THE librarian at the reference desk, a disciplinarian of the old school, looked up sharply and with a pencil to her lips sternly motioned to silence the large American gentleman at the computer. “Ah, no,” he had murmured.
ANYONE seeing Gideon Oliver trudging up Garrison Hill toward Star Castle might have wondered if his feet were bothering him. Indeed, he was literally dragging them, scuffling along with his shoulders hunched and his hands in his pockets, unhappy to know what he now knew, reluctant to do what he now knew had to be done.
As he walked under the carved “ER 1593” he heard voices and clinking—cups on saucers, forks on plates—from above. He looked at his watch: three-thirty. The members of the consortium were starting their afternoon tea on the lawn atop the ramparts. He climbed the stone steps to find them just arranging themselves in plastic lawn chairs, most of them balancing cups and saucers in their hands or on their thighs, and some managing to deal with a pastry as well. Behind them, Mr. Moreton, very proper in tie and coat, manned the bar, which was set up with tea and coffee things.
Julie lit up and waved when she saw him. “Hi, sweetheart, come on over.” She was sitting in a little group with Liz and Kozlov. Near them Victor, Rudy, and Donald formed another conversational clump, along with Mike Clapper, who was demurely sipping his tea—pinky extended—while sitting atop one of a pair of stubby, seventeenth-century cannons set out on the lawn. A little further away in a group of their own, Cheryl Pinckney, not off tooling around on her motorcycle for once, was working her feline, high-cheekboned magic on Robb and was having some success, judging from his rigid, uneasy posture and his bright pink face.
Gideon pulled up a chair beside Julie and sat down heavily.
“Not having anything?” Liz asked.
“Have some tea!” Kozlov amiably commanded.
“No, thanks, I really don’t want anything.”
Julie’s brow wrinkled. She brought her head closer to his and lowered her voice. “Is something wrong?”
“No, not wrong,” he whispered. “Not exactly. I have to talk to Mike, that’s all. There’s—”
“So, Sergeant,” Kozlov boomed, bringing the other conversations to a halt, “the searching shall have been finished?”
“Oh, yes, it’s done,” Clapper said pleasantly. “We won’t have to bother you lot any more.”
“And you find what you looking for?”
Clapper smiled. “I believe we did, yes, as a matter of fact.”
What do you know, he’s figured it out, too, Gideon thought. He hoped it was true, because it meant that it wasn’t going to be up to him, Gideon, to rat on anyone after all, a duty he was dreading. His stiff shoulders relaxed a bit. He began thinking that a cup of tea might be a good thing.
“Good, good,” Kozlov said, “you make progress.”
“Oh, yes,” Clapper boomed genially on, his voice carrying well on the soft, warm air, “we should have it all sorted out pretty soon now. I have to clear up a few minor areas of inconsistency, that’s all.”
“Inconsistency?” Donald asked after a few seconds of silence that was very definitely pregnant. “Are you referring to our interviews with you?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact. Minor things, really, but—”
“Well, this would be a good time to resolve them, wouldn’t it?” Rudy asked. “We’re all here.”
“Oh, I don’t like to intrude on this splendid tea.”
Like hell you don’t, Gideon thought.
“Is okay, is good, is interesting,” Kozlov said. “What kind inconsistency?”
“Well, all right, then. It’s a simple matter of room assignments at the first consortium two years ago.” Hatless but otherwise in his casual summer uniform of white short-sleeved shirt and blue trousers, Clapper looked crisp and robust. He lifted the flap of his breast pocket, took out his mechanical pencil and notepad, licked the point of the pencil, and pretended to study the diagram he’d drawn earlier.
“Now let me see… Mister Waldo, you stated that you and Mrs. Waldo were in the Sir Henry Vane Room…”
Waldo colored slightly at the mention of his wife, but nodded. “That’s correct.”
“Mrs. Oliver, you were in the Sir John Wildman Room; and Ms. Petra, I believe you said you were staying in the Duke of Hamilton Room. Mr. Walker, the John Bastwick Room.”
Nod, nod, nod.
“Very good. To continue—”
“Wait a minute,” Donald said. “I’m pretty sure Cheryl and I were in the John Bastwick Room.” He frowned. “Weren’t we? Isn’t that what I told you?”
“That is what you told me,” Clapper said, pretending to scrutinize his drawing again, and then raising his head to level his gaze at Donald, “and therein lies the source of my confusion. I rather doubt that the three of you were lodged together.”
“Of course we weren’t,” Rudy said primly. “Donald, if I’m not mistaken, you two were in the John Biddle Room.”
“The hell we were,” Cheryl said, turning her attention from Robb. “We were in the John Bastwick Room. Joey was next to us in the Marianus Napper Room, and you were on the other side of him, in the John Biddle Room, down at the end of the hall.”
“That’s right,” Liz said. “I remember, too.”
“So do I,” Julie said. “Definitely.”
