"About murder, I only know what I see in films and read in novels," Thaxton said. "But one thing I do know. Somebody stabbed the viscount as he sat eating, and then either deliberately or accidentally dropped the knife."
"All right, but why drop the knife right there? Why not throw it in the bushes or in the pond? Why no attempt to dispose of something that could be traced?"
"Maybe it can't be traced."
"Fingerprints?"
Thaxton stared out the window. "Something tells me that there won't be any fingerprints on that thing."
"Why not, if Lady Rilma stabbed him, as you seem to be suggesting?"
"No reason at the moment. Just have a feeling it'll be clean as a choir loft."
"So you don't suspect Lady Rilma."
"She could have wiped the knife before dropping it."
"After stabbing him in a sudden rage? Maybe, but it doesn't sound convincing. Damn it." Dalton stood. "Nothing about this business makes sense, and the biggest thing that doesn't make sense is that nobody saw anything. A brutal stabbing, right out in the open, in broad daylight, and no one saw a damn thing."
Thaxton was silent.
Dalton heaved an uneasy breath. "I'm hungry. They said dinner would be in an hour or so. No lunch. I should have grabbed something at the picnic. But ―"
"Magic," Thaxton said.
"Huh?"
Thaxton turned. "Magic's involved somehow. I don't know how."
"Well, that's interesting, because I was talking with Tyrene while you were off somewhere, about how this aspect doesn't have much magic in it. Or difficult magic, if any."
"Nevertheless, I still think magic's the key."
"Anything behind that bit of brilliant deduction? And please don't say it's elementary."
"I wasn't going to. Well, old boy, let's take a walk, shall we? Look around the place."
"Fine."
"We'll deal with alimentary matters later."
"Shameful."
Peele Castle was interesting in a quaint way. The furnishings were in various styles, ranging from the very old to the merely antiquated. The place was a museum. Unicorn tapestries draped the walls, suits of armor stood in corners. It was in many ways much more homey than Perilous. Proportions were on a human scale. Rooms were not overpoweringly large, and there were enough comfy chairs, ottomans, carpets, settees, lamps, and trivet tables to make anyone feel at home.
The lords and ladies were being served drinks in the drawing room. At the sight of so many disgruntled and resentful aristocrats, Thaxton and Dalton demurred and sought refuge in the library.
Dalton browsed the shelves while Thaxton sipped sherry.
"If only I could question them on my own," Thaxton mused. He clucked and shook his head. "Not bloody likely."
"Interesting books," Dalton said. "They look more readable than Osmirik's stuff, though there're a lot of foreign ― wait a minute, here's some English. Good God."
Thaxton broke out of his reverie. "What?"
"Here's a book that's got to be mighty strange."
"Eh? What's that?"
"The Moswell Plan, by Dorcas Bagby."
"Aside from the unlikelihood of running into the name Dorcas twice in one day, what's strange about it?"
"It shouldn't exist. I was a literary agent, but I'm a bibliophile, too. I actually like books, especially obscure and interesting ones. This novel's somewhat of a legend in the obscurity department. Matter of fact, I once tried hunting it down, and my assessment of the whole matter was that it was a hoax concocted by a young fantasy aficionado out in the Midwest. But here it be. I guess I'll be up tonight reading this."
Thaxton got up and looked over the selection. Most of the books looked old, and some were falling apart. He inclined his head and read the lettering on the spines.
"Ever seen magic spelled M-A-G-I-E-K?"
Dalton looked. "Mageek?"
Thaxton pulled the volume out. It was old but in good shape, its sturdy boards covered in fine leather. He opened it to the title page. In spidery print it read:
YE BUK OV MAGIEKAL DIVERSHYNS
beeng divers discorses on Ye emploiment ov wichrrye forr Ye delectashyn & eddifycashyn ov gentil fohkk
Ye athor beeng wone
Baldor o' Ye Cayrn
"Weird spelling but it's English all right," Dalton said. "I like _wichrrye' especially. Those capital Y's have a th sound. So it's just the word the. I make the author out to be Baldor of the Cairn, or something like that. A cairn is a pile of Celtic rocks."
Thaxton thumbed through it. He found something of interest.
"Not what you call page-turning action, but you can make it out," Dalton said, looking over Thaxton's shoulder. "What's it on? Parlor tricks?"
"Interesting," Thaxton said. "Interesting. I think I'll be up reading, too."
A servant appeared at the door.
"Gentlemen, dinner is served."
Fourteen
Dutchtown
"Slowly, slowly run, O horses of the night."
Tony Montanaro glanced at the passing carriage and chuckled. They were almost out of the park and into the uptown district on the west side of the city.
"Boss, I don't get it. What do they got up in Dutchtown that you need?"
"The seltzer trick is only going to work once. The old stuff gets stale eventually. I need something different, something new."
"And you're going to get it off some melanzana?"
"Maybe. We'll see."
They rolled out of the park and into uptown. The streets were still busy, a steady stream of patrons flowing in and out of the speakeasies. Expensive cars cruised the streets, pulling over now and then to engage tightly dressed women in conversation.
The majority of faces on the street were dark, but there was a substantial white representation. Some of the best clubs were in this part of town, and some of the very best music.
"You know where the Djinn Mill is, Tony?"
"Yeah, I been there once or twice."
Tony wheeled left and slowed to let a group of laughing bar-hoppers cross. "The place is always jumpin'," he said.
Tony made a right, then a left. He drove straight for six blocks, then went left again.
"I like Dutchtown," Velma said. "I need a drink. Are we going to stop awhile?"
"Yeah," Carney said. "Right here."
The Djinn Mill's front was not imposing. There was no sign, just a green-painted door with a light over it. Tony pulled up to the curb.
Carney opened the door. "C'mon, Velma. I'll buy you a drink."
"Sure." She smiled prettily at him.
"Tony, no disappearing act."
"Don't worry, boss, I'll be close by. Take your time."
The peephole opened in the green door and a black face appeared.
"Carney, John Carney. Is Biff Millington here tonight?"
"Evenin', Mr. Carney. Yessuh, I do believe he's here."
The door opened. Jazz came through, hot jazz, but served with a dollop of cool urban sophistication, a baked-Alaska of sound. They entered. A broad-shouldered, nattily dressed bouncer looked them up and down, smiled, and took a long drag on a rolled cigarette. Carney recognized him, and winked. The man nodded.
The maitre d' said into Carney's ear, "He's in the back."
Smoke was a swirling fog in the main room. Fake palm leaves hung from the pillars, "jungle" vegetation abounded everywhere. The dance floor was large but crowded. The stage held a ten-piece band and King Elmont at the piano, doing a fast, syncopated rendition of "Shake That Thing." The dance was a fast two-step. There were a lot of pale customers; the club catered to a largely white clientele, but there were some brown faces: celebs mostly, entertainers, along with prosperous Dutchtowners, the odd hood, and a politician or two.