The Second Randall Garrett Megapack

by Randall Garrett

  The priest looked suddenly contrite. “Good heavens! None of you has eaten yet! I’ll see that something is sent up right away, Lord Darcy. In the confusion—”

  Lord Darcy held up a hand. “I beg your pardon, Father; that wasn’t what I meant. I’m sure Master Sean and Dr. Pateley would appreciate a little something, but I can wait until tea time. What I was thinking was that perhaps the Countess would ask her guests to tea. Does she know Laird and Lady Duncan well enough to ask for their sympathetic presence on such an afternoon as this?”

  Father Bright’s eyes narrowed a trifle. “I dare say it could be arranged, Lord Darcy. You will be there?”

  “Yes—but I may be a trifle late. That will hardly matter at an informal tea.”

  The priest glanced at his watch. “Four o’clock?”

  “I should think that would do it,” said Lord Darcy.

  Father Bright nodded wordlessly and left the room.

  * * * *

  Dr. Pateley took off his pince-nez and polished the lenses carefully with a silk handkerchief. “How long will your spell keep the body incorrupt, Master Sean?” he asked.

  “As long as it’s relevant. As soon as the case is solved, or we have enough data to solve the case—as the case may be, heh heh—he’ll start to go. I’m not a saint, you know; it takes powerful motivation to keep a body incorrupt for years and years.”

  Sir Pierre was eying the gown that Pateley had put on the table. The button was still in place, as if held there by magnetism. He didn’t touch it. “Master Sean, I don’t know much about magic,” he said, “but can’t you find out who was wearing this robe just as easily as you found out that the button matched?”

  Master Sean wagged his head in a firm negative. “No, sir. ’Tisn’t relevant sir. The relevancy of the integrated dress-as-a-whole is quite strong. So is that of the seamstress or tailor who made the garment, and that of the weaver who made the cloth. But, except in certain circumstances, the person who wears or wore the garment has little actual relevancy to the garment itself.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand,” said Sir Pierre, looking puzzled.

  “Look at it like this, sir: That gown wouldn’t be what it is if the weaver hadn’t made the cloth in that particular way. It wouldn’t be what it is if the seamstress hadn’t cut it in a particular way and sewed it in a specific manner. You follow, sir? Yes. Well, then, the connections between garment-and-weaver and garment-and-seamstress are strongly relevant. But this dress would still be pretty much what it is if it had stayed in the closet instead of being worn. No relevance—or very little. Now, if it were a well-worn garment, that would be different—that is, if it had always been worn by the same person. Then, you see, sir, the garment-as-a-whole is what it is because of the wearing, and the wearer becomes relevant.”

  He pointed at the little handgun he was still holding in his hand. “Now you take your gun, here, sir. The—”

  “It isn’t my gun,” Sir Pierre interrupted firmly.

  “I was speaking rhetorically, sir,” said Master Sean with infinite patience. “This gun or any other gun in general, if you see what I mean, sir. It’s even harder to place the ownership of a gun. Most of the wear on a gun is purely mechanical. It don’t matter who pulls the trigger, you see, the erosion by the gases produced in the chamber, and the wear caused by the bullet passing through the barrel will be the same. You see, sir, ’tisn’t relevant to the gun who pulled its trigger or what it’s fired at. The bullet’s a slightly different matter. To the bullet, it is relevant which gun it was fired from and what it hit. All these things simply have to be taken into account, Sir Pierre.”

  “I see,” said the knight. “Very interesting, Master Sean.” Then he turned to Lord Darcy. “Is there anything else, your lordship? There’s a great deal of county business to be attended to.”

  Lord Darcy waved a hand. “Not at the moment, Sir Pierre. I understand the pressures of government. Go right ahead.”

  “Thank you, your lordship. If anything further should be required, I shall be in my office.”

  As soon as Sir Pierre had closed the door, Lord Darcy held out his hand toward the sorcerer. “Master Sean; the gun.”

  Master Sean handed it to him. “Ever see one like it before?” he asked, turning it over in his hands.

  “Not exactly like it, my lord.”

  “Come, come, Sean; don’t be so cautious. I am no sorcerer, but I don’t need to know the Laws of Similarity to be able to recognize an obvious similarity.”

  “Edinburgh,” said Master Sean flatly.

  “Exactly. Scottish work. The typical Scot gold work; remarkable beauty. And look at that lock. It has ‘Scots’ written all over it—and more. ‘Edinburgh’, as you said.”

  Dr. Pateley, having replaced his carefully polished glasses, leaned over and peered at the weapon in Lord Darcy’s hand. “Couldn’t it be Italian, my lord? Or Moorish? In Moorish Spain, they do work like that.”

  “No Moorish gunsmith would put a hunting scene on the butt,” Lord Darcy said flatly, “and the Italians wouldn’t have put heather and thistles in the field surrounding the huntsman.”

  “But the FdM engraved on the barrel,” said Dr. Pateley, “indicates the—”

  “Ferrari of Milan,” said Lord Darcy. “Exactly. But the barrel is of much newer work than the rest. So are the chambers. This is a fairly old gun—fifty years old, I’d say. The lock and the butt are still in excellent condition, indicating that it has been well cared for, but frequent usage—or a single accident—could ruin the barrel and require the owner to get a replacement. It was replaced by Ferrari.”

  “I see,” said Dr. Pateley somewhat humbled.

  “If we open the lock…Master Sean, hand me your small screwdriver. Thank you. If we open the lock, we will find the name of one of the finest gunsmiths of half a century ago—a man whose name has not yet been forgotten—Hamish Graw of Edinburgh. Ah! There! You see?” They did.

  Having satisfied himself on that point, Lord Darcy closed the lock again. “Now, men, we have the gun located. We also know that a guest in this very castle is Laird Duncan of Duncan. The Duncan of Duncan himself. A Scot’s laird who was, fifteen years ago, His Majesty’s Minister Plenipotentiary to the Free Grand Duchy of Milan. That suggests to me that it would be indeed odd if there were not some connection between Laird Duncan and this gun. Eh?”

  * * * *

  “Come, come, Master Sean,” said Lord Darcy, rather impatiently. “We haven’t all the time in the world.”

  “Patience, my lord; patience,” said the little sorcerer calmly. “Can’t hurry these things, you know.” He was kneeling in front of a large, heavy traveling chest in the bedroom of the guest apartment occupied temporarily by Laird and Lady Duncan, working with the lock. “One position of a lock is just as relevant as the other so you can’t work with the bolt. But the pin-tumblers in the cylinder, now, that’s a different matter. A lock’s built so that the breaks in the tumblers are not related to the surface of the cylinder when the key is out, but there is a relation when the key’s in, so by taking advantage of that relevancy—Ah!”

  The lock clicked open.

  Lord Darcy raised the lid gently.

  “Carefully, my lord!” Master Sean said in a warning voice. “He’s got a spell on the thing! Let me do it.” He made Lord Darcy stand back and then lifted the lid of the heavy trunk himself. When it was leaning back against the wall, gaping open widely on its hinges, Master Sean took a long look at the trunk and its lid without touching either of them. There was a second lid on the trunk, a thin one obviously operated by a simple bolt.

  Master Sean took his sorcerer’s staff, a five-foot, heavy rod made of the wood of the quicken tree or mountain ash, and touched the inner lid. Nothing happened. He touched the bolt. Nothing.

  “Hm-m-m,” Master Sean murmured thoughtfully. He glanced around the room, and his eyes fell on a heavy stone doorstop. “That ought to do it.” He walked over, picked it up, and carried it
back to the chest. Then he put it on the rim of the chest in such a position that if the lid were to fall it would be stopped by the doorstop.

  Then he put his hand in as if to lift the inner lid.

  The heavy outer lid swung forward and down of its own accord, moving with blurring speed, and slammed viciously against the doorstop.

  Lord Darcy massaged his right wrist gently, as if he felt where the lid would have hit if he had tried to open the inner lid. “Triggered to slam if a human being sticks a hand in there, eh?”

  “Or a head, my lord. Not very effectual if you know what to look for. There are better spells than that for guarding things. Now we’ll see what his lordship wants to protect so badly that he practices sorcery without a license.” He lifted the lid again, and then opened the inner lid. “It’s safe now, my lord. Look at this!”

  Lord Darcy had already seen. Both men looked in silence at the collection of paraphernalia on the first tray of the chest. Master Sean’s busy fingers carefully opened the tissue paper packing of one after another of the objects. “A human skull,” he said. “Bottles of graveyard earth. Hm-m-m—this one is labeled ‘virgin’s blood.’ And this! A Hand of Glory!”

  It was a mummified human hand, stiff and dry and brown, with the fingers partially curled, as though they were holding an invisible ball three inches or so in diameter. On each of the fingertips was a short candle-stub. When the hand was placed on its back, it would act as a candelabra.

  “That pretty much settles it, eh, Master Sean?” Lord Darcy said.

  “Indeed, my lord. At the very least, we can get him for possession of materials. Black magic is a matter of symbolism and intent.”

  “Very well. I want a complete list of the contents of that chest. Be sure to replace everything as it was and relock the trunk.” He tugged thoughtfully at an earlobe. “So Laird Duncan has the Talent, eh? Interesting.”

  “Aye. But not surprising, my lord,” said Master Sean without looking up from his work. “It’s in the blood. Some attribute it to the Dedannans, who passed through Scotland before they conquered Ireland three thousand years ago, but, however that may be, the Talent runs strong in the Sons of Gael. It makes me boil to see it misused.”

  While Master Sean talked, Lord Darcy was prowling around the room, reminding one of a lean tomcat who was certain that there was a mouse concealed somewhere.

  “It’ll make Laird Duncan boil if he isn’t stopped,” Lord Darcy murmured absently.

  “Aye, my lord,” said Master Sean. “The mental state necessary to use the Talent for black sorcery is such that it invariably destroys the user—but, if he knows what he’s doing, a lot of other people are hurt before he finally gets his.”

  Lord Darcy opened the jewel box on the dresser. The usual traveling jewelry—enough, but not a great choice.

  “A man’s mind turns in on itself when he’s taken up with hatred and thoughts of revenge,” Master Sean droned on. “Or, if he’s the type who enjoys watching others suffer, or the type who doesn’t care but is willing to do anything for gain, then his mind is already warped and the misuse of the Talent just makes it worse.”

  Lord Darcy found what he was looking for in a drawer, just underneath some neatly folded lingerie. A small holster, beautifully made of Florentine leather, gilded and tooled. He didn’t need Master Sean’s sorcery to tell him that the little pistol fit it like a hand in a glove.

  * * * *

  Father Bright felt as though he had been walking a tightrope for hours. Laird and Lady Duncan had been talking in low, controlled voices that betrayed an inner nervousness, but Father Bright realized that he and the Countess had been doing the same thing. The Duncan of Duncan had offered his condolences on the death of the late Count with the proper air of suppressed sorrow, as had Mary, Lady Duncan. The Countess had accepted them solemnly and with gratitude. But Father Bright was well aware that no one in the room—possibly, he thought, no one in the world—regretted the Count’s passing.

  Laird Duncan sat in his wheelchair, his sharp Scots features set in a sad smile that showed an intent to be affable even though great sorrow weighed heavily upon him. Father Bright noticed it and realized that his own face had the same sort of expression. No one was fooling anyone else, of that the priest was certain—but for anyone to admit it would be the most boorish breach of etiquette. But there was a haggardness, a look of increased age about the Laird’s countenance that Father Bright did not like. His priestly intuition told him clearly that there was a turmoil of emotion in the Scotsman’s mind that was…well, evil was the only word for it.

  Lady Duncan was, for the most part, silent. In the past fifteen minutes, since she and her husband had come to the informal tea, she had spoken scarcely a dozen words. Her face was masklike, but there was the same look of haggardness about her eyes as there was in her husband’s face. But the priest’s emphatic sense told him that the emotion here was fear, simple and direct. His keen eyes had noticed that she wore a shade too much make-up. She had almost succeeded in covering up the faint bruise on her right cheek, but not completely.

  My lady the Countess D’Evreux was all sadness and unhappiness, but there was neither fear nor evil there. She smiled politely and talked quietly. Father Bright would have been willing to bet that not one of the four of them would remember a word that had been spoken.

  Father Bright had placed his chair so that he could keep an eye on the open doorway and the long hall that led in from the Great Keep. He hoped Lord Darcy would hurry. Neither of the guests had been told that the Duke’s Investigator was here, and Father Bright was just a little apprehensive about the meeting. The Duncans had not even been told that the Count’s death had been murder, but he was certain that they knew.

  Father Bright saw Lord Darcy come in through the door at the far end of the hall. He murmured a polite excuse and rose. The other three accepted his excuses with the same politeness and went on with their talk. Father Bright met Lord Darcy in the hall.

  “Did you find what you were looking for, Lord Darcy?” the priest asked in a low tone.

  “Yes,” Lord Darcy said. “I’m afraid we shall have to arrest Laird Duncan.”

  “Murder?”

  “Perhaps. I’m not yet certain of that. But the charge will be black magic. He has all the paraphernalia in a chest in his room. Master Sean reports that a ritual was enacted in the bedroom last night. Of course, that’s out of my jurisdiction. You, as a representative of the Church, will have to be the arresting officer.” He paused. “You don’t seem surprised, Reverence.”

  “I’m not,” Father Bright admitted. “I felt it. You and Master Sean will have to make out a sworn deposition before I can act.”

  “I understand. Can you do me a favor?”

  “If I can.”

  “Get my lady the Countess out of the room on some pretext or other. Leave me alone with her guests. I do not wish to upset my lady any more than absolutely necessary.”

  “I think I can do that. Shall we go in together?”

  “Why not? But don’t mention why I am here. Let them assume I am just another guest.”

  “Very well.”

  * * * *

  All three occupants of the room glanced up as Father Bright came in with Lord Darcy. The introductions were made: Lord Darcy humbly begged the pardon of his hostess for his lateness. Father Bright noticed the same sad smile on Lord Darcy’s handsome face as the others were wearing.

  Lord Darcy helped himself from the buffet table and allowed the Countess to pour him a large cup of hot tea. He mentioned nothing about the recent death. Instead, he turned the conversation toward the wild beauty of Scotland and the excellence of the grouse shooting there.

  Father Bright had not sat down again. Instead, he left the room once more. When he returned, he went directly to the Countess and said, in a low, but clearly audible voice: “My lady, Sir Pierre Morlaix has informed me that there are a few matters that require your attention immediately. It will require only a few m
oments.”

  My lady the Countess did not hesitate, but made her excuses immediately. “Do finish your tea,” she added. “I don’t think I shall be long.”

  Lord Darcy knew the priest would not lie, and he wondered what sort of arrangement had been made with Sir Pierre. Not that it mattered except that Lord Darcy had hoped it would be sufficiently involved for it to keep the Countess busy for at least ten minutes.

  The conversation, interrupted but momentarily, returned to grouse.

  “I haven’t done any shooting since my accident,” said Laird Duncan, “but I used to enjoy it immensely. I still have friends up every year for the season.”

  “What sort of weapon do you prefer for grouse?” Lord Darcy asked.

  “A one-inch bore with a modified choke,” said the Scot. “I have a pair that I favor. Excellent weapons.”

  “Of Scottish make?”

  “No, no. English. Your London gunsmiths can’t be beat for shotguns.”

  “Oh. I thought perhaps your lordship had had all your guns made in Scotland.” As he spoke, he took the little pistol out of his coat pocket and put it carefully on the table.

  There was a sudden silence, then Laird Duncan said in an angry voice: “What is this? Where did you get that?”

  Lord Darcy glanced at Lady Duncan, who had turned suddenly pale. “Perhaps,” he said coolly, “Lady Duncan can tell us.”

  She shook her head and gasped. For a moment, she had trouble in forming words or finding her voice. Finally: “No. No. I know nothing. Nothing.”

  But Laird Duncan looked at her oddly.

  “You do not deny that it is your gun, my lord?” Lord Darcy asked. “Or your wife’s, as the case may be.”

  “Where did you get it?” There was a dangerous quality in the Scotsman’s voice. He had once been a powerful man, and Lord Darcy could see his shoulder muscles bunching.

  “From the late Count D’Evreux’s bedroom.”

  “What was it doing there?” There was a snarl in the Scot’s voice, but Lord Darcy had the feeling that the question was as much directed toward Lady Duncan as it was to himself.