Castle Murders (16 page)

"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."
 

"Nevertheless, I still think magic's the key."

"Anything behind that bit of brilliant deduction? And please don't say it's elementary."

"I wasn't going to. Well, old boy, let's take a walk, shall we? Look around the place."

"Fine."

"We'll deal with alimentary matters later."

"Shameful."

 

Peele Castle was interesting in a quaint way. The furnishings were in various styles, ranging from the very old to the merely antiquated. The place was a museum. Unicorn tapestries draped the walls, suits of armor stood in corners. It was in many ways much more homey than Perilous. Proportions were on a human scale. Rooms were not overpoweringly large, and there were enough comfy chairs, ottomans, carpets, settees, lamps, and trivet tables to make anyone feel at home.
 

The lords and ladies were being served drinks in the drawing room. At the sight of so many disgruntled and resentful aristocrats, Thaxton and Dalton demurred and sought refuge in the library.
 

Dalton browsed the shelves while Thaxton sipped sherry.

"If only I could question them on my own," Thaxton mused. He clucked and shook his head. "Not bloody likely."

"Interesting books," Dalton said. "They look more readable than Osmirik's stuff, though there're a lot of foreign — wait a minute, here's some English. Good God."
 

Thaxton broke out of his reverie. "What?"

"Here's a book that's got to be mighty strange."

"Eh? What's that?"

"The Moswell Plan, by Dorcas Bagby."

"Aside from the unlikelihood of running into the name Dorcas twice in one day, what's strange about it?"

"It shouldn't exist. I was a literary agent, but I'm a bibliophile, too. I actually like books, especially obscure and interesting ones. This novel's somewhat of a legend in the obscurity department. Matter of fact, I once tried hunting it down, and my assessment of the whole matter was that it was a hoax concocted by a young fantasy aficionado out in the Midwest. But here it be. I guess I'll be up tonight reading this."
 

Thaxton got up and looked over the selection. Most of the books looked old, and some were falling apart. He inclined his head and read the lettering on the spines.
 

"Ever seen magic spelled m-a-g-i-e-k?"

Dalton looked. "Mageek?"

Thaxton pulled the volume out. It was old but in good shape, its sturdy boards covered in fine leather. He opened it to the title page. In spidery print it read:
 

 

YE BUK OV MAGIEKAL DIVERSHYNS

beeng divers discorses on Ye

emploiment ov wichrrye forr Ye

delectashyn & eddifycashyn

ov gentil fohkk

Ye athor beeng wone

Baldor o' Ye Cayrn

 

"Weird spelling but it's English all right," Dalton said. "I like 'wichrrye' especially. Those capital Y's have a th sound. So it's just the word the. I make the author out to be Baldor of the Cairn, or something like that. A cairn is a pile of Celtic rocks."
 

Thaxton thumbed through it. He found something of interest.

"Not what you call page-turning action, but you can make it out," Dalton said, looking over Thaxton's shoulder. "What's it on? Parlor tricks?"
 

"Interesting," Thaxton said. "Interesting. I think I'll be up reading, too."

A servant appeared at the door.

"Gentlemen, dinner is served."

 

 

 

Dutchtown

 

"Slowly, slowly run, O horses of the night."

Tony Montanaro glanced at the passing carriage and chuckled. They were almost out of the park and into the uptown district on the west side of the city.
 

"Boss, I don't get it. What do they got up in Dutchtown that you need?"

"The seltzer trick is only going to work once. The old stuff gets stale eventually. I need something different, something new."
 

"And you're going to get it off some
melanzana
?"

"Maybe. We'll see."

They rolled out of the park and into uptown. The streets were still busy, a steady stream of patrons flowing in and out of the speakeasies. Expensive cars cruised the streets, pulling over now and then to engage tightly dressed women in conversation.
 

The majority of faces on the street were dark, but there was a substantial white representation. Some of the best clubs were in this part of town, and some of the very best music.
 

"You know where the Djinn Mill is, Tony?"

"Yeah, I been there once or twice."

Tony wheeled left and slowed to let a group of laughing bar-hoppers cross. "The place is always jumpin'," he said.

Tony made a right, then a left. He drove straight for six blocks, then went left again.

"I like Dutchtown," Velma said. "I need a drink. Are we going to stop awhile?"

"Yeah," Carney said. "Right here."

The Djinn Mill's front was not imposing. There was no sign, just a green-painted door with a light over it. Tony pulled up to the curb.
 

Carney opened the door. "C'mon, Velma. I'll buy you a drink."

"Sure." She smiled prettily at him.

"Tony, no disappearing act."

"Don't worry, boss, I'll be close by. Take your time."

The peephole opened in the green door and a black face appeared.

"Carney, John Carney. Is Biff Millington here tonight?"

"Evenin', Mr. Carney. Yessuh, I do believe he's here."

The door opened. Jazz came through, hot jazz, but served with a dollop of cool urban sophistication, a baked-Alaska of sound. They entered. A broad-shouldered, nattily dressed bouncer looked them up and down, smiled, and took a long drag on a rolled cigarette. Carney recognized him, and winked. The man nodded.
 

The maitre d' said into Carney's ear, "He's in the back."

Smoke was a swirling fog in the main room. Fake palm leaves hung from the pillars, "jungle" vegetation abounded everywhere. The dance floor was large but crowded. The stage held a ten-piece band and King Elmont at the piano, doing a fast, syncopated rendition of "Shake That Thing." The dance was a fast two-step. There were a lot of pale customers; the club catered to a largely white clientele, but there were some brown faces: celebs mostly, entertainers, along with prosperous Dutchtowners, the odd hood, and a politician or two.
 

They crossed the sea of tables. Friends and acquaintances shouted greetings along the way, their invitations to sit and drink reluctantly turned down.
 

He did stop to ask of one city councilman, "Where's Mayor Speranza?"

The councilman shrugged. "You haven't heard the latest. Three councilmen are missing. We're all worried."

"Tweel, do you think?"

"That's what's on the grapevine. There were dengs all over City Hall today, hanging around, looking like they owned the place."

"Maybe they think they do, now."

"We gotta do something to clean up this town," the man said, lifting his bathtub-gin martini. He took a drink. He smiled. "Present company excepted, John. If some ganglord has to run things, I'd rather it be you."
 

"Thanks for that vote of confidence, Stanley."

Delivering a reassuring pat on the shoulder, he moved on.

They crossed in front of the stage to get to the other side of the room. King Elmont took his left hand from the keyboard briefly, to wave. Then the hand dropped to sound an augmented ninth chord.
 

"Is there anyone in Necropolis you don't know?" Velma said.

"Long ago I learned how to win friends and influence people. Read a book on it."

"It must have been a good book."

The back room was busy, the craps table surrounded three-deep, the roulette even deeper. Blackjack dealers slapped cards down in front of the apprehensive players. Private poker games were over in one corner.
 

Stately, plump Biff Millington was seated at a green-felt table holding a pat hand, Caribbean cigar clamped securely between his teeth, one eye shut against smoke drifting back. His skin was a little darker than café au lait. His suit was custom-tailored and his nails were manicured, the white carnation on his lapel so fresh it could have been cut moments before and rushed from the hothouse with sirens wailing. Slowly, one end of his lip curled up, then down. His was not the best of poker faces. But he made up in luck what he lacked in skill.