When Lord Darcy and the Duchess entered the front door of Carlyle House, the seneschal who held it open for them murmured, “Good evening, Your Grace, your lordship,” and closed the door quickly to block out the gray tendrils of fog that seemed to want to follow them into the brightly lit hall.
“Good evening, Geffri,” said Her Grace, turning so that the seneschal could help her off with her cloak. “Where is everyone?”
“My lords the Bishops of Winchester and Carlisle have retired, Your Grace. The Benedictine Fathers have gone to St. Paul’s to chant Evensong with the Chapter; they were so good as to inform me that because of the fog they will spend the night at the Chapter House with their brethren. Sir Lyon Grey is remaining at his room in the Royal Steward tonight. Master Sean O Lochlainn has sent word that he is temporarily indisposed.”
“Indisposed!” The Duchess laughed. “I should think so! He will spend the night in the Tower of London, Geffri.”
“So I have been informed, Your Grace,” said the imperturbable seneschal. “Sir Thomas Leseaux,” he continued, taking Lord Darcy’s cloak, “is in the salon. My Lord John Quetzal is upstairs donning his evening attire and should be down shortly. The selection of hot dishes which Your Grace ordered has been placed upon the buffet.”
“Thank you, Geffri. Oh … I have sent the coach to the Palace du Marquis to fetch Lord Darcy’s luggage. Let’s see … where can we put my lord?”
“I should suggest the Lily Suite, Your Grace. It adjoins the Rose Suite and has a communicating door, making it suitable for the transfer thence of Master Sean’s things, if that will be suitable and convenient for his lordship.”
“Perfect, Geffri,” said Lord Darcy. “When my things have been taken up, let me know, will you? I have not had an opportunity to freshen up since I arrived.”
“I shall see that your lordship is notified immediately.”
“Very good. Thank you, Geffri.”
“A pleasure, your lordship.”
“Come, my lord,” said the Duchess, taking his arm, “we’ll go in and have a drink with Sir Thomas to take the chill of the fog out of our bones.”
As the two of them walked toward the salon, Lord Darcy said: “Who are your Benedictine guests?”
“The older one is a Father Quinn, from the north of Ireland.”
“Father Quinn?” Lord Darcy said musingly. “I don’t believe I know him. Who is the other?”
“A Father Patrique of Cherbourg,” said Her Grace. “A remarkable Sensitive and Healer. You must meet him.”
“Father Patrique and I have already met,” said Lord Darcy, “and I must say I agree with your evaluation. It will be a pleasure to see him again.”
They went into the large, high-ceilinged room which served as both salon and dining room. At the far end of the salon, in a large easy chair, his feet outstretched to the warmth of the blaze in the great fireplace, his hand holding a partly-filled goblet, sat a tall, lean man with pale features and with light brown hair brushed straight back from a broad, high forehead.
He rose to his feet as soon as he saw his hostess and Lord Darcy approaching.
“Good evening, Your Grace. Lord Darcy! How good to see you again!” His engaging smile seemed to make his blue-gray eyes sparkle.
Lord Darcy took his outstretched hand. “Good to see you again, Sir Thomas! You’re looking as fit as ever.”
“For a scholar, you mean,” said Sir Thomas with a chuckle. “Here! May I be so bold as to offer you both a splash of our gracious hostess’s excellent brandy?”
“Indeed you may, Sir Thomas,” said the Duchess with a smile. “I feel as though I had fog in every vertebra.”
Sir Thomas went to the sideboard and extracted the glass stopple from the brandy decanter with lean, agile fingers. As he poured the clear, red-brown liquid into two thin-walled brandy goblets, he said: “I was fairly certain you would be here as soon as I heard of Master Sean’s arrest, but I hardly expected you so soon.”
A trace of irony came into Lord Darcy’s smile. “My Lord de London was good enough to send a special messenger across the Channel to relay the news, and I was able to make good train and boat connections.”
Sir Thomas handed each of the others a goblet of brandy. “Is it your intention to put your brilliant brain to work to solve this murder in order to clear Master Sean?”
Lord Darcy laughed. “Far from it. My Lord Marquis would like me to do just that, but I shan’t oblige him. The case is interesting, of course, but my duty lies in Normandy. Just among the three of us—and I ask you to let it go no further until after tomorrow—I intend to get Master Sean out by presenting my cousin de London with a dilemma. For that purpose, I have gathered enough facts to force him to release Master Sean. Then the two of us shall return to Normandy.”
Mary de Cumberland looked at him with an expression that was both hurt and astonished. “You’re returning and taking Master Sean with you? So soon? Shan’t he be permitted to finish Convention Week?”
“I’m afraid not,” Lord Darcy said. There was apology and contriteness in his manner and voice. “We have a murder of our own to solve, Sean and I. I can’t reveal details, and I admit that the case is neither as spectacular nor as … er … notorious as this one, but duty is duty. If the matter can be resolved quickly, of course, Master Sean may be back before the week is out.”
“But what about the paper he was to present?” the Duchess persisted.
“If it is at all possible,” Lord Darcy promised firmly, “I shall see that he gets back. If nothing else, I shall see to it that he gets back Saturday to deliver his paper. That, after all, is a part of his duty as a sorcerer.”
“And you’ll just hand the case right back to Lord Bontriomphe, eh?” asked Sir Thomas.
“I don’t need to hand it back,” said Lord Darcy with a chuckle, “since I did not accept it in the first place. It’s all his, and I wish him luck. He and the Marquis are perfectly capable of its solution, have no fear of that.”
“Without a forensic sorcerer to aid them?” Sir Thomas said.
“They’ll manage,” said Lord Darcy. “The late Sir James Zwinge was not the only capable forensic sorcerer in London. Besides, it is apparent that My Lord Marquis does not feel the need for a good forensic sorcerer. As soon as the second best one was killed, he proceeded to lock up the best one. Hardly the act of a man who was desperate for first-class thaumaturgical advice.”
As the other two laughed quietly, Lord Darcy took a sip from his brandy goblet.
A door at the other end of the room opened.
“Good evening, Your Grace; good evening, gentlemen,” said a warm baritone voice. “I’m terribly sorry. Have I interrupted anything?”
Lord Darcy, too, had turned to look. The newcomer was a handsome young man in crimson and gold evening dress whose distinctive features marked him as Mechicain. This, then, was Lord John Quetzal du Moqtessuma de Mechicoe.
“Not at all, my lord,” said the Duchess, “we have been expecting you. Come in and permit me to introduce our new guest.”
The introductions were made in due form, and Lord John Quetzal’s heavy-lidded eyes brightened as Lord Darcy’s name was spoken.
“It’s a very great pleasure to meet you, my lord,” he said, “though, of course, I deplore the circumstances that bring you here. I do not for a moment believe Master Sean guilty of this terrible crime.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Lord Darcy replied. “And I thank you for Master Sean, too.” Then he added smoothly, “I did not realize that Master Sean’s guilelessness was so transparently obvious that it would be utterly convincing upon such short acquaintance.”
The Mechicain looked rather self-conscious. “Well, it’s not exactly that. Transparent? No, I shouldn’t say that Master Sean is at all transparent. It’s … er—” He hesitated in momentary confusion.
“My Lord John Quetzal’s modesty does him credit,” the Duchess cut in gently. “His is a Talent rare even among sorcerers. He is a wi
tch-smeller.”
“Indeed?” Lord Darcy looked at the young man with increased interest. “I confess that I have never met a sorcerer with that ability before. You can detect, then, the presence of a practitioner of black magic, even at a distance?”
Lord John Quetzal nodded. “Yes, my lord.” He seemed embarrassed, like an adolescent lad who has just been told he is very handsome by a beautiful woman.
Sir Thomas chuckled. “Naturally, Lord Darcy, he would know immediately that Master Sean does not dabble in black magic. To a witch-smeller, that would be instantly apparent.” He turned his smile toward Lord John Quetzal. “When we have some free time together, I should like to discuss theory with you and see how it actually squares with practical results.”
“That … that would be an honor and a pleasure, Sir Thomas,” said the young nobleman. There was an awestruck note in his voice. “But … but I’m very weak in symbological theory. My math isn’t exactly my strong point.”
Sir Thomas laughed. “Don’t worry, my lord; I promise not to smother you in analogy equations. Good Heavens, that’s work! When I am away from my library, I do everything I can to avoid any heavy thinking.”
That, Lord Darcy knew, was not true; Sir Thomas was merely putting the young man at ease. Sir Thomas Leseaux, in spite of his degree of Doctor of Thaumaturgy, was not a practicing sorcerer. He did not possess the Talent to any marked degree. He was a theoretical thaumaturgist who worked with the higher and more esoteric forms of the subjective algebrae, leaving it to others to test his theories in practice. His brilliant mind was capable of grasping symbological relationships that an ordinary sorcerer could only dimly perceive. There were very few Th.D.’s who could follow his abstruse and complex symbolic analogies through to their final conclusions; most Masters of the Art bogged down hopelessly after the first few similarities. Sir Thomas had not been so lacking in awareness as to suppose a mere journeyman could follow his mathematics. On the other hand, he immensely enjoyed discussing the Art with practicing magicians.
“May I ask you a question, my lord?” Lord Darcy asked thoughtfully. “Even though I am not officially involved in the investigation of the murder of Sir James Zwinge, a man in my profession has a certain natural curiosity. I should like to ask you what might be considered a professional question, and”—he smiled—“if you like you may send me a bill for services rendered.”
Lord John Quetzal returned the smile. “If the question requires that I invoke a spell, I shall most certainly bill you—at the usual journeyman’s rates, of course. To do otherwise would impair my standing in the Guild. But if you merely want a professional opinion, I am at your service.”
“Then I shall leave the matter in your hands,” said Lord Darcy. “The question is: Have you detected the presence of a black magician amongst the members of the Convention?”
There was a sudden silence, as if time itself were suspended for a moment. Both Sir Thomas and the Duchess seemed to be holding their breaths, awaiting the young Mechicain nobleman’s answer.
But from Lord John Quetzal there was only a moment of hesitancy. When he spoke, his voice was firm.
“My lord, it is my ambition to study forensic sorcery under the tutelage of a Master. I have, as a matter of course, studied both law enforcement and criminal detection. May I counter your question with one of my own?”
“Certainly,” said Lord Darcy.
Lord John Quetzal compressed his lips for a moment in thought before continuing. “Let us suppose that you personally knew, through the exercise of your own abilities, that a certain man was a criminal—that he had committed a particular crime. But let us further assume that, aside from your own personal knowledge, there was not one shred of proof whatever of the fact. My counter-question is: Would you denounce the man?”
“No,” said Lord Darcy without hesitation. “Your point is well taken. It is nugatory to accuse a man without proof. But a word to the investigating officials, merely to give them a lead so they can discover proof if it exists, is certainly not a public accusation.”
“Perhaps not,” said the young sorcerer slowly. “I shall certainly take your words under advisement. But at the moment I feel that my unsupported word alone is not sufficient evidence even for that.”
“That, of course, is your decision,” the investigator said evenly. “But keep it in mind that if your Talent as a witch-smeller is widely known—if it is known, for instance, to someone whose very life might depend upon your silence—then I should advise you to be very careful that you are not silenced permanently.”
Before Lord John Quetzal could answer, the door to the hall opened and Geffri appeared. “I trust you will pardon the intrusion, Your Grace, but I was instructed to notify his lordship as soon as his lordship’s luggage had been taken to the Lily Suite.”
“Oh, yes; thank you, Geffri,” said Lord Darcy.
“I believe I shall put on my evening clothes, too,” said Her Grace. “Will you excuse me, gentlemen? And pray don’t allow my absence to delay your own supper; help yourselves from the array on the buffet.”
Fifteen minutes later, Lord Darcy, having bathed and shaved, was feeling more human than he had for hours. He took one last look at himself in the full-length mirror that hung on the bedroom wall of the Lily Suite. He made minor adjustments to the silver lace at his throat and wrists, flicked an almost microscopic bit of dust from the coral satin of his dress jacket, and decided he was ready to face the company in a better humor than when he had left them.
Downstairs, the door to the salon was open, and, as he approached it, Lord Darcy could hear Sir Thomas Leseaux’s voice.
“The fact remains, my lord, that Sir James is, after all, dead.”
“Couldn’t it have been suicide, Sir Thomas?” asked Lord John Quetzal. “Or an accident?”
It was inevitable, Lord Darcy thought. Great and brilliant men and women, whose usual conversations were in the realm of ideas, would normally shun gossip or sporting events or even crime—except in the abstract—as topics for an evening’s discourse. But give them a murder—not a commonplace death in a public house brawl, nor a shooting in a robbery, nor a sordid killing in a fit of jealousy, nor an even more sordid sex crime, but an inexplicable death surrounded by mystery—give them a nice, juicy, puzzle of murder, and lo! they can speak of nothing else.
Sir Thomas Leseaux had said, less than half an hour ago, that he wanted to get Lord John Quetzal alone to discuss the theory of magic, with special emphasis on witch-smelling—and now he was saying:
“Accident or suicide? Why, as to that, I don’t know, of course, but the authorities seem to be operating upon the assumption that it is murder.”
“But why? I mean, what reason would anyone have for killing Master Sir James Zwinge? What is the motive?”
“A very good question,” said Lord Darcy as he entered the salon. Only the two men were present. Obviously the Duchess had not yet finished dressing. “As a purely cerebral exercise, I have been pondering that question myself. But don’t let me interrupt you. Pray continue your conversation whilst I sample the selection of goodies on the buffet table.”
“Lord John Quetzal,” said Sir Thomas, “seems to be at a loss for discovering a motive for the murder.”
Lord Darcy looked at the row of copper bowls, each with its small alcohol flame flickering brightly beneath, and lifted the cover of the first. “Ah! Ham!” he said. “Very well, Sir Thomas. What about motive? Who might have wanted him dead?” He put a slice of ham on his plate and opened the next bowl.
Sir Thomas frowned. “No one that I know of,” he said slowly. “He could be quite acerb at times, but he would not willingly have harmed anyone, I think.”
Darcy ladled some hot cherry sauce over his ham. “You know of no threats to kill him? No violent arguments with anyone?”
“Aside from his so-called argument with Master Sean, you mean? Yes, come to think of it, there was one such. Master Ewen MacAlister said some rather bitter things about
him a month ago. Master Ewen had made application to get on the Naval Research Staff, and Sir James—who had certain connections with Naval Research—recommended that Master Ewen’s application not be approved.”
“A revenge motive, then?” Lord Darcy poured himself a generous glass of claret and seated himself in a chair facing the other two, his tray on his lap. “I have never had the pleasure of meeting Master Ewen MacAlister, but from what Master Sean tells me, the pleasure would be doubtful. Is he the kind of man who would kill for revenge?”
“I … don’t … know,” said Sir Thomas slowly. “I can imagine his killing someone to prevent that person from harming him, but I hesitate to say he would bother to do so after the harm was done.”
Lord Darcy made a mental note to tell Lord Bontriomphe about that in the morning. It might be wise for Bontriomphe to make inquiries to find out whether Master Ewen had made or intended to make application for some other position that Sir James Zwinge had “certain connections” with.
“Anyone else?” Darcy asked, looking down at his plate.
“No,” said Sir Thomas after a moment. “No one that I know of, my lord.”
“Do you know a Damoselle Tia Einzig?” Darcy asked in the same quiet tone of voice.
Sir Thomas’ smile vanished. After several seconds, he said: “I know her, yes, my lord. Why?”
“She seems to have got herself charged with black magic. And it appears that Sir James was killed by black magic.”
Sir Thomas’ normally pale features darkened. “See here! You’re not accusing Tia of this murder, are you?”
“Accuse? Not at all, Sir Thomas. I merely point out a possible connection.”
“Well, there’s nothing to it! Nothing, d’you understand! Tia is no more a witch than you are! I’ll not have you making such insinuations, do you hear?”
“Do calm yourself, Sir Thomas,” Darcy said mildly. “Relax. Get a grip on your emotions. Tell yourself a joke—or think of some refreshing equation.”
The color in Sir Thomas’ face subsided, but he did not smile at Lord Darcy’s sally. “My deepest apologies, my lord. I … I hardly know what to say. I’m … I’m not myself. It’s a … a touchy subject, my lord.”
Too Many Magicians Page 7
