Castle Murders

Thirteen Seacoast

Peele Castle sat with its back to the sea atop a high chalk cliff. It looked like something out of a fairy tale, a fantasy of high towers and crenellated battlements. The sun declined behind it, throwing a sheen of reddish light over the water. Gulls wheeled in the evening sky, white against the darkening blue. Far out to sea, the dark stripe of a squall line edged the horizon.

Thaxton and Dalton sat on a knoll overlooking the scene.

"Looks like bad weather coming in," Thaxton said.

"Yup. God, isn't it picturesque?"

"It is that."

"_It was many and many a year ago, in a kingdom by the sea,'" Dalton recited. "_That a maiden there lived, whom you may know, by the name of Annabel Lee.'"

"Keats?"

"Poe."

"Oh, yes. American."

"Here's the princess."

They both stood as Dorcas approached barefoot, sandals in hand.

"Good evening, gentlemen. It was a nice walk, wasn't it? It seems we're the first to arrive."

"Couldn't pick a more charming spot to spend the night," Dalton commented.

"I've spent many a night in Peele," she said. "When I was young we came here often. I spent whole summers here."

"Are there any local inhabitants?" Thaxton asked.

"No. This land is deserted. The population disappeared long ago. Plague was the cause, it's thought, though it happened so far back, no one is sure."

"Pity. It's beautiful country. Reminds me of England a bit."

"This world is a variant of Earth, and this land was very similar to England."

Dorcas looked landward across the grassy plateau. "Here comes everybody."

A line of horse-and-riders was approaching, servants and others walking behind.

"Your Highness," Thaxton said, "may I ask about the jewel you wear on your forehead?"

"Yes, of course. It symbolizes the Interior Eye, the Eye of Yahura the Seer. It has to do with the religion of my adopted country, my husband's native land."

"How interesting. I'd like to hear more about it."

"Certainly. Later, if you wish."

"May I ask, ma'am, whether you knew the viscount well?"

"I knew him, his wife. I saw them at various affairs over the years. I couldn't say we were friendly. Still, it's a terrible thing that's happened."

"Oh, quite. Did the viscount have many enemies?"

Dalton seemed uncomfortable. "I'm sure Her Highness doesn't ―"

"I can understand your interest," the princess said, "having discovered the body. It must have been a shock."

"It was. I hope you don't find my questions too impertinent, ma'am, but, as you said, our curiosity is naturally very high. And our concern, of course."

"As is everyone else's. The murderer must be brought to justice. He cannot be permitted to go free." The princess seemed to retreat into herself, her gaze deflecting momentarily. Then she looked at Thaxton. "Yes. To answer your question, the viscount was not liked by many people. Whether he had enemies, I don't know."

"Thank you, ma'am."

She looked toward the sea. "I think I'll sit by the cliff and watch the sunset before I go in. I must meditate."

They watched her go down the knoll and walk toward the cliff's edge.

"Odd."

"What?" Dalton asked.

"When she said _He must not be permitted to go free' I got the distinct impression that she had someone specific in mind."

"I sort of did, too, now that you mention it."

Their room was small but had a spectacular view of the ocean through casements of leaded glass. The servant, an elderly man with a shiny bald head, swung the panes out to let in tangy salt air.

"Servant's quarters, I suspect," Thaxton said, looking around.

Dalton said, "It'll do. Hard to get used to an ordinary castle with limited space."

"One bed," Thaxton noted, dubiously eyeing the not-quite-double bed.

"I can fetch a cot, sir," the servant offered.

"Oh, don't bother on my account," Thaxton said. "One regrettable aspect of the current openness about things is that there's now something slightly questionable about two men occupying the same bed. Used to be no one gave it a second thought."

"I remember," Dalton said. "But I like to stretch out, and besides, I thrash in my sleep sometimes, or so my late wife used to tell me."

"I'll tell one of the boys to fetch it right up, sir."

"Thank you…?"

"Ruford, sir."

"Thank you, Ruford."

Thaxton remarked, "You were at the fête, weren't you?"

"Yes, sir."

"I suppose you saw nothing suspicious, either?"

"Ah… no, sir. I did not."

"You didn't see the viscount get up and leave?"

"No, sir."

"See anything happen right before that?"

"Ah… specifically what, sir?"

"Oh, anything that went on, for instance, between the viscount and his lady."

Ruford looked away. "I did serve the viscount and Lady Rilma, yes, sir."

"Did they talk?"

Ruford seemed reluctant to speak.

Thaxton nodded. "I realize I'm asking you to talk about your employer ―"

"Sir, I am not employed by the viscount. I am head of staff here at Peele."

"I understand your reluctance. But this is important. Did Tyrene interview you yet?"

"No, sir."

Dalton said, "Thaxton, maybe we'd better wait. After all, it's not our ―"

"Hold off just a moment, old man. Ruford, Mr. Dalton and I are acting in an advisory capacity to the investigation. We will keep anything you say in strictest confidence."

Dalton gave his golf partner a strange look.

Ruford sighed. "Very well, sir. Yes, I heard them speaking."

"And?"

"They were arguing, sir."

"About what?"

"I didn't hear all of it, sir, but the lady said something to the effect that he ought not to have done it right in front of her."

"Done what?"

"Oh, dear." Ruford's face reddened.

"He was making improper advances?"

Ruford raised his thin eyebrows. "Yes, sir."

Thaxton's aside to Dalton was: "Just a wild guess." Of Ruford he asked, "To whom? Lady Rowena?"

"Yes."

"That's Lord Belgard's wife?"

"Yes, sir."

"While they were playing at hedge ball?"

"Yes, sir. I myself saw it."

"And Lord Belgard, too, I presume."

"Yes, sir, I suppose the lord did see it. He was right there."

"Interesting. Under her husband's nose. And the viscount and Lady Rilma argued over this. She berated him?"

"She did, sir."

"And what was his reaction?"

"He told her to be quiet. Then… he threw something at her."

"He did?"

"Yes, sir. A wing of capon."

"It struck her?"

"Yes, sir. In the face."

"And what did she do or say?"

"Nothing, sir. She just got the palest look on her."

"Pale? Was she afraid, do you think?"

"No, sir. It was anger, sir. The kind that drains the blood from the face and makes the lips waxen. That kind of anger, sir. Cold anger. She looked as though…"

"She looked as though what?"

"As though she were going to strike him back, sir. Only harder."

"Did she make any attempt?"

"No, sir. None. She just sat there."

"Did you hear or see anything else?"

"I'm afraid not, sir. That is all I have to tell."

"You didn't see Trent ―?"

"Oh, please, sir. I saw nothing." Ruford cast his eyes to the floor. "It is not my place to talk about the brother of the king."

"In a court of law, you'd be obliged to," Thaxton reminded him.

"Yes, sir. I would. But not until then, and not until his lordship the judge puts the question, and I am bound by law and principle to answer."

"I see. Well, thank you, Ruford. That's all for now."

"You're quite welcome, sir. I'll see to the cot straightaway."

When the door closed, Dalton said, "That was hard for him."

"Well, servants, you know."

"I do know that there's more than one mystery to all this."

"Eh? What's that?"

"You."

"Me? Whatever do you mean?"

Dalton sat on a hard-backed wooden chair. "I've never seen you like this. I can't fathom this amazing transformation that's come over you."

"Just what amazing transformation is that, old man?"

"This is the first time I've ever seen you… interested in something. You're animated, you're involved. And you have the makings of becoming a damn fine amateur sleuth. Where on earth did you learn all that forensic medicine?"

Thaxton chuckled. "I'm faking it, old man. I don't know all that much about forensic medicine or, for that matter, anything else. What I do know was learned out of murder mysteries."

"You're kidding."

"Not at all. Used to read three a week sometimes when I was married. Not much else to do. Sayers, Christie, Chesterton, Bentley, the lot. And I was raised on Conan Doyle. Most fiction leaves me cold, but I love a good mystery. Gets the blood racing."

"Absolutely amazing."

"Detection? Hardly. All it takes is having no qualms about asking indelicate questions."

"No powers of deduction? No keen eye?"

"Overrated. I certainly can't tell from a spot of clay on a man's boots that he's recently been in Lyme Regis or that his dog has beriberi or any of that Holmesian nonsense. But it doesn't take much to deduce that someone killed the viscount and that it was probably somebody at the party, who either threw a knife or stabbed him in the back and dropped the knife."

Dalton nodded. "And now we know it could have been Lady Rilma."

"Yes, she now tops the list. And it makes much more sense than the knife-throwing business. If the knife was thrown and it stuck deeply in the viscount's back, who pulled it out?"

Dalton tried reaching to the middle of his back. "I suppose he could have, though I can't imagine anything harder or more painful than pulling a knife out of one's own back. And… now, what I know about these matters you can't stuff a flea's backside with, and I've read Sayers and everybody else ― but don't people die when they get stabbed in the back? I mean, immediately? I was always under the impression it was a pretty quick thing. All of which is leading up to saying that it just might be that he was stabbed in the castle."

"About murder, I only know what I see in films and read in novels," Thaxton said. "But one thing I do know. Somebody stabbed the viscount as he sat eating, and then either deliberately or accidentally dropped the knife."

"All right, but why drop the knife right there? Why not throw it in the bushes or in the pond? Why no attempt to dispose of something that could be traced?"

"Maybe it can't be traced."

"Fingerprints?"

Thaxton stared out the window. "Something tells me that there won't be any fingerprints on that thing."

"Why not, if Lady Rilma stabbed him, as you seem to be suggesting?"

"No reason at the moment. Just have a feeling it'll be clean as a choir loft."

"So you don't suspect Lady Rilma."

"She could have wiped the knife before dropping it."

"After stabbing him in a sudden rage? Maybe, but it doesn't sound convincing. Damn it." Dalton stood. "Nothing about this business makes sense, and the biggest thing that doesn't make sense is that nobody saw anything. A brutal stabbing, right out in the open, in broad daylight, and no one saw a damn thing."

Thaxton was silent.

Dalton heaved an uneasy breath. "I'm hungry. They said dinner would be in an hour or so. No lunch. I should have grabbed something at the picnic. But ―"

"Magic," Thaxton said.

"Huh?"

Thaxton turned. "Magic's involved somehow. I don't know how."

"Well, that's interesting, because I was talking with Tyrene while you were off somewhere, about how this aspect doesn't have much magic in it. Or difficult magic, if any."

"Nevertheless, I still think magic's the key."

"Anything behind that bit of brilliant deduction? And please don't say it's elementary."

"I wasn't going to. Well, old boy, let's take a walk, shall we? Look around the place."

"Fine."

"We'll deal with alimentary matters later."

"Shameful."

Peele Castle was interesting in a quaint way. The furnishings were in various styles, ranging from the very old to the merely antiquated. The place was a museum. Unicorn tapestries draped the walls, suits of armor stood in corners. It was in many ways much more homey than Perilous. Proportions were on a human scale. Rooms were not overpoweringly large, and there were enough comfy chairs, ottomans, carpets, settees, lamps, and trivet tables to make anyone feel at home.

The lords and ladies were being served drinks in the drawing room. At the sight of so many disgruntled and resentful aristocrats, Thaxton and Dalton demurred and sought refuge in the library.

Dalton browsed the shelves while Thaxton sipped sherry.

"If only I could question them on my own," Thaxton mused. He clucked and shook his head. "Not bloody likely."

"Interesting books," Dalton said. "They look more readable than Osmirik's stuff, though there're a lot of foreign ― wait a minute, here's some English. Good God."

Thaxton broke out of his reverie. "What?"

"Here's a book that's got to be mighty strange."

"Eh? What's that?"

"The Moswell Plan, by Dorcas Bagby."

"Aside from the unlikelihood of running into the name Dorcas twice in one day, what's strange about it?"

"It shouldn't exist. I was a literary agent, but I'm a bibliophile, too. I actually like books, especially obscure and interesting ones. This novel's somewhat of a legend in the obscurity department. Matter of fact, I once tried hunting it down, and my assessment of the whole matter was that it was a hoax concocted by a young fantasy aficionado out in the Midwest. But here it be. I guess I'll be up tonight reading this."

Thaxton got up and looked over the selection. Most of the books looked old, and some were falling apart. He inclined his head and read the lettering on the spines.

"Ever seen magic spelled M-A-G-I-E-K?"

Dalton looked. "Mageek?"

Thaxton pulled the volume out. It was old but in good shape, its sturdy boards covered in fine leather. He opened it to the title page. In spidery print it read:

"Weird spelling but it's English all right," Dalton said. "I like _wichrrye' especially. Those capital Y's have a th sound. So it's just the word the. I make the author out to be Baldor of the Cairn, or something like that. A cairn is a pile of Celtic rocks."

Thaxton thumbed through it. He found something of interest.

"Not what you call page-turning action, but you can make it out," Dalton said, looking over Thaxton's shoulder. "What's it on? Parlor tricks?"

"Interesting," Thaxton said. "Interesting. I think I'll be up reading, too."

A servant appeared at the door.

"Gentlemen, dinner is served."