Castle Murders

by John Dechancie

  Jeremy said, “How about Snowy?”

  “Yeah, I can do that,” Snowy said. “But I don’t even really know what the heck a universe is.”

  “Yeah, that’s no good,” Gene said.

  “Besides, I have a cold.”

  Gene said, “You get colds?”

  “Sure. My nose gets all stuffed up and I can’t smell a thing.”

  “No kidding.” Gene set down his prosciutto-and-green-pepper sandwich. “What we really need is a psychic critter.”

  “Why not just a psychic?”

  “A human one? What, are we going to look for Elvis? You want the scoop on the next stage of Jackie O’s love life?”

  “It was only a suggestion.”

  “There are castle people who have psychic powers,” Linda said. “What do you call what I do?”

  “Real magic.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “There’s a lot of difference. Besides, you said you can’t conjure a human being.”

  “But there might be someone in the castle who could help.”

  “We need real tracking talent, not some self-styled ‘psychic’ who makes a hundred wild guesses, of which one might luckily pan out.”

  “Incarnadine could locate Melanie,” Linda said.

  “Probably, but he’s not around. Want to wait for him to come back?”

  “No, Melanie’s in trouble. I can feel it.”

  “Talk about psychic vibes.”

  “No, I can’t find her. My talent’s not that way.”

  “Well, is there something you can remember about that wild aspect? What it looked like, anything to identify it?”

  “It was just a dense forest, big trees. Looked like ordinary trees. It could have been Earth for all I know.” Linda paused and thought. “There is one thing. The way Melanie moved when I saw her. She seemed to be in an old silent movie. Jerky, fast.”

  “Ah, a time-flow differential,” Gene said.

  “Time-flow?” Jeremy said.

  “Yeah. Might be that the rate that time flows in that universe is faster than the one here. That’s not so good. More time for her to get in trouble.”

  “Great,” Linda said, sounding discouraged.

  “But the differential doesn’t appear to be too big,” Gene said, wishing he hadn’t brought it up. “Shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “Anyway,” Jeremy said, “the Voyager’s a time machine.”

  “I guess it is,” Gene said. “It travels through all the dimensions, of which time is one. We might be able to adjust for any temporal displacement.” Gene himself wasn’t sure exactly what he meant or what such a remedy would entail.

  Linda stared at the table. “Boy, this is going to be fun.”

  “Linda, I think our best approach,” Gene said, “is for you to conjure a psychic dog.”

  “You don’t believe in human psychics, but —”

  “Hell, dogs are psychic. Everybody knows that. Besides, dogs I trust. Human con-artists, no.”

  Linda shrugged. “Okay. This is getting even crazier than what usually goes on in this place, but what the heck. Let’s give it a shot.”

  Linda stood and walked out from the table a few feet and stopped. “Psychic dog. Right.” She folded her arms and closed her eyes.

  She stood motionless, her feet wide apart. The two men and Snowclaw watched. This went on for a longish minute. Nothing happened.

  Linda relaxed and opened her eyes. “This is going to be harder than I thought.” She shifted her feet, then resumed her stance. Folding her arms again, she shut her eyes.

  “Dang it, anyway!” Luster griped from across the room, frustrated by some recalcitrant grommet.

  Linda rocked slightly back and forth. Gene, Jeremy, and Snowclaw didn’t move. Nothing happened for about thirty seconds.

  Then, with no fanfare, a huge dog materialized on the floor in front of Linda. It was lying down. Startled, it lifted its head, looked around, and sprang to its feet.

  The animal looked to have a lot of sheepdog in its ancestry, but something had gone wrong. Its fur was a dirty white, splotched with great patches of black and rust-red in a crazy-quilt pattern. Its head was enormous and the ears were long and floppy. The right eye was brown and the other looked different; it was a little larger, and had green in it. A black ring circled the smaller eye. All in all, it was a clumsy, confused mélange of a dog, oversized and shaggy. It was male.

  Its ears went down, and it hunkered and growled. Then it barked.

  “Easy, boy,” Linda said.

  “That’s a psychic dog? That’s the goofiest-looking mutt I’ve ever laid eyes on,” Gene complained.

  “Aw, it’s cute. Sort of.”

  The dog’s ears went up and its shaggy tail started wagging.

  “See? It’s friendly!” Linda knelt and petted it. “Good boy.”

  Gene shook his head. “That thing doesn’t look like it could find its water dish.”

  “Don’t listen to him, boy. You know what you got. You’re super-psychic, right?”

  “R-r-rowf!”

  “Right!” Linda laughed, rubbing its head. “See, Gene? It’s smart.”

  Gene came over and patted its back. “A complete selection of fine carpet remnants. Well, it looks healthy. How’s that sniffer of yours, boy? Huh? How’s the old hooter?”

  “Whorf!”

  “Hmm. It’s either a nautical dog or a ‘Star Trek’ fan. How’s the world been treating you, boy?”

  “R-r-ruff!”

  They both laughed. “I guess it is pretty bright at that,” Gene conceded. “But possessed of powers far beyond those of mortal canines? Hardly.”

  “Let’s give him a chance,” Linda said.

  “Whoof!”

  “What do you think, Jeremy?” Linda asked.

  “That’s the dumbest-looking dog I’ve ever seen. But you never know. I’ll go get Melanie’s stuff.”

  “Snowy?”

  Snowclaw got up and came over. The dog sniffed curiously at his legs, but kept wagging his tail.

  Gene said, “He thinks you’re human, Snowy.”

  “He is dumb.”

  “He’s giving you the benefit of the doubt.”

  “What should we name him?” Linda said.

  “After his species,” Gene said.

  “What’s his species?”

  “Canis goofus.”

  “Goofus!” Linda said, laughing. “It fits.”

  “Whoorf!” Goofus’s long pink tongue lolled out as he panted happily.

  Jeremy returned bearing Melanie’s old clothes and shoes. He threw them down in front of Goofus. The dog sniffed the pile with interest. He barked, sniffed some more.

  “Looks like it’s on to something,” Linda said. “Find her, boy. Find her!”

  Goofus looked at Linda and barked again. He snorted and snuffled with more animation, tail wagging furiously, following a trail away from the pile. He walked a few paces toward the Voyager, stopped, looked at the craft, and barked.

  Gene scratched his chin. “That’s weird. Now, how could he know that?”

  “Psychic dog,” Linda said. “Following a psychic scent.”

  “Yeah. I take it all back, fella. You are obviously one special puppy.”

  “Whar-r-r-rooff!”

  “Well, who’s going on this expedition?” Gene asked. “We can’t all fit in that compartment.”

  “I’m going,” Linda said.

  “You, me, Goofus, and Snowy?”

  “I guess.”

  Gene said, “Jeremy, you really should go. You have more experience piloting the thing.”

  “I did it only twice. Anyway, the craft will be under the mainframe’s control at all times. It’ll be much better than flying by the seat of your pants. At least I think it will work.”

  “Good, because that crash course in piloting qualifies me to turn the thing on and off, and not much else.”

  Luster pushed out from under the craft and stood.


  “Wull, she’s in.”

  “Is it working?”

  “Don’t know. Ain’t turned her on yet.”

  Dolbert crawled out. He snickered as he wiped his hands on a grease-stained rag.

  “What do you think, Dolbert?” Gene asked.

  Dolbert laughed, then nattered unintelligibly.

  Luster said, “He says he shore wouldn’t like to be the one to take ’er out.”

  “Oh, now, that’s encouraging. Ask him what he thinks our chances really are.”

  “He kin hear you, Gene.”

  “Sorry. Well, Dolbert?”

  Dolbert shrugged and chortled at some length.

  Luster took his cap off and dabbed his brow with a checkered handkerchief that had seen better days — circa 1923. “Dolbert says you got four chances. Slim, a Chinaman’s, a snowball’s in the devil’s own wood stove, and Katie-bar-the-door.”

  Gene turned to Linda. “You still want to go through with this?”

  Linda nodded emphatically. “Yes, sir.”

  “Uh-huh.” Gene arched his eyebrows. “Yeah.”

  “Okay,” Jeremy said. “I’m going to test all the systems, and then we’ll be ready to try a trial run out into the interuniversal medium.” Jeremy scratched his head. “But first we have to figure how we’re going to use Goofus here. I’ll have to think about that. Anyway, let me go do the tests.”

  Jeremy left.

  “What supplies do we need for the trip?” Linda asked.

  “Food, water, a first-aid kit, maybe. We can’t take much. It’s a tight squeeze in there. In fact, I don’t see how we’ll fit with Snowy and Goofus together.”

  “I’d hate to stay behind,” Snowclaw said.

  “I’d hate it, too,” Gene said. “We could use you. Damn it, we’re all just going to have to exhale and sardine ourselves in.”

  “Food, water, medicine,” Linda said. “Anything else?”

  “Weapons.”

  “You think?”

  “You never know what you’re going to run into when you go traipsing around in strange universes. ‘Peace through superior firepower’ is a good creed to follow.”

  “Okay,” Linda said. She blinked. “On the table.”

  What was on the table was an assortment of small arms: revolvers, automatic pistols, carbines, lightweight machine guns. There were also exotic specimens. Gene handled a strange-looking pistol with a flaring bell-end.

  “Laser?” he asked Linda. “Phaser?”

  “I dunno. Try it out.”

  Gene looked at the thing. “Hey, there’re settings here. STUN, DISRUPT, BURN, and VAPORIZE. You gotta be kidding.”

  “On second thought, don’t try it. It sounds dangerous.”

  “Have to test it. It’s on disrupt so I’ll leave it there.”

  Gene took a jar of pickles and cleared a space around it on the table. He stepped back ten paces and aimed. Linda and Snowclaw moved back a safe distance.

  Nothing happened. Gene examined the weapon.

  “Oh, it’s on safety.” He flicked a small tab and aimed again.

  The pickle jar exploded into green mist. There was no debris to rain down; the smell of brine was the only thing left.

  “Hell, that ought to stop a rampaging bull elephant. One that’s driving a tank even.”

  “I can’t imagine what ‘vaporize’ does,” Linda said.

  “Let’s hope we don’t have to find out. Now all I need’s a holster and I’m in business. Go ahead, alien creepoid, make my millennium.” Gene made sinister faces.

  Linda shook her head wearily. “Gene, stuff a sock in it.”

  “Sorry.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Peele Castle

  The dining hall was uncomfortably quiet. A mood of apprehension hovered, the clink of silverware louder than the tones of hushed conversation. No one joked, no one laughed. A half-hogshead of wine was consumed.

  The food was plentiful, mostly fish and fowl. The selection of wildfowl was especially cosmopolitan, including bittern, shoveler, pewit, godwit, quail, dotterl, heronsew, crane, snipe, plover, redshank, pheasant, grouse, and curlew. The catch of the day was turbot, baked with capers and lemon, but flounder, cod, pike, snapper, haddock, shad, and swordfish were available — broiled or baked with various garnishes — along with sturgeon, lobster, crayfish, oysters, herring, and shrimp. The only meat was wild boar with mint jelly. The soup choice was chicken consommé or julienne with asparagus tips. For dessert: fruit in abundance and variety, nuts, several kinds of fruit tart, cheeses, and an assortment of cakes, from hazelnut torte to raspberry-rum shortcake. Cognac and liqueur were served with chicory-laced coffee and herb tea.

  The cooks tendered their apologies for the limited bill of fare, pleading short notice and Peele’s primitive kitchen.

  The lady Sheila Jankowski had arrived at Peele with her husband, the prince. Trent, Sheila, Dalton, and Thaxton dined together at a side table.

  Sheila was red-haired and beautiful with a creamy complexion and bright green eyes. Her mouth was a trifle large but sensuous. She seemed in good spirits, but there was something anxious in her eyes. She was worried for her husband. She was also outspoken; at least she tended to be so in the company of Dalton and Thaxton, whom she considered friends.

  “It may sound terrible,” she said, “but if there was ever an's.o.b. who deserved it more, I don’t know who it could have been, short of Hitler.”

  “Or Stalin,” Trent added. “Everybody leaves out Stalin.”

  “I guess that sounds awful, huh?”

  Sheila was looking at Thaxton. “We’ve been getting a progressively darker picture of Oren,” he said.

  “You don’t know the half of it. Trent told me you know about the run-in we had with him.”

  “We know he assaulted you,” Dalton said.

  “Well, he nearly raped me. Two seconds more and it would have been rape, but Trent walked in. The creep cornered me in the conservatory and it was like dealing with an octopus. I mean, first he was charming and everything, but then he got grabby, and then … well, it was just amazing. I couldn’t believe he was doing it with all those people around. The guy was nuts. I knew he made a play for just about every woman he met, but I didn’t think he was a maniac. I guess he thought Trent had married this hooker or something, because he just seemed to assume that I put out for anybody who asked. He was actually surprised when I resisted. What a creep.”

  Trent was staring into his soup.

  “I’m sorry, darling,” she said with a hand on his arm. “Does it upset you when I talk about it?”

  “No, not at all, dear. It’s just that you wouldn’t make a very good defense lawyer.” He smiled. “Forget it. Eat your fish.”

  “I’m not hungry.” Sheila let go of her fork. “I suppose I should shut my big mouth. I’m just setting you up with a good motive.”

  “Tyrene already has me at the head of his suspect list.”

  “Well, he’s crazy. You’re no murderer. What about it, guys? You don’t think Trent did it, do you?”

  “Never crossed our mind,” Dalton said.

  Trent chuckled. “I’ll bet. Okay, I’ll come out and say it. I wanted to kill Oren, and I would have if Sheila hadn’t put her foot down.”

  “I told him I wouldn’t stand for the dueling bit,” Sheila said. “I sure wasn’t going to sit at home sweating, wondering whether my husband was going to come home in a pine box. No way.”

  “She persuaded me to call it off,” Trent said. “Chicken out. And I was about to send word to Oren that I wouldn’t be showing up for our little affair of honor, when we got a note from his second saying that Oren wanted a postponement, pleading illness. Well, there the matter rested. He never broached the subject again, and neither did I. For all I know he chickened out, but he was a pretty able duelist, so the excuse might have been genuine. However, he was aware that I was the better swordsman. In my opinion, I would have killed him.”

  “If anyone wanted to kill
him, it would be Lord Belgard,” Sheila said. “Oren and Lady Rowena had been having an affair for years. I’m sorry, my big mouth again.”

  “Tyrene has known it for years, along with everybody else,” Trent said. “But Belgard wasn’t anywhere near Oren when the murder happened. If it happened when I walked past.”

  “We’ve heard that Oren made no secret of his liaison with Lady Rowena,” Thaxton said.

  “You’re referring to his habit of playing grab-ass under Belgard’s nose?” Trent said. “Rowena and Oren did that all the time. She despises her husband and enjoys the hell out of showing him up a cuckold. Belgard never spoke up because he knew that in order to stop it he’d have to challenge Oren, and he knew damn well that Oren would kill him. Belgard can’t fence his way out of a paper sack. And he’s a worse shot, so there’s no help there either.”

  “I suppose that makes Belgard a poor candidate for knife-throwing,” Thaxton commented.

  “I don’t know about his knife-wielding abilities,” Trent said. “Seems unlikely that he could have done it, but you never know.”

  “Seems unlikely that anyone could have done it, or would have done it in all that company,” Dalton put in, “except that you heard the thing whiz past. That must have been the knife, and that means someone threw it.”

  Thaxton said, “Trent, the way you described it, I got the impression it made quite a racket.”

  “It was loud. And it didn’t sound like a thrown knife. It didn’t swish so much as it shooshed. By that I mean that it didn’t sound as though it was rotating as it flew. This is just hindsight, mind you. I didn’t give it any thought at the time. I just assumed it was a large bird or a bat or something. Or an insect, as I said.”

  “Must have been traveling at a terrific clip,” Thaxton said.

  “That’s occurred to me,” Trent said. “But who could have thrown it with such force?”

  “I suppose there’s no such thing as a knife catapult,” Thaxton said. “Something on the order of a crossbow, only propelling a knife or dagger?”

  “Never heard of such an animal,” Trent said. “But there are any number of universes with stranger things in them.”

  “But the culprit would have had to conceal the thing on his person,” Dalton said. “Or get rid of it quick. Stash it somewhere.”