FSE

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Chapter 1

It was a warm and sunny summer day, which meant Roger Tyndale thought it was the most horrid way to begin an English holiday. The weather never stayed constant and so the fox was quite certain that by the next day, the only way to walk around town would be to wade through knee-deep puddles. He gazed out of the car window and willed a cloud to appear in the sky, any cloud at all, even a small one would do.

"This Wintermore fellow does live in a strange place, doesn't he?" Melody fanned herself beside him. Her head was down lower, not on the sky, but on the cobblestone roads, ancient brick walls, and somewhat decrepit housing that made up the town of Kentsworth--a town seemingly untouched by the last century. Given the wars, Tyndale thought, perhaps not a bad thing.

"He's always been a bit of an eccentric fellow," the fox said.

"Such words would describe you just as well, husband mine."

Tyndale caught the driver smirking at the remark. It was true enough. He had always affected an eccentricity, in part to drive off potential women seeking his hand in marriage, for he had no interest in the fairer sex. His marriage to Melody had been one of mutual benefit: she did not mind that he dallied with Kalyana, the tiger who even now drove them down the roads of Kentworth, and in turn he did not mind that she could not bear him any children.

Thinking back to Harold Wintermore, Tyndale said, "He's a good man, though. Eccentric, but good."

"Did you meet him over a game of chess?"

Tyndale's skills at the game were half of his notoriety, but he shook his head. "I don't believe he plays. No, I met him at a party on the French Riviera. He was the only person there who could talk about a topic of any interest to me. The rest of them were the usual upper crust: complete snobbish bores."

"Sir," Kalyana spoke quietly from the front seat. The car was turning off of the main road, into a long driveway that led to large house. "We're here."

The house was as old and decrepit as anything in Kentsworth, but it had a kind of aged majesty to it. It was a house full of old stories, going from family to family, being revised by each, but the underlying house was just the same as ever. For whatever reason, it had picked up the name "Delaney Towers" despite not having a single tower to its name.

As the car pulled up, Tyndale saw a number of figures out on a patio, eating a late breakfast. One of the figures, having noticed the car, began bounding up the path to them, big floppy rabbit ears whipping in the wind. "I don't believe it," Tyndale said. He opened the door and popped out popped out before it had fully stopped, calling, "Basil! Basil, is that you?"

The rabbit bounced to a stop right in front of him, glasses set atop a grinning muzzle. "Roger, oh, it's good to see you again."

Tyndale closed the car door, paying no attention for the moment to Kalyana or Melody. He took the rabbit's offered hand and shook vigorously. "What are you doing here, you rascal? I haven't seen you in years."

"I'm chief accountant, business manager, and records keeper for the Wintermore estate," Basil said with a slight roll of his eyes at his long list of titles. "He mentioned your name, and I thought I'd surprise you when you arrived. Seems I have." He was grinning madly and still hadn't stopped shaking Tyndale's hand.

Tyndale extracted himself enough from the shak to gesture to the other two occupants of the car coming out. "This is my wife, Melody."

"Charmed," Basil said.

"And my valet, Kalyana. Harold said you had room for him, yes?"

"Oh yes. No worries there." Basil took a step back, adjusted one of his floppy ears and nodded up the path. "I should introduce you to everyone."

Melody slid an arm around one of Tyndale's and together they walked up the path after Basil. Tyndale let himself cast one lingering glance back at the tiger who was starting to unload luggage. It pained Tyndale to have to keep him at such a distance in public, but at least they could be in the same house.

"Chin up, dear," Melody said. "You have to make a good first impression."

"And if I don't want to?"

"Then I shall make a good enough one for both of us."

Tyndale, despite his best efforts, found himself standing a bit straighter and smiling a little wider as they approached the patio. His feigned eccentricities had never quite left him: he too much enjoyed causing puzzlement and confusion. But he had, under Melody's tutelage, done a better job of not making a fool out of himself.

There were four others on the patio: a hedgehog maid; two elk, one male, one female; and a young female stoat, the sight of whom made Tyndale smile.

"Hello, Dahlia," he said.

The stoat got to her feet, brushed her dress off, and gave the fox a quick kiss on each cheek. "Nice to see you again, Roger."

Dahlia was Harold Wintermore's daughter. He'd met her a few times during his dealings with Harold. She was, as her father liked to say, "a real spitfire of a girl," soft-spoken but what words she said carried weight. She was, if Tyndale remembered right, frequently away at college, studying astronomy.

"Dahlia, I'd like you to meet, my wife, Melody."

The stoat extended her hand, and Melody took it with a smile and tilt of her head that was practically regal.

Behind Dahlia the female elk was fanning herself excitedly. "Is it true what Basil said," she asked in a strong American accent. "Are you really a duchess?"

While Tyndale was resisting a sigh at American's adoration of peerage, Melody was smiling benevolently and saying, "Yes." The way she said it, it was almost as if she had been asked if she were a saint, and given how she spoke, even Tyndale might have been lead to believe her.

"My goodness, it's amazing. Almost like royalty. There's nothing like that in the states. Well, there's movie stars and politicians, but it's not quite the same thing."

The female elk was babbling on until her husband cleared his throat with obvious annoyance. "Pipe down, Patricia," he said. He was scowling and cast his sour expression on Tyndale in a way that made the fox's tail shiver. "I'm sure they aren't interested."

"I'm interested by many things," Tyndale said. "Surprisingly my own title is not one of them."

Basil winked at the elk, his floppy ears bobbing as he did so. "Don't mind Roger too much. He might be a bit pompous, but he's a true friend."

Dahlia hid a giggle. "And the smartest man in every room he's ever walked into, so father liked to say. Oh, that reminds me." She looked over at the maid. "Daniele, would you go see if father is up yet and would like to join us?"

The maid bobbed her head once and disappeared into the house.

Basil bobbed his head toward the two elk. "Roger, Melody, this is Mr. and Mrs. Ashbury, from..."

"Vermont," Mr. Ashbury said curtly.

"Yes, Vermont. They're here to see if Harold will help with their philanthropic efforts."

"An orphanage," Mrs. Ashbury explained. "There's so many youths who need help, but so little money from the government. We're hoping Mr. Wintermore can help."

"I'm sure he will," Dahlia said. She sat back down at her table and sighed. "I wish I knew where everyone else was, though. I'm sure you'd love to see father again, Roger. And I don't know if you've ever met Uncle Garvan. Where is he?"

"Haven't seen him at all this morning," Basil said, and then he turned to explain to Tyndale and Melody in hushed tones. "Garvan Wintermore tends to enjoy dropping off the face of the earth sometimes. Drinks rather a lot. He's been known to disappear for a few days without a word."

A scream filled the air, making everyone jump.

"Good God, what was that?" Mrs. Ashbury asked.

"It came from inside," Dahlia said, already running into the house. While Tyndale was still trying to understand what was going on, an orange-and-white blur rushed past him. Kalyana. He always did know what to do in a moment of action. Tyndale hurried after him, and the other guests of Delaney Towers followed.

The scream came again and it made Tyndale go faster, rushing after the stoat and tiger. They had reached deep into the house, near where the screaming was coming from, but Dahlia had stopped, frozen in place, her fear apparent in her lowered ears and twitching tail. Kalyana, however, kept moving, bounding up the stairs two at a time with Tyndale right behind.

At the top of the stairs, Tyndale and Kalyana found the hedgehog maid sobbing, curled into a ball, pointing towards the open door to a study. Inside Tyndale an elderly stoat, laying on the ground, a garrote still twisted around his neck.

Tyndale's usual loquaciousness failed him. He looked back down the stairwell to see Dahlia staring back at him, her eyes pleading. And all he could think to say was, "Harold's dead."

The fox looked back into the study, through a large window, and noted with grim irony that a cloud had finally appeared in the sky

* * *

Everyone gathered in the sitting room after that. A constable stood at the door, not letting anyone in or out, while the sergeant searched upstairs. Tyndale sat in one chair, Melody in the chair next to him. Kalyana paced behind them, his feline tail twitching madly. On the far side of the room, Mr. and Mrs. Ashbury sat together, and Basil and Dahlia also, with the rabbit holding the stoat's hand as she wiped away tears. The hedgehog maid sat farther in the corner, attended to by the cook, a vixen named Mrs. Goodbody.

The sergeant knocked on the door and entered a moment later as the constable opened it. He was a wolf, tall and broad, filling out every inch of his uniform. He was simple and no-nonsense, which Tyndale appreciated. "Everyone, thank you for your patience. I'm sorry, but procedures require me to be indelicate about some things. We've had a doctor in and can confirm Mr. Wintermore was strangled by a person or persons unknown sometime early last night. We're getting the body of the deceased transported now. It should be ready for funeral services shortly."

Throughout all of this, Tyndale watched as Dahlia, moreso than anyone else, had trouble controlling her emotions, eventually needing to blow her nose into her handkerchief (and then apologize for the rude noise that made). "I can't believe it," she said. "I can't believe someone just... someone just broke in and killed him like that."

"No one broke in."

Tyndale's off-hand comment caused everyone to turn and look at him. Even the cook, who normally paid no attention to anyone but the maid, had paused with a teacup lifted halfway to her lips, the china hovering in midair.

"Oh, sorry," the fox said. "Not a good time to be showing off."

"Go on," Dahlia said earnestly. "What do you mean?"

Tyndale glanced up at the sergeant. The officer's face was impassive, but the ears were perked with keen interest.

Tyndale sighed and went on. "I just mean that I was there in the room. I smelled the scents. There were three stoats for the three stoats in the family, rabbit, two elk, and hedgehog: that accounts for everyone here except for Dahlia's uncle Garvan. Then there was one last scent. Badger, at a guess."

"The groundskeeper is a badger," Mr. Ashbury said. "I've seen him around. It might have been him."

"Might have," Tyndale said. "The curious thing was that the scent of badger was in the room but not in the hallway, so whoever left it entered or exited the room through the second-story window. That seems to be a perfectly reasonable thing for a burglar or other malcontent to do: break in through the window and kill Mr. Wintermore. Except it's the second-story so how did he get up there?" He paused and sipped his tea. He felt a moment's elation at watching the gears turn in the minds of the people in the room, and then an equal amount of guilt that he was feeling elation so close to his friend's death.

"He... he could have climbed the trellis," Basil suggested.

"Ah, the trellis, probably installed when the house was first built. It's so old and rotten I doubt it would support a five-year-old's weight, let alone even mine."

"He could have used a ladder then," Dahlia said. She was no longer drying her tears.

"Possibly, yes. But..." Tyndale paused and pointed down to the sergeant's boots. "Clearly our sergeant had the same idea. He's been out in the dirt and mud. A ladder with a full-grown badger's weight on it would leave some very noticeable prints in the soft soil, and even an attempt to hide them would likely have disturbed the soil in a visible way. He didn't find anything."

The sergeant's muzzle had split in a slight smile. "So how do you what I found?"

"Because of what you said, sergeant, or rather what you didn't." He sat back in his chair, arms crossed. "You didn't say when you first entered that you were launching a manhunt, or investigating a possible badger burglar. If you had found anything, you would have said that. But you didn't, so you hadn't. So you think, the same as I do now, that the scent was planted there by whoever murdered Harold to create confusion. A red herring."

Mrs. Ashbury trembled slightly. "What does that mean?"

Tyndale rubbed at his temples. Did he have to explain everything? He brought his own cup of tea to his lips and sipped once to clear his mind. "It mean that the murderer's scent must have been one of the others I mentioned before, so almost certainly the murderer is in this room with us right now."

Mr. Ashbury burst into laughter, his great antlers swinging from side to side. "You must be joking. Someone here?"

"He's not joking at all, sir," the sergeant said. "Yes... Lord Tyndale, was it? I had come to that conclusion as well. There will need to be an inquiry."

Dahlia stood up suddenly, the handkerchief dropped to the side. She pointed a finger straight at Tyndale. "You can do it. You can help find who did it."

Tyndale chuckled lightly and shook his head. He felt Melody's touch on his shoulder. "No, my dear. That is a duty best left to the police."

"You're the smartest person in every room you've ever walked into. Father," she swallowed, "Father always said so."

"Now is not the time for boasting, Dahlia."

"It is no boast!" She stamped her foot once. "I know you, Roger. You are the best person for it. If anyone could find who did it, you can."

"Sir," the officer said, "if you are half as good as she says you are, we would be happy for the assistance." He turned to look at the constable behind him briefly. "You are looking at most of the Kentsworth police in your room. We don't really have additional resources to spare, and you clearly figured out something in a few minutes that took me a few hours."

"See?" Dahlia said. "So you must do it."

"No." Tyndale took another sip of tea and set the cup aside.

Melody's hand brushed down his arm and held his hand. She spoke, quietly. "Why not, dear?"

Tyndale heaved a deep sigh. "Smartest man in the room, eh? Well, let me tell you then. In matters such as these, there is always a price that must be paid. If not in money, then in blood, hanging at the end of the gallows." He stood up and looked Dahlia in the eye. "Are you prepared to pay that price? I might get the answer wrong."

"I am," she said.

"Well, I'm not. That guilt would be on my conscience, not yours. I won't do it." He sat down forcefully, crossed his legs, and picked up his tea, ready to be done with it.

"Sir?"

Tyndale lifted the pointed tip of his muzzle and looked into the handsome eyes of his tiger.

Kalyana's voice was deep and respectful, sonorous. It set the fox's heart fluttering. "Sir, whoever killed Mr. Wintermore, they could do it again. Any one of us."

Tyndale felt the reproach in Kalyana's voice and in his golden eyes. When he looked away, it was only to see the same look on Melody's face.

"Damn it," Tyndale said. "Very well, I'll do it."

The sergeant stood a little straighter. "I thank you for your assistance, sir, but before I employ your services, I would like to make sure you are not the murderer yourself."

Basil hopped off his chair, right in front of the sergeant. "I can help with that. I was in contact with Roger's brother last night and this morning to confirm when he'd be here. He said that Roger was there last night and he said when he left this morning. He only arrived right when the body was found, so there was no way he could have been here last night as well to...to kill Mr. Wintermore."

The sergeant nodded. The big wolf thumbed his jaw. "I'll confirm that with your brother then, sir," he said to Tyndale. "But assuming what the rabbit here said was true, I accept your help."

"Thank you, officer." Tyndale rolled his shoulders. No reason why he should not get started now. "Might I ask, when will we see the contents of the will?"

"Could be another day or so, sir."

Dahlia dried her eyes and sniffed once. "Well, unless father changed it, most of the estate will go to Uncle Garvan. I'll get a small stipend to keep me sufficient."

Tyndale grinned, intrigued. "Basil, is your job contingent on Harold?"

The rabbit looked quizzical, his long ears twitching as he thought. "I've never thought about it. I suppose yes, although Garvan, now that he owns the estate, could continue it."

"And Mr. and Mrs. Ashbury, you two were here to ask for some money for philanthropic purposes. Did he give any?"

The male elk snorted, while his wife answered. "We were still working out details. He hadn't agreed to anything yet."

Tyndale glanced to the maid in the corner. She looked frightened still, shivering lightly. "And the house, does Garvan care for it?"

Dahlia, now the one looking perplexed, thought for a moment. "Well, he's not around here much."

"I mean, would he sell it?"

"I...I don't know. He might."

"Well, sergeant," Tyndale said, feeling at least a touch smug. "The most obvious motive whenever someone rich dies is money. No one here benefits in that way financially from his death. No one except Garvan Wintermore, whose scent was also in the room and who, I might add, has been missing all morning. I would suggest you try to find him."

The wolf let out a small guffaw. "That's easy. I already know right where he is. He's in our custody."

There were gasps around the room.

"Not like that," the sergeant said. He held his hands out as if placating a child. "He's not being held for murder. He was arrested last night for drunk and disorderly conduct. He was in a cell all night under the constable's watch."

Dahlia's muzzle split in a soft smile. "That's a relief. He couldn't have done it then."

Tyndale shook his head. He looked into his cup and saw that it was empty. The comfort of tea was denied him for the moment. "Correct on the second. Wrong on the first," he said. "Because if he was not responsible, then someone in this room was." At those words, the various guests and tenants began giving each other uneasy looks. Tyndale continued, muttering under his breath. "And I have no idea who it is."

Chapter 2

"Mrs. Goodbody, thank you for joining me."

The old vixen plopped into a chair opposite Tyndale in the dining room. Almost immediately, she produced a cigarette, lit it, and took several puffs. From what Tyndale had seen of her smoking habits, he was surprised she didn't season her food with ash instead of salt. "Not like I had a choice," she muttered. "Not sure why you're bothering either. Like you said, it couldn't have been me."

Tyndale gave the most magnanimous shrug he could muster. "You might still prove to be an accomplice. A bit of sleeping drug added to his meal, perhaps, something to make him easier to off."

Mrs. Goodbody made a wheezing laugh. "Mr. Tyndale, my employer was known for many things. His strength and agility were not among them. He did not need to be drugged. Even at his full strength, Mr. Wintermore wouldn't even have been a match for little Daniele if she put her mind to it."

"You think Daniele might have done it?"

"Not at all. She had no reason to."

"No one seems to have had a reason." Tyndale leaned in, elbows on the dining table, muzzle resting on his interlaced fingers. "But what about you? Did you have a reason to kill him?"

Another wheezing laugh from the old vixen. "I've worked in a lot of nice houses," she said. "I've worked for a lot of lords and ladies. Harold Wintermore was a better man than the lot of them put together." She flicked her cigarette once in Tyndale's direction. "No offense meant to present nobility."

"No offense taken, Mrs. Goodbody. Having met many lords and ladies myself, I'm inclined to agree with your assessment."

She smiled at that and tapped some ash from the tip of her fag.

"I am, at the moment, interested in the events of last night. Who was where and when. Shall we start with dinner?"

The vixen took a long, slow drag and exhaled an impressive volume of smoke. "I was in the kitchen most of the time. Daniele and I brought some of the dishes up together."

"And everyone was in the dining room?"

"Yes. All except Garvan Wintermore. I didn't see him when dinner started. To be frank, I hadn't seen him since he had popped in to raid some liquor for a mid-morning snack."

"What time did dinner start?"

"A little before seven."

Tyndale popped out a little notebook and scribbled some quick notes inside of it. "What was the topic of conversation, do you remember? Who was speaking?"

"Oh, that elk woman, she was talking the most, droning on and on about the needs of the children and all the lives they had helped. Her husband looked like he wanted to jump out a window to escape the sound of her voice. The only thing that prevented him from doing so was that Mr. Wintermore was so interested."

"Thank you, and after dinner, did you see where anyone went?"

"A few. One of the main doors outside goes past the kitchen. I saw those two elks go past. They seemed to be having an argument." She took another breath of smoke and held it as she thought. "I couldn't make out the details of what they were arguing about. But he seemed to think she had been untruthful about something she said at dinner. Afraid I can't say any more."

Tyndale, still making notes, circled his hand in the air to motion her to continue.

"A little while after that, Basil went out. He likes to take walks every evening. Daniele came in and helped me around the kitchen, and about that time--"

Tyndale looked up sharply. "What time is that?"

"Must have been close to nine by then."

"Go on."

"About that time, I heard Mr. Wintermore go upstairs. He likes to turn in early."

Tyndale paused to consider Mrs. Goodbody's ears. They were a bit ragged by age, but looked to be in good condition otherwise. "Could anyone have sneaked up or down the stairs without you hearing?"

"Easily. Unlike most of Delaney Towers, the stairs are rather new. They don't squeak or groan when you walk on them."

"Thank you. Did you hear anyone return?"

"Those elk, yes."

"Still arguing?"

"No, silent as the grave. I could only tell it was them by the sound of their steps. Hard to disguise that. That was probably 9:30 or so. I left for home after that. I never heard Basil return. It must have been later."

"Daniele was with you that whole time?"

"Yes, although she was planning to leave not long after."

"And Dahlia?"

"Never saw her after dinner."

"What about that groundskeeper, the badger?"

The old vixen shrugged. "He wasn't around. It's rare for him to be around in the evenings, and never on Friday evenings. He always goes to The Blue Dragon, a pub in town, and stays there until two or three in the morning."

Well after the time of the murder, Tyndale thought. He closed his notebook, smiled his most sincere smile, and said, "Thank you, Mrs. Goodbody. That will be all for now."

* * *

"This is an outrage!"

Tyndale drummed his claws on the dining room table. "Mr. Ashbury, as I explained, I would like to question your wife alone."

"Unthinkable." The elk slammed a brick-sized fist into the table. "I will be here with her."

Patience wearing thin, Tyndale allowed his lip to curl and show off his fangs. "Mr. Ashbury. Get. Out."

The elk was unimpressed, shaking his head and its gigantic rack of antlers. "How are you going to make me, short stuff?"

Slowly the fox's curled lip lowered, to be replaced by the fakest smile he could manage. "You are indeed the largest person in this house, possibly the strongest too, but my valet has the largest claws."

"You wouldn't--"

"Kalyana!"

The door opened only a moment later, the tiger darting into the room like lightning. He was to his master's side in an instant, eyes casting darkly about. "Sir, what is it?"

"Mr. Ashbury is looking for a fight. Explain to him why that would be unwise."

The valet, realizing there was no immediate danger, straightened once more, his hackles lowering. He picked up a napkin from the table and held it out between his outstretched hands, his hands held so his fingertips touched the other wrist. Then, in a flash, he had pushed out his claws and slid his hands against one another. The napkin, which was made of rather thick cloth, was nonetheless torn to ribbons, and Kalyana seemed to take pleasure in watching Mr. Ashbury's dawning realization as the tiger slowly retracted his claws.

Tyndale sat back pleased, his fingers steepled. "As I said, Mr. Ashbury, it would be unwise. Don't worry. You'll have your time with me soon."

The elk stood, straightened his clothes, and stomped out of the room. His wife, who had remained silent this whole time, kept her head bowed, dabbing at her cheeks with her handkerchief.

"Kalyana," Tyndale spoke softly. "Would you get Melody? And ask her to bring a cup of tea, please. And," he dropped his voice even lower, "sorry about using you as the hired muscle."

The tiger nodded silently and left the room with barely a sound made. Tyndale waited a few minutes in silence before his wife arrived. She seemed to know what was needed of her immediately. She set the cup of tea in front of Mrs. Ashbury, took a seat by her side, held her hand and offered her a clean handkerchief to dab her eyes.

Tyndale had never been able to connect that well with others emotionally. Growing up he had had to hide his desires for other men, often forsaking friends to do so. By the time he reached college, he had formulated a standoffish persona, smart and witty, knowledgeable about all things, but not someone you would tell your secrets to, not someone you could confide in. That had helped him to not confide his own secrets in the wrong person.

Melody, in contrast, seemed able to make friends with almost everyone. She had once had a protective persona, just as Tyndale had, but hers had faded away to reveal a genuine generosity underneath. Tyndale had had no such luck.

"Do you think you can help us?" Melody asked the still bleary-eyed elk.

"I'll do what I can. Thank you. Thank you," she patted the hand that Melody had placed on hers.

Tyndale coughed a little too direct Mrs. Ashbury's attention onto himself. "Now, would you tell me about dinner last night?"

"Oh, it was quite delicious. The soup was absolutely wonderful."

Tyndale did his best to hide the roll of his eyes and his sigh. "I meant more what happened during dinner, things that might be relevant to the murder. It's possible something, no matter how small or insignificant would be helpful for us to know."

"I see." The elk nodded and patted her cheeks once more as she thought. "Nothing big happened, I don't think. I was doing most of the talking, as was Mr. Wintermore. He was sharing stories about his adventures to far-off lands: his time in Morocco, his visit to the Holy Lands, the time he went sledding in Finland. Everyone else was quite quiet really.

"Well, no," she said after another moment's thought. "That's not quite right. Ronald, my husband, he was completely silent throughout dinner. Basil, that rabbit, he spoke up once or twice when we were discussing orphanages. He was spoke very supportingly of our efforts."

"He's an orphan himself," Tyndale said. He remembered that from his college days with Basil.

"Oh, is he? That explains it. The other lady, Dahlia, she spoke up only once, but I'm afraid I don't remember what it was about." She gave a little laugh and waved her handkerchief in the air. "My mind was a million miles away."

"Thank you. And after dinner?"

"Dahlia was the first to leave the table, and then Ronald and I left for a walk."

Tyndale paused in taking notes. "And did anything interesting happen during the walk?"

"No, not that I can think of. It was surprisingly chilly. Nothing else."

"But you and your husband did have an argument."

"Oh, yes," Mrs. Ashbury said quietly and her head started to hang. Tyndale could see she held onto Melody's hand a little tighter.

"He thought you were being untruthful about something. Something you said during dinner, perhaps?"

She was silent, her head so low it looking like she were searching for something in the pleats of her dress.

"Mrs. Ashbury?"

"Promise you won't tell Garvan Wintermore," she said in a quavering voice.

"If it's not related to the murder, I promise."

She took a deep breath and sighed. "It's about the orphanage. I wasn't entirely truthful about who it was for. You see, we've done this a number of times. We go to big parties with lots of wealthy donors, and we tell them the need of the children to have a home of their own. If we just leave it at that, then they smile and they write a check and they tell everyone they know what a good deed they did. But if we tell them that we want an orphanage for zebras and rhinos and lions--"

"Africans?"

"Yes." Her expression was glum. "If we say that, then they leave before we've even finished. No money. No good deeds. No home for the children. I know Mr. Wintermore is... was a very liberal sort of fellow, but I've seen all kinds turn away at the mention of Africa."

Tyndale sighed and nodded. "I see no reason to bother Garvan with that knowledge, for now at least. Would you tell me what happened after you came back? That was around 9:30, correct?"

Mrs. Ashbury's head lifted and her ears turned back towards Tyndale. "That sounds about right. We went to our room. I like to read in the evenings, and Ronald enjoys a cigar and a glass of something strong. That's where we stayed for the rest of the night. We heard Dahlia go upstairs not long after. They were having a very animated conversation. She came back down, went to her bedroom, and that was it. I didn't hear anything more. Except... oh dear..."

Tyndale wanted to say something, but Melody beat him to it. She held the elk's hand a little tighter and said, "What was it?" in that soothing voice of hers.

"I remember hearing something above us. It was very late, probably close to 11, maybe 11:30. I couldn't sleep. But I remember hearing a thump from above us."

"Like the sound of a struggle?" Tyndale asked. He was momentarily worried that was too direct, but the elk shook her head.

"No, not quite like that. It was harder, hollower, like wood on wood."

"Anything else?"

"There were a number of thumps, and then it was quiet. That's all I remember until morning."

"That will be all, Mrs. Ashbury. Thank you. I'm sure Daniele would have some more--and hotter--tea, if you are interested."

The elk gave a nod and took her untouched tea cup out with her. Melody stayed behind, waiting until the elk had left completely before speaking. "What are you thinking, Roger?"

Tyndale sighed and leaned back, rubbing his eyes. "She's lying," he said flatly. "I believe her about the orphanage, but I don't believe that's what Mr. Ashbury was worried about. Why would he care so much about that that he would argue with her? He seems the type who would happily keep it a secret alongside her. And she's hiding something about Dahlia as well."

Melody nodded. "I could tell. She remembered Harold Wintermore's stories with a great deal of specificity, but couldn't even remember the topic of what Dahlia said at dinner. And she heard an `animated conversation' from the other end of the house. That's not animated: that's a shouting match."

"I'm impressed."

Melody shook her head, the doe's eyes turning upward. "I swear. You and your ego."

"Sorry, dear."

"No matter. Anyway, the question is what she is hiding and why."

"What I don't know, but why--why else? She doesn't think either of them is the murderer, but they did something that makes them a suspect. She's protecting them."

Chapter 3

Basil held up one hand for silence while the other moved like a blur over the keys of his typewriter, the machine ringing and clanging as he typed out a letter with great rapidity. With one last clack, the machine came to a stop and Basil sat back, rubbing under his glasses. "Sorry about that," he said. "Harold may have gone, but the work doesn't stop. At least not until Garvan tells me it should." The rabbit sighed and rolled his shoulders, gesturing to a large pile of letters, including the one in his typewriter. "He has business contacts who need to be informed that he has passed on."

"I understand," Tyndale said. "I won't take long. I just need to ask some questions."

The rabbit sat back and pushed his glasses up on his snout. "Go ahead."

"To start with, at dinner last night: as I understand it, Mrs. Ashbury and Mr. Wintermore were doing most of the talking. You piped in once or twice to support their plans for the orphanage."

"Yeah. I've been trying to push Harold to do more orphanage work since I started working here."

"And at one point, and seemingly only one point, Dahlia spoke up. Do you remember what about?"

"Oh, that." He grinned and whistled. "Apparently Dahlia has some secret boyfriend she's been seeing while off studying. Harold was teasing her about bringing the fellow home."

Tyndale flicked an ear, pulling out his notebook and marking that down, drawing a line from that to his earlier thoughts about Mrs. Ashbury. "And then, after dinner, you went out for your customary walk."

"That's right."

"It was a very long walk apparently."

Basil shrugged. "It was. So what?"

Tyndale stared levelly at the rabbit across his desk. "This is a murder investigation, Basil. I have to consider every possibility."

The rabbit laughed and shook his head. "Roger, it's me. Basil. You remember me."

"I remember who you were. It's been years, Basil. You've changed."

"You haven't." The laughter faded, and Basil looked quite serious. "I still see the same old fox, always keeping himself at a distance. You never completely trust anyone, do you?"

Tyndale shook his head. Even with Basil he kept secrets, but there were enough moments of honesty that reminded him why he was glad for Basil's friendship. "Actually, I haven't completely eliminated my wife from the list of suspects. I've thought of at least one way she could do it without me knowing."

Basil rubbed his temple, his little nose twitching. "You are a piece of work, Roger Tyndale. Anyways, I interrupted you. You were in the middle of interrogating one of your old friends about him being a murderer."

Tyndale opened his mouth to speak and found nothing coming out. He took a moment, shook his head, lifted and lowered his ears, worked his jaw around, and then spoke. "Did you meet anyone while you were out?"

"No."

"And when you came back--"

"So unusually late, as you put it."

"When you came back, did you see anyone?"

"There was only a single light on when I came back. It was upstairs. I thought it was the bedroom, but given where Mr. Wintermore died, I suppose it could have been the study. The cook and maid were already gone when I got in, and I thought everyone else who slept on the first floor was already asleep, so I just went to my room and did some more work since I couldn't sleep."

Basil's nose twitched again and his long ears swayed. "I was wrong though. I saw Dahlia about."

"Going upstairs?"

"No, going out. She has a telescope on a hill not far from here. She calls it her private observatory. When she wants to be by herself she goes out there. And then a little while after that, I heard Mr. Ashbury walking down the hall for his usual nightcap. He practically fell against my door on the way back. The drink must have hit him hard."

Tyndale looked through his notebook, at the timeline he had created. "Did you hear anything from the Ashburys' room?"

"Not a thing. That's why I was a little surprised to hear him up and about."

"And you never heard an argument between Dahlia and her father?"

"No..." Basil's ears twitched with worry. "She had an argument?"

"Yes." Tyndale flicked the notebook shut and stuffed it back into his breast pocket. "The evening of a murder on which no one appears to have had a motive, she had an argument with her father."

"But I heard her go out," Basil said quickly. "That was well before the time of the murder."

"And there are enough ways in and out of the house that she could have come back without you knowing."

"I just can't believe she would," he said while absentmindedly chewing on his lip. "Either way, someone else must have been in the house. Very late, I heard someone moving the chairs in the study."

Tyndale's ears perked. "The chairs?"

Basil nodded. "There are two big chairs in the study. They're really heavy so Harold can't move them on his own. I didn't think anything of it at the time because those chairs get moved practically every night."

"And when these chairs are moved, they... `thump'?"

"Yes, that's right."

"Thank you, Basil, that's a great help."

Basil stood and stretched. He gestured to a row of filing cabinets that covered an entire wall of the business office. "I don't know, but this could be useful in your investigation. Part of my job has been to catalogue all of the travels and events and business dealings of the entire Wintermore family. I think Harold was planning to write a memoir at some point. Who knows, maybe Dahlia still will write it." He tapped the side of one of the cabinets. It echoed dully inside, as if it was stuffed to the brim with papers. "It's not complete, but if whoever killed Harold did it because of something in his past, you're likely to find it in here."

* * *

Tyndale stood on the threshold to the second-floor study, watching the shadows cast by a cloud moving on the floor. He could still picture Harold's body there, the way his hands hung lifeless in the air, the way his eyes bulged in their sockets.

He shook his head and forced himself to step into the room. He saw the two chairs Basil had described, both made of some ornate, heavy wood, one with a wooden back, the other with plush back and large wings extending forward around the head. The wood-back chair sat to the left, facing out a window, next to where Harold's body had been. The plush-back chair sat turned away at a desk on the other side of the room.

A hand touched Tyndale's shoulder. He turned to see the hedgehog maid, Daniele, standing there. She seemed to be shivering lightly.

Tyndale tried to make his expression pleasant, ears perky, eyes wide. "Thank you for joining me, Daniele. I won't keep you long. I'm sure you have work you'd prefer to be doing."

"Yes," she said, quiet and meek. "I'd be happy to leave as soon as I can." Her voice had a lilting West Country accent.

Tyndale recounted the events of dinner as he understood them, and Daniele confirmed them all.

"Would you say Dahlia was angry with her father?"

"No, I'd say more frustrated like. I thought she might have left the table so she wouldn't have to put up with it anymore."

Tyndale again went through the events after dinner, as the cook had recounted them. And again, Daniele confirmed them all.

"Where do you live?" he asked afterwards.

"There are a number of cottages down the road. Mrs. Goodbody has one. I have another."

"You have your own cottage?"

"It's small, but yes. Mr. Wintermore pays very well." She frowned and corrected herself, "Paid."

"Was there anyone who saw between the time you left and when you got home?"

"No, sir," she said quietly.

Tyndale felt a growing sense of frustration, but quashed it for now. "Would you tell me about these chairs?"

That provoked a smile out of the hedgehog. "Oh, those were the Wintermores' favorites. They'd been in the family for generations and Mr. Wintermore--Harold--he loved them silly. I'd caught him once: he'd nicked the finish with a claw and he spent an hour after that polishing it until it was fixed." She giggled lightly.

"And they're..." Tyndale put his hands under the arms of the wood-back chair and lifted. "Oh, they're heavy!"

Daniele tried to hide a smile under her hand. "I've had to move them a number of times. Neither Harold nor Garvan can do it on their own."

Tyndale took a deep breath and tried again, lifting the chair up and trying to let it down gently. Despite his best effort, it landed with a loud thunk on the floor. "It's rather loud to move them around."

"Maybe someone like that Mr. Ashbury could do it. Not sure about anyone else."

"So why were they moved?"

"Pardon?"

Tyndale shook his head for a moment. "The chairs, the way they are now, that's how they were when you came into the study this morning, yes?"

She shuddered. "Yes, sir."

He looked back and forth between the two chairs, the wood-back chair at the window and the plush-back chair at the desk. Tyndale walked over and knelt down by the window. His hand touched a spot on the floor. He believed, faintly, he could still feel a touch of warmth from where Harold's body lay. His hand ran over the floorboard and his fingers felt over a spot where there were furrows in the wood, made by a claw. Tyndale closed his eyes and thought back to the scene that morning. This mark was right under where Harold's hand had been.

Tyndale stood up and went to the other side of the room to examine the plush-back chair, while Daniele watched him, silent and perhaps a little disturbed. Tyndale ran his hands over the arms of the plush-back chair. If Harold had been killed in this chair, and if he was not strong enough to fight off his attacker, then there might be.... His fingers paused as they found several cuts in the upholstery.

"Daniele, come over here."

The hedgehog came up close and inspected the cuts. "These weren't here the other day?"

"I think Harold was first attacked in this chair," Tyndale said quietly.

Daniele jumped back a step. Then she looked from the chair to the spot at the window where Harold's body was found. "On the other side of the room?"

"No. I think someone moved the chairs. But why?" Tyndale swept around and took a seat in the wood-back chair. It was... pleasant, he supposed. The wood was a little hard even for him and he suspected it was even worse for Mr. Wintermore. "Help me move them," he said, and together he and Daniele swapped the position of the two chairs, which took a great deal of effort, grunting, and thumping. Then Tyndale slipped into the plush-back chair, now at the window. It certainly felt nicer, but the bigger difference was the wings. "I can't see around," he said to himself. He turned his head to the side. He could still see the window and the door, but not the desk.

The fox hopped back out of the chair and started investigating the desk, opening drawers, checking for secret panels, flicking through the papers and books that lay atop it, opening and closing the small toy telescope, examining the star charts, spinning the globe, flicking the lamp on and off. "Is there anything special about this desk?" he asked.

"No. Nothing I can think of. Why?"

Tyndale sighed. "I think whoever murdered Harold Wintermore wanted to hide the fact that he couldn't see the desk by switching the chairs. But why?"

The maid shrugged, and then jumped as a voice bellowed, "You!"

Tyndale looked up. An elderly, disheveled stoat stood in the doorway, his fur askew, his collar half up and half down, his weight supported by the wall. In one hand, he held a glass: in the other a bottle of some whiskey. "You," he slurred again, his eyes attempting to focus on Tyndale. "You're the investigator?"

Tyndale straightened. "I am. Roger Tyndale, Baron of Alfordshire. You must be Garvan Wintermore. I don't think we've met."

The stoat hardly seemed to care. He staggered forward and plopped into the chair at the desk. He immediately started pouring himself a drink.

"Is now really the time for that?" Tyndale asked.

Garvan Wintermore looked up. He seemed confused for a moment and started trying to push his fur back down into a semblance of neatness. Then he turned back, looked at his drink a moment, picked it up, and polished it down in one swift gulp. "It makes it hurt less," he said.

"I'm sorry for your loss. He was a good friend."

"And a good brother. Better than I deserved." The stoat held the bottle of whiskey as if considering another glass. "I'm sure you'll have questions. Can they wait for tomorrow, at least?"

"Of course." He gestured for Daniele to leave the room. "I'll let you be." Tyndale gave a nod of his head to the stoat and went to leave, but as he reached the door, he heard a sob. Garvan sniffed once, twice, and tried to hold it back. Once the stoat had begun crying, however, it seemed he could not stop. Tyndale watched him hang his head over the desk, tears running down his cheeks into a puddle on the wood, and all the while, the stoat made the most piteous whimpers and sobs. Tyndale thought he sounded like a child, one who had been beaten by his parents and could not understand why: he only knew that he hurt and that he was alone.

As quietly as he could, Tyndale left the study and pulled the doors shut to give Garvan his privacy.

* * *

Tyndale bumped into Dahlia and Mr. Ashbury in the downstairs hallway. "Has Uncle Garvan arrived yet?" the stoat asked worriedly.

"He's here. He's up in the study."

Dahlia's eyes brightened and she was about to step around him to go upstairs when Tyndale put a hand on her shoulder.

"I think he needs some time alone," the fox said.

Dahlia seemed surprised, probably not because of what Tyndale had said, but that it was Tyndale who said it.

"He's right," the big elk agreed. "Give the man some room. He always was the independent sort. He'll pull himself together once he sobers up. Meanwhile, I think I need a drink."

"Is everyone drinking at this hour?" Tyndale asked, exasperated.

"I meant coffee." The elk did not look pleased. "I can't stand that tea you Brits make here."

"You were drinking last night, though, weren't you? Rather a lot."

The elk's eyes narrowed and his head swayed once with his antlers coming dangerously close to Tyndale's head. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Only that your wife mentioned you were drinking in the evening, and then Basil said he heard you go out for a nightcap as well."

Mr. Ashbury shrugged. "I like something lighter in the evenings and then something with a bit more kick to send me off to bed."

On a hunch, Tyndale asked, "Is that a habit of yours?"

He nodded.

"And you slept well, last night?"

"Like a baby."

"Show me the glass you drank out of."

The elk looked at Tyndale as if the fox had just asked him to walk on the ceiling.

"Mr. Ashbury, I insist. Please show me the glass you drank out of."

The elk shrugged and took them into an adjoining room, showing Tyndale and Dahlia the glass, on a stand next to several liquor bottles. "That's the one. Maid still hasn't cleaned it."

"Good." Tyndale picked up the glass and sniffed around the rim. He touched the droplets of liquid still inside with his finger and tasted it tentatively. "Veronal. No wonder you slept so well last night, Mr. Ashbury. You were drugged."

Chapter 4

Tyndale sat out on the patio the following day, eating an early lunch and watching the procession of guests returning from church. Melody and Dahlia were out front, giggling to each other about something. Mr. and Mrs. Ashbury followed them, not so much as looking at one another, Garvan a touch after them, and Basil trailed along behind, his big floppy ears bouncing in time with his gait.

Tyndale waved to them as they passed by and into the house. He sprung out of his seat as the procession neared its end. "Ah, Garvan, how are you feeling?"

The stoat staggered a bit as he looked up and down over Tyndale. His fur was combed and his clothes were neat--more a consequence of his niece looking after him than good personal hygiene, Tyndale guessed. "I feel like someone stuck an ax in me," the stoat replied after a moment more.

"Would you sit down? I'd like to ask you a few questions."

The stoat shrugged and sat across from him. Basil finally caught up and waved at Tyndale as he passed inside.

"You weren't at church," the stoat observed.

"I've found that God tends not to agree with me." The fox leaned in slightly. "I'm more interested in you at the moment. How are you doing?"

The stoat shrugged and swayed in his seat. "I'm fine."

"Excellent. Not too hungover?"

"I'm fine," Garvan repeated. "I've been far worse. Now get to your real questions."

"As you wish. I'm curious what you will do with your inheritance. It is quite substantial, as I understand it."

Garvan gave a slow nod. "I haven't really thought about it much. Dahlia needs some money, an allowance, so she can live comfortably and keep doing her work. I want to honor Harold's business contracts as much as I am able."

"Such as with the Ashburys?"

"Yes."

"And the house?"

The old stoat sat back and looked up over the house. His whiskers twitched in the air as he surveyed its windows, gables, and ivy trellises. "I don't know. Part of me wants to get rid of it, because this is where Harold died. But... I haven't lived anywhere else for so long. I don't know if I could anymore."

"Will you travel? Gamble? What will you do with your newfound wealth?"

Garvan stared, not at the house, but beyond it. His eyes were unfocused and misty. "I have really no idea."

Tyndale nodded, took a deep breath, and turned around in his seat so he could look in the same direction as the stoat. He couldn't see what Garvan was looking at. Perhaps he was looking into the past. "There's one thing about this that bothers me. Out of everyone who could have possibly killed Harold, you seemed to have the best motive: money. But you have an ironclad alibi and you don't even want the money. As for everyone else, not one of them has an alibi that withstand even a cursory glance, and yet none of them have a motive." He turned his head, ears up, until Garvan turned to meet his gaze. "So I must ask, and you must answer as truthfully as you can: do you know anyone who would have wanted him dead?"

Garvan did not need to think about his answer. He shook his head, slowly, sadly. "I'm an old drunk, Lord Alfordshire, but my brother, he was a saint. I can barely even think of people who disliked him, let alone hated him enough to kill him." He coughed a few times and had to pull out a handkerchief to cover his muzzle. He had to dab away a bit of phlegm that had made it onto his whiskers. "It's the cruel irony of this world. The good men are taken from us too soon, and the world is left in the hands of idiots and cripples like myself."

"There are never enough good men in the world," the fox said with a nod. He stood and gave a little bow that was so small the only part of him that moved was the tip of his muzzle. "That was all I wanted to know."

"Would you stay?" Garvan asked suddenly.

The fox shifted an ear inquisitively.

"For lunch, I meant. Here with me." The stoat shifted in his seat. "People don't like to be around me much. My brother was the only one. I barely see Basil even though we live in the same house. The staff treat me like an inconvenience. Even Dahlia avoids me sometimes. I don't want to be alone anymore, Lord Alfordshire, even if it is only over lunch."

Tyndale considered for a moment and then took his seat again. "Very well, but I might recommend in the future that you ask my wife. I'm not known for being the most pleasant company."

* * *

Tyndale knocked on Dahlia's door after lunch.

"Coming!" came the shout from inside. A moment later Dahlia had opened the door, and looking at her, Tyndale thought for a moment she more closely resembled her uncle than her father, her fur a mess, her dress wrinkled and unkempt. However, she carried a pair of books under one arm and had one ear held flat so as to hold a pencil in place: her roughshod looks were not a result of disinterest, but of busyness. "Tyndale. I thought you were going into town."

"I am, after I talk with you." He pointed to her books. "I hope I'm not interrupting."

"Oh that." She smiled and hefted the books up for Tyndale to see. "Just some works on modern spectroscopy. Working helps to keep my mind off...things."

"Do you have time to talk?"

She nodded and went to lay down on a large chaise lounge, her tail curled over her legs and a book propped up on the arm of the lounge to let her keep reading. Tyndale stepped around her and looked through the room itself. It was surprisingly messy, he thought. Daniele must not get much time in there. The only thing he found that looked neat was a small table near the bedside, and on that table was a lamp and several small books. Tyndale touched the cover of the topmost one.

"That's private," Dahlia said, barely looking up from her work.

"What is it?" The fox asked.

"My diaries."

Tyndale held his hands behind his back and looked down sternly at the stoat. "Miss Wintermore, I am conducting a murder investigation, on your behalf no less. There is no privacy."

Dahlia sighed. "So it's Miss Wintermore now, is it? You've always liked calling me Dahlia."

"Miss Wintermore, as I said, I am conducting a murder investigation. Now two nights ago, at dinner, your father brought up some lover of yours."

Dahlia sat back, a hand over her muzzle. "Oh, God."

"Your father brought up this lover, and you got very uncomfortable."

Dahlia sighed and closed her book, letting it rest atop the arm of the lounge. "Yes, I did. You know how father is. He thinks that if there is something you want and if that thing is good you should just say what it is and damn the consequences." She sighed. "But then, he never had to face the consequences the way I do."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

She raised a hand, rubbed over her face, and smoothed her whiskers. "You see this book? It was written by Catherine Leupold, a Swiss astronomer. She's the leading expert on radio spectroscopy. But you never see her work cited. You never hear people talk about her. You know why?"

"Because she's a woman?"

Dahlia looked back at him and nodded. "Because she's a woman. And it's hard to be taken seriously as a woman and a scientist. Can you imagine how much harder it would be if it got out that I was sleeping with one of my colleagues?"

"I can," he said, thinking of his own relationship with Kalyana and the damage that could be caused if that was revealed. "Believe me, I can. But, Miss Wintermore... Dahlia... I must confirm what happened. I need to know who it was."

Dahlia shook her head.

"Why not?"

"Because I trust you with that, but he might not. And I can't betray his trust by telling you."

"Dahlia, please."

"No."

Tyndale stood in front of her and jabbed a claw towards the door. "Dahlia, after this, I am going to meet with the police. I am going to tell the sergeant everything I know. And he might at some point ask me who I think is the most likely suspect. If I answer honestly, I have to tell him you are the most likely suspect."

Dahlia's short ears jumped up. "Me? Why?"

"Because you had an argument with your father the night he was murdered. Mrs. Ashbury heard it and then Basil saw you storm out. Are you going to tell me what that was about?"

"Yes." She stood and walked around Tyndale to the table beside her bed, opening up a drawer and pulling out a letter. She handed it to Tyndale. "It was about this."

Tyndale opened the letter and pulled out an official-looking paper from a college in Scotland, offering a job to Dahlia as an assistant to Prof. Dean. "He didn't want you to leave, did he?"

"Wrong, Mr. Smartest-person-in-the-room. He wanted me to go. He said it would be a great move for my career. I was the one who wanted to stay. If I'd gone, I'd be so far away from here, from my father, and I love my father, Tyndale."

The fox tapped the letter as his tail swayed uncertainly behind him.

"Ask Basil if you don't believe me. I told him to draft a letter saying I would not take the job. There's an observatory not half-an-hour from here. I was hoping to get a job there instead."

Tyndale slowly folded the letter and handed it back.

The stoat held the letter to her chest and looked up into Tyndale's eyes. "Am I still your number one suspect?"

"No," Tyndale said after a moment.

"Who is?"

He shook his head. "I don't have one."

"At least you've eliminated Mr. Ashbury."

"No, I haven't."

"But the veronal..."

"He could have easily placed it in his glass after killing your father. I spoke with him late last night. He says he was too drunk the evening of the murder to remember anything, but otherwise his story fits with what Mrs. Ashbury said." He picked out his notebook and flipped through a few pages, reviewing what the elk had said. "I admit it is unlikely either he or his wife killed him: the hooves, you see. Mrs. Goodbody said that anyone going up or down the stairs could do so silently, but elk would have difficulty doing that. It's possible, but hard."

Dahlia sat on the edge of her bed, rubbing one temple. "Surely though Mrs. Ashbury would have heard him if he'd left."

"Yes, but if she had, why would she tell me that? It might send her husband to the gallows. She has no problem with lying to protect someone. She lied to me about what you said at dinner, after all."

Dahlia shook her head. "She shouldn't have done that."

"No, she shouldn't have. But clearly she sees the best in people. Doubtless she thinks your father was murdered by some common thief who snuck in. It's easier than believing someone you share a meal with is a cold-blooded killer."

The stoat gave a wan smile. "But not you. You think everyone could be. You don't let your heart get in the way."

Tyndale stared at her silently.

"I didn't mean it like that. I just meant you would make a good detective. You know you have to consider every possibility, even the ones that might hurt."

"Yes, of course," Tyndale said, but there was no warmth in his voice. "Now, if you will excuse me, Miss Wintermore, I have to go make my report to the sergeant."

He turned to leave, but Dahlia had reached out and held onto his shoulder. "I'm sorry, Tyndale. I am. I didn't mean to sound like I don't appreciate what you're doing." She let go and sat down again. "I want you to know: I have always considered it an honor that someone like you never felt you had to talk down to me. You always treated me like an equal."

Tyndale stood still for a moment, and then walked out of the room, never saying another word.

* * *

"Car is ready, sir," Kalyana said.

Tyndale hopped down the steps, Basil close behind. "Going into town?" the rabbit asked.

"Yes, I need to make a report to the sergeant. Want to come?"

"In that thing?" His eyebrows lifted and he took a cautious step away from the car. "No thanks."

Tyndale did a double-take between the car and Basil and then slapped his forehead. "I forgot. Your mother..."

"Yes," the rabbit interrupted. "You go on. You'll have fun, no doubt."

"I'm sorry," the fox said, "I'll invite you in on a bike or something later on." Then he hopped into the car as Kalyana held the door open. Kalyana came around to the driver's side and started driving the pair down the road.

Once Delaney Towers had disappeared behind a hedgerow, Kalyana spoke. "That was a bit peculiar."

Tyndale reached out to touch the tiger's hip, enjoying the momentary privacy offered by the car. "Oh, Basil? That's nothing to worry about. He never liked cars. His mother, you see, she..." The words tumbled around his muzzle and were sucked back down. The fox whirled about in his seat, staring back down the road to where Delaney Towers lay hidden.

"Sir? What is it?"

The words would not come out.

Kalyana stopped the car and reached over, one hand under the fox's jaw. He pulled Tyndale around to look into those wide, loving eyes. "Roger, what is it?"

"I had a terrible thought," the fox said barely louder than a whisper. "I couldn't think of a reason why anyone here would kill anyone, let alone someone as well liked as Mr. Wintermore. But what about Basil? An orphan who lost his mother to a reckless driver, a driver that was never found. What if Basil found the driver, and it was Harold Wintemore?"

Chapter 5

"I need you to look up a date for me," Tyndale said, partway into his meeting with the wolf sergeant. The police station was like much of Kentsworth, old. Tyndale would not have been surprised to learn that the building been standing since the 18th century. The officers and various other occupants over the years had brought in newer equipment and technology which stood out due to how poorly they fit in with their ancient surroundings.

"What date would that be?" The wolf looked far less stiff sitting behind a desk. His demeanor was softer, like a man sitting beside the hearth in his home.

"The death of Alice Thompson, Basil's mother."

"Why not ask him?"

"He might not tell the truth, especially if it's related to the death of Harold Wintermore."

"You think it might be?"

Tyndale shook his head. "I don't know for sure. I need the date for that." He told the sergeant what he could remember of Alice Thompson, where she died, and where Basil had lived in an orphanage. The sergeant called to the one constable in the place and told him he wanted to know the date and place of Alice Thompson's death immediately.

"Immediately?" the constable asked. He was clearly already busy.

The wolf sergeant nodded. "I don't want to keep Lord Alfordshire's considerable intellect waiting."

The fox gave a strained smile to the constable, who huffed once and then did as he was bade.

"Was that really necessary?" Tyndale asked as soon as the constable was out of earshot.

"A bit of fun," the sergeant said. "But you are providing an invaluable service to us, and I don't want you to feel like we are not providing the same service to you. By the way..." He turned around and picked up a glass from a nearby desk, the same glass that Mr. Ashbury had drunk from the night of the murder. "I ran this past the local doctor, who has better knowledge of drugs. He concurs it was veronal. He also said it was a rather large dose, even for someone of Mr. Ashbury's size."

"Could someone have tried to kill him with an overdose?"

The sergeant shook his head. "It was a large dose, but not that big. He admits this is an imprecise diagnosis, but he thinks someone intended Mr. Ashbury to be knocked out completely, even if he had built up a tolerance to the drug's effects."

Tyndale pulled out his notebook and rummaged through the pages. "He says he never takes veronal, although his wife does on occasion."

They continued on in the same manner for some time, the sergeant occasionally excusing himself to deal with various affairs.

"This is a tricky one," the sergeant said as they were finishing. "No clear motive, but no clear alibis either. I think you're right: the chairs are the key. The murderer was otherwise undetected and took a big risk doing something that noisy. Whatever they tried to hide, it was important."

The fox stood and reached out to shake the sergeant's hand. "I need to check something at the pub in town. Care to join me?"

"Sounds like a good idea."

* * *

The Blue Dragon was an anomaly in Kentsworth. It was seemingly the only building in town that had grown better with age. The interior, though a little dark, was filled with the rich scents of good cooking and even better drinking. So many spices littered the air that they seemed worked into the very wood that surrounded them.

"Can I help you?" an old, generously curved rat called as the well-dressed fox and the sergeant walked into her establishment.

"Police business," the sergeant said, stiff and formal once more. "Just need a few questions answered."

The rat waddled her way up to the pair. She smelled of lard, sage, and beer. "Out with it, then."

Tyndale coughed a little to draw the rat's attention to himself. "Do you know the groundskeeper at Delaney Towers?"

"Oh, Stuart! Yes, yes." Her face suddenly fell. "Is he all right?"

"Why wouldn't he be?"

"Well, he comes in here every Friday, right? Steak and kidney pie, and then beer until he can't even sit in a chair straight. Only this week he never showed."

The fox and wolf exchanged a worried glance and bolted for the door.

* * *

The sergeant did not waste time going back to the station for his own car, but instead rode with Kalyana and Tyndale, going as fast as they could to the groundskeeper's cottage, just down the road from Mrs. Goodbody's and Daniele's homes. They arrived to find a small place, probably containing not more than three or four rooms, but with a significant, well-tended garden all around it.

The sergeant hopped out of the car and ran for the door, Tyndale on his heels. On reaching the door, the sergeant banged it with his fist, shouting. "Stuart, are you in there? This is the police."

The fox and wolf turned their ears to the door but heard nothing. Kalyana leaned his head out of the window, his own ears turning this way and that.

The sergeant was about to lift his hand and knock again, when the door swung suddenly open, revealing a small mountain of black and white fur inside. Tyndale and the sergeant had both jumped at the motion, Tyndale's heart fluttering, but the badger inside looked calmly from wolf to fox and back again. "Is something the matter, officer?" he asked in one of the gentlest voices Tyndale could remember hearing.

The wolf adjusted himself. "You are Stuart?"

"Yes, sir."

"Groundskeeper at Delaney Towers?'

"Yes, sir, since my father passed on." The big badger again looked between the two canines standing outside his home. "What's wrong?"

"We were--ah, we were worried about you. I trust you heard what happened at the Towers Friday night?"

The badger nodded. "Mrs. Goodbody told me yesterday. I'm sorry to hear it. Mr. Wintermore was a good man. A good employer too."

"We came by because we were at the Blue Dragon and heard you hadn't made your usual visit. We were worried something had happened to you."

The badger offered a big, somewhat dopey smile. "I'm fine. Thank you, officer."

Tyndale spoke up. "And where were you the night of the murder?"

"Ah, well..." The big badger shuffled his feet and avoided looking at either fox or wolf. "I was," he began, and then reached up to brush his cheek as if wiping away an invisible tear, completing the end of his statement with extraordinary rapidity, "visiting-my-dad's-grave."

"You didn't tell anyone about that?"

The badger gave a slow shake of his head. "I get very... emotional about my father." He heaved a deep breath. "I don't want people to think less of me for crying, especially not Miss Wintermore."

"And let me guess, no one saw you. No one can attest that you were indeed visiting your father's grave."

The badger rolled his shoulders in a long shrug.

Tyndale half-turned to the sergeant and spoke under his breath. "Yet another person with no alibi but also no motive. This is growing intolerable." Then he spoke up again, louder, to Stuart. "Hold out your hand."

"What?"

"Just do it."

The badger did and Tyndale leaned in to sniff the hand. He then held it out to the sergeant, who did the same. No words passed between them. None had to. They both recognized the scent from the Wintermore study.

The sergeant straightened. "Stuart, when was the last time you were in Delaney Towers, on the second floor?"

Another slow roll of the badger's shoulders. "It's been years. Probably since I was a little boy. I normally only ever go into the kitchen. Miss Wintermore always has the cook leave something out for me."

"I see. Thank you, Stuart, I--"

And for the second time in as many days, a scream filled the air. "Oh, God! Help. Somebody please help!"

Stuart stared dumbfoundedly out his door. "That's Mrs. Goodbody."

"Come on," the sergeant said, already running down the lane. Tyndale and now Kalyana were close behind, with Stuart trundling along behind. Soon they saw Mrs. Goodbody. The old cook was in the middle of the lane, shouting and waving frantically. As soon as she saw everyone approach, she pointed to a nearby cottage.

"Dahlia," she shouted. "Help her. Oh please, help her!"

Tyndale found his feet moving even faster, charging into the small cottage following behind the sergeant. He saw the little maid sprawled out on the floor, her entire body convulsing and shivering. Tyndale recognized the signs of strychnine poisoning.

"We need to get her to a doctor," the sergeant said. "You two, with me. Hurry."

Tyndale had thought at first that he was included in that, but the sergeant had meant Kalyana and Stuart. The big tiger and badger were able to lift the twitching maid between them as if she weighed no more than a feather, and then all of them were out the door, running back to the car. Tyndale, feelng dazed, stumbled out of the house and to the road, standing beside Mrs. Goodbody. He wrapped one arm around her shoulders to console her, but beyond that, he could do nothing but watch as Daniele was driven away and pray that she would survive. He hadn't known. He hadn't figured it out quickly enough. And now the hedgehog was paying the price.

He had never felt so useless before.

Chapter 6

Tyndale stood with Mrs. Goodbody in the middle of the road until the car was long out of sight and the sound of its engine had disappeared in the noise of the wind fluttering through the trees. Tyndale kept one arm wrapped around the older fox's shoulders and slowly he turned her around and walked into her house with her, staying always at her side. The cook made a cup of tea, hands shaking a little as she did so, and she seemed possessed of the urge to clean her tea cup once, twice, thrice, in case any poison lay lurking inside.

She had barely started drinking when Kalyana pulled the car by the front door. He was alone in the car. Tyndale and Mrs. Goodbody went with him to Delaney Towers, explaining what had happened to the occupants. Dahlia insisted on coming back to the doctor. She sat with Mrs. Goodbody in the back, hand in hand. The stoat was soothing, consoling the terrified old vixen, stemming the cascade of tears that threatened to burst from her at any moment. Tyndale had no one who could comfort him. He wished he could hold onto Kalyana's hand, but no, he had to keep a stiff upper lip and all that rot.

The doctor's house was a rather large thing. The two foxes, stoat, and tiger were escorted by the doctor's wife into a large living room adjacent to the office itself. Stuart was already there, staring dumbly at the floor.

"The sergeant?" Tyndale asked, his voice sounding weak.

"Back at the station," Stuart said. He looked up and gave a big smile as he saw Dahlia, smoothing the cushion on the couch next to him so she could sit there. She did. Mrs. Goodbody sat alongside her, while Kalyana and Tyndale remained standing. It was in the valet's nature to always be ready at a moment's notice and so he stood; but Tyndale was just anxious. He didn't want to rest.

The clock on the wall ticked away almost half an hour before the doctor came out of the office. He was a wizened old wildcat, with a pair of glasses perched on his short muzzle. He cast one glance around the room, at all the worried faces, and said, "She's stable."

The wave of relief was palpable.

"It was strychnine, though, wasn't it?" Tyndale asked.

The doctor lifted his nose so he could better see Tyndale through his glasses. "You must be that Lord Alfordshire the sergeant mentioned. I'll tell you short: I have no time for pompous nobility when I'm working to save the life of a patient."

"And I have no time for pompous doctors when I'm working to find a murderer. Besides, I've earned my pomposity. Have you?"

The doctor's tail twitched. He sighed and rolled his head as if his neck bothered him. "Yes, it was strychnine, but not a lethal dose. The tremors are not serious. I can give her some anticonvulsants. The pain I can treat with morphine. My biggest concern is whether she can keep any food or water down. Either I or my nurse should stay with her at all times for the next two days at the very least. She should make a full recovery though."

"She'll stay under lock and key, I hope."

"Of course, I don't want anyone to try and finish what they've started."

Stuart's mouth hung wide. "You think someone tried to kill Daniele?"

The doctor scoffed. "It was strychnine. One doesn't take that by accident, boy."

"But it wasn't enough to kill her," Tyndale pointed out.

"No," the doctor said. He sat down and pulled out a pipe, mouthing the tip of it even though it wasn't lit. "I'd say it was far from a lethal dose."

"Do you think the veronal was also intended to kill?"

The doctor's eyes flicked back and forth under his glasses in time with the ticking of the clock on the wall. A full minute passed before he responded. "No, I don't believe so. These are the sorts of mistakes I've seen younger doctors or chemists make. Besides if someone had attempted to kill with an overdose of veronal, I don't think they'd make the same mistake twice."

"And unlikely to make either mistake another time."

The doctor pulled the end of his pipe from his lips and nodded gravely.

"Mrs. Goodbody, have you any idea where or how she might have got strychnine into her system?"

The old vixen, who still clutched onto Dahlia's hand, looked up and nodded. "Her bread. She always bakes bread on Sundays. Gets it set to rise before church, forms it into rolls after, then comes back in the evening in time to heat them before dinner. I...I saw one of the rolls on her plate. It was already mostly eaten."

Tyndale started to pace back and forth in the room. Despite its reasonable size, it was already crowded from the number of guests inside, and the fox's pacing only made it feel moreso. "But why would anyone target her? Stuart, Mrs. Goodbody, do either of you remember her saying anything, as if she knew something about the murder of Mr. Wintermore that she hadn't told me yet?"

Both vixen and badger shook their heads.

"Then why? What connects her and Harold?"

"You're missing an obvious motive," the doctor said. He tapped his pipe on his palm and looked over the rim of his glasses at the fox. "Sewing chaos."

* * *

"Was there anyone, anyone at all, whose whereabouts are known for the entire day?" Tyndale was almost bellowing. He was pacing again, this time in the sitting room of Delaney Towers, this time with all the suspects--save Daniele--arrayed around him. "No one?"

Everyone in the room exchanged glances. No one seemed to want to be the first to talk.

Eventually Dahlia leaned slightly in and said. "Everyone was at church."

"Most everyone, yes," Tyndale said and then his finger pointed to Mrs. Goodbody and Stuart. "But they weren't. What about after church? I had lunch with Garvan."

Mrs. Goodbody piped up. "After Daniele got back from her house, we set right to work on serving lunch. Everyone else had come into the dining room."

"Except Stuart, of course."

"Yes, except him."

"And then after lunch. Where did everyone go?"

Dahlia was the first to speak up. "I was in my room studying. You interrupted me, if you'll recall."

Tyndale nodded and looked to Garvan, who sat next to his niece.

"I took a nap."

Mr. Ashbury spoke up next. "My wife and I were playing cards."

Tyndale's ears picked up. "All afternoon?"

"Yes," he said and he held onto his wife's hand possessively. "She never left, and neither did I."

Mrs. Goodbody next. "I was in the kitchen. Daniele stopped by occasionally."

"And you?" Tyndale turned his attention to the last person in the room, Basil.

"Me?" The rabbit shrugged. "I went out for some errands not long after you left. I took my bike. I visited the post office first as there was a lot to be mailed out, and then I stopped by the butcher as Mrs. Goodbody wanted me to get some meat."

"Is that so?"

"Yes," he said, a little stunned at the suggestion that he was lying. "Of course. You can ask Mrs. Goodbody if you don't believe me."

The fox looked to the old vixen out of the corner of his eye. She nodded. "So, with that, we have no one save for the Ashburys whose whereabouts were known all day. Any one of the rest of you could have snuck out of the house, poisoned Daniele's bread, and made it back without being detected. Can we at least say who had access to strychnine?"

"Anyone, sir," Stuart said. The big badger pointed out the door. "We keep some in the house for pests."

"Really? You just keep a deadly poison lying around where anyone could pick it up and use it?"

"Hey!" Dahlia got to her feet. "Leave him alone. He's telling you the truth. I bet you have strychnine somewhere in your home too."

Any words that Tyndale had intended to respond with were interrupted by a knock at the door. Melody was there, with the constable beside her. The constable looked around a little nervous, but then held out a slip of paper. "You said you wanted a date and a place, sir. August tenth--"

"Sh!" Tyndale tried to stop him, but the date had already been spoken aloud. He saw confusion on most faces, but a look of shock on the rabbit's face. He knew that date.

"Don't let anyone leave the room," Tyndale said. "I need to check something."

"No one, sir?" the constable asked.

"My wife can. No one else. Not for any reason."

"Yes, sir." The constable was clearly uncomfortable with the order, but Tyndale didn't care about his comfort. He had to catch a murderer, and now he finally had a clue as to who it might be.

Tyndale snatched the slip of paper from the constable and walked to Basil's office, straight to the massive stack of cabinets on the wall. All the files for Harold were easily marked, and Tyndale had no trouble pulling out a large folder for August. Inside, the folder began with receipts, notarized letters, hand-written reminders from Harold to himself, all dated August first, all referencing Kentsworth. Mr. Wintermore was here that day.

Tyndale glanced at the sheet the constable had given him. Alice Thompson, Basil's mother, had died just outside of Dover on the 10th.

Turning back to the folder, he started flicking forward through the jumble of papers. August second, then August third. A notice written in Harold's hand about his upcoming trip. Tyndale flicked faster. Fourth, fifth, sixth. He was going to head east. Seventh, eighth.

A plane ticket fell out of the sheaf of papers. August ninth. London to Oslo.

Tyndale picked it up, flipped it over under his claws. He tested the bend of the paper to make sure it was real. Then, hurriedly, he checked the next few days. Everything until the 16th was marked from Oslo.

Harold Wintermore couldn't have killed Basil's mother. He wasn't even in the country when she died.

Tyndale gasped. A breath he hadn't even known he was holding escaped out of him in a rush. His heart was hammering in his chest. His eyes stung from tears. All the tension drained from him. He had been so sure, and now his certainty had fallen and shattered on the ground. With muscles that felt like lead, he pulled the papers back into the folder, tucked the entire bundle under his arm, and walked slowly back down the hall. The constable held the door open to admit him, and inside, everyone looked impatiently at the fox.

Tyndale turned to his old friend and held out the folder. "I'm sorry I doubted you," he said, his voice quiet.

Basil only gave a small nod and accepted the folder.

As Tyndale turned to go, he heard the rabbit say, "You were just doing what you had to do... right?"

But the fox did not answer.

* * *

"You weren't at dinner," Melody said as she came to the bedroom that evening.

Tyndale was sprawled out in an armchair, muzzle resting on his interlaced fingers, as he stared out into the growing darkness. "I wasn't hungry," he said. "I was thinking."

The deer sat down on the edge of the bed. "Should I send for Kalyana and give you two some room?"

Tyndale tore his gaze away from the night and glared at his wife. "That's not fair."

She smiled. "Roger, you don't love me any more than I love you. You love him. You want him."

Tyndale shook his head, his ears down. "Not now, I don't."

"I know." She came over and stood next to his chair, petting over his head. "You don't drop your act, even when you're with him. You only want him to see you at your best: happy, loving, witty, the smartest man in existence with eyes only for him. You want him to feel lucky to know you, but you don't trust him with the real you."

Tyndale looked away, back out the window. His tail thumped anxiously on the set beside him. "I trust you, Melody. I know I don't love you, not in the way you deserve, but I want you to know that your companionship has been..." He searched for the right word. "It has been invaluable to me."

She leaned in and planted a small kiss just at the base of one of his ears. "So tell me the things you can't tell anyone else, Roger. Tell me before you burst."

For a long time, Tyndale said nothing, and at last he confessed. "I hated him. For a moment there, I was sure Basil had done it, that he had killed Mr. Wintermore and that he had nearly killed Dahlia, and I hated him." His head fell forward and he held it in his hands. "But I didn't hate him because I thought he had done those things, but because I thought he was laughing at me, mocking my inability to figure it out."

Melody stood and patted his shoulder. "Come to bed."

He looked up at her. "Aren't you going to say something? Give some advice?"

She shrugged and started working her way out of her clothes. "You are trying to do a good thing and angry with yourself that you aren't doing it for a good reason. It all sounds perfectly natural to me." She pulled her earrings out and gave her ears a flick. "But if it's advice you want, then open up. Trust others. At least Kalyana. You owe him that much."

Chapter 7

The next day, Tyndale got out a cane and went poking through the bushes outside Delaney Towers, beneath the window to the second-floor study. He tapped the leaves, lifted flowers out of the way, poked at rocks in the mud, and spent the entire time frustrated.

"What are you doing?" Dahlia asked with a giggle. The young stoat was crossing the lawn towards him, wearing a white dress and wide-brimmed white hat that seemed out of place with her dark brown summer fur.

"I'm searching for signs of a ladder."

"You look like you're doing your best not to get dirty."

Tyndale smirked and flicked the tip of his cane in her direction, a touch of dirt went sailing off of it but landed far away from her. "Careful, or you'll ruin that pretty dress of yours out here with me."

She laughed and patted down the edges of her dress to make sure nothing had gotten onto them. "I thought that there weren't any signs of a ladder. You marked that off as a possibility on the first day."

"I also thought that Stuart was in a pub at the time of the murder. That, however, has been proven wrong." Tyndale tapped the tip of his cane against a rock. "So I'm seeing if something was missed."

Dahlia frowned. "Should you really be telling me all this? What if I'm the murderer and you're telling me all your thoughts?"

Tyndale stood up straight, putting just a little weight on his cane. "I see why you worry. What if someone tries to off me as they did with Daniele?"

"The closer you get, the more danger you might be in," she pointed out.

"Possibly yes. However, I'm the most difficult person in this house to kill. I'm watchful of attempts on my life and my valet doubles as a bodyguard." He smiled and twirled his cane for a moment. "Therefore, the murderer doubtless thinks it is easier to mislead me than to kill me. This could be their undoing, as if I hide just a little of what I know, I might be able to see through their attempts to mislead me."

The stoat's small ears flitted skeptically. "Do you really think that would work?"

"Why not? It worked on you." The fox grinned. "You see, I suspected that there was more to this lover of yours than you let on and that something, somewhere in this house would give a hint as to their identity. Lo and behold, when I walked past your room this morning, I noticed that the stack of diaries on your bed-stand was one short. Did you need extra fuel for your fire last night?"

Dahlia hung her head. "That was stupid of me."

"No, it was very sad. There were doubtless many other happy memories in there as well, but you couldn't risk the chance that I might learn who they are. You must love them very much to give that up."

Dahlia hung even lower. She seemed to curl up around her own chest. Tyndale reached out and patted her shoulder as she sniffed once.

"Ho, there!" It was Basil shouting. He and Mrs. Ashbury were walking up, arm in arm.

Dahlia lurched upright and pulled out a handkerchief to dab at the corner of her eyes. "Hello," she called, with a forced sweetness in her voice.

"Hello," Basil called back. "We thought that it was such a nice day that we should take a walk into town. We can stop by the doctor and see if we can cheer Daniele up."

"That sounds lovely," Dahlia said.

"What about you, Roger?"

The fox gave a polite shake of his head. "I have work to do."

"No rest for the wicked," Mrs. Ashbury said with a giggle. Then her face fell. "Oh no."

From across the lawn, everyone saw Mr. Ashbury approach, his shoulders hunched, his nostrils flared. The big elk's antlers were swaying almost violently.

Mrs. Ashbury and Basil quickly unlocked their arms, but it did nothing to slow the elk's advance. He came straight up to Basil, ignoring everyone else around, and picked the rabbit up by his tie. He jerked up so hard that Basil was forced onto his tiptoes. "You stay away from my wife, you stupid pencil pusher," the elk growled.

As quickly as Mr. Ashbury had lifted Basil from the ground, he dropped him and shoved at the rabbit's chest so hard that he fell backwards and cracked his head against the ground.

"Ronald, no," Mrs. Ashbury shouted.

Mr. Ashbury ignored her plea and grabbed her arm forcefully. "Come on. Let's go play cards." He dragged his wife along behind him, pausing only to snarl out once more to Basil. "Come near my wife again and I'll kill you."

Dahlia dropped to her knees beside the wincing rabbit as the Ashburys disappeared around the corner of the house. Basil tried to pick himself up but groaned. "Ah, what the fuck was that?" he asked.

"That was something very, very interesting," Tyndale said.

Dahlia lifted a hand from where it had been resting on Basil's head. She gasped. "You're bleeding."

Tyndale knelt down beside Basil, inspecting to see if the wound was serious.

"I'm fine. I'm fine," the rabbit said angrily. "Just a bump on the head."

"Let me get you inside," Dahlia said. "I want to make sure you don't get an infection."

Together, fox and stoat helped Basil to stand. He wobbled a little. "I think I'd like a stiff drink too," he said.

"We can do that. Let's just get you inside."

Tyndale's ears swept around as he heard the window to the second floor study unlatching. "Will you be good without me? I have work to do."

Dahlia nodded and hobbled off with Basil. Tyndale could hear him groaning weakly and also trying to make an occasional joke under his breath. Good. That meant he wasn't too injured.

Tyndale looked up to the window. Kalyana and Melody were there looking back down. "It looks like we missed something exciting," she said.

Tyndale nodded. "Melody, please take a seat in the chair. Kalyana stand behind her." He walked out far enough from Delaney Towers that he could see them in the room with them arranged as he directed. With his good ears he could still hear them clearly. "Now Melody, how far do you have to move before you can see Kalyana there?"

The deer shifted in her seat, turning this way and that. She was a good size analogue for Harold Wintermore, and he noted with a smile that she had to lean almost completely over the arm of the chair before she signaled that she saw him.

"Kalyana, move in as if to strangle her from behind. Melody, signal when you can see him."

Again they acted on his command. Kalyana already had his hands almost over her head before she saw him. It would have been easy, with the plush-back chair, to sneak up behind Mr. Wintermore quickly enough to kill him before he could shout for help.

"Thank you. Looking down, can you see the bushes or only the lawn?"

Her head dropped down. She then leaned forward until her head was almost extending out of the window. "I can't see the bushes until I'm here," she said.

"What about the door? Kalyana, walk in and out. Can you see the movement?"

"Easily," she said a moment later. She then held up a hand just against her head. "But it doesn't take much to block my vision of the door."

But what could block his vision, he wondered. "Kalyana, is there still a telescope on the table?"

The tiger nodded and held up the small handheld device. Melody took it from him and held it up to the eye closest to the door, aiming it out to the horizon as if looking at something in the distance. Kalyana disappeared from Tyndale's view; he assumed the tiger was walking in and out of the room again. "That's it," Melody said. "I couldn't see him at all."

Tyndale lifted his cane and pointed out above him. "Can you see anything specific out there? Anything of interest?"

Melody lifted the telescope to her eye, focusing out on the horizon. Tyndale smiled as she seemed to concentrate even harder than before. He quietly signaled Kalyana, who got the idea, crept up behind Melody, and was able to have his hands at her neck before she ever noticed. Of course, when she did, she nearly leapt out of the chair and the tiger had to offer several apologies.

"Anything?" Tyndale called, after composing his face to not be smiling too much at his wife's misfortune.

"I could see a hill. One with a proper telescope on it. Not a toy like this."

Tyndale nodded. That was where Dahlia supposedly went after she stormed out of the house the night of the murder.

"But this isn't right," she said. She held the little telescope aloft. "If I was so focused through this, Kalyana could sneak all the way in from the door to me without me ever knowing. It wouldn't have mattered which chair I was in. The murderer would have had no reason to swap them. We're looking at this wrong." She pondered a moment and then handed the telescope to Kalyana, saying something to him that even Tyndale's ears weren't equipped to hear from as far away as he was.

The tiger moved behind the chair and looked through the telescope. A moment later he nodded.

Melody smirked down at her husband. "He can see the hill clearly and I couldn't see him. Not in this chair."

So perhaps someone in the room saw something, and wanted to make it appear as though Mr. Wintermore knew of it as well. But who or what, Tyndale had no idea.

* * *

The normal clinking and clattering of silverware at breakfast the following morning was interrupted by Melody's soft voice. "Oh, Patricia."

Mrs. Ashbury looked up, as did everyone else a moment later. Of the usual household occupants, only Garvan and Dahlia weren't there: Garvan because he was still in bed, and Dahlia because she was still at the doctor's.

The deer leaned forward, a conspiratorial smile on her face. "I was thinking. We've all been so busy with dealing with the investigation, that we haven't had a chance to give you a taste of what British nobility can be like. What do you say the two of us go out for the day? I can show you what the countryside looks like in the company of a duchess."

The elk touched her lips in mild surprise. "Oh, that would be lovely. What do you think, Ronald?"

Her husband poked at his breakfast, grunted, and gave a nod.

"Wonderful," Melody said. "We can leave after breakfast."

Tyndale hid his own smile by taking a very long drink of water.

* * *

Tyndale sat in a small café on the far side of Kentsworth. It was a nice place, he decided. They made good tea and they knew to leave you alone when you wished to be alone.

The bell over the door rang and Tyndale looked up with a smile to see his wife and Mrs. Ashbury enter, talking excitedly. Then Mrs. Ashbury saw Tyndale, and her face fell.

Tyndale stood and beckoned for the pair to join him at his table, which they did, if a bit reluctantly on Mrs. Ashbury's part.

"I suppose it was too much to hope that this trip was out of the goodness of your heart," Mrs. Ashbury said.

"Don't mistake my wife's intentions. She'd mentioned this idea the other day and I had simply thought to piggyback on it to ask you a few questions."

"You could have asked me at the house."

Tyndale chuckled. "I don't think your husband would allow me to be alone in a room with you. Not anymore"

"True," the elk mused. She folded her hands in her lap, clearly unhappy.

Tyndale sipped his tea and allowed a moment of silence. "Your husband thinks you are having an affair."

"Yes."

"You are having an affair, aren't you, Mrs. Ashbury?"

"Yes."

"Who with?"

The elk looked up, frightened, into the eyes of Melody.

"You can tell him," the deer soothed. "He won't tell anyone else."

Mrs. Ashbury looked down at her lap, shivered once, and then said very quietly. "Harold Wintermore."

Tyndale nearly dropped is teacup. "What?"

"It's true," she sighed. "There are always donors who become much more amenable after you hold their hand for a bit or give a kiss to their cheek. They like having a beautiful woman around. With Mr. Wintermore... it just got rather carried away."

Tyndale carefully set his teacup down and steepled his fingers. "Mrs. Ashbury, you had an affair with a man who was murdered. Don't you think that would have been important for me to know?"

"Why would I have killed him, Mr. Tyndale? We needed the money and he hadn't given us any yet."

"You might have killed him to stop him from revealing your tryst."

"But I didn't care. My only worry has been what Ronald might do if--" Her voice faltered as she realized what she was saying.

"Yes, your husband does seem to have a very good reason to want Mr. Wintermore dead."

"But he never knew! He thought it was Basil."

"And he might have thought it was Mr. Wintermore before that."

Mrs. Ashbury realized her voice had been growing louder. Other patrons were starting to notice, so she dropped it back low again. "But I told you, he never left the room that night."

"It would be so easy for you to have lied to protect him."

Mrs. Ashbury went altogether silent for a moment, staring at the table in front of her. "I did it," she said at last.

"Did what?"

"I put the veronal in his glass." She looked back up at the fox. "I was worried that something like this might happen, so I've been drugging his drink for days. He's already been a little violent, a little overprotective of me, and I was worried that if he got a little too much liquid courage in him, he might... you know. So I excused myself just before he went out for his nightcap, I turned the faucet on so he'd think I was washing up, and then I crept down the hall to add a touch of veronal to his glass.

"He couldn't have done it, Mr. Tyndale, because I made sure he couldn't."

Tyndale gave a mute nod, his mind buzzing with all this new information. "Thank you for your honesty," he said. He looked up at his wife and then to Mrs. Ashbury. "But let us return to happier things. You wanted a taste of the English life, so let's teach you the proper way to have a cup of tea."

* * *

Tyndale walked slowly back to Delaney Towers. He kept his gaze low and his hand was constantly rubbing the fur of his chin as he thought. When he stepped into the home, he noticed a great deal of frantic activity and shouting. When Dahlia saw him, she called out, "Oh thank goodness you're here. Basil's been shot."

Chapter 8

"Bloodied up twice in two days," Basil moaned. "I don't know how much more of this I can take." The rabbit was sprawled out over a sofa, his shirt sleeve rolled away to reveal an arm covered in a wrap of bloody gauze. "The bullet only grazed you," Dahlia chastised. "You're lucky." "It hurts like hell, though. Like a paper cut but a hundred times the size, and worse still because of whatever that ointment you put on it." "It will help the wound heal. It's good for you." "Roger, if I don't survive this, let it be known that my last words were 'Ow!'" Tyndale smiled weakly. "You're in good spirits, considering." "That's because I got some good spirits in me." He leaned forward and whispered in a voice loud enough to be heard across the hall. "Whiskey, technically speaking." Tyndale looked to the stoat, all business. "What happened?" Dahlia sighed and shrugged. "I wish I could say for sure. I was inside when it happened. There was a gunshot--" "From the forest," Basil added with a touch of a slur in his voice. "Yes, Basil, from the forest. I looked out the window and saw Basil out on a bench, keeling over." "I thought I'd really been shot. I mean, through the shoulder or something. I was on the ground before I realized the world wasn't going black and the pain wasn't spreading." He sighed, his mood swinging into melancholy as he pointed to a coat that was draped over the nearby chair. "Ruined my good jacket, though." Tyndale picked up the jacket. Sure enough, there was a pair of neat, clean holes through the shoulder. "Any idea who it might have been?" "It came from too deep into the woods for me to see who it was. That and I was distracted by--Owch!" The rabbit jumped a little as Dahlia readjusted the gauze. "By the pain." "What about Mr. Ashbury?" "I'm leaving!" Tyndale's head snapped up at the booming voice. Mr. Ashbury stood in the doorway. "Leaving?" "As soon as my wife gets back, we are leaving for London. We will take the first plane back to the states before either of us ends up dead." Tyndale rose from his seat, adjusting the hem of his vest. "Mr. Ashbury, I am conducting a murder investigation. I cannot allow you to leave until it is finished." "You can't hold me here. I have my rights." "Indeed. Nonetheless, I will have you detained, by force if necessary, as you are a suspect in both the murder of Harold Wintermore and now the attempted murder of Basil Thompson." "Oh no. No, no, no," the rabbit said. "It couldn't have been him. I saw him across the lawn just before the shot." He pointed a finger unsteadily out in the direction of the forest. "I showed him the direction I heard the shot come from and he ran off, but he didn't find anyone." "Is that true?" "It is," the elk said with a nod. "Now do I have your almighty permission to leave?" "No. You are still a suspect for the other event I mentioned." "I was drugged!" "Perhaps. Perhaps. But for all we know, your wife was the murderer." The elk stamped a hoof on the ground, making the whole house seem to shake. "I have no intention of waiting around listening to your cockamamie theories while some nut tries to pick us off one by one. Are you any closer to discovering who it is?" "Yes," Tyndale lied. He had certainly learned a lot more, but he still had no idea who was responsible. He still had not idea what the motive was. "But after this attack, and the attack on Daniele the other day, I agree we should take this more seriously more quickly. Dahlia, can you call the station and ask the sergeant to come at his earliest convenience tomorrow morning?" "Of course," she stood up to go. "But, before you do that, what can the three of you tell me about who else was around here, about who else might have fired the shot?" Dahlia started counting on her fingers. "Uncle Garvan, Mrs. Goodbody, and Stuart. And before you ask, I already checked with all of them, they were all alone at the time the shot was fired, so any of them could have been responsible. That includes myself." "Thank you for your honesty," Tyndale said. "Look on the bright side, Roger." Basil grinned, his head at an awkward angle and his eyes not quite focusing on Tyndale. "At least this time there are some people you know couldn't have done it."

* * *

The next morning, just after breakfast, everyone gathered in the sitting room, even Stuart and Mrs. Goodbody. Only Tyndale, Melody, Kalyana, and the wolf sergeant were standing. "Everyone, today we will be conducting a thorough search of the house. This includes all personal possessions." "Now see here," Mr. Ashbury thundered. "Of course, if you wish to opt out, you may, but this will only increase suspicion that you are the guilty party." Mr. Ashbury grumbled. "Fucking Brits." "Now." Tyndale clapped his hands together. "Since you have all volunteered to have your belongings searched. We will begin immediately. I must ask that none of you leave the room. Mrs. Goodbody, that includes you. If necessary, we will have Kalyana prepare lunch." The normally quiet valet smiled and simply said, "Don't worry. I'm told I make excellent sandwiches." Mrs. Goodbody groaned as if someone had stuck a knife into her.

* * *

Outside the sitting room, Tyndale instructed his crew of three on how to conduct the search. They would each take individual rooms and inspect absolutely everything. Every box would be opened, every article of clothing would be patted down. Every mote of dust would be scrutinized. Tyndale was to be notified the instant anything came up. Anything suspicious should be touched with something that would not smear fingerprints or disturb scents. Tyndale himself went to Dahlia's room and began going through her diaries. As he saw earlier, one of them was missing. By the dates of the remaining diaries, it seemed that the missing one spanned a time from four years before that day to about one year before that day. Tyndale could not help but smile as he flipped through some of the earlier diaries, ones from when Dahlia was a young girl, where the pages were full of childhood scribbles of stars, the moon, and constellations. Tyndale checked the fireplace, but if there was any residue of the missing diary, he could not see it. He started scouring through her bookshelves, checking each book for secret compartments or lover's letters stuffed between the pages. He searched her clothes drawers as delicately as he could manage. And once that was done, he got on his hands and knees, searching for any loose floorboards that would hide a secret compartment. There, at last, he found something. Not a loose floorboard, but a sheet of paper, scrunched into a ball, wedged behind the leg of a chair. It seemed to have missed the wastepaper basket and rolled out of the way. Tyndale carefully unrolled the sheet of paper, read a few lines, and grinned. "Sir." The wolf sergeant stood in the doorway. "I found something. Two somethings, in fact." "What?" "First, a bottle of veronal in Mrs. Ashbury's toiletries. A rather large one. And the prints have been wiped off of it." "Interesting. And the other?" The sergeant held up something that was wrapped in a handkerchief. He peeled back the folds of the handkerchief to reveal a gun. "I think we found the weapon that Mr. Thompson was shot with. Prints have been wiped off and any scent residues have been obscured." "Where was it?" "In Mrs. Ashbury's luggage."

* * *

"Mrs. Ashbury, would you care to explain this?" The handkerchief was again unfolded to reveal the pistol, this time in the sitting room with everyone watching. "This was found among your possessions. Is it yours?" The elk stared at the gun. "No. I've never seen it before." The rabbit came around behind the elk as she blustered. He adjusted his glasses, blinked a few times, then said in a quiet voice. "That's mine," he said. "I recognize the handle." "Yours?" Tyndale said, incredulously. "You have a gun?" "Well, yes. I thought there might come a time when it was useful. Given what happened to Mr. Wintermore, I think that was a good decision." "Then how did your gun come to be in Mrs. Ashbury's luggage? And why was it missing one bullet, presumably fired at yourself?" The rabbit shrugged, nervous. "I have no idea. I saw it yesterday morning, I'm sure of it, but after the shot I don't think I checked for it again. I don't think anyone even knew I owned a gun, except..." "Except who?" Tyndale pressed. Basil slowly turned and pointed to the elderly stoat in the far corner of the room. "Except Garvan." The stoat, who had been paying little attention to the proceedings thus far, perked his ears at the mention of his name. "What? No. No, I've never seen that before in my life." "You were drunk at the time, and it was late. I wasn't even sure if you'd remember." The stoat shook his head fervently. "I didn't. I don't. Never seen it before in my life," he repeated. Mrs. Ashbury gasped. "He wasn't at breakfast yesterday. He didn't know I'd be gone." "And he's a drunk," her husband added. "That explains why the shot missed." The stoat got to his feet. His hands were shaking uncontrollably. "I didn't do it! I swear I didn't!" The wolf sergeant turned to Garvan, the gun still in his upheld hands. "And what were you doing at the time the shot was fired, Mr. Wintermore?" "I... I don't remember." "This is all mighty circumstantial," Tyndale muttered. Basil nodded in agreement. "Let's not jump to any conclusions. Everyone knew Garvan wasn't at breakfast. Anyone could have placed the gun there to implicate him. After all, if he was too drunk to remember I even had a gun, he'd be too drunk to remember if he told anyone else about it too." "Was this before the Ashburys arrived?" Basil tilted his head in thought. "Yes, but only by a few days." "I didn't do anything," the old stoat continued protesting. "I swear I didn't." Basil, finally fed up, rounded on Garvan angrily. "And how would you know? I know you, Garvan. I've seen you forget things that happened the same day because you were so sloshed. And you always keep telling me that you drink to forget. Well, congratulations, your forgetting may have put my life in danger." Dahlia stood up, right between Basil and her uncle. "That's enough." The two glared at each other angrily for a moment, until Basil had to look away. "Yeah," he said. "Sorry. I'm just a bit jumpy." The tension in the air began to drain away and everyone took their seats once more. Basil only made one last request to have his gun returned, which the sergeant said he would as soon as Basil showed him proof of ownership. "And that brings us to one last item of interest," Tyndale said. He pulled the balled up sheet of paper from his pocket and began to smooth it out. He caught a glimpse of Dahlia's eyes widening a little. "Everyone remembers the dinnertime conversation on the night of the murder. Dahlia's mysterious lover, whom no one at the table, save for Dahlia and Mr. Wintermore, knew the identity of. And then we also have reports that later that evening, Dahlia, after having an argument with her father, stormed out of the house to her favorite stargazing hill." "Yes, yes," Mr. Ashbury said. "So what is that piece of paper?" "A love letter. A very beautiful one too, might I add. 'I want to watch the stars twinkle in the reflection of your eyes.' It's not just a love letter, though. It's an invitation. She did not storm out of the house in anger: she was going to meet her lover on that hill." The sergeant's eyebrows arched. "She has an alibi." "Perhaps," Tyndale said. "But perhaps again this was written after the fact, and left for me to find. It would depend on her lover to confirm. Her lover, whose whereabouts were also strangely unknown that night. So what do you say?" Tyndale folded the paper over so the top of the page was clearly visible to everyone in the room. Everyone could see that it clearly read, "To my darling, Stuart." People leaned in to read the words and then as one turned to look at the badger. "Yes, sir," the big badger said slowly. "It's true." "No!" Dahlia was on her feet. "It's a lie. It's a forgery." Tyndale sighed and rubbed his forehead. "Dahlia, it's all right. You don't have to--" "Don't you dare presume to know me, you pompous prat. You would never understand." She ran for the door. Kalyana moved to intercept her, but she shoved him off, screaming, "Get out of my way!" Stunned, Kalyana let himself be pushed aside, as they all watched Dahlia flee the room in tears. The sergeant shook his head. "What the devil?"

* * *

"It's hers," Melody said. It was late into the evening, and she and her husband were in their bedroom. Before her were spread Dahlia's letter, one of her diaries, and a magnifying glass. "Her penmanship is very stylistic. The i's and l's especially are distinctive, and they are a perfect match between the diary and the letter. If it's a forgery, as she claims, then whoever did it is an expert." Tyndale grunted in acknowledgment while rubbing at his chest. Dahlia had disappeared into her own bedroom after the event with the letter. When Tyndale had asked for a diary, she had opened her door just long enough for her to fling the book at the fox hard enough to knock the wind out of him. "I don't understand," he said. "If it's hers, and it almost certainly is, then why deny it so forcefully? If it's not hers, why fake it?" He held his chin in his hand, gnawing unconsciously on the tip of a claw. "Nothing has made any sense in this case, and this least of all. I don't understand any of it." He felt the arms of his wife wrap gently around him from behind. "Talk it through, Roger. Talk to me." He reached up and stroked along her forearm. "It's like a riddle, a jumble of words strung together that don't seem to make any sense, because everything is assumed to be literal, when instead there is another interpretation--a metaphorical interpretation--that makes it all clear. I have so many facts, but they don't make any sense when I string them together. I'm looking at them all too literally. There must be something I'm misinterpreting, something I'm not seeing from the right perspective." "Go through them all," she encouraged. "One at a time." "The strychnine in Dahlia's bread," he said aloud, and then thought to himself the myriad possibilities and explanations: did she do it to herself? Did someone else? Who would have known that she baked bread? Was it intended for her all along or another person? Was it an accident? A hundred questions were considered in the blink of an eye, but nothing new. "The veronal in Mr. Ashbury's glass," he said, and again a hundred questions flew through his mind. But again, nothing new, nothing he hadn't already considered. "Dahlia's letter," he continued. "The shot at Basil. Stuart missing from the pub. Mrs. Ashbury's affair. Something burned in the fireplace. The... The..." "What is it?" "The chairs." Tyndale sprang to his feet, popping out of his wife's arms. He started to pace. "Of course, the chairs. In a murder that was otherwise silent and undetected, why go through all the trouble to move the chairs? It's loud. It's noisy. It has to be heard. So the murderer must have needed to hide something, something terribly important." Tyndale stopped, mid-stride, one foot hovering precariously in midair. "And now I know what. I know who killed him."

Chapter 9

"Do you remember what I told you, when I agreed to take on this investigation?" Dahlia nodded. She and Tyndale were alone in the second-floor study. It was just before breakfast. "You said there was a price to pay." "Indeed. It is time to collect." Dahlia looked up at him. She was seated in the wood-back chair at the window, turned now to face the middle of the room. "So you know who did it then?" "Yes." "Who?" He smiled. "All in good time, my dear Dahlia. There are some other things that must be considered first." He leaned against the edge of the desk. "To begin with, I had a most enlightening conversation with Mrs. Ashbury the other day. I had long suspected from her husband's behavior that she had been having an affair. And after he accosted Basil, I was able to have her admit it." The stoat rolled her eyes. "That explains why he's been acting so strange. Did she tell you who she was having an affair with?" "Indeed. She said your father." Dahlia could not help but laugh. "What? Really?" "Oh yes, I could hardly believe it myself. But then she realized that she had given her husband a perfectly good motive for wanting Mr. Wintermore dead, so she confessed to being the one to put veronal into her husband's drink." "That's one mystery solved, at least." "Yes," he said and tapped a claw on the desk. "Only not at all. You see, she said that she disguised her trip to drug her husband's drink by turning the faucet on in the restroom. But I remember what Basil told me about the night of the murder. He said it was silent, so silent in fact that he was surprised when he heard Mr. Ashbury moving because he'd thought both of them long asleep. She lied." Dahlia gave a small smile, head tilted ever so slightly to the side. "Mystery back open." Tyndale hummed in agreement. "But that got me thinking. If she had lied to protect her husband, perhaps she had also lied about whose she was having an affair with in order to protect who she actually was. She had, after all, named your father, the one person who could not deny that he had been romantically involved with her, because he was dead. So no, she was not having an affair with your father." "That's a relief." She took a deep breath. "Was she even having an affair at all, then?" "Oh yes, of that I have no doubt. I even know who." He walked over to the window and looked out at the cloudy sky. "For many years, Mrs. Patricia Ashbury has been having an affair with you, Miss Dahlia Wintermore." "What?" The stoat laughed. "Oh do be serious, Tyndale." "I am perfectly serious. She lied about who she was having an affair with to protect someone. But the only person besides her husband that she has shown any inclination towards protecting is you. At dinner the evening of the murder, she claimed she did not remember the conversation about your lover. That's rather ironic now that I think about it. She was lying to protect you from becoming a suspect. Of course, I'm guessing that in the same conversation your father not only never mentioned the name of your lover, but also never mentioned their gender. Everyone just assumed--quite naturally--that it was male." Dahlia said nothing, just quietly shook her head. "Oh, but of course, all the evidence towards such a relationship was burned up in your missing diary." Tyndale tipped his head down just a touch. His eyes gained a clever foxy glint at that angle. "Or so you wanted me to think. Truly, that was a marvelous bit of misdirection. I am impressed. You noticed that my attention is drawn to your diaries when I entered your room. You knew I would see how many there were, so you deliberately destroyed one to make me think that you have removed all of the evidence, to make me stop looking for any more evidence." He pulled out a letter from the inside of his jacket. "Because the evidence was never in the diary, it was in Basil's cabinets all along. There he had been meticulously cataloging the details of your life, including every letter you have ever received from Patricia Ashbury." "Please, don't," Dahlia said, her voice barely above a whisper. Tyndale ignored her. "These letters seemed so innocuous on the surface. Here, she says that doubtless, you are the most beautiful woman in England, and you must be strong to fend off the many men who seek your hand. And here, she says how she misses hearing you talk about the stars, how your enthusiasm was unbounded. And here, she talks about how she understands the pain of those who must love from afar, and how she wishes all those who truly love one another should be together. And here--oh yes--she mentions that you, Dahlia, were the one to recommend that she and her husband come to England with a wink and a nudge towards raising funds from your father "What she said, it could be interpreted so benignly. Her words are so simple and kind that no one would suspect it was out of the ordinary unless they knew the truth. But I've read a number of these letters now, and I know that the same words you used to describe your lover in this letter," here Tyndale paused to pull out the letter he had found crumpled under her desk, "are the same sort of phrases used in your letters with Mrs. Ashbury. "It's no wonder that you couldn't reveal who your lover was to me. It would destroy your career and her life if it ever got out. And that brings us nicely to the other big lie you told me. You had an argument with your father the night he was murdered, but it was not about where you would work, it was about Mrs. Ashbury and your love for her. He wanted you to tell the world, to not be ashamed, but you knew the damage it would do and you couldn't face that. That's why after you stormed out of the house, you came back later, once everyone was asleep, and killed him." "What? No!" "You killed him because you knew he would reveal your secret in time." "I didn't," she insisted, standing up toe -to-toe with Tyndale. "But who else might have known? Who else might have suspected? A woman often confides secrets with her maid, so Daniele had to be dealt with." "No." "Who else? The very man responsible for holding all those letters, who might have noticed the same connection. So you shot Basil." "No, I didn't." "But it wasn't enough for you to kill them, you had to remove the possibility of guilt from yourself. So you write a letter addressed to Stuart. He's a good lad and boyishly devoted to you. He'll happily admit to being your lover because he knows it will protect you; except I threw a wrench in those plans. You thought that your dear old friend Roger Tyndale would keep the identity of your lover a secret as you wished him to, but I showed the letter in public, not in private to the two of you. You couldn't bear to let Mrs. Ashbury think you had--what were your words?--betrayed her. So you were forced to deny it." "Damn you." Dahlia stamped her foot once. "That's not true." "And if I tell what I know to the sergeant, do you think he'll believe you?" She swallowed, her ears flat. "No. But it's still not true." "No, it's not," Tyndale said, putting both letters back into his jacket. "I know the murderer very deliberately moved the chairs around, but you had no reason to. You didn't do it." She collapsed back down into the chair, her head in her hands. "You asshole. Why would you do that?" "I'll explain soon. But I wasn't lying about everything, only about you being the murderer. You do love Patricia Ashbury." "I don't." Tyndale clapped his hands on Dahlia's shoulders. "Dahlia, please, listen to me. I understand. But you have to tell the truth to someone. You have to find someone you can trust. Or else you'll end up like me, unable to fully trust even those I love." "You?" Dahlia's forehead knitted together. Her ears and eyes flitted up and down over Tyndale's body as if she were seeing the fox for the very first time. "You mean you are..." "Homosexual, yes. Why else do you think I wanted to bring my very handsome valet with me on a simple country trip." He stood back and leaned against the window, looking out once more. "Don't worry, Melody is aware. She even encourages us to an extent." "I had no idea. I thought that being a Baron..." "That no one would care? Oh they would. I may not have a career like yours, but I have plenty that could be ruined." She lifted a hand and touched her chest as if feeling her racing heart. Her eyes were closed. Her breath was fast. "You won't tell anyone then?" "Not a soul, not unless you let me." The stoat breathed in deeply and as she let it out, her eyes fluttered open and she looked straight into Tyndale. "I love her. More than anything or anyone else I have ever known. I love her." He smiled and patted her shoulder. There was hope for her yet. She blinked away the beginnings of a few tears and shook herself as if tossing off unwanted emotions. "So who did it?" "Ah, well that brings me back to this letter." Once again he withdrew the letter he had found crumpled under Dahlia's desk. "This letter was real, I could see the fear and panic on your face when I first presented it, but you know and I know that this wasn't quite the letter you left behind." "Stuart's name was added." "Yes, it was. Why?" Dahlia shook her head. "I thought about that all last night. I couldn't understand it." "Ah, but think about everything that has happened since the murder itself occurred. Mr. Ashbury drugged with veronal, Daniele poisoned, Basil shot at, evidence implicating Mrs. Ashbury placed at a time when she could not have done it, and then finally this letter, giving you and Stuart an alibi. What's the common thread?" Dahlia thought for a moment and then said, "Doubt." "Yes, doubt that any one of you could be the murderer. It had to be one of you because only your scents were in the room, but for each and every one of you there was an event that made me doubt you could be the murderer." "So the murderer was trying to prove their innocence, but they couldn't prove just their own, as that would be suspicious. They proved everyone's instead." "No, not quite." Tyndale gave out a sigh. "In fact, a touch of the opposite. You see, the murderer was plagued by that most insidious emotion: guilt." "Guilt?" Dahlia snorted, almost laughed. "Oh yes. Something had gone wrong with the murder. The murderer became worried, especially after my arrival, that someone innocent, someone such as yourself, would suffer for their crime; and they could not bear that. They come downstairs after the murder is committed, disconsolate, frightened, and they see out of the corner of their eye that Mr. Ashbury's glass is left unattended. An idea springs into their mind and they grab a bottle of veronal and add just a touch to the glass, to make it appear as if Mr. Ashbury had been drugged at the time of the murder and could not have done it. That's why it seemed that there had been almost an overdose: the tiny amount of veronal was added to the dregs and so made it look like there was a great deal more in the entire glass. "And the murderer sees that it worked: I begin to doubt Mr. Ashbury. This emboldens them to try again and again. They sneak into Daniele's cottage and add the tiniest amount of strychnine to her food, enough to provoke a strong reaction, but not enough to kill. They shoot at Basil from the woods and then rush to the Ashburys' room, dropping the weapon in the luggage of the one person they knew was nowhere near Delaney Towers at the time: Mrs. Ashbury. They kill two birds with one stone on that one." Dahlia's muzzle scrunched up as she thought. "Then my letter...?" "Ah yes, that was where the murderer made a big mistake. You see, they had rubbed off a bit of Stuart's scent in this very study, probably from some tool handle or a bit of clothing. They thought they were implicating the one person it could not be, because Stuart, as everyone knew, always went to the pub on Fridays and stayed there all evening long. But then disaster struck." Dahlia nodded. "But Stuart wasn't at the pub that day." "No, but then luck strikes." Tyndale slammed a fist into an open palm. "They find your letter, a letter that by pure chance was not destroyed as you had intended. It rolls under your desk, and there they find it. They realize that this could give you an alibi, but only if your lover acknowledges it. They think--and not unreasonably as even I had thought this for a while--that Stuart was your lover. So they gamble. They scribble Stuart's name onto the letter and put it back where I can find it. Even if they are wrong, they think, both of you will take the opportunity to get an alibi for yourselves. Certainly Stuart would, devoted as he is to you and your safety." "And I ruined it." Tyndale couldn't tell from Dahlia's expression if she were happy or sad about that. "But who did it, Tyndale? Who killed my father?" "I thought you would have guessed by now. This was the ultimate clue." He tapped the sheet of paper. "There's only one who has both access to your letters and the meticulous mindset required to mimic your penmanship as they wrote out the word, 'Stuart.'" Dahlia's muzzle scrunched again as she thought, and then the answer hit her and she looked up at Tyndale with eyes brimming with sadness. "Not Basil. Not him." "Yes," Tyndale said, and his voice carried the weight of his own sadness. "Basil Thompson killed your father."

* * *

Last night... "I hoped it wasn't you," Tyndale said, stopping along the path through the forest outside Delaney Towers. Basil continued a few more steps then looked back. "Hoped what wasn't me?" Tyndale stood still on the path, even though it was clear Basil wanted to continue walking. "I hoped you weren't the one to kill him." Basil gave a short laugh and turned around in a circle, looking at the dark forest that surrounded them. "Is that why you invited me out here? So you could accuse me in private?" Tyndale swallowed once. This was going to be harder than he thought. "Yes." "Unbelievable. If you will recall, I got shot at myself." "Oh yes, that was very clever of you. I thought you might have been learning from me." Basil scowled and crossed his arms. "Well, go on, then. Explain your great theory like you are no doubt itching to do, oh most intelligent one." "It was a busy day," Tyndale said. His big ears flitted as they felt the first drops of rain fall onto them. "Everyone was minding their own business, so no one would notice when you walked out to the bench with your jacket already containing two neat holes. No one would notice that you brought a fold-out knife to slice your own arm open and mimic being shot." "But the gun--" "It is easy," Tyndale interrupted, his voice growing louder and bolder, "to rig a bit of string wrapped around the trigger so that you can shoot it from afar. And if you do it just right, another tug of the string will pop it right off the trigger. You were keeling forward after you were 'shot' to hide that you were hurriedly tugging the rest of the string to you and stuffing it into your pocket. When Mr. Ashbury came running, you only needed to point him in the wrong direction so he would not even possibly discover the gun, no doubt hidden under a rock or up in a tree." Basil scoffed. "This is pure conjecture." The rain was starting to come down harder now. Tyndale could feel it matting his fur. Neither of them had thought to bring an umbrella. "You're right. It is. But I think it is also true." Basil threw up his hands. "But I had no reason to want him dead." "No, you didn't. No one did. That's what has hounded me about this case ever since the beginning. The missing motive." Tyndale laughed just a little and shook his head. His brushy tail was growing soggy and dripping behind him. "That's because you never wanted Harold Wintermore dead. You wanted Garvan Wintermore dead." Basil growled and stuck his hands in his pockets, starting to walk again. "Take your crazy theories and shove them up your ass." "Oh yes," Tyndale said, walking up alongside the rabbit. "You never knew until the following morning that Garvan had not been in the house at all that evening. You thought that Harold had done what he always did and went to bed nice and early, and you also never knew that Dahlia had woken her father up to argue with him. So when you see the light on in the study as you return to the house, you think it must be Garvan, and so you set your plan into motion." Tyndale jumped in front of Basil, forcing him to stop. "And then comes the piece de resistance. The chairs. Oh, that was good. That was a stroke of utter genius." He laughed again into the pouring rain. "Why, I thought, why would you go through all that effort to move the chairs? What were you hiding? And then I realized that what you were hiding was the original position of the chairs. You tried to make me think that the chairs had swapped position, but the truth was they never moved." Basil was chewing on his lip. His eyes were narrowed with anger. "You just lifted both chairs and dropped them back down right where they were. And just as you hoped, Mrs. Ashbury heard the noise and corroborated your story. So the plush-back chair was actually at the desk the entire time, and that chair faces away from the door. So when you tip-toed into the study, you had no idea who actually sat in it. You still thought it was Garvan. Even as your garrote slipped around his neck and began to squeeze, you still thought it was Garvan. And then, only after you began to throttle him, did you recognize your mistake. "You let go and shoved Harold out of the chair. You hoped to make your escape before he knew what was happening. But then something happened. I'm guessing he said your name, and you knew then and there that if he lived, you would never get another chance. You would never get to kill Garvan Wintermore. So you had to kill Harold." Tyndale shook his head. "I'd like to think there were tears falling down your face as you strangled him. I hope you understood what a monster you were." If there were tears now, they were obscured by the rain. Tyndale could hardly see past him. The rain came with a thick fog that obscured their surroundings. "This is all speculation. Pure conjecture." "No it's not. Because you know and I know that Garvan Wintermore was in Dover on August tenth, when your mother was killed." "Damn you, do you honestly believe I didn't think of that before?" He pushed Tyndale in the chest. "I was responsible for all the records of the Wintermore estate. Of course I checked to see where they all were that day. But Garvan's record is spotty. Whole chunks were missing, including a week around that day." "Not missing," Tyndale countered. "Destroyed by you, so there would be nothing to connect you to him. And I bet if I ask Dahlia, she'll tell me that it was you who sought out Harold Wintermore to work with him. It was you who gave him the idea of writing a memoir and thus needing to catalog the family history. Because you thought you recognized Garvan Wintermore, but you had to be sure, absolutely sure that he was the guilty party." "Oh, please." Tyndale took a step back, away from Basil. The rain was pouring now, blotting out the sounds around them. Tyndale had to speak up just to make himself heard. "But you made a mistake. Those files weren't the only records in the house." He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small book. "You forgot about Dahlia's diaries." Basil's hands clenched into fists. Tyndale turned his attention to the book and flipped it open. "And here, only a few days after August tenth, Dahlia mentions her uncle returning home from a trip. A trip that included a visit to the White Cliffs of Dover." He closed the book and looked back at Basil. Straight down the barrel of his gun. "Give it to me," Basil said. "No." "Give it to me or I'll shoot." Tyndale stowed the book back in his jacket pocket. "I will. I'll do it." "You'd shoot your old friend, the one who was your partner on so many misadventures?" Basil reached up and cocked the gun. "I don't really want to find out if I will or not. Just give it to me." "I'm not going to allow you to continue, Basil. This ends here." The gun trembled slightly in the rabbit's hands. "Damn it, Roger. He deserves it. He deserves it for what he did to me, to mum." He sniffed. "I still see her, you know. Every time I close my eyes, I see her dying. Every time I'm alone, I can feel the coldness of her hands in mine. He needs to die. He deserves to die. And I'm going to kill him." "No." "Just give me the book, Roger!" "No!" Click. Basil stared dumbly down at his gun. He had pulled the trigger, but nothing had happened. He reached up and in quick succession, tried to fire off the rest of the shots with the same result: nothing more than a click as the hammer fell. Tyndale shook his head. "Like I said, Basil, I hoped it wasn't you, but I wasn't dumb enough to trust you." He gave a sharp whistle, and heard leaves crunching on the path the way they had come. His valet appeared in the fog, large tiger tail twitching. "I had Kalyana swap out your bullets before I invited you here." Basil looked once more at his gun, then back up to the fox. "I was going to shoot you," he said, as if amazed by his own words. "I was going to kill you. You. Roger. My old friend." An instant later, that thought seemed to hit him, and he dropped the gun as if it had been a snake, biting his hand. "Oh God, Roger. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean it. I didn't mean for any of this." "I know, Basil. I know." Tyndale shook his head sadly. "I saw what you were doing after it happened. You were trying to save everyone else." "I'd have gone to the gallows for that bastard. I would. But I couldn't let anyone else suffer." "And you couldn't turn yourself in, because you still wanted to kill him. You even resisted implicating Garvan. You could have. You pointed him out as the one who might have shot you." Basil sniffed again and gave out a small, sad chuckle. "I didn't want him to die because of his brother. I wanted him to know why I was killing him. I wanted to watch the life fall out of his eyes as I strangled him." His eyes were wide. He looked horrified. "Oh God, Roger, what happened to me?" Tyndale reached out and tried to console his old friend. But he was still no good at this sort of thing. Melody would know what to do, but not him. Not Tyndale the Liar. "A terrible thing happened to you," Tyndale said. "Your mother killed right in front of you. But in trying to correct that, in trying to heal the pain, you became the monster you had always seen him as being." "What?" "Dahlia, my old friend. You did the same thing to her that was done to you." "No," Basil said, his eyes wide and frightened. He staggered back. "No, I... I..." He dropped to his knees and screamed in raw agony. The sound of it cut so deeply that Tyndale prayed he would never hear anything like it again. Basil was rocking back and forth, his body curled over so much his head was almost in his lap. "What have I done?" he kept whimpering over and over again. "What have I done? What have I done?" Tyndale rested a hand on one of his friend's floppy ears. Basil hopped back up to his feet in an instant, his eyes wide and manic. "We can do it. Together we can get that bastard. And you, you're so smart. You can figure out a way to do it so this time no one will be hurt. No one will suffer. No one. Not Dahlia. Not anyone except the old bastard. You'll do it, won't you? You'll help your friend one more time?" Tyndale took a step back. "Oh no, of course you wouldn't." Basil's eyes seemed to shrink back to their normal size behind his glasses. "I don't know what to do anymore, Roger. I don't know who I am." Tyndale swallowed and forced the words out. "You run." "What?" "Run, Basil Thompson. Run as far away from here as you can. Run away from all these thoughts of revenge. Run to someplace where you can heal." Tyndale raised a hand and pointed out into the woods. "Get yourself to London. Get a flight out of the country. And never come back." Basil's mouth hung open. "You're letting me go?" "That's why I brought you out here instead of confronting you with the sergeant, to give you a chance to run. Now, run, Basil." The rabbit took a few staggering steps and then stopped and turned around. "I'll never see you again, will I?" "You'd better hope you never do." Basil nodded, gave one last look to his friend, and then ran deep into the darkness. Tyndale watched him go. He stayed standing there until he could no longer see Basil through the mist, until he could no longer hear his footsteps above the falling rain, until the scent of the rabbit had washed away in the rain, until the memory of Basil's face faded just enough to take the edge off the pain. Then, Tyndale lifted his chin and let the raindrops pitter-patter over his face. Kalyana's strong, gentle hand wrapped around his. "Sir... Roger... what are you doing?" "I'm praying," the fox said. "I didn't think you and God were on the best of terms." "No, we're not." He lowered his chin and rested in the embrace of his tiger. "But maybe he'll keep an eye out for Basil all the same."

* * *

"You let him go?" Dahlia was staring up at Tyndale, aghast. "After all he did, you just let him go?" "Yes," Tyndale said. "I told you there would be a price to pay, and this is it: you know who did it, you know they will never harm you again, but you do not get to bring them in." "That's not good enough, Tyndale. That is nowhere near good enough." "I thought you might say that." Tyndale pursed his lips. "And that is why I started this conversation by accusing you." Dahlia scoffed. "Why is that?" Tyndale stood in front of her, glowering down at her. His lips were curled as a growl tried to force its way out of his throat. "Because I want to know, Dahlia, what would be the difference between me bringing all that evidence against you to the sergeant so that he could convict you and me strangling you right here, right now. I'd be killing you all the same, only in one version I get to pretend my hands are clean." Dahlia looked up, wide-eyed. "But he was guilty. What about justice?" "Justice?" Tyndale spat. "What would justice do for people like you or me? They would lock us up, tear us away from the ones we love, send us to sanitoriums, drug us, beat us, kill us--all in the name of justice." He shook his head. "No, justice is just another way to pretend that the blood on your hands isn't really there. Justice would still kill my friend, and if there is to be a difference between me and Basil Thompson, let it be this: I. Am. Not. A. Murderer." Chastised, Dahlia said nothing for a long time, until at last she said, "You're right. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have expected you to want your friend dead." She stood slowly, swaying once on her feet. "I'll still need to tell the sergeant at some point. Maybe in a day or two. That will give Basil the time he needs, won't it?" Tyndale nodded and took a step back, bumping into the wall. He was glad it was there. His legs were shaking lightly. He didn't know if he could keep standing without something to support him. Dahlia went to the door and looked back at him. "Thank you, Tyndale. For everything." Tyndale said nothing, but he couldn't hold back any longer. As Dahlia opened the door to leave, the sobs broke free from his throat. Tears started pouring down his face. "Tyndale," Dahlia said with some alarm. "What is it?" "It's nothing," he said between sobs. "Nothing. Please, just go." But she didn't. She came up to him and held a hand to his cheek. "Tyndale, please." "No. Go. Leave me in peace." "Please, trust me as I have trusted you." He looked into her eyes and took a deep, shaky breath. "I'm supposed to be the smartest man in the room, right?" he said. "I always know what happens before anyone else. I know people better than they know themselves. And I keep thinking about Basil, and I..." "What?" She pressed him. "I think that there will come a day in some far off place, where he looks at his gun and he starts to wonder how it would feel with the end of the barrel pressed against his temple." Tyndale started to shake. "I wanted to save him. But I don't know if I have."

Chapter 10

The silence of the night was broken by the sound of glass shattering. Tyndale was blearily awake after the first crash, but after the second crash and the accompanying scream, he was on his feet and out the door, Melody right on his heels. Outside he saw the Ashburys trying to shake the sleep off and tie their robes around their waist. The most awake person in the hall was Kalyana, who came running up to his Lord and Lady. "Is everyone safe, sir?" he asked. "I think so. What's going on?" "It came from the kitchen." Kalyana, ever at the ready, was off like a shot, with everyone else tailing behind. They came upon Dahlia in the foyer. She had a hand over her muzzle, watching in mute terror as her uncle stalked the halls, going into the kitchens, picking up bottles, rushing to the front door, and throwing the bottles out the door with such force that they shattered on the steps. "What's going on?" Tyndale asked Dahlia. "I don't know," the stoat said with a soft whine in her throat. She was cringing each time a bottle broke to pieces. "I told him what you had told me and he went mad." "You what? You idiotic girl. Why would you do such a--" Melody's slap caught Tyndale across the cheek. So sudden and so sharp was the blow that Tyndale staggered backwards, clutching the spot where she had hit him. "I swear," his wife said, "sometimes you are the stupidest man on the planet." That said, the deer marched straight up to the front door as Garvan was rummaging in the pantry, turned sharply on her heels, and waited. Garvan once again came out with a liquor-laden bottle in each hand. He raised them high over head, let loose a deep roar as he prepared to throw, and then frozen in place--both hands still raised high--as he saw Melody blocking his way. She spoke loud and clear, drawing on her noble bearing. "Mr. Wintermore, I cannot even begin to sleep with all of this banging going on." Garvan's throat and jaw worked at the air, as if constantly on the verge of speaking. The words that finally came out were formal and marked. "My apologies, your Ladyship." From his tone, Tyndale thought he meant every word. "Will you be maintaining a quieter conduct for the remainder of the night?" "Yes, your Ladyship." Melody smiled benevolently, as if all was forgiven, and Garvan's hands finally fell to his sides. "I do not believe anyone will be getting to sleep now however. Come join me in the sitting room." Garvan followed behind Melody like a child. At some point his hands just dropped the bottles they held, which clattered against the floor, but did not break. As he and Melody went into the sitting room, everyone else still congregated in the hall crept up to the doorway, watching from a safe distance. Melody sat in one of the armchairs, maintaining a dignified posture, and Garvan pulled up a smaller chair beside her. "Tell me about yourself," she said. Garvan gave a weak smile, his hands rubbing together to fend off a nonexistent chill in the air. "Not much to say. I'm the man who has always been in his brother's shadow." "Do you always compare yourself to your brother?" "It's hard not to with him. He was... he was always better at everything." Garvan closed his eyes and rocked in his seat. "Everything I tried to be good at, he was always better at. I'd try to be good in school, and he'd be better. I'd try to make friends, and he'd make more. I'd try to build the family estate, and he'd build it higher. I was always second." "But he was always kind to you, was he not?" "Oh yes." Garvan held his hands in his lap and stared at them. "He was always better at being kind to me. He treated me better than anyone else did." Out of the corner of his eye, Tyndale saw Dahlia wipe a tear away. Garvan got up and walked to the window, his steps heavy with anger. "No one else ever cared what I did, because Harold always did better. Why bother with the littler Wintermore when you could bother the grander one?" "And so you drank." Garvan leaned against the sill, his grip so tight that his claws dug into the wood. "And so I drank." "You drank to forget. That's what Mr. Thompson said." Garvan's claws tapped over the sill. "You know, when there's enough liquor in you, you feel like you can take on the world. You forget all the mistakes you've ever made. You forget that you can even make mistakes. And that's what I did. I forgot that I was always number two." There was a scraping sound as his claws dragged over wood. "I forgot so well I got my own brother killed." "You did not." "I did. And that poor woman too. Both of them are dead." He slammed a fist down. "I'll never drink another drop. Not one. No one else will die because of me. I promise it on my brother's grave." "That is very admirable," Melody said, adjusting her position in her seat. "Although did you have to take out your promise with such...noise?" "Apologies, your Ladyship." "It is understandable. But an important question remains." "What is that?" She smiled her benevolent smile. "What will you do next?" He held out his hands, palms up. "What can I do? I'm just--" "The second best, yes I know. Tell me, Mr. Wintermore, your brother left almost the entire estate in you hands?" "Yes, your Ladyship, but--" "And you would say that among other things he was an excellent judge of character, would you not?" "Yes, your Ladyship, but--" "So why would your brother than place the estate in your care unless he believed you fully capable of dealing with it?" The thought seemed to strike Garvan as queer. "I don't know," he said. "He had no reason to think ill of Basil. He could easily have easily placed the estate into a trust with Basil managing it. But he didn't. He chose you. He put that power in your hands." Garvan's eyes darted through the air as he thought. "I could do it." Melody bowed her head. "I have no doubt that you could." "I could..." He paused, and then his eyes went wide, like a child beholding a Christmas tree overflowing with presents. "Mr. Ashbury!" he shouted, springing to his feet and running into the hallway. He knocked the door open with such force that it nearly caught Mr. Ashbury--who had been peering surreptitiously into the room with the rest--across the nose. "Ah, Mr. Ashbury." "What?" The elk asked, his voice sounding slightly frightened. "You wanted to build an orphanage, yes? Well, you shall. I shall give you the money at once." "You will?" Mrs. Ashbury asked hopefully. "Yes. That and more. We could build a dozen orphanages. A hundred. But no, I will need a new business manager before that." He punctuated each statement with a wide sweep of his hand, a grand vision unfolding out before him. "We must start small, but then we will build. Who is most in need?" The two elks exchanged glances and Mrs. Ashbury spoke in a voice as quiet as she dared, "The African children." "Then we shall build one for them. Right away!" "You will?" "We must. I do not want another Basil Thompson left alone. I want every child to have a home where they can be loved. If I have doomed one man, let me save a thousand more. Only..." Garvan placed a hand on the shoulders of both Ashburys. "You must promise me one thing. My brother's name must be a part of the name. I want everyone to know him and how great a man he was." "O-of course." "Excellent. Let us begin now then." He began hauling the two elk down the hall to the business office where Basil had once worked. "Right now?" "I will sleep when I am dead!" Melody emerged from the room, as silent as ghost, and watched the stoat and two elk disappear into the office. Tyndale leaned over Dahlia's shoulder and spoke just loud enough to be sure his wife heard him. "You may have selected the wrong person as the smartest one in the room." Melody paused a moment, glanced over at the fox, smirked, and continued walking.

* * *

In the morning, Tyndale made preparations for leaving. Kalyana brought the car around to the front door while he and Melody said their goodbyes. They received thanks from everyone, including Daniele who was returning to work. Garvan was outside, wearing a smile large enough for three people. Dahlia gave her goodbyes with a small kiss to Tyndale's cheek. After they had gotten into the car, Tyndale leaned out the window and called for Mr. Ashbury. The big elk came up, a confused expression on his face. "Pardon my impertinence," the fox said, "but I am curious: have you ever considered having children of your own?" The elk raised an eyebrow but otherwise shrugged. "We would like to someday." "I only ask because I noticed you had not yet had any of your own and were also in the business of helping construct orphanages." "No, it's not that." "Ah, good. Then, if I may continue my impertinence, you expect that you would love your children, would you not? With the unconditional love of a father." "Hmph. Of course." "And yet you would still love your wife?" "What sort of question is that? Are you an imbecile?" "Only sometimes," Melody muttered under her breath. "Oh no," Tyndale said with a feigned. "I'm just having trouble understanding. You say you would love your child and your wife unconditionally." Mr. Ashbury snorted hard enough to cause the window underneath his head to fog up. "Of course. One's love need not be constrained to one person. I can love two or more as well as one." "Ah, well that is curious." "Oh really?" "Yes, after all, haven't you been doing all in your power to prevent your wife from loving anyone else?" The elk's jaw dropped. "I..." "She lied to protect you, Mr. Ashbury. I suspect she knew the consequences of being discovered. She might have been jailed, fined. She might have even been suspected of being the murderer herself and hanged as a result. But to her that it would be worth it to keep you safe." Tyndale reached out and held Mr. Ashbury's arm. "She loves you enough for her to lay her life on the line for you. Truly that is a rare thing. Do not toss it away so casually." The elk looked back at her wife, still on the steps of Delaney Towers. "I won't. Thank you, Mr. Tyndale." As the car began to drive away, Tyndale looked out the window to see the two elks embracing and sharing a deep kiss. "How was that?" he asked his wife. "Not bad for a beginner." Tyndale allowed himself a full, deep-throated laugh, and then he reached up to the front seat, letting his hand rest on Kalyana's waist. "Let us go somewhere, just the three of us. I want to be with you as we should be together." He looked out into the sky and watched a large cloud pass by. "I think it will be a beautiful weekend."

THE END