Bride of the Castle (19 page)

“You're doing the g-dropping thing again,” Dalton said with annoyance.

 

Colonel Petheridge, Amanda Thripps, Mr. Jamie Thripps, Daphne Pembroke, Geoffrey Ballifants, Mr. Horace Grimsby, and Mr. Clarence Wicklow sat in chairs arranged in a circle. Blackpool and the rest of the manor house staff—Thaxton was amazed at how many of them there were and how few he'd seen before—stood in a clump by the big glass doors. Among them was the gamekeeper, Clive Stokes, a large, unkempt man with a shock of blond hair.

Seated in, and handcuffed to, a hardback chair off by himself was Shriman Vespal, looking haggard and gaunt, dark circles under his darker eyes. His frown was one of deep disapproval and injured self-righteousness.

“I've gathered you all together,” Motherwell said, “in order to get to the bottom of all this business. There is a killer loose, and one of you is that killer. And frankly, I'm baffled. I'm convinced you're all in on this. All of you! But I'm stymied. I'm a native here, however. I may be too close to things for my own good. I know each and every one of you, either personally or through reputation. But I wonder what an objective eye would see. I wonder how you would all look to a total stranger. We have such a stranger in our midst. Our new neighbor. Lord Peter Thaxton.”

“I was under the impression,” said Mr. Jamie Thripps, “that the Throckmortons bought the Durwick place.”

“Never you mind your impressions, Mr. Thripps,” Motherwell said. “Lord Peter? Have you any observations to make?”

“If you don't mind, Inspector Motherwell.”

“Don't mind at all,” Motherwell said. “I've half a notion to run the lot of them in.”

Lord Peter rose and began to walk the half-circle of suspects, dressing each one down, sizing him or her up.

“Yes, one of you is a murderer. Not once, but four times over. Is it you, Mrs. Thripps?”

Amanda Thripps gave a devil-may-care laugh.

“You think it a laughing matter, do you? You had a strong motive for slipping into Lady Fesstleton's study and bashing her head in with the poker.”

“Oh?” Amanda scoffed. “And what was that?”

“You thought she'd killed her husband, your lover.”

“Nonsense. I thought nothing of the sort.”

“No?”

“No. Besides, I have an alibi. At the time of the murder I was here, in this room, with Sir Laurence and Humphrey.”

“Both of whom are dead now, I'm afraid. We do have a record of their testimony, but they could have been covering for you. You were on familiar terms with both of them.”

“What if I was? It's nonsense.”

Thaxton seemed dissatisfied with this line of attack. He moved on.

“Mr. Ballifants!”

“Yes?” Geoffrey Ballifants was a bald, gnomish man with thick spectacles. He was smoking a brown-papered foreign cigarette, and held it oddly between his third and fourth fingers.

“You stand to inherit your half-sister's income when this is all over. Quite a motive there.”

Ballifants nodded. “Quite. But I didn't kill Honoria. Though I did hate her bloody guts.”

“So you admit you bore a grudge against her?”

Ballifants made a dismissing motion with the cigarette hand. “Everyone knows it. She was a witch, and I'm glad she's dead.”

A murmur went up from the staff. It seemed like a murmur of agreement.

Thaxton grumbled something before moving on to Horace Grimsby.

“And you, Mr. Grimsby. You know quite well you are suspected of blackmail.”

“I want to talk to my solicitor!” shouted Horace Grimsby, a thin, black-haired, and very nervous gentleman.

“You'll be afforded every legal right,” Motherwell assured him.

“This is a sham!”

The outburst came from Clarence Wicklow, who was on his feet.

“Ah, Mr. Wicklow,” Thaxton said. “That was quite a performance you put on last night. You were very convincingly shocked at Mr. Thayne-Chetwynde's hanging.”

“Of course I was! This is outrageous. A travesty!”

“How so?”

“I'm under suspicion. So are a lot of us. But it's been a very selective process!”

“Interesting observation. May I ask how you came to this conclusion?”

Wicklow pointed an accusatory finger. “Who the bloody hell are you to be coming around here, asking questions? Nobody knows you. ‘Lord Peter,'my foot. How do we know you really have a title?”

Thaxton's eyes shifted. “I assure you, the title came from the crown. Not . . . er, well, I shan't go into details, but—”

“How do we know you and your friend Dalton aren't the murderers? Nobody's brought up that possibility, which I find not at all unlikely!”

“Wait half a minute,” Thaxton said.

“And what about Petheridge?” Grimsby said.

“What about me?” the colonel said indignantly, rousing himself out of a semidoze.

“Well, you do seem rather immune to suspicion, I must say,” Grimsby complained.

“Yes, quite,” Wicklow agreed. “His alibi involves Lord Peter and Dalton, and there's no one here who can vouch for either of them!”

Petheridge rose and took away his monocle. “See here, Wicklow. Are you doubting my word?”

“Your story seems rather fishy to me,” Wicklow sneered. “You could have shot the earl. And then you wouldn't have to make good on all those gambling debts you owed his lordship.”

Petheridge's features darkened. “You . . .
bastard!
”

“Shoe's on the other foot now, isn't it, Petheridge? And wasn't it you who had every reason to kill Honoria, who possibly saw you commit the deed?”

“That's ridiculous!” Thaxton said. “The colonel couldn't have killed Honoria. As to Lord Festleton, he—”

Thaxton broke off, shocked by the realization that there was indeed no good reason why Petheridge could not have shot the earl. He was perplexed as to why he had never thought of the possibility before. But his meditations were shattered by a loud report.

Thaxton jumped. He slowly turned to stare unbelievingly at Petheridge, who was holding a smoking revolver.

Wicklow toppled to the floor, a neat red spot on his shirt, directly over the heart. A few of the maids screamed.

“Topping shot, that,” said Petheridge. “If I do say so myself.”

Motherwell stood up from examining the fallen man. “Killing shot, you mean. He's quite gone.”

“Serves him right, the blighter,” Petheridge said. “Accusing me like that. I won't stand for it.”

Thaxton was tongued-tied. He kept alternating his disbelieving gaze between the colonel and his victim. “You . . . you . . .”

“Eh, what?” Petheridge put the revolver back in his pocket. “Speak up, old man.”

“You . . .
killed
him!”

“Bloody perceptive of you.” The colonel sat down and crossed his legs. He appeared quite composed.

“No mystery about this one,” Motherwell said. “Well, my lord, if you will continue?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Please continue. With your interrogation.”

Thaxton was astonished. “You mean . . . go on with the—Aren't you going to do anything?”

“About what?”

“Good God, man. You mean to say you won't arrest the colonel?”

“Oh, that,” Motherwell said. “Well, there was provocation.”

“Provocation?”

“Yes, Wicklow was making wild charges. You do still maintain that the colonel was with you when the shots were fired?”

“Wait a minute. We never said that. I said that he was with us when we discovered the body. As a matter of fact—” Thaxton turned toward Petheridge.

Petheridge's small eyes coolly regarded him.

Thaxton looked away. “Well, I . . . I must be mistaken. Uh—”

“Please continue, my lord.”

“Hm? Oh, yes. Yes.”

Daphne Pembroke suddenly stood, dropped her cigarette, and crushed it underfoot. “Oh, this is a lot of bother. I killed Honoria. Geoffrey's right. She's a witch, and Geoffrey and I needed her income, because Geoffrey and I were secretly planning to get married.”

Thaxton was taken aback. “You killed Lady Festleton?”

“She did,” Ballifants said. “And I killed Thayne-Chetwynde.”

Daphne glared at him. “Geoffrey! You?”

“Oh, yes, my dear. I gradually realized you were flummoxing me. You and Humphrey were planning to do me in, and you'd inherit the income. Wouldn't you, Daphne?”

Daphne shrugged. “It's true. But you must die anyway, Geoffrey.”

She raised a small silver-plated automatic pistol and aimed.

“Good Lord!” Thaxton said a second before the shot was fired.

No one made a move to stop Daphne. The shiny automatic barked once, and down went Ballifants.

Thaxton pleaded with Motherwell. “Do something!”

Motherwell was lighting his pipe. “I'm afraid it's gotten out of my hand, my lord. Best to let it all settle out naturally.”

“And you, you filthy cow, you killed Sir Laurence,” said Mr. Thripps to his wife. “My lover.”

“And what of it?” Amanda sneered. “You haven't the brass to kill anybody, you sniveling coward.”

“Wait!” Thaxton shouted. “Wait just a bloody minute!”

“I had every right to do the earl in!” Petheridge was shouting. “Every right! He put a lien on my property, he did. Bloody indecent of him! You don't do that to a friend. You simply don't, and I had it out with him.” He turned to Thaxton and Motherwell. “And you idiots didn't even find the stealth shoes.”

“Stealth shoes?” Motherwell said. “What shoes were those, Colonel?”

“The ones I made of twigs and things. Old wog trick, learned it in the East. They work like snowshoes, more or less. Covers up your tracks pretty well.” Petheridge's hyena laugh was hideous.

Pandemonium erupted in the room, accusations and countercharges flying. Another shot rang out, this one among the staff. More shots. Bodies dropped left and right.

Thaxton stood stock-still, shoulders slumped, jaw hanging low. Dalton rushed up and dragged him toward the door.

“But . . . but it's madness!” Thaxton walked backward, not able to tear his eyes from the enigma of it all.

Furniture began to fly, fistfights breaking out all over. Even Motherwell waded in. Mr. Vespal was beating Featherstone with the chair he was handcuffed to, screaming, “Death to all white devils!”

“Utter madness!”

“That's exactly what it is!” Dalton shouted, still yanking on Lord Peter's arm. “And now we have to get out of here, quick! Run!”

“They're crackers, round the bend, all of them.”

Another shot, and a bullet whizzed by, very near.

“Run!”

They sprinted down the hallway and into the foyer, where Blackpool stood, calmly holding the door.

His smile was a rictus of propriety. “Leaving? Good afternoon, gentlemen.”

“Does this happen often?” asked Dalton as he shot out the door.

“Often enough,” was Blackpool's reply.

“Absolute bloody madness,” Thaxton was still saying.

They ran to the road. It was a bright day, dumpling clouds afloat in a clear broth of sky. Birds sang, and a bracing wind was up.

“Can you see the portal?” Dalton asked.

“Who killed the Mahajadi, then?” Thaxton asked as they ran.

“Daphne, probably,” Dalton said. “Or the gamekeeper, out of jealousy over Honoria, who was having it on with Pandanam. Or any one of them. Do you care?”

Thaxton stopped and looked back. Blackpool was still at the door, looking out impassively. Then he closed it.

Thaxton shook his head. “No.”

“There it is!” Dalton cried, eagerly pointing. “See it?”

“I see it.”

They made for the magic doorway that opened onto the Castle and led back to sweet reason.

 

 

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

 

“are you sure this is going to work?”

After asking the question, Max looked out over the laboratory floor. Strange things were going on, strange enough so that Max was thinking,
I've walked into a horror movie.

Brilliant discharges crackled and snapped between towering coils. Sparks crawled their way up Jacob's ladders. Banks of indicator lights blinked. The lab was alive with the sounds of exotic machinery, humming and whining and whistling. You could barely hear yourself madly plotting. The tangy odor of ozone was strong.

Speaking of horror movies: there was Hochstader in a white lab coat, wearing dark goggles, bending over a bank of switches and other controls. He looked the part of the mad scientist.

He straightened up, lifted his goggles, and looked at Max. “Did you say something?”

“Yeah. Is this going to work?”

“Look, this is an experiment. The purpose of an experiment is to test a theory. I got a theory. We're going to test it and see if it's any good. Clear?”

“Clear. But what exactly are we going to do, again?”

Hochstader sat down at the computer station and swiveled the chair around to face Max.

“I've loaded all available data on Andrea into the computer. We have graphics input taken directly from a scan of your memories. We have everything. What we're going to try to do is conjure her.”

“Conjure her,” Max repeated. “That's magic.”

“Exactly, but this is magic with a tech twist. Those machines out there can do just about anything. They can materialize things out of the blue. Out of the magical ether. Feed enough data into them, and they can give you exactly what you want, to order. If all goes well, Andrea will materialize on that platform over there. She'll be exactly as you imagined her. And you'll have her back.”

Max shook his head. “I understand. My question is this: Will it be the real Andrea and not just . . . you know, a simulacrum?”