“Did you discuss that possibility with Dr. Shepherd?”
“Of course not! I didn’t want him to know!”
“Why not?”
Geoffrey gestured impatiently. “Because they’d lock her up again! And Eileen doesn’t-didn’t-need to be put away. She needed to feel safe and happy away from this house! At first I thought that she might be able to do that with Satisky, but it didn’t seem to be working. She had him, and the symptoms were still coming back! I was so afraid for her. She was going to blow it, and get sent away again.”
“And you told her this?”
“Yes-eventually. Not the way I’d planned. When she saw me at the lake that morning, she put the painting away immediately. And I asked her if I could see it. She said no; something about being sensitive to criticism. I told her to come off it. I knew her symptoms as well as she did. I told her that she’d been acting strangely, and that if she turned up the day before the wedding with a painting of purple-eyed demons, then she could find the wedding cancelled right out from under her.”
“I don’t imagine she took kindly to that.”
“She started to cry. Said that Michael loved her and nothing could stop them.”
“And what did you say?”
“I’m afraid I lost my temper. I told her that if she didn’t control herself better, she would ruin things all by herself.”
“You wanted her to be able to go through with the wedding?”
Geoffrey rested his chin against his knees. “Well, Sheriff,” he said, “it’s like the fairy tale Snow White-to put things on your leveclass="underline" I wanted her to get away from the Wicked Queen and her magic mirror, even if she had to live in the woods with seven little men to be able to do it.”
Rountree paused for a moment, phrasing his question carefully. “Geoffrey… did you, in this quarrel with your sister, get madder than you intended? Did you hit her or knock her down? Not on purpose! Did she fall on a rock, for instance, and get knocked out? And maybe you panicked and tossed her into the boat?”
“No, Rountree. The brave man uses a sword. I did it with a bitter look.”
Rountree and Taylor looked at each other and shrugged. Another quote. Finally the sheriff said, “I take it that means you didn’t cause her death, accidental or otherwise.”
“Right, Sheriff. I did not cause her death.”
“What would you say her state of mind was when you left her?”
Geoffrey looked away. “She told me to go away. That there was nothing the matter with her. And she accused me of trying to break up her romance with Satisky. She said…” His voice trembled.
“Yes?” prompted Rountree softly.
“She said: ‘Which one of us are you jealous of?’ ”
“What did you think of that?” asked Clay.
Rountree shrugged. “I stopped trying to spot killers a long time ago.”
“I didn’t mean that, Wes. It seems kind of strange, though, that he’s taking it so hard. And you notice he didn’t volunteer that information about the fight they had. How do we know it went like that?”
The sheriff snorted. “I guess you want that man from Atlanta to come up here with his lie detector, so you can plug everybody in and see what’s what.”
Taylor knew he was being laughed at, but he couldn’t see why. It did seem like a pretty good idea, at that. “I guess we’d have to charge him first.”
“Just keep taking notes, Clay, and stop trying to think up TV tricks to improve law enforcement.” Taylor reddened and gave a quick nod. “Besides, you wouldn’t learn a lot. Lie detectors can be beat.”
“Oh, sure, I’ve heard that,” mumbled Clay.
“I did it myself,” said Wesley complacently.
The Chandler house loomed in front of them, but Wesley didn’t seem to want to go back in. He circled around the garage and headed for the front driveway. Taylor followed along, wondering if they were through for the day. If they finished before three, he could usually get Doris to type up his notes.
“How’d you beat the lie detector, Wes?”
The sheriff grinned. “Well, it was while I was in the M.P.s. We had one of those things laying around, so we got an expert in to give us a course in it. He asked for volunteers to demonstrate how the thing worked, and I went up there and let him strap me in and ask me questions. The thing works on your breathing and movements-on the notion that it makes you nervous to lie, I reckon. So I lied up a storm, and it never registered, because my mind wasn’t on the questions.”
“Yeah?”
“S’right. He’d ask me if my name was Henry, and I’d say ‘yes,’ just as calm as cow dung, ’cause all the while 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?”