Castle Murders

Sixteen Peele Castle

The dining hall was uncomfortably quiet. A mood of apprehension hovered, the clink of silverware louder than the tones of hushed conversation. No one joked, no one laughed. A half-hogshead of wine was consumed.

The food was plentiful, mostly fish and fowl. The selection of wildfowl was especially cosmopolitan, including bittern, shoveler, pewit, godwit, quail, dotterl, heronsew, crane, snipe, plover, redshank, pheasant, grouse, and curlew. The catch of the day was turbot, baked with capers and lemon, but flounder, cod, pike, snapper, haddock, shad, and swordfish were available ― broiled or baked with various garnishes ― along with sturgeon, lobster, crayfish, oysters, herring, and shrimp. The only meat was wild boar with mint jelly. The soup choice was chicken consommé or julienne with asparagus tips. For dessert: fruit in abundance and variety, nuts, several kinds of fruit tart, cheeses, and an assortment of cakes, from hazelnut torte to raspberry-rum shortcake. Cognac and liqueur were served with chicory-laced coffee and herb tea.

The cooks tendered their apologies for the limited bill of fare, pleading short notice and Peele's primitive kitchen.

The lady Sheila Jankowski had arrived at Peele with her husband, the prince. Trent, Sheila, Dalton, and Thaxton dined together at a side table.

Sheila was red-haired and beautiful with a creamy complexion and bright green eyes. Her mouth was a trifle large but sensuous. She seemed in good spirits, but there was something anxious in her eyes. She was worried for her husband. She was also outspoken; at least she tended to be so in the company of Dalton and Thaxton, whom she considered friends.

"It may sound terrible," she said, "but if there was ever an's.o.b. who deserved it more, I don't know who it could have been, short of Hitler."

"Or Stalin," Trent added. "Everybody leaves out Stalin."

"I guess that sounds awful, huh?"

Sheila was looking at Thaxton. "We've been getting a progressively darker picture of Oren," he said.

"You don't know the half of it. Trent told me you know about the run-in we had with him."

"We know he assaulted you," Dalton said.

"Well, he nearly raped me. Two seconds more and it would have been rape, but Trent walked in. The creep cornered me in the conservatory and it was like dealing with an octopus. I mean, first he was charming and everything, but then he got grabby, and then… well, it was just amazing. I couldn't believe he was doing it with all those people around. The guy was nuts. I knew he made a play for just about every woman he met, but I didn't think he was a maniac. I guess he thought Trent had married this hooker or something, because he just seemed to assume that I put out for anybody who asked. He was actually surprised when I resisted. What a creep."

Trent was staring into his soup.

"I'm sorry, darling," she said with a hand on his arm. "Does it upset you when I talk about it?"

"No, not at all, dear. It's just that you wouldn't make a very good defense lawyer." He smiled. "Forget it. Eat your fish."

"I'm not hungry." Sheila let go of her fork. "I suppose I should shut my big mouth. I'm just setting you up with a good motive."

"Tyrene already has me at the head of his suspect list."

"Well, he's crazy. You're no murderer. What about it, guys? You don't think Trent did it, do you?"

"Never crossed our mind," Dalton said.

Trent chuckled. "I'll bet. Okay, I'll come out and say it. I wanted to kill Oren, and I would have if Sheila hadn't put her foot down."

"I told him I wouldn't stand for the dueling bit," Sheila said. "I sure wasn't going to sit at home sweating, wondering whether my husband was going to come home in a pine box. No way."

"She persuaded me to call it off," Trent said. "Chicken out. And I was about to send word to Oren that I wouldn't be showing up for our little affair of honor, when we got a note from his second saying that Oren wanted a postponement, pleading illness. Well, there the matter rested. He never broached the subject again, and neither did I. For all I know he chickened out, but he was a pretty able duelist, so the excuse might have been genuine. However, he was aware that I was the better swordsman. In my opinion, I would have killed him."

"If anyone wanted to kill him, it would be Lord Belgard," Sheila said. "Oren and Lady Rowena had been having an affair for years. I'm sorry, my big mouth again."

"Tyrene has known it for years, along with everybody else," Trent said. "But Belgard wasn't anywhere near Oren when the murder happened. If it happened when I walked past."

"We've heard that Oren made no secret of his liaison with Lady Rowena," Thaxton said.

"You're referring to his habit of playing grab-ass under Belgard's nose?" Trent said. "Rowena and Oren did that all the time. She despises her husband and enjoys the hell out of showing him up a cuckold. Belgard never spoke up because he knew that in order to stop it he'd have to challenge Oren, and he knew damn well that Oren would kill him. Belgard can't fence his way out of a paper sack. And he's a worse shot, so there's no help there either."

"I suppose that makes Belgard a poor candidate for knife-throwing," Thaxton commented.

"I don't know about his knife-wielding abilities," Trent said. "Seems unlikely that he could have done it, but you never know."

"Seems unlikely that anyone could have done it, or would have done it in all that company," Dalton put in, "except that you heard the thing whiz past. That must have been the knife, and that means someone threw it."

Thaxton said, "Trent, the way you described it, I got the impression it made quite a racket."

"It was loud. And it didn't sound like a thrown knife. It didn't swish so much as it shooshed. By that I mean that it didn't sound as though it was rotating as it flew. This is just hindsight, mind you. I didn't give it any thought at the time. I just assumed it was a large bird or a bat or something. Or an insect, as I said."

"Must have been traveling at a terrific clip," Thaxton said.

"That's occurred to me," Trent said. "But who could have thrown it with such force?"

"I suppose there's no such thing as a knife catapult," Thaxton said. "Something on the order of a crossbow, only propelling a knife or dagger?"

"Never heard of such an animal," Trent said. "But there are any number of universes with stranger things in them."

"But the culprit would have had to conceal the thing on his person," Dalton said. "Or get rid of it quick. Stash it somewhere."

"Tyrene's lads would have found it," Thaxton said.

"They missed the murder weapon," Dalton said.

"We all missed the murder weapon." Thaxton took a sip of wine. "Still thinking about that."

"It is a puzzling aspect of this case," Trent said, "among others."

"There are a lot of problems," Dalton said. "Like, for instance, if the knife was thrown, who pulled it out and dropped it?"

"Maybe he was stabbed somewhere else," Sheila said. "I'm just going on what Trent told me on the way here. Couldn't someone have stabbed him in the castle and gone back into the garden and dropped the knife?"

"No one saw anybody leave the garden and come back in," Dalton said.

"Maybe someone in the castle?"

"But no one strange was seen to come into the garden. If the murder happened in the castle, you have to explain how the murder weapon wound up in the garden."

"What about a servant?" Sheila asked.

"Tyrene's questioned most of the servants," Thaxton told her. "At the time Oren left the garden, all the servants who were serving at the party were in the garden. They were all busy as the devil. No one was seen leaving and returning."

Trent said, "Suppose that sound I heard was a bird. Suppose there was no thrown knife. Let's say Oren gets a sudden urge to leave the party and gets up and walks off. Someone near the portal stabs him just as he walks through. Oren continues into the castle and dies a short way down the corridor. The culprit accidentally drops the knife near where the viscount was sitting. Just coincidence. How's that for a scenario?"

"Fine," Thaxton said, "except that no one saw anyone near the portal."

"No one happened to be looking. It was luck," Trent said. "Good for the murderer, bad for us."

"Possible," Thaxton said. "Possible. But the coincidence of the knife dropping at that spot strains credulity a bit."

"Lady Rilma's testimony about hearing her husband grunt makes me think that something happened at that moment," Dalton said. "In fact, I'm almost convinced of it."

Sheila snorted. "She's another one."

"How so, Sheila?" Thaxton asked.

"Another suspect. Trent, didn't you tell me that she once stabbed Oren?"

Trent nodded. "It was a good while ago. Rilma's unstable, always has been. She's been in and out of institutions. And, yes, she did actually stab Oren once. In the arm, with a pair of scissors. Superficial wound. But she did it, all right. She was hospitalized for a time after that. She hasn't done anything like that since, though."

"Nevertheless that's very interesting," Dalton said. "So she could have heard him grunt in pain all right, but maybe she's just repressing the fact that she was the cause of it. Maybe it was a case of temporary insanity. That would explain the dropped knife and her not caring or maybe even not knowing about it."

"Possible," Thaxton said. "You're thinking, old boy."

"So," Trent said, sitting back in his chair. "I'm walking by, and this bird buzzes me. I don't see it, and I don't see Lady Rilma draw a stiletto and stab her husband, and nobody else sees anything either. Oren doesn't say a word to anyone, just gets up and leaves, dying with each step."

All four of them were silent for a moment. Trent sat up and resumed eating his soup, which had gone quite cold. He took one slurp, put the spoon down, and pushed the bowl away. He sat back again.

"No," Thaxton said, "it didn't happen that way. No."

"But how did it happen?" Sheila said.

"No one knows. That's what makes a good mystery. Which, in a book, makes for enjoyable reading. In reality, here and now, it's frightful."

"And frightening," Sheila said. "To think the murderer is in this room. He or she is here right now, eating with us. And here we sit calmly."

"My palms are sweaty," Dalton said.

"You get that, too?" Sheila asked. "I've always had a problem with sweaty palms. I get so nervous sometimes."

"Here comes Tyrene," Thaxton said.

The Captain of the Guard came directly to the foursome's table and greeted each in turn.

"May I join you?"

"By all means," Trent said, pulling out a chair.

Tyrene sat. "I've got Mirabilis' report. It was a knife wound all right. The blade chipped a rib, penetrated the left lung, and just missed severing the pulmonary artery, making a medium-sized slit in it. Of course there was immediate hemorrhaging. But the rate of blood loss was slow enough to give the victim some time. There were signs of healing around the slit."

"Healing?" Dalton said. "How can that be?"

"Magic," Tyrene said.

"Magic?"

"Yes, healing magic, presumably cast by Oren himself. Here is what seems to have happened: When Oren realized that he'd been stabbed, he did the sensible thing. Forthwith, he left the garden aspect, where his magic wouldn't work, and went back into the castle, where it would. Now, as far as I know, Oren was no magician's magician, but as a castle resident he knew some potent enchantments, as do we all. Healing and general health-preserving spells are common, and he doubtless knew a few. He must have magicked like mad as soon as he got into Perilous, summoning all his powers. And they were nearly sufficient. He almost succeeded. However, he knew magic alone couldn't save him. Immediate surgery was required. He must have known that his heart had sustained a mortal wound. So he took a gamble. He could have returned home and gone to a hospital there, but his aspect is a ten-minute walk from the garden aspect. Dr. Mirabilis' office is just as far, and in any event the doctor is not equipped for major trauma surgery. There was a hospital close by, though, through the aspect in the alcove where you found him. He gambled in that he did not know whether that periodic aspect was open or closed at the time. He lost."

"What aspect was it?" Thaxton wanted to know.

"It's called Klingsor," Tyrene said, "and though it's not technologically developed in most respects, it does boast excellent surgeons who do wonders with relatively primitive equipment. And the hospital near the aspect specializes in trauma surgery. Oren might have survived had he made it to that hospital. But his magic wasn't strong enough. The wound was too severe, and he lost too much blood too quickly. He lost consciousness, the healing process stopped, and he bled to death."

"That explains why he left the party in a big hurry," Trent said, "why he went back into the castle, and what he was doing in that alcove."

"Yes, it does. And it puts to rest any notion that he was attacked inside the castle."

"Any report on the murder weapon yet?" Thaxton asked.

"There were no fingerprints. The instrument was completely clean."

Thaxton nodded, smiling half in regret, half in satisfaction.

"It's a common artifact," Tyrene continued, "manufactured in the Helvian aspect, and its like must be sold in a thousand street markets in that world. Cheap steel, plain boxwood haft, brass hilt. The blade barely holds an edge, but it will do the job as long as no fancy cutting is involved. Perfect knife for stabbing."

"If not for throwing," Thaxton said.

"No, it's not intended as a throwing knife, but it is balanced quite well, the only thing well-made about it. It's not entirely a stiletto, yet not quite a poniard."

"So it could have been thrown?" Dalton asked.

"I suppose," Tyrene said. "Though as of now I don't think it was. Someone stabbed the viscount at close range. That, I think, is certain."

No one asked the obvious.

"But my investigation is far from over," Tyrene went on. "I must interview anyone who could have seen what happened. And that means almost everyone at the fête. By the way, the blood on the knife matches Oren's blood type. There's no doubt it was the murder weapon."

Tyrene rose. "I have a number of people to interview. If you will excuse me… Lady Sheila, Your Royal Highness." Tyrene bowed stiffly.

"See you later, Tyrene," Trent said.

"Gentlemen," Tyrene said, then left.

"He just about came out and said he thinks I did it," Trent observed.

"I think he suspects Lady Rilma more than you," Thaxton said.

"Maybe I'm just paranoiac." Trent turned to his wife. "Are you through, darling?"

"I can't touch a thing. I'm so upset by all this."

"You really should eat something. No late-night snacks here."

She took a bite of snapper, chewed perfunctorily. "It's gone cold, and I'm tired, for some reason. Can't we ―?"

"Good evening, Your Highness ― Lady Sheila."

Trent looked up. "Damik. Hello."

Thaxton and Dalton stood.

Trent remained seated. "May I present Messieurs Dalton and Thaxton? Gentlemen, His Excellency, Count Damik of Ultima Thule."

The count clicked his heels and bowed his head. "Gentlemen."

The two hapless golfers bowed.

"Please," the count said, "be seated. I do not mean to disturb your meal, but there is something I must tell you, Trent."

"Sit down, Damik."

"Thank you so much."

"Some wine?"

"None, thank you. I've dined."

"What's up?"

"It's about all this business, of course. Tyrene suspects me."

"Whatever reason would he have?"

"Because of the succession squabble in Thule. Despite my pleas, Oren chose to throw his support to the House of Dou and against my allies and relatives, the Zoltans. He has ― had ― heavy investments in provinces controlled by the Dou clan. He chose to follow the dictates of his pocketbook rather than honor a friendship. On that basis alone, I am suspect. The fact that I also have an admittedly fetishistic love for knives and bladed weapons of every sort seems to be enough to condemn me out of hand."

"Rest easy, my friend," Trent said. "Tyrene doesn't really believe you did it."

"He doesn't? I wish he would be so kind as to point this out to me!"

"The investigation's far from over. He's not even at the hypothesis stage yet in choosing his suspects. Sure, you're on the list. So am I. Hell, lots of people hated Oren's guts."

"I didn't! That's the irony of it. I didn't hold his political decisions against him. He was a friend, though I will be the first to admit that he had many faults. But he was… he knew how to have a good time. He was a jolly fellow, sometimes."

Trent gave a half-shrug. "I wouldn't know. We never socialized."

"Yes, well, of course I understand completely why he was in bad odor with you. However, there is another disturbing fact that I wish to relate to you. I need advice."

"Shoot."

The count looked one way, then another. Leaning forward, he said quietly, "I know who the knife belongs to."

"You do?" Thaxton said, his eyebrows arching.

"I saw this person purchase the weapon when last I was in Helvius. It was at an open-air market in the village of Fliebas. I shall not name this person. At least not yet."

"You don't know that the weapon you saw being bought was the murder weapon," Trent pointed out. "Those knives are pretty common. I had one like it once, long time ago."

"Yes, but this was recently. True, my observation does not categorically establish the person's guilt, but this fact should be brought to light. I feel obligated to report it to Tyrene, compelled, if not by friendship for Oren, then by a sense of duty."

"Then by all means tell Tyrene about it."

"But… of course there is the inevitable odium attached to the act of informing."

"I understand," Trent said. "But you shouldn't let that deter you."

"Yes, I suppose you are right. I must give some thought to this matter." The count rose, drawing Dalton and Thaxton to their feet.

"Thank you very much for the advice," the count said to Trent.

"I'm sure you'll make the right decision," the prince replied.

"I think I shall retire early this evening. Gentlemen, the pleasure was all mine. Good evening, Your Highness… my lady."

"Good night, Damik," Sheila said. "Take care."

The count bowed deeply and left.

"I'd hate to be in his shoes," Sheila remarked. "Especially if it was a friend I suspected."

"I wish he'd told us who it was," Thaxton said. "But I suppose he couldn't go around making accusations, no matter how well-founded."

"That knife is a very common make," Trent commented. "No doubt the murderer chose it for that very reason."

"No doubt," Thaxton said.

Trent suddenly got up. "I forgot to mention something to Damik. I'll be right back." He walked out of the dining hall.

Conversation shifted to lighter topics while Dalton demolished a roast sage hen. He claimed that the sea air had sharpened his appetite. Thaxton was in the middle of telling a story about grouse-shooting in Dorset when a scream came from the anteroom of the dining hall.

Everyone rushed outside.

There, in the middle of the foyer, stood Princess Dorcas. At her feet lay Damik, eyes closed. Trent was standing close by, along with Lord Belgard and Lady Rilma. All seemed stunned.

Thaxton and Dalton got to him first. He was lying face up, a red stain marring his white blouse.

"Dead?" Dalton asked.

Thaxton took his hand from the count's neck. "Quite. The knife went right through the heart."

Tyrene elbowed his way through the crowd. Thaxton stood up and stepped aside while the captain examined the corpse.

"Dalton, old boy?"

Dalton came to Thaxton's side.

"What is it?"

"I just kicked something."

"You just kicked something?"

"As I stepped back, I felt my shoe hit something, and I heard something clatter. I don't see a thing, do you?"

Dalton looked around. "Nothing for it to hide under. Are you sure?"

"Quite sure. What do you make of it?"

"Thaxton, old fellow, I don't have a clue."

Thaxton stared at the count's body.

"I think I do," he said.