The colonel grunted again.
Motherwell said, 'Featherstone, find anything else out there?'
Featherstone shook his head. 'Not much, sir.'
'Any more footprints?'
'Not in the clearing, sir. Plenty elsewhere.'
'Very good. Take this down to the station and get it checked for fingerprints.'
'I doubt you'll find any,' Thaxton commented. 'I do believe the lady was wearing gloves.'
'Yes, she was. Another curious thing, that, going out into the cold in a flimsy outfit, but with gloves. But there's always the chance we'll find some prints.' Motherwell sighed. 'I think I'm obliged to question Lady Festleton again.'
The colonel scoffed. 'I can just picture Honoria down in the cellar, sawing off a gun barrel.'
'Not a likely picture, I admit. But she could have had it done.'
'An accomplice?' Thaxton said.
Motherwell waited until Featherstone left the library. 'Yes, the gamekeeper.'
'Good God,' Petheridge muttered. 'Well, all the dirty laundry's out.'
'Ah, I see,' Thaxton murmured.
'As you said, Colonel, it's almost common knowledge.'
Thaxton asked, 'What's this man's name?'
'Stokes. Clive Stokes.'
'Motive?'
'Don't know, yet,' Motherwell said.
'And Lady Festleton's coverin' for him, or in cahoots?'
'Two equally plausible conjectures, my lord. I must say, Lord Peter, you seem to have a keen mind for this sort of thing. Is criminology a hobby of yours?'
'Oh, bit of experience. Solved some murders once. Peele Castle.'
Motherwell's orange eyebrows lifted. 'Is that so?'
'He did,' Dalton corroborated. 'I was there.'
'The Peele Castle murders. Remarkable. Can't say as I've ever heard of the case, though. You solved it, you say?'
'Lucky guess, really,' Thaxton said. 'Tell me, Inspector, is there any chance-?'
A bloodcurdling scream sounded throughout the house. In the library it was not loud, but the sound penetrated, and everyone froze for a second.
'Good God,' Petheridge breathed.
'Came from upstairs,' Motherwell said as he hurried toward the door, followed by the colonel, Dalton, and Thaxton.
Blackpool was at the head of the stairs.
'It's Lady Festleton,' he intoned. 'The upstairs maid found her.'
The men, now joined by Featherstone and other uniformed policemen, rushed up the stairs, down the hall, and into Lady Festleton's suite.
The chambermaid, a young woman, lay on the bed in a swoon, being nursed by an older woman also wearing a maid's outfit.
Lady Festleton, still attired in her dance-meditation costume, was face down on the floor, her chestnut hair matted with blood. A fireplace poker lay very near.
'Well,' the Inspector said as he stood over the body. 'No doubt as to the weapon this time.'
'None,' Thaxton agreed. 'And we also know that the murderer is in this house.'
'Yes, quite. My men would have seen someone come and leave. Bloody hell.' Motherwell turned. 'Featherstone! Don't stand there, get your men out into the grounds. The murderer could be trying to escape at this very minute!'
'Ooops, sorry, Inspector!'
Here a slightly comic interlude as the men fell over themselves trying to get out the door. Meanwhile, Thaxton examined a few of the many Oriental artifacts in the room: vases, painted screens, exotic musical instruments, a huge gong…
Motherwell sighed. 'Bloody hell,' he said again.
'Situation's gettin' more and more dicey by the minute,' Lord Peter said, bending over to eye a bronze tea cozy. 'Hope the maid recovers soon. I'd like to ask her a question or two.'
He looked up at Motherwell with an ingratiatingly indulgent smile. 'That is, if you don't mind my meddlin', Inspector.'
Dalton let go a small groan.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Max stood flattened against the wall, waiting breathlessly for Hochstader to come out of the inner office. Max had sneaked in, heard noises in the other room, and peered in to find Hochstader hunting through some filing cabinets. Now he heard Hochstader's footsteps approaching the door.
Max got him in a choke hold as he came through.
'I want my world back, Hochstader,' Max growled in the small man's ear. 'My world. I want it.'
'Gahhhhh-' Hochstader answered.
Max eased up a little and let him breathe.
Hochstader tried craning his head around. 'What the… hell do you… want?' he choked.
'Don't be coy. You know damn well.'
'Let go of me, you big creepazoid!'
Suddenly, a startling possibility occurred to Max, and he reduced the pressure of his forearm against Hochstader's Adam's apple. Hochstader tore himself away and staggered to the desk, coughing and massaging his throat. Max noticed now that Hochstader looked different, at least slightly. Max couldn't pin it down, but possibly the little squirt wasn't so little today. Had he put on weight overnight? And the hair-shorter? And perhaps Hochstader was slightly better dressed today. Or- Could it be?
'Now,' Hochstader snarled, bracing himself with one hand on the desktop, 'would you mind telling me who in the blue blazes-'
'You're really not him, are you?' Max marveled.
'Huh?' Hochstader took a breath and closed his eyes. 'I think I understand.' He went around the desk and plopped into the creaking swivel chair. 'You probably had dealings with one of my alternate selves. Somehow I get the feeling the deal wasn't to your liking.'
'Guess I owe you an apology,' Max said weakly.
Hochstader waved it off. 'Forget it. Occupational hazard. Occasionally I take the heat for one of my alternates' shenanigans.'
'Sounds dangerous. I could have strangled you.'
'No kidding,' Hochstader said acidly, loosening his collar.
Max sat down in a mildewed armchair and thought. Presently he asked, 'Are you for hire?'
'As your punching bag? Not likely.'
'No. I want to get back to my home world.'
'Yeah? And where is that?'
Max shrugged. 'I don't know.'
'I need coordinates. Precise ones.'
Max slumped back in the chair. 'Of course.'
'I'm guessing it's a twentieth-decimal-place variant of this one. That means cutting things mighty close.'
Max began to feel very depressed. He tried to remember his mantra, but it had been years since he'd chanted it. Hochstader seemed compelled to help in spite of himself. 'Are there any landmarks you could look for?'
