«Nothing. I didn't hear—that is, nothing happened. I heard the storm, that's all. Thunder. I fell asleep, I woke up, I grabbed some sandwiches in the kitchens, and I visited with Bernie for a long time. I went back to my room, you came in, Alex, we talked, I pulled back the drapery— well, we all know that part.»
«And yet there remains a part , some sequence of events, we clearly don't know,» Saint Just whispered as Troy turned to Evan Pottinger to query him about his whereabouts during the time in question.
«I was going to tell you,» Maggie whispered back while Troy and Evan argued, which wasn't really a fair fight. «I woke up in the study and heard two people arguing, but I couldn't understand what they said, or even what sex they were. Just a couple of words, and I've forgotten most of those, damn it. Maybe the same argument Evan heard parts of too. Something about having something, looking for something. Friendship, maybe? Anyway, it's probably noth-ing.»
«Saint Just?»
Both Troy and Saint Just turned around to look at Sterling. «Yes?» they said in unison.
Sterling's eyes went wide behind his gold-rimmed spectacles. «I… I mean this one,» he said, pointing at Saint Just.
«Him?» Troy exclaimed, then threw back his head and laughed. «Har. Har. Har.» A really bad attempt at an amused, sarcastic laugh. «Look at me, you knavish, dizzy-eyed varlot. What do you think this costume is all about? Does be look like Saint Just?»
«Well, um… yes . He does,» Sterling said. «He's always looked like Saint Just. Haven't you, Saint Just?»
«My turn,» Maggie said, stepping in front of her creation. «I modeled the fictional Saint Just after my distant cousin here, remember, folks? And Sterling Balder after Alex's friend, Sterling Balder. Alex Blakely became Alexandre Blake, then I tacked on the Viscount part. I didn't even change Sterling's name, and now Sterling calls Alex Saint Just as a sort of joke. See? Simple explanation.»
Arnaud Peppin pushed himself out of the chair he'd been sitting in, his legs drawn up on the seat in rather a fetal position. «Good casting, sweetheart. Now, if your cousin could only act, I might be talked into giving this movie another shot. Troy, you're pathetic.»
«Oh, yeah? And… and you're Arnie Peeps,» Troy shot back.
«Why, you—»
And they were off, the two men standing a good fifteen paces apart, screaming at each other, Arnaud's high-pitched voice particularly grating on the ears.
«Alex? Aren't you going to stop this? Alex?»
Saint Just snapped himself back to attention. «Pardon me? I'm afraid I was once again considering myself in the role of… well, of myself. Still a tantalizing prospect, wouldn't you agree?»
«Only you could think that. The fictional-hero-turned-real Saint Just would play the fictional Saint Just. Talk about not being able to tell the players without a score-card. Hey, where's everybody going? Alex? Everybody's leaving the room. Stop them.»
But it was already too late. Arnaud's screaming obviously had chased them away. As if Noah had just announced last call, off everyone went, two by two.
Tabby with Dennis/Clarence.
Bernie with the hot-water bottle Marylou had filled from the kettle on the gas stove in the kitchens.
Marylou herself with a widely grinning, all-but-preening Sir Rudy.
Sterling and Sterling… Sterling and Perry, Saint Just corrected mentally.
Joanne, dragging along a suddenly panicky-looking Evan Pottinger.
Byrd Stockwell with Nikki Campion, who was already opening the buttons on her blouse.
And, belatedly bringing up the rear, Arnaud Peppin with his beret (rather damp on one side) and both a glass and the decanter of Scotch.
Which left, oh joy of joys, Maggie, the Troy Toy, and himself.
«No, no,» Saint Just said, taking Maggie's arm. «I vote we leave our master sleuth here by the fire. You?»
«Nobody really should be alone, Alex,» Maggie said, looking at Troy, who had dropped into one of the chairs, his expression—well, blank. He may have meant it to be something else, but blank was about all he seemed to manage. «And we haven't even asked Joanne why she isn't wearing her stopwatch, remember?»
«In good time, in good time,» Saint Just said, then gave in to his lamentable soft heart and said, «Troy? If you don't want to be alone, may I suggest you toddle off after Arnaud? I believe he's heading toward the study.»
«Alone? No, I don't want to be left alone. But where are you two going?»
«Bathroom,» Maggie said quickly, then winced. «I
mean, I'm going to the bathroom. Alex is going to stand guard outside.»
«Oh, well, I don't want to do that,» Troy said. «Guess I'll go kiss up to Arnaud. Never burn a bridge, right?»
«Absolutely,» Saint Just agreed, then took Maggie's hand and headed for the landing, where he turned to the right and led her down to the ground floor of the large mansion.
Chapter twelve
«Why are we going down here?» Maggie asked, W glad she'd exchanged the oil lantern for one of the larger flashlights, which she kept trained at her feet, not exactly a big fan of falling down the stairs. «What's down on this floor, anyway?»
«Other than the kitchens, various storage rooms? Only the entrance foyer and a small public receiving room for lesser humans, I believe. Solicitors and such. I'm of the opinion the plan for this building was to keep as much of it above ground as possible. The owners would have done better to dredge the stream and pond every year, although that's only my opinion. Careful, watch your step.»
«I would if I could see the steps. Slow down.»
He did. «Forgive me, my dear, but I am beginning to feel some slight urgency in my need to solve this case.»
«And that's your first problem. This isn't your case. If anything, it's our case. I'm in this, too, remember?»
«Correction noted.» Alex stopped at last, on about the third step from the bottom, turned about, and lifted his oil lantern, holding it close to the wall. «All right, here we go. Undercuffler had changed the final scene, if you'll recall, planning a duel between the Viscount and Lord Hervey on these very stairs.»
«Well, whoop-de-do. So what?»
«So, I spent some minutes here earlier, considering the logistics of the thing, how the scene might be played out, and also amused myself admiring this rather unusual mural.»
«Again, whoop-de-do. And another big so what?»
«Even knowing I, as you have just done, could possibly be redundant in saying this, all in good time, my dear. Now, precisely where did I see that?»
«I'll ignore the 'redundant' crack and just say see what? Alex, that mural is about forty feet high and just as wide. We've got that old guy in the chariot. We've got horses pulling the chariot. We've got angels and nymphs and various woodland creatures, who are actually supposed to be the original owner and all his descendants. We've got— hell, the only thing missing is Waldo.»
«Who's Waldo?» Alex asked, taking her flashlight from her and training it higher on the mural.
«He was a little nerdy guy in a striped shirt and a cap, and some artist would draw him somewhere in crowded scenes, and then everybody would look at the drawings and try to figure out where—nobody important, never mind,» Maggie said, holding onto the back of his belt as, slowly, they retraced their steps on the grand staircase. «This isn't going to work. There's not enough light. Whatever you're looking for, it will have to wait until morning. If the sun ever comes out again or the electricity comes back on, that is.»
«No, no. You gave me only until the morning to solve our little murder, remember?»