The Second Randall Garrett Megapack

by Randall Garrett

  “One of the things it was doing there was shooting Count D’Evreux through the heart.”

  Lady Duncan slumped forward in a dead faint, overturning her teacup. Laird Duncan made a grab at the gun, ignoring his wife. Lord Darcy’s hand snaked out and picked up the weapon before the Scot could touch it. “No, no, my lord,” he said mildly. “This is evidence in a murder case. We mustn’t tamper with the King’s evidence.”

  He wasn’t prepared for what happened next. Laird Duncan roared something obscene in Scots Gaelic, put his hands on the arms of his wheelchair, and, with a great thrust of his powerful arms and shoulders, shoved himself up and forward, toward Lord Darcy, across the table from him. His arms swung up toward Lord Darcy’s throat as the momentum of his body carried him toward the investigator.

  He might have made it, but the weakness of his legs betrayed him. His waist struck the edge of the massive oaken table, and most of his forward momentum was lost. He collapsed forward, his hands still grasping toward the surprised Englishman. His chin came down hard on the table top. Then he slid back, taking the tablecloth and the china and silverware with him. He lay unmoving on the floor. His wife did not even stir except when the tablecloth tugged at her head.

  Lord Darcy had jumped back, overturning his chair. He stood on his feet, looking at the two unconscious forms.

  * * * *

  “I don’t think there’s any permanent damage done to either,” said Dr. Pateley an hour later. “Lady Duncan was suffering from shock, of course, but Father Bright brought her round in a hurry. She’s a devout woman, I think, even if a sinful one.”

  “What about Laird Duncan?” Lord Darcy asked.

  “Well, that’s a different matter. I’m afraid that his back injury was aggravated, and that crack on the chin didn’t do him any good. I don’t know whether Father Bright can help him or not. Healing takes the co-operation of the patient. I did all I could for him, but I’m just a chirurgeon, not a practitioner of the Healing Art. Father Bright has quite a good reputation in that line, however, and he may be able to do his lordship some good.”

  Master Sean shook his head dolefully. “His Reverence has the Talent, there’s no doubt of that, but now he’s pitted against another man who has it—a man whose mind is bent on self-destruction in the long run.”

  “Well, that’s none of my affair,” said Dr. Pateley. “I’m just a technician. I’ll leave healing up to the Church, where it belongs.”

  “Master Sean,” said Lord Darcy, “there is still a mystery here. We need more evidence. What about the eyes?”

  Master Sean blinked. “You mean the picture test, my lord?”

  “I do.”

  “It won’t stand up in court, my lord,” said the sorcerer.

  “I’m aware of that,” said Lord Darcy testily.

  “Eye test?” Dr. Pateley asked blankly. “I don’t believe I understand.”

  “It’s not often used,” said Master Sean. “It is a psychic phenomenon that sometimes occurs at the moment of death—especially a violent death. The violent emotional stress causes a sort of backfiring of the mind, if you see what I mean. As a result, the image in the mind of the dying person is returned to the retina. By using the proper sorcery, this image can be developed and the last thing the dead man saw can be brought out.

  “But it’s a difficult process even under the best of circumstances, and usually the conditions aren’t right. In the first place, it doesn’t always occur. It never occurs, for instance, when the person is expecting the attack. A man who is killed in a duel, or who is shot after facing the gun for several seconds, has time to adjust to the situation. Also, death must occur almost instantly. If he lingers, even for a few minutes, the effect is lost. And, naturally if the person’s eyes are closed at the instant of death, nothing shows up.”

  “Count D’Evreux’s eyes were open,” Dr. Pateley said. “They were still open when we found him. How long after death does the image remain?”

  “Until the cells of the retina die and lose their identity. Rarely more than twenty-four hours, usually much less.”

  “It hasn’t been twenty-four hours yet,” said Lord Darcy, “and there is a chance that the Count was taken completely by surprise.”

  “I must admit, my lord,” Master Sean said thoughtfully, “that the conditions seem favorable. I shall attempt it. But don’t put any hopes on it, my lord.”

  “I shan’t. Just do your best, Master Sean. If there is a sorcerer in practice who can do the job, it is you.”

  “Thank you, my lord. I’ll get busy on it right away,” said the sorcerer with a subdued glow of pride.

  * * * *

  Two hours later, Lord Darcy was striding down the corridor of the Great Hall, Master Sean following up as best he could, his caorthainn-wood staff in one hand and his big carpet bag in the other. He had asked Father Bright and the Countess D’Evreux to meet him in one of the smaller guest rooms. But the Countess came to meet him.

  “My Lord Darcy,” she said, her plain face looking worried and unhappy, “is it true that you suspect Laird and Lady Duncan of this murder? Because, if so, I must—”

  “No longer, my lady,” Lord Darcy cut her off quickly. “I think we can show that neither is guilty of murder—although, of course, the black magic charge must still be held against Laird Duncan.”

  “I understand,” she said, “but—”

  “Please, my lady,” Lord Darcy interrupted again, “let me explain everything. Come.”

  Without another word, she turned and led the way to the room where Father Bright was waiting.

  The priest stood waiting, his face showing tenseness.

  “Please,” said Lord Darcy. “Sit down, both of you. This won’t take long. My lady, may Master Sean make use of that table over there?”

  “Certainly, my lord,” the Countess said softly, “certainly.”

  “Thank you my lady. Please, please—sit down. This won’t take long. Please.”

  With apparent reluctance, Father Bright and my lady the Countess sat down in two chairs facing Lord Darcy. They paid little attention to what Master Sean O Lochlainn was doing; their eyes were on Lord Darcy.

  “Conducting an investigation of this sort is not an easy thing,” he began carefully. “Most murder cases could be easily solved by your Chief Man-at-Arms. We find that well-trained county police, in by far the majority of cases, can solve the mystery easily—and in most cases there is very little mystery. But, by His Imperial Majesty’s law, the Chief Man-at-Arms must call in a Duke’s Investigator if the crime is insoluble or if it involves a member of the aristocracy. For that reason, you were perfectly correct to call His Highness the Duke as soon as murder had been discovered.” He leaned back in his chair. “And it has been clear from the first that my lord the late Count was murdered.”

  Father Bright started to say something, but Lord Darcy cut him off before he could speak. “By ‘murder’, Reverend Father, I mean that he did not die a natural death—by disease or heart trouble or accident or what-have-you. I should, perhaps, use the word ‘homicide’.

  “Now the question we have been called upon to answer is simply this: Who was responsible for the homicide?”

  The priest and the countess remained silent, looking at Lord Darcy as though he were some sort of divinely inspired oracle.

  “As you know…pardon me, my lady, if I am blunt…the late Count was somewhat of a playboy. No. I will make that stronger. He was a satyr, a lecher; he was a man with a sexual obsession.

  “For such a man, if he indulges in his passions—which the late Count most certainly did—there is usually but one end. Unless he is a man who has a winsome personality—which he did not—there will be someone who will hate him enough to kill him. Such a man inevitably leaves behind him a trail of wronged women and wronged men.

  “One such person may kill him.

  “One such person did.

  “But we must find the person who did and determine the extent of his or her g
uilt. That is my purpose.

  “Now, as to the facts. We know that Edouard has a secret stairway which led directly to his suite. Actually, the secret was poorly kept. There were many women—common and noble—who knew of the existence of that stairway and knew how to enter it. If Edouard left the lower door unlocked, anyone could come up that stairway. He has another lock in the door of his bedroom, so only someone who was invited could come in, even if she…or he…could get into the stairway. He was protected.

  “Now here is what actually happened that night. I have evidence, by the way, and I have the confessions of both Laird and Lady Duncan. I will explain how I got those confessions in a moment.

  “Primus: Lady Duncan had an assignation with Count D’Evreux last night. She went up the stairway to his room. She was carrying with her a small pistol. She had had an affair with Edouard, and she had been rebuffed. She was furious. But she went to his room.

  “He was drunk when she arrived—in one of the nasty moods with which both of you are familiar. She pleaded with him to accept her again as his mistress. He refused. According to Lady Duncan, he said: ‘I don’t want you! You’re not fit to be in the same room with her!’

  “The emphasis is Lady Duncan’s, not my own.

  “Furious, she drew a gun—the little pistol which killed him.”

  The Countess gasped. “But Mary couldn’t have—”

  “Please!” Lord Darcy slammed the palm of his hand on the arm of his chair with an explosive sound. “My lady, you will listen to what I have to say!”

  He was taking a devil of a chance, he knew. The Countess was his hostess and had every right to exercise her prerogatives. But Lord Darcy was counting on the fact that she had been under Count D’Evreux’s influence so long that it would take her a little time to realize that she no longer had to knuckle under to the will of a man who shouted at her. He was right. She became silent.

  Father Bright turned to her quickly and said: “Please, my daughter. Wait.”

  “Your pardon, my lady,” Lord Darcy continued smoothly. “I was about to explain to you why I know Lady Duncan could not have killed your brother. There is the matter of the dress. We are certain that the gown that was found in Edouard’s closet was worn by the killer. And that gown could not possibly have fit Lady Duncan! She’s much too…er…hefty.

  “She has told me her story, and, for reasons I will give you later, I believe it. When she pointed the gun at your brother, she really had no intention of killing him. She had no intention of pulling the trigger. Your brother knew this. He lashed out and slapped the side of her head. She dropped the pistol and fell, sobbing, to the floor. He took her roughly by the arm and ‘escorted’ her down the stairway. He threw her out.

  “Lady Duncan, hysterical, ran to her husband.

  “And then, when he had succeeded in calming her down a bit, she realized the position she was in. She knew that Laird Duncan was a violent, a warped man—very similar to Edouard, Count D’Evreux. She dared not tell him the truth, but she had to tell him something. So she lied.

  “She told him that Edouard had asked her up in order to tell her something of importance; that that ‘something of importance’ concerned Laird Duncan’s safety; that the Count told her that he knew of Laird Duncan’s dabbling in black magic; that he threatened to inform Church authorities on Laird Duncan unless she submitted to his desires; that she had struggled with him and ran away.”

  Lord Darcy spread his hands. “This was, of course, a tissue of lies. But Laird Duncan believed everything. So great was his ego that he could not believe in her infidelity, although he has been paralyzed for five years.”

  “How can you be certain that Lady Duncan told the truth?” Father Bright asked warily.

  “Aside from the matter of the gown—which Count D’Evreux kept only for women of the common class, not the aristocracy—we have the testimony of the actions of Laird Duncan himself. We come then to—

  “Secondus: Laird Duncan could not have committed the murder physically. How could a man who was confined to a wheelchair go up that flight of stairs? I submit to you that it would have been physically impossible.

  “The possibility that he has been pretending all these years, and that he is actually capable of walking, was disproved three hours ago, when he actually injured himself by trying to throttle me. His legs are incapable of carrying him even one step—much less carrying him to the top of that stairway.”

  Lord Darcy folded his hands complacently.

  “There remains,” said Father Bright, “the possibility that Laird Duncan killed Count D’Evreux by psychical, by magical means.”

  Lord Darcy nodded. “That is indeed possible, Reverend Sir, as we both know. But not in this instance. Master Sean assures me, and I am certain that you will concur, that a man killed by sorcery, by black magic, dies of internal malfunction, not of a bullet through the heart.

  “In effect, the Black Sorcerer induces his enemy to kill himself by psychosomatic means. He dies by what is technically known as psychic induction. Master Sean informs me that the commonest—and crudest—method of doing this is by the so-called ‘simalcrum induction’ method. That is, by the making of an image—usually, but not necessarily, of wax—and, using the Law of Similarity, inducing death. The Law of Contagion is also used, since the fingernails, hair, spittle, and so on, of the victim are usually incorporated into the image. Am I correct, Father?”

  The priest nodded. “Yes. And, contrary to the heresies of certain materialists, it is not at all necessary that the victim be informed of the operation—although, admittedly, it can, in certain circumstances, aid the process.”

  “Exactly,” said Lord Darcy. “But it is well known that material objects can be moved by a competent sorcerer—‘black’ or ‘white’. Would you explain to my lady the Countess why her brother could not have been killed in that manner?”

  * * * *

  Father Bright touched his lips with the tip of his tongue and then turned to the girl sitting next to him. “There is a lack of relevancy. In this case, the bullet must have been relevant either to the heart or to the gun. To have traveled with a velocity great enough to penetrate, the relevancy to the heart must have been much greater than the relevancy to the gun. Yet the test, witnessed by myself, that was performed by Master Sean indicates that this was not so. The bullet returned to the gun, not to your brother’s heart. The evidence, my dear, is conclusive that the bullet was propelled by purely physical means, and was propelled from the gun.”

  “Then what was it Laird Duncan did?” the Countess asked.

  “Tertius:” said Lord Darcy. “Believing what his wife had told him, Laird Duncan flew into a rage. He determined to kill your brother. He used an induction spell. But the spell backfired and almost killed him.

  “There are analogies on a material plane. If one adds mineral spirits and air to a fire, the fire will be increased. But if one adds ash, the fire will be put out.

  “In a similar manner, if one attacks a living being psychically it will die—but if one attacks a dead thing in such a manner, the psychic energy will be absorbed, to the detriment of the person who has used it.

  “In theory, we could charge Laird Duncan with attempted murder, for there is no doubt that he did attempt to kill your brother, my lady. But your brother was already dead at the time!

  “The resultant dissipation of psychic energy rendered Laird Duncan unconscious for several hours, during which Lady Duncan waited in suspenseful fear.

  “Finally, when Laird Duncan regained consciousness, he realized what had happened. He knew that your brother was already dead when he attempted the spell. He thought, therefore, that Lady Duncan had killed the Count.

  “On the other hand, Lady Duncan was perfectly well aware that she had left Edouard alive and well. So she thought the black magic of her husband had killed her erstwhile lover.”

  “Each was trying to protect the other,” Father Bright said. “Neither is completely evil, then. The
re may be something we can do for Laird Duncan.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that, Father,” Lord Darcy said. “The Healing Art is the Church’s business, not mine.” He realized with some amusement that he was paraphrasing Dr. Pateley. “What Laird Duncan had not known,” he went on quickly, “was that his wife had taken a gun up to the Count’s bedroom. That put a rather different light on her visit, you see. That’s why he flew into such a towering rage at me—not because I was accusing him or his wife of murder, but because I had cast doubt on his wife’s behavior.”

  He turned his head to look at the table where the Irish sorcerer was working. “Ready, Master Sean?”

  “Aye, my lord. All I have to do is set up the screen and light the lantern in the projector.”

  “Go ahead, then.” He looked back at Father Bright and the Countess. “Master Sean has a rather interesting lantern slide I want you to look at.”

  “The most successful development I’ve ever made, if I may say so, my lord,” the sorcerer said.

  “Proceed.”

  Master Sean opened the shutter on the projector, and a picture sprang into being on the screen.

  There were gasps from Father Bright and the Countess.

  It was a woman. She was wearing the gown that had hung in the Count’s closet. A button had been torn off, and the gown gaped open. Her right hand was almost completely obscured by a dense cloud of smoke. Obviously she had just fired a pistol directly at the onlooker.

  But that was not what had caused the gasps.

  The girl was beautiful. Gloriously, ravishingly beautiful. It was not a delicate beauty. There was nothing flower-like or peaceful in it. It was a beauty that could have but one effect on a normal human male. She was the most physically desirable woman one could imagine.

  Retro mea, Sathanas, Father Bright thought wryly. She’s almost obscenely beautiful.

  Only the Countess was unaffected by the desirability of the image. She saw only the startling beauty.

  “Has neither of you seen that woman before? I thought not,” said Lord Darcy. “Nor had Laird or Lady Duncan. Nor Sir Pierre.