"A what?"
Morley was as startled as I was. I'd never seen his eyes bug before. The remark had caught him from the blind side.
"An exorcist. A demonologist. Maybe a necromancer. Possibly all three. Though the first step should be a physical exam to make sure I'm not imagining things."
"Start over. You've got me all turned around."
"Between us, Mr. Dotes and I have a comprehensive knowledge of poisons. We know of none that produce the combination of symptoms the man shows. Not without affecting him more dramatically, physically, leaving him unable to control his speech and extremities—if he stayed alive at all. Disease is more probable than poison. Who knows what he brought home? I spent eight years down there. I saw a lot of strange diseases, though nothing quite like this. Is he taking any medication?"
"Are you kidding? He'd die first." I had a thought. "How about malaria?" I'd been one lucky Marine. I'd never contracted malaria. "Or some kind of yellow fever?"
"I thought of that. A virulent strain of malaria, with massive quinine treatments, might produce most of the symptoms he shows. Tainted medication might account for the rest. But you said he'd die before accepting medication. I really must know his medical history before I hazard a guess."
"Why that business about an exorcist?"
"My chief suspicion lies in the supernatural realm. Several varieties of malign spirit could produce the symptoms we see. My advice would be to examine his past. You might find something there to explain what's happening. You might also look for an origin in unfriendly witchcraft. An enemy may have sent a spirit against him."
Black Pete showed up in time to catch most of the discussion. I asked, "You make anything of that? The General have enemies who'd off him that way?"
He shook his head. "The answer is here, Garrett. I'm sure. He doesn't have enemies who'd want to kill him. The worst ones he does have are the kind who'd send somebody like your friend." He twitched a hand toward Morley.
"There's no sorcerer around here. Unless you count Bradon, who's gone. Doctor, could an amateur necromancer have sicked something on him, say accidentally, that would stick after the spirit-master died?"
"An amateur? I doubt it. Somebody really potent, maybe. If they stuck around themselves, as a ghost. Hatred is the usual force animating spirits that devour a man from within. And I mean hatred strong enough to bend the laws of nature. Hatred that wants its object to suffer for all eternity. But I'm no expert. Which is why I suggested a demonologist, an exorcist, a necromancer. You must discover the nature of the spirit, then banish it. Or raise it up, find out what animates its hatred and appease it."
Peters said, "This is crazy, Garrett. The General never made that kind of enemy."
"We're talking possibilities. The doc says the whole thing could be physical. He needs to do a hands-on physical exam. And he needs a detailed medical history. What're the chances?"
He looked at me, at the doctor, glanced at Morley and Saucerhead. "Better than you think." His voice turned hard. "The old bastard can only threaten so much. We don't have to give him a choice. I'll be back in five minutes." He strode toward the kitchen.
Morley settled on the fountain surround, in the shadow of the dragon's wing. "Now what?"
"Let's wait. He'll talk to Cook. If she goes along, you'll get to look at Stantnor." Cook might not be mother to the world but she was queen of the Stantnor household. "Doctor. Can you suggest any experts who might help?"
"Let's see if we get to examine the patient. If I find no physical cause, I'll provide referrals. They won't come cheaply, though."
"Does anybody but me?"
Morley had a big yuk. "This is the man who paid cash for a house with the take from one case."
"And for every one of those, I have fifty where I give Saucerhead half my fee to get them to pay up. You know anything about the art world?"
"That's a change of subject. I know something about everything. I need to. What do you need?"
"Say I discovered an unknown painter genius whose work deserves display. Who would I see to get things moving?"
He shrugged, grinned. "Got me. Now if you had some hot old masters I could help. I know people who know morally flexible collectors. If you have something like you're talking about, you should see your friend with the brewery."
"Weider?"
"He's got fingers in all the cultural pies. Honorary director of this and that. He has the contacts. You don't have some old masters, do you?" He glanced around. I'm sure he'd been inventorying potential plunder.
"You won't find anything here but portraits of old guys with whiskers who scowl a lot, all painted by people you never heard of."
"I noticed the welcoming committee. I wondered how long it takes the Stantnors to train their young not to smile."
"Might be hereditary. I've never seen Jennifer do more than fake it."
"Your buddy's coming."
Peters was coming from the kitchen under a full spread of sail. I knew what he'd say before he said it. He said it anyway. "We don't give the old man a vote."
"He'll cut you out of his will."
"Ask me if I give a damn. Let's go." But he hung back, gave me a look that said he wanted a private word. I let the others move upstairs a flight.
"What?"
"That crack about the will. In all the excitement I plain forgot to tell you before. The copy the General burned wasn't the only one. He always made two of every document. Sometimes three."
"Oh?" Interesting. That meant nothing had changed, if the killer knew. "How many are there?"
"One for sure. He gave it to me to give to you. Like you asked. I put it in my quarters, then got distracted till I was talking to Cook and she said the same thing you did, about getting cut out."
"It wasn't that important to you?"
"No. I did you a favor, then forgot to carry through. Till it hit me what that copy could mean."
"It could mean the killer won't back off. If he knows about it. Who knows?"
"Dellwood and Kaid. They were there. And everybody else knows the General made copies of documents."
"Where'd you put it? Give me your key. I'll grab it now. You go ahead and get after the old man."
He gave me a nasty look. I knew what he was thinking. I wanted to toss his quarters. I told him, "I don't think you've got anything to hide."
"You're a bastard, Garrett. Put me in a spot where I'm damned whatever I do."
"You do have something to hide?"
He glared. "No!"
"Then get it yourself. I'll take your word." I recalled the fire, for which he could have been responsible. I hung in there, taking a chance on my guts. "But hurry."
He gave me the key. "In the drawer of my writing table."
Cook came rumbling up, the stair shuddering to her tread. "We going to do this?" she demanded. "Or we going to gossip?"
Smart woman, Cook. The old man couldn't dismiss her. If she went in and sat on him, all he could do was cuss and take it. "Thanks," I told her.
She gave me half a sneer. "What for? He's my baby, ain't he?"
"Yeah." I watched them hurry to overtake the others. The General would be in the worst tactical position of his life. He couldn't do anything to Morley, Saucerhead, the doc, or Cook. And he'd be damned stupid if he did anything about Peters. If he ran Black Pete off, he'd be damned near out of help. He had to think survival in more than personal terms. He had to think about keeping the estate in shape.
I suspected its value was dropping fast.