Melanie had to laugh. 'You two are so silly together.'
'Aren't we?' Linda said. 'Ike and Mike. Frick and Frack.'
'Who's that?' Gene said, pointing.
'Hm? Oh, that's Rance.'
Rubbing his stomach, Gene watched the newcomer stroll toward the altar.
'Say, he looks familiar. Maybe it's his getup.'
Melanie said, 'Yeah, it's kind of in the same period as yours, sort of. Only more refined.'
'He is a nobleman,' Linda said. 'Or said he was. Warlord, something like that.'
'Hello!' Gene called.
Rance brought his gaze down from the ornately carved rafters. He assessed the person who addressed him, then advanced.
'Greetings,' Rance said.
'I'm Gene. Gene Ferraro.'
'A pleasure, Gene Ferraro.' The two men shook hands.
'Listen, just seeing you like this, for the first time, an idea occurred to me.'
Rance arched one eyebrow. 'You don't say?'
'Yes. Do you have any executive experience?'
'I don't quite know what you- Well, I suppose I do. Yes, in running my estate, Corcindor. And then there's my family's seat in the Council of Lords.'
'Great,' Gene said. 'I know of a job opening. Interested?'
'Well… actually-'
'We can talk. Have you dined yet, Rance?'
'Why, no.'
'Would you care to? We can discuss this.'
'I would be honored, Gene Ferraro.'
'Call me Gene. You see, there's this empire, the Empire of Orem. Now, a little while ago my army took the place and we… '
The two men walked away, talking business.
Linda sighed. 'Well, that's that.' She turned around, 'What a beautiful horse.'
Melanie had gone to it and was now rubbing its sleek neck. 'Isn't he a stunner?' she asked.
'Yeah,' Linda said. 'Yeah, he sure is.'
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
'Confound it!'
Outside the windows of the study, the storm was abating, and light limned bare trees against the eastern sky. A last peal of distant thunder sounded. The wind died down.
Dalton looked up from the book he was reading. 'Eh?' Thaxton was seated at a rolltop desk. Papers littered the floor.
He ran a hand through his mussed hair. 'Not a clue. Not one clue anywhere in all the earl's papers!'
'What were you expecting?'
'Oh, blimey, I don't know… a recently changed will, insurance policies, anything! But everything here is routine. No recent large amounts of cash withdrawn from his account, no cashed-in policies, not a jot or a tittle of anything the least bit suspicious in all this rubbish. Just a few gambling markers, but I can't read this signature.'
'Give it up, old bean.'
'What? Never. I know I can crack this case. Simply a matter of time.'
'How much time? After all, this isn't the castle. We're strangers here. We know nothing of this culture, for all its familiar aspects.'
'I know this world rings a change or two on merry old England, but surely not that much of a change.'
'You don't know that,' Dalton said. 'We haven't been here long enough to make the judgment.'
'Nonsense. I feel completely at home-' Thaxton let a sheaf of papers drop to the floor. 'That is, if it weren't for all these damned murders. Curious, most curious.'
'Sure is,' Dalton agreed. 'And that's why I think we're in one of the nightmare aspects. You know, one of the funny ones.'
'Stuff and nonsense.'
Dalton said, 'Lord Peter, these people are mad. You can see it in their eyes. And there's something fishy about this place.'
Thaxton sat back in his swivel chair. 'You mean something's gone wrong with the castle again?'
'Maybe. But we know that aspects tend to get a little strange sometimes. Something goes awry and you find yourself in some wacky universe that makes no sense. That's why I keep saying that we should just cut and run, without further delay. We might never get back.'
'I think you're being an alarmist, old boy,' Thaxton said. 'Of course things are a bit eerie here. Four murders in a row. Can't deny that's a bit out of the ordinary. But it does happen now and then.'
'Who says Sir Laurence's murder is the end of it?'
'Oh, I doubt there'll be more. They have every available man from four counties surrounding the place.' Lord Peter yawned. Recovering, he said, 'They should call Scotland Yard, is what they should do.'
'How do you know there's a Scotland Yard?' Dalton asked. 'Come to think of it, has anyone mentioned London, that you can recall?'
Thaxton considered it. 'Surely somebody did. I can't recall specifically-'
'There might not be a London. Could be some other capital city.'
'Bosh. I'll ask Motherwell.'
Dalton raised his thin eyebrows. 'You'll ask him what?'
'Eh? Well, I'll ask him what the name…' Thaxton brooded. 'Well, I'll just ask-' He was stumped.
'See what I mean?'
'There has to be another way.' Lord Peter snapped his fingers. 'The library! There must be books, maps, an atlas.'
'Now you're using that keen detective mind of yours.'
Thaxton took a dim view of this. 'Oh, please.' He rose. Just then the door opened and Motherwell stepped in.
'Good morning, gentlemen. I see you didn't get any sleep either.'
'Not a wink, I'm afraid,' Thaxton said.
'Who could? Anyway, I've gathered everyone in the conservatory for a parley. I'm determined to get to the bottom of this business.'
'I've been giving the case much thought,' Lord Peter said.
'Splendid, Lord Peter. Have you arrived at any conclusions?'
Thaxton rubbed his chin. 'I have some… well, what I've got is an assortment of theories.'
'More than I've got,' Motherwell admitted. 'This case is a puzzler, no doubt of that. Not ashamed to admit I'm over a barrel. Any help will be appreciated.'
'We'll be right in, Inspector,' Dalton said. The Inspector left, shutting the door quietly.
Thaxton gave his friend and fellow castle dweller a bleak but plucky smile. 'Well, old man, what do you say? Shall we have a go at it, or are you still for duckin' and runnin'?'
'You're doing the g-dropping thing again,' Dalton said, with annoyance.
Colonel Petheridge, Amanda Thripps, Mr. Jamie Thripps, Daphne Pembroke, Geoffrey Ballifants, Mr. Horace Grimsby, and Mr. Clarence Wicklow sat in chairs arranged in a circle. Blackpool and the rest of the manor house staff-Thaxton was amazed at how many of them there were and how few he'd seen before-stood in a clump by the big glass doors. Among them was the gamekeeper, Clive Stokes, a large, unkempt man with a shock of blond
