“Mrs. Eglantine is perfectly stable,” the colonel said, “and Nigel is hardly an alcoholic simply because he’s developed a palate for malt whisky. And there are special pleasures to be found in the absence of television. As for what sort of person would willingly come here, I may say that I myself am pleased to spend six months a year here.”

“I rest my case,” Dakin said. “This investigation of yours is a lot of crap, and so’s the idea of everybody tripling up in kinky little trios. I’m with my wife, and the two of us’ll be sticking together, and everybody else can just stay the hell away from us. And in the morning we’re gone, and I’ll tell you, I’ll be glad to get out of this nuthouse.”

I could see his point.

“It’s hopeless,” I announced. “I’ve got a notebook full of scribbles, and I’m no closer to naming the murderer than I was when we started. When the police crack this case, they’ll do it by breaking down alibis and asking hard questions and analyzing physical evidence. We can’t do any of that. We’ve got no authority, and when people tell us things anyway we don’t know what to make of it. All we can hope to do is keep everyone else alive until the cops get here, and I don’t know when that will be, and neither does anybody else. Jesus, is it snowing again?”

“I think it’s just blowing around,” Carolyn said.

“Well, I don’t. I think it’s fresh snow, and I think it’s falling, and maybe it’ll go on like that all night. I don’t know what to do.”

“Keep a stiff upper lip,” Blount-Buller advised.

“I’ll certainly try,” I said, “but…”

There was a knock on the door. I went over and opened it, and Raffles came in. He usually scratches, and he’s not very good at that, and I was trying to figure out how he’d managed to knock when I realized that Molly Cobbett was standing there, waiting to be acknowledged before she said anything.

“Yes, Molly,” I said.

“Begging your pardon, sir,” she said, “and yours, ma’am, and yours as well, sir-”

“What is it, Molly?”

“It’s dinner, sir. Not wanting to disturb you, but it’s served, and they’re all in the dining room. Except for those as are in the bar, having a drink before dinner.”

“A drink before dinner,” I said.

“Yes, sir. It sharpens the appetite, Mr. Eglantine says.”

“Well, then,” I said. “We’d all better have one, don’t you think? Everybody knows you can’t trust a picky eater.”

CHAPTER Nineteen

Dinner, it turned out, was the joint effort of Cissy Eglantine and the Cobbett cousins. There’d been some leftover ham in the refrigerator, and they’d combined it with mashed potatoes and boiled cabbage and diced carrots and bacon drippings in what Cissy called an old English recipe. It was evidently something of a staple in the Cobbett clan. “You takes what you has got left,” Earlene explained, “and you cooks it all together like. If your people be really hungry, they will eat it.”

It was actually rather tasty, once you sat down and tucked in, but it offered little in the way of eye appeal. A quaint name would have helped-dog’s breakfast, say, or Taffy-in-the-woodpile. As it was, guests would slip into the dining room, then reconsider and visit the bar first. Once in the bar, one tended to linger, counting on malt whisky to heighten the appetite for the evening meal.

Eventually, though, everyone got to table, and the main course turned out better than it looked or sounded. There wasn’t much of a market for second helpings, aside from Rufus Quilp, who’d probably have asked for seconds on death angel mushrooms. For everybody else, one portion was plenty. I kept an occasional eye on Gordon Wolpert, but as far as I could see he wasn’t any more picky an eater on this occasion than the rest of us.

There was good bread on the table, and some sort of custard for dessert. The coffee was weak.

We were in the library with fresh mugs of coffee when the colonel found us and announced he was going to make it an early night. “I shall return to Trevelyan,” he said, “and slip into a simpler world.”

I asked which door he’d be using to enter that world, Trevelyan’s one-volume History of England or the more specialized England Under the Stuarts.

“Neither, I’m afraid. I’m reading his three-volume history of England under Queen Anne. Halfway through the middle volume.”

“Ramillies and the Union with Scotland,” I said.

He looked startled. “Quite,” he said. “However do you happen to know that?”

“Just a lucky guess.”

“Hardly that. I gather you’re a student of English history.”

“Some college courses,” I said. “Years ago. And I never actually read the three volumes on Anne’s reign. I just remember the titles.”

“Marlborough and Prince Eugene,” he said. “The War of the Spanish Succession. The Battle of Blenheim.”

“A famous victory,” I said, echoing the Robert Southey poem.

“Famous once. Forgotten nowadays, I shouldn’t wonder. I don’t know what young people remember these days. Shouldn’t think they recall anything much earlier than the day before yesterday. It’s stirring stuff, Trevelyan’s history. You should read it sometime.”

“One of these days.”

“Well,” he said, setting his shoulders. “You’ll forgive me for breaking ranks, won’t you? I know we’re supposed to hold in squads of three, but I’m sure I’ll be all right in my quarters, and just as confident you two can see to each other’s safety. So, if you’ve no objection…”

I could hardly object. They’d all agreed readily enough to hang out in trios earlier, but that had gone by the boards as the day wore on, and by the time dinner was over it had ceased even to be honored in the breach. I’d overheard Millicent Savage whining about having to stay in Lucinda’s Room with her parents instead of being all by herself in Uncle Roger’s Room. So far Greg and Leona seemed to be holding out, but I had a feeling the child would have her own way in the end.

“Nobody’s taking it seriously,” I told Carolyn. “I don’t get it. There are three people dead and an unknown killer in our midst, and they’d rather grumble about dinner than make sure they’re still alive for breakfast. What’s wrong with these people?”

She thought about it. “I think they’re just good at adjusting,” she said.

“At adjusting?”

“I think so, Bern. They were all really spooked earlier, when we found the cook cooling off in the kitchen. There were bodies all over the place and nobody had a clue who was gonna be next.”

“There still are,” I said, “and they still don’t, but all of a sudden nobody gives a damn.”

“Right. They’ve adjusted. Rathburn and the cook are outside where nobody has to look at them, and Orris is way down at the bottom of the gully. You know what they say, Bern. Out of sight, out of mind.”

“The bodies are out of sight,” I said, “and the rest of us are out of our minds.”

“People adjust,” she said. “Take you and me. Last night the coffee was strong and full-bodied, and we enjoyed it. Tonight it’s weak, and we’re still enjoying it.”

“We didn’t adjust to it.”

“We most certainly did.”

“We put Scotch in it, Carolyn.”

“That’s how we adjusted,” she said, “and I’d have to say we made a good adjustment, Bern. It tastes a lot better this way. Somehow you don’t notice that it’s weak. You know, that might be a good way to stretch coffee, as a sort of economy move. Use less coffee and add whisky to taste.”

“For economy,” I said.

“Well, if there was a major coffee shortage, say, or if we went to war with Brazil.”

“Why would we do that?”

“Why does anybody do anything?” She frowned. “Where was I?”

“You were drinking fortified coffee.”

“Fortified,” she said. “That’s a good word for it. I suppose it’s a crime against nature to put single-malt whisky in coffee, but that coffee was a crime against nature to begin with and I figure they cancel each other out. At least we didn’t use the Drumnadrochit.”