Castle Murders (12 page)

"Well, look what we have here," said the one with the dark beard and small eyes.

All three were in chain mail, their heads bare in the warm weather.

The three dismounted. "He's getting away."

"He can wait. Besides, we can always say we killed him."

"He's right. Who will gainsay it?"

"Who's first, then?"

"I am," said the black beard, unstrapping his scabbard.

Two grabbed her. She didn't fight; she was still woozy.

Soon they had her stripped and spread-eagled on the ground.

The black beard was down to his knit tights, but something he saw made him stop.

"What's this?" Looking back up the hill, he guffawed. The two other paladins released Melanie and got to their feet.

Melanie sat up and looked. The rider had reappeared on foot at the top of the hill, sword drawn, and was now slowly descending, his face set resolutely, as if confronted with an unpleasant but necessary task.
 

Laughing, the two casually drew their swords, waiting. The black-bearded one hurried to dress.

Without thinking about it, almost as though her body were obeying an inexorable law of its own, she crawled, naked, to the dropped scabbard. She slid the huge sword out, its two-edged blade oiled and gleaming. She stood. She approached the black-bearded one from behind, slowly raising the sword.
 

When she was directly behind him, she brought the heavy weapon down as hard as she could.

She was surprised by how deeply the blade cleaved the skull. Two geysers of blood erupted to either side of the wound. She let go of the sword as the man fell.
 

One of the other paladins turned his head and registered momentary shock. Then he advanced toward her menacingly. At the same time the rider began to charge down the hill.
 

The one coming at Melanie looked back. She turned and ran, but didn't get far. The paladin soon caught up, grabbed her by the hair, and whipped her to the ground. He raised the sword high to do the job.
 

Her penultimate thought, before the blade came down, was that she didn't have to worry about the calculus test.

Her last thought was for her two sons who would never be.

 

 

 

Garden

 

Prince Trent was a striking man, hair the color of country butter, the blue of his eyes matching patches of sky among the puffy clouds overhead. He was dressed in a white tennis shirt with red piping, tan slacks, and gray suede shoes. He looked a young forty. His smile radiated charm.
 

"I expected to see Sheila here," Dalton said.

Trent chuckled. "My relatives are a little snooty. Sheila's a commoner, and, worse, a castle Guest. That puts her a notch or two below a scullery maid."
 

Trent was seated on the edge of a table, arms crossed, one leg casually dangling. He seemed totally indifferent to the fact that a murder had taken place.
 

"I see. Too bad."

"Oh, she didn't want to come. But I couldn't very well turn down my sister."

Tyrene said, "I'm reluctant to bring it up, sir, but did you not have a slight altercation with the viscount over this very matter?"
 

Trent's smile faded a little. "Actually, yes." The charm came back again. "Are you sir-ing me, Tyrene? When I was in the Guard it was 'Y. R. H., old fellow.'"
 

Tyrene smiled. "That was many a year ago."

"Yeah, too many. But I like to be called Trent, now. No 'Your Highness' or even 'sir.' 'Y.R.H.' only if you must."

"As you wish, Trent."

Tyrene waited.

Trent chuckled again. "I'm being evasive. You wanted to know about the run-in with Oren. Yes, I brought Sheila to a soirée shortly after our marriage. Oren was among those who made it known that she was not welcome. Then the son of a bitch made a pass at her. Not a short screen, either. I mean a long bomb into the end zone. He practically tore her bodice off."
 

"And you struck the viscount."

"Yup. I let him have it."

"And you challenged him to a duel."

"No. Actually, it was he who challenged me."

"I see."

"It was later, and he was drunk. He told me that no man could strike him and live."

"Is it not true that you answered with words to the effect that sexual assault was a crime punishable by death in any civilized world?"
 

Trent eyed Tyrene at the level. "Yeah, I said it."

Thaxton was sitting at the table eating a slice of blancmange.

"That any good?" Trent asked, turning his head.

"If you like blancmange," Thaxton said. "Pity to let all this food go to waste."

"It is getting close to supper time," Dalton said.

Trent asked Tyrene, "My brother's still out?"

"Yes, last word I had. He didn't tell anyone where he was going, which means he doesn't want to be reached."

"He must have had pressing business. Or maybe he didn't care for Oren either, though I don't think the two ever associated much."
 

"In any event," Tyrene said, "his declining to make an appearance is putting me in a spot. I have explicit orders to bar anyone from going back to his home aspect until the king commands otherwise."
 

"What are you going to do?" Trent asked. "Pitch tents?"

"Oh, they'd never stand for it. No, Peele Castle is where we'll spend the night."

Dalton said, "Peele Castle?"

Trent said, "It's an old fortress about, oh, five miles from here, down by the shore. Sits on a cliff over the sea. Very picturesque. My brothers and I used to play there when we were kids. Talk about a long time ago."
 

Tyrene said, "It'll be a hardship, but we'll make do. I've already given orders to get horses up here, as some of the ladies are not up to walking."
 

"Is the place habitable?" Thaxton asked.

"Oh, yes," Tyrene replied. "It's been refurbished over the years. It's still sometimes used as a weekend resort. Completely furnished. But we'll have to haul supplies."
 

"And the ladies' toiletries and night-things will have to be fetched," Trent said.

"Gods, yes. I have fifty servants fanning out to gather all the necessary stuff."

Thaxton wiped his mouth with a satin napkin and stood. He drank off a glass of champagne. "That should hold me till dinner."

"You're presuming," Dalton said. "Tyrene, there's no need for the two of us to come along, is there?"

Tyrene said, "I wish you would. Mr. Thaxton, here, has a sharp eye. Besides, His Majesty's orders cover anyone connected with this affair."
 

Thaxton said, "After all, we could have killed him."

Trent laughed. "Two homicidal maniac golfers, in knickerbockers yet."

"Oh, yes, you can bash a head in good with a niblick."

"Sure, and I suppose you stabbed him with a tee."

"Y.R.H., if I might reintroduce a note of sobriety," Tyrene broke in.

"Sorry. Yes, by all means."

"You say you have no specific memory of passing by the viscount and Lady Rilma at the moment, or shortly before the moment, that the viscount got up and left?"
 

"Well, no, not really. I mean, I must have walked by that spot once or twice, but I didn't see the viscount leave. Wasn't aware of him at all, really. And I certainly —"
 

Trent looked off for a moment. "Wait a minute. Now I remember. I did walk by there, and the reason that I recall it is that something flew by my head."
 

"Flew by your head?"

"Yes. Something swished past. Don't know what it was. I thought it was a bird buzzing me. Didn't see anything."

"What sort of sound did it make?"

"Not very identifiable. Just a fluttering. Or maybe it wasn't that, just a hiss or a swish. Maybe it was an insect. There're usually dragonflies around the pond over there. It wasn't very obtrusive at all, and I really didn't take any notice of it."
 

"Very interesting indeed," Tyrene said. "Where were you exactly when this occurred?"

Trent got up and walked a few paces out from the table, looked around, then sidestepped out a few paces more.

"About here," he said.

Tyrene walked to him and looked back toward the table. "So you were almost directly behind the viscount at the moment that this thing came past."
 

"Almost. A little past him. Yeah, it seems so. I could be off a couple of paces, but this is more or less where I was at that exact moment. I'm pretty sure that the thing whizzed by the back of my head."
 

"And you have no idea what the thing was."

"Well, now. Since I've recalled this, several possibilities have come to mind."

"Such as?"

"The obvious."

Tyrene nodded. "A thrown knife, perhaps?"

"Yes. Even though a stiletto isn't a good throwing knife, the thought did occur to me, yes."

"A stiletto is not a good throwing knife at all. But I suppose we must consider the possibility that it was thrown. Did you see anyone in a position to throw it?"
 

Trent looked to his right. "That hedge is man-high. Someone could have stepped out from behind there and done it."

Tyrene looked. "Yes. Possibly."

"Well, there you are. That's what happened."

Tyrene looked doubtful. "Why would the murderer take such a risk?"

"Unless he were an exceptional knife thrower."

"Ah. And do you have such a person in mind?"

"Tyrene, I'm rather hesitant about casting suspicions on anyone. Besides, I think you know who I'm thinking of."

"My apologies, Y.R.H. I just wanted to hear someone else vocalize it. Yes, I have someone in mind. But I have a problem. Why would the murderer choose to throw while you were in the way?"
 

"I may have been the target," Trent said.

"I suppose we cannot rule that out."

"Or he simply might not have seen me. I may have walked into his blind spot."

"Also possible. But if it was this certain person I have in mind, only the second reason would apply, since the man is an old friend of yours."
 

"Damik," Trent said. "Yes, he and I go way back. Damn it, Tyrene, I said I didn't want to compromise anyone."

"I have no reason at the moment for believing that the count was the culprit. His being an excellent bladesman does not instantly bring him under suspicion. There are many such among the inhabitants of Perilous and its environs."
 

"I'm glad you realize that, because Damik's no murderer."

"There is no reason in all the universes to imagine that he is. In fact, I believe he was a friend to the viscount as well."

"No accounting for taste."

Tyrene looked at the trampled grass. "Yes. Well. I'm very grateful to you for this interview, sir."

"Only too glad to help."

Tyrene looked back toward the portal. "Here be the horses." He heaved a sigh. "And now, it devolves to me to inform these gentle lords and ladies, every Jack and Jane of them my better, that they're all going to spend the night in the lockup. Gods have mercy."
 

Tyrene moped off.

"Where is this castle?" Thaxton asked.

"Just follow the sun down to the sea," Trent said. "There's a bridle path that runs by on the other side of the pond. Takes you right there."
 

"What say, Dalton, old boy? Ready to walk it? It's only five miles."

"Oh, I suppose I'm up to it. I'm not much of a horseback rider."

"I'd join you gentlemen," Trent said, "but I'm waiting for my wife. I sent word to her, and she sent back that she was coming, hell or high water notwithstanding."
 

"Are you going to take Sheila to Peele?" Dalton asked.

"If she wants to come. I don't give a damn what anyone thinks."

"Well, I suppose we'll see you both there," Dalton said. "Later."

"Wouldn't miss the fun."

The two erstwhile golfers circled the pond, in which grew a profusion of pretty water plants. On the other side they found the bridle path winding through hedges and thickets of forsythia. Here and there were lilac trees, all blooming in endless shades of lavender.
 

"How do you suppose they get horses up into the castle?" Dalton asked.

"Freight lift?"

"Have you ever seen a freight lift in the castle?"

"Can't say as I ever did, but that, as you well know, means nothing."

"Right. More important," Dalton said, "do you think Trent is still as hotheaded as he was reputed to be in his youth?"

"Which was about two hundred years ago," Thaxton pointed out. "Who knows? Don't know Trent very well. He and Sheila don't come out of their island paradise much."
 

"Myself, I've never found him to be anything but the soul of civility. But castle legend has it that he once challenged Incarnadine for the throne."
 

"I've heard that. But that's all patched up, isn't it? Besides, what's it got to do with Trent's being a likely candidate for the viscount's killer? That is what you're insinuating, isn't it?"
 

"Yup," Dalton said. "He could have thrown the dagger, or simply slipped it in as he passed."

"Odd way to do someone in, that," Thaxton ruminated. "En passant, at a picnic, with people around."

Dalton said, "And all because the guy made a pass at his wife."

"Unless . . ."

"Hm?"

"Unless," Thaxton said, "there's something more to it. Something more to the pass, that is."

"You mean Sheila . . . and the viscount were — ?"

"Well, that sounds unlikely. We both know Sheila. But we don't know the circumstances of the alleged incident. 'Long bomb into the end zone.' If I know my American rugby that's serious business. Suppose it were more or less a rape?"
 

"Okay, I see what you're driving at, but we don't know what happened, and I don't see how we could find out. Trent is certainly not going to elaborate."