«That's because you're a gentleman to your toes, Sterling.» Maggie peered into the darkness that hugged the farther areas of the immense room, outside the light from all the candles and the fireplace. «Okay. I'll leave her alone. Damn it, here comes the Troy Toy. What does he want?»
«He's been very busy, Maggie. We all have been. Discussing possible suspects.»
«That sounds jolly, in a house with a pair of stiffs taking up space on the tables. Am I on the suspect list again? Because if I am, you may have to hold me back before I punch our pretty boy in the nose.»
«No, no, no, you're not on the list. None of us is, as a matter of fact. Troy is now quite certain that Evan—Mr. Pottinger—is the culprit.»
«Oh, really. Why?»
Sterling sort of lowered his head, although Maggie could still see the flush steal into his cheeks. «It… it would appear that Evan and Miss Pertuccelli were… um… that is to say, they've been…»
«Extremely friendly?» Maggie suggested, trying not to smile.
«Yes, exactly! Thank you, Maggie.»
«You're welcome. What did Evan say?»
«He didn't say anything. He just threw his wineglass at Troy. Tabby got some club soda from the drinks table and dabbed at the carpet. We don't think it will stain.»
«That's our Tabby. Having an extramarital revenge fling one minute, playing the Happy Homemaker the next. Okay, here he comes. Cover me.»
» But… but with—?»
«Figure of speech, Sterling,» Maggie said quickly. «It means I'm asking you to watch my back.»
«I see. You could have said that. You know I have trouble with these modern sayings.»
«Sorry, sweetheart.» Maggie then smiled at Troy Barlow, who was still in costume and still holding his prop sword cane in a two-handed death grip. «Hi, there. Catch any dastardly murderers lately, my lord?»
Troy's handsome face reworked itself into what, Maggie guessed, was his stock deeply serious expression. «I've about given that up, since Evan threw his drink at me. Gleeking bat-fowling codpiece.»
Maggie grimaced. «Do you have any idea what you're saying?»
Troy flourished the cane. «That's not important and it's a waste of my time memorizing all that baloney, too. Me solving the murders is important. Or it was. It's not like my agent is going to be able to use it now anyway. You know—star solves murder on set?»
«Life imitates art imitating life, you mean?»
«No. I don't think I mean that. I mean fantastic free publicity. But nobody's going to shoot this movie now. The writer's dead, Joanne's dead. It's like that old movie. Well, lots of old movies. I heard about them. Cursed sets. I think
The Misfits was one. Clark Gable, Marilyn Monroe. The Exorcist was another one, I think. And one where all the actors got cancer years later. Cursed sets. Nobody's going to touch this one again.»
«That's beginning to work for me, to tell you the truth,» Maggie said honestly. «As long as we all don't have to give the money back.»
«Oh, no, no, we'll keep the money, although that's probably cursed, too,» Troy told her. «So you don't want your books to be made into movies or a TV series?»
«Not unless I get a lot more say-so than I got this time, no. Look, Troy, it's been just grand talking to you, but Sterling and Perry and Alex and I are going to do a little more looking around, in case anyone asks. Has anyone else tried to leave the room?»
«Are you kidding? You'd have to be nuts to—well, you won't be alone, will you? Oh, and Sir Rudy was looking for your friend.»
«Yeah, I heard that, thanks.»
Sterling and Perry joined her, and she made it all the way back into the hallway before Sir Rudy, who had been half asleep on one of the couches, Marylou all but wrapped around him, caught up to her.
«I remembered,» he said, grinning at her. «Although I don't think it's much help.»
«You remembered something valuable? You've got so much that you could forget some priceless work of art?»
Sir Rudy gave a wave of his arms. «No, no, I know what I have, and I know what it's worth. I wanted this place, but I'm not stupid. Everything was appraised before I signed on the dotted line.» He laughed. «Foolhardy, I know, considering the way we're all floating here, but I knew that going in, I did, I did. Knew the place was going to eat through money until I could whip it back into shape. But it's not often a small frog can get to be a big frog right in his own pond, eh, where all his old chums can watch?»
«You sure got the pond part right.» Maggie liked this guy, she really did. But every moment spent with him was one less moment to figure out the murderer before the police got here and rained all over Alex's parade. «The something valuable, Sir Rudy?» she prompted.
«Yes, yes, I'm getting to that. You didn't read about it, in the histories? The book with the blue cover. It's the only one. Can't miss it.»
Maggie shook her head. «No. No book with a blue cover. Only those marble-backed ones, all tan and brown. I think they're called marble-backs. No blue book.»
«Oh, well, that's strange. I had everything all spread out on the library table for everyone. That's the one with Uncle Willis, you know. The blue one.»
«The ghost Sterling and Perry were looking for,» Maggie said, nodding. Time was a-wastin'.
Not that Sir Rudy seemed to notice that Maggie was shifting from foot to foot while she sort of backed down the hallway.
«They say that's why he never left.»
«They? Who's they? Why do people always say they? Why don't they ever have a name?» Then Maggie shook her head. Now who was wasting time? «Go on. Please.»
«I was going to,» Sir Rudy said, looking confused. «We're talking about more than two hundred years ago, remember. Uncle Willis had huge gambling debts, so he pilfered all the family jewels and hid them. But then this place flooded, and he couldn't get away…»
«That sounds familiar,» Maggie said, getting interested. Very interested.
«Yes, so he was questioned about the jewels, and his uncle had him caned—they did that back in those days. Have your servants cane someone for you, you know?»
«Know that, too. Go on, go on,» Maggie urged.
«There's not much more. Uncle Willis wouldn't give up his secret, so he was locked in that attic room so that he couldn't escape until he said where he'd hidden the family jewels—some rather lovely diamonds as well as much more. You can see most of it in the paintings of the ladies in the Long Gallery. The old lady never sold the paintings. She said they were the only way she could see the family jewels. There's one yellow diamond bigger than a goose egg, I swear.»
«Is that good?» Sterling asked.
«It's good, Sterling,» Maggie told him. «And about to get better, I think. What did Uncle Willis do, Sir Rudy? I take it he never escaped.»
Sir Rudy rubbed at his chin, one of his chins. «Well, legend has it that the beatings were kept up, but Uncle Willis wasn't budging. Went on for months. Uncle Willis went mad as a hatter, and nobody found the jewels. We heard the old boy had made a map and hidden it somewhere, but nobody ever found it. Nobody's ever found anything, not in all these years. They finally gave up and just kept Uncle Willis in the attics.»
Maggie could barely wait to tell Saint Just. «But the old lady—that is, the previous owner? The last of the line? She stuck it out here, even as the whole place started going downhill. She and the paintings of her ancestors, all wearing those jewels? Did she believe the jewels were here?»
«Everybody loves a legend. The young lads used to try to break in here and search,» Sir Rudy said, then grinned. «I was one of them. We'd break a window in the kitchens and sneak in, then think we heard Uncle Willis walking around and run back out again. The old biddy was down to living in just a couple of rooms by then, and we proba-bly drove her crazy. Chased me all the way to the end of the lane once, with a broom. But let me finish with Uncle Willis. He was mad as a hatter after a while, so they left him alone in the attics. He didn't even try to lope off. Must have been content. I read in the blue-backed book that he laughed a lot. Then one day they found him, hanging up there, in that room. More than a few slates slid off the fellow's roof before the end, I'd say.»