Lord Darcy Investigates

by Randall Garrett

  After a moment, he took a bronze lid from among his paraphernalia and fitted it to the brazier to smother the coals. He picked up the brazier by one leg and moved it aside. Then he stood up and looked at the Armsman. “There you are, Master Armsman; it’s all yours.” Then he gestured. “Watch the bloodstain, here, and watch that brazier. It’s still hot.”

  The Master-at-Arms went in, looked at the remains of John Peabody and touched one wrist. He wrote in a notebook. Then he came out. “Lock it up again, Trainmaster. I can now state that a man identified as one John Peabody is dead, and that there is reason to believe that a felony has been committed.”

  Trainmaster Edmund looked surprised. “Is that all?”

  “For now,” the Armsmaster said. “Lock it up, and give me the key.”

  The Trainmaster locked the compartment, saying as he did so: “I can’t give you a duplicate. We don’t keep them around for security reasons. If a passenger loses one—” He took the key from the lock. “—we get a duplicate either from the Paris office or the Napoli office. I’ll have to give you one of my master keys. And I’ll want a receipt for it.”

  “Certainly. How many master keys do you have?”

  “For this car? Two. This one, here, and one that’s locked in my office forward for emergencies.”

  “See that it stays locked up. This key, then, is a master for this car only?”

  “Oh, yes. Each car has separate lock sets. What are you doing, Master Sorcerer?” The Trainmaster looked puzzled.

  Master Sean was kneeling by the door, the fingers of his right hand touching the lock, his eyes closed. “Just checking.” The sorcerer stood up. “I noticed your lock spell on my own lock when I first used my key. Commercial, but very tight and well-knit. No wonder you don’t keep duplicates aboard. Even an exact duplicate wouldn’t work unless it was attuned to the spell. May I see that master key, Armsmaster? Thank you. Mmmmm. Yes. Thank you again.” He handed the key back.

  “What were you checking just now?” the Trainmaster asked.

  “I wanted to see if the spell had been tampered with,” Master Sean explained. “It hasn’t been.”

  “Thank you, Master Sorcerer,” the Master-at-Arms said, making a note in his notebook. “And thank you, Trainmaster. That will be all for now.”

  The three of them went on back to the lounge.

  There was an empty space on the sofa next to Lord Darcy—who was still playing “Father Armand” to the hilt—so Master Sean walked over and sat beside him.

  “How are things going, Father?” he asked in a low, conversational tone. In the relative quiet of the stationary car, it was easier to talk in soft voices without seeming to whisper.

  “Interestingly,” Lord Darcy murmured. “I haven’t heard everything, of course, but I’ve been listening. They seem to be finished now.”

  At that moment, one of the Sergeants-at-Arms said, in Italian: “Master Armsman, here comes the Praefect.”

  Master Sean, like the Armsmaster, turned his head to look out the window. Then he looked quickly away.

  “Our goose is cooked,” he said very softly to Lord Darcy. “Look who’s coming.”

  “I did. I don’t know him.”

  “I do. It’s Cesare Sarto. And he knows me.”

  16

  The Roman Praefecture of Police has no exact counterpart in any other unit of the Empire. As elsewhere, every Duchy in Italy has its own organization of Armsmen which enforces the law within the boundaries of that Duchy. The Roman Praefecture is an instrumentality of the Italian Parliament to coordinate the efforts of these organizations.

  The Praefects’ powers are limited. Even in the Principality of Latium, where Rome is located, they have no police powers unless they have been called in by the local authorities. (Although a “citizen’s arrest” by a Roman Praefect carries a great deal more weight than such an arrest by an ordinary civilian.)

  They wear no uniforms; their only official identification is a card and a small golden shield with the letters SPQR above a bas-relief of the Capitoline Wolf, with a serial number and the words Praefecture of Police below her.

  Their record for cases solved and convictions obtained is high, their record for violence low. These facts, plus the always gentlemanly or ladylike behavior of every Praefect, has made the Roman Praefecture of Police one of the most prestigious and honored bodies of criminal investigators on the face of the Earth.

  In the gaslight of the train platform, Cesare Sarto waited as the Master-of-Arms came out of the car to greet him. Master Sean kept his face averted, but Lord Darcy watched carefully.

  Sarto was a man of medium height with dark hair and eyes and a neatly-trimmed mustache. He was of average build, but carried himself like an athlete. There was power and speed in that well-muscled body. His face, while not exactly handsome, was strong and showed character and intelligence.

  After a few minutes, he came into the car. He had a suitcase in one hand and a notebook in the other. He put the suitcase on the floor and looked around at the fourteen passengers assembled in the lounge. They all watched him, waiting.

  His eyes betrayed no flicker of recognition as they passed over Master Sean’s face.

  Then he said: “Gentlemen, I am Cesare Sarto, an agent of the Roman Praefecture of Police. The Chief Master-at-Arms of the city of Genova has asked me to take charge of this case—at least until we get to Rome.” His Anglo-French was almost without accent.

  “Technically,” he continued, “this is the only way it can be handled. John Peabody was apparently murdered, but we do not yet know whether he was killed in Provence or in Liguria, and until we do, we won’t know who has jurisdiction over the case.

  “As of now, we must act on the assumption that Peabody died after this train crossed the Italian border. Therefore, this train will proceed to Rome. If we have not determined exactly what happened by then, this car will be detached and the investigation will continue. Those of you who can be exonerated beyond doubt will be allowed to go on to Napoli. The others, I fear, will have to be detained.”

  “Do you mean,” Sir Stanley interrupted, “that you suspect one of us?”

  “No one of you individually, sir. Not yet. But all of you collectively, yes. It surely must be obvious, sir, that since Peabody was killed in this car, someone in this car must have killed him. May I ask your name, sir?”

  “Sir Stanley Galbraith,” the gray-haired man said rather curtly.

  Praefect Cesare looked at his notebook. “Ah, yes. Thank you, Sir Stanley.” He looked around at the others. “I have here a list of your names as procured by the Master-at-Arms. In order that I may know you better, I will ask that each of you raise his hand when his name is called.”

  As he called off the names, it was obvious that each man’s name and face were linked permanently in his memory when the hand was raised.

  When he came to “Seamus Kilpadraeg,” he looked the sorcerer over exactly as he had the others, then went on to the next name.

  When he had finished, he said: “Now, gentlemen, I will ask you to go to your compartments and remain there until I call for you. The train will be leaving for Rome in—” He glanced at his wristwatch. “—eighteen minutes. Thank you.”

  Master Sean and Lord Darcy dutifully returned to their compartment.

  “Praefect Cesare,” Lord Darcy said, “is not only highly intelligent, but very quick-minded.”

  “How do you deduce that, me lord?”

  “You said he knew you, and yet he showed no sign of it. Obviously, he perceived that if you were traveling under an alias, you must have a good reason for it. And, you being who you are, that the reason was probably a legitimate one. Rather than betray you in public, he decided to wait until he could talk to you privately. When he does, tell him that Father Armand is your confidant and close friend. Vouch for me, but don’t reveal my identity.”

  “I expect him to be here within minutes.”

  There came a knock on the door.

 
Master Sean slid it open to reveal Praefect Cesare Sarto. “Come in, Praefect,” the sorcerer said. “We’ve been expecting you.”

  “Oh?” Sarto raised an eyebrow. “I would like to talk to you privately, Master Seamus.”

  Master Sean lowered his voice almost to a whisper. “Come in, Cesare. Father Armand knows who I am.”

  The Praefect came in, and Master Sean slid the door shut. “Sean O Lochlainn at your service, Praefect Cesare,” he said with a grin.

  “Sean!” the Praefect grabbed him by both shoulders. “It’s been a long time! You should write more often.” He turned to Lord Darcy. “Pardon me, Padre, but I haven’t seen my friend here since we took a course together at the University of Milano, five years ago. The Admissibility of Certain Magically Derived Evidence in Criminal Jurisprudence’ it was.”

  “That’s all right,” Lord Darcy said. “I’m glad for both of you.”

  The Praefect looked for a moment at the slack-shouldered, white-haired, white-bearded man who peered benignly at him over gold-rimmed half-glasses. Then he looked back at Master Sean. “You say you know the Padre?”

  “Intimately, for many years,” Master Sean said. “Anything you have to say to me can be said in front of Father Armand in perfect confidence. You can trust him as you trust me.”

  “I didn’t mean—” Sarto cut himself off and turned to Lord Darcy. “Reverend Sir, I did not intend to imply that one of the Sacred Clergy was not to be trusted. But this is a murder case, and they’re touchy to handle. Do you know anything about criminology?”

  “I have worked with criminals, and I have heard their confessions many times,” Lord Darcy said with a straight face. “I think I can say I have some insight into the criminal mind.”

  Master Sean, with an equally straight face, said: “I think I can safely say that there are several cases that Lord Darcy might not have solved without the aid of this man here.”

  Praefect Cesare relaxed. “Well! That’s fine, then. Sean, is it any of my business why you’re traveling under an alias?”

  “I’m doing a little errand for Prince Richard. It has nothing whatever to do with John Peabody, so, strictly speaking, it is none of your business. I imagine, though, that if you really had to know, His Highness would give me permission to tell you before any case came to trial.”

  “All right; let that rest for now. There are some other questions I must ask you.”

  The questions elicited the facts that neither Master Sean nor “Father Armand” had ever seen or heard of Peabody before, that neither had ever spoken to him, and that each could account for his time during the night. On being put the direct question, each gave his solemn word that he had not killed Peabody.

  “Very well,” the Praefect said at last, “I’ll accept it as a working hypothesis that you two are innocent. Now, I have a little problem I want you to help me with.”

  “The murder, you mean?” Master Sean asked.

  “In a way, yes. You see, it’s like this: I have never handled a murder case before. My field is fraud and embezzlement. I’m an accountant, not, strictly speaking, an Armsman at all. I just happened to be in Genova, finishing up another case. I was going to go back to Rome on this train, anyway. So I got a teleson call from Rome, telling me to take over until we get there. Rome doesn’t expect me to solve the case; Rome just wants me as a caretaker until the experts can take over.”

  He was silent for a moment, then, suddenly, a white-toothed, almost impish grin came over his face. “But the minute I recognized you, an idea occurred to me. With your experience, we just might be able to clear this up before we get to Rome! It would look good on my record if I succeed, but no black mark if I don’t. I can’t lose, you see. The head of the homicide division, Angelo Ratti, will be waiting for us at the station in Rome, and I’d give half a year’s pay to see the look on his face if I could hand him the killer when I step off.”

  Master Sean gawped. Then he found words. “You mean you want us to help you nail the murderer before we get to Rome?”

  “Exactly.”

  “I think that’s a capital idea,” said Lord Darcy.

  17

  The Napoli Express moved toward Rapello, on its way to Rome. In a little over an hour, it would be dawn. At four minutes of noon, the train would arrive in Rome.

  First on the agenda was a search of the body and the compartment in which it lay. Peabody’s suitcase was in the locker reserved for Lower One, but the key was in the lock, so there was no trouble getting it. It contained nothing extraordinary—only clothes and toilet articles. Peabody himself had been carrying nothing unusual, either—if one excepted the sword-stick. He had some loose change, a gold sovereign, two silver sovereigns, and five gold-sovereign notes. He carried some keys that probably fit his home locks or office locks. A card identified him as Commander John Wycliffe Peabody, Imperial Navy, Retired.

  “I see nothing of interest there,” Praefect Cesare commented.

  “It’s what isn’t there that’s of interest,” Lord Darcy said.

  The Praefect nodded. “Exactly. Where is the key to his compartment?”

  “It appears to me,” Lord Darcy said, “that the killer went in, killed Peabody, took the key, and locked the compartment so that the body wouldn’t be found for a while.”

  “I agree,” Cesare said.

  “Then the murderer might still have the key on him,” Master Sean said.

  “It’s possible.” Praefect Cesare looked glum. “But it’s far more likely that it’s on or near the railroad tracks somewhere between here and Provence.”

  “That would certainly be the intelligent thing to do,” Lord Darcy said. “Should we search for it anyway?”

  “Not just yet, I think. If he kept it, he won’t throw it away now. If not, we won’t find it.”

  Lord Darcy was rather pleased with the Praefect’s answer. It was the one he would have given, had he been in charge. It was rather irksome not to be in charge of the case, but at least Cesare Sarto knew what he was doing.

  “The killer,” the Praefect went on, “had no way of knowing that the blood from Peabody’s scalp would run under the door and into the passageway. Let’s assume it hadn’t. When would the body have been discovered?”

  “Probably not until ten o’clock this morning,” Master Sean said firmly. “I’ve taken this train before, though not with the same crew. The day man—that’s Fred, this trip—comes on at nine. He makes up the beds of those who are already awake, but he doesn’t start waking people up until about ten. It might have been as late as half past ten before Peabody was found.”

  “I see,” said Praefect Cesare. “I don’t see that that gets us any forwarder just yet, but we’ll keep it in mind. Now, we cannot do an autopsy on the body, of course, but I’d like a little more information on those blows and the weapon.”

  “I think I can oblige you, Praefect,” said Master Sean.

  The sorcerer carefully inspected the walking-stick with its concealed blade. “We’ll do this first; it’s the easier job and may give us some clue that will tell us what to do next.”

  From his bag, he took a neatly-folded white cerecloth and spread it over the small nearby table. “First time I’ve done this on a train,” he muttered, half to himself. “Have to watch me balance.”

  The other two said nothing.

  He took out a thin, three-inch, slightly concave golden disk, a pair of tweezers, a small insufflator, and an eight-inch, metallic-looking, blue-gray wand with crystalline sapphire tips.

  With the tweezers, he selected two hairs, one from the dead man and one from the silver head of the stick. He carefully laid them parallel, an inch and a half apart, on the cerecloth. Then he touched each with the wand, murmuring solemn spondees of power under his breath. Then he stood up, well away from the hairs, not breathing.

  Slowly, like two tiny logs rolling toward each other, the hairs came together, still parallel.

  “His hair on the stick, all right,” Master Sean sai
d. “We’ll see about the blood.”

  The only sound in the room except the rumbling of the train was the almost inaudible movement of Sarto’s pen on his notebook.

  A similar incantation, this time using the little golden saucer, showed the blood to be the same.

  “This one’s a little more complex,” Master Sean said. “Since the wounds are mostly on the forward part of the head, I’ll have to turn him over and put him flat on his back. Will that be all right?” He directed the question to the Praefect.

  “Certainly,” Praefect Cesare said. “I have all the notes and sketches of the body’s position when found. Here, I’ll give you a hand.”

  Moving a two-hundred-pound dead body is not easy in the confines of a small compartment, but it would have been much more difficult if Master Sean’s preservative spell had not prevented rigor mortis from setting in.

  “There; that’ll do. Thank you,” the stout little sorcerer said. “Would either of you care to check the wounds visually?”

  They would. Master Sean’s powerful magnifying glass was passed from hand to hand.

  “Bashed in right proper,” Sarto muttered.

  “Thorough job,” Lord Darcy agreed. “But not efficient. Only two or three of those blows were hard enough to kill, and there must be a dozen of them. Peculiar.”

  “Now gentlemen,” the sorcerer said, “we’ll see if that stick actually was the murder weapon.”

  It was a crucial test. Hair and blood had been planted before on innocent weapons. The thaumaturgical science would tell them whether or not it had happened this time.

  Master Sean used the insufflator to blow a cloud of powder over both the area of the wounds and the silver knob on the stick. There was very little of the powder, and it was so fine that the excess floated away like smoke.

  “Now, if you’ll turn that lamp down…”

  In the dim yellow glow of the turned-down wall lamp, almost no details could be seen. All was in shadow. Only the glittering tips of Master Sean’s rapidly moving wand could be seen, glowing with a blue light of their own.