«You're really willing to give this up, turn everything over to the local cops?»
«Lowering as that prospect is, yes. We've been at this for hours, with no real, tangible results. If we were in Manhattan, I confess I would have contacted the good /e/it-tenant by now.»
«I miss Steve, too. I mean, the man carries a gun. I don't like guns, but there's a time and place for everything, you know?»
«Are you suggesting that I cannot protect you?»
Maggie sighed. «No, that's not what I said. I know you can protect me. I can protect myself, too. Don't put words in my mouth.»
Alex's grin was positively wicked. «Poor dear girl. I believe I can sympathize with that particular plea.»
«I'll have a smart comeback for that one, Alex—check with me in the morning, okay?» Maggie turned the large, old-fashioned key that was already inserted in an equally large, old-fashioned lock, and pushed open the door, immediately getting hit in the face by wind-whipped rain. The floodwater was easily seen, deep enough in spots to have its own whitecaps, which meant she was probably looking at the pond. Medwine Manor could have been picked up and dropped down in Venice, there was that much water everywhere. Unfortunately, there were no gondoliers poling past, singing «O Sole Mio» and asking if Maggie and Saint Just wanted a lift.
«Steady on,» Alex said, taking her arm. «Perhaps you should stay here while I see if I can locate any visible paths above the water level. Someone must have been farsighted enough to have the paths elevated at the time of construction.»
«Sounds like a plan, even while I think I should point out that someone didn't think to do that with the front drive,» Maggie agreed, pulling the hood of the slicker closer over her face. «I'll keep the lantern, you take the flashlight.»
Backing against the stone wall, out of the wind, Maggie watched as Alex disappeared into the dark, walking with an ease and posture that hinted that he was having himself a lovely stroll on a sunny spring day. The man had panache…
«See anything?» she called out a minute later. «Alex? Can you hear me?»
«Still walking, Maggie, so that's encouraging,» he called back to her. «The path is composed of rather slippery cobblestones and is nearly covered with water, as it borders the pond to the left, but I believe it could be passable for a single person on foot.»
«What? I didn't catch all of that. Oh, hell,» Maggie said, hoping the oil lantern wouldn't go out as she inched her way beyond the shelter of the stone walls.
Why would anyone build a house—a mansion, for crying out loud—at the bottom of a basin? And surrounded on three sides by a stream and a pond. That was just asking for it every time it drizzled.
«Alex? You still out there? Come on, talk to me, so I know you didn't step in a hole and drown or something.»
«Go back, Maggie. There's rather deep water on either side of the path—the pond on the left, the flooding on the right. It's dangerous out here.»
«For who? Whom?» she corrected, wincing. «For a woman?»
«Maggie,» Alex called out, his voice coming to her through the sound of rumbling thunder. «Not now !»
«Right, bad timing,» she said, figuratively slapping herself. Now was definitely not the time. She wished she'd never seen that drawing showing another exit to this swamp. She wished, if she'd had to see it, she hadn't pointed it out to Alex. Not that he hadn't seen the thing on his own.
She wished she was warm. She wished the rain would stop, and this night would be over, and the sun would come up, and… and that Alex could solve Sam's murder before then, because she knew he wanted to make it up to her for what he'd done to that miserable man back in Manhattan—who, yes, had probably deserved anything he got—but even heroes have to obey some rules.
«Alex? Come back! We'll wait until morning! Damn it, Alex—stop playing the hero!»
I love you anyway . That was the tag end for that sentence, and Maggie knew it. If she were writing this whole stupid story as one of her books, that would be the logical next line of dialogue. But she didn't say the words. She couldn't say those words.
Because she wasn't Rubber Duckie. She was Cowardly Chicken.
Her head down, Maggie plodded back along the slippery stone path toward the door, holding the oil lantern low, the better to guide her steps.
Then she got silly. Maybe she was tired, maybe she was even a little punch-drunk. Something. With a nervous giggle, she cast herself in the role of night watchman, one of the Charlies that once patrolled the streets of Regency England. «Ten o'clock and all's not well-l-l-l-l ,» she sang, swinging the lantern from side to side.
And that's how she saw it. That flash of bright yellow slicker on the ground just at the foundation and a good ten feet from the path as the light from the oil lantern skimmed over it.
She extended her arm, shining the light more fully in the direction of the splash of color as she carefully—and very reluctantly—picked her way closer. Then, for about the count of six, she just… just sort of stared.
Finally, Maggie found her voice. «Nine little Indians. Oh, shit. And I'm not going to faint. This time I am not going to faint. This time, I'm going to scream. Alex! Alllll-exxxxx!»
Chapter thirteen
Saint Just stood in front of the mirror in his assigned bedchamber, rubbing his wet hair with a thick white towel.
«Saint Just?»
«Yes, Sterling?» he answered, able to see his friend's reflection in the mirror as Sterling perched on the edge of the high tester bed rather like an apprehensive hovering angel.
«I… um… this is all beginning to be a little much, isn't it? I mean, first Mr. Undercuffler and now Miss Pertuccelli? Poor thing. That was a rather large knife stuck in her, wasn't it?»
«Where it remains—stuck in her, that is, as we wouldn't want to tamper with the evidence. And, yes, Sterling, a quite unfortunate demise. Very much unexpected—most obviously by me.»
«It was good of Lord Hervey—that is, Mr. Pottinger— to assist you in carrying the body into the dining room. I would have performed that particular service with you, Saint Just, had you asked, although I will be eternally grateful that you did not.»
«I somehow sensed that, yes,» Saint Just said, arranging his hair as he employed the twin pair of small, silver-backed brushes engraved with his family crest. Or, at least, what Maggie had envisioned as his family crest. The brushes had been one of his small indulgences once his finances had taken such a sunny turn with the advent of Fragrances by Pierre into his life.
«Do you think Miss Pertuccelli is the last of them? Bodies, that is.»
«We can only live in hope, as we're rapidly running scarce on laying-out tables,» Saint Just said, slipping into a black cashmere sports jacket he had chosen to wear over black slacks and a black silk pullover sweater. «How do I look, Sterling? Properly funereal, I trust? I suppose I could hunt up something to serve as a black armband?»
«This is not a joking matter, Saint Just,» Sterling said sternly, pushing himself off the bed. «Perry said we could all be dead by morning.»
«Did he now? And where is your new friend, Sterling? I've discovered this recent obsession—that of counting noses.»
Sterling frowned, then brightened. «Oh, yes, of course. He's with the others, I suppose, in the main saloon. I believe everyone was more than willing to obey your suggestion on that head. I never thought I could become so dreadfully disenchanted with England. Can we please go home, Saint Just?»
«As soon as may be, dear friend,» Saint Just assured him as he located his quizzing glass and draped it over his head, sliding the glass into the breast pocket of his jacket. No matter what the ruckus, no matter how upsetting the situation, one must always strive to be well-groomed. «But it's good to know that at least we won't have to worry about everyone scattering willy-nilly all over the mansion. And, as Sir Rudy has put in a call to the local constabulary now that I've belatedly located my cell phone, we should be very shortly joined by those good gentlemen.»