Saint Just, for the most part, ignored this feminine exchange, as he was once more counting noses.
Their own small party of five, Maggie, Bernice, Tabby, Sterling, and himself, all present and accounted for.
Sam Undercuffler and Joanne Pertuccelli, definitely still where he'd last put them.
Leaving Arnaud Peppin, the director; Troy Barlow, the idiot; Nikki Campion, the—well, he was still undecided about her; Evan Pottinger, the not-so-courageous villain; Dennis Lloyd, the lover; Marylou Keppel, the ambitious gofer; Sir Rudy, their host; Sterling's double-P friend, Perry Posko; and, lastly, Sir Rudy's nephew, the robin.
«Mr. Stockwell?» Saint Just said, visually scanning the assembled parties and not seeing the man who should by all rights be standing next to Nikki. «Has anyone seen Byrd Stockwell?»
«Coming!»
«You were unavoidably detained between here and the main saloon, sir?»
Byrd Stockwell pushed past Arnaud Peppin to stand beside his uncle. «Took a moment for a trip to the loo, if you must know, since nothing was going on in here, unless I missed a catfight. Not that I think this whole thing is more than nonsense. What are we doing here?»
Before everyone else could echo that particular question—which, by the way all their mouths opened in unison like those of baby birds whose mama was approaching with a juicy worm, Saint Just believed very possible—he announced, «I have, through diligent search and considerable luck—»
«And my help,» Maggie added.
«Yes, and with Miss Kelly's kind assistance, I have— that is, we have—discovered a heretofore hidden passageway in Medwine Manor.»
Saint Just then waited patiently for the all-too-expected hubbub to calm down even as he and Maggie watched the faces of the others. He wondered if Maggie had seen what he'd seen, then felt sure she had. He did so because he knew Maggie to be both intelligent and observant… and because she had just now pinched him two inches above the elbow with some force. His Maggie, always so subtle.
«If you could all refrain from shouting out your questions,» Saint Just went on, «I will explain.»
«Everybody stubble it!» Sterling called out when nobody obeyed Saint Just, then he stepped back a pace, looking slightly startled at his own outburst. «Sorry, and all of that, but we really do need to listen. Saint Just is going to be brilliant. Aren't you, Saint Just?»
«Stop calling him Saint Just,» Troy objected, brandishing the sword cane. «I'm—oh, hell, no I'm not. I don't want to be, either. I'll never get the accent right. I don't know why my agent said this stupid movie would be such a great career move.»
«That makes about an even dozen of us,» Evan Pottinger offered, still nursing the glass he'd brought with him from the main saloon, a glass he seemed personally attached to now.
«Me, too,» Maggie said. «I mean, why you're in it, Troy, not why everyone else is. Did your agent call Joanne, Troy, or did she call you? I'm just curious.»
«I can answer that one. His agent is Joanne's most recent ex,» Evan said, hefting the decanter he'd brought with him and refilling his wineglass. «My bet is they swapped something under the table for Troy. A marital asset in exchange for a leading role. Probably the family pooch, right, Troy? You've got to be worth at least a schnauzer.»
«You're drunk, and that's a lie,» Troy said with more feeling than Saint Just had heard from the man to this point.
«People, people,» Arnaud piped up, clapping his hands. «Fight later. Let's get this done.»
Saint Just favored the director with a slight bow. «Thank you, Arnaud. As I was saying—»
«Before you were so rudely interrupted,» Maggie said, grinning. «Sorry. Couldn't resist. It's just that that's right up there with 'I'm innocent, innocent, I tell you.' «
Saint Just reminded himself of how he adored this woman. «Yes, I know, my dear,» he said quietly, «and may I say how prodigiously pleased I am that you're pleased. When we have a moment, however, you might want to consider a restorative lie-down. I believe you're becoming a tad giddy with quite natural fatigue.»
«Bite me.»
«And snarky as well, as you say.»
«I'm getting cold up here, Alex. Start talking before we lose them again. They've all got the attention spans of fleas.»
He nodded his agreement and turned once more to the semicircle of interested faces. «Now, as I was saying, ladies and gentlemen, we've discovered a secret passage in Medwine Manor. A passage, as it happens, that runs from this chamber to the attics. To the very room in the attics in which, as you may or may not know, Sam Undercuffler was attached to the scaffolding that surrounds this wing.»
«Tell them about the dust. Don't forget the dust.» Maggie was fair to dancing in place, whether from the chill or excitement, he didn't know.
Saint Just sighed, knowing, however, when he'd lost a battle. «Oh, why don't you just do that, my dear. I'm convinced you'll tell it all so much better than I.»
«I'll pretend you didn't mean that as an insult,» Maggie said, then rubbed her hands together in front of herself. «Okay, here's how it goes. When we went up to the attics—gosh, it seems like days ago—we noticed that there were no footprints in the dust in the area that leads from the stairs to the room in question. Uncle Willis's room, which is the same room used to hang Sam out the window. You with me so far?»
«They're hanging on your every word, if you'll excuse my descent into questionable sensitivity where the late Mr. Undercuffler is concerned,» Saint Just assured her.
Maggie grinned at him, then continued her explanation. «Well, this got us thinking—I mean, it would have to get you thinking, right? How did Sam get to the room without disturbing the dust? How did the killer—or killers—get to the room? They didn't fly there. So we—Alex and I—we went looking for plans to the house, figuring there had to be some other way, some secret way of getting to the attics. Alex? You want to tell them about the mural? Because that one was your idea.»
«I think we can safely dispense with that small side trip in our investigation,» Saint Just said, mentally attempting to recall what Maggie would term the time line of the past now-nearly four-and-twenty hours.
«Right. Okay. We'll skip that part, since it didn't work anyway,» Maggie agreed, the bit firmly between her teeth now, bless her. «So what we did was some simple investigating—simple, but pretty brilliant, really—and we found the secret passage.»
«'Row, row, row your boat' is brilliant?»
«Try to forget that part, Alex, okay?»
Sir Rudy was all but drooling now. «Where? Where is it? It's in this room, you said, didn't you? I've been waiting forty years to get some of my own back on that old lady. Chase me with a broom, will she? Laugh at me at my pub, will they? Show me!»
«Over here, Sir Rudy,» Saint Just said, stepping over to the wall beside the fireplace. «Just behind this wall is a set of very narrow, very steep stone stairs that lead up to the attic room once occupied by the man you all now know as the ghostly Uncle Willis. Maggie?»
«I'm thinking, I'm thinking. I want to get this right. I wish I could write it all out on file cards, then shuffle everything until I get it all in order.»
«Let me help you there,» Saint Just offered. «We begin very early yesterday morning, with Mr. Undercuffler dining with a few members of our party.»
«Right,» Troy said, as he had been a part of that small party. «That's when Sam told us about Maggie here, how she was being such a bitch about his screenplay.»
«Gee, thanks for remembering that,» Maggie said with a near-sneer. «I saw Sam after you all ate breakfast, when he showed up in my room, and we came downstairs together, but I didn't see him after that—until I saw him hanging outside my window at—when was that, Alex?»