Murder In The Queen's armes

NINETEEN

"I can’t tell you how sorry I am," Colonel Conley said. "Of course you’ll let me reimburse you for your clothing, and if there are any medical costs-"

"No," Gideon said. "Thanks, but I’m fine." This was a notable overstatement; his head pounded, his stomach churned, his multitude of miraculously minor scratches and abrasions were beginning to sting, his clothes were ruined, and most of his joints felt as if they’d been pulled on by teams of stallions. But, all things considered, he was glad to be alive.

He and Julie were at the colonel’s kitchen table. His wounds had been ministered to by Julie, with the colonel’s supplies and competent assistance, and they had before them three cups of ferociously strong black tea sweetened almost to syrup. Bowser was somewhere behind the house, locked into a pen within a pen-and, Gideon hoped, bound with chain, bolt, and iron stake sunk into concrete.

"I simply can’t understand it," Colonel Conley said, and pulled angrily at his short mustache. "Simply can’t."

"Colonel," Gideon said without animosity, "you’re going to have to do something about Bowser. If it had been a child he’d come after…"

"A child?" the colonel repeated. "Oh, no, I don’t think so; certainly not. Here, I want to show you something." He left the room muttering, "Certainly not a child."

Julie moved closer to Gideon and put her hand on his arm. She was still wan and tousled, and her black eyes were very bright. "You’re really all right?"

"Sure, honestly. You are, aren’t you?"

"Uh-huh." She smiled tentatively. "You were…magnificent."

He laughed. "Told you I had him in the palm of my hand." But he had to close his eyes to fight down a wave of giddiness.

Conley returned and put two objects on the table. "That," he said, "is the chain that holds the back gate shut. It’s been cut through, as you can see. And that," he said, indicating the second object, "is a canvas shoe-yours, I should guess."

Gideon picked it up. "Where did you find it?"

"It was in the bushes, not far from the stile. I was lucky to see it. Obviously, someone used it to set the Beast on your scent."

"Is that possible? Can you just walk up to a dog and let it sniff someone’s shoes-and then it goes tearing off after him?"

"A hound like Bowser? Most certainly. And with the ground as damp as it is, the dog wouldn’t have a problem in the world. They do better in moist weather, you know."

"Someone wanted Bowser to kill you?" Julie asked incredulously. "But who? Why would anyone want you dead?"

The answers couldn’t have been more obvious. Gideon stood up-a little too suddenly; his vision blurred and a hundred places in his body twinged and burned, as if he’d been rubbed all over with heavy-grade sandpaper. But he was anxious to get going. There were still plenty of things he didn’t understand, but now he had a personal score to settle and he wanted to get on with it.

"Let’s go," he said to Julie. "It’s after eight."

Conley looked startled. "But…you can’t simply go like that… You must let me-here, let me write down my name and address." He pulled over a notepad that had been near the telephone and began scribbling. "I absolutely insist that all bills be sent to me. And-here-I’ll write a little statement that wholly accepts responsibility: "I, Grahame Baldwin Conley…"

Gideon stood there, swaying slightly, his mind still hazy.

"No, that isn’t necessary…" Standing up so suddenly had been a mistake. He was dizzy as well as muddled. He steadied himself with both hands on the table and made himself focus on the crisp, white pad of paper against the purple check of the plastic tablecloth. Conley’s square hand moved purposefully over it.

"You write like a left-hander," Gideon murmured.

"What?" Conley looked up. "I am left-handed. Look here, are you sure you’re all right? Would you like to stay the night? I can have a bed made up in no time."

Gideon shook his head, smiling. The motion actually seemed to clear his thoughts. "No, thanks." He gestured at Conley’s writing hand. "I just seem to have a one-track mind."

"Oh, I see," the colonel said, clearly failing to see.

"And, please, don’t worry about any bills. It wasn’t your fault."

"I’m afraid I must insist. And shouldn’t we call the police?"

"I’ll take care of it. Thanks for getting there when you did. You saved our lives."

"Well, of course, old fellow. I’m awfully sorry about all this. I hope you’re not too terribly angry."

"Not at you, Colonel." And then, as a rumbling woof from in back shook the house, "And not at Bowser, either."

Not really.

HE strode so quickly down Barr’s Lane that Julie had to trot to keep up.

"Who wanted to kill you?" she demanded.

"Leon Hillyer. That bastard."

It had to be. And how unbelievably stupid he, Gideon, had been. He’d trustingly promised to tell no one about the skull before eight o’clock-giving Leon a full five hours to figure out a way of getting rid of him. Then, to make it easier, he’d announced in front of all of them that he would be in the dark and deserted Dyne Meadow at precisely 7:04 p.m. And now, with 8:00 come and gone, Leon was no doubt sitting in the Tudor Room, munching Danish pastries, wondering with the rest of them where in the world Gideon Oliver was, and looking as befuddled as anyone else about the reason for the meeting.

Julie jumped in front of him and placed her palms against his chest.

"Whoa."

Impatiently, he stopped.

"Just take it easy," she said. "I’ve never seen you like this. You’re really mad, aren’t you?"

"Goddam right I am!"

Goddam right he was. That vicious, fast-talking kid had not only tried to kill him; he’d coolly decided to sacrifice Julie, too, no doubt on the off-chance that Gideon had told her about his tawdry little fraud. And, my God, how close it had been!

"Wait a minute," Julie said, "I’m not sure you’re thinking clearly. I want to ask you some questions."

"Later. Come on, Julie, get out of my way."

She paid no attention. "First of all, are you saying that Leon not only tried to kill you but murdered Randy, too?"

"Probably. I don’t know. I don’t have it all figured out yet."

"Then what was that bit about Colonel Conley being left-handed? I thought you suspected him."

"Conley?" Gideon said, surprised. " Conley? Not at all. My mind was wandering, that’s all. I’ve got left-handers on the brain. Today I looked in a mirror and accused Leon of being left-handed. I was wrong about that, but I was sure right about-"

And all at once, everything fitted; everything clicked sharply into place, as with the final twist of a Rubik’s Cube. "He is left-handed," Gideon said, bedazzled, not sure if he was marveling at his own brilliance or at his own obtuseness.

"Leon? But you told me he was right-handed."

"He is right-handed."

Julie peered worriedly up into his face, trying to see his eyes in the dark. "Gideon, darling, don’t get angry, but I think you’re still a little-"

"I’m not a little anything. What I’m trying to say is that Leon used to be left-handed, probably as a kid, but was made to switch over. Parents do that, you know that. Only it wasn’t complete-it hardly ever is. And so of course he might have swung a mallet with his left hand, particularly if he was excited."

"But how could you possibly know that?"

They began to walk again, more slowly. "Look," Gideon said, "you know the way a left-hander typically holds his hand when he writes?"

"Sort of scrunched over, you mean?"

"Right, with the hand curled around like a hook; inverted writing posture, it’s called. It’s the way Conley was writing."

"Yes, I know," Julie said with transparent confusion. "But not all left-handers write that way. My sister Karen doesn’t."

"That’s true, but most of them do, possibly because of the way they’re taught to slant their paper in school. But almost no right-hander does."

"I believe you, but I think something is escaping me."

Gideon stopped as they came from the mud and gravel of Barr’s Lane to the concrete sidewalk of The Street, Charmouth’s concisely named main thoroughfare.

"Julie," he said, "when I looked at Leon in the mirror today and thought he was writing left-handed, it wasn’t the mirror-image that made me think so; it was the way he was writing-hook-handed. But with his right hand."

"So…" Julie frowned, seeing what he was driving at. "You think he learned to write that way as a child-a left-handed child-and then just kept the same position when he was made to change, because that was what he was used to?"

"That’s exactly what I think."

"That makes sense, but isn’t it kind of…well, tenuous?"

"But there’s more. There are some problem characteristics that follow when left-handed kids are forced to change hands, at least some of the time, according to a lot of psychologists. And Leon Hillyer’s got ’em." Purposefully, he started across the quiet street toward the Queen’s Armes.

"Well, what are they?"

"He stutters when he’s nervous, and he has a tendency to transpose numbers. He’d written a ‘twenty-one’ on that find card I told you about, then had to cross it out and put in a ‘twelve.’ He laughed it off and told me he does it all the time. Damn! And I never figured it out!"

In the dark doorway of the Queen’s Armes, she stopped him again, standing in his way. "Gideon, you never stop astonishing me. How do you know such things? Transposed numbers, inverted writing posture-after all, you’re an anthropologist, not a-"

"Julie, do you think I don’t know what you’re doing?"

Even in the darkness he saw her widen her eyes innocently. "Doing?"

"You’re temporizing. You’re trying to keep me out of there because you think I’m mad enough to do something dumb."

"Well, aren’t you? Gideon, if you really think he’s a murderer, what you ought to do is tell the police about it."

"I’ll tell the police later. First, I want to talk to him. Now, are you going to get out of my way?"

It seemed to Gideon that he said it with convincing menace, but she didn’t move, except to fold her arms. "Will you stop being so ridiculously macho?" she said. "What are you going to do, for God’s sake, beat him up or something?"

"No, I’m not going to beat him up," he said angrily, but Julie’s arms-crossed, feet-planted, no-nonsense barring of the door made him laugh and then relax. "I don’t know what I’m going to do," he said sheepishly. "I guess I haven’t thought it out."

He laughed again and put his arms around her. "Hey, you were pretty magnificent yourself out there in the meadow."

Headlights suddenly loomed, flooding the entryway with light, and they jumped apart like a couple of kids caught necking. A dark car pulled up to the curb, the light blinked out, and a bulky form slowly emerged.

"Well now," Inspector Bagshawe boomed softly, "no need to look so guilty. I don’t suppose that’s the first time this old doorway’s seen a bit of slap-and-tickle. Mrs. Oliver, I presume? No offense, ma’am."

"Yes, this is my wife," Gideon said, "happily for us all. Julie, this is Inspector Bagshawe."

Bagshawe murmured something and lifted his hat, the first time in a long while that Gideon had seen a man do that. In his other hand he had a large manila envelope. This he handed to Gideon.

"I’ve brought you your photographs. Twenty-four in all; the undeveloped film in Randy Alexander’s camera. Much good may they do you."

"Inspector," Julie said, "there’s something we need to tell you." She glanced nervously at Gideon, who didn’t object; of course she was right.

"It’s Leon, Inspector," Gideon said.

There was a fractional pause. "Is it, now?"

"I’m sure of it. He killed Randy, all right." He smiled. "And he’s left-handed, by the way-sometimes, anyway."

"Well now. And am I to be told how you came to these conclusions?"

"You sure are, but later. Right now, why don’t we go in and talk to him?"

"You mean he’s in there? All wrapped up for me, so to speak? By all means, let’s go in then. Wouldn’t want him scarpering at this point."

As Gideon opened the door, the light from the entrance hall fell on him. Bagshawe’s mildly chaffing manner vanished.

"Good Lord!" he exclaimed. "What’s happened to you? You look like bloody hell!"

But Gideon was staring at the reception desk at the far end of the ancient corridor. There, Andy Hinshore stood, livid and popeyed, dialing the desk telephone and shaking so hard the two parts of the instrument rattled against each other in his hands. He stared at Bagshawe, somehow recognizing him for a policeman.

"Police?" he said. He stared stupidly at the telephone.

"But how…I was just calling… Someone’s been- there’s been a killing!" He blinked twice, and his Adam’s apple went ratcheting up and down his throat.

Trembling, his hand rose to point to the age-blackened door of the Tudor Room. "In there."

THEY flung the door open and burst into the room only to stop short on the threshold, stumbling over each other in a Three Stooges-like scramble that would in other circumstances have been comical.

Behind them, in an awed voice, Hinshore said unnecessarily: "By the fireplace."

The room, lit only by the dying fire, wavered between darkness and fluttering, warm orange. Objects on the walls-plates, pictures, old copper utensils-danced in and out of focus. Only the hearth itself was clearly lit, and there, on the stone flooring before which people had sat these five hundred years in comradeship and warmth, a man’s body lay sprawled, his chin tilted rigidly upward, the golden beard glinting like copper wire in the firelight.

"Leon Hillyer," Bagshawe said with interest, and turned on the light.