“No, no, Master Sean,” Lord Darcy reasssured him. “As you—and as they—well know, that would be against the law. These people discuss crimes that have already been solved; alternately from the point of view of the criminal and that of the detective. They write papers about how well the criminal committed the crime—disregarding the moral questions—and how well the detectives solved it. What they seem to have done is reduced murder and other capital offenses to the status of parlor games.”
Master Sean looked doubtful. “Would that not tend to be destructive of the morality of those engaged in the practice, my lord?”
“It would seem not,” Lord Darcy replied. “Except in some extreme cases, and then, as with other obsessions, it is the mania itself that becomes destructive, and not the object of that mania. The more serious of these people are developing what might be described as an ‘esthetic of crime,’ a questionable notion but, thank goodness, it is the esthetic of the observer, not the practitioner. If the mere study of crime were destructive of the soul, then you and I should be in mortal danger, would we not?”
“What you say is so, my lord,” Master Sean affirmed. “But the idea still makes me nervous. Then our host is one of these ‘buffs’ who has studied our cases, do you think?”
“I would assume so,” Lord Darcy said. “It seems, according to my informant, that two of these buffs’ favorite criminologists are myself and my noble cousin the Marquis of London, with a running dispute as to which of us has the superior ability. You, my dear Master Sean, are the acknowledged champion forensic sorcerer in the Empire. Which, it is felt, gives me an unfair advantage in this putative competition. But then, the Marquis has Lord Bontriomphe as his eyes and legs, while I have to do with my own.”
Master Sean sniffed. “I cannot bring myself to consider the solving of heinous crimes as a competition, my lord. The only competition is between us and the criminals, and it is too important for all of us detectives and forensic sorcerers to win every time.”
“The people must be allowed their passions, Master Sean,” Lord Darcy said. “As long as we don’t share them, there is little harm done.”
“That may be so,” Master Sean agreed doubtfully.
“I shall be glad to discuss it with you further,” Lord Darcy told him. “It is hard to be sure of one’s objectivity on a subject that concerns one so personally. But right now let us go downstairs and have those drinks that our good host is awaiting on our arrival.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
A half hour later Lord Darcy, with his second ouiskie and water in his hand, felt relaxed and largely recovered from the morning’s trip. He sat at a round table in one corner of the spacious bar room with Master Sean and their host. Prefect Henri had excused himself to attend to police business, and they were awaiting his return before discussing the case at hand. Goodman Lourdan had soon realized that, for some unaccountable reason, Lord Darcy and Master Sean did not wish to discuss all their past cases in interminable detail, and was too polite to push the matter. So the conversation had mostly revolved around the interminable rain, the upcoming coronation, the difficulties in running an inn, and how fascinating it must be to be a detective.
But Goodman Lourdan was eager to describe the mystery that involved his own inn, and now, with Prefect Henri returning to the table, he would get his chance.
“I apologize for my absence,” Prefect Henri said, dropping into the vacant chair. “Had to take care of some detail work regarding our current excess of water. Now, shall we get on with it?” He waved to the demoiselle at the bar and asked her for a ouiskie.
“We have all been waiting impatiently for your return,” Lord Darcy said dryly, “so that we could discuss the murders with you present.” He took a sip of his ouiskie. “No point in going over the same ground twice.”
“Right,” Prefect Henri agreed. “As you know, Goodman Lourdan found the bodies, so why doesn’t he start.”
“Just take it slowly, Goodman,” Lord Darcy said, turning to the landlord, “and tell me and Master Sean everything that happened.”
Goodman Lourdan closed his eyes and took a deep breath, marshaling his thoughts and memories. “It was a week ago tomorrow, Wednesday, that we found the bodies. The first thing I did, of course, knowing proper procedure as I do, was to call the armsman and order everyone to keep away from the scene. Not that there was any problem with that, I can assure you, Your Lordship, as far as the staff of the inn are concerned. You couldn’t have driven them to the hill with sticks. They don’t much like corpses. Local superstition, you know.”
“And a sensible one it is,” Lord Darcy commented. “What hill is that, Goodman Lourdan?”
“Right back there,” Goodman Lourdan said, pointing through the window to his right. “It’s off to the side of the inn proper, but part of our land. In the summer we have picnics on it—or we used to. I don’t know how people will take to eating over the spot where a pair of corpses were found.”
“And the bodies were found on the hill?”
“In the hill, more like it. They were buried. About two feet down.”
“I see,” Lord Darcy said. “Then exactly how did you come to dig them up?”
“Well, now, that’s strange, how that happened.” Goodman Lourdan got up and went over to the bar, poured himself and Master Sean each a fresh foaming glass of beer, then sat back down. He stared at Lord Darcy intently, and then Master Sean and Prefect Henri, and finally transferred his gaze back to Lord Darcy. He took a long sip of his beer. “It was the dogs,” he said. “What they did in the nighttime.”
“The dogs?” Lord Darcy asked patiently. This was clearly the high point of Goodman Lourdan’s tale, and he wanted to tell it his way. Trying to hurry the story would only confuse matters, and the innkeeper might leave out an important point.
“We have three hounds,” Goodman Lourdan explained, “which we let loose at night. Not dangerous animals, you see, just noisy. So they’ll wake us up if anything is amiss.”
“I see,” Lord Darcy said. “So they barked that night.”
“No—they didn’t,” Goodman Lourdan told him. “They didn’t make a sound. It wasn’t that. You see, they’re trained not to bark at our staff or guests, only at tramps or people skulking around after dark.”
Prefect Henri smiled. “I guess our killer didn’t skulk,” he said. “He carried two bodies out of the inn and buried them—but he didn’t skulk.”
“Well, after all, Prefect,” Goodman Lourdan said defensively, “they’re bright hounds, but they are hounds. If the killer behaved with self-assurance, and if he was first seen by them coming out of the inn, they’d probably leave him alone.”
“Is that established, then?” Lord Darcy asked. “Did the killer come from the inn?”
“It’s merely an assumption so far, my lord,” Prefect Henri told him. “But it’s the only logical one. One of the victims—the one we could identify—certainly came from the inn.”
Lord Darcy nodded. “I see,” he said. “Now, what about these nonbarking dogs?”
“Ah,” Goodman Lourdan said. “Well, here’s what happened, your lordship: The hounds, being hounds, will chase any wild game that crosses the property. They usually won’t catch it, you see, and they won’t chase it off our own land—or at least not far off—but they will chase it.”
“Silently,” Lord Darcy said.
“That’s correct, your lordship. We can’t have them waking guests for no cause. Well, on this Wednesday night, at about ten in the evening, our night bartender, Goodman Timothy Bainterre, happened to look out the window. That very window over in that corner, it was. And he saw a very strange sight. Very strange.” Goodman Lourdan stared reflectively into his beer.
“Could you describe it for us, man?” Master Sean demanded. “What was it your bartender saw?”
“A rabbit!” Goodman Lourdan nodded, agreeing with himself. “He saw a rabbit. Standing, frozen, about halfway up the hill. The lights from the upstairs windows ill
uminated the scene. There was this rabbit, and surrounding him, our three hounds.”
“Yes?” Lord Darcy said.
“They were, like, frozen in place, your lordship. The four of them. Goodman Bainterre called me over to see, and they were still there: this rabbit, frozen in fear, and three hounds surrounding it. But not attacking. The dogs were behaving as though the rabbit were protected by an invisible fence about three or four feet from him all around. They would run around the area, but not enter it. They would sort of snuffle up to it and then back away. It was very odd behavior.”
“Indeed it was,” Lord Darcy agreed, taking his pipe out and tamping some of his private blend carefully into the well-blackened bowl. “Come, now, continue; this commences to sound interesting.”
“Well, Your Lordship, we put our rain capes on and took a pair of lanterns and went out to see what was happening, Goodman Bainterre and I. There was a sort of heavy mist in the air that night, but it wasn’t what you’d call raining. We found, when we got out there, that we were having the same reaction as the dogs. We thought we’d pick up that poor, frightened rabbit and save it, but when we were there, we somehow didn’t want to.”
“But it wasn’t the rabbit you were avoiding, it was the ground it was standing on,” Master Sean interjected.
“That’s correct. Although we didn’t know it at the time, you see. Well, we couldn’t bring ourselves to do anything, so we shooed the dogs away and went to bed. But the next morning we came back. The rabbit was long gone, but we still couldn’t walk onto the patch of ground it had sat on. There was something...bewitched about that spot.”
“And what did you do?” Lord Darcy asked, spinning the wheel on his flint lighter and applying the smoldering wick to the bowl of his pipe.
Goodman Lourdan shrugged. “What any right-thinking man would do in a case like that, Your Lordship. I called a priest.”
“Of course,” Lord Darcy agreed.
“Father Brunelle is not in town right now,” Prefect Henri told Lord Darcy, “or I would have asked him to join us. He is seeing to flood victims farther down in the valley. But I’ll tell you his story as I heard it.”
“Very good, Prefect Henri,” Lord Darcy said. “I’m sure you got all the information I would have. Please proceed.”
“Well, Father Brunelle came over after morning mass—about ten o’clock, he thinks it was—”
”That’s right,” Goodman Lourdan interjected, “ten o’ clock, right on the button.”
“Thank you, Goodman Lourdan,” Lord Darcy said.
Prefect Henri shifted in his seat. “Yes. Well, Father Brunelle examined the area and soon established to his own satisfaction that there wasn’t anything unholy or supernatural about it, but that someone had placed an avoidance spell over the ground.”
“As I thought,” Master Sean said. “An interesting problem, casting such a spell over a patch of land with no natural boundaries. I assume that the spell turned out to be placed on the bodies, and they were buried on that spot.”
“Well, now, not exactly, Master Sean,” Prefect Henri said. “I will tell you the events as they happened, rather than just rush to the end, for fear of leaving out something of possible importance.”
“Very good procedure, Prefect Henri,” Lord Darcy told him. “I admire a man who knows how to give a report, it is a difficult skill.”
“I understand that the Marquis of London’s chief investigator, Lord Bontriomphe, is a master at that,” Goodman Lourdan commented.
“I, ah, believe he is,” Lord Darcy said, looking blandly at Master Sean, who successfully suppressed a smile.
“Well, the priest called in the town practitioner; a master wizard named Semmelsahn.”
“Master Sir Pierre Semmelsahn?” Master Sean asked.
“That’s the magician.”
“A very good man,” Master Sean commented. “A traveling lecturer at various colleges of thaumaturgy for many years. Could have had a seat at any of them, but said he didn’t want to settle down. So he finally did settle down—and in the town of Tournadotte! Who would have supposed?”
“He’s been here about four years now,” Prefect Henri said. “Lives outside of town, actually. With his wife.”
“Lucky thing for us too,” Goodman Lourdan volunteered. “Hard to get a first-rate magician to live in a small, out-of-the-way town like this.”
“I have him waiting outside,” Prefect Henri said. “Knowing that Your Lordship likes to get his information first hand, I sent one of my armsmen for him.”
“Well, bring him in, man,” Lord Darcy said. “I eagerly await the story that he has to tell us.”
Master Magician Sir Pierre Semmelsahn was a thin, well-groomed man with arresting blue eyes, a small mustache, and an engaging air of confidence. “Prefect Henri,” he said, nodding his greeting. “Goodman Lourdan. Master Sean, good to see you again after all this time. And you must be Lord Darcy. It’s a real pleasure to meet you, my lord.”
“The pleasure is all mine, I assure you,” Lord Darcy told the slender master magician. “Especially if you can add something to the already fascinating tale we have been hearing.” He tapped the bowl of his pipe on the edge of the clay ashtray to knock out the dottle, and put the pipe back in his pocket. “Please sit down and talk to us. Tell all.”
Sir Pierre fortified himself with a glass of cider, and took the empty seat to the right of Prefect Henri. “I don’t usually deal with crimes,” he said. “These days I seldom deal with any of the more exotic or esoteric realms of magic. Since I retired from teaching, I have become more of a workaday magician. Privacy spells, locks, preservation spells for our landlord’s food and wine; that’s the sort of work I concentrate on. But murder...I confess that I find myself attracted and repulsed at the same time. Who could do such a thing? And so methodically brutal.”
“Tell his lordship and Master Sean about it, Sir Pierre,” Prefect Henri said. “Give them the facts.”
“The facts are simple enough, to the extent that I have been able to determine them,” Sir Pierre said.
“Begin at the beginning,” Lord Darcy instructed him, “and leave out no detail, however small. Precision in details is as important in criminal investigation as it is in magic.”
“At the beginning,” Sir Pierre agreed. “Little Jeanne Balzac, who is twelve years old and wants desperately to have a horse for her birthday, came running over to my house last Wednesday at ten minutes past ten—I keep track of such things—and told me that Father Brunelle was at the Gryphon d’Or and wanted me to come right away. Pausing only to pick up my tools”—he indicated the symbol-covered, well-worn leather bag at his feet—“I accompanied Demoiselle Balzac back to the inn. To this very room, as it happens. The good father was awaiting me, halfway through a tall mug of our landlord’s best, and he explained what was happening and took me out to the scene.
“I looked the hill over, walked about it, and ‘felt’ it....” Sir Pierre held his hands in front of his face and rubbed his fingers and thumbs together as though feeling the air. “Master Sean will know what I mean.”
“Aye,” Master Sean agreed.
“And I could sense no thaumaturgical disruption of the vegetable or mineral fabric of the hill. It was as it should be, except for a square patch about halfway up. There definitely was an avoidance spell at that precise spot. Marking the edges as best I could, I directed a couple of the inn’s groundsmen to dig down along one edge of the patch.”
“It was that well-delineated?” Master Sean asked.
“It was indeed.”
“I thought it might be. Please continue.”
Sir Pierre nodded to Master Sean and then picked up his narrative. “I ascertained that the...disturbance ended about a foot and a half down. The area below that was not protected. So I gathered a squad of men and we took that patch of avoidance right out of the ground. We dug a ditch on two sides and pushed a row of eight-foot oak one-by-fours right through. Then we lifted it up and walke
d off with it, eight men on a side. I could have merely neutralized the spell, you understand, but I wanted time to examine it first.”
“Very clever,” Lord Darcy commented.
“Where is it now?” Master Sean asked.
“The, ah, essentials of it are in the other room, awaiting your inspection, Master Sean,” Sir Pierre assured him. “I’ll get to that.”
“Yes,” Goodman Lourdan interjected, “tell them about the bodies!”
“I was about to. About a foot below the excavation we found two bodies stretched out side by side; one naked man and one woman clad only in a nightgown. They were in a surprisingly good state of preservation, having been in the ground for some weeks. I attribute that to the avoidance spell, which seems to have deterred the larger forms of necrophages.”
“Did you recognize them?” Lord Darcy asked the landlord. “Did anybody know them?”
Goodman Lourdan nodded, his face assuming a doleful expression. “One of them, your lordship. The woman was Demoiselle ‘Lisbeth Augerre. She worked here at the inn.”
“And the man?”
“We are assuming that he was a guest,” Prefect Henri said. “But we have no proof one way or the other.”
“What tests or spells did you perform on the bodies?” Master Sean asked anxiously.
“None,” Sir Pierre assured him, “save a preservation spell. They await your arrival, my dear Master Sean, in the same state as I found them.”
“And Father Brunelle? Did the good father give the last rites, or invoke any of the power of the Church?”
Sir Pierre smiled. “I think he felt like invoking several, ah, powerful names—but he restrained himself.”
“Excellent,” Master Sean said. “Excellent!” He picked up his carpetbag. “Why don’t I go and begin my magical examination, my lord, while you continue your questioning?”
“Of course,” Lord Darcy agreed. “Unfair of me to keep you here when there’s work to be done.”
“Thank you, my lord. Sir Pierre, what sort of preservation spell did you put on the bodies?”
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