Bride of the Castle

by John Dechancie

  The man’s breath went out of him, his horrified face up against Gene’s. He grunted in pain and disbelief.

  Gene brought up his knee and pushed him away just in the nick of time, the second man’s sword whanging against the wood-and-leather shield. He took two steps back, then charged.

  In a blinding series of feints, thrusts, and parries, he fought the second man like something possessed, finishing off with one gigantic swipe.

  Gene stepped off and watched the headless body teeter for a moment before it fell over. Then he whirled to face the next pair of combatants.

  It went pretty well after that, Gene’s magic performing even better than expected. After he had worked his way six or seven pairs down the line, he had a second to look up and see how Snowclaw was doing. Mutilated bodies lay all along the other end of the gauntlet. A head flew.

  Satisfied that things were going well, Gene continued to fight. The magic seemed to grow ever stronger. He was invincible, or imagined he was; which might have been the same thing. He made short work of his end of the gauntlet, and when the last man decided that discretion was the better part of barbaric bellicosity and ran off, Gene turned to meet Snowclaw, who wore a toothy, satisfied smile.

  “That was fun,” Snowclaw said.

  “Keeps the blood moving,” Gene agreed, then turned to see how the leader of the tribes took it.

  The chief, a tall bearded man wearing a horned helmet, regarded them with an equanimity belied by a nervous tic in one eye, his long fur cloak flapping in the wind.

  Gene and Snowclaw approached him.

  “You fight well,” the chief said evenly.

  “Thanks, Brunhilda,” Gene said. “What’s your beef against the Empire? By the way, what Empire?”

  “You know not of the Empire of Orem? Where do you hail from?”

  “Far, far away. How has Orem wronged you?”

  “Wronged me?” The chief laughed. “I am Rognar the Conqueror. I have crossed the stone mountains, swept across the Great Open and come down to the lands of the Cake Eaters, who tremble before me, for they know that the days of their empire are numbered. I will take Verimas next week, and after that the great fortress town of Rhane. And then the way to great Orem itself will be open. Orem will fall and the Cake Eaters will be crushed under the hooves of my white stallion.”

  “You have a problem with hostility,” Gene said. “Have you ever been in therapy?”

  “I know not the things you speak of. I think you jest. Nevertheless, I have seen you fight and defeat any number of my best men. Are you sorcerers?”

  Gene looked at Snowclaw, then back at Rognar. “In a manner of speaking.”

  “Then you are welcome to join us. There will be much booty. Gold, silver, women. You will be welcome to your share of the spoils.”

  “What do you say, Snowy? Need any gold, silver, or women?”

  “Just give me a couple of good fights and you can keep the rest of it,” Snowclaw said.

  Gene smiled at the chief. “You’ve persuaded us. Where do we sign up?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  nght.

  Brooding, suspicious night, settled on Hawkingsmere. A chill wind blew in from the heath, rattling old windows and setting bare twigs to tick against the windows. Ghost-clouds chased across a starless sky. The wind whimpered in the eaves.

  Policemen and deputized locals took up posts at every door of the estate. Outside, more men prowled the grounds. No one could leave, no one could enter.

  For all that the manor was full of guests, a strange quiet fell: a hushed, fearful quiet.

  Inspector Motherwell drank from his teacup, then set it and the saucer down. “So, what do we have so far?”

  “Not much,” Colonel Petheridge said.

  The door to the library opened and Blackpool came in.

  “If there is nothing else, gentlemen, I will retire.”

  “Lock your door, like the others,” Motherwell instructed.

  “I will, sir.”

  “Are they all nestled in up there?” Colonel Petheridge asked. “Room for everybody?”

  “Yes, sir. There are eighteen bedrooms in this house.”

  Motherwell humphed. “The ruling class, they do live well. Very good, off you go, Blackpool.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  When Blackpool had left, Motherwell grimaced. “Creepy sort, don’t you think?”

  “Occupational hazard,” Petheridge said. “They live in the cracks.”

  “Hm? Oh, yes. Right.” Motherwell sighed. “Well, this is a fine kettle of fish. Two murders, too many suspects, no clues.”

  Thaxton asked, “You were saying, before Blackpool came in?”

  “I was saying? Oh, yes. Well, I was saying that I wanted a gathering in of all the loose ends. The possibilities, as it were.”

  Thaxton said, “We’d come to the conclusion that Amanda Thripps was nowhere near Lady Festleton’s bedroom at the time of the murder. She was in the conservatory with Humphrey Thayne-Chetwynde and Sir Laurence.”

  “But she did have a motive, if she thought that Honoria had killed the earl, her lover.”

  “Correct.”

  Motherwell continued, “And Lady Festleton’s outrage on finding out that Amanda was the earl’s current mistress might have been a motive for killing him. Although she did know he’d had others.”

  Thaxton said, “We do have the maid’s testimony that she got the blackmail letter in the morning post. She read it, and immediately rushed out of the house.”

  “Where did she have the sawed-off stashed?” Dalton wanted to know. “Maid didn’t see her with it.”

  “Outside somewhere?” Thaxton guessed. “In a shed? Blast it, if I’d only seen more of her from the portal. But it was only a fleeting glimpse.”

  Motherwell looked up from his cup and saucer. “Eh, what’s that? What portal?”

  Thaxton said, “Uh . . .”

  “Port Road,” Dalton improvised.

  “What?” Petheridge snorted. “That’s not the Port Road out there. It’s miles to the south.”

  “Yes, I know, but Lord Peter has a terrible time reading a map.”

  “Right,” Thaxton said, relieved.

  “I see,” Motherwell said. “Anyway, we’ve established that the earl was being blackmailed.”

  “That’s something,” Thaxton said. “But not a motive for murder in either case.”

  “No,” Motherwell said. “The blackmailer wouldn’t profit by the death of either the earl or Lady Festleton. Which brings us round to Amanda Thripps again.”

  “Or Daphne Pembroke,” Dalton said.

  Motherwell nodded. “The earl’s previous mistress, the woman scorned. But she has an alibi. She fired the only other shot, which you heard moments before the fatal one, and she was far out on the heath and surrounded by witnesses.”

  “And there’s Horace Grimsby,” Dalton said, “Miss Pembroke’s jilted suitor.”

  “Who also witnessed Daphne banging away at a grouse that the dogs had flushed,” Thaxton said. “Or says he did.”

  “The others might be covering for him,” Motherwell said. “If you’ll forgive, my lord, the upper class look out after their own.”

  “In some cases,” Lord Peter acknowledged. “And in this case, Grimsby could have been the blackmailer.”

  “The postmark was local,” Petheridge pointed out.

  “Yes, it was,” Motherwell said, adding ruefully, “and if Grimsby’s typewriter matched the typeface on the envelope, we’d have the case bloody well solved.”

  “Your men have been quick on the legwork,” Thaxton said.

  “Thank you. I like to get on things straight away. But that lead proved a blind alley.”

  “Easy to use someone else’s typer,” Petheridge said.

  “Simply bring the envelope to dinner or a soiree, slip into the den, and Bob’s your uncle.”

  “True, but we can’t very well go running around the countryside, barging into ever
yone’s den checking typers, now can we?”

  “Suppose not,” Petheridge admitted.

  “What about this business of Stokes the gamekeeper getting into a dust-up last night with a prowler?” Thaxton said. “That’s intriguing, what with the interloper being a dark-skinned foreigner.”

  “No moon last night either,” Petheridge said. “He can’t swear it was a wog.”

  “Nevertheless, Colonel,” Motherwell said, “Mr. Pandanam interests me. This cult he heads up, know anything about it?”

  “All wog cults are bloody nonsense to me.”

  “You suspect the Mahajadi of having something to do with the prowler?” Thaxton asked of Inspector Motherwell.

  “There’s a killer on the loose. I suspect everyone.”

  “Who else haven’t we covered?” Thaxton said. “Let’s see. Mr. Geoffrey Ballifants, who stands to inherit his half-sister Honoria’s family income.”

  “A likely suspect,” Petheridge said. “And his alibi for the time of Honoria’s death is as leaky as a sieve.”

  “Yes, but not his alibi for Festleton’s death. It’s airtight.”

  “What about Thayne-Chetwynde?” the colonel asked.

  “What about him?” Motherwell said.

  “Well . . . blast it all, more dirty wash. Oh, well, can’t be helped. Honoria and he have been having it on for years. Now and then.”

  “Really? I must say, they’ve kept that one under wraps,” Motherwell marveled.

  Thaxton lifted his eyebrows. “The webs get tangled in these parts.”

  “To err is human, old man,” Petheridge said. “There’s more. He and Amanda as well. But I do believe that was only a fling.”

  “Musical beds,” Dalton observed.

  “And then there’s Mr. Clarence Wicklow,” Dalton said. “Anything on him?”

  “Not a thing,” Petheridge said. “Except his family traditionally bore a grudge against the master of Hawkingsmere. Goes back generations. Someone did someone dirt, centuries ago. Not clear what. But I don’t see that as having anything to do with the present situation. Wicklow and the earl were the best of friends.”

  “One thing bothers me,” Thaxton said.

  “What’s that, my lord?” Motherwell said.

  “Everybody standin’around while Daphne pots away at a grouse. Odd, all clumped together like that. I think someone’s not telling it straight.”

  “Of course they’re not,” Motherwell said. “There were footprints all over the heath, some in pairs, some alone, and the same all over the woods. Not near the body, mind you, but—”

  “Wait!” Thaxton said, sitting straight up. “Just had a thought. No footprints but Lady Festleton’s were found in the clearing. But the killer could have wiped out his prints by dragging the body over them and covering the trail with leaves.”

  Motherwell put down his cup and saucer. “Never thought of that. Well, now.” The inspector was thoughtful. “But how did he get back to the woods without leaving more prints?”

  “Uh, yes, I see your point.”

  “We’d better have another look at that clearing in the morning,” Petheridge said.

  A crack of thunder sounded.

  “That is,” Thaxton said, “if the rain doesn’t wash everything out.”

  Motherwell’s shoulders sagged. “I’m done in. There’s nothing to be accomplished till morning. You gentlemen had better get yourselves to bed. Did Blackpool—?”

  “We’ve been shown our quarters,” Dalton said.

  “Good. Mind that you lock your doors, gentlemen. There’s a killer loose.”

  The men left the library and were surprised to see Clarence Wicklow, a young man with a sharp, thin face, coming through the shadows of the dining hall. He had on a blue bathrobe and slippers.

  “Eh, what’s this?”

  “Had to have my glass of milk,” Wicklow said. “Can’t get to sleep without it.”

  “You’re rooming with . . . ?”

  “Thayne-Chetwynde.”

  “You’d best get back up. Was there anyone in the kitchen?”

  “Not a soul. Had a devil of a time finding anything.”

  “Well, we’re going up. Come with us.”

  The five men proceeded up the great wooden staircase. At the top, Wicklow trotted off down the hall, waving good-night.

  When Wicklow had gone into his room, Motherwell delayed Thaxton with a touch on the arm.

  “My lord, what do you make of Blackpool’s going out at around the time of the earl’s murder?”

  “Have we really fixed the time of his going out, exactly?”

  “Could have been a bit before, could have been immediately after. But his story didn’t sit well with me. Clothesline from the shed, him wanting to tie off bundles of magazines for the church charity drive. Bundles of magazines indeed.”

  Thaxton shrugged. “I see nothing suspect in that.”

  “Blackpool’s never gone to church in his life. Staunch atheist.”

  “Rather out of character.” Thaxton scratched his stubbly chin. “I see what you mean. But do you really suspect the butler of anything?”

  Motherwell shook his head. “I grant you I’m grasping at straws, but it seems awfully odd that—”

  “I say, you chaps . . .”

  Motherwell spun toward the voice that came from down the hall. “Yes?”

  It was Wicklow, his face chalky. “You’d better come in and see this. Nasty business.”

  The clothesline had been tied securely to the footboard of the double bed and thrown up over the huge brass chandelier. The body, that of Humphrey Thayne-Chetwynde, slowly rotated, dangling by the neck. Beneath the body, on the floor, lay an overturned chair.

  A note was pinned to the trouser leg. On it was a scrawl:

  Honoria my darling cannot exist without you life

  meaningless—impossible to go on—we will live again

  Your Humphrey

  “Poor chap,” Petheridge said.

  “‘We will live again,’” Motherwell read with a frown. “Wonder what that’s all about?”

  “An allusion to reincarnation,” Dalton guessed, “or a more conventional religious sentiment?”

  “If it’s the former, then the cult aspect might be involved,” Thaxton said.

  “Nasty business.” Wicklow couldn’t keep from staring up at the limp body, the blackened face, the contorted features.

  “Nasty business,” he repeated, his voice rasping.

  “Here, here,” Motherwell said, taking his shoulder. “Steady on, Mr. Wicklow. Sit down, here.”

  Wicklow sat. “He . . . he was completely fine when I left him. Didn’t seem in bad spirits. Last thing he said was a joke, in fact. ‘Watch out for killer cows,’he said.”

  “Did he mean to make a joke about your fetching some milk?” Motherwell asked.

  “Why, yes. That’s the way I took it. Ghastly thing to say, under the circumstances. But I laughed in spite of myself. Bit of relief.”

  “What else did you talk about when you were up here with him?”

  “Not a thing, really. Nothing. Maybe a few words about the weather.”

  “Nothing about the murders?”

  “No. Not at all. We’re all still a bit shaken by all that’s happened. We didn’t utter a word about it. Didn’t have time, really.”

  “And you say he wasn’t at all despondent? He didn’t appear so, or say anything to lead you to that conclusion?”

  “No. In fact, as I said, he seemed in jolly good spirits.”

  “Blackpool’s clothesline, I’ll wager,” Thaxton said, examining the taut length of cord. “Either Blackpool did it or someone stole the line out of his room.”

  “Did what?” Motherwell demanded.

  “Hanged Thayne-Chetwynde and forged the note.”

  “Good God. What makes you say that?”

  “Was Thayne-Chetwynde a navy man?”

  “No,” Petheridge said. “Army.”

  “Did he have
a yacht?”

  “Didn’t care for the sea much, as I recall.”

  “This knot is a bowline hitch, a kind you tie off a taut cord with. It’s a seaman’s knot. Someone with nautical experience tied it. Hardly the thing a desperate person would do, anyway. And in any event, it’s very difficult to tie with a loose cord.”

  “Another murder,” Motherwell groaned.

  Thaxton scratched his head, muttering, “Three. Three murders. Now this is getting bloody unusual.”

  Dalton sidled over to him and whispered, “Still think this is merry old England?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  as the night wore on into morning, Max and Hochstader 3 hit dozens and dozens of alternate continua, each one with Dumbrowsky Taylor Burke or some variant smack in the middle of it.

  “I can’t believe it,” Max groaned, staring at the phone book in Hochstader 37’s outer office.

  “Again?” Hochstader 3 asked wearily.

  “Again.”

  Max was fascinated by the permutations on the agency’s name, evidently the result of random factor at work among Max’s would-be partners. There was Dumbrowsky Taylor Thompson, ditto ditto O’Hare, Dumbrowsky McNeil ditto, ditto ditto Tomassi, and even a Dumbrowsky Fenton Fineburg.

  “Herb Fenton. My God, why did I go into partnership with Herb Fenton? Well, he’s in this universe. Close, but no cigar.”

  “No more, please,” Hochstader 3 begged.

  “We have to keep looking.” Addressing Hochstader 56, Max said, “Thanks.”

  “Do drop in again,” Hochstader 56 replied.

  Later, even Max was getting tired.

  “How many alternates are there that might be close to the one I want?”

  “Do you know what a googol is?”

  “No,” Max said.

  “It’s a number. A one with a crapload of zeros after it. Take that number, and raise it to the power of itself. Googol to the googol power. You get a googolplex. Don’t even think about how many zeros that has. That’ll give you some idea of how many worlds we’re talking about.”

  Max blanched. “That many?”

  “It’s insignificant,” Hochstader 3 said, “to the number of slow ways to kill you I’ve devised in the last half-hour.”