by Dave Duncan
Vous Inculper,
Avant de savoir ce lui qui est arrivée,
Gardez-vous Bien.
Every book contained a similar inscription, each in a different ink and handwriting. It was a reasonable assumption that Constable Heyhoe knew no French. Arranging the volumes in alphabetical order by title and reading the fragments as a single message, Edward translated:
“The back door was bolted on the inside; the door from the kitchen premises to the house was locked, but the key is missing. They cannot charge you until they discover where it has gone. Beware of admitting anything that may be used against you.”
Two men in a locked room, one dead, one injured—from which side had the door been locked? Yes, that was just mildly critical, wasn’t it?
Three cheers for the devious Welsh!
26
ELEAL AWOKE SHIVERING, LYING ON HER PALLET IN darkness. She could not remember going to sleep. Cold and hunger had wakened her—distant sounds of evensong from the temple told her that the hour was not late. The troupe would be in Sussvale now, very likely still performing The Fall of Trastos for the kindly folk of Filoby. Curse Filoby and its cryptic testament!
Her fingers were sore from plucking chickens. She had left the casement open—never a wise move in Narshland. She scrambled up stiffly and limped across to close it.
Below her, lights showed in windows, here and there. In the crystal mountain air the skies were bright with a myriad of sparkling diamond stars, and two moons. Narshians bragged about their stars. Eltiana was a baleful red spot, high in the east, gloating over her prisoner, perhaps. Below her, just rising at the far end of the valley, Ysh’s tiny half disk cast an eerie blue glow on the peaks of Narshwall. Of green Trumb there was no sign at all. Eleal leaned out and scanned the sky to make sure—and Kirb’l appeared right before her eyes!
She had never actually seen him do that before. Always she had just realized that the night had become brighter or darker, that she had just gained or lost a shadow, and looked up to see that Kirb’l had come or gone, as the case might be. This time she had been watching! One minute there had been only stars at the crest of the sky, and the next moment there was Kirb’l’s brilliant golden point, putting them to shame. She even thought she could make out a disk. Usually Kirb’l, like Eltiana, was merely a starlike point, although no star was ever so bright, or such a clear gold.
All the moons went in and out of eclipse, but none so abruptly as he. Sometimes Kirb’l even went the wrong way, and a few minutes’ watching were enough to show her now that his light was indeed moving against the stars, sinking in the east. He was also heading southward, to avoid Eltiana and Ysh. Kirb’l, the moon that did not behave like the others—wandering north and south, moving the wrong way, sometimes bright, sometimes faint—Kirb’l was also the Joker, Kirb’l the god, avatar of Tion in Narsh. Was that a sign to her that she must not give up hope? Or was the Joker laughing at her plight? Kirb’l the frog had given her a sign! Good sign or bad?
She decided to treat it as a good sign. She closed the casement, wrapped herself in her blanket, and knelt down to say some prayers. She prayed, of course, to Tion. She would not pray to the goddess of lust, nor to the god of death, not to the Maiden who withheld her justice. Chiol the Father had taken her coins and thrown a very cruel destiny upon her. But Tion was god of art and beauty and in Narsh he was Kirb’l and he had given her a sign.
27
“YOUR FULL NAME, IF YOU PLEASE.”
Edward supplied his name and date of birth. He felt as he did when he faced an unfamiliar bowler. The opening balls would be simple and straightforward while the opponents summed each other up. Then the googlies would start.
It was Tuesday afternoon, a full day since Alice had departed. The most exciting thing that had happened in those twenty-four hours was the bandage around his head being replaced with a sticking plaster, half of which was on scalp and sure to hurt like Billy-o when it came off.
He was half-insane from boredom, and a battle of wits with the law was a most welcome prospect. Being not guilty, he had nothing to fear if the game was played fair; if the deck was stacked, then devil take him if he could not outwit this country bumpkin copper. Anything he said might be used in evidence. He had never expected to hear the dread words of the official caution directed at himself.
“You feel well enough to answer questions now, Mr. Exeter?”
“Yes, sir. I’ll do anything I can to help you catch the killer.”
“What do you recall of the events of Sunday last, August first?…”
Leatherdale looked weary. The man was suffering from his weight and the heat. His face was more florid than ever, gleaming with perspiration, his neck bulged over his collar, and the points of his waxed mustache were drooping instead of standing up proudly. Edward had considered inviting him to remove his jacket and even his waistcoat and had then decided that fair play could be carried too far. Leatherdale for his part was not being at all sporting—he had set chair back almost against the wall, so Edward must keep his head turned hard over on the pillow to see him. The uniformed sergeant was on the other side of the bed, evidenced only by an occasional scratch from his pen.
However absurd his apparel, Edward was much more comfortable than either of his visitors, except for the strain on his neck. His leg had stopped hurting much except when he moved it. Let the game begin!
Next question: “You are familiar with the kitchen premises at Greyfriars Grange?”
“Yes. I’ve stayed there before. Timothy and I always raided the larder after everyone else went to bed. It was a tradition we started when we were kids. We used to feel frightfully depraved, but I expect Mrs. Bodgley knew what we were up to and didn’t care.”
“Would she have cared on Sunday?”
“What?” Edward almost laughed. “Timothy could have treated me to the best Napoleon brandy and his parents wouldn’t have minded. I expect we’d have felt a pair of real mugs if anyone had walked in on us sitting there by candlelight…”
“You would have been embarrassed if anyone had found the two of you in the kitchen at that hour of the night?”
“Mildly embarrassed,” Edward conceded, realizing that the conversation was coming around to—
“Was that why you locked the door?”
“We didn’t.” He must not reveal what Ginger Jones had told him about missing keys. He must not show any interest in keys.
“You say your memories of the night’s events are foggy, and yet you recall a detail like that? You would testify under oath that neither you nor your companion locked the kitchen door?”
“I would testify that I do not recall locking it or seeing Bagpipe lock it—neither that night nor any of the half dozen or so times we had been there under similar circumstances before. I do remember people beating on the door later, trying to get in, so somebody must have locked it.” It was hard not to smile at that point.
“Or bolted it.”
“There’s no bolt on that door…is there?”
Leatherdale smiled placidly. “I’ll ask the questions, if you don’t mind.”
He continued to send down simple balls and Edward continued to stonewall them. He had recalled quite a lot in the past two days, but it was patchy—Bagpipe showing him to his room, the talk of war over the port, Bagpipe coming to chat, Bagpipe raving about The Lost World.
The inspector reached out and took the book off the bed table and eyed the title. “Sir Arthur Conan Doyle? Good man. Liked what he wrote about the war and those Boers. Well, it would be his Mr. Sherlock Holmes we would be needing now, wouldn’t you say, sir?” With his homely, West Country voice he might have been discussing the prospects for the harvest, but he was not fooling Edward.
“Run through the clues for me, Inspector, and I shall solve the case lying here in my bed.”
“I hope you do.” Leatherdale twirled his mu
stache and somehow made that commonplace gesture seem sinister.
Edward resolved to make no more jokes.
If what Ginger Jones had reported was correct, then there was no chance of Edward Exeter being kept under unofficial arrest much longer. At the end of this interview he would ask to be moved out of solitary. A ward full of other men would be infinitely preferable, even if they were all farmers and tradesmen. At least there would be the crisis to talk about. The order mobilizing the army was going to be signed today. Belgium had rejected the German ultimatum. If the Prussian jackboot came across that border, then Britain would be in the war. Meanwhile he must be nice to the rozzer….
“Had the rest of the household retired to bed?”
“I don’t remember, sir.”
“What exactly did you do in the kitchen?”
“All I recall of the kitchen is what I already…”
The sensation was oddly like being called to walk the carpet, but he had not been in serious trouble at Fallow since his wild youth in the Upper Fourth, and he knew the stakes now were considerably higher than a breeching or a few hours’ detention. His neck was growing devilish stiff. He addressed his next few answers to the ceiling, aware that the foe was still watching him and he could not see the foe.
Of course the most likely explanation of the tragedy was that the two of them had blundered into a gang of burglars and tried to be heroes. In the resulting fracas the intruders had stabbed Bagpipe, thrown Edward down the stairs, and departed. But if Ginger’s information was correct, they had not escaped out the back door, which had been bolted, but had gone through into the main house, locking the door and taking the key. Although Ginger had not mentioned the front door and other means of escape, there must be a possibility that the killer or killers had not been intruders at all, but someone in General Bodgley’s household. As Bodgley was practically lord of the manor around Greyfriars, this investigation must be much more than a routine for Inspector Leatherdale. He would be under terrific pressure; he would play every trick he knew. Even a romantic, starry-eyed idealist knew the googlies must start soon.
The voices droned, the constable’s pen squeaked, and faint sounds of carts and motors drifted in through the open window. Visitors’ voices wandered up and down the corridor, and Leatherdale continued to use up Edward’s visiting hours. Quite possibly Ginger Jones or others might be cooling their heels outside there somewhere, waiting to be admitted.
“But you had never seen this woman before?”
“I’m not sure I even saw her then, Inspector. I have only a few very vague images. She may have been a delusion.” Should he have admitted that?
“You threw something at your uncle yesterday?”
Googly!
Edward turned to look at Leatherdale quizzically, and then reached up to the bedside table.
“No. I did heave this dish, or one just like it.”
“Why?”
He resisted the temptation to say, “I didn’t know what else it was for.” Instead he explained calmly, “I threw it at the book he was holding. Had I wanted to hit him instead, I would have hit him. I can hit a sixpence at the far end of a cricket pitch.” He raised the dish. “Choose any flower in the room and I’ll hit it for you, even lying flat like this.”
“That won’t be necessary. Why did you throw the dish at Dr. Exeter?”
“I didn’t.”
“Why did you throw the dish at the Bible, then?”
“Because my uncle is a religious fanatic. I’d say a religious maniac, but I’m not qualified to judge that. For years he has been trying to convert me to his beliefs, and he is absolutely unstoppable when he gets going. I could not leave, and the only way I could think of to get rid of his ranting was to make a scene. So I made a scene.”
“You did not just ask him to leave?”
“I did try, sir.”
“You could have rung for a nurse and asked her to show him out.”
“He is my legal guardian and a well-known divine. He would have resisted and probably won.”
“Trying to convert you from what?” Leatherdale changed topics like a juggler moved balls.
“From believing what my parents believed.”
“And what is that?”
“My father told me, ‘Don’t talk about your faith, show it.’ ”
“You refuse to answer the question?”
“I did answer the question.” What on earth did this have to do with Bagpipe’s death? “I was taught that deeds count and words don’t. The guv’nor was convinced that rabid, bigoted missionaries like my uncle Roland did incalculable harm to innumerable people by thrusting an alien set of beliefs and values on them. They finish up confused and adrift, with their tribal ways in a shambles and no real understanding of what they are expected to put in their place. He used to quote…”
May be used as evidence…Even if Leatherdale himself was broad-minded and tolerant—and there was no evidence of that—the average English jury would certainly contain some dogmatic, literal-minded Christians. Edward took a long breath, cursing his folly at letting his tongue run away with him. “He believed a man should advertise his beliefs by making his life an example to others and to himself and to whatever god or gods he believed in. You don’t really want a sermon, do you, Inspector?”
“And this provoked you to throw the dish?”
Another curved one! “He insulted my father.” As Leatherdale was about to speak, Edward decided to get the words on the record. “He accused him of worshiping Satan.” Try putting that before twelve honest men and true!
“Those exact words, ‘worshiping Satan’?”
“Close enough. How would you react if someone—”
“It is your reactions we are investigating, sir. Do you normally become violent when someone makes an insulting remark about your father?”
“I don’t recall anyone else ever being such a boor.”
As the interrogation continued, Leatherdale’s West Country growl seemed to be growing broader and broader. Edward wondered if his own public school drawl was also becoming more marked. He ought to try and curb it, but he had no spare brain cells to put in charge of the attempt. He had also realized that the policeman disliked him for some reason, and was enjoying this.
“Why would your uncle have made such an accusation?”
Edward rubbed his stiffening neck. “Ask him. I do not understand my uncle’s thinking.”
“In his youth he was a missionary himself.”
“I know that much.”
“Where were you born, Mr. Exeter?”
What did this have to do with Bagpipe’s murder? “In British East Africa. Kenya.”
The questions jumped like frogs—Kenya, Fallow, the Grange. Any time Edward questioned a question for relevancy, Leatherdale would change the subject and then work his way back again. The ceiling could do with a coat of paint.
“And how did your father treat missionaries in Nyagatha?”
“I have no idea. I was only twelve when I left there. I was only twelve when I last spoke to my father. Boys of that age barely regard their parents as mortals, let alone question them on such topics.”
“That was not what you said earlier.”
“That’s true,” Edward admitted, angry with himself. “I know what he said to me about missionaries, but I don’t know what he did about them in practice. I remember missionaries visiting the station and being made welcome.”
“Can you name any of them?”
“No. It was a long time—”
“And the Reverend Dr. Exeter is your father’s brother?”
“Was my father’s brother. My father died when I was sixteen.”
Leatherdale twirled his mustache. “Your father’s younger brother?”
“Hardly! Much older.”
“Have you any evidence
of that, Mr. Exeter?”
“I knew them both very well.”
“Any documentary evidence?”
Edward stared. “Sir, what does this have to do with what happened at Greyfriars Grange?”
“Answer the question, please.”
“I expect the guv’nor’s age is recorded on my birth certificate. I don’t remember. I don’t read my birth certificate very often.”
Manners! He was growing snippy. Was that a glint in Leatherdale’s eye? He was against the light, so it was hard to tell.
“When a British subject is born in the colonies, who issues the birth certificate?”
“The nearest district officer, I expect.”
“So your father made out your birth certificate?”
“Perhaps he did. I’ll look and see when I get out of hospital.”
“I was asking about your father’s age. Have you any evidence handy at the moment—a photograph, for instance?”
Impudence! Unmitigated gall! The bounder had gone through Edward’s wallet when he was unconscious! The urge to try and take him down was becoming dangerously close to irresistible.
“I have a photograph.”
“Will you show me that photograph, please?”
Glowering, Edward opened the drawer and took out his wallet. “Be careful of it, please. It is fragile and it is the only picture of my parents I have.”
Leatherdale hardly glanced at it.
“This shows you and your parents in Africa?”
“Yes. It was taken by a visitor who had a portable camera. He sent it to us just before I left.”
“So it was taken around when?”
What the devil was all this leading to?
“In 1908. I would be eleven, almost twelve.”
“And how old would you say the man in this picture is, sir?”
Without releasing it, Leatherdale held the photograph out for Edward to see.
“Around forty, I suppose. Not fifty. More than thirty.” It was hard to tell. The image had always been blurred, and six years in his wallet had worn it almost blank, as if a heavy fog had settled on that little group on the veranda. His mother’s face was in shadow. He was standing in front of his parents, his father’s hand on his shoulder, and he was grinning shyly.