"That was fun," Snowclaw said.
"Keeps the blood moving," Gene agreed, then turned to see how the leader of the tribes took it.
The chief, a tall bearded man wearing a horned helmet, regarded them with an equanimity belied by a nervous tic in one eye, his long fur cloak flapping in the wind.
Gene and Snowclaw approached him. "You fight well," the chief said evenly.
"Thanks, Brunhilda," Gene said. "What's your beef against the Empire? By the way, what Empire?"
"You know not of the Empire of Orem? Where do you hail from?"
"Far, far away. How has Orem wronged you?"
"Wronged me?" The chief laughed. "I am Rognar the Conqueror. I have crossed the stone mountains, swept across the Great Open and come down to the lands of the Cake Eaters, who tremble before me, for they know that the days of their empire are numbered. I will take Verimas next week, and after that the great fortress town of Rhane. And then the way to great Orem itself will be open. Orem will fall and the Cake Eaters will be crushed under the hooves of my white stallion."
"You have a problem with hostility," Gene said. "Have you ever been in therapy?"
"I know not the things you speak of. I think you jest. Nevertheless, I have seen you fight and defeat any number of my best men. Are you sorcerers?"
Gene looked at Snowclaw, then back at Rognar. "In a manner of speaking."
"Then you are welcome to join us. There will be much booty. Gold, silver, women. You will be welcome to your share of the spoils."
"What do you say, Snowy? Need any gold, silver, or women?"
"Just give me a couple of good fights and you can keep the rest of it," Snowclaw said.
Gene smiled at the chief. "You've persuaded us. Where do we sign up?"
CHAPTER TWENTY
Night.
Brooding, suspicious night, settled on Hawkingsmere. A chill wind blew in from the heath, rattling old windows and setting bare twigs to tick against the windows. Ghost-cloud chased across a starless sky. The wind whimpered in th, eaves.
Policemen and deputized locals took up posts at ever door of the estate. Outside, more men prowled the ground. No one could leave, no one could enter.
For all that the manor was full of guests, a strange quiet felclass="underline" a hushed, fearful quiet.
Inspector Motherwell drank from his teacup, then set cup and the saucer down. "So, what do we have so far?"
"Not much," Colonel Petheridge said.
The door to the library opened and Blackpool came in. "If there is nothing else, gentlemen, I will retire."
"Lock your door, like the others," Motherwell instructed
"I will, sir."
"Are they all nestled in up there?" Colonel Petheridg asked. "Room for everybody?"
"Yes, sir. There are eighteen bedrooms in this house."
Motherwell humphed. "The ruling class, they do live well. Very good, off you go, Blackpool."
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."
When Blackpool had left, Motherwell grimaced. "Creepy sort, don't you think?"
"Occupational hazard," Petheridge said. "They live in the cracks."
"Hm? Oh, yes. Right." Motherwell sighed. "Well, this is a fine kettle of fish. Two murders, too many suspects, no clues."
Thaxton asked, "You were saying, before Blackpool came in?"
"I was saying? Oh, yes. Well, I was saying that I wanted a gathering in of all the loose ends. The possibilities, as it were."
Thaxton said, "We'd come to the conclusion that Amanda Thripps was nowhere near Lady Festleton's bedroom at the time of the murder. She was in the conservatory with Humphrey Thayne-Chetwynde and Sir Laurence."
"But she did have a motive, if she thought that Honoria had killed the earl, her lover."
"Correct."
Motherwell continued, "And Lady Festleton's outrage on finding out that Amanda was the earl's current mistress might have been a motive for killing him. Although she did know he'd had others."
Thaxton said, "We do have the maid's testimony that she got the blackmail letter in the morning post. She read it, and immediately rushed out of the house."
"Where did she have the sawed-off stashed?" Dalton wanted to know. "Maid didn't see her with it."
"Outside somewhere?" Thaxton guessed. "In a shed? Blast it, if I'd only seen more of her from the portal. But it was only a fleeting glimpse."
Motherwell looked up from his cup and saucer. "Eh, what's that? What portal?"
Thaxton said, "Uh…"
"Port Road," Dalton improvised.
"What?" Petheridge snorted. "That's not the Port Road out there. It's miles to the south."
"Yes, I knew, but Lord Peter has a terrible time reading a map."
"Right," Thaxton said, relieved.
"I see," Motherwell said. "Anyway; we've established that the earl was being blackmailed."
"That's something," Thaxton said. "But not a motive for murder in either case."
"No," Motherwell said. "The blackmailer wouldn't profit by the death of either the earl or Lady Festleton. Which brings us round to Amanda Thripps again."
"Or Daphne Pembroke," Dalton said.
Motherwell nodded. "The earl's previous mistress, the woman scorned. But she has an alibi. She fired the only other shot, which you heard moments before the fatal one, and she was far out on the heath and surrounded by witnesses."
"And there's Horace Grimsby," Dalton said, "Miss Pembroke's jilted suitor."
"Who also witnessed Daphne banging away at a grouse that the dogs had flushed," Thaxton said. "Or says he did."
"The others might be covering for him," Motherwell said. "If you'll forgive, my lord, the upper class look out after their own."
"In some cases," Lord Peter acknowledged. "And in this case, Grimsby could have been the blackmailer."
"'The postmark was local," Petheridge pointed out.
"Yes, it was," Motherwell said, adding ruefully, "and if Grimsby's typewriter matched the typeface on the envelope, we'd have the case bloody well solved."
"Your men have been quick on the legwork," Thaxton said.
"Thank you. I like to get on things straight away. But that lead proved a blind alley."
"Easy to use someone else's typer," Petheridge said. "Simply bring the envelope to dinner or a soiree, slip into the den, and Bob's your uncle."
"True, but we can't very well go running around the countryside, barging into everyone's den checking typers, now can we?"
"Suppose not," Petheridge admitted.
"What about this business of Stokes the gamekeeper getting into a dust-up last night with a prowler?" Thaxton said. "That's intriguing, what with the interloper being a dark-skinned foreigner."
"No moon last night either," Petheridge said. "He can't swear it was a wog."
"Nevertheless, Colonel," Motherwell said, "Mr. Pandanam interests me. This cult he heads up, know anything about it?"
"All wog cults are bloody nonsense to me."
"You suspect the Mahajadi of having something to do with the prowler?" Thaxton asked of Inspector Motherwell.
"There's a killer on the loose. I suspect everyone."
"Who else haven't we covered?" Thaxton said. "Let's see. Mr. Geoffrey Ballifants, who stands to inherit his half-sister Honoria's family income."
"A likely suspect," Petheridge said. "And his alibi for the time of Honoria's death is as leaky as a sieve."
"Yes, but not his alibi for Festleton's death. It's airtight."
"What about Thayne-Chetwynde?" the colonel asked.
"What about him?" Motherwell said.
"Well… blast it all, more dirty wash. Oh, well, can't be helped. Honoria and he have been having it on for years. Now and then."
"Really? I must say, they've kept that one under wraps," Motherwell marveled.
Thaxton lifted his eyebrows. "The webs get tangled in these parts."
"To err is human, old man,"