Lord Darcy Investigates

by Randall Garrett

  While he checked out the MacGregor itself, he said: “This is one. The other is a question. How long before his body was found did Standish die?”

  Master Sean rubbed the side of his nose with a thick finger. “Well, the investigative sorcerer at Caen, a good journeyman, placed the time as not more than fifteen minutes before the body was discovered. My own tests showed not more than twenty-five minutes, but not even the best preservative spell can keep something like that from blurring after a week has passed.”

  Lord Darcy slid the MacGregor into its snugly-fitted holster and adjusted his jacket to cover it. “In other words, there’s the usual hazy area. The bruises and fractures were definitely inflicted before death?”

  “Definitely, my lord. About three hours before, give or take that same fifteen minutes.”

  “I see. Interesting. Very interesting.” He looked in the wall mirror and adjusted his neckpiece. “Have you further work to do?”

  “Only the analysis on the knife,” Master Sean said.

  Lord Darcy turned from the mirror. “Will you fix me up with a tracer? I’m going out to stroll about the village and possibly to the fairgrounds and the tent city. I anticipate no danger, but I don’t want to get lost, either.”

  “Very well, me lord,” the sorcerer said with resignation. He opened his symbol-decorated carpetbag and took out a little wooden box. It held what looked remarkably like one-inch toothpicks, except that they were evenly cylindrical, not tapered, and they were made of ash instead of pine. He selected one and put the box back in his bag. He handed the little cylinder to Lord Darcy, who took it between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand.

  Then the Master Sorcerer took a little scented oil on his right thumb from a special golden oil stock and rubbed it along the sliver of ash, from Lord Darcy’s thumb to the other end. Then he grasped that end in his own right thumb and forefinger.

  A quick motion of both wrists, and the ashen splinter snapped.

  But, psychically and symbolically, the halves were still part of an unbroken whole. As long as each man carried his half, the two of them were specially linked.

  “Thank you, my dear Sean,” Lord Darcy said. “And now I shall be off to enjoy the nightlife of the teeming metropolis surrounding us.”

  With that, he was gone, and Master Sean returned to his work.

  * * *

  The sun was a fat, squashed-looking, red-orange ellipsoid seated neatly on the horizon when Lord Darcy stepped out of the gate of the churchyard. It would be gone in a few minutes. The long shadow of the church spire reached out across the village and into the fields. The colors of the flags and banners and bunting around the village were altered in value by the reddish light. The weather had been beautiful and clear all day, and would continue to be, according to the Weather Bureau predictors. It would be a fine night.

  “Please, my lord—are you Lord Darcy?”

  Lord Darcy had noticed the woman come out of the church, but the village square was full of people, and he had paid little attention. Now he turned his full attention on her and was pleasantly surprised. She was quite the loveliest creature he had seen in a long time.

  “I am, Damoselle,” he said with a smile. “But I fear you have the advantage of me.”

  Her own smile was timid, almost frightened. “I am named Sharolta.”

  Her name, her slight accent, and her clothing all proclaimed her Romany. Her long, softly dark hair and her dark eyes, her well-formed nose and her full, almost too-perfect lips, along with her magnificently lush body, accentuated by the Romany costume, proclaimed her beautiful.

  “May I be of help to you, Damoselle Sharolta?”

  She shook her head. “No, no. I ask nothing. But perhaps I can be of help to you.” Her smile seemed to quaver. “Can we go somewhere to talk?”

  “Where, for instance?” Lord Darcy asked carefully.

  “Anywhere you say, my lord. Anywhere, so long as it is private.” Then she finished. “I—I mean, not too much private. I mean, where we can talk. You know.”

  “Of course. It is not yet time for Vespers; I suggest that we go into the church,” Lord Darcy said.

  “Yes, yes. That would be fine.” She smiled. “There were not many folk in there. It should be fine.”

  The interior of the Church of St.-Matthew was darkened, but far from being gloomy. The flickering clusters of candles around the statues and icons were like twinkling, multicolored star clusters.

  Lord Darcy and the Damoselle Sharolta sat down in one of the rear pews. Most of the dozen or so people who were in the church were farther up toward the altar, praying; there was no one within earshot of the place Lord Darcy had chosen.

  Lord Darcy waited in silence for the girl to speak. The Romany become silent under pressure; create a vacuum for them to fill, and the words come tumbling over each other in eloquent eagerness.

  “You are the great Lord Darcy, the great Investigator,” she began suddenly. “You are looking into the death of the poor Goodman Standish who was found on the beach a week ago. Is all this not so?”

  Lord Darcy nodded silently.

  “Well, then, there must be something wrong about that man’s death, or you would not be here. So I must tell you what I know.

  “A week ago, there came to our tribe a group of five men. They said they were from the tribe of Chanro—the Sword—which is in the area of Buda-Pest. Their leader, who calls himself Suv—the Needle—asked our chief for aid and sanctuary, as it is their right, and it was granted. But they are very secretive among themselves. They behave very well, mind you; I don’t mean they are rude or boorish, or anything like that. But there is—how do I say it?—there is a wrongness about them.

  “This morning, for instance. I must tell you of that. The man who calls himself Suv wanted me to walk along the beach with him. I did not want to, for I do not find him an attractive man—you understand?”

  Again his lordship nodded. “Of course.”

  “But he said he meant nothing like that. He said he wanted to walk along the sea, but he did not want to walk alone. He said he would show me all the shore life—the birds, the things in the pools, the plants. I was interested, and I thought there would be no harm, so I went.

  “He was true to his word. He did not try to make love to me. It was nice for a while. He showed me the tide pools and pointed out the different kinds of things in them. One had a jellyfish.” She looked up from her hands, and there was a frown on her face.

  “Then we got near to that little cove where the body was found. I wanted to turn back, but he said, no, he wanted to look at it. I said I wouldn’t and started back. Then he told me that if I didn’t, he’d break my arm. So I went.” She seemed to shiver a little under her bright dress. “When the Armsman showed up, he kept on going, pretending he didn’t understand Anglo-French. Then we saw that there were two of them, the Armsmen, I mean, so we turned around and went back. Suv was very furious.”

  She stopped and said no more.

  “My dear,” he asked gently, “why does one of the Romany come to the authorities with a story like this? Do not the Romany take care of their own?”

  “Yes, my lord. But these men are not Rom.”

  “Oh?”

  “Their tent is next to mine. I have heard them talking when they think no one is listening. I do not understand it very well, but I know it when I hear it; they were speaking Burgdeutsch.”

  “I see,” said Lord Darcy softly and thoughtfully. The German of Brandenburg was the court language of Poland, which suddenly made everything very interesting indeed.

  “Do you suppose, Damoselle,” he said, “that you could point out this Suv to me?”

  She looked up at him with those great wonderful eyes and smiled.

  “I’m sure I could, my lord. Come; wrap your cloak about you and we shall walk through the village.”

  Outside the church, the darkness was relieved only by the regulation gaslamps of the various business places, and by the quar
ter moon hanging high in the sky, like a half-closed eye.

  In the deeper darkness of the church porch, Lord Darcy, rather much to his surprise, took the girl in his arms and kissed her, with her warm cooperation. It was several wordless minutes before they went out to the street.

  * * *

  Master Sean woke to the six o’clock Angelus bell feeling vaguely uneasy. A quick mental focus on his half of the tracer told him that Lord Darcy was in no danger. Actually, if he had been, Sean would have wakened immediately.

  But he still had that odd feeling when he went down to Mass at seven; he had trouble keeping in his mind his prayers for the intercession of St. Basil the Great, and couldn’t really bring his mind to focus until the Sanctus.

  After Mass, he went up to Father Art’s small parlor in the rectory, where he had been asked to break his fast, and was mildly surprised to find Sir James le Lein with the priest.

  “Good morning, Master Sean,” Sir James said calmly. “Have you found the Phial yet?”

  The sorcerer shook his head. “Not so far as I know.”

  Sir James munched a buttered biscuit and sipped hot black caffe. Despite his calm expression Master Sean could tell that he was worried.

  “I am afraid,” Sir James said carefully, “we’ve been outfoxed.”

  “How so?” Father Art asked.

  “Well, either the Serka have got it, or they think we have it safely away from them. They seem to have given the whole thing over.” He drank more caffe. “Just after midnight, every known Serka agent in the area eluded our men and vanished. They dropped out of sight, and we haven’t spotted a single one in over eight hours. We have reason to believe that some of them went south, toward Caen; some went west, toward Cherbourg; others are heading east, toward Harfleur.”

  Master Sean frowned. “And you think—”

  “I think they found the Ipswich Phial and one of their men is carrying it to Krakowa. Or at least across the Polish border. I rode to Caen and made more teleson calls than I’ve ever made in so short a time in my life. There’s a net out now, and we can only hope we can find the man with the Phial. Otherwise…” He closed his eyes. “Otherwise, we may be faced with an overland attack by the armies of His Slavonic Majesty, through one or more of the German states. God help us.”

  After what seemed like a terribly long time, Master Sean said: “Sir James, is there any likelihood that Noel Standish would have used a knife on the sealed Phial?’ ‘

  “I don’t know. Why do you ask?”

  “We found a knife near where Standish’s body was discovered. My tests show gold on the knife edge.”

  “May I see it?” Sir James asked.

  “Certainly. I’ll fetch it. Excuse me a minute.”

  He left the parlor and went down the rather narrow hallway of the rectory. From the nearby church came the soft chime of a small bell. The eight o’clock Mass was beginning.

  Master Sean opened the door of his room…

  … and stood stock still, staring, for a full fifteen seconds, while his eyes and other senses took in the room.

  Then, without moving, he shouted: “Sir James! Father Art! Come Here! Quickly!”

  Both men came running. They stopped at the door.

  “What’s the matter?” Sir James snapped.

  “Somebody,” said Master Sean in an angry rumble, “has been prowlin’ about in me room! And a trick like that is likely to be after gettin’ me Irish up!” Master Sean’s brogue varied with his mood. When he was calmly lecturing or discussing, it became almost nonexistent. But when he became angry…

  He strode into the room for a closer look at the table which he had been using for his thaumaturgical analyses. In the center was a heap of crumbled clay. “They’ve destroyed me evidence! Look at that!” Master Sean pointed to the heap of crumbled clay on the table.

  “And what is it, if I may ask?”

  Master Sean explained about the letters that had been cut in the cliff face, and how he had taken the chunk of clay out for further examination.

  “And this knife was used to cut the letters.” He gestured toward the knife on the table nearby. “I haven’t been able to check it against Standish’s body yet.”

  “That’s the one with the gold traces on the blade?” Sir James asked.

  “It is.”

  “Well, it’s Standish’s knife, all right. I’ve seen it many times. I could even tell you how he got that deep cut in the ivory hilt.” He looked thoughtful. “S… S… O…” After a moment, he shook his head. “Means nothing to me. Can’t think what it might have meant to Standish.”

  “Means nothing to me, either,” Father Art admitted.

  “Well, now,” said the stout little Irish sorcerer, “Standish must have been at the top of the cliff when he wrote it. What would be right side up to him would be inverted to anyone standing below. How about OSS?”

  Again Sir James thought. Again he shook his head. “Still nothing, Master Sean. Father?”

  The priest shook his head. “Nothing, I’m afraid.”

  Sir James said: “This was obviously done by a Serka agent. But why? And how did he get in here without your knowing it?”

  Master Sean scowled. “To a sorcerer, that’s obvious. First, whoever did it is an accomplished sorcerer himself, or he’d never have made it past that avoidance spell, which is keyed only to meself and to his lordship. Second, he picked exactly the right time—when I was at Mass and had me mind concentrated elsewhere so I wouldn’t notice what he was up to. Were I doing it meself, I’d have started just as the Sanctus bell was rung. After that—no problem.” He looked glum. “I just wasn’t expecting it, that’s all.”

  “I wish I could have seen that carving in the clay,” Sir James said.

  “Well, you can see the cast if they didn’t—” Master Sean pulled open a desk drawer. “No, they didn’t.” He pulled out a thick slab of plaster. “I made this with quick-setting plaster. It’s reversed, of course, but you can look at it in the mirror, over there.”

  Sir James took the slab, but didn’t look at it immediately. His eyes were still on the heap of clay. “Do you suppose that Standish might have buried the Ipswich Phial in that clay to keep it from being found?”

  Master Sean’s eyes widened. “Great Heaven! It could be! With an auric-stabilized psychic shield around it, I’d not have perceived it at all!”

  Sir James groaned. “That answers the question, Why?—doesn’t it?”

  “So it would seem,” murmured Father Art.

  Bleakly, Sir James held the plaster slab up to the mirror above the dresser. “SSO. No. Wait.” He inverted it, and his lean face went pale. “Oh, no. God,” he said softly. “Oh, please. No.”

  “What is it?” the priest asked. “Does OSS mean something?”

  “Not OSS,” Sir James said still more softly. “055. Number 055 of the Serka. Olga Polovski, the most beautiful and the most dangerous woman in Europe.”

  It was at that moment that the sun went out.

  * * *

  The Reverend Father Mac Kennalty had turned to the congregation and asked them to lift up their hearts to the Lord that they might properly assist at the Holy Sacrifice of the Altar, when a cloud seemed to pass over the sun, dimming the light that streamed in through the stained glass windows. Even the candles on the Altar seemed to dim a little.

  He hardly noticed it; it was a common enough occurrence. Without a pause, he asked the people to give thanks to the Lord God, and continued with the Mass.

  * * *

  In the utter blackness of the room, three men stood for a moment in silence.

  “Well, that tears it,” said Sir James’s voice in the darkness. There was a noticeable lack of surprise or panic in his voice.

  “So you lied to his lordship,” said Master Sean.

  “He did indeed,” said Father Art.

  “What do you mean?” Sir James asked testily.

  “You said,” Master Sean pointed out with more than a touch of aci
d in his voice, “that you didn’t know what the Ipswich Phial is supposed to do.”

  “What makes you think I do?”

  “In the first place, this darkness came as no surprise to you. In the second, you must have known what it was, because Noel Standish knew.”

  “I had my orders,” Sir James le Lein said in a hard voice. “That’s not the point now. The damned thing is being used. I—”

  “Listen!” Father Art’s voice cut in sharply “Listen!”

  In the blackness, all of them heard the sweet triple tone of the Sanctus bell.

  Holy… Holy… Holy… Lord God Sabaoth…

  “What—?” Sir James’s low voice was querulous.

  “Don’t you understand?” Father Art asked. “The field of suppression doesn’t extend as far as the church. Father Mac Kennalty could go on with the Mass in the dark, from memory. But the congregation wouldn’t be likely to. They certainly don’t sound upset.”

  “You’re right, Father,” Master Sean said. “That gives us the range, doesn’t it? Let’s see if we can feel our way out of here, toward the church. His lordship may be in trouble.”

  “Follow me,” said the priest. “I know this church like I know my own face. Take my hand and follow me.”

  Cautiously, the three men moved from the darkness toward the light. They were still heading for the stairway when the sun came on again.

  * * *

  Lord Darcy rode into the stableyard behind the Church of St. Matthew, where four men were waiting for him. The sexton took his horse as he dismounted, and led it away to the stable. The other three just waited, expectantly.

  “I could do with a cup of caffe, heavily laced with brandy, and a plate of ham and eggs, if they’re available,” said Lord Darcy with a rather dreamy smile. “If not, I’ll just have the caffe and brandy.”

  “What’s happened?” Sir James blurted abruptly.

  Lord Darcy patted the air with a hand. “All in good time, my dear James; all in good time. Nothing’s amiss, I assure you.”

  “I think a breakfast such as that could be arranged,” Father Art said with a smile. “Come along.”

  The caffe and brandy came immediately, served by Father Art in a large mug. “The ham and eggs should be along pretty quickly,” the priest said.