The Sword-Edged blonde by Alex Bledsoe Page B

infuriated.
    So this was it. My best friend, who I hadn’t seen intwenty years, wanted me to help prove his wife wasn’t a child killer when everyone else seemed sure that she was. To do that, I’d no doubt have to move around through these places loaded with memories for me, memories I’d gladly cut out of my brain with a rusty butter knife if I knew it would get rid of them. And I knew he wouldn’t offer me money, just like he knew I wouldn’t accept any. My only reward would be helping a friend.
    I stood. “Well . . . ah, hell, you know I’ll do it, so we can skip all the hemming and hawing. I’ll need to see the official reports on it, the witness inquisition notes and everything.”
    “All waiting for you,” Wentrobe said, “in your room.”
    I managed half a grin at Phil. “Pretty damn sure of yourself, aren’t you?”
    “That’s why they let me wear the fancy hat.”
    I put the goblet down on his desk despite the temptation to ask for another refill. “Okay, then. Guess I’ll go get cleaned up a little. Think I could get some food?”
    “Yes. Emerson, I know it’s a little beneath your standard duties, but would you show Eddie to his room?”
    “Certainly, Your Majesty. And I’ll send up something—ham and cheese were your favorite, as I recall.”
    I nodded, and picked up my jacket and saddlebags. “Once I’ve read through this stuff, I’ll probably want to talk to the same people. Hopefully I’ll have some new questions for them.”
    “Sure,” Phil said.
    “And then . . . I guess I need to meet your wife.”

 
     

SEVEN

     
     
    I hadn’t enjoyed such swanky accommodations in a long time. When we were kids, Phil and I watched his father’s guests go in and out of these elaborately appointed rooms, often accompanied by a train of assistants and servants. Once we planned to sneak our dates into one of them, but his mother busted us and we both got grounded. And once I
had
sneaked into one, with Janet. So even though I was a grown man, I still felt like I was about to get in trouble as I sat on the edge of the ridiculously soft bed.
    After a bath I changed into clean clothes and ate two of the huge rolls, packed with ham and cheese and brought by a serious-looking, matronly servant. Two thick parchment folders were stacked next to the reading lantern on the desk. I finished the second roll, opened the top folder and began to read.
    Two hours later I’d finished the files, and the rolls weren’t sitting too well alongside what I’d learned. I closed the second folder, walked to the window and opened the wooden blinds. It was dark, and although the night was filled with city sounds, the breeze seemed cool and clean. I certainly didn’t feel the same way.
    All the guests at the state dinner the night of the murder agreed that Queen Rhiannon had seemed in her usual good spirits, charming the visiting bigwigs and even, once the after-dinner wine started flowing, favoring them with a song. She’d left at around 9:30 and gone upstairs, ostensibly to feed her son before retiring.
    The head nursemaid, Beth Maxwell, reported that the queen arrived just before ten. I knew something about the layout of this castle, and nearly thirty minutes seemed a long time to get from the dining room to the nursery. Still, why would she hurry? Dawdling certainly wasn’t a crime.
    Nurse Maxwell left the baby with his mother and went to fold some linen in the laundry. Next, one of the maids, Sally Sween, entered the nursery to refill the night lamps with oil; the queen appeared to have dozed off in her rocking chair, with young Pridiri asleep in her arms. This, evidently, was not unusual, and the maid left them alone. And they stayed alone for the next hour. So from about 10:30 to 11:30, the queen could’ve done anything.
    At 11:30, Nurse Maxwell returned to the nursery to put away the fresh bedclothes and diapers. She found the door locked, which according to her had never before happened. Miss