Lord Darcy Investigates

by Randall Garrett

  Prince Richard had caught sight of Lord Darcy and Master Sean. “Ah, there you are, my lord. Sorry to drag you and Master Sean out at this time of night, but there’s no help for it. Where is Goodman Torquin?”

  “Right here, Your Highness,” said a mellow, baritone voice from somewhere behind and below Lord Darcy’s head. His lordship turned round.

  The man in the working dress of a journeyman Sorcerer was not over five-two, and was built like a wrestler. He was not a dwarf, merely short—although his head seemed a trifle large for the rest of him. He had a pleasantly ugly face that made Lord Darcy suspect he practiced pugilism on the side, large warm brown eyes, and, like Master Sean, he carried a symbol-decorated carpetbag in his left hand.

  Introductions were made all round, including Donal Brennan, the grim-looking black-uniformed Chief Master-at-Arms of the City of Rouen.

  “Let’s walk down toward the summer cottage, while I explain what all this ruckus is about,” said the Duke.

  Briefly, but completely, he told the story. The only thing he did not mention was the contents of the “important papers” that Lord Vauxhall had been carrying when last seen. Nor did he describe the body; they would see that soon enough.

  “You must understand,” he concluded, “that it is vitally important that we find those papers.”

  “You think they are in the diplomatic case, then, Your Highness?” Lord Darcy asked.

  “Fairly certain. Vauxhall took the papers with him to put them in it. He had left it on his desk in his office, and we couldn’t find it anywhere.”

  Lord Darcy nodded. “Yes. The obvious conclusion is that the papers are in that leather envelope. I tend to agree with Your Highness.”

  “That’s why I called out a troop of the regiment,” said the Duke. “I want these grounds searched thoroughly, and cavalrymen are trained for that sort of thing. Besides, I didn’t want to pull that many Armsmen out of the city. A dozen is enough to search all the buildings, and that’s what they’re trained for.”

  Chief Donal nodded, apparently impressed by the Duke’s sagacity.

  The five men heard running footsteps behind them, and they all turned to look. Running down the grassy slope in the silvery moonlight was a figure carrying a black leather bag.

  “It’s Dr. Pateley,” said Master Sean.

  “Sorry to be late, gentlemen,” puffed the gray-haired chirurgeon. “Sorry, Your Highness. Unavoidable delay. Sorry.” He stopped to get his breath and to adjust the pince-nez glasses which had become awry. “Where’s the body?”

  “That’s where we’re headed now, Doctor,” Prince Richard said. “Come along.” The men followed.

  “Sister Elizabeth had to call me in,” Dr. Pateley was saying in a low voice to Master Sean. “She’s a midwife and Healer of the Order of St. Luke. A little unexpected post-parturition trouble. Nothing serious. Stitching job. Baby doing fine.”

  “Glad to hear it,” murmured Master Sean.

  Ahead of them, the lights gleamed from the windows of Lord Vauxhall’s summer cottage. Near the door stood a bearded man in a Naval uniform of royal blue that was lavishly decorated with gold. Lord Darcy recognized him immediately, even in the moonlight.

  After the introductions had been made, Lord Darcy gripped the Lord High Admiral by the arm and said, in a low voice, “Peter, you old pirate, how are you?”

  “Not bad at all, Darcy. I can’t say I’m much enamored over this particular situation, but otherwise everything’s fine. And you?”

  “The same, I’m glad to say. Shall we go inside and view the remains?”

  “You can view ‘em through the window until the locksman gets that door open,” Lord Peter said.

  Lord Darcy looked round quickly at Prince Richard. “You mean nobody’s been inside that house yet?”

  “No, my lord,” the Duke said. “I thought it best not to break in until you came to take charge.”

  “I see.” He looked searchingly at the Duke’s calm face. Prince Richard knew what he was doing; Plantagenets always did. But if the papers were found in that house after Richard had called in the cavalry to search for them, he’d look an awful fool. That was the chance he’d have to take. Another hour’s delay, if the papers were not in the house, might have been disastrous.

  Lord Darcy looked back at the house. The windows were of the modern “picture window” type, with only narrow transoms at top and bottom to allow for air circulation—too narrow to allow a man to enter. Without the key, it would be a major smashing job to get in. Lord Darcy could see why the Prince had made the decision he had.

  “Very well, then, Your Highness; let’s get started. I assume Journeyman Sorcerer Torquin designed and built those locks and designed and cast the spells on them; otherwise you’d have let Master Sean do the unlocking work.”

  The Duke nodded. “That’s right, my lord.”

  Master Sean said: “ ‘Tis a good thing Your Highness brought him. I, meself, would hate to try to unravel one o’ Goodman Torquin’s lock spells in less than an hour—”

  “Meanin’ no disrespect, Master,” Torquin Scoll put in, “but would ye care to make a small wager ye can’t do it in an hour and a half?”

  “—without the key,” Master Sean went on. “Of course, with the key—”

  “I’ll give ye the key and two hours and still bet ye a gold sovereign.”

  “I will not,” said Master Sean firmly. “You already have more o’ my gold sovereigns than I’d care to tot up. Taking lessons from you is expensive.”

  “You gentlemen can talk shop elsewhen,” Lord Darcy said. “Right now, I want that door unlocked.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Goodman Torquin opened his bag and knelt down to peer at the lock, looking somehow gnomelike in the moon’s radiance. He took a small lamp from his bag, lit it, and went to work.

  Lord Darcy went over and peered through the window. “How long did you say he’s been dead, Your Highness?” he said, staring.

  “Less than three hours,” the Duke replied. “He looked bad enough when we found him. But now…” He turned his head away.

  “If that’s what I think it is,” Master Sean said softly, “I’d better get in there fast with a preservative spell.”

  There was the approaching thud of hooves on turf. Coronel Danvers came up at a fast canter and sprang lightly from the saddle. In the distance, through the trees, Lord Darcy could see search lamps flickering like large, slow-moving fireflies.

  “Your Highness.” The Coronel saluted. The Prince was, after all, the Honorary Coronel of the 18th, and Lieutenant Coronel Danvers was in uniform. “I have the perimeter surrounded and the remainder of the men on search, as you ordered. Senior Captain Delgardie will report here to me, directly anything’s found.”

  “Very good, Coronel.”

  “Er—Your Highness.” Dan vers seemed suddenly unsure of himself. “Lord Sefton—er—presents his compliments, and wishes to know when Your Highness intends to begin interrogation of the prisoners.”

  “Prisoners?” said the Lord High Admiral. “What’s this? What prisoners?”

  “His lordship means the servants,” said Prince Richard with forced calmness. “They are not prisoners. I merely asked them to remain until this thing was cleared up. I left them in Lord Sefton’s care. If those papers can’t be found…” He paused and frowned slightly. “Chief Donal—”

  He was cut off by Journeyman Torquin’s voice. “There ye go, my lords and gentlemen.”

  The front door of the little cottage swung open.

  “Everyone stay out until Master Sean is through,” Lord Darcy said crisply.

  Master Sean went in to cast the special spell which would stop the dissolution of the corpse. Everyone left him alone, as they had Goodman Torquin; nobody but a fool disturbs a magician when he is working at his Art. It was over quickly.

  The other six men came into the room.

  There is something about death which fascinates all human beings, and something about horror wh
ich seems even more deeply fascinating. The thing which lay on the floor in front of the big cold fireplace, illuminated brightly by the mantled gas lamps in the wall brackets, embodied both.

  The big fireplace had facings of fine marble, white, mottled with pink and gold, the great mirror over the mantelpiece reflected the walls of the room, covered by smooth brocade paper that picked up the pink-and-gold motif. The woven brocade upholstery of the furniture repeated the pattern of the walls. It was a light, airy, beautiful room that did not deserve the insult which lay on the pale eggshell carpet.

  The air was thick with the smell.

  The Lord High Admiral was opening transoms above and below the windows. Nobody closed the door.

  “Here, Your Highness! Sit down!” At the sound of Coronel Danvers’ voice, Lord Darcy turned away from the thing on the floor.

  Prince Richard’s face had gone gray-white, and he swallowed a couple of times as the Coronel eased him into one of the big, soft chairs. “I’m all right,” the Duke managed. “It—it’s rather warm in here.”

  “Ah. Yes. It is that,” Danvers agreed. “Where did Vauxhall keep his spirits? Must be… Ah!” He had opened a waist-high cabinet against the west wall. “Here we are! A good stiff one will brace you right up, Your Highness. Ouiskie? Or brandy?”

  “Brandy, thank you.”

  “There you are, Your Highness. Believe I’ll have a little ouiskie, myself. Shocking sight. Absolutely shocking.”

  Lord Darcy, seeing that the Duke was all right and in good hands, knelt beside the corpse with Master Sean and Dr. Pateley. “Whatever killed him,” his lordship murmured, “it wasn’t a bullet from this.” He disengaged the heavy .44 MMP from the right hand of the corpse.

  The Lord High Admiral was standing, looking down over Dr. Pateley’s shoulder. “No. A Morley military pistol makes rather large, easily visible holes.”

  Lord Darcy knew Lord Peter wasn’t being sardonic—just blunt. He handed the weapon to the Lord High Admiral. “Look like it’s been fired to you?”

  The Naval officer’s strong, capable hands unloaded the handgun, field stripped it, put it back together again. “Not recently.”

  “Thought not. Well, well; what’s this?” Lord Darcy had been searching the clothing of the late Lord Vauxhall and had come up with a small leather case which, when opened, proved to contain a series of keys, all very much alike, numbered from 1 to 16, all neatly arrayed in order and attached to the case so that each could swing free separately. “Very pretty. Wonder what it’s for? He has another set of keys of various sizes on a ring; this must be something special.”

  “Oh, yes; that it is, my lord,” said Journeyman Sorcerer Torquin Scoll. “Made that set special for his lordship, I did. His lordship was a man of rare taste, he was.” A broad grin suddenly came over the little man’s face. “That is to say, my lord, he enjoyed locks as much as I do, if ye see what I mean.” The grin vanished. “I shall miss him. We enjoyed talkin’ locks together. And workin’ with ‘em. Very knowledgeable he was, and clever with his hands. I shall certainly miss him.”

  “I’m sure.” Lord Darcy looked back down at the keys during a moment of silence, then looked up again and said: “What do they fit, if I may ask?”

  “Why, they’re the keys to this house, your lordship.”

  “This house? All of them?”

  The grin came back to the pleasantly ugly face. “That’s right, your lordship. There’s sixteen doors in this house, and every blessed one of ‘em locks with a different key—from either side. Here, I’ll show ye.” He opened up his symbol-decorated carpetbag and brought out a thick loose-leaf notebook. After a moment of search, he selected a sheet of paper, made a small cross-mark on it, detached it carefully, and handed it to Lord Darcy. “There ye are, your lordship. That’s a plan sketch I made of this house. We’re right here in the receiving room, d’ye see, where I made the cross. Those slidin’ doors lead into the gallery, the dinin’ room, and the library. That small door over there goes to the front bedroom. All the doors ‘re numbered to match the keys.”

  “What’s this ‘green room’ that’s all glassed in?” Lord Darcy asked.

  “It’s a sort of a greenhouse, your lordship. Lord Vauxhall called this a summer cottage, but he used it durin’ the winter, too, when he was home. That’s the reason for the fireplaces. One here, one in the library, one in the dinin’ room, an’ those little corner fireplaces in the bedrooms.”

  “How many sets of keys are there?”

  “Just that one, my lord. Oh, the gard’ner has duplicates for keys three and four, so’s he can tend the plants, but that’s all.”

  Lord Darcy could sense a certain depressing tension in the room. Prince Richard was staring blankly at a half-full glass of brandy; Coronel Danvers was pouring himself a drink; Lord Peter was staring out the window; Chief Donal was watching Master Sean and Dr. Pateley go over the body.

  Then he realized that the momentary shock that had hit the Duke had gone, and realized, too, what His Highness was waiting for. He had given charge of the case over to Lord Darcy and was now trying to be patient. Lord Darcy walked over to where he was sitting.

  “Would Your Highness care to inspect the rest of the house?” he asked quietly.

  Prince Richard looked up and smiled. “I thought you’d never ask.” He finished off the brandy.

  “There’s nothing more I can learn from the body until Master Sean and Dr. Pateley give me their findings. I can detect no sign of struggle. Apparently he walked in here with a gun in his hand and—died.”

  “Why the gun, I wonder?” Prince Richard said musingly. “Had he been frightened by something, do you suppose?”

  “I wish I knew. He wasn’t wearing a holster, so he must have picked it up from somewhere after he left you.”

  “Yes. He wasn’t wearing a coat, so he couldn’t have concealed a weapon that big. Oh. Excuse me a moment. Chief Donal?”

  “Yes, Your Highness?” said the grim-looking Chief Master-at-Arms, turning away from the body to face his Duke.

  “When you have finished here, go up to the main house and take charge. Keep the servants calm and don’t tell them anything. They don’t even know their master is dead. If one of them does, it might tell us something. And I don’t want any interrogation of any kind until Lord Darcy says so.”

  “I’m through now, Your Highness. Got all I need. From now on, it’s up to Lord Darcy.” He flashed a smile which looked very uncomfortable on his face, and must have been, for it went away immediately. “Cases involving Black Magic are way over my head, anyway. Don’t like ‘em at all.” With no further ceremony, he left.

  “Well, let’s see if we can find those papers,” Lord Darcy said. “Might as well try the gallery first.”

  “Mind if I come along?” the Lord High Admiral asked.

  “Of course not, my lord,” the Duke said. “How about you, Coronel? Want to take the tour with us?”

  Danvers frowned and glanced at his nearly empty glass. “I think not, begging Your Highness’ leave; I’d best be at hand in case Delgardie or the Sergeant Major come with news.”

  The sliding doors were locked, and Lord Darcy had inserted the key marked “5”. It turned easily—too easily. It went right on round and clicked back into place. A turn in the other direction had the same result. The bolt remained solidly in place.

  “Beggin’ your pardon, my lord,” said Torquin Scoll, “but I guess I’ll have to come along with ye. The wrong key won’t even turn the cylinder; the right key will, but it won’t engage the bolt unless the right man is holdin’ the key. It’ll be a little tricky, even for me, since these keys are tuned to his late lordship.”

  He took the key case, fitted No. 5 in again, closed his eyes, and turned the key carefully. Click.

  “There we go, my lords, Your Highness.”

  The four men went into the gallery.

  “Don’t you have a set of these keys tuned to yourself, Goodman Torquin?” Lord Darcy inquired.r />
  “Do, indeed, my lord; used ‘em just a week ago to do the regular spell maintenance. I’d have brought ‘em with me if I’d’ve known what was afoot. But all that Captain—whatisname?—Broun. If that Captain Broun’d’ve told me where we were going. But no, he just says the Duke wants me, so I saddled up and came along.”

  “My apologies, Goodman Torquin,” said His Highness.

  “Oh, no need, Highness; no need. Not your fault. Military mind, you know. Take orders; give orders; don’t explain, especially to civilians. Not your fault at all, Highness.” Then he gestured with a broad sweep of a hand. “How do you like the gallery, gentle sirs?”

  “Fascinating,” murmured Lord Darcy. “Utterly fascinating.”

  The west wall was almost all glass—seven windows, six feet wide, with only narrow pillars between them. The heavy theater-type drapes which would cover them had been drawn up to the ceiling. Outside, in the darkness, one could see the occasional gleam of search lamps, the only sign that the dragoons were at work.

  But that was not the vista that Lord Darcy had found fascinating.

  The east wall was covered with paintings. None of them were obscene, and not all were erotic, but they all spoke of beauty, love, and romance.

  “These must have run him into quite a bit of money over the years,” the Lord High Admiral remarked. “Beautiful work, all of ‘em. There! That’s a Van Gaughn; always admired his work.”

  “Some of them,” said the Duke, “were done especially by his late lordship’s order. This one, for instance.”

  “That,” said Lord Peter authoritatively, “is a Killgore-Spangler. I’d recognize her style anywhere.”

  “I also recognize the model,” Lord Darcy said in a slightly dreamy voice.

  “That, too,” said the Lord High Admiral.

  Prince Richard looked surprised. “Both of you are acquainted with Dona Isabella Maria Constanza Diaz y Carillo de la Barra?”

  The Lord High Admiral burst out laughing. “Oh, yes, Your Highness. Oh, yes. Recognized her in spite of the red wig, eh, Darcy?”