Castle Murders Read online

  Dalton came away from the window and sat back in the stuffed chair. He picked up The Moswell Plan and resumed reading.

  Thaxton lay in bed, absorbed in Magiekal Divershyns.

  They read as rain spattered the diamond-patterned windows and thunder rolled across the coast.

  There came a knock at the door.

  “Who the devil could that be?” Thaxton said, making to get up.

  “I’ll get it,” Dalton said, rising.

  Dalton turned the huge key in the lock, threw the bolt, and opened the heavy oaken door, its wrought-iron hinges creaking.

  “Good evening, Mr. Dalton.”

  “Princess Dorcas. Your Royal Highness, please come in.”

  “Thank you. I’m so glad you’re still up. I had no wish to disturb you.”

  “Not at all.”

  Dorcas came into the room, smiling. Thaxton was already on his feet.

  “Your Royal Highness, what a pleasant surprise,” he said.

  “You’re wondering why I’m up and about,” Dorcas began.

  “Well, ma’am, it’s not the wisest thing to be doing with the murderer about.”

  “The murderer has already tried to kill me,” she said, “and failed. There will be no second attempt. That would be too risky. I think the murderer realizes now that I won’t reveal what I know.”

  The two men looked at each other.

  Thaxton said, “Ma’am, if I might be so impertinent as to ask, what do you know?”

  “The identity of the killer.”

  Dalton coughed, recovered, and said, “Won’t you please sit down?”

  Dorcas sat in the stuffed chair. “Please, gentlemen, be seated.”

  Dalton dragged up the hard-backed chair. Thaxton sat on the end of the bed.

  “You say you know who the murderer is,” Thaxton said. “May I ask how?”

  Dorcas smiled. “That will take some explaining.” She glanced at the book beside the reading lamp on the table. “Ah, I see you’re reading my book.”

  “Oh, that’s your copy?”

  “No. I wrote it.”

  Dalton’s eyes went wide. “You wrote The Moswell Plan? You’re Dorcas Bagby?”

  “That was the pen name I chose, yes. You see, I really don’t have a surname, so I took the name of my landlady. I was living in England at the time. Most of our family have spent a good deal of time there, getting educated. Trent, Incarnadine, all of us. Oh, there is the family name of Haplodie, but that sounds so strange, and in fact it’s a gens name, a clan name, not a proper surname. Anyway, writing the novel was something to pass the time while I spent a summer in Kent with friends of the family. It was a short-lived phenomenon. The urge to write never came over me again.”

  Dalton said, “Well, I can tell you that I’m enjoying it immensely, and it’s an especial joy to be actually reading it after so many years of hearing about it.”

  “It’s known?” Dorcas asked.

  “Mostly by reputation. But it is known.”

  “I’m elated. I’d thought the book consigned to obscurity. It’s long been out of print. The publisher is no longer in business.”

  “Are you sure this isn’t your copy?”

  “No. Where did you find it?”

  “In the Peele library.”

  “I didn’t know there was a copy here. Well.” Dorcas sat back. “And now, I suppose you want me to explain how I can claim to know who the murderer is? Very well, I’ll tell you, though you might not believe me. It’s very simple. I saw guilt on the person’s face.”

  A flash of lightning threw diamond patterns across the room, and a loud report shook the windows.

  “And the person knew it when I looked. We locked eyes, both aware of the other’s thoughts. It lasted only a second, but it was as if we had spoken for an hour. This happened very shortly after we were informed of the viscount’s death. I knew then that I was in danger.”

  “Sounds as though it was a frightening experience,” Dalton said. “Would you explain in more detail how this ability of yours works?”

  “It is the Eye of Yahura, the Interior Eye. With it one can look into one’s own soul, and into that of others. It’s the soul, of course, that radiates from the eyes and communicates emotions to other people. Most people assume it’s the face and the facial muscles, but of course the face can move very little. With the Eye of Yahura it’s possible to see even deeper, down to the seat of the emotions, and there read the state of the samra, or soul-substance, which remains hidden and is not usually revealed by the eyes, except in the case of certain holy persons.”

  “Were you born with this ability?” Dalton asked.

  “No, not at all, though I was a fairly adept castle magician until I gave up that school of magic and adopted another entirely. I learned it partly from my husband, the Diktar of Sagrapore, and partly from a very wise and holy woman by the name of Bassara Ulani. I studied for several decades before becoming proficient.”

  “Very interesting,” Thaxton said. “What do you intend to do with this knowledge … of the identity of the murderer, I mean?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Why?”

  “My brother Incarnadine is wise. He made a law which prohibits a person from being charged with a crime based on information obtained from divination, necromancy, clairvoyance, or any paranormal means. The law is a very vital protection of human rights. It prevents the abuse of magic and gives jurisprudence an objective basis. Imagine if someone could be charged, tried, convicted, and even executed on the word of some clever and malicious charlatan. Or on the false evidence of a real magician. It is unthinkable. That is why my revealing the murderer’s identity would do no good whatsoever. I have no evidence on which to base such an accusation, and nothing but evil would come of it. That is why I must remain silent. I think even the murderer realizes that now.”

  “You remained silent even though your life was in danger,” Thaxton observed. “Remarkable. Tell me this, ma’am, if you please. Count Damik is dead. You’re saying that the murderer meant to kill you instead?”

  “Yes, that I also read on the murderer’s face. I am sure the killing of Damik was somehow a mistake.”

  “If Damik was stabbed, which looks certain, how could it have been a mistake?”

  Dorcas shook her head slowly. “It puzzles me, too. But I am certain the murderer meant to kill me, not Damik. The murderer touched me.”

  “He — or she — touched you?”

  “Yes. On the back. Just one finger, lightly, in passing. I thought the person wanted to speak to me, but no, not even a look. Just a touch. It was the touch of death. I could feel it. It was like the touch of a corpse. Cold, unfeeling.”

  “How long before Damik’s murder did this happen?”

  “Just moments. Perhaps forty-five seconds. A minute at the outside.”

  “And somehow,” Thaxton prompted, “Damik got in the way.”

  “Yes. But I don’t understand how. I know it was magical, and that the knife or the dagger was somehow incorporeal, or —”

  “Oh, it was corporeal all right,” Dalton interjected. “It was just invisible for a little while.”

  “I see,” Dorcas said. “Of course. And the dagger was thrown?”

  “Possibly,” Thaxton said. “That’s what we don’t know.”

  “Your Highness,” Dalton said, “why have you come to us?”

  Dorcas smiled. “For sympathy. I had no one to share this with. My husband is recuperating from an illness and couldn’t come to the fête. I couldn’t go to my relatives; they’re distrustful and might think me trying to stir up trouble. They’d rather see the whole matter dropped. Murder doesn’t disturb them so much as the adverse reflection on the family. Also, I had a feeling about you two gentlemen.”

  “What sort of feeling?” Thaxton asked.

  “That you knew even more than Tyrene. That you were closer to getting to the bottom of this than he was, as good a man as Tyrene is and as good as his intentions
are. I wanted to be close to you, to reassure you that you were on the right track, although I can’t give you any guidance whatsoever. All I can do is lend you my emotional support. And, finally, you’re Guests. Guests seem to have special talents, sometimes. I find that fascinating.”

  Dalton said, “You’re talking to two very untalented Guests, magically speaking. I can levitate about an ounce of weight, if I set my mind to it. Thaxton … Thaxton, old boy, exactly what can you do?”

  “Not a bloody thing, I’m embarrassed to say.”

  Dorcas said, “Oh, I think you have great untapped potential. You’ve simply never explored it.”

  Thaxton was surprised to hear it. “You don’t say?”

  Dalton yawned. “Excuse me. It’s way past my bedtime, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh, I’m keeping you up. I’m so sorry.”

  “Let us walk you back to your quarters,” Thaxton suggested.

  “Would you gentlemen consider letting me stay here for the night? I’d feel much better.”

  “Of course,” Thaxton said. “You’ll take the bed, Dalton the cot, and I can curl up in the chair.”

  “Oh, no, I wouldn’t put you out. I intend to go into bramhara sleep, and that’s usually done in a sitting position.” She got up and sat back down with her legs in an improbable knot under her.

  “However do you do that?” Dalton wondered.

  Dorcas wrapped her arms around her upper body so tightly that she seemed to be trying to touch her hands together behind her back. “This is the position of bramhara sleep.”

  Thaxton said, “Uh … which is?”

  “An alternative state of consciousness in which being is contingent upon discretionary choice, not imposed by ontological fiat.”

  “Oh, that.”

  “It is a restful state as well as being contemplative and transmaterial. I often go into bramhara during times of emotional stress. I’ll be fine right here on this chair, gentlemen. Please just ignore me.”

  Dalton rose and went to the cot. He picked up the nightshirt that Ruford had laid out for him. He held it up. “I ought to have a sleeping cap with this. I’ll go into the bathroom to change. But one more question, Your Highness.”

  “Certainly.”

  “How do you keep that stone on your forehead?”

  “The Eye? Very easily.” Dorcas unwrapped her arms. Cupping her hand in front of her face, she tilted her head down. After a second or two, the diamond dropped into her hand. She held it up. “Just a common diamond. I tune my body so that there is a natural affinity between the organic element of which it is composed, carbon, and the carbon which makes up a great deal of my body. The two naturally attract.” She tilted her head back so that she was looking directly at the ceiling, then placed the diamond on her forehead. She held this position for about five seconds, then slowly brought her head back to the perpendicular. The stone stayed put.

  “Remarkable,” Dalton said, shaking his head. “Absolutely remarkable.” He went into the bathroom and shut the door.

  “If you don’t mind, I’m going to stay up a bit longer and read,” Thaxton said.

  “Please do anything you wish,” Dorcas said, and went into position again. Her eyes closed.

  Thaxton lay on the bed and picked up the book.

  Dalton was dreaming of a woman, a beautiful woman. She wore a white gown, a thin chemise, and was walking barefoot at the surf’s edge, the breakers washing up the smooth packed sand to wet her feet. The sky was blue between white puffy clouds. She was coming toward him, sea breeze blowing the thin cloth of the gown tight against her well-formed body. She was smiling. This was her kingdom, this kingdom by the sea.…

  “Dalton!”

  “Huhhh?”

  “Dalton, old boy. Wake up!”

  The woman, the sky, the sea — all faded away.

  Dalton opened his eyes. Thaxton was bending over him, hand on his shoulder.

  Thaxton shook him again. “Are you awake?”

  “Good God, Thaxton, what is it?”

  Thaxton was excited. “I’ve got the solution, old boy. I know how the murder was done. And if I can get a messenger through to the castle, we may be able to find out just who the murderer is.”

  “God, I hope I see her again,” Dalton said.

  “Eh? Get up, old boy. We must go see Tyrene.”

  Chapter Twenty

  St. Valentine’s Hospital

  They wouldn’t let Carney into the emergency room no matter how much persuasion magic he worked, so he had to be content with word from a sympathetic nurse that Tony’s condition was stable. They would operate in the next hour to get the slugs out. Tony had a good chance of pulling through.

  He went back to the waiting room, where Velma was smoking and reading a two-year-old copy of Liberty magazine. He beckoned and she put out the butt, got up and came to him.

  “How is he?” she asked.

  “He’ll pull through. This stuff” — he patted the neck of the bottle in his coat pocket — “probably helped.”

  “Is it helping you?”

  “I’m as high as a Mass at St. Peter’s. Let’s get out of here.”

  “Hey, Carney.”

  Carney turned. It was Detective Sergeant James “Mack” Duffey of the Necropolis P.D., smiling a coldly cynical smile, thumbs hooked in the pockets of his baggy brown wool pants.

  “What can I do you out of, Sergeant?”

  “Want to take a look at your future?”

  “Sure. Whaddya got?”

  “We got Duke Holland for you. Or should I say, somebody got him? Good.”

  “I thought he was dead.”

  “He’s been on his way to Hell for the past five hours. Thought you might want to pay your respects. After all, he’s a colleague of yours.”

  “Lay on, Mack Duffey.”

  Duffey led him down the hall. A uniformed cop, standing guard outside a door, let them into small examination room and closed the door. Velma stayed outside.

  There were two more cops in the room, along with a plainclothes clerk with a steno pad, scribbling away in shorthand. Holland lay on a gurney, shirtless, his upper body ventilated with bullet holes. Carney wondered how he could still be alive. But he was. He was talking continually in a low, breathy murmur. The stenographer seemed to be trying to take down every word.

  “Delirious,” Duffey said. “He’s been gabbling away like that for hours.”

  “Can’t anything be done?” Carney asked.

  “Nah. The docs say it’s only a matter of time.”

  “They came up with that prognosis all by themselves, eh?”

  Duffey guffawed. “They didn’t need no coachin’.”

  Carney laughed mirthlessly. “What’s with the steno?”

  “Evidence.”

  Carney nodded. “Can I try talking to him?”

  “Be my guest. But you’ll get nowhere.”

  Carney approached the gurney. Holland’s head shifted slowly from side to side. Dried blood caked his lips. His eyes were glazed, his sight on sights unseen. On and on he droned, the words slurred together, almost unintelligible.

  Carney moved closer. He bent over the dying man, turning his ear toward those cracked lips:

  “… Well, you know or don’t you kennet or haven’t I told you every telling has a taling and that’s the he and the she of it. Look, look, the dusk is growing! And my cold cher’s gone ashley. Fieluhr? Filou! What age is at? It saon is late. ’Tis endless now senne eye or erewone last saw Waterhouse’s clogh. They took it asunder, I hurd thum sigh. When will they reassemble it? O, my back, my back, my bach! I’d want to go to Aches-les-Pains. Pingpong. There’s the Belle for Sexaloitez! And Concepta de Send-us-pray! Pang! Wring out the clothes! Wring in the dew! Godavari, vert the showers! And grant thaya grace! Aman. Will we spread them here now? Ay, we will. Flip! Spread on your bank and I’ll spread mine on mine.…”

  Carney straightened, backed off.

  “He was a big man,” Duffey said, with under
lying satisfaction. “Look at him now.”

  “Don’t rejoice so loudly, James.”

  Duffey opened the door for him.

  Velma was engaged in casual flirtation with the door guard. She saw Carney, and rounded it off nicely with a smile and a squeeze of the cop’s big biceps. The cop grinned droolingly.

  Carney took her arm and guided her down the hall, except she should have been guiding him; he wobbled like a loose wheel.

  “How is he doing?” she asked.

  “Not bad for a guy with no education,” he said.

  The Leland had bullet holes in it but still worked. Carney turned east, toward the river. The hole in the back window sucked out all the heat the heater threw at them, but the flow warmed them a little. Carney drank as he drove.

  “We’ll wreck if you keep doing that,” Velma said.

  “Possibly.”

  “You could at least offer me a drink.”

  “Powerful stuff, Velma, honey.”

  “I can take it. I can swill any kind of booze.”

  She took the bottle and had a swig. She choked, and sprayed all over the windshield.

  He laughed, taking the bottle.

  “What … is that stuff?”

  “A little saint remover, my darling turpentine, eye of newton, denatured spirits, a little o’ this an’ for a’ that.”

  “It’s awful.”

  “Oh, it be, it be. ‘O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been cool’d a long age in the deep-delved earth.’ Havin’ a good time. Yessuh.”

  Velma fanned the fumes away from her mouth. “What bathtub did that come out of? That’s not liquor, that’s poison.”

  “Why, hell, woman, it’s full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, with beaded bubbles winking all over the bloody brim.” He belched. “’Scuse me.”

  She laughed. “You’re drunk.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Ah is drunker’n a skunk sunk in a sump. Smashed to smithereens, colleen. I gots the spirit!”

  “God, are you drunk. You didn’t seem so potted in the hospital.”

  “I was like unto a fern. But I was a-workin’ a sober spell. A straightening-up spell. A sorites of sobriety. But now it’s gone, gone. Now I drunk, man.”