“Well, I certainly can’t stay here until sun-up,” Lord Darcy said ruefully.
“I’ll have the man at the gate see if he can’t whistle you up a cab, your lordship; it’s still fairly early. You can wait in the outer—” He stopped. From somewhere in the fog that choked Water Lane came the clatter of hooves and the rattle of wheels, becoming increasingly louder.
“That may be a cab, now, your lordship!” He raised his authoritative voice to a commanding bellow: “Warder Jason! Signal that cab!”
“Yes, Sergeant!” came a fog-muffled voice from the gate, followed immediately by the shrill beep! beep! beep! of a cab whistle.
“I fear we are to be disappointed, Sergeant,” Lord Darcy said. “Your ears should tell you that the vehicle approaching is drawn by a pair; therefore, it is a private town-carriage, not a public cab. There is no cabman in the whole of London who would be so profligate as to use two horses where one will do.”
The Sergeant Warder cocked one ear toward the sound. “Hmm-m. Dare say you’re right, your lordship. It do sound like a pair, now I listen closer. Still …”
“They are a well-trained pair,” said his lordship. “Almost perfectly in step. But since two hooves cannot possibly strike the paving stones at precisely the same instant, there is a slight echo effect, clearly discernible to the trained ear.”
The beeping sound of the whistle had stopped. Evidently the Warder at the gate had realized that the approaching vehicle was not a cab.
Nonetheless, the carriage could be heard to slow and stop outside the gate. After a moment, the reins snapped, and the horses started again. The carriage was turning, coming in the gate. It loomed suddenly out of the fog, seeming to coalesce into solidity out of the very substance of the rolling mist itself. It came to a halt at the curbing stone several yards away, still shadowy in the feeble yellow glow of the gas lamps.
Then a voice called out quite clearly from within it: “Lord Darcy! Is that you?”
It was plainly a feminine voice, and quite familiar, but because of the muffling effect of the fog and the distorting effect of the interior of the cab, Lord Darcy did not recognize it immediately. He knew that, standing almost directly under the gas lamps as he was, his own features stood out rather clearly at that distance.
“You have the advantage of me, my lady,” he said.
There was a low laugh. “You mean you can’t even read arms anymore?”
Lord Darcy had already noticed that a coat-of-arms was emblazoned on the door of the coach, but it was impossible to make it out in this light. There was no need to, however; Lord Darcy had recognized the voice upon the second hearing of it.
“Even the brilliancy of the arms of Cumberland can be dimmed beyond recognition in a London pea-soup,” Lord Darcy said as he walked toward the vehicle. “Your Grace should have more than just the regulation night-lights and fog-lights if you want your arms to be recognized on a night like this.”
He could see her clearly now; the beautiful face and the cloud of golden hair were only slightly dimmed by shadow and fog.
“I’m alone,” she said very softly.
“Hullo, Mary,” Lord Darcy said with equal softness. “What the deuce are you doing here?”
“Why, I came to fetch you, of course,” said Mary, Dowager Duchess of Cumberland. “You dismissed your cab earlier because you didn’t think about the fog coming, so now you’re marooned. There isn’t a cab to be had this side of St. Paul’s. Get in, my dear, and let’s leave this depressing prison.”
Lord Darcy turned toward the Sergeant Warder, who still stood beneath the gas lamp. “Thank you for your efforts, Sergeant. I shan’t need a cab. Her Grace has very kindly offered transportation.”
“Very good, your lordship. Good night, your lordship. Good night, Your Grace.”
They wished the Sergeant Warder a good night, Lord Darcy climbed into the carriage, and, at a word from Her Grace, the coachman snapped his reins and the carriage moved off into the swirling fog.
The Duchess pulled down the blinds and turned up the lamp in the top of the coach so that the two passengers could see each other clearly.
“You’re looking well, my dear,” she said.
“And you are as beautiful as ever,” Lord Darcy replied. There was a mocking glint in his eyes that Her Grace of Cumberland could not quite fathom. “Where would you like to go?” she asked, trying to probe that look with her own startlingly dark-blue eyes.
“Anywhere you’d like, my sweet. We could just drive about London for a while—for however long it takes you to tell me about the important information you have regarding this morning’s murder of Master Sir James Zwinge.”
Her eyes widened. For a moment, she said nothing. Then: “Damn! How did you know?”
“I deduced it.”
“Rot!”
“Not at all. You have a keen mind, my dear; you should be able to follow my reasoning.”
Again there was a silence, this time for nearly a minute, as Mary de Cumberland looked unblinkingly at Lord Darcy, her mind working rapidly. Then she gave her head a quick shake. “You have some information I don’t.”
“I think not. Unless, perhaps, I know how your mind works better than you do. You have the delightful habit, my dear, of making a man feel as though he were terribly important to you—even when you have to tell small lies to do it.”
She smiled. “You are important to me, darling. Furthermore, small lies are necessary to good manners and to diplomacy; there is no harm in them. And what, pray, does that have to do with your pretended deduction?”
“That was unworthy of you, my dear. You know I never pretend to mental abilities other than those I actually possess.” His voice had an edge.
She smiled contritely and put out a hand to touch his arm. “I know. I apologize. Please explain.”
Lord Darcy’s smile returned. He put his hand on hers. “Apology accepted. Explanation—a simple one—as follows:
“You claimed that you had come to fetch me at the Tower. Now, I know that, aside from myself, the Warders at the Tower, Master Sean, and two other people, no one in London knew of my whereabouts or could have learned it by other than thaumaturgical means. No one but those even knew I was in London. You are a sorceress, true, but only journeyman, and we both know you are not prescient to any degree above normal. You might have deduced that I would come immediately I heard of Master Sean’s arrest, but you could not possibly have known at exactly what time I would leave the Tower. Ergo, your arrival was a coincidence.
“However, as your coach approached the gate, you heard the Warder whistling for a cab. You would not have stopped for that; you stopped to identify yourself to the Warder so that you could enter the courtyard. Therefore, your destination must have been the Tower itself; if it were not, you would have gone on by, ignoring the whistle.
“Then you came on in and saw me. The very tone of your voice when you hailed me showed that you had not expected to see me there.
“Your reasoning powers are well above average; it was hardly the work of a mental giant, however, to deduce from the whistle and my presence in the courtyard that it was I who desired a cab. Knowing, as you do, that I am not careless by habit, you further deduced that, having but recently arrived in London, I had failed to notice the fog prediction in the Courier, and had dismissed the cab that brought me. Thereupon, you spoke your flattering and entirely mendacious little piece about having come to get me.”
Her laugh was soft and throaty. “It wasn’t a lie intended to deceive you, my dear.”
“I know. You wanted me to gasp in amazement and say: ‘Goodness me! However did you know I was going to be here? Have you become a seer, then?’ And you would have smiled and looked wise and said: ‘Oh, I have my ways.’ ”
She laughed again. “You know me too well, my lord. But what has all that to do with your knowing I had information about the death of Master Sir James?”
“We return to the coincidence of your arrival at the T
ower,” Lord Darcy said. “If you had not come for me, then what was your purpose? It must have been important, else you would not have come out on so foggy a night. And yet, the moment you see me, you ask me to get in, and off we go. Whatever business you had at the Tower can be conducted with me, eh? Obviously, you went to tell Master Sean something, but not something strictly personal. Ergo—” He smiled, letting the conclusion go unsaid.
“One day,” said the Dowager Duchess of Cumberland, “I shall learn not to try to beat you at your own game.”
“But not, I pray, too soon,” said Lord Darcy. “Few people of either sex bother to exercise their intellect; it is refreshing to know a woman who does.”
“Alas!” Her voice was heavy with mock tragedy. “He loves me only for my mind!”
“Mens sana in corpore sano, my dear. Now let’s get back to this information you have.”
“Very well,” she said, looking suddenly thoughtful. “I don’t know whether it means anything or not; I’ll give it to you for what it’s worth and let you decide whether to follow it up.”
Lord Darcy nodded. “Go ahead.”
“It was something I saw—and heard,” said Mary de Cumberland. “At seven minutes of eight this morning—I noticed the time particularly because I had an appointment for breakfast at eight-fifteen—I left my room at the hotel.” She stopped and looked directly into his eyes. “I have the room directly across the hall from Master Sir James’. Did you know that?”
“Yes.”
“Very well, then. I opened the door. I heard a voice coming through the door of the room opposite. As you know, the doors at the Royal Steward are quite thick; normal conversation won’t carry through. But this was a woman’s voice, not high in pitch, but quite strong and quite penetrating. Her words were very clear. She said—”
“Wait.” Lord Darcy lifted a hand, interrupting her. “Can you repeat the words exactly, Mary?”
“I can; yes,” the Duchess said firmly. “She said: ‘By God, Sir James! You condemn him to death! I warn you! If he dies, you die!’ ”
There was a pause, a silence broken only by the clatter of hooves and the soft sussuration of pneumatic tires on the street.
“And the intonation that you have just reproduced,” Lord Darcy said, “is that accurate? She sounded both angry and frightened?”
“More anger than fright, but there was certainly a touch of fear.”
“Very good. Then what?”
“Then there was a very faint sound—as of someone speaking in a more normal tone of voice. It was hardly audible, much less recognizable or understandable.”
“It could have been Sir James speaking?”
“It could have. It could have been anyone. I assumed, of course, at the time, that it was Sir James—but actually it could have been anyone.”
“Or even no one?”
She thought for a second. “No. No, there was someone else in that room besides her.”
“How do you know?”
“Because just then the door flew open and the girl came flouncing out. She slammed it shut behind her and went on down the hall without even noticing me—or, at least, not indicating it if she had. Then whoever was still in the room put a key in the lock and locked the door. Naturally, I had not intended to be a witness to such a scene; I ignored it and went on down to breakfast.”
“Who was the girl?” Lord Darcy asked.
“To my knowledge, I had never seen her before,” the Duchess said, “and she was certainly the kind of girl one would not easily forget. She is a tiny creature—not five feet tall,—but perfectly formed, a truly beautiful figure. Her hair is jet black and quite long, and was bound with a silver circlet in back, giving it a sort of horsetail appearance. Her face was as beautiful as the rest of her, with pixieish eyes and a rather sensuous mouth. She was wearing the costume of an apprentice—blue, with a white band at the sleeve—and that’s odd, because, as you know, apprentices are allowed at the Convention only by special invitation, and such invitations are quite rare.”
“It is even odder,” Lord Darcy said musingly, “that an apprentice should use such speech towards a Master of the Art.”
“Yes, it is,” Her Grace agreed. “But, as I said, I really thought little of it at the time. After Master Sean was arrested, however, the incident came to mind again. I spent the rest of the morning and all afternoon trying to find out what I could about her.”
“And yet you did not think it important enough to mention it either to Lord Bontriomphe or to the Chief Master-at-Arms?” Lord Darcy asked quietly.
“Important? Of course I thought it was important! I still do. But—mention it to the Armsmen? To what purpose, my dear? In the first place, I had no real information; at the time, I didn’t even know her name. In the second place, that was an hour and a half before the murder actually took place. In the third place, if I had told either Bontriomphe or Chief Master Hennely about it, they would simply have bungled the whole thing by arresting her, too, and they would have had no more case against her than they do against Master Sean.”
“And in the fourth place,” Lord Darcy added, “you fancy yourself a detective. Go ahead. What did you find out?”
“Not much,” she admitted. “I found her name easily enough in the Grand Register of the Convention. She’s the only female apprentice listed. The name is Tia Einzig. T-I-A E-I-N-Z-I-G.”
“Einzig?” Lord Darcy lifted an eyebrow. “Germanic, definitely. Possibly Prussian, which would, no doubt, make her a Polish subject.”
“The name may be Prussian; she isn’t,” said Her Grace. “She is, however—or was—a subject of His Slavonic Majesty. She came from some little place on the eastern side of the Danube, a few hundred miles from the Adriatic coast—one of those towns with sixteen letters in its name, only three of which are vowels. K-D-J-A-something. She left in 1961 for the Grand Duchy of Venetia and lived in Belluno for about a year. Then she was in Milano for a couple of months, then went on to Torino. In 1963, she came to France, to live in Grenoble. All this came out last year, when her case was brought to Raymond’s attention.”
“Raymond?”
“His Grace, the Duke of Dauphine,” Mary de Cumberland explained. “Naturally, a request for extradition would have to be brought to his personal attention.”
“Naturally.” The sardonic light had returned to Lord Darcy’s eyes, and now it gleamed dangerously. “Mary.”
“Yes?”
“I retract what I said about your being a woman who uses her intellect. The rational mind marshals its facts and reports them in a logical order. This is the first I have heard of any extradition proceedings.”
“Oh.” She flashed him a brilliant smile. “I’m sorry, my dear. I—”
He cut her off. “First, may I ask where you got this information? You certainly didn’t pop off to Dauphine this afternoon and ask your old friend the Duke to let you look at the Legal Proceedings Record of the Duchy of Dauphine.”
“How did you know he was an old friend?” the Dowager Duchess asked. “I don’t recall ever having mentioned it to you before.”
“You haven’t. You are not a woman who parades the names of influential friends. Neither would you call an Imperial Governor by his Christian name alone unless you were a close friend. That is neither here nor there. I repeat: What is your source for this history of Tia Einzig?”
“Father Dominique. The Reverend Father Dominique ap Tewdwr, O.S.B., who was the Sensitive in charge of the clerical commission which the Archbishop appointed to investigate the personality of Tia Einzig. His Grace the Duke asked that the commission be appointed to make the investigation because of the charges that were made against her in Belluno, Milano, and Torino—the requests for extradition, so that she could be tried locally on the charges against her.”
“What were those charges, specifically?”
“The same in all three cases. Practicing sorcery without a license, and …”
“And?”
�
�And black magic.”
Part Two
6
Carlyle House has been the property of the Dukes of Cumberland since it was built, although it is frequently and erroneously supposed that it is a part of the heritage of the Marquisate of Carlisle by those who do not recognize that the names are similar in pronunciation but not in spelling.
Mary, Dowager Duchess of Cumberland—formerly Duchess Consort, née Lady Mary de Beaufort—had been the second wife of the widowed Duke of Cumberland. The Duke, at the time of the marriage, was in his sixties, Lady Mary in her early twenties. But no one who knew them had thought of it as a May-December marriage, not even the Duke’s son and heir by his late first wife. The old Duke, though only remotely related to the Royal Family, had the typically Plantagenet vigor, handsomeness, and longevity. His golden blond hair had lightened over the years, and his face had begun to show the deepening lines of age, but he was still as good as any man twenty years his junior, and he looked and behaved no older. But even a strong and powerful man may have an accident with a horse, and His late Grace was no exception.
Mary, who had loved her husband, not only for his youthful vigor but for his mature wisdom, was a widow before she was thirty.
Her stepson, Edwin—who, upon the death of his father, followed by His Majesty’s confirmation, had become the present Duke of Cumberland—was rather a dull fellow. He was perfectly competent as an Imperial Governor, but he lacked the Plantagenet spark—however diluted—that his father had had. He liked and respected his stepmother—who was only six months his junior—but he did not understand her. Her vivaciousness, her quickness of mind, and especially her touch of the Talent, made her alien to him.
An agreement had been reached. De Cumberland would take care of the duchy, remaining in Carlisle; his stepmother would be given Carlyle House for life. It was all His Grace could do for a stepmother he loved but did not in the least understand.
Too Many Magicians Page 6