Sick Of Shadows

I’m naming off the parts of my rifle in my head, trying to get them in the order you break it down. So I’m answering the questions without really thinking about them, because in my head I’m saying: ‘Pin, charging handle, bolt, stock…’ And, you know, I never trusted one of those things since, ’cause I figure that if an honest fellow like me can get past that machine, think what a real liar could do! How are we doing with those interviews, anyway?”

Taylor ticked off the names in his notebook. “That seems to be everybody. You want to interview anybody else today?”

“Yeah,” said Rountree thoughtfully. “I think I want to talk to the Emperor.”

“Oh. Yeah. I hope he’s home. I’d sort of like to look inside that place myself.”

The sheriff smiled. “Now, try not to be impressed.”

“Oh, it’s immoral, of course,” said Taylor hastily. “I certainly don’t think anybody should live in a place like that while so many people are doing without electricity and indoor plumbing, but from an aesthetic point of view… well, as long as he’s built it, I might as well look at it.”

“Might as well, Clay. Only try to keep your mind on the investigation while you’re taking inventory, okay?”

They crossed the road and approached the castle.

“Sure is a lot of steps,” Rountree remarked, looking up at the front door a flight above them. He took the steps at a leisurely pace, while Clay bounded to the top and began to thud on the brass dragon door-knocker. Rountree joined him just as the door opened, and a short frowning woman peered out at them.

“This ain’t no museum,” she warned.

“Hello, Mrs. Murphy,” said Clay. “Remember me?”

The door opened wider. “Clay Taylor! How in the world are you?”

“Doing fine. Here on business, though. Sheriff, this is Willie Murphy’s mother. You working here now, ma’am?”

“Three days a week,” she sighed. “And you couldn’t hardly call that enough. I don’t know how those people managed without electric floor-polishers in them days.” She pointed to the gleaming marble staircase, and the squat machine on the first landing.

“I beg your pardon for disturbing the work,” said Rountree, “but we need to see Mr. Cobb if he’s around.”

“He’s upstairs. I’ll get him for you. Who do you want me to say is looking for him?”

“The sheriff,” said Wesley. With a trace of a smile, he added: “Of Nottingham.”

Alban was still laughing when he came downstairs to meet them. He escorted them into his study and installed them on the velvet sofa. Clay reached for his notepad.

“You, I suppose, are Robin Hood,” Alban said grinning. “Actually, Sheriff, you have mistaken your castle. This one is not twelfth-century English. It’s nineteenth-century German.”

“Very impressive,” said Wesley politely.

“Look, I know you didn’t come here on the Garden Club tour. What can I do for you? Can I get you some coffee?” He sank down in the wing chair and put his head in his hands.

“None for me, thanks,” said Wesley. “But you look like you could use some. Anything wrong?”

Alban looked up in amazement. “Quite a lot is wrong, don’t you think? I’m afraid I have a rather bad headache. Probably stress. But please don’t think I’m trying to put you off. I believe I will get some coffee, so you just go right ahead and talk.”

Wesley watched as Alban poured coffee into a beer stein with a stag painted on it. “This is just routine,” he remarked, settling back against the curve of the sofa. “We’ve interviewed everybody across the way, and we thought you might be able to give us some information about your cousin.”

“Could you tell me first-what has happened? I’d like to sort out all the tales I’ve heard about maurauding tramps and-er-houseguests. Is there a suspect?”

“A whole raft of them. All I’m prepared to say for sure is that Miss Eileen was supposed to be painting a picture down by that lake. Everybody says it was a wedding gift for her fiance. Did you happen to get a look at it?”

“Judging from the other samples of her work, I’d have expected an abstract, Sheriff.”

“Can you think of a reason for someone to kill her because of an abstract?”

Alban smiled ruefully. “I’m afraid Eileen’s work was not so promising.”

“Well, whatever it was, it’s gone. From what we can make of it, she was painting early that morning by the lake, and someone sneaked up behind her and hit her.”

“You haven’t found the weapon that killed her?”

“The weapon that hit her, no,” Wesley corrected him. “I may have to drag that damn lake yet. What killed her is another thing. According to the coroner’s report, death was caused by snake venom. She was thrown into an old rowboat pushed up in the weeds, and there was a water moccasin in the bottom. Must have been a big one. He got her in the jugular vein, and a full load of undiluted venom hit her heart about a minute later. That did it. We haven’t found the snake, either,” he added drily.

Alban sighed. “My poor cousin’s death was certainly more dramatic than her life.”

“This is about the most unusual case I’ve ever come across,” Wesley remarked. “Where were you on the day of Miss Chandler’s death, by the way?”

“Escorting my mother to a flower show in Milton’s Forge.”

“And you left when?”

“Around nine, I should think.”

“Had you had any conversations with Miss Chandler about her forthcoming marriage?”

“Only to wish her well. My conversations with Eileen consisted mainly of pleasantries. We were not close. She has been away so long that we scarcely knew what to say.”

“How about the groom? What do you think of him?”

Alban shrugged. “He’s rather quiet. The family attitude seemed to be polite tolerance, so I followed their example.”

“Ummm. How about the rest of the family? Did she have problems with any of them?”

“Eileen wasn’t a fighter, Sheriff. She faded. When my charming Aunt Amanda became overbearing, Eileen just wasn’t there; physically if she could manage it, mentally if not. In any family skirmish she was definitely neutral. Even Geoffrey exempted her from his verbal barbs. Eileen kept to herself.”

“Well, she must have been in somebody’s way.”

“I’m afraid I’m not much help. I really think in this case a trespasser might actually be the answer to the problem.”

Rountree puffed his cheeks and let off a sigh of exasperation. “Vagrants don’t have art collections, Mr. Cobb.”

“It always comes back to the painting, doesn’t it?”

“Yep. And you have no idea what could have been in that painting?”

“Well, a couple of nights ago, Eileen was late for dinner, and I happened to be a guest of the Chandlers myself, so I volunteered to go and get her. Aunt Amanda is a stickler about meals. When I got down to the lake, she was just packing up her painting gear. I just got a glimpse of it, not even worth mentioning-the light was going and I was quite a distance away. But my impression is that it was the lake-though perhaps in abstract.”

“The lake. That’s what everybody figures. And it gets us nowhere. Why should anybody take a painting of the lake? Any ideas?”

“Dozens of them,” said Alban grinning. “All ridiculous. Would you like a few examples? Well, I thought that perhaps Cousin Charles had a marijuana plantation around the lake, and that Eileen had painted the leaf fronds too accurately. Or the Governor might have some secret ship model that he’s testing for the government, and Eileen put it in the painting. Shall I go on?”

Rountree stood up. “We’ll just muddle along by ourselves, if it’s all the same to you. That’s quite an imagination you’ve got there!”

Alban looked around him. “I thought you might have guessed that already, Sheriff.”

“Um. I see what you mean. We’ll be going now, Mr. Cobb. If you can think of anything else, please call me. Hope your headache gets better.”

“Thank you, Sheriff. Perhaps I can persuade my cousin Elizabeth to go riding with me. That used to relax me considerably.”

When they were outside, Rountree, who had been pondering this last remark, said, “I haven’t seen any horses around here, have you?”