Lord Darcy Investigates

by Randall Garrett

  “Have you ever been involved in a murder investigation?”

  “No, but—”

  “Well, again with apologies, Trainmaster, I have. I’m a trained forensic sorcerer. The investigators aren’t going to like it if we go tramping in there, destroying clues. Do you have a chirurgeon on board?”

  “Yes; the train chirurgeon, Dr. Vonner. But how do you know it’s murder?”

  “It’s not suicide,” the sorcerer said flatly. “His head was beaten repeatedly by that heavy, silver-headed walking-stick there on the floor. A man doesn’t kill himself that way, and he doesn’t do it accidentally. Send Tonio for the chirurgeon.”

  Dr. Vonner, it turned out, had had some experience with legal cases and knew what to do—and, more important, what not to do. He said, after examination, that not only was Peabody dead but, in his opinion, had been dead for at least an hour. Then he said that if he was needed no further, he was going back to bed. The Trainmaster let him go.

  “It’s nearly two hours yet to Genova,” the sorcerer said. “We won’t be able to notify the authorities until then. But that’s all right; nobody can get off the train while it’s at speed, and I can put a preservative spell over the body and an avoidance spell on the compartment.”

  A voice from behind the sorcerer said: “Should I not give the poor fellow the Last Rites of Holy Mother Church?”

  The Irishman turned and shook his head. “No, Father. He’s quite dead now, and that can wait. If there’s any Black Magic involved in this killing, your work could dissipate all trace of it, destroying what might be a valuable clue.”

  “I see. Very well. Shall I fetch you your bag?”

  “If you would be so good, Reverend Sir.”

  The bag was brought, and the sorcerer went about his work. The preservative spell, cast with a night-black wand, was quickly done; the body would remain in stasis until the authorities finished their investigation. The sorcerer noted down the time carefully, checking his wristwatch against that of the Trainmaster.

  The avoidance spell was somewhat more involved, requiring the use of a smoking thurible and two wands, but when it was finished, no one would enter that room, or even look into it of his own free will. “You’d best relock that door, Trainmaster,” said the Irish sorcerer. He looked down at the floor. “As for that stain, Tonio has already walked through it, but we’d best not have any more people do so. Would you be so good as to tell the others to stay away from this area until we get to Genova, Sir Stanley?”

  “Certainly, Master Sorcerer.”

  “Thank you. I’ll put me bag away now.”

  13

  The sorcerer put his symbol-decorated carpetbag down on the floor while his compartment-mate closed the door behind them.

  “Now that’s what I call stayin’ in character, me lord,” said Sean O Lochlainn, Chief Forensic Sorcerer for His Royal Highness, the Duke of Normandy.

  “What? Oh, you mean offering to perform the Last Rites?” Lord Darcy, the Duke’s Chief Investigator, smiled. “It’s what any real priest would have done, and I knew you’d get me off the hook.” When he did come up out of character, he looked much younger, in spite of the disguising white hair and beard.

  “Well, I did what I could, me lord. Now I suppose there’s nothing for us to do but wait until we get to Genova, where the Italian authorities can straighten this out.”

  His lordship frowned. “I am afraid we shall have to do more than that, my dear Sean. Time is precious. We absolutely must get that Naval treaty to Athens in time. That means we have to be in Brindisi by ten o’clock tonight. And that means we have to catch that Napoli-Brindisi local, which leaves fifteen minutes after the Napoli Express gets into the station. I don’t know what the Genovese authorities will do, but if they don’t hold us up in Genova, they most certainly will when we reach Rome. They’ll cut the car off and hold the whole lot of us until they do solve it. Even if we were to go through all the proper channels and prove who we are and what we’re up to, it would take so long that we’d miss that train.”

  Now Master Sean looked worried. “What do we do if it isn’t solved by then, in spite of everything we do?”

  Lord Darcy’s face became impassive. “In that case, I shall be forced to leave you. ‘Father Armand Brun’ would perforce disappear, evading the Roman Armsmen and becoming a fugitive—undoubtedly accused of the murder of one John Peabody. I would have to get to Brindisi by myself, under cover. It would be difficult in the extreme, for the Italians are very sharp indeed at that sort of work.”

  “I would be with you, me lord,” Master Sean said stoutly.

  Lord Darcy shook his head. “No. What would be difficult for one man would be impossible for two—especially two who had been known to have escaped together. ‘Master Seamus Kilpadraeg’ is a bona fide sorcerer, with bona fide papers from the Duke of Normandy and, ultimately, from the King himself. ‘Father Armand’ is a total phony. You can stick it out; I can’t. Unless, of course, I want to explode our whole mission.”

  “Then me lord, we must solve the case,” the magician said simply. “Where do we start?”

  His lordship smiled, sighed, and sat down on the lower bed. “Now, that’s more like it, my dear Sean. We start with everything we know about Peabody. When did you first notice him?”

  “As I came aboard the train, me lord. I saw the walking-stick he carried. On an ordinary stick there is a decorative silver ring about two inches down from the handle. The ring on his stick was a good four inches below the silver head, the perfect length for the hilt on a sword stick. Just above the ring is an inconspicuous black stud that you press with your thumb to release the hilt from the scabbard.”

  Lord Darcy nodded silently. He had noticed the weapon.

  “Then there was his limp,” Master Sean continued. “A man with a real limp walks with the same limp all the time. He doesn’t exaggerate it when he’s walking slowly, then practically lose it when he’s in a hurry.”

  “Ah! I hadn’t noticed that,” his lordship admitted. “It is difficult to judge the quality of a man’s limp when he is trying to move about on a lurching train car, and I observed him at no other time. Very good! And what did you deduce from that?”

  “That the limp was an excuse to carry the stick.”

  “And I dare say you are right. That he needed that stick as a weapon, or thought he would, and was not used to carrying it.”

  Master Sean frowned. “How so, me lord?”

  “Otherwise, he would either have perfected his limp or not used a limp at all.” Lord Darcy paused, then: “Anything else?”

  “Only that he carried his small suitcase to lunch with him, and that he always sat in the lounge on the first couch, where he could watch the door of his compartment,” Master Sean said. “I think he was afraid someone would steal his suitcase, me lord.”

  “Or something in it,” Lord Darcy amended.

  “What would that be, me lord?”

  “If we knew that, my dear Sean, we’d be a great deal closer to solving this problem than we are at this moment. We—” He stopped suddenly and put his finger to his lips. There were footsteps in the passageway again. Not as loud this time, for the men were wearing slippers instead of boots, but the doors could be heard opening and closing.

  “I think the convention has started again,” Lord Darcy said quietly. He walked over to the door. By the time he was easing it open, he had again donned the character of an elderly priest. He opened the door almost noiselessly.

  Sir Stanley, facing down the car toward the lounge, had his back to Lord Darcy. Through the windows beyond him, the Ligurian countryside rushed by in the darkness.

  “Standing guard, Sir Stanley?” Lord Darcy asked mildly.

  Sir Stanley turned. “Guard? Oh, no, Father. The rest of us are going into the lounge to discuss this. Would you and Master Seamus join us?”

  “I would be glad to. You, Master Sorcerer?”

  Master Sean blinked, and, after a moment, said: “
Certainly, Father.”

  14

  “Are you absolutely certain it was murder?” Gwiliam Hauser’s voice was harsh.

  Master Sean O Lochlainn leaned back in the couch and narrowed his eyes at Hauser. “Absolutely certain? No, sir. Can you tell me, sir, how a man can have the whole front of his head smashed in while lying on a lower berth? Unless it is murder? If so, then I may reconsider my statement that I am reasonably certain that it was murder.”

  Hauser stroked his dark-streaked white beard. “I see. Thank you, Master Sorcerer.” His sharp eyes looked round at the others in the lounge. “Did any of you—any of you—see anything at all that looked suspicious last night?”

  “Or hear anything?” Lord Darcy added.

  Hauser gave him a quick glance. “Yes. Or hear anything.”

  The others all looked at each other. Nobody said a word.

  Finally, the too-handsome Mac Kay leaned back in his chair at the table near the bar and said: “Uh, Father, you and the Master Sorcerer had the compartment next to Peabody’s. Didn’t either of you hear anything?”

  “Why, yes, we did,” Lord Darcy said mildly. “We both remarked upon it.”

  All eyes in the lounge were focused on him now, with the exception of Master Sean’s. The sorcerer was watching the others.

  “Beginning at about twenty minutes after ten last night,” Lord Darcy continued in the same mild voice, “and continuing for about an hour and a half, there was an absolute parade of footsteps up and down that passageway. There was much conversation and soft rappings at doors. There were knockings on the door of Peabody’s compartment more than a dozen times. Other than that, I heard nothing out of the usual.”

  The three second silence was broken by Sir Stanley. “We were just walking around, talking. Visiting, you know.”

  Zeisler was over at the bar, drinking caffe. Master Sean hadn’t seen it this time, but he was certain Tonio had spiked the cup again. “That’s right,” Zeisler said in a sudden voice. “Talking. I couldn’t sleep, myself. Had a nap this afternoon. Went visiting. Seems nobody else could sleep, either.”

  Boothroyd nodded. “I couldn’t sleep, either. Noisy damn train.”

  At that point all the others joined in—the words were different, but the agreement was there.

  “And Peabody couldn’t sleep either?” Lord Darcy’s voice was bland.

  “No, he couldn’t,” said Sir Stanley gruffly.

  “I didn’t know any of you knew the gentleman.” Lord Darcy’s voice was soft, his eyes mild, his manner gentle. “I did notice none of you spoke to him during the day.”

  “I recognized him,” Zeisler said. The ouiskie wasn’t slowing his brain down much. “Chap I used to know. Didn’t get his name, and didn’t recognize him at first, what with the beard. Didn’t used to wear a beard, you see. So I went to talk to him—renew old acquaintance, you know. Bit shy at first, but we got along. He wanted to talk to the other chaps, so—” He gestured with one hand, leaving the sentence unfinished.

  “I see.” His lordship smiled benevolently. “Then which of you was the last to see him alive?”

  Hauser looked at Jason Quinte. “Was that you, Quinte?”

  “Me? No, I think it was Val.”

  “No, Mac talked to him after I did.”

  “But then Sharpie went back in, didn’t you, Sharpie?”

  “Yes, but I thought Simon—”

  And so it went. Lord Darcy listened with a sad but benevolent smile on his face. After five minutes, it was obvious that they could not agree on who had seen Peabody last, and that not one of them wanted to own up to it.

  Finally, Gavin Tailleur stood up from his seat in the rearward couch. His face was paler than usual, making the scar more conspicuous. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but it’s obvious I am not going to get any more sleep tonight. I am tired of wandering about in my nightclothes. I’m going back and put some clothes on.”

  Valentine Herrick, his bright red hair looking badly mussed, said: “Well, I’d like to get some sleep, myself, but…”

  Lord Darcy, in a voice that seemed soft but still carried, said: “It doesn’t much matter what we do now; we won’t get any sleep after we reach Genova, and we might as well be prepared for it.”

  15

  Master Sean wanted to talk privately with Lord Darcy. For one thing, he wanted to know why his lordship had permitted all the passengers in the car to get together to compare stories when the proper procedure would be to get them alone and ask them questions separately. Granted, here in Italy Lord Darcy had no authority to question them, and, granted, he was playing the part of a priest, but—damn it!—he should have done something.

  But no, he just sat there on the forward sofa, smiling, watching, listening, and saying very little, while the other passengers sat around and talked or drank or both.

  There was quite a bit of caffe consumed, but the ouiskie, brandy, wine, and beer were not neglected, either. Master Sean and Lord Darcy stuck to caffe.

  Tonio didn’t seem to mind. He had to stay up all night, anyway, and at least he wasn’t bored.

  Just before the train reached Genova, the Trainmaster returned. He took off his hat and asked for the gentlemen’s attention.

  “Gentlemen, we are approaching Genova. Normally, if you happened to be awake, you could take advantage of the hour stopover to go to the restaurant or tavern, although most people sleep through this stop.

  “I am afraid, however, that I shall have to insist that you all remain aboard until the authorities arrive. The doors will not be opened until they get here. I am sorry to inconvenience you in this way, but such is my duty.”

  There were some low mutterings among the men, but nobody said anything to contradict Trainmaster Edmund.

  “Thank you, gentlemen,” the Trainmaster said. “I shall do my best to see that the authorities get their work over with as promptly as possible.” He returned his hat to his head and departed.

  “Technically,” Boothroyd said, “I suppose we’re all under arrest.”

  “No,” Hauser growled. “We are being detained for questioning. Not quite the same thing. We’re only here as witnesses.”

  One of us isn’t, Master Sean thought. And wondered how many others were thinking the same thing. But nobody said anything.

  The Genovese Armsmen were surprisingly prompt. Within fifteen minutes after the train’s brakes had made their last hissing sigh, a Master-at-Arms, two Sergeants-at-Arms, and four Armsmen had come aboard. All were in uniform.

  This was merely the preliminary investigation. Names were taken and brief statements were written down by the Master and one of the Sergeants, apparently the only ones of the seven who spoke Anglo-French with any fluency. Master Sean and Lord Darcy both spoke Italian, but neither said anything about it. No need to volunteer information that wasn’t asked for.

  It was while the preliminary investigation was going on that the two Norman law officers found where each of the other twelve were billeted.

  Compartment No. 3—Maurice Zeisler; Sidney Charpentier

  Compartment No. 4—Martyn Boothroyd; Gavin Tailleur

  Compartment No. 5—Simon Lamar; Arthur Mac Kay

  Compartment No. 6—Valentine Herrick; Charles Jamieson

  Compartment No. 7—Jason Quinte; Lyman Vandepole

  Compartment No. 8—Sir Stanley Galbraith; Gwiliam Hauser

  Number Two, of course, contained “Armand Brun” and “Seamus Kilpadraeg” and John Peabody had been alone in Number One.

  The uniformed Master-at-Arms made a short, polite bow to Master Sean. Since he was armed by the sword at his side, he did not remove his hat. “Master Sorcerer, I believe it was you who so kindly put the avoidance spell and the preservation spell on the deceased one?”

  “Aye, Master Armsman, I am.”

  “I must ask you to remove the avoidance spell, if you please. It is necessary that I inspect the body in order to determine that death has, indeed, taken place.”


  “Oh, certainly. Certainly. Me bag is in me compartment. Won’t take but a minute.”

  As they went down the passageway, Master Sean saw Trainmaster Edmund standing patiently by the door of Number One, holding the key in his hand. The sorcerer knew what the Armsman’s problem was. A death had been reported, but, so far, he hadn’t seen any real evidence of it. Even if the Trainmaster had unlocked the door, the spell would have kept both men out, and, indeed, kept them from even looking into the compartment.

  Master Sean got his symbol-decorated carpetbag out of Number Two, and told Trainmaster Edmund: “Unlock it, Trainmaster—and then let me have a little room to work.”

  The Trainmaster unlocked the door, but did not open it. He and the Master-at-Arms stood well back, in front of Number Three. Master Sean noticed with approval that a Man-at-Arms was standing at the far end of the passageway, in front of Number Eight, facing the lounge, blocking the way.

  Himself being immune to his own avoidance spell, Master Sean looked all around the compartment. Everything was as he had left it. He looked down at the body. The blood still looked fresh, so the preservative spell had been well cast—not that the stout little Irish sorcerer had ever doubted it, but it was always best to check.

  He looked down at the floor near his feet. The blood which had leaked out into the passageway was dark and dried. It had not, he noticed, been disturbed since Tonio had tromped through it. Good.

  Master Sean placed his carpetbag carefully on the floor and took from it a small bronzen brazier with tripod legs. He put three lumps of willow charcoal in it, set it on the floor in the doorway, and carefully lit the charcoal. When it was hot and glowing, he took a pinch of powder from a small glass phial and dropped it on the coals. A spiral of aromatic smoke curled upwards. The magician’s lips moved silently.

  Then he took a four-by-four inch square of white paper from his bag and folded it in a curious and intricate manner. Murmuring softly, he dropped it on the coals, where it flared into orange flame and subsided into gray ash.