“About halfway between the body and the door was a key, the same kind of heavy brass key that the manager had tried to open the door with. I marked the spot with one of my own keys and then tried the key on the door. It worked; it turned the bolt, but no other key would. It was Sir James’ key, all right.
“I searched the body. Nothing much there — his own key ring; two golden sovereigns, three silver sovereigns, and some odd change; a notebook full of magical symbols and equations which I don’t understand; an ordinary small pocketknife; a cardfolder which contained his certificate as a Master Sorcerer, his license to practice magic — signed by the Bishop of London — his official identification as Chief Forensic Sorcerer, a card identifying him as a Fellow of the Royal Thaumaturgical Society, and a few personal cards. You can look at it all, Darcy; My Lord Marquis has it in an envelope in the wall safe.
“He had three other suits, all hanging neatly in the closet, with nothing in the pockets. There were some papers on the desk, all filled with thaumaturgical symbolism, and more like them in the wastebasket. I left them where they were. The only other thing in the room was his symbol-decorated carpetbag — the kind every sorcerer carries. I didn’t try to open it or move it; it is not wise to meddle with the belongings of magicians, not even dead ones.
“The point is that there was nobody in that room but the dead man. I searched it carefully. There was no place to hide. I looked under the bed and in the closet and in the bathroom.
“Furthermore, nobody could have left by that door. It had been locked by the only key that would lock it, and that key was inside the room. Besides, there were four people in that corridor within seconds after Sir James screamed, and three of them were watching that door from that time until I cut it open.
“The windows were bolted shut from the inside. The glass and the laths in the shutters were solid. The windows look out on a small patio which is a part of the dining area. There were twelve people out there — all sorcerers — who were eating breakfast. None of them saw anything, although their attention was directed to the windows by the scream. Besides, the wall is sheer — a thirty-foot drop without ledges, hand-holds, or toeholds. No exit that way.
“There is no evidence that anyone went into that room or came out of it.
“By the time I had searched the room, the Chief Master-at-Arms and two of his men had arrived. You’ve met Chief Hennely Grayme — big, husky chap with a square face? Yes. Well, I told him to take over, to get a preservation spell cast over the body, and to touch nothing.
“Then I went back out in the hall and herded everybody out of there and into one of the empty rooms down the hall. The manager gave me the key and I told him to go on about his business.
“Commander Lord Ashley was a little impatient. He had already delivered his message to Master Sean and had to report back to the Lord Admiral’s office, so I told him to go ahead. Sir Lyon, Master Sean, Master Netly, Journeyman Lord John Quetzal, and the Dowager Duchess of Cumberland all looked shocked at what they’d seen through the door, and none of them seemed to have much to say.
“ ‘Sir Lyon,’ I said, ‘that room was locked and sealed. Sir James was stabbed at a time when there was no one else in the room. What do you make of it?’
“He stroked his beard for a moment, then said: ‘I understand your question. Yes, on first glance I should say that he was killed by Black Magic. But that is merely a supposition based upon the physical facts. I do not suppose you can detect it yourself, but this hotel is not at present equipped with just the ordinary commercial spells for privacy, to prevent unwarranted use of the clairvoyant Talent. Before the Convention started a special group of six sorcerers went through the entire building reinforcing those spells and adding others. They do not affect precognition, since there is no way to cast a spell into the future, but they prevent anyone from using his clairvoyant Talent to see into another’s room, and they make it very difficult to understand or detect what is going on in someone else’s mind. Before I can state flatly that Sir James was killed by Black Magic I should want further investigation into the facts.’
“ ‘There will be,’ I told him. ‘Next question, then: Who had reason to kill him? Had anyone quarreled with him?’
“So help me, Lord Darcy, every eye in the room turned to Master Sean. Except Master Sean’s, of course.
“Naturally, I asked him what the quarrel was about.
“ ‘It wasn’t a quarrel,’ he said firmly. ‘Both Sir James and I were angry, but not at each other.’
“ ‘Who were you angry with, then?’
“ ‘Not with anyone. We had both been working on a new thaumaturgical effect, and had discovered almost identical spells to produce that effect. It has happened before in the history of magic. We may have been growling and snapping at each other, but we weren’t angry at anything but the coincidence.’
“ ‘How did the… er… discussion come about? I asked him.
“ ‘Chance conversation in the committee room. We fell to talking and the subject came up. We compared notes, and… well, there it was. What we were really arguing about was who was to present his paper first. So we called Sir Lyon over to decide the problem.’
“I looked at Sir Lyon. He nodded. ‘That’s correct. I decided that it would be best for them to pool their findings and present the paper jointly, under both their names, with a full explanation that the work had been done by both independently.’
“ ‘Tell me, Sir Lyon,’ I said, ‘this paper — or these papers — wouldn’t be just a lot of thaumaturgical equations, would they?’
“ ‘Oh, no. They would have a full exposition of the effect. There would be equations, of course, but the text would be in Anglo-French. Naturally, there would be a lot of technical words, professional jargon, if you will, but—’
“ ‘Where is Sir James’ paper, then? I asked. ‘It isn’t in his room.’
“ ‘I have it,’ said Sean. ‘It was agreed between Sir James and myself that I should do a first collation between the two papers, and then we’d talk the thing over this morning at nine-thirty and do a second draft of our collaboration.’
“ ‘When was the last time you saw Sir James?’ I asked.
“ ‘Last evening at about ten, it was,’ Sean explained. ‘I went with him to his room, so he could give me his manuscript. So far as I know, that’s the last anyone saw of him. He was going to do a little further work he had in mind, and he didn’t want to be disturbed until half past nine.’
“ ‘Would he have been using a knife for that work?’
“ ‘Knife?’ he said, looking puzzled.
“ ‘You know. One of those big, black-handled silver knives.’
“Oh. You mean a contact cutter. I wouldn’t think so; he said he wanted to do some paper work, is all. Not any actual experimentation. Still, I suppose it’s possible.’
“I said, ‘Master Sean, do you mind if I take a look at Sir James’ manuscript?’
“I guess that must have fired his Irish temper up. ‘I don’t see what that has to do with this business,’ he said peevishly. ‘I’ve been working on this thing for three years. It was bad enough that Sir James was doing the same thing, but I’m not going to let out this information until I’m ready to present it myself!’
“Then Grand Master Sir Lyon spoke. ‘I cannot insist that you show those papers to the Chief Investigator, Master Sean; I cannot ask you to reveal the process. But I feel that the subject may possibly have a bearing on the case.’
“Master Sean opened his mouth and then closed it again. After a second or so, he said: ‘Well, that’s already on the Program anyway. My paper was to have been called “A Method of Performing Surgery Upon Inaccessible Organs.” Sir James called his “The Surgical Incision of Internal Organs Without Breaching the Abdominal Wall.” ’
“That was when Master Netly squeaked, ‘You mean a method of controlling a blade within an enclosed space? Astounding!’ Then he backed away from Sean a couple of steps. ‘Tha
t’s what he meant when he screamed!’
“That was the first I’d heard that Master Sir James had actually screamed words. The words were — and they all agreed on it -
“ ‘Master Sean! Help!’ ”
The Marquis of London had been sitting during the entire narration with his eyes closed, but he was not asleep. “Satisfactory,” he said. Then he opened his eyes, looking at Lord Darcy. “Now,” he rumbled, “you understand why I felt constrained to order the arrest of Master Sean O Lochlainn on suspicion of murder.”
CHAPTER 4
Lord Darcy looked long and deeply into the eyes of My Lord Marquis, and the Marquis calmly returned that steady gaze. At last Lord Darcy said: “I see. Do you consider the evidence conclusive, then?”
“Oh, by no means,” said the Marquis, patting the air with a heavy hand. “I certainly should not care to place the case before the Court of High justice with the evidence now at hand. If I had that evidence, Master Sean would have already been charged with premeditated murder, not merely with suspicion.”
“I see,” Lord Darcy repeated, his voice icily polite. “Am I to presume that I will be expected to find that evidence?”
The Marquis de London lifted his massive shoulders perhaps a quarter of an inch and lowered them again. “It is a matter of indifference to me. However, understanding as I do your personal interest in the case, you may certainly count upon full co-operation from this office in any investigation you may care to undertake.”
“Ahh. That’s the way the wind blows, is it?” said Lord Darcy. “Very well. I accept your hospitality and your co-operation. Will you release Master Sean on his own recognizance until such time as the remainder of the evidence is in?”
My Lord Marquis frowned, and for the first time there seemed to be a touch of discomfort in his manner. “You know as well as I that a man arrested for a capital crime cannot be released on his own recognizance. Such is the law; I am powerless to abrogate the King’s Law.”
“Of course,” murmured Lord Darcy. “Of course. I trust, however, that I may speak to Master Sean?”
“Naturally. He is in the Tower, and I have given orders that he is to be made comfortable. You may see him at any time.”
Lord Darcy rose to his feet. “My thanks, my lord. In that case, I shall go about my business. May I have your leave to go?”
“You have my leave, my lord. Lord Bontriomphe will see you to the door.” The Marquis of London rose ponderously to his feet and walked out of his office without another word.
Lord Darcy said nothing to Lord Bontriomphe until both of them were standing at the front door. Then he said: “My Lord Marquis likes to play games, Bontriomphe.”
“Hm-m-m. Yes. Yes, he does.” Bontriomphe paused. “I am certain you can handle this, Darcy.”
“I think so. Don’t be surprised by anything.”
“I shan’t. Good evening, my lord.”
“Good evening. I shall see you on the morrow.”
* * *
Master Sean O Lochlainn, in his comfortable room in that ancient fortress known as the Tower of London, was no longer angry — not even at Fate. The emotion that filled him now was a sort of determined patience. He knew Lord Darcy would come, and he knew that his imprisonment was purely nominal.
Earlier in the afternoon, when he had found himself charged with suspicion of murder, he had felt some small pique when he was told that he would not be allowed to bring his symbol-decorated carpetbag to the Tower with him. Locking up a sorcerer is difficult enough in itself; to allow him to have the tools of his trade would be foolish indeed.
But the Tower Wardens had erred in thinking that a sorcerer was helpless without his tools. They had not taken into account a certain spell that Master Sean had long since cast upon that symbol-decorated carpetbag. The effect of that spell can be expressed simply: The tools of a sorcerer cannot long be separated from their Master against his will. And the way the spell worked in practice was thus:
The carpetbag had been locked in Master Sean’s room at the Royal Steward Arms, to remain there until such time as Master Sean’s ultimate disposition should be decided. That had been ordered by the Chief Master-at-Arms at the time of Master Sean’s arrest. Master Sean had delivered his key to the Chief Master-at-Arms in polite submission to the majesty of the law. But there had not been any special spell on the lock of Master Sean’s room, such as there had been on the late Master James Zwinge’s room. Therefore, when one of the hotel servants was making her cleaning rounds at one o’clock that afternoon, she had had with her a key to Master Sean’s room — a key that would work.
Quite naturally, Bridget Courville took each room as she came to it. When she came to Master Sean’s room, she went in and looked around.
“All’s neat,” she said to herself. “Bed unmade, but of course that’s the way it always is. Ah, these sorcerers are neat enough, for sure. No bottles or trash scattered about. Not drinkers, much, I think. Which it shouldn’t be for a sorcerer.”
She tidied up — made the bed, laid out clean towels, put in new soap bars, and did all the other little things that needed to be done.
She noticed the symbol-decorated carpetbag, of course. There was one like it in almost every room during this convention. But she paid no attention to it consciously.
Her subconscious, however, whispered to her that “it didn’t ought to be here.”
It can be said that Bridget Courville really didn’t think about what she was doing when she picked up the bag and set it out in the hall before she locked up the room and went on to the next one.
At one fifteen, a catering servant — a young lad in his late teens whose duty it was to see that drinks and food were brought to the guests when they were ordered — saw the bag sitting in the hall. It seemed out of place. Without bothering to think about it, he picked it up and took it downstairs. He left it on the luggage rack near the front entrance and promptly forgot about it.
Hennely Grayme, Chief Master-at-Arms for the City of London, having made all the notes he could on the scene of the crime, left the hotel at five minutes of two. He stopped near the door and saw the carpetbag on the luggage rack. He noticed the initials S. O L. on the handle. Automatically, he picked it up and took it with him. When he stopped by at the Tower, he said a few words to the Chief Warder and, without mentioning it, left the carpetbag behind.
The carpetbag remained unnoticed in the anteroom of the Chief Warder’s office until fifteen minutes of three. During that time, many people went in and out of that anteroom without noticing the bag; none of them were going in the right direction.
At two forty-five, the Warder in charge of the cell in which Master Sean was incarcerated saw the bag. On his way out, after reporting to the Chief Warder, he picked up the bag.
Had he been going off duty, had he been going to the Middle Tower instead of St. Thomas’ Tower, he would not even have noticed the symbol-decorated carpetbag. The spell was specific. But he did pick it up, and he did carry it up the spiral staircase to Master Sean’s cell.
He unlocked the door to Master Sean’s cell, then knocked politely.
“Master Sean, it is I, Warder Linsy.”
“Come in, me boy, come in,” said Master Sean jovially.
The door opened, and when Master Sean saw the carpetbag in the Warder’s hand, he suppressed a smile and said: “What can I do for you, Warder?”
“I was to come up and see what you wanted for dinner, Master,” Warder Linsy said deferentially. Absently he put the bag down inside the door.
“Ah, it’s of no matter to me, my good Warder,” said Master Sean. “Whatever the Chief Warder orders will be good enough for me.”
Warder Linsy smiled. “That’s good of you, Master.” Then he lowered his voice. “Ain’t none of us thinks you done it, Master Sean. We knows a sorcerer couldn’t of killed a man. Not that way, I mean. Not by black magic.”
“Thank you for your confidence, me boy,” Master Sean said expansively. “I assu
re you it’s not misplaced. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some thinking to do.”
“Of course, Master. Of course.” And Warder Linsy closed the door, locked it carefully, and went on about his business.
* * *
Lord Darcy’s trip from the Palace du Marquis to the Tower of London was uneventful. The cab clattered out of Mark Lane, swerved, and descended Tower Hill. In Water Lane, at the gate, it stopped. Lord Darcy stepped out.
A heavy, whitish fog drifted through the bars of the great iron fence and clung to the shadows of the Gothic archways. There was a fading sound of bells as the ships on the Thames moved through the mist-laden waters. The air was muggy, and a faint smell of marine decay drifted over the wall that formed one side of the fortress. Lord Darcy wrinkled his nostrils at the aroma that assailed them, and then walked over the stone bridge that led from the Middle Tower to another tower — larger and gray-black, with a few whitish stones here and there in its walls. There was another archway, then a short, straight path, and then Lord Darcy turned toward the right and entered St. Thomas’ Tower.
Within a few minutes, the Warder was unlocking the door to Master Sean’s cell. “Call me when you wants to leave, your lordship,” he said. He left, closing the door and relocking it.
“Well, Master Sean,” said Lord Darcy with a spark of humor in his gray eyes, “I trust you are enjoying this idyllic relaxation from your onerous duties, eh?”
“Hm-m-m — yes and no, my lord,” said the tubby little sorcerer. He waved a hand at the small plain table on which his carpetbag sat. “I can’t say I enjoy being locked up, but it has given me an opportunity to experiment and meditate.”
“Indeed? Upon what?”
“Upon getting in and out of locked rooms, my lord.”
“And what have you learned, my good Sean?” Lord Darcy asked.
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