“Yes, one of you is a murderer. Not once, but four times over. Is it you, Mrs. Thripps?”
Amanda Thripps gave a devil-may-care laugh.
“You think it a laughing matter, do you? You had a strong motive for slipping into Lady Fesstleton’s study and bashing her head in with the poker.”
“Oh?” Amanda scoffed. “And what was that?”
“You thought she’d killed her husband, your lover.”
“Nonsense. I thought nothing of the sort.”
“No?”
“No. Besides, I have an alibi. At the time of the murder I was here, in this room, with Sir Laurence and Humphrey.”
“Both of whom are dead now, I’m afraid. We do have a record of their testimony, but they could have been covering for you. You were on familiar terms with both of them.”
“What if I was? It’s nonsense.”
Thaxton seemed dissatisfied with this line of attack. He moved on.
“Mr. Ballifants!”
“Yes?” Geoffrey Ballifants was a bald, gnomish man with thick spectacles. He was smoking a brown-papered foreign cigarette, and held it oddly between his third and fourth fingers.
“You stand to inherit your half-sister’s income when this is all over. Quite a motive there.”
Ballifants nodded. “Quite. But I didn’t kill Honoria. Though I did hate her bloody guts.”
“So you admit you bore a grudge against her?”
Ballifants made a dismissing motion with the cigarette hand. “Everyone knows it. She was a witch, and I’m glad she’s dead.”
A murmur went up from the staff. It seemed like a murmur of agreement.
Thaxton grumbled something before moving on to Horace Grimsby.
“And you, Mr. Grimsby. You know quite well you are suspected of blackmail.”
“I want to talk to my solicitor!” shouted Horace Grimsby, a thin, black-haired, and very nervous gentleman.
“You’ll be afforded every legal right,” Motherwell assured him.
“This is a sham!”
The outburst came from Clarence Wicklow, who was on his feet.
“Ah, Mr. Wicklow,” Thaxton said. “That was quite a performance you put on last night. You were very convincingly shocked at Mr. Thayne-Chetwynde’s hanging.”
“Of course I was! This is outrageous. A travesty!”
“How so?”
“I’m under suspicion. So are a lot of us. But it’s been a very selective process!”
“Interesting observation. May I ask how you came to this conclusion?”
Wicklow pointed an accusatory finger. “Who the bloody hell are you to be coming around here, asking questions? Nobody knows you. ‘Lord Peter,’my foot. How do we know you really have a title?”
Thaxton’s eyes shifted. “I assure you, the title came from the crown. Not . . . er, well, I shan’t go into details, but—”
“How do we know you and your friend Dalton aren’t the murderers? Nobody’s brought up that possibility, which I find not at all unlikely!”
“Wait half a minute,” Thaxton said.
“And what about Petheridge?” Grimsby said.
“What about me?” the colonel said indignantly, rousing himself out of a semidoze.
“Well, you do seem rather immune to suspicion, I must say,” Grimsby complained.
“Yes, quite,” Wicklow agreed. “His alibi involves Lord Peter and Dalton, and there’s no one here who can vouch for either of them!”
Petheridge rose and took away his monocle. “See here, Wicklow. Are you doubting my word?”
“Your story seems rather fishy to me,” Wicklow sneered. “You could have shot the earl. And then you wouldn’t have to make good on all those gambling debts you owed his lordship.”
Petheridge’s features darkened. “You . . . bastard!”
“Shoe’s on the other foot now, isn’t it, Petheridge? And wasn’t it you who had every reason to kill Honoria, who possibly saw you commit the deed?”
“That’s ridiculous!” Thaxton said. “The colonel couldn’t have killed Honoria. As to Lord Festleton, he—”
Thaxton broke off, shocked by the realization that there was indeed no good reason why Petheridge could not have shot the earl. He was perplexed as to why he had never thought of the possibility before. But his meditations were shattered by a loud report.
Thaxton jumped. He slowly turned to stare unbelievingly at Petheridge, who was holding a smoking revolver.
Wicklow toppled to the floor, a neat red spot on his shirt, directly over the heart. A few of the maids screamed.
“Topping shot, that,” said Petheridge. “If I do say so myself.”
Motherwell stood up from examining the fallen man. “Killing shot, you mean. He’s quite gone.”
“Serves him right, the blighter,” Petheridge said. “Accusing me like that. I won’t stand for it.”
Thaxton was tongued-tied. He kept alternating his disbelieving gaze between the colonel and his victim. “You . . . you . . .”
“Eh, what?” Petheridge put the revolver back in his pocket. “Speak up, old man.”
“You . . . killed him!”
“Bloody perceptive of you.” The colonel sat down and crossed his legs. He appeared quite composed.
“No mystery about this one,” Motherwell said. “Well, my lord, if you will continue?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Please continue. With your interrogation.”
Thaxton was astonished. “You mean . . . go on with the—Aren’t you going to do anything?”
“About what?”
“Good God, man. You mean to say you won’t arrest the colonel?”
“Oh, that,” Motherwell said. “Well, there was provocation.”
“Provocation?”
“Yes, Wicklow was making wild charges. You do still maintain that the colonel was with you when the shots were fired?”
“Wait a minute. We never said that. I said that he was with us when we discovered the body. As a matter of fact—” Thaxton turned toward Petheridge.
Petheridge’s small eyes coolly regarded him.
Thaxton looked away. “Well, I . . . I must be mistaken. Uh—”
“Please continue, my lord.”
“Hm? Oh, yes. Yes.”
Daphne Pembroke suddenly stood, dropped her cigarette, and crushed it underfoot. “Oh, this is a lot of bother. I killed Honoria. Geoffrey’s right. She’s a witch, and Geoffrey and I needed her income, because Geoffrey and I were secretly planning to get married.”
Thaxton was taken aback. “You killed Lady Festleton?”
“She did,” Ballifants said. “And I killed Thayne-Chetwynde.”
Daphne glared at him. “Geoffrey! You?”
“Oh, yes, my dear. I gradually realized you were flummoxing me. You and Humphrey were planning to do me in, and you’d inherit the income. Wouldn’t you, Daphne?”
Daphne shrugged. “It’s true. But you must die anyway, Geoffrey.”
She raised a small silver-plated automatic pistol and aimed.
“Good Lord!” Thaxton said a second before the shot was fired.
No one made a move to stop Daphne. The shiny automatic barked once, and down went Ballifants.
Thaxton pleaded with Motherwell. “Do something!”
Motherwell was lighting his pipe. “I’m afraid it’s gotten out of my hand, my lord. Best to let it all settle out naturally.”
“And you, you filthy cow, you killed Sir Laurence,” said Mr. Thripps to his wife. “My lover.”
“And what of it?” Amanda sneered. “You haven’t the brass to kill anybody, you sniveling coward.”
“Wait!” Thaxton shouted. “Wait just a bloody minute!”
“I had every right to do the earl in!” Petheridge was shouting. “Every right! He put a lien on my property, he did. Bloody indecent of him! You don’t do that to a friend. You simply don’t, and I had it out with him.” He turned to Thaxton and Motherwell. “And you idiots didn’
t even find the stealth shoes.”
“Stealth shoes?” Motherwell said. “What shoes were those, Colonel?”
“The ones I made of twigs and things. Old wog trick, learned it in the East. They work like snowshoes, more or less. Covers up your tracks pretty well.” Petheridge’s hyena laugh was hideous.
Pandemonium erupted in the room, accusations and countercharges flying. Another shot rang out, this one among the staff. More shots. Bodies dropped left and right.
Thaxton stood stock-still, shoulders slumped, jaw hanging low. Dalton rushed up and dragged him toward the door.
“But . . . but it’s madness!” Thaxton walked backward, not able to tear his eyes from the enigma of it all.
Furniture began to fly, fistfights breaking out all over. Even Motherwell waded in. Mr. Vespal was beating Featherstone with the chair he was handcuffed to, screaming, “Death to all white devils!”
“Utter madness!”
“That’s exactly what it is!” Dalton shouted, still yanking on Lord Peter’s arm. “And now we have to get out of here, quick! Run!”
“They’re crackers, round the bend, all of them.”
Another shot, and a bullet whizzed by, very near.
“Run!”
They sprinted down the hallway and into the foyer, where Blackpool stood, calmly holding the door.
His smile was a rictus of propriety. “Leaving? Good afternoon, gentlemen.”
“Does this happen often?” asked Dalton as he shot out the door.
“Often enough,” was Blackpool’s reply.
“Absolute bloody madness,” Thaxton was still saying.
They ran to the road. It was a bright day, dumpling clouds afloat in a clear broth of sky. Birds sang, and a bracing wind was up.
“Can you see the portal?” Dalton asked.
“Who killed the Mahajadi, then?” Thaxton asked as they ran.
“Daphne, probably,” Dalton said. “Or the gamekeeper, out of jealousy over Honoria, who was having it on with Pandanam. Or any one of them. Do you care?”
Thaxton stopped and looked back. Blackpool was still at the door, looking out impassively. Then he closed it.
Thaxton shook his head. “No.”
“There it is!” Dalton cried, eagerly pointing. “See it?”
“I see it.”
They made for the magic doorway that opened onto the Castle and led back to sweet reason.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
“are you sure this is going to work?”
After asking the question, Max looked out over the laboratory floor. Strange things were going on, strange enough so that Max was thinking, I’ve walked into a horror movie.
Brilliant discharges crackled and snapped between towering coils. Sparks crawled their way up Jacob’s ladders. Banks of indicator lights blinked. The lab was alive with the sounds of exotic machinery, humming and whining and whistling. You could barely hear yourself madly plotting. The tangy odor of ozone was strong.
Speaking of horror movies: there was Hochstader in a white lab coat, wearing dark goggles, bending over a bank of switches and other controls. He looked the part of the mad scientist.
He straightened up, lifted his goggles, and looked at Max. “Did you say something?”
“Yeah. Is this going to work?”
“Look, this is an experiment. The purpose of an experiment is to test a theory. I got a theory. We’re going to test it and see if it’s any good. Clear?”
“Clear. But what exactly are we going to do, again?”
Hochstader sat down at the computer station and swiveled the chair around to face Max.
“I’ve loaded all available data on Andrea into the computer. We have graphics input taken directly from a scan of your memories. We have everything. What we’re going to try to do is conjure her.”
“Conjure her,” Max repeated. “That’s magic.”
“Exactly, but this is magic with a tech twist. Those machines out there can do just about anything. They can materialize things out of the blue. Out of the magical ether. Feed enough data into them, and they can give you exactly what you want, to order. If all goes well, Andrea will materialize on that platform over there. She’ll be exactly as you imagined her. And you’ll have her back.”
Max shook his head. “I understand. My question is this: Will it be the real Andrea and not just . . . you know, a simulacrum?”
Hochstader held up a hand. “Don’t ask! You’re better off if you don’t concern yourself with that question. I don’t know anyone who can give a convincing answer.”
“Why not?”
“Oh, it all has to do with quantum stuff. You ever take any physics?”
“Not since high school.”
“Oh. Well, just forget about it, then. Andrea really doesn’t exist except when you perceive her. Think of it that way. If this works, you’ll be perceiving her, and she’ll exist. Get the picture?”
“I still don’t really understand. It’s so crazy.”
“Yeah, but try to flow with it.”
“Right. Flow with it.”
“You know, don’t try to analyze. It’s a nonlinear, translogical experience. Know what I mean?”
“Nonlinear, translogical. Got it.”
“You seem to have trouble with non-Western modes of thinking.”
Max nodded glumly. “I always did. All my cultural hangups cause resistance when I try to break through the veil of Maya.”
“Sure, that’s why I’m saying—Huh? The what of who?”
Max folded his arms and regarded the bare metal platform centered among all the strange gizmos. Over it hovered an enormous copper sphere. The sphere was attached by a sinewy counterbalanced crane-arm to yet another huge machine.
“Never mind,” Max said.
“Sure.” Hochstader turned back to the controls.
Max continued watching over the next several minutes as Hochstader fiddled with the controls. More sparks flew. Great electrical displays leaped from machine to machine and a hysterical howling noise grew and grew until Max had to cover his ears. What drew most of his attention was the metal platform and the copper sphere, which began to exchange energy at an increasing rate. Cascades of sparks propagated in both directions between them. Superimposed over this was a conical column of rays emanating from the sphere, bathing the platform in a pinkish light. Something was taking shape in the middle of all this.
“We’re getting pretty close to an overload!” Hochstader shouted. “Come here!”
Hochstader led Max over to a bank of switches and pointed to a gigantic heavy-duty guillotine switch with an insulated handle.
“If she starts to go, break this connection. Lift this up. Got it?”
“What is it?”
“The main switch. I’ve been meaning to install a circuit breaker here but I’ve had trouble locating one with a high enough wattage rating. And they just don’t make fuses that big.”
“Got it.”
Hochstader returned to his station, and the strange display of electrical fireworks continued.
Soon, something began to coalesce on the platform, a human shape, gradually taking on more detail. The form was generally cylindrical at first, then became curved. Then it became womanly. At that point Max thought he was viewing some exhibit in a science museum. The skeletal structure became visible, then internal organs, circulatory system, muscle, and finally, bare skin. Clothes formed on the body. The face was still not detailed enough to recognize. The process of conjuration went on. The figure took on more substance, became more real.
Finally, the face was recognizable. Max gasped.
It was Andrea. And she was wearing Max’s old buckskin jacket, the one with the tassels.
“Overload!” Hochstader screamed.
Max was frozen, transfixed by the sight of his long-lost Andrea, the Andrea that he had known and loved long ago.
“Break the connection!”
“Huh?”
Hochstader dashed over, yanke
d Max away, and threw open the switch. The sparks died and the howling ceased. The lab grew deathly quiet.
Max stared at the platform. Andrea . . .
“You nearly fried her, you stupid jerk!”
It was a strange-looking Andrea now. Her hair was a fright, sticking straight up, cartoonlike, as if she had stuck her finger in an electrical socket. Smoke rose from the buckskin jacket. Her eyes were closed. She teetered, then fell.
Max came out of the trance and ran for the platform.
“Andrea! Darling!”
He climbed up and went to her, knelt, and cradled her head in his hands.
“Andrea, baby, it’s Max. Wake up, darling.”
Her eyelids fluttered, then opened. Her blue eyes tried to focus.
“It’s me, Andrea. Max. You’re back. I’ve got you back.”
The eyes focused. She sat up. She looked around, at the lab, the machinery, the weirdness.
She screamed the most bloodcurdling scream that Max had ever heard. He jumped back.
“Andrea! Don’t be frightened!”
“Wha . . . what . . . what the HELL IS THIS?”
“Andrea, listen—”
“WHERE THE HELL AM I?”
“Andrea, I can explain.”
She looked at him, as if trying to grasp the strange thing she saw. “M-Max?” she said in a frightened voice.
“It’s me, Andrea. It’s Max.”
“Where . . . where is this place?”
“It’s hard to explain. Why don’t we go get a cup of coffee? We have to talk.”
She shook her head. “I seem to remember . . . something . . . I was on a bus . . . and . . . then you . . . and now I’m here . . . Max, what happened?”
“It’s a difficult concept to grasp, but it has something to do with quantum physics.”
Andrea looked around desperately. “It looks like I’m in a Frankenstein movie. Max, why am I in a Frankenstein movie?”
Max chuckled. “You look the part. You look a bit like Elsa Lanchester with that—”
Andrea screamed again. “Max, I want to get out of here!”
“Sure, sure. Let’s go.”
He helped her up.
“Max, where are we going?”
“Home. But we have to find it first. We’ll re-tune the portal, and—”
“Re-tune what? Portal? What’s that?”
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