The Second Randall Garrett Megapack

by Randall Garrett

  “Tell me about it,” he said quietly.

  Sir Pierre reported exactly what he had done and what he had seen.

  “Then I locked the door and came straight here,” he told the priest.

  “Who else has the key to the Count’s suite?” Father Bright asked.

  “No one but my lord himself,” Sir Pierre answered, “at least as far as I know.”

  “Where is his key?”

  “Still in the ring at his belt. I noticed that particularly.”

  “Very good. We’ll leave it locked. You’re certain the body was cold?”

  “Cold and waxy, Father.”

  “Then he’s been dead many hours.”

  “Lady Alice will have to be told,” Sir Pierre said.

  Father Bright nodded. “Yes. The Countess D’Evreux must be informed of her succession to the County Seat.” He could tell by the sudden momentary blank look that came over Sir Pierre’s face that the Privy Secretary had not yet realized fully the implications of the Count’s death. “I’ll tell her, Pierre. She should be in her pew by now. Just step into the church and tell her quietly that I want to speak to her. Don’t tell her anything else.”

  “I understand, Father,” said Sir Pierre.

  * * * *

  There were only twenty-five or thirty people in the pews—most of them women—but Alice, Countess D’Evreux was not one of them. Sir Pierre walked quietly and unobtrusively down the side aisle and out into the narthex. She was standing there, just inside the main door, adjusting the black lace mantilla about her head, as though she had just come in from outside. Suddenly, Sir Pierre was very glad he would not have to be the one to break the news.

  She looked rather sad, as always, her plain face unsmiling. The jutting nose and square chin which had given her brother the Count a look of aggressive handsomeness only made her look very solemn and rather sexless, although she had a magnificent figure.

  “My lady,” Sir Pierre said, stepping towards her, “the Reverent Father would like to speak to you before Mass. He’s waiting at the sacristy door.”

  She held her rosary clutched tightly to her breast and gasped. Then she said, “Oh. Sir Pierre. I’m sorry; you quite surprised me. I didn’t see you.”

  “My apologies, my lady.”

  “It’s all right. My thoughts were elsewhere. Will you take me to the good Father?”

  Father Bright heard their footsteps coming down the corridor before he saw them. He was a little fidgety because Mass was already a minute overdue. It should have started promptly at 7:15.

  The new Countess D’Evreux took the news calmly, as he had known she would. After a pause, she crossed herself and said: “May his soul rest in peace. I will leave everything in your hands, Father, Sir Pierre. What are we to do?”

  “Pierre must get on the teleson to Rouen immediately and report the matter to His Highness. I will announce your brother’s death and ask for prayers for his soul—but I think I need say nothing about the manner of his death. There is no need to arouse any more speculation and fuss than necessary.”

  “Very well,” said the Countess. “Come, Sir Pierre; I will speak to the Duke, my cousin, myself.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  Father Bright returned to the sacristy, opened the missal, and changed the placement of the ribbons. Today was an ordinary Feria; a Votive Mass would not be forbidden by the rubics. The clock said 7:17. He turned to young De Saint-Brieuc, who was waiting respectfully. “Quickly, my son—go and get the unbleached beeswax candles and put them on the altar. Be sure you light them before you put out the white ones. Hurry, now; I will be ready by the time you come back. Oh yes—and change the altar frontal. Put on the black.”

  “Yes, Father.” And the lad was gone.

  Father Bright folded the green chasuble and returned it to the drawer, then took out the black one. He would say a Requiem for the Souls of All the Faithful Departed—and hope that the Count was among them.

  * * * *

  His Royal Highness, the Duke of Normandy, looked over the official letter his secretary had just typed for him. It was addressed to Serenissimus Dominus Nostrus Iohannes Quartus, Dei Gratia, Angliae, Franciae, Scotiae, Hiberniae, et Novae Angliae, Rex, Imperator, Fidei Defensor… “Our Most Serene Lord, John IV, by the Grace of God King and Emperor of England, France, Scotland, Ireland, and New England, Defender of the Faith…”

  It was a routine matter; simple notification to his brother, the King, that His Majesty’s most faithful servant, Edouard, Count of Evreux had departed this life, and asking His Majesty’s confirmation of the Count’s heir-at-law, Alice, Countess of Evreux as his lawful successor.

  His Highness finished reading, nodded, and scrawled his signature at the bottom: Richard Dux Normaniae.

  Then, on a separate piece of paper, he wrote: “Dear John, May I suggest you hold up on this for a while? Edouard was a lecher and a slob, and I have no doubt he got everything he deserved, but we have no notion who killed him. For any evidence I have to the contrary, it might have been Alice who pulled the trigger. I will send you full particulars as soon as I have them. With much love, Your brother and servant, Richard.”

  He put both papers into a prepared envelope and sealed it. He wished he could have called the king on the teleson, but no one had yet figured out how to get the wires across the channel.

  He looked absently at the sealed envelope, his handsome blond features thoughtful. The House of Plantagenet had endured for eight centuries, and the blood of Henry of Anjou ran thin in its veins, but the Norman strain was as strong as ever, having been replenished over the centuries by fresh infusions from Norwegian and Danish princesses. Richard’s mother, Queen Helga, wife to His late Majesty, Henry X, spoke very few words of Anglo-French, and those with a heavy Norse accent.

  Nevertheless, there was nothing Scandinavian in the language, manner, or bearing of Richard, Duke of Normandy. Not only was he a member of the oldest and most powerful ruling family of Europe, but he bore a Christian name that was distinguished even in that family. Seven Kings of the Empire had borne the name, and most of them had been good Kings—if not always “good” men in the nicey-nicey sense of the word. Even old Richard I, who’d been pretty wild during the first forty-odd years of his life, had settled down to do a magnificent job of kinging for the next twenty years. The long and painful recovery from the wound he’d received at the Siege of Chaluz had made a change in him for the better.

  There was a chance that Duke Richard might be called upon to uphold the honor of that name as King. By law, Parliament must elect a Plantagenet as King in the event of the death of the present Sovereign, and while the election of one of the King’s two sons, the Prince of Wales and the Duke of Lancaster, was more likely than the election of Richard, he was certainly not eliminated from the succession.

  Meantime, he would uphold the honor of his name as Duke of Normandy.

  Murder had been done; therefore justice must be done. The Count D’Evreux had been known for his stern but fair justice almost as well as he had been known for his profligacy. And, just as his pleasures had been without temperance, so his justice had been untempered by mercy. Whoever had killed him would find both justice and mercy—in so far as Richard had it within his power to give it.

  Although he did not formulate it in so many words, even mentally, Richard was of the opinion that some debauched woman or cuckolded man had fired the fatal shot. Thus he found himself inclining toward mercy before he knew anything substantial about the case at all.

  Richard dropped the letter he was holding into the special mail pouch that would be placed aboard the evening trans-Channel packet, and then turned in his chair to look at the lean, middle-aged man working at a desk across the room.

  “My lord Marquis,” he said thoughtfully.

  “Yes, Your Highness?” said the Marquis of Rouen, looking up.

  “How true are the stories one has heard about the late Count?”

  “True, Your Highness?”
the Marquis said thoughtfully. “I would hesitate to make any estimate of percentages. Once a man gets a reputation like that, the number of his reputed sins quickly surpasses the number of actual ones. Doubtless many of the stories one hears are of whole cloth; others may have only a slight basis in fact. On the other hand, it is highly likely that there are many of which we have never heard. It is absolutely certain, however, that he has acknowledged seven illegitimate sons, and I dare say he has ignored a few daughters—and these, mind you, with unmarried women. His adulteries would be rather more difficult to establish, but I think your Highness can take it for granted that such escapades were far from uncommon.”

  He cleared his throat and then added, “If Your Highness is looking for motive, I fear there is a superabundance of persons with motive.”

  “I see,” the Duke said. “Well, we will wait and see what sort of information Lord Darcy comes up with.” He looked up at the clock. “They should be there by now.”

  Then, as if brushing further thoughts on the subject from his mind, he went back to work, picking up a new sheaf of state papers from his desk.

  The Marquis watched him for a moment and smiled a little to himself. The young Duke took his work seriously, but was well-balanced about it. A little inclined to be romantic—but aren’t we all at nineteen? There was no doubt of his ability, nor of his nobility. The Royal Blood of England always came through.

  * * * *

  “My lady,” said Sir Pierre gently, “the Duke’s Investigators have arrived.”

  My Lady Alice, Countess D’Evreux, was seated in a gold-brocade upholstered chair in the small receiving room off the Great Hall. Standing near her, looking very grave, was Father Bright. Against the blaze of color on the walls of the room, the two of them stood out like ink blots. Father Bright wore his normal clerical black, unrelieved except for the pure white lace at collar and cuffs. The Countess wore unadorned black velvet, a dress which she had had to have altered hurriedly by her dressmaker; she had always hated black and owned only the mourning she had worn when her mother died eight years before. The somber looks on their faces seemed to make the black blacker.

  “Show them in, Sir Pierre,” the Countess said calmly.

  Sir Pierre opened the door wider, and three men entered. One was dressed as one gently born; the other two wore the livery of the Duke of Normandy.

  The gentleman bowed. “I am Lord Darcy, Chief Criminal Investigator for His Highness, the Duke, and your servant, my lady.” He was a tall, brown-haired man in his thirties with a rather handsome, lean face. He spoke Anglo-French with a definite English accent.

  “My pleasure, Lord Darcy,” said the Countess. “This is our vicar, Father Bright.”

  “Your servant, Reverend Sir.” Then he presented the two men with him. The first was a scholarly-looking, graying man wearing pince-nez glasses with gold rims, Dr. Pateley, Physician. The second, a tubby, red-faced, smiling man, was Master Sean O Lochlainn, Sorcerer.

  As soon as Master Sean was presented he removed a small, leather-bound folder from his belt pouch and proffered it to the priest. “My license, Reverend Father.”

  Father Bright took it and glanced over it. It was the usual thing, signed and sealed by the Archbishop of Rouen. The law was rather strict on that point; no sorcerer could practice without the permission of the Church, and a license was given only after careful examination for orthodoxy of practice.

  “It seems to be quite in order, Master Sean,” said the priest, handing the folder back. The tubby little sorcerer bowed his thanks and returned the folder to his belt pouch.

  Lord Darcy had a notebook in his hand. “Now, unpleasant as it may be, we shall have to check on a few facts.” He consulted his notes, then looked up at Sir Pierre. “You, I believe, discovered the body?”

  “That is correct, your lordship.”

  “How long ago was this?”

  Sir Pierre glanced at his wrist watch. It was 9:55. “Not quite three hours ago, your lordship.”

  “At what time, precisely?”

  “I rapped on the door precisely at seven, and went in a minute or two later—say 7:01 or 7:02.”

  “How do you know the time so exactly?”

  “My lord the Count,” said Sir Pierre with some stiffness, “insisted upon exact punctuality. I have formed the habit of referring to my watch regularly.”

  “I see. Very good. Now, what did you do then?”

  Sir Pierre described his actions briefly.

  “The door to his suite was not locked, then?” Lord Darcy asked.

  “No, sir.”

  “You did not expect it to be locked?”

  “No, sir. It has not been for seventeen years.”

  Lord Darcy raised one eyebrow in a polite query. “Never?”

  “Not at seven o’clock, your lordship. My lord the Count always rose promptly at six and unlocked the door before seven.”

  “He did lock it at night, then?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Lord Darcy looked thoughtful and made a note, but he said nothing more on that subject. “When you left, you locked the door?”

  “That is correct, your lordship.”

  “And it has remained locked ever since?”

  Sir Pierce hesitated and glanced at Father Bright. The priest said: “At 8:15, Sir Pierre and I went in. I wished to view the body. We touched nothing. We left at 8:20.”

  * * * *

  Master Sean O Lochlainn looked agitated. “Er…excuse me, Reverend Sir. You didn’t give him Holy Unction, I hope?”

  “No,” said Father Bright. “I thought it would be better to delay that until after the authorities had seen the…er…scene of the crime. I wouldn’t want to make the gathering of evidence any more difficult than necessary.”

  “Quite right,” murmured Lord Darcy.

  “No blessings, I trust, Reverend Sir?” Master Sean persisted. “No exorcisms or—”

  “Nothing,” Father Bright interrupted somewhat testily. “I believe I crossed myself when I saw the body, but nothing more.”

  “Crossed yourself, sir. Nothing else?”

  “No.”

  “Well, that’s all right, then. Sorry to be so persistent, Reverend Sir, but any miasma of evil that may be left around is a very important clue, and it shouldn’t be dispersed until it’s been checked, you see.”

  “Evil?” My lady the Countess looked shocked.

  “Sorry, my lady, but—” Master Sean began contritely.

  But Father Bright interrupted by speaking to the Countess. “Don’t distress yourself, my daughter; these men are only doing their duty.”

  “Of course. I understand. It’s just that it’s so—” She shuddered delicately.

  Lord Darcy cast Master Sean a warning look, then asked politely, “Has my lady seen the deceased?”

  “No,” she said. “I will, however, if you wish.”

  “We’ll see,” said Lord Darcy. “Perhaps it won’t be necessary. May we go up to the suite now?”

  “Certainly,” the Countess said. “Sir Pierre, if you will?”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  As Sir Pierre unlocked the emblazoned door, Lord Darcy said: “Who else sleeps on this floor?”

  “No one else, your lordship,” Sir Pierre said. “The entire floor is…was…reserved for my lord the Count.”

  “Is there any way up besides that elevator?”

  Sir Pierre turned and pointed toward the other end of the short hallway. “That leads to the staircase,” he said, pointing to a massive oaken door, “but it’s kept locked at all times. And, as you can see, there is a heavy bar across it. Except for moving furniture in and out or something like that, it’s never used.”

  “No other way up or down, then?”

  Sir Pierre hesitated. “Well, yes, your lordship, there is. I’ll show you.”

  “A secret stairway?”

  “Yes, your lordship.”

  “Very well. We’ll look at it after we’ve seen the body.”
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br />   Lord Darcy, having spent an hour on the train down from Rouen, was anxious to see the cause of the trouble at last.

  He lay in the bedroom, just as Sir Pierre and Father Bright had left him.

  “If you please, Dr. Pateley,” said his lordship.

  He knelt on one side of the corpse and watched carefully while Pateley knelt on the other side and looked at the face of the dead man. Then he touched one of the hands and tried to move an arm. “Rigor has set in—even to the fingers. Single bullet hole. Rather small caliber—I should say a .28 or .34—hard to tell until I’ve probed out the bullet. Looks like it went right through the heart, though. Hard to tell about powder burns; the blood has soaked the clothing and dried. Still, these specks…hm-m-m. Yes. Hm-m-m.”

  Lord Darcy’s eyes took in everything, but there was little enough to see on the body itself. Then his eye was caught by something that gave off a golden gleam. He stood up and walked over to the great canopied four-poster bed, then he was on his knees again, peering under it. A coin? No.

  He picked it up carefully and looked at it. A button. Gold, intricately engraved in an Arabesque pattern, and set in the center with a single diamond. How long had it lain there? Where had it come from? Not from the Count’s clothing, for his buttons were smaller, engraved with his arms, and had no gems. Had a man or a woman dropped it? There was no way of knowing at this stage of the game.

  Darcy turned to Sir Pierre. “When was this room last cleaned?”

  “Last evening, your lordship,” the secretary said promptly. “My lord was always particular about that. The suite was always to be swept and cleaned during the dinner hour.”

  “Then this must have rolled under the bed at some time after dinner. Do you recognize it? The design is distinctive.”

  The Privy Secretary looked carefully at the button in the palm of Lord Darcy’s hand without touching it. “I…I hesitate to say,” he said at last. “It looks like…but I’m not sure—”

  “Come, come, Chevalier! Where do you think you might have seen it? Or one like it.” There was a sharpness in the tone of his voice.

  “I’m not trying to conceal anything, your lordship,” Sir Pierre said with equal sharpness. “I said I was not sure. I still am not, but it can be checked easily enough. If your lordship will permit me—” He turned and spoke to Dr. Pateley, who was still kneeling by the body. “May I have my lord the Count’s keys, doctor?”