A Night in the Lonesome October (16 page)

    
Rearing up, I placed a forepaw on the casket's side and looked down into the interior.

    
Quicklime, nearby, said, "What is it?" and I realized that I had made a small woofing sound.

    
"The Game has grown more serious," I answered.

    
He climbed up to the ledge, then mounted the end of the casket where he hovered, looking like Pharaoh's headdress.

    
"Oh my!" he said then.

    
A skeleton lay within, atop a long black cloak.
 
It still had on a suit of dark garments, somewhat in disarray now, opened in front.
 
Splitting the sternum was a large wooden stake, angled slightly, passing far down, missing the backbone to the left.
 
There was considerable dry dust within and without.

    
"Looks like the new site wasn't as secret as he'd thought," I said.

    
"Wonder whether he was an opener or a closer?" Quicklime said.

    
"I'd've guessed 'opener,'" I said, "but I suppose we'll never know."

    
"Who do you think nailed him?"

    
"I've no idea, yet," I said, lowering myself and turning away.
 
I squinted into nooks and fissures then.
 
"See Needle anywhere about?" I asked.

    
"No.
 
You think they got him, too?"

    
"Could be.
 
If he turns up, though, he'll certainly bear questioning."

    
I climbed the stair and emerged into light.
 
I started walking back.

    
"What happens now?" Quicklime asked.

  
  
"I have to make my rounds," I said.

    
"Do we just go on and wait for it to happen again?"

    
"No.
 
We exercise caution."

    
We slithered and trotted back to our own area.

    
Jack was out, and I took care of business about the house and went looking for Graymalk to fill her in on the latest.
 
Was surprised to encounter Jack engaged in conversation with Crazy Jill on her back step.
 
He had in his hand a cup of sugar which he had presumably just borrowed.
 
He ended the conversation and turned away as I approached.
 
Graymalk was nowhere about.
 
Jack told me as I walked him home that we might ride into town for supplies of a mundane nature sometime soon.

    
Later, I was out front, still looking for Graymalk, when the Great Detective's coach passed, him still in his Linda Enderby guise.
 
Our eyes met and held for several long seconds.
 
Then he was gone.

    
I went back inside and took a long nap.

    
I awoke near dusk and made the rounds again.
 
The Things in the Mirror were still clustered, and pulsing lightly.
 
The flaw appeared slightly larger, though this could have been a trick of memory and imagination.
 
I resolved to call it to Jack's attention soon, however.

    
Eating and drinking and passing outside then, I sought Graymalk once more.
 
I found her in her front yard doing catnappery on the steps.

    
"Hello.
 
Looked for you earlier," I said.
 
"Missed you."

    
She yawned and stretched, cleaned her shoulders.

    
"I was out," she responded, "checking around the church and the vicarage."

  
  
"Did you get inside?"

    
"No.
 
Looked into every opening I could, though."

    
"Learn anything interesting?"

    
"The vicar keeps a skull on the desk in his study."

    
"_Memento mori_," I remarked.
 
"Churchmen are sometimes big on that sort of thing.
 
Maybe it came with the place as a part of the furnishings."

    
"It's resting in the bowl."

    
"The bowl?"

    
"_The bowl_.
 
The old pentacle bowl they talk about."

    
"Oh."
 
So I'd been wrong in assigning that tool to the Good Doctor.
 
"That accounts for an item."
 
Then, disingenuously, "Now, if you can tell me where the two wands are . . ." I said.

    
She gave me a strange look and continued grooming herself.

    
". . . And I had to climb the outside of the place," she said.

    
"Why?"

    
"I heard someone crying upstairs.
 
So I made my way up the siding and looked in what seemed the proper window.
 
I saw a girl on a bed.
 
She had on a blue dress, and there was a long chain around her ankle.
 
The other end was attached to the bed frame."

  
  
"Who was it?"

    
"Well, I met Tekela a little later," she went on.
 
"I don't think she was too eager to talk to a cat.
 
Still, I persuaded her to tell me that the girl is Lynette, the daughter of the vicar's late wife Janet by a previous marriage."

  
  
"Why was she chained up?"

    
"Tekela said that she was being disciplined for attempting to run away."

    
"Very suspicious.
 
How old is she?"

    
"Thirteen."

    
"Yes.
 
Just right.
 
Sacrifice, of course."

    
"Of course."

    
"What did you give her for the information?"

    
"I told her the story of our encounter with the big man the other night, and the possibility that the Gipsies may be associated with the Count."

    
"I'd better tell you something about the Count," I said, and I detailed my investigations with Quicklime.

    
"No matter whose side he was on, I can't say I'm sorry to see him out of the picture," she said.
 
"He was extremely frightening."

    
"You met him?"

    
"I saw him one night, departing that first crypt.
 
I'd hidden myself on a tree limb, to watch it happen.
 
He seemed to ooze up out of there as if he weren't really moving any muscles, just flowing, the way Quicklime can do.
 
Then he stood there a moment with his cloak flapping about him in the wind, turning his head, looking at the world as if he owned it and was deciding what part of it would amuse him just then.
 
And then he laughed.
 
I'll never forget that sound.
 
He just threw his head back and barked, not the way you do, unless you've a special way of barking just before you eat something that might not want to be eaten, and that this pleases you, adds to the flavor.
 
Then he moved, and it played tricks with my eyes.
 
He was different things, different shapes, flapping cloak all about, even in different places at the same time, and then he was gone, like a piece of the cloak sailing away in the moonlight.
 
I wasn't unhappy to see him go."

    
"I never saw anything that dramatic," I said.
 
"But I met him at even closer quarters, and I was impressed."
 
I paused, then, "Did Tekela give you anything besides the story on Lynette?" I asked.

    
"Everyone seems to be onto the idea of the old manse as the center now," she said.
 
"The vicar told her that it had served a much larger church, south of here, in the old days, one that the last Henry had ruined, as an example to the others that he meant business."

    
"That makes it such a good candidate that I'm irritated at the Count's bad taste in throwing off the calculations."

    
"Have you figured the new site yet?"

    
"No.
 
I should be about that pretty soon, though."

    
"You'll let me know?"

    
"I'll take you with me when I do it," I offered.

    
"When will that be?"

    
"Probably tomorrow.
 
I was just going to walk up the road to see the Gipsies now."

    
"Why?"

  
  
"They're sometimes colorful.
 
You can come along if you like."

    
"I will."

    
We headed on up the road.
 
It was another clear-skied night, with multitudes of stars.
 
I could hear a distant music as we neared Larry's place.
 
Beyond, I could make out the glow of bonfires.
 
As we continued, I could distinguish the sounds of violin, guitar, tambourine, and a single drum within the music.
 
We drew nearer, coming at last to a hiding place beneath a caravan, from which we could watch.
 
I smelled dogs, but we were downwind and none bothered us.

    
Several older Gipsy women were dancing and there was suddenly a singer making wailing sounds.
 
The music was stirring, the dancers' movements stylized, like the steps of long-legged birds I'd seen in warmer climes.
 
There were many fires, and from some of them came the smells of cooking.
 
The spectacle was as much a thing of the shadows as the light, however, and I rather liked the wailing, being something of a connoisseur when it comes to barks and howls.
 
We watched for some time, taken by the bright colors of the dancers' and players' garments as much as by the movements and the sounds.

    
They played several tunes, and then the fiddler gestured toward a knot of spectators, holding out his instrument and pointing to it.
 
I heard a sound of protest, but he insisted, and finally a woman moved forward into the light.
 
It was several moments before I realized it to be Linda Enderby.
 
Obviously, the Great Detective was making yet another of his social calls.
 
Back in the shadows, I could now make out the short, husky form of his companion.

    
Over several protests, he accepted the violin and bow, touched the strings, then cradled the instrument as if he knew its kind well.
 
He raised the bow, paused for a long moment, and then began to play.

    
He was good.
 
It was not Gipsy music, but was some old folk tune I'd heard somewhere before.
 
When it was done he moved immediately into another on which he worked several variations.
 
He played and he played, and it grew wilder and wilder…

    
Abruptly, he halted and took a step, as if suddenly moving out of a dream.
 
He bowed then and returned the instrument to its owner, his movements in that moment entirely masculine.
 
I thought of all the controlled thinking, the masterfully developed deductions, which had served to bring him here, and then this, this momentary slipping into the wildness he must keep carefully restrained, and then seeing him come out of it, smiling, becoming the woman again.
 
I saw in this the action of an enormous will, and suddenly I knew him much better than as the pursuing figure of many faces.
 
Suddenly I knew that he had to be learning, as we were learning other aspects, of the scope of our enterprise, that he could well be right behind us at the end, that he was almost, in some way, a player, more a force, really, in the Game, and I respected him as I have few beings of the many I have known.

    
Later, as we walked back, Graymalk said, "It was good to get away for a time."

    
"Yes," I said, "it was," and I regarded the sky, where the moon was growing.

    
"A chihuahua?"
 
The thing in the circle suggested.
 
"Just for laughs?"

    
"Nope," I answered.
 
"Language barrier."