So Webster was Irish! Ah yes, that explained it, and what was this on the table? A bottle of water blessed by some priest, no doubt, and therefore holy. The floor was patterned dustily with stains of the water — yes, and here was a Bible and upon it, cautious man, this Webster had placed a small pearl-handled pistol of ancient design, a relic, doubtless, that be had found somewhere in the castle and had appropriated for the night.
He smiled grimly to himself. Brave Webster, pretending a mighty courage when he was with others, a high skepticism, but when alone, resorting to most ancient protection! He lifted the silver snuffer on the table and extinguished the candle. Then he felt his way to the door. When he tried to close it softly, however, one of those gusts of unexplained wind snatched it from his grasp. It slammed shut with an ear-cracking bang. He heard a loud yell from within. Webster had wakened. He opened the door again to explain and was met by a splash of cold water in his face. He gasped and stepped back.
“Webster!” he shouted. “What are you doing? It’s I — John Blayne!”
“Heaven save us—” he heard Webster mutter. A match was struck and a moment later the candle flared. Webster stood by the bed, staring at him.
“What are you doing here, man — at this time of the night?”
“It’s not night any more,” he retorted. “It’s near dawn, as you would see if you hadn’t sealed yourself with chalk marks and Bibles and pistols and so on — not to mention this bath of water you’ve dashed in my face!”
“Holy water never hurt anyone,” Webster retorted, “and if you can stop laughing, tell me why you are up and wandering about the castle? I’m sure you don’t get up at dawn any more than I do.”
“I had a nightmare, if you must know the truth,” John Blayne said. He was wiping the water from his face and neck with his handkerchief.
“A nightmare, was it?” Webster repeated.
“Nothing but a nightmare — a head, if you please, swimming past my window with no body attached. Now don’t indulge yourself in delightful fancies! There’s a terrace outside my window, I daresay, and someone — Wells, doubtless, who’s desiccated enough to look like an authentic ghost anywhere, not mentioning in this castle — was probably taking a midnight walk.”
“I’m going back to bed,” Webster said. “I get a chill easily at my age.”
John Blayne was amused. “Really? And I was about to ask you to go with me to my room to investigate the head, just for the sake of finding out facts. I’m a great believer in facts. If you’re afraid, now that you’ve wasted all of the holy water on me, you could carry the Bible in one hand and the pistol in the other.”
“I’m afraid of nobody,” Webster shouted, “and it’s cold that makes my teeth chatter, nothing else!”
“Come along then, but it’s a distance, I warn you. I’ve been lost for hours.”
“Nonsense,” Webster said sourly. “Your room isn’t minutes down the passage from mine.”
He took Webster’s arm and led the way in long strides, Webster guiding him, to the Duke’s room.
“Lucky I found you,” he said, as they walked. “I swear I’ve been searching for my room for the past hour and a half. Now you tell me it’s two minutes away, no more. Ah yes — right you are! I remember the coat of arms carved on the door — a handsome door, by the way, heavy as—”
He heaved at the door as he spoke, but it opened easily as though someone pulled it from within and they all but fell into the room. Wells stood there, tall and correct even in his nightclothes.
“Mr. Blayne,” he exclaimed. “Where have you been? I’ve been looking for you everywhere. I thought I heard you call.”
John Blayne stared at him. “Did you walk past my window on the terrace?”
“What terrace, sir?”
“Don’t make a joke. Wells! I like jokes, mind you, but not heads without bodies floating past my window!”
He spoke lightly and was astonished at the change that suddenly took place in the old man. Wells set his jaws tight. His eyes narrowed in their piercing gaze, his gray and brushy eyebrows knit over his long nose.
“How dare you, making jokes about the Duke of Starborough’s head!”
John Blayne surprised, stepped back, but Wells stepped toward him and spoke between clenched teeth, “If you knew who I am, you wouldn’t dare — you wouldn’t dare!”
Staring, John Blayne felt just then that he knew all too well who Wells was — Kate’s grandfather, the indispensable butler, but what had that to do with the Duke’s head and an imagined insult? “Really, Wells,” he began, “I’m sorry, but …”
Walking past him with eyes that deigned not to countenance him, Wells went to the door, opened it, and disappeared down the passage.
“Is the man mad?” John Blayne asked.
He was amazed to see only embarrassment on Webster’s face, not fright or concern, when he answered, “Not mad, odd perhaps. Yes, I’ll agree that he’s odd. He does some playacting now and then as does the old boy himself. I think it goes to his head a bit.”
“Sir Richard? Playacting?”
“Yes, I regret to say.” Webster sighed. “There are some odd situations here, I admit, more than can be told.”
“Who is Wells?” John Blayne demanded. “Or who does he think he is?”
“He — he’s the butler,” Webster said uncertainly.
John Blayne stared at him. “I don’t believe it.”
Webster coughed. “Why not?”
“I’ll ask another question, too.” He stepped forward and tapped Webster’s chest. “Who is Kate?”
Webster stepped back. “Kate? Just what you see, an uncommonly attractive young woman, of course. She makes herself useful in several ways — here in the castle the maid, and so forth—”
He interrupted. “She is not only attractive, she’s lovely. A maid? What maid is treated like Kate? She’s like a daughter to the family, and—”
Webster broke in. “Nonsense! They sit, she stands. She doesn’t take her meals in the great hall with Lady Mary and Sir Richard. It’s true that she — but in England a child is taught to call her father ‘sir’—”
John Blayne caught him up sharply. “Father? Who?”
“I thought you meant Sir Richard.”
“Sir Richard!”
Webster recovered himself. “I really don’t know what you are talking about, Blayne. In fact, I really don’t know why I’m here. Some joke or other, and I don’t care for jokes at this time of night — or day — whatever — If you’ll excuse me—”
John Blayne felt an explosion of anger in his head. “You will excuse me,” he said. “It’s I who am leaving. I shall drop this whole project. It is no longer attractive to, me. If you will be so kind as to tell Sir Richard in the morning that I have left—”
He felt Webster’s grip on his shoulder.
“You can’t simply leave — not at this point. You have gone too far. We can sue you—”
He wrestled himself free. “Sue me, by all means! I’ll notify my lawyers. And if you will please leave — my room.”
He waited but Webster did not leave. Instead he tied the belt of his brown flannel dressing gown more firmly about his wide waist, then strolled across the room and sat down in a huge old crimson velvet chair. He made a pretense of laughter.