Bride of the Castle

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

A brilliant flash of lightning split the night sky. Raindrops beaded on the windows like glistening jewels; it had been threatening to rain in earnest all night but never really got around to it. Thunder rolled across the heath, and the wind kept the willows busy rattling their bare branches.

"Three murders," Dalton said, shaking his head. "Three murders and not a lot of clues."

"Or too many," Thaxton said.

They sat in wing chairs by the window of their upstairs bedroom. There was one bed in the room, and although the covers were turned down, the bed remained unslept in.

"Too many suspects is what you have," Dalton said. "And not enough unambiguous clues."

"Or clear motives," Thaxton said gloomily. "Want to go over them again?"

Thaxton shook his head. "We keep going over the same ground. I must say, this one is a puzzler. Nothing like the Peele Castle murders."

They were silent while another flash lit up the room and thunder shook the eaves.

Dalton had mused before asking, "Do you think Wicklow hanged Thayne-Chetwynde and then went to get his milk?"

"Rather cold-blooded, don't you think?"

Dalton shook his head. "His performance of being shocked was fairly convincing."

"It isn't when you consider his acting background."

"Eh? I missed that."

"Motherwell told me while you were downstairs getting a drink. Wicklow is an amateur thespian and often talks about trying his luck as a professional."

"Oh. Well, that doesn't mean much. Does it?"

Thaxton lifted his shoulders. "Perhaps. Perhaps not. As an isolated fact, it's rather neutral. He had no known motive for killing the man."

The conversation lulled for more lightning displays. "Appropriate atmosphere," Dalton commented, looking out the window.

Thaxton was lost in thought.

"You know," Dalton began, "it just could be that-" He was interrupted by a shot coming from outside, followed by shouts.

Both men rose.

"We'd better see about that," Thaxton said grimly.

"Do we have to?" Dalton pleaded.

His friend the amateur sleuth didn't answer as he rushed out of the room. Resigned to the workings of fate, Dalton followed.

Motherwell was at the opened front door, staring out into the rain. He turned at the approach of Dalton and Lord Peter. "They've caught someone skulking," he said. "One of the village men took a shot at him with a shotgun. Missed. They'll be bringing the culprit in shortly. Why don't you gentlemen wait in the conservatory?"

"Who'd be snooping about on a night like this?" Dalton asked Thaxton as they left the foyer.

"More suspects," Thaxton said dourly. "Where is the conservatory, by the way?"

"Here, I think." Dalton said, pushing aside one of a set of double sliding doors.

It was dark inside, and Dalton groped for a light switch. As he did, an oblong shaft of light appeared on the left wall and quickly disappeared with the sound of a door closing.

"Someone just went out the other way!" Thaxton said. "I'll try to catch her!"

"Her?" Dalton wondered, but found he was alone. He wandered blindly into the room and bumped up against something big. A dissonant chord rang out.

"Ouch, damn it. I wish people would watch where they put their damned grand pianos."

He stumbled around the concert grand and walked cautiously out onto the bare floor-and promptly tripped over something. He went sprawling.

"You miserable-!"

Just then the lights came on. Dalton looked up to see Motherwell standing at the light switch, which some idiot of an electrician, probably long ago, had installed well away from the double doors.

"What in the blazes is this?" Motherwell demanded.

"I have no idea," Dalton answered, still on his knees. He stared at the dead body he had just stumbled over. The haft of an ornate dagger grew prettily out of its back.

"The Mahajadi!" Motherwell exclaimed. "And we have his murderer. Bring him in, Featherstone."

Featherstone, along with a villager, escorted the handcuffed prisoner in. It was a small, dark, almost emaciated man wearing a turban or something similar. The rest of his garb was conventional and neat, if a trifle threadbare. Caked mud covered his shoes. He was soaking wet.

"What's your name?" Motherwell demanded of the prisoner.

"I am Shrinam Vespal."

"Why did you kill the Mahajadi? Political reasons?"

"I did not kill him!"

"What were you doing lurking about the property of decent people, then?"

"I wanted to see the Mahajadi. I wanted to speak to him. I have been trying to gain an audience for a year but he would not grant me one."

"Speak to him? About what?"

"About my brother, who is falsely accused and imprisoned in my home country, which the Mahajadi and his family rules."

"So you killed him."

"I swear to you I did not! I merely wanted to ask him to pardon my brother."

"A likely story, but no matter. We'll get the truth out of you sooner or later."

"Good Lord, another one!"

Thaxton entered the conservatory with a tall, long-haired woman in a nightgown in tow.

"What's the meaning of this, Lord Peter?" Motherwell asked.

"Of what?" Thaxton said, disbelieving eyes still on the body.

"Of dragging Miss Pembroke in here!"

"I have no idea myself," Daphne Pembroke said. "I needed a glass of milk-my nerves are a fright-"

"Milk again!" Motherwell said, scowling.

"I'm sorry," Miss Pembroke said haughtily. "Didn't know there was anything wrong with getting a glass of milk to calm one's nerves."

"With killers running about? Really, Miss Pembroke, you'll have to do better than that. There's been another murder."

Miss Pembroke looked at the body as though it were something unpleasant lying in the road. She sniffed. "Oh, dear."

"Yes, quite. Know anything about it?"

"Heavens, no. As I said-"

"We heard the door slam when we came in," Dalton interjected. "Someone was in here."

"Yes, and I caught a glimpse of a woman rushing out," Thaxton said. "Couldn't tell who it was, but the woman had long tresses and was wearing a nightgown." Still holding Miss Pembroke by the arm, he looked her up and down. "This nightgown, in fact."

"Really," said Miss Pembroke. "I haven't the slightest idea what you're talking about."

"Were you in here with the Mahajadi?" Motherwell asked her.

Miss Pembroke looked down her pert nose. "Certainly not. I would not meet with a man in the middle of the night."

"But you had no qualms about gadding about in search of milk. Where did you find her, Lord Peter?"

"Hiding behind a settee in the drawing room. I heard a noise and went in. The nightgown trailing out was the giveaway."

"Well, Miss Pembroke?"

"I admit I got frightened," Miss Pembroke said. "I heard a shot, then shouting, and I slipped into the drawing room to hide."

Motherwell grunted. "Well, you'd best get back to bed. We'll discuss this further in the morning."

"Certainly, Inspector. Good night." Miss Pembroke turned a withering eye on Thaxton, who was still gripping her arm. "If you don't mind?"

Thaxton said, "Hm? Oh, sorry." He let go.

"Thank you," Miss Pembroke said icily.

"Benson, escort the lady to her room."

"Yes, sir," the man named Benson said as he followed Miss Pembroke out of the conservatory.

"Her story sounds reasonable, more or less," Dalton commented.

"She acted guilty enough," Thaxton said.

"Lord Peter," Motherwell said, "can you state positively that you saw Miss Pembroke in this room?"

Thaxton shook his head ruefully. "It was dark, and I got only a glimpse. It could have been Amanda Thripps. They both have long brown hair, as I recall. And I was only bluffing about recognizing the nightgown, hoping to gull her into a confession. All women's nighties look alike to me. I'm afraid I couldn't swear to anything."

"Pity," Motherwell said, then yawned. After recovering he said, "I must get some sleep!"

"Shall we take the prisoner to the station, Inspector?" Featherstone asked.

"No, I want him kept under guard all night. I'll question him first thing in the morning."

"Right, Inspector. We'll take him down to the wine cellar. It has a door with a bolt on it."

"Good thinking, Featherstone. Take care not to fall asleep. And as for you, Mr. — "

"Vespal. Shrinam Vespal."

"Mr. Vespal, we shall see you again come daybreak. You had best get your story straight in your mind."

"There is nothing in my mind but thoughts of freedom for the people of my country! I spit on the body of the dead tyrant!"

He spat several times in the general direction of the Mahajadi.

"Take him away," Motherwell said calmly.

Thaxton was kneeling to examine the body. "This dagger certainly looks Oriental."

"Yes, we'll test it for prints, of course," Motherwell said. "And if we find Mr. Vespal's… well, it'll be open and shut."

"And if you don't?"

"Then, gentlemen, we have another mystery on our hands."

"As if we needed one," Dalton said. "I'm for sleep this time, Lord Peter. No more talk."

Thaxton rose. "Right."

Back upstairs, Dalton collapsed on the bed.

"Rats. They always seem to squeeze us together into the same bed."

"They?" Lord Peter said as he shed his smoking jacket.

"People who own castles and big houses where murders are done."

"Come now, old bean, we don't do this sort of thing often enough to establish patterns." As he spoke, Lord Peter opened the closet door.

Dalton sat up. "You know-" His jaw dropped.

"I mean," Lord Peter went on, "it's not as if we get into murders every day of the week. We… what is it, old man? You look as though you've seen a ghost."

Dalton pointed toward the open closet, inside which someone-rather, the whey-faced remains of someone-was standing. Or had been propped.

Thaxton's back was to the closet. "What the devil is it, Dalton, old boy?"

The body teetered and fell against Thaxton.

Thaxton absently pushed it back. "Pardon me," he said, half-turning. Then the realization hit him. He yelled and jumped away.

The body, in an advanced state of rigor mortis, teetered forward again and fell with a resounding thump.

Both men stared down at it. "Sir Laurence," Dalton said.

Thaxton said, "By God, there's something fishy about all this."