Lord Darcy Investigates

by Randall Garrett

  “Like that,” said Lord Darcy blandly. “Except, of course, that the glass chimney was replaced first. And the rope did not need to be removed since it had all been burnt up.”

  Before anyone else could speak, Father Villiers said: “Just a moment my lord. If someone had done that, he would have had to have been in this room—seconds after the death. But there is no way in or out of this room except the door—which was guarded—and the door to the roof, which you have said was not used. There is no other way in or out of this room.”

  Lord Darcy smiled. “Oh, but there is, Reverend Father.”

  The priest looked blank.

  “The way My Lord de la Vexin took,” Lord Darcy said gently.

  Surely they understand now, Lord Darcy thought. He broke the silence by saying: “The lamp was down. There was no one in this room. Then someone climbed in through the window via the fire ladder, raised the lamp again and—

  “Chief Jaque!” Lord Darcy shouted.

  But he was a fraction of a second too late.

  Sergeant Andray had drawn a concealed sidearm. Chief Jaque was just a little too late getting his own gun out.

  There was the sudden ear-shattering shock of a heavy-caliber pistol firing in a closed room and Chief Jaque went down with a bullet in him.

  Lord Darcy’s hand darted toward the pistol at his own hip but before it could clear the holster Captain Sir Roderique leaped toward his son.

  “You fool! You—” His voice was agonized.

  He grabbed the sergeant’s wrist, twisted it up.

  There came a second shattering blast.

  Sir Roderique fell backwards; the bullet had gone in under his chin and taken the top of his head off.

  Sergeant Andray screamed.

  Then he spun around, leaped to the top of the desk, and flung himself out the window, still screaming.

  The scream lasted just a bit over two seconds before Sergeant Andray was permanently silenced by the courtyard below.

  * * *

  The celebrations of Holy Saturday were over, Easter Season had officially begun. The bells were still ringing in the tower of the Cathedral of St. Ouen in the city of Rouen, the capital of the Duchy of Normandy.

  His Royal Highness, Richard, Duke of Normandy leaned back in his chair and smiled across the cozy fireplace at his Chief Investigator. Both of them were holding warming glasses of fine Champagne brandy.

  His Highness had just finished reading Lord Darcy’s report.

  “I see, my lord,” he said. “After the trap had been set and triggered—after the late de la Vexin had been propelled through the window to his death—Sergeant Andray went up the fire ladder alone, raised the lamp back to its usual position and then opened the barred door to allow in the other Guardsmen. The fox concealing himself among the hounds.”

  “Precisely, Your Highness. And you see the motive.”

  His Highness the Duke, younger brother of His Imperial Majesty, King John IV, was blond, blue-eyed, and handsome, like all the Plantagenets, but at this moment there was a faint frown upon his forehead.

  “The motive was obvious from the beginning, my lord,” he said. “I can see that Sergeant Andray wanted to get rid of My Lord de la Vexin in order to clear the way for a marriage which would be beneficial to his sister—and, of course, to the rest of the family. But your written report is incomplete.” He tapped the sheaf of papers in his hand.

  “I fear, Your Highness,” Lord Darcy said carefully, “that it must remain forever incomplete.”

  Prince Richard leaned back and sighed. “Very well, Darcy. Give it to me orally. Off the record, as usual.”

  “As you command, Your Highness,” Lord Darcy said, refilling his glass.

  “Young Andray must be blamed for the murder. The evidence I have can go no further, now that both he and his father are dead. Chief Jaque, who will easily recover from the bullet wound in his shoulder, has no more evidence than I have.

  “Captain Sir Roderique will be buried with military honors, since eyewitnesses can and will say that he tried to stop his son from shooting me. Further hypotheses now would merely raise a discussion that could never be resolved.

  “But it was not Sergeant Andray who set the trap. Only Captain Sir Roderique had access to the key that unlocked the laboratory. Only he could have gone up there and set the death trap that killed the late Count.”

  “Then why,” the Prince asked, “did he try to stop his son?”

  “Because, Your Highness,” Lord Darcy replied, “he did not think I had enough evidence to convict. He was trying to stop young Andray from making a fool of himself by giving the whole thing away. Andray had panicked—which I had hoped he would, but not, I must admit, to that extent.

  “He killed his father, who had plotted the whole thing, and seeing what he had done, went into a suicidal hysteria which resulted in his death. I am sorry for that, Your Highness.”

  “Not your fault, Darcy. What about the Damoselle Madelaine?”

  Lord Darcy sipped at his brandy. “She was the prime mover, of course. She instigated the whole thing—subtly. No way to prove it. But Lord Gisors sees through her now. He will wed the lady his father quite properly chose for him.”

  “I see,” said the Prince. “You told him the truth?”

  “I spoke to him, Your Highness,” Lord Darcy said. “But he already knew the truth.”

  “Then the matter is settled.” His Highness straightened up in his chair. “Now, about those notebooks you brought back with you. What do they mean?”

  “They are the late Count’s scientific-materialistic notes on his researches fcr the past twenty years, Your Highness. They present two decades of hard research.”

  “But—really, Darcy. Research on Materialism? Of what use could they possibly be?”

  “Your Highness, the Laws of Magic tell us how the mind of man can influence the material universe. But the universe is more than the mind of man can possibly encompass. The mind of God may keep the planets and the stars in their courses, but, if so, then He has laws by which He abides.”

  Lord Darcy finished his brandy. “There are more things in this universe than the mind of man, Your Highness, and there are laws which govern them. Someday, those notebooks may be invaluable.”

  The Ipswich Phial

  The pair-drawn brougham moved briskly along the Old Shore Road, moving westward a few miles from the little village of St.-Matthew’s-Church, in the direction of Cherbourg.

  The driver, a stocky man with a sleepy smile on his broad face, was well bundled up in a gray driving cloak, and the hood of his cowl was pulled up over his head and covered with a wide-brimmed slouch hat. Even in early June, on a sunshiny day, the Normandy coast can be chilly in the early morning, especially with a stiff wind blowing.

  “Stop here, Danglars,” said a voice behind him. “This looks like a good place for a walk along the beach.”

  “Yus, mistress.” He reined in the horses, bringing the brougham to an easy stop. “You sure it’s safe down there, Mistress Jizelle?” he asked, looking to his right, where the Channel stretched across to the north, toward England.

  “The tide is out, is it not?” she asked briskly.

  Danglars looked at his wristwatch. “Yus. Just at the ebb now.”

  “Very well. Wait for me here. I may return here, or I may walk on. If I go far, I will signal you from down the road.”

  “Yus, mistress.”

  She nodded once, sharply, then strode off toward the beach.

  She was a tall, not unhandsome woman, who appeared to be in late middle age. Her gray-silver hair was cut rather shorter than the usual, but was beautifully arranged. Her costume was that of an upper-middle-class Anglo-French woman on a walking tour, but it was more in the British style than the Norman: well-burnished knee-high boots; a Scottish woolen skirt, the hem of which just brushed the boot-tops; a matching jacket; and a soft sweater of white wool that covered her from waist to chin. She wore no hat. She carried herself w
ith the brisk, no-nonsense air of a woman who knows what she is and who she is, and will brook no argument from anyone about it.

  Mistress Jizelle de Ville found a pathway down to the beach. There was a low cliff, varying from fifteen to twenty feet high, which separated the upper downs from the beach itself, but there were slopes and washes here and there which could be maneuvered. The cliff itself was the ultimate high-tide mark, but only during great storms did the sea ever come up that high; the normal high tide never came within fifteen yards of the base of the cliff, and the intervening space was covered with soft, dry sand which was difficult to walk in. Mistress Jizelle crossed the dry sand to the damper, more solidly packed area, and began walking westward.

  It was a beautiful morning, in spite of the slight chill; just the sort of morning one would choose for a brisk, healthful walk along a pleasant beach. Mistress Jizelle was a woman who liked exercise and long walks, and she was a great admirer of scenic beauty. To her right, the rushing wind made scudding whitecaps of the ebbing tide and brought the “smell of the sea”—an odor never found on the open expanse of the sea itself, for it is composed of the aroma of the sea things which dwell in the tidal basins and the shallow coastal waters and the faint smell of the decomposition of dead and dying things beached by the rhythmic ebb and flow of tide and wave.

  Overhead, the floating gulls gave their plaintive, almost catlike cries as they soared in search of the rich sustenance that the sea and shore gave them.

  Not until she had walked nearly a hundred yards along the beach did Mistress Jizelle see anything out of the ordinary. When she did, she stopped and looked at it carefully. Ahead and to her left, some eight or nine yards from the base of the cliff, a man lay sprawled in the dry sand, twenty feet or so above the high-tide line.

  After a moment, she walked toward the man, carefully and cautiously. He was certainly not dressed for bathing; he was wearing the evening dress of a gentleman. She walked up to the edge of the damp sand and stopped again, looking at the man carefully.

  Then she saw something that made the hairs on the back of her neck rise.

  * * *

  Danglars was sitting placidly in the driver’s seat of the brougham, smoking his clay pipe, when he saw the approaching trio. He eyed them carefully as they came toward the carriage. Two young men and an older one, all dressed in the work clothes typical of a Norman farmer. The eldest waved a hand and said something Danglars couldn’t hear over the sound of the waves and the wind. Then they came close enough to be audible, and the eldest said: “Alio! Got dee any trouble here?”

  Danglars shook his head. “Nup.”

  The farmer ignored that. “Me an’ m’boys saw dee stop up here, an’ thought mayap we could help. Name’s Champtier. Samel Champtier. Dese two a my tads, Evrit an’ Lorin. If dou hass need a aid, we do what we can.”

  Danglars nodded slowly, then took his pipe from his mouth. “Good o’ ya, Goodman Samel. Grace to ya. But I got no problem. Mistress wanted to walk along the beach. Likes that sort of thing. We head on pretty soon.”

  Samel cleared his throat. “Hass dou broke dy fast, dou an’ d’ misslady? Wife fixin’ breakfast now. Mayap we bring du somewhat?”

  Danglars took another puff and sighed. Norman farmers were good, kindly folk, but sometimes they overdid it. “Broke fast, Goodman Samel. Grace to ya. Mistress comes back, we got to be gettin’ on. Again, grace to ya.”

  “Caffe, then,” Samel said decisively. He turned to the elder son. “Evrit! Go tell dy mama for a pot a caffe an’ two mugs! Run it, now!”

  Evrit took off like a turpentined ostrich.

  Danglars cast his eyes toward heaven.

  * * *

  Mistress Jizelle swallowed and again looked closely at the dead man. There was a pistol in his right hand and an ugly hole in his right temple. There was blood all over the sand around his head. And there was no question about his being dead.

  She looked up and down the beach while she rather dazedly brushed at her skirt with the palms of her hands. Then, bracing her shoulders, Mistress Jizelle turned herself about and walked back the way she had come, paralleling her own footprints. There were no others on the beach.

  Three men were talking to Danglars, and Danglars did not seem to be agitated about it. Determinedly, she strode onward.

  Not until she was within fifteen feet of the brougham did Danglars deign to notice her. Then he tugged his forelock and smiled his sleepy smile. “Greeting, mistress. Have a nice walk?” He had a mug of caffe in one hand. He gestured with the other. “Goodman Samel and his boys, mistress, from the near farm. Brought a pot o’ caffe.”

  The three farmers were tugging at their forelocks, too.

  “I appreciate that,” she said. “Very much. But I fear we have an emergency to attend to. Come with me, all of you.”

  Danglars widened his eyes. “Emergency, mistress?”

  “That’s what I said, wasn’t it? Now, all of you follow me, and I shall show you what I mean.”

  “But, mistress—” Danglars began.

  “Follow me,” she said imperatively.

  Danglars got down from the brougham. He had no choice but to follow with the others.

  Mistress Jizelle led them across the sparse grass to the edge of the cliff that overlooked the place where the dead man lay.

  “Now look down there. There is a dead man down there. He has, I think, been shot to death. I am not much acquainted with such things, but that is what it looks like to me.”

  The four knelt and looked at the body below. There was silence for a moment, then Samel said, rather formally: “Dou be right, mistress. Dead he be.”

  “Who is he, goodman?” she asked.

  Samel stood up slowly and brushed his trousers with calloused hands. “Don’t rightly know, mistress.” He looked at his two sons, who were still staring down with fascination. “Who be he, tads?”

  They stood up, brushing their trousers as their father had. Evrit, the elder, spoke. “Don’t know, Papa. Ee not from hereabout.” He nudged his younger brother with an elbow. “Lorin?”

  Lorin shook his head, looking at his father.

  “Well, that does not matter for the moment,” Mistress Jizelle said firmly. “There is Imperial Law to follow in such cases as this, and we must do so. Danglars, get in the brougham and return to—”

  “But, Mistress Jizelle,” Danglars cut in, “I can’t—”

  “You must do exactly as I tell you, Danglars,” she said forcefully. “It is most important. Go back to St.-Matthew’s-Church and notify the Rector. Then go on to Caen and notify the Armsmen. Goodman Samel and his boys will wait here with me and make sure nobody disturbs anything. Do you understand?”

  “Yus, mistress. Perfec’ly.” And off he went.

  She turned to Samel. “Goodman, can you spare some time? I am sure you have work to do, but I shouldn’t like to be left here alone.”

  Samel smiled. “Mornin’ chores all done, mistress. Eldest tad, Orval, can take care of all for a couple hours. Don’t fret.” He looked at the younger boy. “Lorin, go dou an’ tell dy mama an’ dy brother what happen, but nobody else. An’ say dey tell nobody. Hear?”

  Lorin nodded and ran.

  “And bring dou back somewat ta eat!” Evrit yelled after him.

  Samel looked worried. “Mistress?”

  “Yes, Goodman Samel?”

  “Hass dou noticed somewat funny about d’ man dere?”

  “Funny?” She raised an eyebrow.

  “Yea, mistress.” He pointed down. “All round him, sand. Smooth. No footprints but dine own, an’ dey come nowhere near him. Fresh dead, but—how he get dere?”

  * * *

  Five days later, Sir James le Lein, Special Agent of His Majesty’s Secret Service, was seated in a comfortable chair in the studylike office of Lord Darcy, Chief Investigator for His Royal Highness, Richard, Duke of Normandy.

  “And I still don’t know where the Ipswich Phial is, Darcy,” he was saying with some exas
peration. “And neither do they.”

  Outside the open window, sounds of street traffic—the susurration of rubber-tired wheels on pavement, the clopping of horses’ hooves, the footsteps and voices of a thousand people, and the myriad of other small noises that make up the song of a city—were wafted up from six floors below.

  Lord Darcy leaned back in the chair behind his broad desk and held up a hand.

  “Hold it, Sir James. You’re leaping far ahead of yourself. I presume that by ‘they’ you mean the Serka—the Polish Secret Service. But what is this Phial, anyway?”

  “I can’t tell you for two reasons. First, you have no need to know. Second, neither do I, so I couldn’t tell you if I wanted. Physically, it’s a golden cylinder the size of your thumb, stoppered at one end with a golden stopper, which is sealed over with soft gold. Other than that, I know nothing but the code name: The Ipswich Phial.”

  Sean O Lochlainn, Master Sorcerer, who had been sitting quietly in another chair with his hands folded over his stomach, his eyes half closed, and his ears wide open, said: “I’d give a pretty penny to know who assigned that code name; sure and I’d have him sacked for incompetence.”

  “Oh?” said Sir James. “Why?”

  Master Sean opened his eyes fully. “If the Poles don’t know that the Ipswich Laboratories in Suffolk, under Master Sir Greer Davidson, is devoted to secret research in magic, then they are so incredibly stupid that we need not worry about them at all. With a name like ‘Ipswich Phial’ on it, the Serka would have to investigate, if they heard about it.”

  “Maybe it’s just a red herring designed to attract their attention while something else is going on,” said Lord Darcy.

  “Maybe,” Master Sean admitted, “but if so, me lord, it’s rather dear. What Sir James has just described is an auric-stabilized psychic shield. What would you put in such a container? Some Khemic concoction, like an explosive or a poison? Or a secret message? That’d be incompetence compounded, like writing your grocery list on vellum in gold. Conspicuous consumption.”

  “I see,” said Lord Darcy. He looked at Sir James. “What makes you think the Serka hasn’t got it already?”