Petheridge said. "There's more. He and Amanda as well. But I do believe that was only a fling."
"Musical beds," Dalton observed.
"And then there's Mr. Clarence Wicklow," Dalton said. "Anything on him?"
"Not a thing," Petheridge said. "Except his family traditionally bore a grudge against the master of Hawkingsmere. Goes back generations. Someone did someone dirt, centuries ago. Not clear what. But I don't see that as having anything to do with the present situation. Wicklow and the earl were the best of friends."
"One thing bothers me," Thaxton said.
"What's that, my lord?" Motherwell said.
"Everybody standin' around while Daphne pots away at a grouse. Odd, all clumped together like that. I think someone's not telling it straight."
"Of course they're not," Motherwell said. "There were footprints all over the heath, some in pairs, some alone, and the same all over the woods. Not near the body, mind you, but-"
"Wait!" Thaxton said, sitting straight up. "Just had a thought. No footprints but Lady Festleton's were found in the clearing. But the killer could have wiped out his prints by dragging the body over them and covering the trail with leaves."
Motherwell put down his cup and saucer. "Never thought of that. Well, now." The Inspector was thoughtful. "But how did he get back to the woods without leaving more prints?"
"Uh, yes, I see your point."
"We'd better have another look at that clearing in the morning," Petheridge said.
A crack of thunder sounded.
"That is," Thaxton said, "if the rain doesn't wash everything out."
Motherwell's shoulders sagged. "I'm done in. There's nothing to be accomplished till morning. You gentlemen had better get yourselves to bed. Did Blackpool-?"
"We've been shown our quarters," Dalton said.
"Good. Mind that you lock your doors, gentlemen. There's a killer loose."
The men left the library and were surprised to see Clarence Wicklow, a young man with a sharp, thin face, coming through the shadows of the dining hall. He had on a blue bathrobe and slippers.
"Eh, what's this?"
"Had to have my glass of milk," Wicklow said. "Can't get to sleep without it."
"You're rooming with…?"
"Thayne-Chetwynde."
"You'd best get back up. Was there anyone in the kitchen?"
"Not a soul. Had a devil of a time finding anything."
"Well, we're going up. Come with us."
The five men proceeded up the great wooden staircase. At the top, Wicklow trotted off down the hall, waving goodnight.
When Wicklow had gone into his room, Motherwell delayed Thaxton with a touch on the arm.
"My lord, what do you make of Blackpool's going out at around the time of the earl's murder?"
"Have we really fixed the time of his going out, exactly?"
"Could have been a bit before, could have been immediately after. But his story didn't sit well with me. Clothesline from the shed, him wanting to tie off bundles of magazines for the church charity drive. Bundles of magazines indeed."
Thaxton shrugged. "I see nothing suspect in that."
"Blackpool's never gone to church in his life. Staunch atheist."
"Rather out of character." Thaxton scratched his stubbly chin. "I see what you mean. But do you really suspect the butler of anything?"
Motherwell shook his head. "I grant you I'm grasping at straws, but it seems awfully odd that-"
"I say, you chaps… "
Motherwell spun toward the voice that came from down the hall. "Yes?"
It was Wicklow, his face chalky. "You'd better come in and see this. Nasty business."
The clothesline had been tied securely to the footboard of the double bed and thrown up over the huge brass chandelier. The body, that of Humphrey Thayne-Chetwynde, slowly rotated, dangling by the neck. Beneath the body, on the floor, lay an overturned chair.
A note was pinned to the trouser leg. On it was a scrawclass="underline"
Honoria my darling cannot exist without you life meaningless-impossible to go on-we will live again
Your Humphrey
"Poor chap," Petheridge said.
"'We will live again,"' Motherwell read with a frown. "Wonder what that's all about?"
"An allusion to reincarnation," Dalton guessed, "or a more conventional religious sentiment?"
"If it's the former, then the cult aspect might be involved," Thaxton said.
"Nasty business." Wicklow couldn't keep from staring up at the limp body, the blackened face, the contorted features. "Nasty business," he repeated, his voice rasping.
"Here, here," Motherwell said, taking his shoulder. "Steady on, Mr. Wicklow. Sit down, here."
Wicklow sat. "He… he was completely fine when I left him. Didn't seem in bad spirits. Last thing he said was a joke, in fact. `Watch out for killer cows,' he said."
"Did he mean to make a joke about your fetching some milk?" Motherwell asked.
"Why, yes. That's the way I took it. Ghastly thing to say, under the circumstances. But I laughed in spite of myself. Bit of relief."
"What else did you talk about when you were up here with him?"
"Not a thing, really. Nothing. Maybe a few words about the weather."
"Nothing about the murders?"
"No. Not at all. We're all still a bit shaken by all that's happened. We didn't utter a word about it. Didn't have time, really."
"And you say he wasn't at all despondent? He didn't appear so, or say anything to lead you to that conclusion?"
"No. In fact, as I said, he seemed in jolly good spirits."
"Blackpool's clothesline, I'll wager," Thaxton said, examining the taut length of cord. "Either Blackpool did it or someone stole the line out of his room."
"Did what?" Motherwell demanded.
"Hanged Thayne-Chetwynde and forged the note."
"Good God. What makes you say that?"
"Was Thayne-Chetwynde a navy man?"
"No," Petheridge said. "Army."
"Did he have a yacht?"
"Didn't care for the sea much, as I recall."
"This knot is a bowline hitch, a kind you tie off a taut cord with. It's a seaman's knot. Someone with nautical experience tied it. Hardly the thing a desperate person would do, anyway. And in any event, it's very difficult to tie with a loose cord."
"Another murder," Motherwell groaned.
Thaxton scratched his head, muttering, "Three. Three murders. Now this is getting bloody unusual."
Dalton sidled over to him and whispered, "Still think this is merry old England?"
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
As the night wore on into morning, Max and Hochstader 3 hit dozens and dozens of alternate continua, each one with Dumbrowsky Taylor Burke or some variant smack in the middle of it.
"I can't believe it," Max groaned, staring at the phone book in Hochstader 37's outer office.
"Again?" Hochstader 3 asked wearily.
"Again."
Max was fascinated by the permutations on the agency's name, evidently the result of random factor at work among Max's would-be partners. There was Dumbrowsky Taylor Thompson, ditto ditto O' Hare, Dumbrowsky McNeil ditto, ditto ditto Tomassi, and even a Dumbrowsky Fenton Fineburg.
"Herb Fenton. My God, why did I go into partnership with Herb Fenton? Well, he's in this universe. Close, but no cigar."
"No more, please," Hochstader 3 begged.
"We have to keep looking." Addressing Hochstader 56, Max said, "Thanks."
"Do drop in again," Hochstader 56 replied.
Later, even Max was getting tired.
"How many alternates are there that might be close to the one I want?"
"Do you know what a googol is?"
"No," Max said.
"It's a number. A one with a crapload of zeros after it. Take that number, and raise it to the power of itself. Googol to the googol power. You get a googolplex. Don't even think about how many zeros that has. That'll give you some idea of how many worlds we're talking about."