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“If that happened,” I went on, “he was home free. If not, there’d be more of Rathburn’s blood to contend with than a stain on the pillow and a drop or two on the camel. A good forensic investigation would turn up blood drops all over the place, probably enough to establish just where Rathburn was sitting when the blow was struck.”
Some of the women seemed to draw in their shoulders, as if to avoid contact with all this blood that was allegedly all around them.
“In fact,” I said, “we probably ought to leave the room and seal it until the police get here. No one’s touching anything, and that’s good, but we shouldn’t even be here. This is a crime scene.”
“Quite right,” Colonel Blount-Buller said, “although I don’t know that the local police will treat a crime scene quite as Scotland Yard might. But you’re correct all the same, sir. Experienced in these matters, are you? Served with the police, I shouldn’t wonder.”
“Not exactly,” I said.
“Not a private detective, I don’t suppose?”
I shook my head. “I’m a big reader,” I said, “and I read a lot of mysteries. And I watch a lot of TV. You know, locked-room cases? Impossible crimes? English-country-house murders?”
“Poirot and all that,” the colonel said.
“That’s the idea.”
“Never would have guessed it was quite so instructive,” he said. “Blood spatters, pinpoint hemorrhages, direction the blow was struck-you certainly seem to know what you’re about, Rhodenbarr.”
I was preening a little, I have to admit. It’s hard to avoid when someone with that kind of accent gives you that kind of compliment. I was busy enjoying the feeling when the good colonel went on to ask me just what it was I did for a living.
“As a matter of fact,” I said, “I’m out of work at the moment. My job was eliminated. Corporate downsizing, at least that’s what they call it. Getting more work out of fewer people is what it amounts to, and it’s a hell of a thing when you’re the victim of it.”
“Had some of that in the British army,” he said, “after we lost India.” His face darkened. “Might have put a better face on it if they’d called it downsizing. What did you do for the ungrateful swine before they cut you loose?”
“He’s a burglar,” Millicent Savage said.
All conversation stopped. I managed a laugh, and what a hollow ring it had in that huge room. “I was joking with the child last night,” I said. “I’m afraid she’s taken it seriously.”
“You say it’s a joke,” said the little horror, “but I think it’s true. I think you really are a burglar, Bernie.”
“Millicent,” Leona Savage said, “go to your room.”
“But Mommy, I-”
“Millicent!”
“It’s all right,” I said. “I’m sure she didn’t mean any harm. At any rate there’s no harm done, and-”
I stopped. Nigel Eglantine had come back to the room, a frown darkening his brow.
“I’m sure it’s the snow,” he said.
We looked at him.
“The phone,” he explained. “The line is dead. I’m sure it must be the snow.”
CHAPTER Thirteen
What we needed to do, Nigel Eglantine insisted, was remain calm. He said this over and over, as if the words were a mantra designed to ward off panic, and with only partial success.
Carolyn rescued him. “Look, Nigel,” she said, “there’s good news and bad news, right?”
“Good news and bad news? There is?”
“There always is,” she assured him. “Suppose you start off by giving us the bad news.”
“The bad news,” he said.
“Like the phones are out, and whatever else goes with it.”
“Ah,” he said. “The bad news. Well, the phone service is definitely not on at the moment. I’m sure that’s a result of the storm. Bad weather often knocks out our telephones. In the spring and fall the phones are often out after severe electrical storms, and in the winter a bad snowstorm can do it.”
“Nothing about that in the brochure,” Miss Hardesty murmured to Miss Dinmont.
“But the good news,” he said, brightening, “is that we’re never without phone service for very long. I’d say that we’ll have service again within a couple of hours at the most.”
“That’s good news,” Carolyn agreed. “Tell us the rest of the bad news.”
“The rest of the bad news?”
“The snow,” she prompted.
“Ah, the snow. Well, there’s a great deal of it, as you can readily see. Just over two feet of it, according to the newscast, with drifts deep enough to bury an automobile to the roofline. Most of the county roads will be impassable until the plows get through, and that may take quite some time.”
“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 fu
“Blood.”
“Seriously, Bern.”
“I’m serious. ‘Blood sausage’ is another name for it.”