Sick Of Shadows

CHAPTER TWELVE

DESPITE GEOFFREY’S GLOOMY supposition, he was not the last family member to be interviewed. That honor was reserved for Captain Grandfather, whom they found in Robert Chandler’s study in front of a black-and-white portable television.

“Silent Service reruns,” he said gruffly, turning down the volume. “Not very accurate, but good drama. Those were the days! You wanted a word with me, I suppose?”

Rountree perched on the side of the doctor’s paper-strewn desk. “Sorry to come barging in like this, but we’re talking with everybody in the family.”

“To find out if we know who did it? I wouldn’t, you know. My granddaughter… I knew her as a child, Sheriff. She liked ponies, and coffee ice cream, and a song called ‘Froggy Went A-Courtin’; but when children grow up, you lose track of their real selves. Eileen, now, I can tell you her bloodline down to the last cousin, but I have no idea who she was inside.”

“Which of us is not forever a stranger and alone?” said Clay.

Rountree closed his eyes. “If we could just get back to this case…” He always dreaded the second phase of grief. When the shock had worn off a little, the deceased became preserved in memory as a wax figure without flaws or feelings. A few more days and Eileen Chandler would turn into a fairy-tale princess who had never made a mistake in her life.

The old man watched a submarine churn beneath the waters of the North Atlantic. “Was there anything in particular you wanted to ask me?”

“You’re an early-riser, aren’t you, sir?”

Captain Grandfather nodded. “Always have been. Stood me in good stead in the service.”

“I expect it did,” said Rountree. “Reason I asked is: you must have been the last person we know of to see Eileen on the day she died. Am I right?”

“As far as I know, Sheriff, nobody saw her that day. I came downstairs at a little past seven-I’d been up late reading the night before. Anyway, I came into the breakfast room, and there was a used cereal bowl on the table, which I took to be Eileen’s. But I didn’t see her, no.”

“Well, it was a thought,” sighed Rountree. “I had hopes of finding someone who’d seen her. Well, what can you tell me about her state of mind?”

“Next to nothing. Eileen was always nervous. Didn’t get enough exercise, if you ask me.”

Clay looked up from his notepad. “What does that have to do with-”

“Well, let’s get on to motive,” said Rountree hastily. “Tell me about this inheritance she was due to get.”

Captain Grandfather told him, in no uncertain terms and with considerable scorn expressed for his sister’s life-style, judgment, and malice aforethought in making such a will. “-And the little witch, knowing full well how I would feel about such a piece of foolishness, had the unmitigated, unsurpassed, sheer feline gall to name me as executor of the damned thing!”

Rountree coughed. “So they tell me, Captain.”

“Can you imagine? Expecting me to take an interest in the wedding plans of a bunch of children who would probably get on a good deal better in life without Augusta’s money! Do them good! They’d grow some backbone!”

“They might do better in character without it, but it might not stop some of ’em from wanting it,” the sheriff pointed out.

William Chandler laughed bitterly. “No argument there! That much money would solve every trifling problem the bunch has!”

“Problems?”

“It would buy Charles a reactor, or whatever thing it is he and his crowd seem to think is standing between them and a Nobel prize. It would set Margaret’s son Bill up in law practice in pretty good style, or buy Elizabeth some time to chart the course of her life-archeology, last I heard” -he snorted-“and Geoffrey-God knows what he’d do with it! Something arty, I expect, like try to start a Shakespeare festival in Chandler Grove!”

“What about Alban?”

“Perfect example! You see what Walter’s money has done for him! Took his castle in the air and built it for him! What ambition has he got?”

“Maybe he doesn’t need to be ambitious,” Clay suggested.

Captain Grandfather sighed. “I’ve nothing against being eccentric,” he said at last. “Or being well-off. If it buys you independence, that’s fine-but-since Eileen died, I keep thinking that it didn’t do her any good. The money was almost hers, you know, and it didn’t make her happy. It wasn’t going to, either. She wanted that young man, and there was no use trying to tell her any different, but… some things you ought not to try to buy.”

“Do you think he killed her?” asked Rountree.

“No. I’ve seen his type in the service many a time. He’s weak and selfish-don’t trust his loyalty in a pinch, and don’t put him in charge of the canteen on the lifeboat-but to call him a killer would be overestimating him.”

“There’s something else I’d like to talk to you about,” said Rountree cautiously. “It might be a touchy subject, but it’s got to be dealt with.” He explained the finding of the whiskey bottles in the lake and their theory that Amanda Chandler had accidentally killed her daughter while trying to steal the painting.

“That’s hogwash!” snapped the old man. “Amanda may have her problems, but she’s not a coward! A picture wouldn’t scare her like that. If she didn’t like it, she’d have bullied the girl until it was changed. And it would be changed, I promise you that. Amanda runs a tight ship.” He shook his head and sighed. “I doubt that the painting was like that, anyway.”

Rountree straightened up. “Did you see it?”

“No. Why? Is it important?”

“Yeah. Because we can’t find it. That bothers me. But if we knew for sure what she was painting, it would be a load off my mind. Did that lake mean anything special to her?”

Captain Grandfather rested his head in his hand. “Did it?” he muttered. “That sounds familiar… I think. Right at the time of her breakdown, there was something about the lake, or water, or something. Can’t recall what. My son-in-law might know.”

“If anybody knows anything around here, they’re not telling!” snapped Rountree. “I’m beginning to wonder if there’s some reason folks might not want this case solved. Are you afraid one of the young people killed Eileen to get a shot at the inheritance?”

“No, Sheriff. I’m afraid of not knowing them well enough to be sure; but then, the captain is always the last to know of a mutiny.” He watched the two officers leave the study, and with a placid smile, he turned again to his television.

Closing the door behind him, Rountree muttered, “Make a note for me to interview the lawyer again, Clay. If the old gentleman is so against any of them getting that money, I just want to make sure it’s still there to be gotten! After all, he is the executor.”

“But I didn’t think an executor could touch money in trust, Wes.”

“I aim to find out.”

“Excuse me, Sheriff!” Michael Satisky was waiting for them in the hall. He was leaning up against the wall, clutching the small Chandler Grove telephone book. “Could I speak to you for just a moment?”

Rountree frowned. “Talk? I reckon. How about the library?” He opened the door and peered in. “Okay, nobody’s in there. You go on in and have a seat. Listen-do I have to read you your rights or anything? Clay, got your notebook out?”

Satisky sank down in the armchair with a strangled cry. “My rights!”

Rountree shrugged. “You know. For confessions. We have to warn people first about their rights, so the court won’t throw it out. I have the card in my billfold someplace.” He reached for his hip pocket.

“I am not confessing!” Satisky said shrilly. “I have nothing to confess!

“Well, it was a thought,” sighed Rountree. “What did you want to say?”

“I wanted to know if I could leave,” snapped Satisky.

The sheriff raised an eyebrow. “And miss the funeral of your loved one?” he drawled.

Satisky opened his mouth and closed it again.

Rountree nodded. “Actually, I do understand,” he said in a softer tone. “This place makes you kinda nervous, doesn’t it?”

“Well, it does,” Satisky admitted. “These people are all strangers, and I know they all think I did it. Is there any necessity for me to stay?”

Rountree chewed on this thought for a minute. “Have you been asked to leave?”

Satisky blinked. “Well… no.”

“Then stay put.”

“I have to stay?” Satisky persisted.

Rountree thought about it. “Well, no,” he admitted, and Satisky brightened at once. “You don’t have to stay exactly here, but while the investigation is going on, you can’t leave the county. We haven’t even had the inquest yet. But so long as you are somewhere nearby-why, I’ve no objections to you making a change of venue, as we say in legal terms.”

Taylor changed his laugh into a discreet cough, and began to study his notepad.

“In fact,” Rountree was saying, “I may even be able to make a suggestion. Say, Clay, doesn’t Doris’s mother still rent out rooms over at her place? You’d have to share a bathroom with the kids, of course, but I bet it wouldn’t set you back more than forty bucks a week. Meals are extra, of course, but Brenner’s Cafe makes a real good cheeseburger. Right, Clay?”

“Uh-uh-sure, Wes.”

Rountree leaned toward the phone. “If you want, I can even give Doris’s mom a call and put in a word for you. The place might fill up with reporters, you never know. Now what was her number?”

“No! Don’t call!” Satisky said hurriedly. “I mean-well…”

He nearly reached for his own hip pocket to count his money, but it wasn’t necessary. In his mind, he could see a ten, two fives, and three ones: the price of pride was, as usual, beyond his means. The thought of an inheritance from Eileen flickered through his mind. He was afraid to ask about it, though. It would shout a motive for murder to those for whom he was already a favorite suspect, or so he imagined. Besides, he was in no particular hurry to hear news that would almost certainly be bad. Eileen had died before they were married; therefore, the inheritance could not be claimed.

Wesley Rountree’s bland smile suggested that he required no explanation from the young man, but as he was not vindictive toward the technically innocent, he merely said, “I understand. You don’t want to risk hurting these good people’s feelings by refusing hospitality.”

Satisky stammered that this was the case and was left feeling like an utter fool as Rountree and the deputy left. He was still brooding over the awkwardness of the interview a few minutes later when Geoffrey sauntered in. Satisky, whose natural inclination was to flee from Geoffrey, rose to leave.

“Please!” said Geoffrey. “Don’t get up. I feel that I must have interrupted you. No doubt you are ferreting out a few appropriate quotations to drop at the funeral.”

Satisky looked away. “It isn’t like that,” he mumbled. “I just find it hard to express my feelings. I’m not very verbal, I guess.”

“Not very,” Geoffrey agreed. He had pulled out the drawer of the desk and was leafing through the leather address book, occasionally making notes on a piece of paper.

After a few moments of heavy silence, Satisky ventured another remark. “Have the funeral arrangements been made?”

Geoffrey paused and laid down his pen. “They have, actually. It will be on Tuesday. I hope that’s convenient for you. Oh, perhaps we should have consulted you.”

“Well-”

“In case you wanted to read one of your own poems at the service.”

Satisky flushed. “I tried to leave. The sheriff says I have to stay until after the inquest.”

“Just in case,” remarked Geoffrey, flipping pages in the address book.

“You think I did it, don’t you?” Satisky’s voice quivered with rage, as he approached the desk with more decision than usual.

“One can but hope,” murmured Geoffrey without looking up.

“Why would I kill her?” Satisky demanded. “I could have just broken off the engagement if I wanted to. And if it was the money I was after, don’t you think I would have waited until we were married so that I would inherit it? As it is, I don’t get anything.”

Geoffrey fixed him with a frosty stare. “That, dear Michael, is the one point in your favor-and to me, the only consolation.”

“But you admit that I am very unlikely as a suspect?”

“Wishing will not make it so,” Geoffrey conceded. “The only crime of which I can be sure of your guilt is the petty larceny of my sister’s affections. If you will excuse me!” Conscious of a good exit line, he swept out.

Even after Geoffrey had gone, Satisky was unable to think of a suitable retort. Geoffrey was really quite odious, Satisky thought. He could certainly divulge a thing or two. Especially about Geoffrey, who deserved to be made uncomfortable.

He peered out the front window. Rountree and the deputy were standing in the driveway talking. He could approach them if he chose. Still smarting from his last bout with Geoffrey, Satisky considered his moral stance. After all, one had a civic duty to assist the police, which meant telling what one knew. Certainly the truth could harm no one. Eileen’s death must be avenged, and it was his duty to her memory to shed all the light he could on the inquiry. His personal feelings for Geoffrey were of no consideration: this was above petty revenge. Duty must be done.

Thus fortified with nobility of purpose, Satisky hurried to the front door, pausing only long enough to ensure that he was not seen, and called: “Sheriff! I must speak to you!”

Wesley pushed his Stetson back from his forehead and sighed. “Wonder what he wants now?”

“Police protection, probably,” snorted Clay. “And the way that family feels about him…”

Satisky began to run down the driveway toward them, occasionally glancing over his shoulder at the front windows. He stumbled into a hedge during one of these backward glances, nearly falling into the gravel, while Rountree and Taylor waited by the squad car with solemn expressions.

“I have something very important to tell you,” gasped Satisky, still breathless from his dash down the driveway. “You may want to take notes,” Satisky informed Clay.

Glancing at Rountree for confirmation, Clay obligingly extracted his notepad from his hip pocket and scratched Satisky’s name at the top of a clean page.

“You wanna go ahead?” drawled Wesley.

Satisky drew a dramatic breath. “I haven’t told you this before because I did not wish my motives to be misinterpreted. Those with petty minds might conclude that I am telling you this information out of spite, but I wish to see justice served.”

Rountree frowned. “Is that a quote?”

Satisky’s eyes widened. “Er-no.”

“Oh. Just checking. I was going to guess Benedict Arnold. My mistake. Go ahead.”

Satisky peered at the sheriff, wondering if he were being ridiculed, but the sheriff looked perfectly serious. Reassured on that point, he continued: “Am I correct in assuming that it would assist you to know the last person who saw my fiancée alive?”

“Since that would be the murderer…”

“Oh! Well, I can’t go that far! I mean, I didn’t see anything. But I was out walking that morning on the path near the lake.”

“Why?” asked Rountree.

“I wanted to talk to Eileen. I was going down to the lake to find her, when I heard angry voices. There was an argument going on by the lake, and it sounded quite vociferous. Naturally I-”

“Just a minute,” said Clay.

“Yes?”

“Is that i-r-o-u-s?”

“What?”

“Vociferous.”

“No. It’s an e. Now shut up, Clay, and let him get on with it.”

“Well, as I said, there seemed to be quite a scene going on, but since it was a family matter, I felt that the polite thing to do would be to leave. I didn’t want to embarrass them-”

“Embarrass who?” demanded the sheriff. “You remind me of one of those old movies where the witness talks around and around a thing until somebody shoots him before he can ever say it.”

“It was Geoffrey,” Satisky said promptly. “Geoffrey was shouting at Eileen. He sounded quite hysterical, if you ask me.”

“Did he now?”

“Yes. Has he told you about the incident?”

“No,” said Clay. Rountree shot him a warning glare.

Satisky smiled. “I thought not. That is the reason I felt that I could not shirk my responsibility.”

“Well? What were they arguing about? You?”

“Unfortunately, I cannot help you there. In order to get close enough to hear the words distinctly, I would have had to get close enough to be seen. It was broad daylight.”

“And you didn’t want to be seen by Geoffrey,” offered the sheriff.

Satisky hesitated. “It would have been unpleasant. I had no desire to intrude.”

“I understand. I also understand why you didn’t tell us before. Admitting that you overheard the fracas also means admitting that you were out by the lake that morning, too. Who’s to say that the fight wasn’t about you? Maybe that fellow convinced his sister not to marry you after all, and you snuck back later on when she was alone, argued about it, and killed her.”

“Of course I didn’t!” Satisky blurted out. “I wanted to call it off myself! That’s what I went out there…” His voice trailed off, as he realized what he was saying.

Rountree smiled grimly. “Well, so much for your grief. Now, as to the subject of the argument, I guess we’d better discuss that with ol’ Geoffrey.”

Satisky glanced at Clay’s scribbled notes. “Do you want me to sign that?”

“No,” said Clay. “You have to be able to read what you’re signing. Doris will have to type it up.”

“I’ll be seeing you by and by, Mr. Satisky,” Wesley assured him. “And thank you for coming to me with this.” He patted Satisky’s shoulder.

Michael basked in official approval. “Well, I’m glad to help y’all, Sheriff.”

“You know, Northerners always make that mistake,” Wesley told him seriously. “Y’all is not used when talking to one person. It’s second person plural, like vos in Latin.”

“Oh… er, yes, of course.”

“You’ll get the hang of it. ’Bye now.” Rountree turned away.

Satisky hurried back to the house, attempting to reassess his image of the county sheriff, and wondering what explanation he would give in case anyone had seen him talking to Rountree and Taylor. Of course, if Rountree questioned Geoffrey about it, it would all come out soon, anyway. He’d better go up to his room and pack, just in case.

“Wasn’t that interesting?” asked Wesley, when Satisky had gone. “Geoffrey had a fight with his sister at the death scene.”

“I’m surprised that guy came to us about it,” said Clay. “I’d expect him to blackmail Geoffrey with it, instead.”

“Well, he is hard up for money,” Rountree said. “We established that in our boardinghouse talk. But if Geoffrey is the murderer, that would be a good way to share double billing with the original deceased. Satisky may have just enough brains to have figured that out. But my guess is that he doesn’t have the nerve to approach Geoffrey for blackmail or anything else. This business of sneaking behind his back is more in Satisky’s line of country. I’ll bet he enjoyed getting Geoffrey in trouble, don’t you?”

“I think it settled a few scores between them,” said Clay. “I take it we’re going to discuss this with Geoffrey now?”

“Oh, yes. Yes, indeed we are.”

They walked back to the front door, where Mildred presently appeared and informed them that Geoffrey had gone out for a walk about twenty minutes earlier.

“What do you want to bet he’s gone down to that lake?” asked Rountree. “Morbid so-and-so.”

“We’ve finished up there, haven’t we? I mean, he can’t destroy evidence now.”

“Not unless you missed something. We didn’t find the murder weapon, but I bet that’s in the lake. Mitch says it was a piece of wood, like a branch.”

“Oh, I looked all right. It’s not around the lake. Let’s go.”

Geoffrey had not gone to the lake, however. When they finally found him, nearly half an hour later, he was sitting under an apple tree with his script of The Duchess of Malfi.

“Eagles commonly fly alone; they are crows, daws, and starlings that flock together. Look, what’s that follows me?” He looked up in mock surprise. “Oh, hello, Sheriff. Just learning my lines.”

“Learning your lines?” Wesley repeated.

“Yes. For the community theater production. We’re doing The Duchess of Malfi. Do say you’ll come and see it, Sheriff. I shall be so honored.”

“I read that in English class!” said Clay eagerly. “It’s about a guy who has his sister killed because he’s in love with her!” He faltered, as he realized the implications of this.

Rountree brightened. “No! Is that the truth?”

“Somewhat oversimplified,” Geoffrey retorted. “It has to do with the honor of a noble family.”

“I’d say your family is a pretty noble one around here.” Rountree sank gingerly to the grass beside Geoffrey, and motioned for Clay to follow.

“If you are under the impression that I am conducting an al fresco seminar on medieval drama, you are misinformed,” snapped Geoffrey, closing the book.

“Fact is, we came to talk about your sister’s murder. Or rather, an incident that happened shortly before.”

“And what is that, pray?”

“You tell us. You were there. What did you and your sister argue about on the day she died?”

Geoffrey raised his eyebrows. “What makes you ask?”

“You were overheard. We’re just giving you a chance to tell your side of it.” Rountree held up a restraining hand. “But don’t start yet. Just let me read you your rights. I’m not charging you with anything-yet. I just want to make sure you know where you stand before you say anything.”

Geoffrey stared off into space while Rountree fished out his “rights” card, and read it in the cheerful tones of a radio announcer. When he finished, he put it back in his wallet and beamed expectantly at Geoffrey. There was a minute of silence.

“Well?” prompted Rountree encouragingly.

Geoffrey sighed and shook his head. Finally, he said, “All right, Rountree. We’ll have our little talk, on certain conditions…”

“Now, plea-bargaining is strictly the province of the district attorney,” Rountree began warningly.

“It’s not that. I am about to discuss personal family matters which, I might add, have no bearing on this case. I don’t want my statement to be discussed at the diner. I don’t want it mentioned to my family. And I don’t want Doris Guthrie to type up my statement, because she has the biggest mouth in the state of Georgia.”

“Police matters are always confidential-” Clay began.

“Type it up yourself, Clay. He’s right about Doris. Okay, Mr. Chandler. You have my word on it. This interview will be confidential insofar as it can be. You know, confessions of murder-even accidental killings-can’t be our little secrets. But why don’t you just tell me what happened that day, and let’s take it from there, shall we?”

“If I thought I could refuse to answer you without being charged with murder, I would certainly do so,” Geoffrey sighed. “And my only objection to that would be that it would deter you from finding the real killer. I would not deny him his rightful place in the penitentiary, I assure you. Very well-my discussion with Eileen. Who told you about it, by the way?”

“We can’t discuss that,” said Rountree.

“I believe I can guess,” offered Geoffrey.

“Now, what time Friday morning did you go to the lake?”

“About eight o’clock.” He acknowledged their look of surprise with a slight nod. “Yes, such an admission would shock my family, because I’ve trained them not to expect to see me before ten in the morning, but nevertheless it is true. In fact, I even changed back into my dressing gown for breakfast later so as not to impair my reputation for sloth.”

“And you found your sister painting by the lake?”

“Yes. And I know what you are thinking. I must have seen the painting. I wish I had. It was my intention to do so.”

“That’s why you went down there? Just to see the painting?”

Geoffrey sighed. “I know my sister very well, Sheriff. Better than any of the rest of the family. And there was some reason for her not showing us that picture. Some reason other than the one she gave.”

“Uh-huh,” mused Rountree, who had come to the same conclusion. “And what was that reason?”

“I don’t know. But I was worried. She had been acting very distraught the day before, and I knew she was afraid of something. She broke a mirror in the upstairs hall, and made a scene in front of Dr. Shepherd, which is not like my sister at all.”

“We’ve discussed your sister’s medical history with Dr. Shepherd.”

“Yes. Well, in the early days of her illness, she used to say that she saw things-things that weren’t there. And she couldn’t stand mirrors. So… when she broke the mirror Thursday night, I began to be afraid that she was getting sick again.”

“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 level: 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?”

Alban looked up in amazement. “Quite a lot is wrong, don’t you think? I’m afraid I have a rather bad headache. Probably stress. But please don’t think I’m trying to put you off. I believe I will get some coffee, so you just go right ahead and talk.”

Wesley watched as Alban poured coffee into a beer stein with a stag painted on it. “This is just routine,” he remarked, settling back against the curve of the sofa. “We’ve interviewed everybody across the way, and we thought you might be able to give us some information about your cousin.”

“Could you tell me first-what has happened? I’d like to sort out all the tales I’ve heard about maurauding tramps and-er-houseguests. Is there a suspect?”

“A whole raft of them. All I’m prepared to say for sure is that Miss Eileen was supposed to be painting a picture down by that lake. Everybody says it was a wedding gift for her fiancé. Did you happen to get a look at it?”

“Judging from the other samples of her work, I’d have expected an abstract, Sheriff.”

“Can you think of a reason for someone to kill her because of an abstract?”

Alban smiled ruefully. “I’m afraid Eileen’s work was not so promising.”

“Well, whatever it was, it’s gone. From what we can make of it, she was painting early that morning by the lake, and someone sneaked up behind her and hit her.”

“You haven’t found the weapon that killed her?”

“The weapon that hit her, no,” Wesley corrected him. “I may have to drag that damn lake yet. What killed her is another thing. According to the coroner’s report, death was caused by snake venom. She was thrown into an old rowboat pushed up in the weeds, and there was a water moccasin in the bottom. Must have been a big one. He got her in the jugular vein, and a full load of undiluted venom hit her heart about a minute later. That did it. We haven’t found the snake, either,” he added drily.

Alban sighed. “My poor cousin’s death was certainly more dramatic than her life.”

“This is about the most unusual case I’ve ever come across,” Wesley remarked. “Where were you on the day of Miss Chandler’s death, by the way?”

“Escorting my mother to a flower show in Milton’s Forge.”

“And you left when?”

“Around nine, I should think.”

“Had you had any conversations with Miss Chandler about her forthcoming marriage?”

“Only to wish her well. My conversations with Eileen consisted mainly of pleasantries. We were not close. She has been away so long that we scarcely knew what to say.”

“How about the groom? What do you think of him?”

Alban shrugged. “He’s rather quiet. The family attitude seemed to be polite tolerance, so I followed their example.”

“Ummm. How about the rest of the family? Did she have problems with any of them?”

“Eileen wasn’t a fighter, Sheriff. She faded. When my charming Aunt Amanda became overbearing, Eileen just wasn’t there; physically if she could manage it, mentally if not. In any family skirmish she was definitely neutral. Even Geoffrey exempted her from his verbal barbs. Eileen kept to herself.”

“Well, she must have been in somebody’s way.”

“I’m afraid I’m not much help. I really think in this case a trespasser might actually be the answer to the problem.”

Rountree puffed his cheeks and let off a sigh of exasperation. “Vagrants don’t have art collections, Mr. Cobb.”

“It always comes back to the painting, doesn’t it?”

“Yep. And you have no idea what could have been in that painting?”

“Well, a couple of nights ago, Eileen was late for dinner, and I happened to be a guest of the Chandlers myself, so I volunteered to go and get her. Aunt Amanda is a stickler about meals. When I got down to the lake, she was just packing up her painting gear. I just got a glimpse of it, not even worth mentioning-the light was going and I was quite a distance away. But my impression is that it was the lake-though perhaps in abstract.”

“The lake. That’s what everybody figures. And it gets us nowhere. Why should anybody take a painting of the lake? Any ideas?”

“Dozens of them,” said Alban grinning. “All ridiculous. Would you like a few examples? Well, I thought that perhaps Cousin Charles had a marijuana plantation around the lake, and that Eileen had painted the leaf fronds too accurately. Or the Governor might have some secret ship model that he’s testing for the government, and Eileen put it in the painting. Shall I go on?”

Rountree stood up. “We’ll just muddle along by ourselves, if it’s all the same to you. That’s quite an imagination you’ve got there!”

Alban looked around him. “I thought you might have guessed that already, Sheriff.”

“Um. I see what you mean. We’ll be going now, Mr. Cobb. If you can think of anything else, please call me. Hope your headache gets better.”

“Thank you, Sheriff. Perhaps I can persuade my cousin Elizabeth to go riding with me. That used to relax me considerably.”

When they were outside, Rountree, who had been pondering this last remark, said, “I haven’t seen any horses around here, have you?”

Taylor shrugged. “Maybe they’re in the guest room.”