Two men in a locked room, one dead, one injured—from which side had the door been locked? Yes, that was just mildly critical, wasn't it?
Three cheers for the devious Welsh!
26
ELEAL AWOKE SHIVERING, LYING ON HER PALLET IN darkness. She could not remember going to sleep. Cold and hunger had wakened her—distant sounds of evensong from the temple told her that the hour was not late. The troupe would be in Sussvale now, very likely still performing The Fall of Trastos for the kindly folk of Filoby. Curse Filoby and its cryptic testament!
Her fingers were sore from plucking chickens. She had left the casement open—never a wise move in Narshland. She scrambled up stiffly and limped across to close it.
Below her, lights showed in windows, here and there. In the crystal mountain air the skies were bright with a myriad of sparkling diamond stars, and two moons. Narshians bragged about their stars. Eltiana was a baleful red spot, high in the east, gloating over her prisoner, perhaps. Below her, just rising at the far end of the valley, Ysh's tiny half disk cast an eerie blue glow on the peaks of Narshwall. Of green Trumb there was no sign at all. Eleal leaned out and scanned the sky to make sure—and Kirb'l appeared right before her eyes!
She had never actually seen him do that before. Always she had just realized that the night had become brighter or darker, that she had just gained or lost a shadow, and looked up to see that Kirb'l had come or gone, as the case might be. This time she had been watching! One minute there had been only stars at the crest of the sky, and the next moment there was Kirb'l's brilliant golden point, putting them to shame. She even thought she could make out a disk. Usually Kirb'l, like Eltiana, was merely a starlike point, although no star was ever so bright, or such a clear gold.
All the moons went in and out of eclipse, but none so abruptly as he. Sometimes Kirb'l even went the wrong way, and a few minutes’ watching were enough to show her now that his light was indeed moving against the stars, sinking in the east. He was also heading southward, to avoid Eltiana and Ysh. Kirb'l, the moon that did not behave like the others—wandering north and south, moving the wrong way, sometimes bright, sometimes faint—Kirb'l was also the Joker, Kirb'l the god, avatar of Tion in Narsh. Was that a sign to her that she must not give up hope? Or was the Joker laughing at her plight? Kirb'l the frog had given her a sign! Good sign or bad?
She decided to treat it as a good sign. She closed the casement, wrapped herself in her blanket, and knelt down to say some prayers. She prayed, of course, to Tion. She would not pray to the goddess of lust, nor to the god of death, not to the Maiden who withheld her justice. Chiol the Father had taken her coins and thrown a very cruel destiny upon her. But Tion was god of art and beauty and in Narsh he was Kirb'l and he had given her a sign.
27
"YOUR FULL NAME, IF YOU PLEASE."
Edward supplied his name and date of birth. He felt as he did when he faced an unfamiliar bowler. The opening balls would be simple and straightforward while the opponents summed each other up. Then the googlies would start.
It was Tuesday afternoon, a full day since Alice had departed. The most exciting thing that had happened in those twenty-four hours was the bandage around his head being replaced with a sticking plaster, half of which was on scalp and sure to hurt like Billy-o when it came off.
He was half-insane from boredom, and a battle of wits with the law was a most welcome prospect. Being not guilty, he had nothing to fear if the game was played fair; if the deck was stacked, then devil take him if he could not outwit this country bumpkin copper. Anything he said might be used in evidence. He had never expected to hear the dread words of the official caution directed at himself.
"You feel well enough to answer questions now, Mr. Exeter?"
"Yes, sir. I'll do anything I can to help you catch the killer."
"What do you recall of the events of Sunday last, August first?..."
Leatherdale looked weary. The man was suffering from his weight and the heat. His face was more florid than ever, gleaming with perspiration, his neck bulged over his collar, and the points of his waxed mustache were drooping instead of standing up proudly. Edward had considered inviting him to remove his jacket and even his waistcoat and had then decided that fair play could be carried too far. Leatherdale for his part was not being at all sporting—he had set chair back almost against the wall, so Edward must keep his head turned hard over on the pillow to see him. The uniformed sergeant was on the other side of the bed, evidenced only by an occasional scratch from his pen.
However absurd his apparel, Edward was much more comfortable than either of his visitors, except for the strain on his neck. His leg had stopped hurting much except when he moved it. Let the game begin!
Next question: “You are familiar with the kitchen premises at Greyfriars Grange?"
"Yes. I've stayed there before. Timothy and I always raided the larder after everyone else went to bed. It was a tradition we started when we were kids. We used to feel frightfully depraved, but I expect Mrs. Bodgley knew what we were up to and didn't care."
"Would she have cared on Sunday?"
"What?” Edward almost laughed. “Timothy could have treated me to the best Napoleon brandy and his parents wouldn't have minded. I expect we'd have felt a pair of real mugs if anyone had walked in on us sitting there by candlelight..."
"You would have been embarrassed if anyone had found the two of you in the kitchen at that hour of the night?"
"Mildly embarrassed,” Edward conceded, realizing that the conversation was coming around to—
"Was that why you locked the door?"
"We didn't.” He must not reveal what Ginger Jones had told him about missing keys. He must not show any interest in keys.
"You say your memories of the night's events are foggy, and yet you recall a detail like that? You would testify under oath that neither you nor your companion locked the kitchen door?"
"I would testify that I do not recall locking it or seeing Bagpipe lock it—neither that night nor any of the half dozen or so times we had been there under similar circumstances before. I do remember people beating on the door later, trying to get in, so somebody must have locked it.” It was hard not to smile at that point.
"Or bolted it."
"There's no bolt on that door ... is there?"
Leatherdale smiled placidly. “I'll ask the questions, if you don't mind."
He continued to send down simple balls and Edward continued to stonewall them. He had recalled quite a lot in the past two days, but it was patchy—Bagpipe showing him to his room, the talk of war over the port, Bagpipe coming to chat, Bagpipe raving about The Lost World.
The inspector reached out and took the book off the bed table and eyed the title. “Sir Arthur Conan Doyle? Good man. Liked what he wrote about the war and those Boers. Well, it would be his Mr. Sherlock Holmes we would be needing now, wouldn't you say, sir?” With his homely, West Country voice he might have been discussing the prospects for the harvest, but he was not fooling Edward.
"Run through the clues for me, Inspector, and I shall solve the case lying here in my bed."
"I hope you do.” Leatherdale twirled his mustache and somehow made that commonplace gesture seem sinister.
Edward resolved to make no more jokes.
If what Ginger Jones had reported was correct, then there was no chance of Edward Exeter being kept under unofficial arrest much longer. At the end of this interview he would ask to be moved out of solitary. A ward full of other men would be infinitely preferable, even if they were all farmers and tradesmen. At least there would be the crisis to talk about. The order mobilizing the army was going to be signed today. Belgium had rejected the German ultimatum. If the Prussian jackboot came across that border, then Britain would be in the war. Meanwhile he must be nice to the rozzer....