There were others, some suggesting that a named person nick a stylus or sever a cable, or hide a nice, big magnet next to where the tapes were stored, so that when the time came to play them there’d be nothing left to play. Some were less subtle, like the one that said, “Joseph Bunce, get out of here. Joseph Bunce, we don’t want you here. Joseph Bunce, you stink. Joseph Bunce, get out of here right this minute.” And there was a tape that repeated over and over, and over, “Revelers, eat the frumenty. Revelers, eat the frumenty. Revelers, eat the frumenty.”
Max wasn’t a bit surprised. He’d suspected something of the sort ever since he’d given himself heartburn eating the stuff and wondering why.
This could have been Ufford’s first experiment in instant mass manipulation. The choice of command had been a clever one. Being ordered to eat something that was perfectly wholesome if not particularly interesting would have aroused no strong resistance in guests who’d probably have taken a dab of the stuff anyway, simply because their hostess always made such a big deal of her genuine fourteenth-century recipe. Once some of the more suggestible revelers had begun attacking that massive silver bowl with unaccustomed gusto, the old follow-the-leader instinct would have incited others to dip in.
Max felt a stab of annoyance. Was he really that gullible? Obviously, yes. But had Ufford been that keen a psychologist? Had he been the real instigator of the trick or only the technician? Max wasted no more time playing the experimental tapes, but went back to the hunt.
Ufford was a systematic rogue, all right. In a neat little card file underneath the tape rack, Max found a bundle of index cards, filed under the various station call letters. Amaline Pettigrass was there; Ufford had meticulously entered the day on which she’d first have heard her specially tailored message, the number of times it would be broadcast, and the date on which the turntables had ceased to function. Joseph Bunce had his card showing the date on which he’d got his marching orders and when he’d finally marched. Ufford had even made up a card for the frumenty, the finicking old bastard.
He’d been here last night, presumably to update his files and change his clothes. Max found the Arnolfini costume in the bedroom closet, neatly zipped inside a plastic garment bag. The hat was on the shelf above, also swathed in plastic. The bright green tights were in the laundry hamper.
Of anything resembling the Morris dancer’s costume, though, Max could find no sign. It wasn’t in the small coat closet outside the salotto; it almost certainly wouldn’t be anywhere else in the apartment. If Ufford had been cocky enough not to bother hiding his tapes and file cards, he must have considered himself totally above suspicion. Egomania was an easy kind of craziness to manipulate.
Max wasn’t feeling any too cocky himself, though. Why hadn’t Ufford’s landlady been up here already, wanting to know who he was and why he was in her house? Maybe she’d called the cops and was just lying low until they got here. He’d better hit the road before his luck ran out; he wasn’t sure how well an argument that he was here on business for her tenant’s boss would stand up now that Ufford was known to be dead. Taking the experimental tapes and file cards out of the apartment was a risk, but it would have been riskier to leave them here. Bill had better go through them all tonight and make sure there weren’t still a few uncompleted experiments floating around the stations.
It was irritating that Ufford had stopped short of leaving any clues as to who’d been piping the tune to which he’d danced his final gigue. Max hadn’t been able to find a thing except a whopping phone bill that was made up mostly of calls to one particular number in Busto Arsizio in Italy. Max knew his geography pretty well, and Busto Arsizio was nowhere near Venice. Perhaps it was a mountain climber and not a gondolier with whom the Italian mistress was carrying on her extracurricular ventura amorosa. Max copied down the number in his little black book before he went out past the fake marble and picked his way silently down the stairs.
Sarah must be in some Milton restaurant by now, he thought as he unlocked his car and laid the tapes on the seat beside him. No, it was too late for that, she’d already have eaten. She’d be back at their house, giving Davy his bath and telling him his bedtime story because the kid’s father was too busy burgling a dead man’s apartment. The clock on the dashboard said seventeen minutes to eight. Max hadn’t realized he’d spent so much time at Ufford’s.
He ought to stop for a bite somewhere, himself. He ought to quit running the roads and get home to his wife and child. But how could he knock off now? What if Boadicea was awake and talking? What if she was saying the wrong thing to the wrong person? He leaned on the gas pedal, remembered he was a family man, and eased off to within the posted speed limit. Barely within. Damn it, he did want to get home sometime or other.
Maybe he ought to phone Bill about the tapes. If there were no facilities to play them at the house, Bill might prefer to meet him at whichever radio station was handiest. He managed to find a drugstore with a pay phone, and dialed.
It was Abigail who answered. “Oh, Max, I’m so glad you called. Sarah wants you to pick her up at the Tolbathys’.”
Oh God, what now? “What’s happened?” He had to grit his teeth to keep from yelling into the phone. “Did she have an accident?”
“Nothing to worry about. It’s just that she went to Bunny Whet’s party and somebody who was leaving backed into her car and smashed one of the headlights. The garage was closed and she couldn’t very well drive all the way home with just one light, so she left her car at the Whets’ and came on with Tom and Hester. She didn’t explain why she chose them particularly; perhaps they needed help with Sal. He’s still on crutches, you know.”
Max hadn’t known and right now he didn’t give a damn. Why should she help Sal Tolbathy? Why wasn’t she home taking care of her own child? For a moment, Max felt a surge of old-fashioned male chauvinist ire. But he was an honest man. He’d brought Sarah into this affair because he wanted her with him and because she was good. He didn’t know how she’d got to Bunny Whet’s, but he could guess it was because she’d happened to bump into Lionel and Young Dork. She’d seen her chance to plug some of the gaps and gone along with them. He’d have done the same. He’d better make up his mind what kind of wife he wanted.
Ah, the hell with it. He wanted Sarah any way she wanted to be, and he was gladder than anybody would ever know that he’d be seeing her in fifteen minutes or so instead of God knew when. He got squared away with Bill about the tapes, bought himself a packet of cheese crackers at the soda fountain, and went back to the car.
When Max got to the Tolbathys’, he found Sarah waiting for him with her coat on. “Abigail phoned to say you’d called them and were on your way,” Tom explained. “You’re welcome to stay and visit a while,” he added rather wistfully, “but I know they’re anxious to see you. And we did have a good talk with Sarah.”
Once they were in the car, Sarah made her report. Buck Tolbathy had dropped in at his parents’ house after they got back, to get a report on Bunny’s bonanza and offer whatever help Sal might need getting ready for bed. Sarah had managed to steer the conversation back to the Morris dancers and pick up a few more nuggets about who’d been where at the crucial time during the revel.
“The Abbotts did go to that wedding, so they’re out. Sal Tolbathy pulled a ligament and had to get a neighbor to take him to the emergency room at the hospital, so he’s out. Buck came straight from the dancing green into the pavilion and stayed there all through the banquet. So did Young Dork, and they both have different witnesses to prove they did. Erp and Monk were frisking around with the serving wenches a good deal, and Hester was keeping a sharp eye on them because one of her granddaughters brought an absolutely adorable friend who’s only fourteen years old and a bit precocious. That Ogham man from Schenectady sat and pigged out for two hours straight, according to Buck. He hadn’t had a chance to get any breakfast before he got on the plane, then he had to come straight to the Billingsgates’ and get into his dancing
clothes, so he was starving.”
“So that leaves Tick and Lionel,” said Max.
“I know, dear. I tried everything I knew, but I couldn’t get any real line on either of them. Tick was here, there, and everywhere; they all agreed on that but nobody could offer anything definite. That man must have absolutely boundless energy. As for Lionel, when I asked him about it at the Whets’, he tried to make me believe he was right there in the pavilion. But I don’t buy it, Max, and none of the Tolbathys could vouch for him. I don’t know what to think. He’s such a pipsqueak!”
“You know him better than I do,” was the safest reply Max could think of. “What about the costumes? Did you get any line on them?”
“Yes, I did. I thought Lorista must have made them, but it turns out Professor Ufford borrowed them from some folk dancing group he was affiliated with. Normally the men wear more conventional costumes of black knee pants and red waistcoats with white shirts and stockings, and black straw hats they trim with flowers or ribbons or whatever, according to the season. They didn’t think much of the doublet and hose getup. Buck Tolbathy said it made him feel like a jack in the box.”
“I can imagine. So what happened to the costumes afterward?”
“Lorista picked them up Saturday from the woman who takes care of them for the folk dancers. She and Young Dork brought them to the Billingsgates’ Sunday morning about half-past ten so the dancers could change into them as they arrived. There wasn’t an extra one; I asked. The men kept their costumes on for the banquet and the dancing afterward, but changed back before they went home. All but the Abbotts, who had to leave early and change in the car, as you know. Buck said he helped Young Dork carry them out to Dork’s station wagon, and there were seven because he counted them to make sure. Lorista collected the remaining two from Lilias Abbott this morning and returned all nine to the woman she’d gotten them from, along with a check to pay for the dry cleaning. She counted them again when she got there to make sure she wasn’t overpaying. So that’s that, as far as I can see. Max, you don’t suppose Lionel was knocked out and had his costume taken off him, then put back on? That could explain the temporary amnesia about where he was at the start of the banquet.”
“It’s the only possible explanation.”
“All right, darling, you don’t have to get nasty. Did they find the bicycle?”
“I passed the word along from the radio station right after you called me but I don’t know what’s happened, if anything. When Abigail gave me your message I just said, ‘I’ll see you later’ and came straight to the Tolbathys’. What was this party you went to?”
“Remember I told you about bumping into Lionel and Young Dork at that store I phoned you from?”
“Yes, quite a coincidence.”
“I thought so, too, but it really wasn’t. The Kellings know scads of people in Milton. I suppose I was bound to run into somebody or other during rush hour at such a handy stopping-off place. Anyway, it turned out Bunny Whet had won three million dollars in the state lottery and Elizabeth felt like celebrating because now they won’t have to keep on turning over their dividend checks from the trust fund to Bunny’s bat preserves.”
“Sarah!”
“I know, dear. But you’ll be relieved to know he hasn’t been putting any bells in the belfries. He says the bats don’t seem to notice. Did you manage to get any dinner?”
“Not yet. I’m going to throw myself on Abigail’s mercy, which means we’ll never have the gall to send them a bill. How about you?”
“Elizabeth served soup and sandwiches.”
The soup had been canned tomato, slightly overwatered. The sandwiches had been single slices of processed cheese on spongy white bread. Sarah didn’t tell Max because she knew what he’d say. After all, Elizabeth had been fairly heroic about Bunny’s giving his three million dollars to the bats.
Nevertheless, she didn’t say no when they got to the Billingsgates’ and were pressed to partake of a light collation. They couldn’t see Boadicea Kelling yet because Dr. Maude was with her. Drusilla was standing by to let them know when to come up. Meanwhile, though the peacock pie had gone to the deserving poor, there was plenty of roast capon and Cook had made fresh baking powder biscuits. For once, Abigail wasn’t offering them any honey.
At the table, Sarah chatted, about Bunny Whet’s windfall and the people she’d seen at the party while Abigail and Bill made sociable noises and Max ate pretty much in silence. As soon as the plates were cleared, though, she got down to business.
“Did the police find the bicycle?”
Bill shook his head. “I believe they’ve given it up as a bad job. Grimpen stopped by about half-past six to say they were knocking off for the night. They did find a plastic container that had evidently been used to hold the syrup.”
“What kind of plastic container?” Max wanted to know.
“The ordinary sort that gets used in a kitchen,” Abigail told him. “Squarish, with a colored plastic top. You can buy them in any supermarket. We have a bunch of them around. I expect you do, too.”
“Oh yes,” Sarah agreed. “They’re handy for leftovers and freezing things. Or bringing soup to the afflicted.” Both Miriam and Mother Bittersohn were fairly big on plastic containers. “Where did they find it, Bill?”
“In among the clover, not far from where—” Bill hesitated.
Abigail squeezed his hand. “Sarah and I aren’t squeamish, dear. Naturally it would be near Versey’s body. You couldn’t throw one of those things very far because they’re too light to pick up any momentum. But what’s all this about a bicycle, Sarah? We haven’t had one of those on the place since Melly was a little girl. She fell off and broke her collarbone and we decided to go into beekeeping instead.”
“It’s just a hunch I have. And I’ll bet I know one place where Grimpen didn’t think to look. Would you excuse me, please?”
“But don’t you want to see Bodie?”
“Yes, of course, but this will only take a minute. Has Cook gone home?”
“I believe so. If you’re concerned about helping with the dishes—”
“No, they can wait. Coming, Max?”
“Sure, kid.” He was on his feet and they were out the door. “Where to?”
“Down there.”
“You don’t mean that other shed where the gardener keeps his mowers? Grimpen can’t have been dumb enough to overlook that.”
“I expect he could have been if he’d tried hard enough, but that’s not what I had in mind. Can’t you think of another place on this estate that must have been tacitly put out of bounds for the time being?”
Max gave her a startled look. “Yes, I can. Okay, let’s have a look.”
20
COOK AND BOB WERE both at home. Both put on a decent show of being pleased to see them. Cook didn’t get out of her oversized rocking chair, they wouldn’t have expected that, but she did vouchsafe them a gracious nod.
“I hope you got enough to eat up at the house? I made extra biscuits just in case.”
“Thank you, yes,” Sarah replied. “I must beg you for your recipe when we don’t have more pressing business at hand.”
“Ah, but it’s not merely the recipe, it’s the frame of mind. Biscuits require tranquility. I have a special mantra I keep for biscuits. For deviled eggs, on the other hand, I really have to work myself up. Fortunately Mr. and Mrs. Billingsgate aren’t overly fond of deviled eggs. It’s mostly when the grandchildren come and want a picnic lunch. Not that I mind, you understand, but those deviled eggs do take a lot out of me. Green tomato mincemeat’s the worst, though. Melisande always loved my green tomato mincemeat. She was at me last fall to put some up for the holidays, but I had to tell her flat out: ‘Melisande,’ I said, ‘I simply cannot risk total destruction of my equanimity. I’m not so young as I was, Melisande’ I said. ‘I don’t bounce back the way I used to.’”
“Happens to us all sooner or later,” Max sympathized.
Cook was
gathering her forces for further remark, but Sarah had had enough small talk that evening to last her a while. “Cook,” she said, “have you been in Rufus’s bedroom today?”
Cook managed a quarter turn of her head and the raising of an eyebrow, which probably raised hob with her equanimity. “I have not.”
“Have you, Bob?”
“Not me,” said the gardener. “See, Monday’s my regular day for Mr. Hohnser and I’d promised him I’d work with him today on his roses. Mr. Hohnser’s got this big rose garden, see, with over a hundred different varieties, some of them rare specimens. As you might expect, he’s pretty fussy about who takes care of it. So anyway, I’d promised him definitely that I’d be with him all day today, rain or shine, the revel notwithstanding. Mr. Billingsgate said I’d better go as usual because we were trying to maintain the illusion that there was nothing wrong here, as you know.”
“So you were gone all last Monday and all day today?”
“I was. And the week before and the one before that and so on back into March, as soon as it got so we could work outside. I leave here at a quarter past eight in the morning and don’t get home till a quarter to seven at night. They give me my meals over there, and coffee breaks and all that. It’s not as if he worked me like a dog, as you might think. We do put in a full day, I’m not saying we don’t, but what takes me so long is that Mr. Hohnser doesn’t just like to grow roses, he likes to talk about roses.”
The Silver Ghost Page 18