'Yes, sir. I would. But not until then, and not until his lordship the judge puts the question, and I am bound by law and principle to answer.'
'I see. Well, thank you, Ruford. That's all for now.'
'You're quite welcome, sir. I'll see to the cot straightaway.'
When the door closed, Dalton said, 'That was hard for him.'
'Well, servants, you know.'
'I do know that there's more than one mystery to all this.'
'Eh? What's that?'
'You.'
'Me? Whatever do you mean?'
Dalton sat on a hard-backed wooden chair. 'I've never seen you like this. I can't fathom this amazing transformation that's come over you.'
'Just what amazing transformation is that, old man?'
'This is the first time I've ever seen you… interested in something. You're animated, you're involved. And you have the makings of becoming a damn fine amateur sleuth. Where on earth did you learn all that forensic medicine?'
Thaxton chuckled. 'I'm faking it, old man. I don't know all that much about forensic medicine or, for that matter, anything else. What I do know was learned out of murder mysteries.'
'You're kidding.'
'Not at all. Used to read three a week sometimes when I was married. Not much else to do. Sayers, Christie, Chesterton, Bentley, the lot. And I was raised on Conan Doyle. Most fiction leaves me cold, but I love a good mystery. Gets the blood racing.'
'Absolutely amazing.'
'Detection? Hardly. All it takes is having no qualms about asking indelicate questions.'
'No powers of deduction? No keen eye?'
'Overrated. I certainly can't tell from a spot of clay on a man's boots that he's recently been in Lyme Regis or that his dog has beriberi or any of that Holmesian nonsense. But it doesn't take much to deduce that someone killed the viscount and that it was probably somebody at the party, who either threw a knife or stabbed him in the back and dropped the knife.'
Dalton nodded. 'And now we know it could have been Lady Rilma.'
'Yes, she now tops the list. And it makes much more sense than the knife-throwing business. If the knife was thrown and it stuck deeply in the viscount's back, who pulled it out?'
Dalton tried reaching to the middle of his back. 'I suppose he could have, though I can't imagine anything harder or more painful than pulling a knife out of one's own back. And… now, what I know about these matters you can't stuff a flea's backside with, and I've read Sayers and everybody else ? but don't people die when they get stabbed in the back? I mean, immediately? I was always under the impression it was a pretty quick thing. All of which is leading up to saying that it just might be that he was stabbed in the castle.'
'About murder, I only know what I see in films and read in novels,' Thaxton said. 'But one thing I do know. Somebody stabbed the viscount as he sat eating, and then either deliberately or accidentally dropped the knife.'
'All right, but why drop the knife right there? Why not throw it in the bushes or in the pond? Why no attempt to dispose of something that could be traced?'
'Maybe it can't be traced.'
'Fingerprints?'
Thaxton stared out the window. 'Something tells me that there won't be any fingerprints on that thing.'
'Why not, if Lady Rilma stabbed him, as you seem to be suggesting?'
'No reason at the moment. Just have a feeling it'll be clean as a choir loft.'
'So you don't suspect Lady Rilma.'
'She could have wiped the knife before dropping it.'
'After stabbing him in a sudden rage? Maybe, but it doesn't sound convincing. Damn it.' Dalton stood. 'Nothing about this business makes sense, and the biggest thing that doesn't make sense is that nobody saw anything. A brutal stabbing, right out in the open, in broad daylight, and no one saw a damn thing.'
Thaxton was silent.
Dalton heaved an uneasy breath. 'I'm hungry. They said dinner would be in an hour or so. No lunch. I should have grabbed something at the picnic. But ?'
'Magic,' Thaxton said.
'Huh?'
Thaxton turned. 'Magic's involved somehow. I don't know how.'
'Well, that's interesting, because I was talking with Tyrene while you were off somewhere, about how this aspect doesn't have much magic in it. Or difficult magic, if any.'
'Nevertheless, I still think magic's the key.'
'Anything behind that bit of brilliant deduction? And please don't say it's elementary.'
'I wasn't going to. Well, old boy, let's take a walk, shall we? Look around the place.'
'Fine.'
'We'll deal with alimentary matters later.'
'Shameful.'
Peele Castle was interesting in a quaint way. The furnishings were in various styles, ranging from the very old to the merely antiquated. The place was a museum. Unicorn tapestries draped the walls, suits of armor stood in corners. It was in many ways much more homey than Perilous. Proportions were on a human scale. Rooms were not overpoweringly large, and there were enough comfy chairs, ottomans, carpets, settees, lamps, and trivet tables to make anyone feel at home.
The lords and ladies were being served drinks in the drawing room. At the sight of so many disgruntled and resentful aristocrats, Thaxton and Dalton demurred and sought refuge in the library.
Dalton browsed the shelves while Thaxton sipped sherry.
'If only I could question them on my own,' Thaxton mused. He clucked and shook his head. 'Not bloody likely.'
'Interesting books,' Dalton said. 'They look more readable than Osmirik's stuff, though there're a lot of foreign ? wait a minute, here's some English. Good God.'
Thaxton broke out of his reverie. 'What?'
'Here's a book that's got to be mighty strange.'
'Eh? What's that?'
'The Moswell Plan, by Dorcas Bagby.'
'Aside from the unlikelihood of running into the name Dorcas twice in one day, what's strange about it?'
'It shouldn't exist. I was a literary agent, but I'm a bibliophile, too. I actually like books, especially obscure and interesting ones. This novel's somewhat of a legend in the obscurity department. Matter of fact, I once tried hunting it down, and my assessment of the whole matter was that it was a hoax concocted by a young fantasy aficionado out in the Midwest. But here it be. I guess I'll be up tonight reading this.'
Thaxton got up and looked over the selection. Most of the books looked old, and some were falling apart. He inclined his head and read the lettering on the spines.
'Ever seen magic spelled M-A-G-I-E-K?'
Dalton looked. 'Mageek?'
Thaxton pulled the volume out. It was old but in good shape, its sturdy boards covered in fine leather. He opened it to the title page. In spidery print it read:
YE BUK OV MAGIEKAL DIVERSHYNS
beeng divers discorses on Ye emploiment ov wichrrye forr Ye delectashyn & eddifycashyn ov gentil fohkk
Ye athor beeng wone
Baldor o' Ye Cayrn
