Thaxton walked away. “No, I don’t think you did, my lord.”
Thaxton kept stalking. He stopped in front of Trent, who was standing hand-in-hand with his wife.
Trent grinned. “And this is the point in the scene in which the murderer blurts out a confession, right? All right. Means? You’re looking at one of the best magicians in the omniverse, if I do say so myself. Motive? I would have killed the son of a bitch eventually, either in a duel or some other way, for molesting my wife and attempting to sodomize her. The man was a mad dog and should have been put out of his misery years ago. There is no end of victimized servants — he had a taste for teenage upstairs maids especially — who can attest to that. And he wasn’t content with just rape and ‘involuntary deviant intercourse’ as the statutes put it. He usually added beating as a lovely little fillip. Opportunity? I could have thrown demons at him at any time, defenses or none, and Tyrene’s men would have found his body parts artfully arranged around his billiard room. But Inky would have gotten wind of it and would have been pissed off at me. So, as far as the murderer is concerned, whoever he may be — all I can say is, there but for the grace of the gods go I. Yeah, I confess to intent. But I didn’t kill him. Somebody beat me to it.”
Thaxton strolled on. “Be that as it may. There is another name in the Peele guest registry. And the name is one that hasn’t been bandied about very much, if it was on the suspect list at all. Why do you think that is … Lord Arl?”
“Because there’s nothing to connect me with the crime,” Arl said mildly.
“Oh, but I beg to differ, my lord. You have a reputation as a competent magician.”
“Hardly in Trent’s league.”
“No, but a good one. And you have been known to research in the library.”
Arl laughed. “I must say, this is turning into quite a charming little witch hunt. Am I suspect merely because of my bookish ways? Have something against intellectuals, do you?”
“Very clever ploy, my lord, turning the tables like that. Admirable. But it so happens this matter has much to do with reading habits. You did a lot of browsing in the Closed Stacks, where the ‘eldritch and pernicious tomes,’ as Osmirik likes to call them, are kept. Isn’t that true?”
“As did Belgard, Trent at one time or another, and any number of other people. Dangerous books are fun, after all.”
“Jolly good fun, but you happened to give close attention to a particular book of black magic, the ironically titled Flowers of Forgetfulness. It is in fact a book of spells to do people in, isn’t it? A book of assassination spells.”
“Never chanced across it, so I can’t say.”
“Never read it?”
“Can’t say that I have.”
“I see. Isn’t it interesting, though, that this book contains a Flying Dagger spell that is similar in form to the Charmed Dart spell.”
“Does it? How interesting indeed.”
“Yes, quite. And one very amenable to adaptation. It could easily — given that the practitioner was skillful enough — easily be combined with the dart spell and made to work in the Garden aspect.”
“Really.”
“Yes. And the spell in the Flowers book explains another puzzling aspect of this case. Namely, who pulled the knife out and dropped it? The answer is: it pulled itself out. Would you like to know how, my lord?”
“I’ll bite.”
“Because the Flying Dagger spell is designed to return the dagger to the assailant after the deed is done. Neat trick, that. No murder weapon to trace. The dagger travels stealthily to the target, strikes, wiggles some to cause more damage — twistin’ the knife, don’t you know — yanks itself out, and returns as sneakily as it came. But in the viscount’s case, that part of the trick didn’t work, not completely. Your Highness, would you be good enough to explain to his lordship?”
“Certainly, Mr. Thaxton,” Dorcas said. “When spells are combined, as they often are, there is always some difficulty with parts of the component spells canceling each other out. That is probably what happened in this case. The dagger succeeded in extricating itself from the body of the victim, but at that point the spell misfired, and the dagger fell to the ground, inert, the spirit freed from the task of returning it to the assailant.”
Arl regarded Thaxton frostily. “Why did you think I wouldn’t know about spell misfires?”
“I beg your pardon, my lord. Just trying to be thorough.”
“In any event, it makes no difference,” Arl said, “because I neither read the book nor cast the spell.”
“Let’s return to that in a minute, my lord. When I happened to find the dagger, just before I did, I almost ran into you. Could you have been looking for it?”
“Hardly.”
“You thought the spell had failed when you didn’t get the knife back. It should have dropped harmlessly at your feet. Even though the dagger could not easily be traced, you would have felt safer finding it before the invisibility part of the spell failed as well. Isn’t that right?”
“No.”
“But you were unable to find it. It was invisible. You couldn’t understand what happened at first. In fact, when you followed Oren out, you were wondering if the spell had worked at all, weren’t you?”
“I was leaving the party. That’s all.”
“You saw Oren get up and leave, and you couldn’t see the dagger or what it had done, so, beside yourself with anxiety and curiosity, you followed your brother and discovered me with him in the alcove. You knew you had succeeded, but you still didn’t understand about the dagger not being in him. At some point you must have realized that the knife had worked its way out but dropped, and when I nearly bumped into you, you were searching for it. And would have found it, were it not for the bad luck of my seeing it first. Perhaps you did see it first, but decided not to be the one to turn it up. Does any of this strike your fancy, my lord?”
“None of it. None of it’s true.”
“Then why, my lord, did you touch your brother on the back?”
“When?”
“Why, shortly before the dagger struck.”
“I don’t remember.”
“Lady Rilma remembers it quite distinctly.”
“She’s balmy. Always has been.”
“I believe her. And you also touched Princess Dorcas on the back, shortly before you let a second dagger fly, at her. Is that not correct, my lord?”
“No! It’s a lie!”
Thaxton turned to Dorcas. “Your Highness, have you any objection to swearing before a court of law that Lord Arl touched you on the back shortly before Count Damik was murdered?”
“None whatsoever,” Dorcas answered. “It would only be the truth.”
“‘Laying the touch,’” Thaxton said. “Part of the spell. Part of the killing spell. I have the feeling that Lord Belgard’s spell is a tad more sophisticated. No need for the touch. Different targeting apparatus entirely. Right, my lord?”
“Entirely!” Belgard answered.
“Yes. Yours, Lord Arl, was a bit technologically backward, taken from a very old book. Your spell was effective up to a radius of no more than fifty yards. But in the Garden aspect that wasn’t a problem. Plenty of hiding places. In the lilacs on the other side of the pond, for instance.”
“A lie. Lies! Fabrications!”
“Anyway,” Thaxton went on, “you tried to murder the princess for the simple reason that she knew that you were the murderer. We won’t go into how she knew. Let’s say she had a strong suspicion, which you knew about. You had to eliminate her, but, again bad luck. Damik just happened to walk behind her at the crucial instant, and he took the knife. He was a friend of yours, too.”
“Yes, he was.”
“And you killed him — quite accidental, this killing.”
“You’re insane. Tyrene, I’ve had enough of this!”
“Let’s get back to the book for a moment. You were less adept than Belgard magically, but quite the cagey plotter.
Belgard took his books out on loan. You didn’t. You didn’t want anything in the library records. So you did all your reading in the library.”
“To coin a phrase, so what?”
“But the books were in the closed stacks, and to get to them you had to fill out a call-slip, including the title, author, and call number. We have such a call-slip for the Flowers book, in your handwriting.”
“Nonsense. I throw those things away. They come back with the book. They’re not kept.”
“True. But you slipped up. You used one as a bookmark and left it in the book when it was returned. We have it, my lord.”
“Which proves nothing! You have nothing but circumstantial evidence! This is an outrage and I won’t tolerate it a moment longer.”
“But there’s a witness.”
“What?” Arl’s voice went cold. “What did you say?”
“An eyewitness … or in this case an earwitness, who, among the lilacs and forsythia, heard you chant, ‘I bid thee fly, and strike where I laid my touch,’ the exact incantation of the Charmed Dart spell. It was a young servant who was in there sneaking a smoke. Naturally, the boy didn’t make his presence known. He was, as my American friends put it, goofing off. When you left the lilac grove, the boy saw you. He has so testified.”
Arl’s face had grown pale. Gradually, the color returned. He took a vast, despairing breath. “I suppose it’s no use. Yes, I did it. I cobbled up the spell. It went wrong, I followed Oren out to see what the deuce had happened, saw you, saw that I had succeeded.”
“And you were appalled by what you’d done, weren’t you?”
“Yes, at first. The sight of him, actually dead by my hand — it shook me. But he deserved to die. Everyone knows that.”
“But why did you kill him, my lord? Mind telling us? That we didn’t know, and still don’t. Namely, the motive.”
Arl smiled. “I did it for my son.”
“Your son?”
“Yes. Oren was childless, no descendant to take the peerage. But I heard that lately he’d been grumbling about having a barren wife and no offspring. What with Rilma having attacked him, he had legal cause to divorce her. I was afraid of just such a development. In fact, I’d always wondered why he hadn’t got rid of her sooner. Finally, after years of agonizing deliberation, I resolved to act before it was too late, before he sired a legitimate son. With Oren dead, the viscountcy would devolve to me, and thence to my firstborn male offspring when I die. It was the only thing I could have given my son. As everyone here knows, I lost most of what little I had to harebrained business investments in partnership with Damik. The peerage was to be my only bequest to my son. To give him a starting point a notch above the crowd. That’s all. That is why I did what I did. My motive was unselfish.”
Thaxton said, “But you were quite prepared to kill, and in fact did attempt to murder, an innocent person — the princess.”
“Yes. I was convinced she knew what I’d done. Were I caught out, the peerage would of course not be transferred to me or to my son. No peerage can be passed by dint of assassination.”
“I see.”
Tyrene was there with two Guardsmen.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to come with us, my lord,” Tyrene said.
“Yes, of course.”
Thaxton stopped Arl with a touch. “Pardon, my lord. One more thing. You know, you were quite right. The case against you was purely circumstantial. With a good barrister you might have gotten off.”
“What hanged me?”
“Your own admission, my lord.”
“Eh? What about the young servant?”
Thaxton shrugged, deeply apologetic. “A bluff, my lord. A mere bluff. In fact, this whole proceeding was a bluff. We had no ironclad case against anyone. The case against you was strongest, but still completely circumstantial. We concocted this little melodrama purely in the hope that someone would blurt out a confession. For no other reason would we have put Trent, Belgard, and especially Lady Rilma through this agony.”
“And I blurted,” Arl said with a wry smile. “Very clever, Mr. Thaxton. Very clever indeed. You are to be congratulated.”
Thaxton bowed his head. “Thank you, my lord.”
They led him away.
Chastened and silent, the assembly of noble men and women left the hall.
Dalton wore a look of utmost awe. He came up to Thaxton.
“Thaxton, old boy, I’ll never insist that you play golf with me again. Tennis from now.”
Up yours, Osmirik.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The Tweeleries
Clare Tweel was a big, well-proportioned man who wore suits tailored to every bulging muscle — the one he was wearing now being no exception. Of a tasteful gray tweed, it was stitched and tucked to accentuate the V-shape of his body. He stood by the fireplace sipping sherry and watching Helen Dardanian put another record on the phonograph.
“You seem to like string quartets,” he said.
“When they’re not quintets or trios,” she said, setting the cactus-needle stylus down on the shellac record. An adagio movement began, dark and sombre.
“Not exactly romantic,” he said.
“I don’t feel very romantic,” she said, “prisoner that I am.”
“It’s temporary.”
“You only have twenty minutes left.”
“I’ll think of something at the last minute. I usually do. Come sit by the fire.”
She came over and sat on the Louis XIV settee. She wore a knee-length wine-colored frock with a fashionably low waistline. Her hair was blond and unfashionably longish, eyes a robin’s-egg blue. Her face had a lofty, classic beauty, and her legs were long and shapely, turned on the lathe of a master craftsman.
He sat beside her and handed her a glass of wine. She took it. He raised his glass.
“Let’s drink to my damnation.”
She raised hers. “Damn you, anyway.”
He chuckled and drank.
She took a sip. “I must say, you’re taking it rather well.”
“If you gotta go, you should go with style. No screaming. Don’t let them drag you. Walk tall.”
“Think you can do that?”
He shrugged. “Maybe. We’ll see.”
“Is there any way of getting out of it?”
“Demons don’t renegotiate contracts.”
“I think it’s appalling. I can’t imagine you feeling anything but a numbing terror.”
“Oh, it’s scary to contemplate. But I signed the agreement. There were certain terms, certain conditions and obligations. And now, it’s time to fulfill my part of the bargain. Can’t say that I haven’t had fun while it lasted.”
“But the price … it’s awful.”
“That comes with the territory.”
“Speaking of which, they’ll pretty much have your territory when you’re gone.”
“Yes, they will. But that won’t be my problem.”
“Their territory will be most of Necropolis, if not all of it.”
“John Carney can probably hold them off. For a while at least.” He sat back. “But let’s not talk about him. Let’s talk about us. There’s not much time left.”
“What about us?”
“Is there any future?”
“But you have exactly … nineteen minutes of future left.”
“As said, I usually think of solutions at the last minute. We had something going once. I wanted to see if there was any chance of picking it up.”
She shook her head. “Whatever could you be thinking of?”
“Of us. Together. As we once were, in love.”
“I liked you, Clare. Admired you. Very much. You have it all, you know. Good looks, riches, intelligence, power. You even have a sense of humor. At times, you’ve shown tenderness. There’s not much more a woman could ask for.”
“And yet …?”
She stared into the fire. “There’s something missing.”
“Nobody’s perf
ect.”
She laughed. “Sounds ridiculous the way I put it, doesn’t it? I suppose it doesn’t make any sense. I suppose I should love you.”
His eyes were serious. “Did you once, Helen? A year ago?”
“I suppose … Clare, these words. Admire, like, love. I can never get the meanings crisp and sharp. They seem to smear over into one another.”
“Love is special. A unique entity. Discrete and indivisible. Monadic. It has some special properties, philosophically speaking.”
“It’s an intellectual thing?”
“No, of course not, but the mind is engaged in some way.”
“What is it, Clare? Do you think love can redeem you? Save you?”
“Possibly. Maybe not. But what could make Hell a heaven? Not to reign, but to love. What are hellfire and brimstone to the flames of passion?”
“You really mean it, don’t you?”
“Of course. Physical pain? That means nothing. It can be ignored. But an eternity of regretting that I never loved, was never loved? That’s unendurable torment.”
She looked at him for a long moment. “Clare, I don’t know what to say.”
He put down his glass, took hers, set it down, and took her in his strong arms. Their kiss was long and involved.
She broke it off and caught her breath. “Clare, I don’t think I can help you.”
“Don’t feel obligated. Doesn’t work like that.”
“Clare, I do. I do feel obligated somehow.”
“Marry me, Helen.”
“Marry you?”
“Yes. Be my wife. Be with me forever.”
“Clare, I won’t go to Hell with you.”
“You couldn’t. They wouldn’t take you. Your beauty would be an affront to them. Not just your face — your soul.”
“Clare, this is …”
“Say yes, darling.”
“Darling … seventeen minutes.”
“Forget about that. The J.P. is just down the road. He can be here in ten minutes. Besides, the dengs’ll grant me a grace period.”
“Odd way to put it.”
Castle Murders Page 21
