“So even if we were to phone the police,” the colonel said, “it’s doubtful they could get through to us.”
“Highly doubtful,” Nigel said. “Even if our road were cleared, they couldn’t get up our driveway. Nor can anyone else. For the time being, there’ll be no deliveries and no guests arriving.”
“The last part,” Carolyn said, “about no new guests, is more good news than bad, if you ask me. Right now the last thing we need is new people in the house. But the rest is bad news, all right. What’s the good news?”
“Even without deliveries,” he said, “we’ve no cause for alarm. The larder’s fully stocked with enough food to feed us all royally well into April. That includes an emergency supply of bottled water, which we’re unlikely to need because the well is functioning perfectly. And, though it’s early in the day to mention it, the Cuttleford cellar is fully stocked. We’ve enough beer and wine and spirits to carry us well into the next century.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” Carolyn said.
“And actually,” he went on, warming to the task, “there’s more good news. It’s true we’re isolated here, albeit in comfortable isolation, but we won’t be confined for long. Orris assures me that as soon as he has the snowblower operating, he’ll be able to clear a path to the bridge. Just across the bridge our Jeep is parked, with a stout snowplow attached to it. In a matter of hours, Orris ought to be able to have our driveway cleared all the way to the road.”
“Hear, hear!” the colonel said, and there was an ill-coordinated round of applause for Orris, who acknowledged it by dropping his head so that he was staring at his boots, as if to gauge how far above them the snow would reach.
“But before anything else,” Cissy Eglantine said, “I think it’s ever so important that we all have a proper English breakfast.”
“I wonder what this is,” Carolyn said. “Maybe it’s toad-in-the-hole.” She looked at her plate, on which reposed a thick slice of toasted white bread. Its center had been removed, and an egg cooked in the circular space thus created.
“You sound disappointed,” I said.
“Well, it’s not bad,” she said. “It’s a little like Adam and Eve on a raft.”
“That’s what, two poached eggs on toast?”
“Uh-huh. Except in this case Adam fell off and drowned, and the raft’s got a hole in the floorboards. So all that’s left is Eve, holding on for dear life.” She took a bite. “Not bad, though, I have to admit. Even if it’s not what I expected.”
“What did you expect?”
“I don’t know, Bern. Some exotic form of comfort food, I suppose, if that’s not a contradiction in terms. Like this black pudding.”
“It’s exotic comfort food, eh?”
“Well, kind of.” She lifted a forkful to her mouth, chewed thoughtfully. “Very simple,” she said, “but very tasty at the same time. And it’s black, all right, but it’s not like any pudding I ever tasted.”
“A far cry from Jell-O,” I said.
“They’ve got funny ideas about pudding, Bern. Look at Yorkshire pudding. I mean, it’s good, too, but you wouldn’t rush out and squirt Cool Whip on it, would you? Black pudding. What do you suppose they make it out of?”
“Blood.”
“Seriously, Bern.”
“I’m serious. ‘Blood sausage’ is another name for it.”
“I wish you hadn’t told me that, Bern.”
“Well, you asked.”
“That didn’t mean you had to tell me. At least now I know why they call it black pudding. If they called it blood sausage, no one would want any. What about the white pudding, Bern? What do they make that out of, lymph?” She frowned. “Don’t answer that. You want more kippers, Bern?”
“I think I’ve had my limit.”
“I guess I should just be grateful,” she said, “that they don’t use a real toad for toad-in-the-hole. Listen, if they serve us bubble and squeak, do me a favor, okay? If there’s something disgusting doing the bubbling and squeaking, keep it to yourself.”
“I think it’s leftover cabbage and potatoes.”
“That would be fine,” she said. “Just so it’s not recycled reptiles and rodents. Bern? Who do you figure killed Jonathan Rathburn?”
“How should I know?”
She shrugged. “I just thought you might have a hunch. That was pretty cool the way you proved it was murder, and found the two murder weapons and everything. Struck down with a camel, then smothered with a throw pillow. What a way to go, huh?”
“Uh-huh.”
“What’s the matter, Bern?”
“I was right there,” I said.
“So was I, Bern. So was everybody, at one time or another. You want to know something? All the time we were in there standing around Rathburn’s body, I couldn’t stop glancing up at the top shelf to see if The Big Sleep was still there.”
“It’s still there.”
“I know. And I didn’t want to stare at it, but I kept looking at it over and over. I don’t think anybody noticed. I hope they didn’t.”
“I think the dead body got most of their attention.”
“Yeah, and I wish I knew who killed him.” She frowned. “What do you mean, you were right there? You don’t mean just now.”
“No.”
“And you don’t mean last night, when we were both there.”
“No.”
“You mean you were there when he was killed? Bern, you didn’t…you couldn’t have…”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Then what do you mean? And why is the book still on the shelf? I thought you were going to get it last night. And how come-”
I filled her in quickly on the events of the previous night. When I told her about the interlude with Lettice in the East Parlour, her eyes widened and her jaw dropped. “My God,” she said. “Imagine doing something like that on your wedding night.”
“Lots of women do something like that on their wedding night,” I pointed out. “The thing is, most of them do it to their husbands.”
“But not Lettice.”
“I don’t know what she did upstairs with him,” I said. “I just know what she did downstairs with me.”
“You know,” she said, “I was watching her while you were explaining things in the library, and there was something about the way she was looking at you.”
“Oh?”
She nodded. “She looked like the cat that swallowed the cream.” She frowned. “Make that the cat that ate the canary, okay?”
“Whatever you say.”
“Anyway, she looked smug. I guess I know why. You know what, Bern? I think it’s something in the air.”
“In the air?”
“Last night. Some sex vibe or something. You wouldn’t believe the dream I had.”
“Oh?”
“Amazingly vivid. I could have sworn-” She broke off in midsentence and motioned to our waitress, who was in fact Molly Cobbett, the downstairs maid who had happened upon Rathburn’s corpse and awakened the house with a scream. “Say, Molly,” she purred, “do you suppose we could have a little more tea?”
“Why, of course you could, mum.”
“I’m Carolyn, Molly. And this is Bernie.”
“Very good, mum.”
We sat in silence while Molly poured our tea. As soon as she was out of earshot, Carolyn said, “She was in it.”
“Who was in what?”
“Molly. In my dream.”
“Oh.”
“You wouldn’t believe how real it was, Bern.”
“Yes I would.”
“You would? How come? You weren’t in the dream, Bernie. It was just Molly and me.” She made a face. “That sounds like a song cue, doesn’t it? ‘My Blue Heaven.’ Anyway, it was unbelievably hot. Now I want to blush every time I look at her.”
“She’s a country girl, Carolyn.”
“I know.”
“Pretty unsophisticated.”
“I realize that,” she said. “Her idea of eating out is a burger at the Dairy Queen. I know all that.” She pursed her lips. “But in the world of dreams,” she said, “the woman is hot hot hot. But I still don’t understand what you said before. About being there when it happened.”