Bride of the Castle (11 page)

“The murder gun, no doubt,” Motherwell said. “Well, this puts a different light on it.”

“By Jove,” Petheridge said quietly.

“Wonder who dropped this,” Motherwell said.

“I'll wager whoever shot him deliberately threw the weapon into the brush,” Thaxton said, bending close to scrutinize the curious thing.

“Why?” Motherwell asked.

Thaxton looked up. “Eh?”

“If the murderer got clean away, why did he ditch the murder weapon?”

Thaxton straightened up and said, “Maybe he didn't want to take any chances being caught with it. How about this: the murderer secretes it on his person when everyone goes out to hunt. He sees Lord Festleton go off by himself and capitalizes on the opportunity. Follows him, shoots him with the sawed-off affair, arranges the body to make the shooting look like an accident, then throws the murder gun into the weeds. He returns to the hunt party with his own gun unfired, thereby fending off any suspicion.”

“Plausible scenario,” Motherwell said. “Or . . .”

“Yes, Inspector?”

“Forgive me, Colonel Petheridge. The alternative is that this gun belongs to Lady Festleton.”

Petheridge grunted.

“Mind you, I'm not saying it's probable,” Motherwell went on. “It simply remains a possibility, given the domestic situation at the Festleton household.”

The colonel grunted again.

Motherwell said, “Featherstone, find anything else out there?”

Featherstone shook his head. “Not much, sir.”

“Any more footprints?”

“Not in the clearing, sir. Plenty elsewhere.”

“Very good. Take this down to the station and get it checked for fingerprints.”

“I doubt you'll find any,” Thaxton commented. “I do believe the lady was wearing gloves.”

“Yes, she was. Another curious thing, that, going out into the cold in a flimsy outfit, but with gloves. But there's always the chance we'll find some prints.” Motherwell sighed. “I think I'm obliged to question Lady Festleton again.”

The colonel scoffed. “I can just picture Honoria down in the cellar, sawing off a gun barrel.”

“Not a likely picture, I admit. But she could have had it done.”

“An accomplice?” Thaxton said.

Motherwell waited until Featherstone left the library. “Yes, the gamekeeper.”

“Good God,” Petheridge muttered. “Well, all the dirty laundry's out.”

“Ah, I see,” Thaxton murmured.

“As you said, Colonel, it's almost common knowledge.”

Thaxton asked, “What's this man's name?”

“Stokes. Clive Stokes.”

“Motive?”

“Don't know yet,” Motherwell said.

“And Lady Festleton's coverin'for him, or in cahoots?”

“Two equally plausible conjectures, my lord. I must say, Lord Peter, you seem to have a keen mind for this sort of thing. Is criminology a hobby of yours?”

“Oh, bit of experience. Solved some murders once. Peele Castle.”

Motherwell's orange eyebrows lifted. “Is that so?”

“He did,” Dalton corroborated. “I was there.”

“The Peele Castle murders. Remarkable. Can't say as I've ever heard of the case, though. You solved it, you say?”

“Lucky guess, really,” Thaxton said. “Tell me, Inspector, is there any chance—?”

A bloodcurdling scream sounded throughout the house. In the library it was not loud, but the sound penetrated, and everyone froze for a second.

“Good
God
,” Petheridge breathed.

“Came from upstairs,” Motherwell said as he hurried toward the door, followed by the colonel, Dalton, and Thaxton.

Blackpool was at the head of the stairs.

“It's Lady Festleton,” he intoned. “The upstairs maid found her.”

The men, now joined by Featherstone and other uniformed policemen, rushed up the stairs, down the hall, and into Lady Festleton's suite.

The chambermaid, a young woman, lay on the bed in a swoon, being nursed by an older woman also wearing a maid's outfit.

Lady Festleton, still attired in her dance-meditation costume, was face down on the floor, her chestnut hair matted with blood. A fireplace poker lay very near.

“Well,” the inspector said as he stood over the body. “No doubt as to the weapon this time.”

“None,” Thaxton agreed. “And we also know that the murderer is in this house.”

“Yes, quite. My men would have seen someone come and leave. Bloody hell.” Motherwell turned. “Featherstone! Don't stand there, get your men out into the grounds. The murderer could be trying to escape at this very minute!”

“Ooops, sorry, Inspector!”

Here a slightly comic interlude as the men fell over themselves trying to get out the door. Meanwhile, Thaxton examined a few of the many Oriental artifacts in the room: vases, painted screens, exotic musical instruments, a huge gong . . .

Motherwell sighed. “Bloody hell,” he said again.

“Situation's gettin'more and more dicey by the minute,” Lord Peter said, bending over to eye a bronze tea cozy. “Hope the maid recovers soon. I'd like to ask her a question or two.”

He looked up at Motherwell with an ingratiatingly indulgent smile. “That is, if you don't mind my meddlin', Inspector.”

Dalton let go a small groan.

 

 

 

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

 

max stood flattened against the wall, waiting breathlessly for Hochstader to come out of the inner office. Max had sneaked in, heard noises in the other room, and peered in to find Hochstader hunting through some filing cabinets. Now he heard Hochstader's footsteps approaching the door.

Max got him in a chokehold as he came through.

“I want my world back, Hochstader,” Max growled in the small man's ear. “My world. I want it.”

“Gahhhhh—” Hochstader answered.

Max eased up a little and let him breathe.

Hochstader tried craning his head around. “What the . . . hell do you . . . want?” he choked.

“Don't be coy. You know damn well.”

“Let go of me, you big creepazoid!”

Suddenly, a startling possibility occurred to Max, and he reduced the pressure of his forearm against Hochstader's Adam's apple. Hochstader tore himself away and staggered to the desk, coughing and massaging his throat. Max noticed now that Hochstader looked different, at least slightly. Max couldn't pin it down, but possibly the little squirt wasn't so little today. Had he put on weight overnight? And the hair—shorter? And perhaps Hochstader was slightly better dressed today. Or—Could it be?

“Now,” Hochstader snarled, bracing himself with one hand on the desktop, “would you mind telling me who in the blue blazes—”

“You're really not him, are you?” Max marveled.

“Huh?” Hochstader took a breath and closed his eyes. “I think I understand.” He went around the desk and plopped into the creaking swivel chair. “You probably had dealings with one of my alternate selves. Somehow I get the feeling the deal wasn't to your liking.”

“Guess I owe you an apology,” Max said weakly.

Hochstader waved it off. “Forget it. Occupational hazard. Occasionally I take the heat for one of my alternates'shenanigans.”

“Sounds dangerous. I could have strangled you.”

“No kidding,” Hochstader said acidly, loosening his collar.

Max sat down in a mildewed armchair and thought. Presently he asked, “Are you for hire?”

“As your punching bag? Not likely.”

“No. I want to get back to my home world.”

“Yeah? And where is that?”

Max shrugged. “I don't know.”

“I need coordinates. Precise ones.”

Max slumped back in the chair. “Of course.”

“I'm guessing it's a twentieth-decimal-place variant of this one. That means cutting things mighty close.”

Max began to feel very depressed. He tried to remember his mantra, but it had been years since he'd chanted it.

Hochstader seemed compelled to help in spite of himself. “Are there any landmarks you could look for?”

“Landmarks?”

“Not necessarily physical ones. A big whopping fact that could identify your world?”

Max straightened up. It was worth a try. The agency, Max 2's agency. If he could find a world in which it didn't exist . . .?

“Yeah, I think so,” Max said.

“Good.” Hochstader got up and walked past Max and into the other room. “Let's get you home.”

Max followed him. “You'd do that for me?”

“To get you out of my hair, I'd carry you. Follow me.”

Max obliged, dogging Hochstader's sneakered steps through the back room, under the arch and out into the mad scientist's lab. And this one really looked the part. Things had been moved around, new equipment added. The place looked even more spooky than it had yesterday, and Max hadn't thought that possible.

Hochstader got busy at the computer work station, hitting keys like a concert pianist.

Max looked over the kid's shoulder. (Well, this Hochstader looked a bit older. Maybe 27. No, 25, tops.) He watched numbers and symbols dance on the CRT screen.

“I think we've got it,” Hochstader said.

“We do?”

“Yeah. Try the portal now.”

“The portal? Oh, you mean just walk back into the office?”

“Right. Go through, and you should be in a world that's like the one you left.”

“Can I use your phone?”

“It's not mine.”

“It's not?” Max said as he pushed the curtain aside.

“You'll see.”

Max passed through the back room and went out into the office.

And there, sitting at what looked like the identical desk, was another Hochstader.

“Jesus Christ,” Max gasped. “Is there no end of you?”

“Nor is there of you, pal,” Hochstader 3 said.

Max swallowed hard. “Have a phone book?” he asked quietly.

“Sure. Right here.”

Max paced frantically through it. Dumbrowsky Taylor Burke was there in bold letters.

“Damn!” Max glared at the curtain in the back room. “That little creep.”

“He's not back there, you know,” Hochstader said.

“What do you mean? I just left him.”

“No doubt he re-tuned the portal. Go back and look.”

“I will,” Max said.

He strode to the curtain and peeked through.

The lab was there, and again it had undergone a rearrangement. Less clutter, more neatly arranged.

Hochstader 2 was nowhere in sight.

Max returned to the office. “The runt must've ducked out.”

“No, I told you,” Hochstader 3 said. “He and his world are gone. You're in my world now.”

“It doesn't matter,” Max said. “You'll do. I want to try it again.”

“Try what again?” Hochstader asked.

“Try a different world.”

“You mean play musical bodies with one of your doubles? I'm afraid I don't indulge in that sort of thing. Very unethical.”

“What? I thought that was your whole shtick.”

Hochstader 3 leaned back in his swivel chair. This variant was different from the other two clones, hair less unruly, clothes impeccable—he wore a jacket and tie.

He said, “I'm well aware of what some of my alternates do. It's entirely their business. My organization, which is spread out over several million aspects, is nonprofit and dedicated to probability research. We collect and process data on different civilizations.”

“Look,” Max pleaded. “I'm a man without a world. You've got to help me. It was one of your alternates who got me into this.”

Hochstader was shaking his head emphatically. “No, I'm very sorry.”

Max paused. “I'm pretty desperate,” he said meaningfully.

“Oh?”

“Very desperate.”

“I see,” Hochstader said cautiously, casually moving his left hand toward the middle desk drawer.

Max sprang. After a short tussle, he managed to wrest the bell-ended weapon out of Hochstader's small hand.

“You nearly broke my finger!” Hochstader 3 yelped, nursing a reddened left pinkie.

“What's this thing called, anyway?”

“Did you hear what I said?” Hochstader yelled, then put the hurt finger in his mouth and sucked. He popped it out and snapped, “It's called a minitranslator, you bloody twit!”

“Sorry to be so rough.” Max leveled the strange pistol at him. “Shall we go?”

“Go where?” Hochstader growled.

“I want you to take me back to the world I came from—my world of origin.”

“I don't know where you came from! I have never spoken with you before this instant!”

“Sorry, but I'm getting a little desperate. You have to help me.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Okay, then. I guess I have to zap you.”

Max raised the minitranslator.

Hochstader's eyes went wide. “Wait! All right, you're in trouble and you need help. I'm willing to help, really I am. But finding the exact Hilbert coordinates for the kind of minute variant factors you're talking about would take a month of calculation.”

“But I have a landmark to look for.”

“Finding the landmark will not guarantee that it's the exact world you want. You could blunder into that world and find an alternate self occupying it. You might be—”

“I'll take my chances. Let's get going.”

“How do you propose we go about this?”

Max thought about it. “How many alternate worlds are there, total?”

“Total? There is no total,” Hochstader said.

“What do you mean?”

“There are an infinite number of possible worlds. Infinite universes! No end to them.”

“No kidding,” Max said, amazed. “Well, I guess it's just a matter of spinning the wheel until we hit the right one.”