Castle Murders

by John Dechancie

  “Tyrene’s lads would have found it,” Thaxton said.

  “They missed the murder weapon,” Dalton said.

  “We all missed the murder weapon.” Thaxton took a sip of wine. “Still thinking about that.”

  “It is a puzzling aspect of this case,” Trent said, “among others.”

  “There are a lot of problems,” Dalton said. “Like, for instance, if the knife was thrown, who pulled it out and dropped it?”

  “Maybe he was stabbed somewhere else,” Sheila said. “I’m just going on what Trent told me on the way here. Couldn’t someone have stabbed him in the castle and gone back into the garden and dropped the knife?”

  “No one saw anybody leave the garden and come back in,” Dalton said.

  “Maybe someone in the castle?”

  “But no one strange was seen to come into the garden. If the murder happened in the castle, you have to explain how the murder weapon wound up in the garden.”

  “What about a servant?” Sheila asked.

  “Tyrene’s questioned most of the servants,” Thaxton told her. “At the time Oren left the garden, all the servants who were serving at the party were in the garden. They were all busy as the devil. No one was seen leaving and returning.”

  Trent said, “Suppose that sound I heard was a bird. Suppose there was no thrown knife. Let’s say Oren gets a sudden urge to leave the party and gets up and walks off. Someone near the portal stabs him just as he walks through. Oren continues into the castle and dies a short way down the corridor. The culprit accidentally drops the knife near where the viscount was sitting. Just coincidence. How’s that for a scenario?”

  “Fine,” Thaxton said, “except that no one saw anyone near the portal.”

  “No one happened to be looking. It was luck,” Trent said. “Good for the murderer, bad for us.”

  “Possible,” Thaxton said. “Possible. But the coincidence of the knife dropping at that spot strains credulity a bit.”

  “Lady Rilma’s testimony about hearing her husband grunt makes me think that something happened at that moment,” Dalton said. “In fact, I’m almost convinced of it.”

  Sheila snorted. “She’s another one.”

  “How so, Sheila?” Thaxton asked.

  “Another suspect. Trent, didn’t you tell me that she once stabbed Oren?”

  Trent nodded. “It was a good while ago. Rilma’s unstable, always has been. She’s been in and out of institutions. And, yes, she did actually stab Oren once. In the arm, with a pair of scissors. Superficial wound. But she did it, all right. She was hospitalized for a time after that. She hasn’t done anything like that since, though.”

  “Nevertheless that’s very interesting,” Dalton said. “So she could have heard him grunt in pain all right, but maybe she’s just repressing the fact that she was the cause of it. Maybe it was a case of temporary insanity. That would explain the dropped knife and her not caring or maybe even not knowing about it.”

  “Possible,” Thaxton said. “You’re thinking, old boy.”

  “So,” Trent said, sitting back in his chair. “I’m walking by, and this bird buzzes me. I don’t see it, and I don’t see Lady Rilma draw a stiletto and stab her husband, and nobody else sees anything either. Oren doesn’t say a word to anyone, just gets up and leaves, dying with each step.”

  All four of them were silent for a moment. Trent sat up and resumed eating his soup, which had gone quite cold. He took one slurp, put the spoon down, and pushed the bowl away. He sat back again.

  “No,” Thaxton said, “it didn’t happen that way. No.”

  “But how did it happen?” Sheila said.

  “No one knows. That’s what makes a good mystery. Which, in a book, makes for enjoyable reading. In reality, here and now, it’s frightful.”

  “And frightening,” Sheila said. “To think the murderer is in this room. He or she is here right now, eating with us. And here we sit calmly.”

  “My palms are sweaty,” Dalton said.

  “You get that, too?” Sheila asked. “I’ve always had a problem with sweaty palms. I get so nervous sometimes.”

  “Here comes Tyrene,” Thaxton said.

  The Captain of the Guard came directly to the foursome’s table and greeted each in turn.

  “May I join you?”

  “By all means,” Trent said, pulling out a chair.

  Tyrene sat. “I’ve got Mirabilis’ report. It was a knife wound all right. The blade chipped a rib, penetrated the left lung, and just missed severing the pulmonary artery, making a medium-sized slit in it. Of course there was immediate hemorrhaging. But the rate of blood loss was slow enough to give the victim some time. There were signs of healing around the slit.”

  “Healing?” Dalton said. “How can that be?”

  “Magic,” Tyrene said.

  “Magic?”

  “Yes, healing magic, presumably cast by Oren himself. Here is what seems to have happened: When Oren realized that he’d been stabbed, he did the sensible thing. Forthwith, he left the garden aspect, where his magic wouldn’t work, and went back into the castle, where it would. Now, as far as I know, Oren was no magician’s magician, but as a castle resident he knew some potent enchantments, as do we all. Healing and general health-preserving spells are common, and he doubtless knew a few. He must have magicked like mad as soon as he got into Perilous, summoning all his powers. And they were nearly sufficient. He almost succeeded. However, he knew magic alone couldn’t save him. Immediate surgery was required. He must have known that his heart had sustained a mortal wound. So he took a gamble. He could have returned home and gone to a hospital there, but his aspect is a ten-minute walk from the garden aspect. Dr. Mirabilis’ office is just as far, and in any event the doctor is not equipped for major trauma surgery. There was a hospital close by, though, through the aspect in the alcove where you found him. He gambled in that he did not know whether that periodic aspect was open or closed at the time. He lost.”

  “What aspect was it?” Thaxton wanted to know.

  “It’s called Klingsor,” Tyrene said, “and though it’s not technologically developed in most respects, it does boast excellent surgeons who do wonders with relatively primitive equipment. And the hospital near the aspect specializes in trauma surgery. Oren might have survived had he made it to that hospital. But his magic wasn’t strong enough. The wound was too severe, and he lost too much blood too quickly. He lost consciousness, the healing process stopped, and he bled to death.”

  “That explains why he left the party in a big hurry,” Trent said, “why he went back into the castle, and what he was doing in that alcove.”

  “Yes, it does. And it puts to rest any notion that he was attacked inside the castle.”

  “Any report on the murder weapon yet?” Thaxton asked.

  “There were no fingerprints. The instrument was completely clean.”

  Thaxton nodded, smiling half in regret, half in satisfaction.

  “It’s a common artifact,” Tyrene continued, “manufactured in the Helvian aspect, and its like must be sold in a thousand street markets in that world. Cheap steel, plain boxwood haft, brass hilt. The blade barely holds an edge, but it will do the job as long as no fancy cutting is involved. Perfect knife for stabbing.”

  “If not for throwing,” Thaxton said.

  “No, it’s not intended as a throwing knife, but it is balanced quite well, the only thing well-made about it. It’s not entirely a stiletto, yet not quite a poniard.”

  “So it could have been thrown?” Dalton asked.

  “I suppose,” Tyrene said. “Though as of now I don’t think it was. Someone stabbed the viscount at close range. That, I think, is certain.”

  No one asked the obvious.

  “But my investigation is far from over,” Tyrene went on. “I must interview anyone who could have seen what happened. And that means almost everyone at the fête. By the way, the blood on the knife matches Oren’s blood type. There’s no doubt it was the
murder weapon.”

  Tyrene rose. “I have a number of people to interview. If you will excuse me … Lady Sheila, Your Royal Highness.” Tyrene bowed stiffly.

  “See you later, Tyrene,” Trent said.

  “Gentlemen,” Tyrene said, then left.

  “He just about came out and said he thinks I did it,” Trent observed.

  “I think he suspects Lady Rilma more than you,” Thaxton said.

  “Maybe I’m just paranoiac.” Trent turned to his wife. “Are you through, darling?”

  “I can’t touch a thing. I’m so upset by all this.”

  “You really should eat something. No late-night snacks here.”

  She took a bite of snapper, chewed perfunctorily. “It’s gone cold, and I’m tired, for some reason. Can’t we —?”

  “Good evening, Your Highness — Lady Sheila.”

  Trent looked up. “Damik. Hello.”

  Thaxton and Dalton stood.

  Trent remained seated. “May I present Messieurs Dalton and Thaxton? Gentlemen, His Excellency, Count Damik of Ultima Thule.”

  The count clicked his heels and bowed his head. “Gentlemen.”

  The two hapless golfers bowed.

  “Please,” the count said, “be seated. I do not mean to disturb your meal, but there is something I must tell you, Trent.”

  “Sit down, Damik.”

  “Thank you so much.”

  “Some wine?”

  “None, thank you. I’ve dined.”

  “What’s up?”

  “It’s about all this business, of course. Tyrene suspects me.”

  “Whatever reason would he have?”

  “Because of the succession squabble in Thule. Despite my pleas, Oren chose to throw his support to the House of Dou and against my allies and relatives, the Zoltans. He has — had — heavy investments in provinces controlled by the Dou clan. He chose to follow the dictates of his pocketbook rather than honor a friendship. On that basis alone, I am suspect. The fact that I also have an admittedly fetishistic love for knives and bladed weapons of every sort seems to be enough to condemn me out of hand.”

  “Rest easy, my friend,” Trent said. “Tyrene doesn’t really believe you did it.”

  “He doesn’t? I wish he would be so kind as to point this out to me!”

  “The investigation’s far from over. He’s not even at the hypothesis stage yet in choosing his suspects. Sure, you’re on the list. So am I. Hell, lots of people hated Oren’s guts.”

  “I didn’t! That’s the irony of it. I didn’t hold his political decisions against him. He was a friend, though I will be the first to admit that he had many faults. But he was … he knew how to have a good time. He was a jolly fellow, sometimes.”

  Trent gave a half-shrug. “I wouldn’t know. We never socialized.”

  “Yes, well, of course I understand completely why he was in bad odor with you. However, there is another disturbing fact that I wish to relate to you. I need advice.”

  “Shoot.”

  The count looked one way, then another. Leaning forward, he said quietly, “I know who the knife belongs to.”

  “You do?” Thaxton said, his eyebrows arching.

  “I saw this person purchase the weapon when last I was in Helvius. It was at an open-air market in the village of Fliebas. I shall not name this person. At least not yet.”

  “You don’t know that the weapon you saw being bought was the murder weapon,” Trent pointed out. “Those knives are pretty common. I had one like it once, long time ago.”

  “Yes, but this was recently. True, my observation does not categorically establish the person’s guilt, but this fact should be brought to light. I feel obligated to report it to Tyrene, compelled, if not by friendship for Oren, then by a sense of duty.”

  “Then by all means tell Tyrene about it.”

  “But … of course there is the inevitable odium attached to the act of informing.”

  “I understand,” Trent said. “But you shouldn’t let that deter you.”

  “Yes, I suppose you are right. I must give some thought to this matter.” The count rose, drawing Dalton and Thaxton to their feet.

  “Thank you very much for the advice,” the count said to Trent.

  “I’m sure you’ll make the right decision,” the prince replied.

  “I think I shall retire early this evening. Gentlemen, the pleasure was all mine. Good evening, Your Highness … my lady.”

  “Good night, Damik,” Sheila said. “Take care.”

  The count bowed deeply and left.

  “I’d hate to be in his shoes,” Sheila remarked. “Especially if it was a friend I suspected.”

  “I wish he’d told us who it was,” Thaxton said. “But I suppose he couldn’t go around making accusations, no matter how well-founded.”

  “That knife is a very common make,” Trent commented. “No doubt the murderer chose it for that very reason.”

  “No doubt,” Thaxton said.

  Trent suddenly got up. “I forgot to mention something to Damik. I’ll be right back.” He walked out of the dining hall.

  Conversation shifted to lighter topics while Dalton demolished a roast sage hen. He claimed that the sea air had sharpened his appetite. Thaxton was in the middle of telling a story about grouse-shooting in Dorset when a scream came from the anteroom of the dining hall.

  Everyone rushed outside.

  There, in the middle of the foyer, stood Princess Dorcas. At her feet lay Damik, eyes closed. Trent was standing close by, along with Lord Belgard and Lady Rilma. All seemed stunned.

  Thaxton and Dalton got to him first. He was lying face up, a red stain marring his white blouse.

  “Dead?” Dalton asked.

  Thaxton took his hand from the count’s neck. “Quite. The knife went right through the heart.”

  Tyrene elbowed his way through the crowd. Thaxton stood up and stepped aside while the captain examined the corpse.

  “Dalton, old boy?”

  Dalton came to Thaxton’s side.

  “What is it?”

  “I just kicked something.”

  “You just kicked something?”

  “As I stepped back, I felt my shoe hit something, and I heard something clatter. I don’t see a thing, do you?”

  Dalton looked around. “Nothing for it to hide under. Are you sure?”

  “Quite sure. What do you make of it?”

  “Thaxton, old fellow, I don’t have a clue.”

  Thaxton stared at the count’s body.

  “I think I do,” he said.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Darby’s Cafe

  The greasy spoon was closed. A door at the side of the building gave onto stairs mounting to a landing, where three doors led to separate apartments. The stairs were dark, the bare light bulb over the landing burnt out.

  “No numbers,” Carney said. “Which one, Velma?”

  “You got me.”

  The building was quiet except for the far-off sound of a radio playing. Soft dance music.

  Carney picked the first door on his left and knocked.

  Nothing happened for quite a while. Then came sounds of latches being thrown. The door opened a crack, the chain still hooked.

  Dim light inside, a woman’s voice: “Yes?”

  “Does a Mr. Lemarr Hamilton live here?”

  “Who’re you?”

  “I’d like to engage his services, if he’s not too busy.”

  “He in bed.”

  “I realize it’s late, but I’m in a great deal of trouble. Mr. Hamilton can help me. Can you please wake him?”

  “He don’t do that stuff no more anyway.”

  “I can pay well. As I said, the situation is very urgent. In fact, it’s a matter of life and death.”

  The eye on the other side of the crack was unblinking. The door closed momentarily. Then it opened wide. Carney and Velma went in.

  A tall woman in her forties closed the door. She was tall and slim in
a green flower-print housedress and worn slippers. She gave her visitors a distrustful frown. “Go on through there, into the parlor,” she said.

  It was a railroad flat. They passed through the kitchen, then through another room where a blanketed form lay sleeping on a cot in the corner. There was a larger bed and several other pieces of furniture. Ragged holes marred the ceiling plaster, and water stains billowed across it. The place smelled of frying grease and mildew. Otherwise the apartment was well-kept.

  They passed through a short corridor with a door. The back room had comfortable, if threadbare, furniture. Carney and Velma sat on the antimacassar-draped couch. They waited, looking at family pictures on the wall.

  Presently an old man came into the room. He walked stooped, his gray head inclined, his eyes up and aware. He was thin, almost emaciated, dressed in baggy pants and undershirt, black wool socks with a hole in one toe.

  He looked at his two visitors, unsmiling, then sat in the chair opposite.

  “You want somethin’ with me?” His voice was strong, clear, belying his appearance.

  “Yes,” Carney said. “I wish to engage your services as a consultant in supernatural matters.”

  The old man studied him with penetrating black eyes. “Yes, suh.” He smiled. “Yes, suh. I believe I know who you are. Can’t say as I know the name, though.”

  “John Carney. I run a couple of businesses in this town. Some people say I’m pretty influential.”

  “I believe they right.” The old man leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “What can I do for you?”

  “I need the power.”

  They sat in silence for a while. The radio, far off, had switched to lively Latin rhythms.

  “Everybody need the power,” the old man said. “You got to have the power to live.”

  “I need more. I’m fighting something pretty big. I think you might know what it is. They’ve been in this town for a long time, and they’re growing.”

  “Yessuh. I know it.”

  “I want to fight them. I am fighting them, though not very effectively up till now. But give me an edge, the slightest edge.”

  “Edge?” The old man grunted. “It ain’t nothin’ you can edge up on.”