Lord Darcy laughed. “Each of us stands here convinced that the other is a miracle worker,” he said. “While the truth is that you are merely a magician, and I a logician. But in truth it is the combination—the team—that does it. For I fully confess that I would be lost without my Master Sean.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Master Sean said, a faint flush crossing his already ruddy face. “But you’d better leave now, so I can go about my job.”
Two hours later Lord Darcy and Master Sean were closeted with Marquis Sherrinford in his inner chamber; a small, plain room with a leather couch, a small table, and four chairs, behind Marquis Sherrinford’s regular office, which in turn was behind the room occupied by Lord Peter. Too small for working, it was a space for retreating to when the press of the day was overwhelming, or when Marquis Sherrinford’s recurring headaches got too bad for him to handle. At the moment it was merely the one place where they would not be disturbed.
“And what,” Marquis Sherrinford asked, waving them to seats, “have you managed to discover regarding the death of poor Master Paul? What magical agency followed him into the ballroom and cut his throat?”
“None, my lord,” Master Sean replied. He lowered himself firmly into one of the brocaded chairs. “As far as I could tell through the most sensitive tests at my command, whatever killed Master Paul Elovitz, it was not done by the exercise of magical powers.”
Marquis Sherrinford looked at Master Sean and then at Lord Darcy, and then shook his head. “As if we didn’t have enough on our minds,” he said, “now we have to search for a murderer who kills by a mysterious method beyond magic. I feel put-upon, gentlemen, by a cruel and unyielding fate. But, by God, we’re going to give it a run for its money. There’s got to be some way to attack this problem that will give results.”
“I don’t think it’s quite that bad, my lord,” Lord Darcy said. “Because Master Paul’s demise is mysterious, and yet unmagical, is no reason to suppose that it is beyond magic, nor yet beyond solution.”
“You think you know how this was done?” Marquis Sherrinford asked.
“I have several hypotheses, my lord. I would rather keep them to myself until I have a chance to test them, but I think I will be able to adequately explain the method used to kill Master Paul, innovative as it was. It’s the motive that concerns me. In this case the method will not take us to the killer. The motive may. The motive obviously has determined the method. And I think we’d better concentrate on finding it out, because I don’t think our killer will stop at two.”
“I’m not sure I understand what you mean about the motive determining the method,” Marquis Sherrinford said.
“It’s simply this,” Lord Darcy explained. “We have here an impossible crime. Now, clearly it is not really impossible—it was committed, and therefore it is possible. But it appears impossible. Was it supposed to? Let us look at the crime of murder—planned murder—from the point of view of the killer. He sets out to commit a murder. He desires two ends: the demise of his victim, and his own safety. That is, he wants someone else dead, and he doesn’t want to get caught.”
“That much is clear,” Marquis Sherrinford agreed.
“But in the normal circumstance there is no reason why he should make the crime look impossible. And, indeed, if it takes a second longer or presents a particle more risk, then there are strong reasons why he should not.”
“Then why has this murderer done so?” Marquis Sherrinford asked.
“Why?” Lord Darcy leaned back in his chair and stared thoughtfully at the wall for a second. “There are two possibilities. First: it was an accidental or secondary effect of the killing. That is; the murderer set out to kill, and because of unplanned circumstances, the crime looks impossible. For example, the murderer shoots his victim in a room with one door and then flees from the room. The victim lives long enough to lock the door behind him, perhaps not realizing how badly he is wounded and in fear that the murderer will return. Then he dies. Leaving a perfect locked-room mystery by accident.”
“And what is the other possibility, my lord?” Master Sean asked.
“That the murderer sets out to commit an impossible-seeming crime for some reason incidental to the murder itself. Perhaps he feels a need to baffle the investigators that is as strong as his need to kill. Perhaps the creation of the ‘impossible’ crime serves to shield some aspect of the murder that would otherwise be evident, and point suspicion at the killer.”
“What could that be, my lord?” Master Sean asked.
“I don’t know, Master Sean, but if that is the case, I intend to find out.”
“What of the killings in that inn—the Gryphon d’Or—could they be connected with all of this?”
“I’m afraid they are,” Lord Darcy said, “but I could well be wrong about that. At this stage it would be guesswork, and I refuse to guess. It is destructive of the logical facilities.”
“I understand that one of the victims was a local girl,” Marquis Sherrinford said, “and the other is as yet unidentified. Could it be another sorcerer?”
“Possible, of course,” Lord Darcy said, “but that I doubt.”
“Why?”
Master Sean chuckled. “No bit of verse,” he said.
Lord Darcy smiled and nodded. “That’s right,” he admitted. “It may turn out to be the same killer, but I don’t think he started killing wizards until he arrived here. That’s another thing to consider—why here? Although there is probably a fair concentration of Sorcerers’ Guild members presently in attendance for the coronation.”
Marquis Sherrinford looked at a paper on his table. “Three hundred fifty-six,” he said, “as far as we can determine. There are three hundred fifty-six wizards of one sort or another present at Castle Cristobel at this time, ranging in importance from Archbishop Maximilian to twenty-seven journeymen who are employed in the castle or are accompanying various masters. There are a few more expected to arrive but not present yet, such as His Grace the Archbishop of London, Grand Master Sir John Tomasoni, and Crown Prince Stanislaw of Poland. There are also a few sorcerers’ apprentices that I didn’t include in the enumeration.”
“Crown Prince Stanislaw?” Master Sean asked. “I didn’t know he had the Talent.”
“I don’t know to what degree,” Marquis Sherrinford replied. “He is a master in the Polish guild, but I have a feeling that it’s more of an honorary title. But, of course, he must possess some Talent or the guild could never accept him at all.”
“That’s so, my lord,” Master Sean agreed. “Even the Polish Sorcerers’ Guild wouldn’t allow a non-Talented person membership just because he is royalty.”
“How many Master Sorcerers are here, my lord?” Lord Darcy asked. “I don’t think our murderer is going to settle for journeymen.”
Marquis Sherrinford nodded. “I feel that myself,” he said. “There are about sixty-five masters presently in residence. Why would anyone have a grudge against sorcerers? They are a helpful, useful group, which seldom offends any man. Also you would think that they would be a bad group to go up against. Why, a sorcerer could fry your blood if he didn’t like you. Isn’t that right, Master Sean?”
Master Sean considered the question seriously. “He could, my lord,” he replied. “Or, at least, most sorcerers could. But that doesn’t make them immune from murder. First of all, to hold a sorcerer’s license is to have been tested and certified by the Church as to both your abilities and intentions. Any man or woman who could even hold the intention of destroying another man merely because of dislike, would certainly not get or hold a license. As you well know, the license has to be renewed every five years, so the sensitives of the advocatus manticii have opportunity to observe any character changes that might make a sorcerer unstable. Such things do happen, but they are guarded against.”
“What is done in a case like that?” Marquis Sherrinford asked.
“The sorcerer in question is warned, and advised to seek professional help. A
specific healer, trained to handle such matters, may be recommended. His Grace of Paris can answer that better than I.”
“What of a sorcerer that has gone around the bend, so to speak—who somehow is practicing bad magic, or using it illicitly before he is noticed? Does that ever happen?”
“Black magic, you mean? It would almost have to be, since magic is a matter of intent. White magic cannot be used to attack, but only to defend. Black magic can be used to attack, but in the process it gradually destroys the user. And, of course, any sorcerer caught and convicted of using black magic is deprived of his powers.”
“Couldn’t some magician continue to use magic even after his Church license has been pulled?” Marquis Sherrinford asked. “And then he’d have even less incentive to refrain from using black magic.”
“You misunderstand, my lord,” Master Sean said firmly. “A magician convicted by a court of his peers of using black magic is thrummed by a Committee of Executers—sorcerers sufficiently powerful to overcome him on the psychic level. The Talent is removed from him. He can never perform magic again. This is not done lightly, I can assure you. For one who has the Talent, being deprived of it is like depriving a sighted man of his eyes. Or so I am told.”
Marquis Sherrinford nodded, obviously impressed by Master Sean’s sincerity and conviction. “We, ah, blind men will have to take your word for the severity of this punishment,” he said. “So magic—white magic—can only be used in self-defense. Is that right?”
“Self, loved ones, or a meaningful goal,” Master Sean replied. “Defense of the Empire for a loyal subject, for example.”
“But remember, my lord,” Lord Darcy interrupted, “that that means attack or defend in the symbolic sense. There are times when a physical attack is, symbolically, a defense.”
“True,” Master Sean agreed. “The situation is complex, and the mathematics used to explain it—”
”Simplify it for me, Master Sean,” Marquis Sherrinford said. “What I want to know is how a non-magician can be murdering Master Sorcerers with impunity. Most people would be afraid to raise their hand to a sorcerer, for fear they’d be turned into toads.”
Master Sean shook his head. “Not anyone who knows the first thing about magic. First—any spell takes preparation, and if a magician is taken off guard or unprepared, he is no more able to defend himself than the next man. Probably less, as swordplay and fisticuffs are not on the curriculum of most university magic programs. Second—there are many specialties within sorcery, most of them entirely unrelated to anything requiring a knowledge of self-defense—even magical self-defense. Master Raimun DePlessis was a healer and professor of theoretical thaumaturgy at the University of Drogheda. Master Paul Elovitz was the Chief Magical Officer of the Royal Angevin Teleson Society, and probably didn’t even remember the incantation for warding off a simple staff attack. Neither of them presented much of a problem to a dedicated killer.”
“Do you suppose he picked them for that reason?” Marquis Sherrinford asked. “Maybe the killer has a grudge against wizards in general and is attacking the weakest, or the least dangerous.”
“I don’t think so, my lord,” Lord Darcy said. “That rhyme of his makes me think that he has specific targets in mind. Whether they are all here or not is another consideration. There might be three or four of them here for the coronation, and then one in, say, Paris, and another in—”
”So you think the ‘Ten Little Wizards’ rhyme really is a countdown?”
“Undoubtedly, my lord.”
“Then there’ll be more killing?”
“Unless we catch him—almost certainly.”
Marquis Sherrinford sighed and pressed his palms against his temples. “And what of the threat to His Majesty?” he asked. “Some unknown person may be stalking through this castle at this moment, planning an attack on His Majesty, and we are powerless to stop him until he makes the attempt. And some other unknown person—or possibly the same one—is stalking through the castle intent on murdering some harmless, socially useful person, just because he or she happens to be a Master Sorcerer. And I have a headache!”
Harbleury appeared in the doorway as if Marquis Sherrinford’s words were an incantation for producing Harbleurys. “It’s time for your medicine, my lord,” he said, bringing over a silver salver holding a glass of pink liquid.
“Is this something new, my lord?” Lord Darcy asked as Marquis Sherrinford downed the concoction in three gulps.
“Indeed,” Marquis Sherrinford said. “That fellow Count d’Alberra recommended it. Compounded from tree bark, I believe.”
“Is he helping you, do you think?”
Marquis Sherrinford thought about it for a minute. “May well be,” he said. “Hard to tell in such a short time. Strange sort of healer—you just talk to him and he listens. Then sometimes he talks. But he never tells you to do anything—he just talks. No laying on of hands at all—I mean, he isn’t a proper healer—but if this talking business works, well then, I’m all for it. ‘Be not the first by whom the new is tried,’ as that poet fellow said, ‘Nor yet the last to lay the old aside.’”
“Well, if it works—” Lord Darcy said.
“Aye, my lord,” Master Sean agreed. But he looked doubtful.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Two days passed in which nothing of import happened. Lord Darcy interviewed as many master magicians as he could find at the Castle who had known either Master Sorcerer Raimun DePlessis or Master Sorcerer Paul Elovitz. All agreed that neither man had an enemy in the world. None could think of any reason why either would be killed. Lord Darcy had expected no less.
The body of Master Paul was removed to the Castle’s morgue. The ballroom floor finally having dried, Marquis Sherrinford’s permission was earnestly sought to begin sanding out the bloodstains. His Lordship turned the question over to Lord Darcy. After much thought and consultation with Master Sean, and one more trip to the ballroom, he gave his consent, withholding it only on the two mysterious scratches, which he had covered to preserve them.
The rain moved to the east, but the flood waters, fed by the eastern streams, did not subside, and the Castle was nearly cut off from the outside world. This did not matter, as most of the guests had arrived, and the Castle’s larders would feed many regiments for many months; which, after all, is the function of a castle.
Two trains a day arrived at Cristobel Station, on no fixed schedule: one from the east and one from the west. The water was still not deep enough to endanger the locomotives’ boilers over most of the run, but there was the constant danger of the track washing out, and a tremendous amount of extra fuel was needed to pull the cars through a three-foot lake.
The Dowager Duchess of Cumberland was waiting in the drawing room of Lord Darcy’s suite when he returned in the evening of the third day. His man Ciardi intercepted him in the hall, murmured “Her Grace!” disapprovingly, and pointed to the open door. Then, with a sniff, he retreated back toward the kitchen. A simple man with a complex view of propriety, Ciardi thought it fine that Lord Darcy and Mary of Cumberland had been carrying on an affaire de coeur for the past decade. But it was, to his mind, wrong that she, on occasion, came to Lord Darcy. The baron should visit the duchess, and not the duchess the baron. Etiquette was quite firm on this.
Mary of Cumberland stood up when Lord Darcy entered the room. Tall for a woman, she was pleasingly slender, and had startlingly dark blue eyes. Her light brown hair was touched with gray, but if that was a sign of age, it was the only one she showed. Without the gray she would have looked on the young side of thirty, but she was far too vain to dye her hair. “My dear!” she said, stretching out her hands to Lord Darcy. “You see, I’ve come.”
He took her hands silently and pulled her to him. They embraced, and he felt her warm, yielding body press firmly against his. “Yes,” he murmured into her ear, “and after two months, you know how glad I am to see you. But I shall always wonder.”
“Wonder what, my dear?�
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“Whether it was me or murder that brought you here?”
She pushed him away. “Really, my lord!” she said sternly. “You think—” Then she broke out laughing. “I did not hear of the murder until yesterday,” she said. “And then I was already in Rouen. I came with Edwin in the Ducal train. Since his wife’s approaching accouchement prevents her from traveling, he was glad of even my company.”
Her stepson Edwin, the present Duke of Cumberland, was a mere six months younger than his stepmother. But in many ways he had been born old, and he never pretended to understand the young and beautiful woman who had come so late into his father’s life. But she had so obviously loved his father, and the age difference had not mattered to them. She had made her husband happy until his favorite mare stumbled and cut short his life in its prime—at the age of sixty-eight.
So the Dowager Duchess of Cumberland, a widow before she was thirty, held court at Carlyle House and was known for her brilliance and the company she kept. And her stepson married well, and took care of the estates, and hunted, and was perversely proud of this stepmother he didn’t understand.
And Mary of Cumberland did good works, and no longer thought about men. For the first year the grief of her loss kept such thoughts from her. And after that, when the passage of time had healed the hurt, she came to realize just what she had lost. For she found that, after her husband, no other man interested her. They were all dull.
Until she met the Chief Investigator of the Duchy of Normandy, the Baron Darcy.
“You are the only man I have known,” she murmured into his ear one night shortly after they met, “since my husband died, who did not bore me.”
“A rare compliment,” he had replied.
And their relationship had been a good one over the years because they respected each other, they cared for each other, and neither of them ever bored the other. And Mary of Cumberland, who had helped Lord Darcy in a couple of his cases when she happened to be present, had discovered within her the thrill of the hunt. She enjoyed the intellectual challenge of chasing murderers, and hoped one day to catch one.
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