Free Bride of the Castle by John Dechancie

evened up with Petheridge, but held back. Petheridge seemed to know where he was going.
    They came out into a clearing, and there in the middle sprawled a prone figure, a man in a green-tweed hunting suit, his face hidden in the loam. Near him stood a woman in a strange outfit, ostensibly Oriental. She had her hands clutched together and both pressed against her mouth, as if to stifle any further screams.
    Petheridge walked unsteadily toward the fallen man, breathing hard. “By Jove!”
    Thaxton reached the unmoving figure and squatted to inspect. He felt for a pulse.
    â€œI’m afraid . . .”
    â€œGood God, is he dead?”
    â€œYes, Colonel, he seems to be. I think we should turn him over. Don’t think it will disturb anything.”
    â€œBy all means, Thaxton.”
    Thaxton turned the body over. A shotgun was exposed, as was an extensive bloody wound in the dead man’s chest.
    â€œTripped,” Colonel Petheridge said. “Tripped up and fell, and the gun discharged. What bloody luck!”
    â€œI doubt it,” Thaxton said.
    â€œEh? You doubt it? Good Lord, man. Why?”
    Thaxton bent to peer at the wound. “No powder burns to the suit, none on the shirt. None at all. Shot pattern’s too scattered for point-blank range, I’m afraid.”
    â€œThat can’t be. Must be some explanation. Good heavens, Lady Festleton—”
    Petheridge went to the woman, who looked about to faint. He put down his gun and gathered her into his arms. She began to cry.
    â€œWhat on earth were you doing out here, Honoria dear?”
    â€œI—I . . .”
    â€œThere now, don’t speak, there’s a good girl. Let’s go back to the house. Come along.”
    â€œGeorge . . . somebody’s killed George . . . Oh . . . oh . . . oh . . .”
    â€œThere, there. Come along, my lady. Come right along.”
    Dalton, after having lost his way in the underbrush, finally arrived at the scene on the run. He skidded to a stop at the edge of the clearing, then walked warily toward Thaxton, who was still examining the body.
    â€œOh, no,” Dalton said.
    â€œMurder,” Thaxton said.
    â€œThis is getting to be a habit.”
    â€œâ€˜Fraid so, old man.”
    â€œLook, we’d better not get involved in this.”
    Thaxton looked about. Other people, hunters all, were entering the clearing. “A bit late for that. Do you think we’d get far if we ran?”
    â€œYou have a point. But let’s duck out at the earliest opportunity. After all, we were just passing by—”
    â€œYou there!” called one of the approaching men, brandishing his hunting weapon in a not-so-friendly manner. “What the devil is going on?”
    â€œBit late for duckin’out,” Thaxton said.
    â€œHere we go again,” Dalton muttered.
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    CHAPTER ELEVEN
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    he climbed out of the valley and sought the hills.
    Bedraggled, starved, he had five days’walk between him and home.
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    The town was real: it looked too dismal to be anything phantasmagorical. The innkeeper looked him up and down.
    â€œWhat disaster did you escape from?”
    â€œCaught in a man trap in the valley of the Zinites.”
    â€œWhat in the world did you expect to find mucking about down there?”
    â€œA meal.”
    The innkeeper grunted. “And I suppose that’s what you want from me.”
    â€œI lost everything, even my sword, Bruce. Do you have any work I can do around the place?”
    The innkeeper looked away. “Sorry, no. Have all the help I need.” He did a take. “Bruce?”
    â€œI have never begged in my life—”
    â€œDon’t start with me, please. Times are hard.” He laughed. “When have times not been hard? I wonder. Anyway, I can’t feed every sorry derelict who marches in here. Try down at Vinna’s place. She’s always a soft touch.”
    â€œI will. Thank