"Oh, quite. Did the viscount have many enemies?"
Dalton seemed uncomfortable. "I'm sure Her Highness doesn't ―"
"I can understand your interest," the princess said, "having discovered the body. It must have been a shock."
"It was. I hope you don't find my questions too impertinent, ma'am, but, as you said, our curiosity is naturally very high. And our concern, of course."
"As is everyone else's. The murderer must be brought to justice. He cannot be permitted to go free." The princess seemed to retreat into herself, her gaze deflecting momentarily. Then she looked at Thaxton. "Yes. To answer your question, the viscount was not liked by many people. Whether he had enemies, I don't know."
"Thank you, ma'am."
She looked toward the sea. "I think I'll sit by the cliff and watch the sunset before I go in. I must meditate."
They watched her go down the knoll and walk toward the cliff's edge.
"Odd."
"What?" Dalton asked.
"When she said _He must not be permitted to go free' I got the distinct impression that she had someone specific in mind."
"I sort of did, too, now that you mention it."
Their room was small but had a spectacular view of the ocean through casements of leaded glass. The servant, an elderly man with a shiny bald head, swung the panes out to let in tangy salt air.
"Servant's quarters, I suspect," Thaxton said, looking around.
Dalton said, "It'll do. Hard to get used to an ordinary castle with limited space."
"One bed," Thaxton noted, dubiously eyeing the not-quite-double bed.
"I can fetch a cot, sir," the servant offered.
"Oh, don't bother on my account," Thaxton said. "One regrettable aspect of the current openness about things is that there's now something slightly questionable about two men occupying the same bed. Used to be no one gave it a second thought."
"I remember," Dalton said. "But I like to stretch out, and besides, I thrash in my sleep sometimes, or so my late wife used to tell me."
"I'll tell one of the boys to fetch it right up, sir."
"Thank you…?"
"Ruford, sir."
"Thank you, Ruford."
Thaxton remarked, "You were at the fête, weren't you?"
"Yes, sir."
"I suppose you saw nothing suspicious, either?"
"Ah… no, sir. I did not."
"You didn't see the viscount get up and leave?"
"No, sir."
"See anything happen right before that?"
"Ah… specifically what, sir?"
"Oh, anything that went on, for instance, between the viscount and his lady."
Ruford looked away. "I did serve the viscount and Lady Rilma, yes, sir."
"Did they talk?"
Ruford seemed reluctant to speak.
Thaxton nodded. "I realize I'm asking you to talk about your employer ―"
"Sir, I am not employed by the viscount. I am head of staff here at Peele."
"I understand your reluctance. But this is important. Did Tyrene interview you yet?"
"No, sir."
Dalton said, "Thaxton, maybe we'd better wait. After all, it's not our ―"
"Hold off just a moment, old man. Ruford, Mr. Dalton and I are acting in an advisory capacity to the investigation. We will keep anything you say in strictest confidence."
Dalton gave his golf partner a strange look.
Ruford sighed. "Very well, sir. Yes, I heard them speaking."
"And?"
"They were arguing, sir."
"About what?"
"I didn't hear all of it, sir, but the lady said something to the effect that he ought not to have done it right in front of her."
"Done what?"
"Oh, dear." Ruford's face reddened.
"He was making improper advances?"
Ruford raised his thin eyebrows. "Yes, sir."
Thaxton's aside to Dalton was: "Just a wild guess." Of Ruford he asked, "To whom? Lady Rowena?"
"Yes."
"That's Lord Belgard's wife?"
"Yes, sir."
"While they were playing at hedge ball?"
"Yes, sir. I myself saw it."
"And Lord Belgard, too, I presume."
"Yes, sir, I suppose the lord did see it. He was right there."
"Interesting. Under her husband's nose. And the viscount and Lady Rilma argued over this. She berated him?"
"She did, sir."
"And what was his reaction?"
"He told her to be quiet. Then… he threw something at her."
"He did?"
"Yes, sir. A wing of capon."
"It struck her?"
"Yes, sir. In the face."
"And what did she do or say?"
"Nothing, sir. She just got the palest look on her."
"Pale? Was she afraid, do you think?"
"No, sir. It was anger, sir. The kind that drains the blood from the face and makes the lips waxen. That kind of anger, sir. Cold anger. She looked as though…"
"She looked as though what?"
"As though she were going to strike him back, sir. Only harder."
"Did she make any attempt?"
"No, sir. None. She just sat there."
"Did you hear or see anything else?"
"I'm afraid not, sir. That is all I have to tell."
"You didn't see Trent ―?"
"Oh, please, sir. I saw nothing." Ruford cast his eyes to the floor. "It is not my place to talk about the brother of the king."
"In a court of law, you'd be obliged to," Thaxton reminded him.
"Yes, sir. I would. But not until then, and not until his lordship the judge puts the question, and I am bound by law and principle to answer."
"I see. Well, thank you, Ruford. That's all for now."
"You're quite welcome, sir. I'll see to the cot straightaway."
When the door closed, Dalton said, "That was hard for him."
"Well, servants, you know."
"I do know that there's more than one mystery to all this."
"Eh? What's that?"
"You."
"Me? Whatever do you mean?"
Dalton sat on a hard-backed wooden chair. "I've never seen you like this. I can't fathom this amazing transformation that's come over you."
"Just what amazing transformation is that, old man?"
"This is the first time I've ever seen you… interested in something. You're animated, you're involved. And you have the makings of becoming a damn fine amateur sleuth. Where on earth did you learn all that forensic medicine?"
Thaxton chuckled. "I'm faking it, old man. I don't know all that much about forensic medicine or, for that matter, anything else. What I do know was learned out of murder mysteries."
"You're kidding."
"Not at all. Used to read three a week sometimes when I was married. Not much else to do. Sayers, Christie, Chesterton, Bentley, the lot. And I was raised on Conan Doyle. Most fiction leaves me cold, but I love a good mystery. Gets the blood racing."
"Absolutely amazing."
"Detection? Hardly. All it takes is having no qualms about asking indelicate questions."
"No powers of deduction? No keen eye?"
"Overrated. I certainly can't tell from a spot of clay on a man's boots that he's recently been in Lyme Regis or that his dog has beriberi or any of that Holmesian nonsense. But it doesn't take much to deduce that someone killed the viscount and that it was probably somebody at the party, who either threw a knife or stabbed him in the back and dropped the knife."
Dalton nodded. "And now we know it could have been Lady Rilma."
"Yes, she now tops the list. And it makes much more sense than the knife-throwing business. If the knife was thrown and it stuck deeply in the viscount's back, who pulled it out?"
Dalton tried reaching to the middle of his back. "I suppose he could have, though I can't imagine anything harder or more painful than pulling a knife out of one's own back. And… now, what I know about these matters you can't stuff a flea's backside with, and I've read Sayers and everybody else ― but don't people die when they get stabbed in the back? I mean, immediately? I was always under the impression it was a pretty quick thing. All of which is leading up to saying that it just might be that he was stabbed in the castle."