«And that bothers you, doesn't it?» Maggie thought about this for a moment. «Not at all your sort of thing, right? Not an English, understated sort of thing? Which makes it an overdone American sort of thing?»
«I would say so, yes. Possibly. But not definitely. It's equally possible the murderer had simply wanted Under-cuffler out of the way—assuming he was murdered in the attic—and that's why he hung Sam out the window.»
«Because the Sterlings have been poking around in the attics and might have stumbled over the body?»
«Precisely. In that case, the murderer slipped back upstairs to the attic and hung Undercuffler out the window. Without—once again proving we are not dealing with a genius here—checking to make sure Sam wouldn't be visible from the floor below.»
«So we weren't meant to find him?»
«No, I don't think so. At least not until several hours after we'd noticed he'd gone missing. Would you, for instance, have asked about his whereabouts?»
«Are you kidding? I was trying to avoid him all day.»
«But he would have been missed at some point, so all the murderer stood to gain was time. I wonder why.»
Maggie thought about this. «Time for the rain to stop and the water to go down? Time for a getaway?»
«Hmmm, possibly. We'll consider that later, if we might? For now, I would like to concentrate on the how, not necessarily the why. And most definitely the who . Lifting a stiff, dead weight, having the strength to tie that dead weight to a length of heavy, braided drapery cord knotted to the scaffold, then pushing that same dead body out an attic window? I believe we can rule out the ladies, don't you?»
«Nikki lifts weights,» Maggie said, then shook her head. «No. That's pushing it. Unless there's two people involved.»
«Yes, I've considered that possibility as well. Irregardless, the lividity certainly squashes Troy Barlow's theory, although I allowed him to run with that notion for a while, if only to keep him occupied. Unfortunately, you see, he heard me when I took Sterling aside outside the morning room to inform him that we might be dealing with a murder.»
«Oh, good going, Alex.»
«It was an unfortunate lapse, yes, with my only excuse being the dim light in that hallway, even with all the candles lit in their sconces. But I did impress him with the fact that Undercuffler's death could also be a suicide. That nobody has ruled out that possibility, even as we consider alternate possibilities. Which,» Saint Just ended with a small smile, «set him off quite nicely with a theory of his own.»
«Troy? He has a theory? Okay, this should be good.
What's his theory? Murder or suicide? You said suicide, right?»
«Suicide, of course, as Troy's first choice was that Under-cuffler did indeed do away with himself. Provoked by your cruel rebuffs, by the way, your constant harping on the very reasonable improvements he made to your book. And then you crushed him—totally destroyed his spirit—by refusing to read his own script.»
«I was going to read the damn thing,» Maggie protested. «Eventually.»
«Yes, I'm sure you would have, thanks to your lamentable inability to say no and mean it when others encroach on your good-heartedness. But to continue? Undercuffler, opined our Troy, hanged himself from the scaffold, making sure you would be the one who eventually discovered his body. In other words, Sam Undercuffler killed himself to upset you. Rather like slicing off one's own nose to spite one's face, but it has been done before. Shame on you, you cold, heartless woman. Or, to quote our trumped-up Viscount Saint Just, you 'bawdy, artless harpy.'»
«He's blaming me? Reasonable improvements? Harpy! Oh, for the love of—you're kidding, right? I pass out after seeing Sam swinging outside my window, which was more than reasonable, damn it, and now you're making up stories for when I was out cold. That's mean, Alex. Really mean.»
«If that were true, which it is not, believe me when I tell you that my joy would not be unalloyed. But I will, at least somewhat, relieve your mind. Casting you in the role of hard-hearted female to Bernie when we met her in the hallway was a short-lived theory on the man's part, one she squashed both effectively and with some rather inspired profanity.»
«That's Bernie. And she's feeling sick, too. What a pal. Now tell me why your joy wouldn't be unalloyed.»
«Again, the Troy Toy—Bernie addressed him that way, several times, and I believe the title has a certain ring to it. He only moments ago confided in me that if Undercuffler was the victim of foul play—his words, not mine—he, as the Viscount Saint Just, is the obvious person to step in, solve the dastardly crime. As a matter of fact, he's off now, hunting up Joanne Pertuccelli and the robin, as he insists that everyone be gathered in the main saloon when he renders his verdict.»
«Oh joy, this is going to be good. Evan Pottinger I can see as a method actor, believing himself in a part. But Troy? He couldn't ask someone to pass the salt without a script in front of him. Wait a minute. Joanne and Byrd? They aren't here? There's been a freaking murder, Alex. Why are people just wandering around? Where are they?»
«I'm sure I shouldn't know,» Alex said, helping Maggie to her feet. «After all, I am nothing save an interested bystander, having been firmly put in my place the last time I attempted some sleuthing, and only now slowly climbing back into your good graces. In other words, using your modern vernacular, I believe that other than the observations I have already made, I'm going to sit this one out.»
Maggie laughed, and not kindly. «Oh, sure you are. And as a true Regency character might say, pull the other leg—it's got bells on. You could no more sit out a murder investigation than you could wear stripes with plaids.»
Saint Just gave an exaggerated shudder. «Oh, very well. If you insist.»
«If I—cute. Real cute, Alex. Now I'm asking you to investigate Sam's murder?»
Alex swept her an elegant leg. «Your wish, as ever, is my command. Now, shall we return to the others?»
«So Troy can play at being you and try to declare me guilty again, this time for murder? Oh, yeah, sure. I can't wait.»
«Well, the deceased was dangling outside your window, remember? Troy's original deduction was very nearly reasonable, and it's only a small step from provoker of suicide to murderess.»
«But if I killed Sam, why would I want him hanging outside my own window? Is Troy nuts, or just stupid? Never mind. Rhetorical question. Besides, if Bernie shut him up once, I don't think even Troy could be dumb enough to try to go there again. I'm safe,» Maggie said, reluctantly taking Saint Just's arm. «But you are going to tell everyone about the lividity, right?»
«Only if you'll not nag at me to limit myself to no more than that, perhaps. In for a penny, in for a pound.»
«Nag? Now I'm a nag? You know, Alex, I fainted. I had a shock. A big one. So maybe you could ease off a little, huh?»
«You're not fully recovered?»
«Of course I am,» Maggie said, bristling. «And damn you for knowing that. With Steve, I could have milked that faint for days. Weeks. With you?»
Alex pulled out his pocket watch, the one that had been his fictional grandfather's. «Fifty-seven minutes,» he supplied affably. «Ah, and here come Joanne and our Robin Redbreast. Neither looks particularly happy.»
Joanne saw them first and headed straight for Maggie. «Do you have a cell phone?» she asked, wringing her hands in front of herself while Byrd switched off the large flashlight he was carrying. «Do either of you have a cell phone? I've got to call California, let them know what's happening.»
«So sorry,» Alex said. «I have one, yes, but the battery has run down. And since there's no power… ?»