This case has already turned bloodier than I could have possibly imagined. Have I made some blunder, some monumental gaffe that will make the Tommy Brent case pale by comparison? Is Pyrrhic victory the best I can hope for?
He snapped out of his daze. “Right. Okay. We have to check on Charles. Let us hope he is dead.”
“That’s a bit rough. He doesn’t seem like that bad of a chap to me.”
“No, Williams. If the body parts in that bag are not Charles’s body parts and they are not Willie’s body parts and they are not Lasciva’s body parts and they are not Tellum’s body parts and they are not a woman’s body parts, and Daniels carried them out, so they are not his body parts then…” Rowan held his hands out with his palms up.
“Then that would be bad.”
“Because?”
“Because that would mean that there is… or rather there was someone on this ridge that we were not aware of. Someone we’ll never have the pleasure of meeting.”
“Precisely.” Rowan reached to pull a knife from the block. The top slot, reserved for the butcher’s knife, was vacant. “It seems someone has already taken one of the knives.” He selected a utility knife and pressed the tip against his index finger. “This should be suitable enough.”
Walter stared at the blade and spoke haltingly, the cherries affecting his pronunciation. “Manory, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you, something that’s been on my mind.”
“Williams, my nose is broken. Have pity on me.”
“I was just wondering if you wouldn’t mind telling me—”
“If you make me laugh, I will stab you.”
“You didn’t kill them, did you?”
Rowan giggled painfully. “Oh, God.”
Walter drank some cherry juice and slid out a knife for himself. “Just so I know, which case are we working on now? Is it the Lasciva case or the Roberts case?”
“I will tell you when I have decided.”
Walter nodded. “Upstairs?”
As they ascended the spiral staircase, the candlelight elongated their wavering shadows. The detectives trod lightly on the steps, but the slower and gentler their footsteps, the louder the wood seemed to creak.
Rowan stood in front of the sliver of light under Charles’s door. “Ready, Williams?” he whispered.
Walter knocked. “Margaret. It’s Walter and Rowan. We’d like to talk to you and Charles, if he’s still with us.”
No answer came.
Rowan stepped in front of his partner. “Please disregard what I said earlier. It is essential that you open the door.” He waited another moment and then grabbed the knob, twisting it in tiny increments. The door opened freely.
Several candles burned on the nightstand of the empty room and the rain’s shadows dripped along the walls.
“It looks like nobody is home.” Walter opened the closet. “Their suitcases are still here.” He looked under the bed. “Nothing.”
Rowan lit the six candles in the wall mounts of the hall. He looked around at the three other bedroom doors in wide-eyed wonder. “I do not believe this.” He shouted, “Hello!”
No one answered.
Rowan banged the butt end of the knife against his thigh. “No, no, no.” He ran to every door and opened them one by one. Each room was vacant. “I gave very clear instructions, easily understandable.”
Walter scratched his head with his blade. “This feels like an awful joke. Where could they be?”
From downstairs, the sound of rain amplified and then was muted with a slam.
Rowan whispered, “It’s the front door.”
Heavy footsteps trod across the downstairs hallway.
Rowan clutched at Walter’s collar and pulled him into Charles’s room. “We have been given a second chance. When he comes upstairs, you tackle him and hold his arms. I will put my knife to his throat.”
The stairs produced their familiar chirr until finally, the sound of two thudding feet landed on the upstairs floor.
The detectives crouched, ready to leap forward. A large shadow spread across the hallway and passed the door. It stopped.
“Anybody here?”
Rowan charged out from the room and pointed the knife. “Goddamnit, Aikes, what did I tell you? I said to stay in your room.”
Willie defensively held up his hands. “Relax, it’s only me.” He dropped his hands and leaned forward. “Good God, what happened to your face?”
Rowan ignored the question. “It is impossible for me to do my job when everyone is lying to me and no one does as they are told.”
“Mr. Manory—”
“I am waiting, William.”
Willie struggled to come out with it. “Mr. Manory, something strange is happening in this manor.”
Rowan’s eyes grew. “Really? Is that a fact? Did you realize this, Williams?”
Walter said, “I must have overlooked it.”
Rowan said, “Well, we are certainly glad you are here to inform us, otherwise we would have no idea. We thought this was a usual Friday night in Mississippi.”
Willie Aikes blurted out, “Mr. Lasciva…”
The knife dropped to Rowan’s side. “What about him?”
“He’s been robbed.”
Rowan took a long pause. “Did he have a safe hidden somewhere?”
“It weren’t money he was robbed of.”
“Show me.”
Rowan and Walter followed Willie down the steps and into the office, each holding a lit candle. Robert Lasciva’s body and head lay unprotected on the floor. The armor and the ax were gone. The body was clothed with his Livingston suit and Brooks shoes. The head faced up with its eyes open.
Walter looked under the desk and in the closet before collapsing onto the crimson sofa. “I feel like we were further ahead the last time we were in this room. Where is the armor, Manory?”
“I believe the location of the ax is far more important right now.”
Willie remained next to the splintered door frame. “I was having a nightmare and a loud noise from outside woke me up. That’s why I left my room. I knocked on all the doors, but everybody was gone. Being all by myself, I got scared and ran down here to check.”
Rowan drifted around the room and finally stopped at Lasciva’s desk. He found a small pouch of tobacco in the top drawer and rolled a cigarette. “You found him like this?”
“Aye. I thought maybe… I don’t know what the hell I thought.” Willie wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. “I went out the front door and I saw that Charles’s car was gone. Then I walked around the estate. I didn’t see nobody out there.”
Rowan dragged smoke through his throat in a long sustained breath. “Was it a gunshot?”
“Huh?”
“The noise that woke you up, was it a gunshot?”
“Coulda been. Hey, can I get one of those, Mr. Manory?”
He handed Aikes the lit cigarette. “What were you dreaming about, Willie?”
“My brother. He’s got a cherry tree in his backyard and I dreamed it attacked me. It sounds silly now, but when I woke up, I remembered every detail. I never remember my dreams. They say that if you have a vivid dream it must be something important. Where is everybody? Did you find Bernice?”
Rowan held his head in his hands and flared his nostrils. “I have nightmares all the time, William.”
“What are yours about?”
“Agatha.”
“Who is Agatha?”
The detective had dreamt of Agatha at least once a week since that day in March.
Walter could not bear the silence any longer. “What now, boss? We can’t go home.”
“Come.” Rowan knelt beside the cadaver and Walter joined him on the opposite side. “Put him on his backside.”
They flipped Lasciva’s stiffened, headless body on its back. The repulsive thudding sound of its contact with the floor made Walter flinch.
“Should we really be touching him like this?”
; Rowan said, “This is an unusual circumstance, Williams. It calls for some unusual actions. I would love nothing more than to make a telephone call and have a professional look at the body and collect fingerprints.” He poked his finger through a tear in Lasciva’s suit coat. “What have we here?
Walter found one on the shoulder. “There’s another one. There are more on the legs as well. They’re all over.”
Rowan lifted the shirt off the body. Tiny pricks in the flesh matched the tears of the shirt and a large scar crossed the chest. “The skin is punctured but there is no blood so it must have been done after he was killed. It appears the armor was removed with a crowbar. I imagine it is very difficult to remove armor from a recently dead body. In Frederick’s time they would wait until a day had passed and the process of rigor mortis had reversed.”
“Who is Frederick?” asked Willie.
Irritation crept into Rowan’s brain. He quickly sought to quell it.
A little more Williams, a little less Manory.
“You see, William, I believe the armor belonged to Frederick the Victorious which would explain its high price tag.”
Walter pointed to Lasciva’s chest. “How do you think he got that scar?”
“It is an old wound. It looks consistent with a knife fight.”
Rowan reached into the suit coat and found nothing until he came to the inner slit pocket on the right. He pulled out a folded sheet of paper. Rowan walked to the desk and laid it down.
He read it aloud.
“Alas, detective, the night is over and the dawn has revealed two more missing members of the party, just as I had promised. Perhaps you need a helping hand. This is your second and final note. Look at it carefully, it will provide a clue. Chip chop, chip chop.”
“Did Tellum write that one too?”
“Yes. He was an awfully busy man before he died.”
Walter tried to close Lasciva’s eyelids, but they would not budge and the pale head continued to stare. A red strip had developed across the irises and lent them an eerie chatoyant gleam from the candlelight. “Remember how I was lost before?”
“Yes?”
“Well now I’m adrift.”
“The deceased Tellum seems to have abandoned his rhyming taunt,” said Rowan. “His sense of timing, however, remains defective. Obviously we were meant to discover this note tomorrow morning.”
“According to the notes, there should be a total of four dead. We have Tellum, Lasciva, possibly Bernice and then who? Charles?”
Willie shook his head. “I told you. The Fiat is gone.”
As his desperation mounted, Rowan felt his throat constrict. The bags under his bloodshot eyes gained weight.
This is the time to push forward. When all seems lost, you will make your greatest strides.
The detective forced a look of optimism onto his face. “We have a clue. The note tells us so.”
Walter chuckled. “I don’t think Willie and I are as adept as you. What clue does this note provide?”
“I already told you.”
“Maybe I wasn’t listening. Run it by me one more time.”
“The third note does not rhyme. This must be the clue. It is a major difference between the three.”
“We were supposed to find it in the morning, as you said. Why do you think it was planted on Lasciva’s body now? It’s premature. Did Tellum know that he was one of the four? If the armor hadn’t been removed, we wouldn’t even have found the blasted thing.”
“It may have been planted on him earlier tonight, before he got into the armor.” Rowan looked at Willie furtively. “Does this clue mean anything to you?”
“I don’t write poetry.”
Rowan and Walter shot each other a glance and in unison said, “The library.”
The massive wall of books dwarfed Rowan’s body as he stood before it. The muscles in his legs grappled with their encasing skin like enraged animals in a sack. He did his best to concentrate, using the blade of the knife to track the titles. “Lock the door, Williams.”
Walter removed the key from the latch and did as he was instructed. “We have to remember to blow out the candles from upstairs. Ruth said they could start a fire.”
“I can do it,” said Willie.
Rowan continued reading the titles. “I think you should have a seat, Mr. Aikes.”
“I might as well be useful to you.”
Rowan turned. “No one is going to leave my sight again. Sit down, William.”
Willie shrugged and lumbered to the farthest sofa. “I just wanted to help. If that’s how you feel about it, I won’t offer no more.”
“You can help just fine by sitting there and talking to me. Tell me William—”
“For the last time, my name is Willie.”
“Is there a poetry section?”
“What?”
“I am speaking English. Is there a specific section designated for a collection of poetry?”
Willie’s eyebrows went limp and his collarbones hunched inward as if expecting a blow. “I can’t read.”
Rowan looked down and saw his reflection in the knife. He slipped it into his pocket. “It is of no importance.”
Walter hunched down and looked at the lower shelves in the corner. “Here we are. Uhhh…Byron, Thoreau, Whitman, Poe. What are we looking for?”
“I am not sure. Where would you hide a clue?”
Walter flipped through the collection of Poe. “Well, if the lack of rhyme is what we’re after, wouldn’t we avoid the poetry section?”
“Perhaps we are meant to look at free verse.” Rowan pulled out the Whitman book and riffled the pages.
“Manory, there are too many books here. We could spend days looking through them.”
Rowan placed the footstool against the right corner of the wall and checked the titles. “The clue was not meant to be solved over such a long period of time.”
“Why would someone write clues anyway? It seems counterintuitive, doesn’t it?”
“There are many reasons to write clues, but I do not wish to contemplate them now.”
Walter glanced over at Rowan. “What are you looking for?”
“A reference book is often used as a rhyming aid. There must be something to help us with our cadence.” He came to a large tome in the upper right corner. His eyes lit up. “Eureka. Manipulus Vocabulorum. If one needs to write a poem or a song or perhaps a harbinger of doom, this would be the book of choice.” He placed his index finger on the spine. “Fingers crossed, Williams.”
He tilted the book off the shelf and a clicking noise came from the opposite end. The left side of the wall jutted forward a few inches.
A sense of childlike wonder overcame the three men. It was reminiscent of adventure stories of pirates finding buried treasure.
Upon removing the book completely, a lever became visible at the back of the shelf. Rowan hopped off the stool. “Go ahead, Williams.”
Walter pulled open the last section of shelves, exposing a gray, stone passage.
Rowan stuck in a candle, followed by his head.
“Here’s your secret passage, old man. Too bad it’s on the wrong side of the house.”
Rowan reached to the left and ran his hand down a smooth stone wall. Sickly wet condensation trickled down and settled on a gravelly floor, creating muddy sand. “Even worse, it does not appear to lead anywhere.”
“It’s sealed? Doesn’t that defeat the purpose of a passage?”
The detective looked to the right. “Now I understand.”
“What is it?”
Rowan handed Walter the candle, threw his suit coat on the floor and rolled up his sleeves. “It is not sealed. It appears this passage goes to the right. I would guess that it makes a hairpin curve and heads to the back of the manor.”
“Like a ‘u.’”
“More like a ‘j’ but yes. Unfortunately, this means there is a partition between the passage and this doorway. We will not remain in visual contact.”
Walter shook his head. “See, that won’t matter because we’re both going inside.”
“Unacceptable. If we both enter the passage, it will be easy to trap us by shutting this door. I need you to stay here.”
“Manory—”
“Besides, someone has to keep an eye on our friend.”
Willie threw up his hands in frustration. “No one needs to keep an eye on me. I’ll go through the damned passage if you want me to.”
Rowan ignored him. “If I run into any trouble, I will call out to you. Do not leave this room, Williams.” He took back the candle and disappeared inside.
Walter leaned into the passage. The tiny shimmer from Rowan’s candle moved along the inky black space and vanished around the corner.
Rowan yelled back. “It is completely dark. I can only see a few feet in front of me. I must go slowly.”
“Be careful, old man.” Walter turned back to Willie. “Sorry about all this. It’s not that we don’t trust you. It’s that we can’t afford to.”
Willie puckered his lips. “Maybe I can’t trust you. No one turned up dead here until you fellas came. You ever think of that?”
“Willie, if your brother is here—”
“My brother is at home, wondering where the hell I am.”
“I know, but if he’s here, I think you should say so now. It’ll save us a lot of trouble.”
“He ain’t here.”
“It’s just that if he is here—”
“He ain’t here!”
“But if he is…”
“What? What if he’s here?”
“Well, if he is, I think some of him might be in a bag in the kitchen.”
Willie looked incredulous. “You’re out of your goddamned mind.”
“This kind of work will do that to you.” Walter stuck his head back in the passage.
“Manory, are you okay?”
Silence.
“Manory!”
“What?”
“Are you all right?”
“Yes, I just…”
“What?”
“I just have yet to begin.”
chapter 13
in the dark
Hallucinatory swirls of light formed in the black and danced deep into the passage. Rowan closed his eyes in an effort to will them away. He could taste the air. Stale and frowzy, it audibly scraped down his windpipe and settled like heavy sand. His aching lungs rasped as they sifted scant traces of oxygen. The roof of his mouth went dry and he tried to wet it, but his tongue stuck like damp clothes on skin. He opened his eyes.
Goodnight Irene Page 13