“Naval treaties with Roumeleia are all very well,” said Lord Sefton, with a superior smile on his jovial, round face, “but tell me, Your Highness, doesn’t it strike you as intrinsically funny that a Greek at Constantinople should sit on a golden throne, wearing the imperial purple of the Caesars, and claim to be the representative before God of the Senate and People of Rome?”
“Indeed it does, my lord,” said Prince Richard, Duke of Normandy, as he poured himself a bit more brandy. “I think it even funnier that a Frenchified Viking barbarian should sit on the ancient Throne of Britain and claim exactly the same thing. But that’s politics for you, isn’t it?”
The florid face of Lord Sefton appeared to approach the apoplectic. He seemed about to rebuke the Prince with something like “By Heaven, sir! How dare you? Who do you think you are?” Then, as though he had suddenly realized who Richard of Normandy thought he was, he paled and drowned his confusion in a hurriedly swallowed brimfull glass of Oporto.
Across the table, the Lord High Admiral had roared with laughter. Then, still chuckling, he said: “Only difference is that the people of the City of Rome agree with John of England, not with Kyril of Byzantium. And have for seven centuries or thereabouts. Wasn’t it King Henry III who was the first Holy Roman Emperor, Your Highness?”
The Lord High Admiral, Richard knew, was giving Lord Sefton a chance to recover himself. “That’s correct,” he said. “Elected in 1280. But he didn’t become King Henry until ‘83, when John II died. Let’s see… the next four Kings were elected Emperor, then, after the end of the First Baltic War in 1420, when Harold I was on the Throne, the Imperial Crown was declared to be hereditary in the Anglo-French Kings and the Plantagenet line. So Richard the Great was actually the first to inherit the office and title.”
“Well,” said Lord Sefton, apparently himself again, “I don’t suppose it matters much what Kyril wants to call himself. I mean, after all, does it? Long as he does his part in the Mediterranean.
“Speaking of which, I suppose we shall have to find a way to come to some understanding with the Osmanlis, too, on this.”
“Oh, yes. We’ll certainly have to get an agreement with the Sultan.” Not for the first time that evening, Richard wondered whatever had possessed his brother the King to appoint Sefton as Secretary for Foreign Affairs. The man was not very bright; he was certainly slow on the uptake; and he had a provincial air of superiority over anyone and anything that he could classify as “foreign.” Well, whatever the King’s reasons, they were good ones; if there was more to this than appeared on the surface, the Royal Duke had no desire to even speculate on what it was. If John wanted him to know, he would be told. If not… well, that was the business of His Most Dread and Sovereign Majesty the King.
On the other hand, Peter de Valera ap Smith, Lord High Admiral of the Imperial Navy, Commander of the Combined Fleets, Knight Commander of the Order of the Golden Leopard, and Chief of Staff for Naval Operations, was a known quantity. He was a man of middle age, with dark, curly hair that showed traces of gray. His forehead was high and craggy, his eyes heavy-lidded and deep-set beneath thick, bushy eyebrows, his nose large, wide, and slightly twisted, as though it had been broken and allowed to heal without the services of a Healer. The moustache over his wide, straight mouth was thick and bushy, spreading out to either side like a cat’s whiskers. The beard was full but cut short, and was as wiry and curly as his moustache. His voice, even when muted, sounded as though its slightly rasping baritone should be bellowing orders from a quarterdeck.
On first meeting the Lord High Admiral, one got the impression of forbidding ruthlessness and remorseless purpose; it required a little time to find that these qualities were modified by both wisdom and humor. He was a man with tremendous inner power and the ability to control and use it both wisely and well.
The three men were sitting around a large table in a well-appointed drawing room, waiting for a fourth man to return. It had been one of those warm late spring days when no air moves and nothing else wants to. Not oppressively hot—just warm enough to enervate and to cause attacks of acute vernal inertia. In spite of that, the four men had worked hard all day, and now, in the late evening, they were relaxing over drinks and cigars.
At least, three of them were.
“Where the Devil is Vauxhall?” Lord Sefton asked. “He’s been an infernally long time about getting that leather envelope.”
Prince Richard glanced at his wristwatch. “He does seem to be taking his time. Would you be a good fellow, my lord, and go see what’s delaying him? It’s not like Lord Vauxhall to keep people waiting.”
“Certainly, Your Highness.” Lord Sefton rose and left the room.
“I thought for a moment,” said the Lord High Admiral with a grin, “that you were going to say it was not like Lord Vauxhall to dally, and I was going to ask in what sense you meant the word.”
Duke Richard laughed. “No comment.”
A few minutes later, Lord Sefton returned, looking worried. “Can’t seem to find him, Your Highness,” he said. “Looked everywhere. Chap seems to have disappeared.”
“Everywhere?”
“Library, office, and so on. Went upstairs and checked his bedroom and bathroom. Didn’t search the whole house, of course. Might be in the kitchen, getting a snack or something. Perhaps we ought to turn out the servants?”
“Not just yet, I think,” said the Lord High Admiral. He was looking out the west window. “Would you come here a moment, Your Highness?”
Duke Richard walked over to the window, followed by Lord Sefton.
Lord Peter pointed out the window. “Isn’t that Lord Vauxhall’s summer cottage, just beyond the little grove of trees?”
“Yes. That’s what he calls it,” said His Highness. “It looks as though every light in the place were on. How odd.” He frowned. “Lord Sefton, you stay here and wait, in case Lord Vauxhall should return. The Admiral and I will take a stroll down there and see what’s going on.”
The “summer cottage” was a quarter of a mile away from the main house on the Vauxhall estate. The two men took a flagstoned pathway that went down a gentle grassy slope and through the grove of trees. Halfway up the sky, a gibbous moon leered balefully at the world beneath, casting a weird silvery radiance over the landscape, making ghostly glimmerings between the shadows of the trees.
“All the lights are on, all right,” said Lord Peter as they approached the small house. “All the drapes drawn back. Looks as if there were a party going on, except it’s far too quiet.”
“No fear,” said the Duke, “if it were one of Vauxhall’s parties, we’d have heard it long before now.” He went up the four steps to the front door and knocked loudly. “Vauxhall! Lord Vauxhall! It is I! De Normandy!”
“Belay that, Your Highness,” said the Admiral. “It won’t do any good. Look here.”
The Lord High Admiral was standing to one side, looking through the big window to the left of the door.
“You seem to find a great deal by looking through windows, Lord Peter,” Prince Richard grumbled. But when he looked, he had nothing to say. His face seemed to freeze, and the Lord High Admiral fancied for a moment that it looked like the handsome face on the famous marble statue of Robert, Prince of Britain, who had died so tragically young in 1708.
The body of Lord Vauxhall was lying on its back in front of the fireplace, its dead, glazed eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling overhead. In the outstretched right hand was a heavy .44 calibre MMP, the Imperial service pistol.
After what seemed a terribly long time, Prince Richard spoke. His voice, while perfectly calm, had a curiously distant quality about it. “I see the body, but are you sure it’s he? Where is the Lord Vauxhall whose dashing good looks fascinated the grand ladies of half the courts of Europe?”
“It is he,” the Lord High Admiral said grimly. “I knew his father when I was a boy.”
For the face of the corpse was that of an old, old man. Lord Vauxhall had
aged half a century in less than an hour.
* * *
Lord Darcy, Officer of the King’s Justice and Chief Investigator for His Royal Highness de Normandy, was in his sitting room, firmly planted in an easy chair, wearing one of his favorite dressing gowns—the crimson silk—smoking his favorite pipe—the big, straight-stemmed meerschaum—and reading his favorite newspaper—the London Courier.
Outside the half-opened window, what little breeze there was brought the faint sounds of a city which had prepared itself for sleep—small, unidentifiable sounds from the streets of Rouen. In the distance, a late night omnibus rolled over the pavement, drawn by its six-horse team.
Lord Darcy reached for the nightcap Ciardi had prepared and took a long sip of the cool drink. He had only a vague idea of what Ciardi put in the thing—rum, he knew, and lime juice and Spanish orange-blossom honey, but there were other things as well. He never asked. Let Ciardi have his little secrets; the man was far too good a servant to upset by excessive indulgence in the satisfaction of one’s own curiosity. Hmmm. Did he detect, perhaps, just the slightest touch of anise? Or was it…
His thoughts were distracted by the increased loudness of horses’ hooves in the street one story below. He had been aware of their approach for some seconds now, he realized, but now they sounded as if they were going to go right by the house. Had there been only one or two, at a slow canter, he would have paid no attention, but there were at least seven horses, and they were moving quite rapidly.
Good heavens, what a din, he thought. You ‘d think it was a troop of cavalry going by. He was torn between his natural curiosity to see who these late night riders were and the feeling of lassitude and comfort that made it seem like a terrible effort to get up and go to the window.
It seemed quite clear that comfort had won over curiosity—just when the horses pulled up to a halt in front of the house. Lord Darcy was on his feet and out of his chair to the window in as close to nothing flat as was humanly possible.
By the time the imperturbable Ciardi arrived, his lordship was already dressed.
“My lord…” Ciardi began.
“Yes, Ciardi; I know. It really was a troop of cavalry.”
“Yes, my lord. Lieutenant Coronel Edouin Danvers, commanding the Duke of Normandy’s Own 18th Heavy Dragoons, presents his compliments. He requested me to give you this.” He handed over an envelope. “He says he will wait, my lord.”
Lord Darcy tore open the envelope and read the short letter.
“Ciardi, rouse Master Sean. Then rouse Gabriel and tell him to get the light carriage ready. Master Sean and I will be accompanying Coronel Danvers to Lord Vauxhall’s estate—that’s five miles out of the city, on the River Road toward Paris. I don’t know how long we shall be there, so I’m taking my traveling case. If we need anything more, I shall send word. Did you offer the Coronel a drink?”
“Yes, my lord. He took ouiskie and water, and I left him with the decanter on the sideboard. Will there be anything else, my lord?”
“Not at the moment. I shall go down and talk to the Coronel.”
Lieutenant Coronel Danvers was a spare man of medium height with a clipped, dark, military moustache and a tanned face; he looked alert and wide awake, neatly turned out in crisp field dress. He turned round from the sideboard as the tall, handsome Chief Investigator entered the downstairs receiving room.
“Evening, Lord Darcy. Get you out of bed, did I? Sorry. Orders, you know. Have a little ouiskie; fix you right up.”
“No, thanks, Coronel. I see Ciardi has thoughtfully prepared the caffe service. As soon as the water’s hot, I’ll make a pot.”
“Never drink caffe after noon, myself, my lord. Fine stuff in the morning, though. Fine stuff.”
“Yes. See here, Danvers, what the devil is this all about?”
“Be damned if I know, my lord.” Coronel Danvers looked genuinely surprised. “Expected you’d tell me. Thought perhaps His Highness put it all down in that letter I brought, eh? No? Well, all I was told was to fetch you and Master Sean and Dr. Pateley and Chief Master-at-Arms Donal Brennan and a Journeyman Sorcerer named Torquin Scoll and a troop of fifty horsemen.” He turned back to the sideboard, added ouiskie and water to his glass, and went on: “I came for you and Master Sean, and sent Captain Broun and Senior Captain Delgardie after the others. They’ll be joining us on the road.”
“Wait a second,” Lord Darcy said, “I’m missing data here. You weren’t out at Vauxhall’s with His Highness?”
“Oh, no! Rather not.” He shook his massive head. “I was at home when Sir Ramsey came charging into my yard as though the Hunnish cavalry were after him to deliver those letters from His Highness. Didn’t stay; said he was heading back out.”
The copper kettle over the gas flame was bubbling happily now. Lord Darcy poured boiling water into the silver funnel that held freshly-ground caffe and watched as the dark liquid filtered through. “Somebody’s hurt or dead,” he said, more to himself than to Coronel Danvers, “and perhaps a crime’s been committed. That would account for calling in Master Sean, Dr. Pateley and myself. And Chief Donal. But why fifty horsemen? And why does he need two magicians?”
“That’s a good question, me lord,” said a voice from the door. “Why does His Grace need two magicians? Who’s the other one?”
The short, sturdy figure in sorcerer’s robes was Master Sean O Lochlainn, Chief Forensic Sorcerer for the Duchy of Normandy.
The Coronel spoke before Lord Darcy could. “Ah! Evening, Master Sean! Got you out of bed, did I?”
“ ‘Fraid you did, Coronel Danvers.” Master Sean stopped a yawn.
“Terribly sorry. Here, though; I’m fixing myself a bit of ouiskie and splash; let me fix you one. Best thing for you, this time of night.”
“No, thanks, Coronel; I’ll have some of the caffe his lordship is making. What other magician, my lord?”
“Journeyman Torquin Scoll, according to the Coronel.”
“Oh. The locksman. Good man, in his field. He’s a nut on locks. Absolutely dotes on ‘em, me lord. Couldn’t cast a simple preservative spell over a prune, he couldn’t—but give him a simple padlock, and he’ll have it singing the Imperial Anthem in four-part harmony in five minutes.”
“Interesting,” said Lord Darcy, handing Master Sean a cup of caffe. “Opens up all kinds of speculations. Far too many, in fact. For now, we’ll just have to—”
He was interrupted by the entrance of the tall, lean, silver-haired Ciardi. “Your carriage is ready, my lord. I took the liberty of packing a basket of refreshments, my lord, just in case. Your traveling case is in the luggage compartment. As is yours, Master Sean, along with your instrument bag.”
“Thank you, Ciardi,” said Master Sean. With the obvious exception of Lord Darcy himself, Ciardi was the only man in the world that Master Sean would trust to handle the symbol-decorated carpetbag that carried the instruments and tools of his profession.
“Excellent, Ciardi,” Lord Darcy said. “Shall we finish our caffe and be off, then, gentlemen?”
The Coronel downed his drink. “I’ll get my men ready, my lord.”
* * *
As the cavalcade moved through the gates of the Vauxhall estate some time later, Lord Darcy remarked: “Frankly, what I miss are the flags and banners, the band music and the cheering crowds.”
Master Sean, seated across from him in the carriage, lifted both brows. “Beg your pardon, me lord?”
“Well, I mean, after all, my dear Sean, if we’re going to have a parade, we should do it properly. The Duke’s Own should be in full dress, with sabres, not field dress, with sidearms. The dozen Armsmen should be wearing full decorations. And, above all, we should be going at a leisurely, dignified pace, at high noon, not galloping along in the middle of the night, as though we were fleeing the country. No, no; I fear that, as a parade, it has left a great deal to be desired.”
Master Sean grinned. “As your cousin de London would say, me lord, ‘Most unsatisfa
ctory.’ ”
“Precisely. Ho! We’re stopping.” Lord Darcy put his head out the window, looking toward the head of the column. “It’s His Highness. He’s talking to Coronel Dan vers, gesturing all around, as if he were including the whole countryside. What the devil is going on? Come along, Master Sean.”
Lord Darcy opened the carriage door and climbed out, followed by the stout little Irish sorcerer. He didn’t bother to give any instructions to Gabriel; that tough old horse handler would know what to do.
The Chief Sergeant Major with Coronel Danvers took a small pipe from his jacket pocket and sounded Officers Assemble, followed by Senior NCOs Assemble. The Coronel and the CSM trotted their mounts out to a broad section of the lawn, and were joined by seven other dragoons.
“This night will be one the troops will remember, regardless of what happens next,” Lord Darcy said with a low chuckle as he and Master Sean walked toward where His Royal Highness was now talking to Chief Master-at-Arms Donal Brennan.
“How’s that, me lord?”
“They’re top heavy,” his lordship said. “We’ve got two squadrons with us. Out there, you have two lieutenants as squadron commanders and a captain as troop commander, which is all very fine. You’ve got two squadron sergeants and the troop first sergeant. Still fine. But, in addition, you have the regimental commander, the regimental exec, and the regimental CSM, who will be running all around trying to get something done while trying not to give any orders except to the captain in charge of the troop. The CSM can’t even do that, so he’ll be trying not to tell the first what to do. Oh, it will be fun, all right.” He chuckled again. “It will be all right here, where the gas lamps by the driveway give plenty of light, but wait till they’re milling about in those woods with nothing but a three-quarter moon overhead.”
Master Sean frowned. “Why would they be milling about in the woods, me lord?”
“Searching for something or somebody. Surely you noticed that every man Jack of ‘em has a search lamp slung at his saddle. Lieutenant Coronel Edouin Danvers didn’t tell me everything he knew. Which is all right; we’ll get it straight from His Highness now.”
Lord Darcy Investigates Page 11
