
They watched her go down the knoll and walk toward the cliff’s edge.
“Odd.”
“What?” Dalton asked.
“When she said ‘He must not be permitted to go free’ I got the distinct impression that she had someone specific in mind.”
“I sort of did, too, now that you mention it.”
Their room was small but had a spectacular view of the ocean through casements of leaded glass. The servant, an elderly man with a shiny bald head, swung the panes out to let in tangy salt air.
“Servant’s quarters, I suspect,” Thaxton said, looking around.
Dalton said, “It’ll do. Hard to get used to an ordinary castle with limited space.”
“One bed,” Thaxton noted, dubiously eyeing the not-quite-double bed.
“I can fetch a cot, sir,” the servant offered.
“Oh, don’t bother on my account,” Thaxton said. “One regrettable aspect of the current openness about things is that there’s now something slightly questionable about two men occupying the same bed. Used to be no one gave it a second thought.”
“I remember,” Dalton said. “But I like to stretch out, and besides, I thrash in my sleep sometimes, or so my late wife used to tell me.”
“I’ll tell one of the boys to fetch it right up, sir.”
“Thank you …?”
“Ruford, sir.”
“Thank you, Ruford.”
Thaxton remarked, “You were at the fête, weren’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I suppose you saw nothing suspicious, either?”
“Ah … no, sir. I did not.”
“You didn’t see the viscount get up and leave?”
“No, sir.”
“See anything happen right before that?”
“Ah … specifically what, sir?”
“Oh, anything that went on, for instance, between the viscount and his lady.”
Ruford looked away. “I did serve the viscount and Lady Rilma, yes, sir.”
“Did they talk?”
Ruford seemed reluctant to speak.
Thaxton nodded. “I realize I’m asking you to talk about your employer —”
“Sir, I am not employed by the viscount. I am head of staff here at Peele.”
“I understand your reluctance. But this is important. Did Tyrene interview you yet?”
“No, sir.”
Dalton said, “Thaxton, maybe we’d better wait. After all, it’s not our —”
“Hold off just a moment, old man. Ruford, Mr. Dalton and I are acting in an advisory capacity to the investigation. We will keep anything you say in strictest confidence.”
Dalton gave his golf partner a strange look.
Ruford sighed. “Very well, sir. Yes, I heard them speaking.”
“And?”
“They were arguing, sir.”
“About what?”
“I didn’t hear all of it, sir, but the lady said something to the effect that he ought not to have done it right in front of her.”
“Done what?”
“Oh, dear.” Ruford’s face reddened.
“He was making improper advances?”
Ruford raised his thin eyebrows. “Yes, sir.”
Thaxton’s aside to Dalton was: “Just a wild guess.” Of Ruford he asked, “To whom? Lady Rowena?”
“Yes.”
“That’s Lord Belgard’s wife?”
“Yes, sir.”
“While they were playing at hedge ball?”
“Yes, sir. I myself saw it.”
“And Lord Belgard, too, I presume.”
“Yes, sir, I suppose the lord did see it. He was right there.”
“Interesting. Under her husband’s nose. And the viscount and Lady Rilma argued over this. She berated him?”
“She did, sir.”
“And what was his reaction?”
“He told her to be quiet. Then … he threw something at her.”
“He did?”
“Yes, sir. A wing of capon.”
“It struck her?”
“Yes, sir. In the face.”
“And what did she do or say?”
“Nothing, sir. She just got the palest look on her.”
“Pale? Was she afraid, do you think?”
“No, sir. It was anger, sir. The kind that drains the blood from the face and makes the lips waxen. That kind of anger, sir. Cold anger. She looked as though …”
“She looked as though what?”
“As though she were going to strike him back, sir. Only harder.”
“Did she make any attempt?”
“No, sir. None. She just sat there.”
“Did you hear or see anything else?”
“I’m afraid not, sir. That is all I have to tell.”
“You didn’t see Trent —?”
“Oh, please, sir. I saw nothing.” Ruford cast his eyes to the floor. “It is not my place to talk about the brother of the king.”
“In a court of law, you’d be obliged to,” Thaxton reminded him.
“Yes, sir. I would. But not until then, and not until his lordship the judge puts the question, and I am bound by law and principle to answer.”
“I see. Well, thank you, Ruford. That’s all for now.”
“You’re quite welcome, sir. I’ll see to the cot straightaway.”
When the door closed, Dalton said, “That was hard for him.”
“Well, servants, you know.”
“I do know that there’s more than one mystery to all this.”
“Eh? What’s that?”
“You.”
“Me? Whatever do you mean?”
Dalton sat on a hard-backed wooden chair. “I’ve never seen you like this. I can’t fathom this amazing transformation that’s come over you.”
“Just what amazing transformation is that, old man?”
“This is the first time I’ve ever seen you … interested in something. You’re animated, you’re involved. And you have the makings of becoming a damn fine amateur sleuth. Where on earth did you learn all that forensic medicine?”
Thaxton chuckled. “I’m faking it, old man. I don’t know all that much about forensic medicine or, for that matter, anything else. What I do know was learned out of murder mysteries.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Not at all. Used to read three a week sometimes when I was married. Not much else to do. Sayers, Christie, Chesterton, Bentley, the lot. And I was raised on Conan Doyle. Most fiction leaves me cold, but I love a good mystery. Gets the blood racing.”
“Absolutely amazing.”
“Detection? Hardly. All it takes is having no qualms about asking indelicate questions.”
“No powers of deduction? No keen eye?”
“Overrated. I certainly can’t tell from a spot of clay on a man’s boots that he’s recently been in Lyme Regis or that his dog has beriberi or any of that Holmesian nonsense. But it doesn’t take much to deduce that someone killed the viscount and that it was probably somebody at the party,
who either threw a knife or stabbed him in the back and dropped the knife.”
Dalton nodded. “And now we know it could have been Lady Rilma.”
“Yes, she now tops the list. And it makes much more sense than the knife-throwing business. If the knife was thrown and it stuck deeply in the viscount’s back, who pulled it out?”
Dalton tried reaching to the middle of his back. “I suppose he could have, though I can’t imagine anything harder or more painful than pulling a knife out of one’s own back. And … now, what I know about these matters you can’t stuff a flea’s backside with, and I’ve read Sayers and everybody else — but don’t people die when they get stabbed in the back? I mean, immediately? I was always under the impression it was a pretty quick thing. All of which is leading up to saying that it just might be that he was stabbed in the castle.”
“About murder, I only know what I see in films and read in novels,” Thaxton said. “But one thing I do know. Somebody stabbed the viscount as he sat eating, and then either deliberately or accidentally dropped the knife.”
“All right, but why drop the knife right there? Why not throw it in the bushes or in the pond? Why no attempt to dispose of something that could be traced?”
“Maybe it can’t be traced.”
“Fingerprints?”
Thaxton stared out the window. “Something tells me that there won’t be any fingerprints on that thing.”
“Why not, if Lady Rilma stabbed him, as you seem to be suggesting?”
“No reason at the moment. Just have a feeling it’ll be clean as a choir loft.”
“So you don’t suspect Lady Rilma.”
“She could have wiped the knife before dropping it.”
“After stabbing him in a sudden rage? Maybe, but it doesn’t sound convincing. Damn it.” Dalton stood. “Nothing about this business makes sense, and the biggest thing that doesn’t make sense is that nobody saw anything. A brutal stabbing, right out in the open, in broad daylight, and no one saw a damn thing.”
Thaxton was silent.
Dalton heaved an uneasy breath. “I’m hungry. They said dinner would be in an hour or so. No lunch. I should have grabbed something at the picnic. But —”
“Magic,” Thaxton said.
“Huh?”
Thaxton turned. “Magic’s involved somehow. I don’t know how.”
“Well, that’s interesting, because I was talking with Tyrene while you were off somewhere, about how this aspect doesn’t have much magic in it. Or difficult magic, if any.”
Castle Murders Page 12
