Too Many Magicians

by Randall Garrett

  “You could have had this FitzJean followed after the appointments,” Lord Bontriomphe pointed out.

  “We did, m’lud,” the captain said with some acerbity. “Naturally. Both times.” Captain Smollett frowned in chagrin. “Unfortunately, I am forced to admit that the man eluded our agents both times.” He took a deep breath. “Our Goodman FitzJean, m’luds and gentlemen, is no amateur.” He looked around at each of the others. “Damn’ sharp man. Don’t know whether he knew he was being followed or not. But he likely suspected Polish agents following him, even if he didn’t suspect Imperial agents. Managed to get away both times, and I make no apologies, m’luds.”

  Captain Smollett paused to take a breath, and the Lord High Admiral cut in—this time addressing His Majesty.

  “With your permission, Sire, I stand behind Captain Smollett. No agent or group of agents can follow a suspect for very long if the suspect is aware that he is being followed and is trained in evasion techniques.”

  “I am aware of that, my lord,” said King John calmly. “Please continue, Captain Smollett.”

  “Yes, Sire,” said the captain. He cleared his throat. “As I was saying, m’luds, we failed to follow the so-called FitzJean. But Barbour had—with our connivance—baited the trap. He agreed, d’you see, that the information FitzJean had was worth the five thousand golden sovereigns. He told FitzJean that His Slavonic Majesty’s Government had agreed to the price. Provided …” Captain Smollett gestured vaguely with his pipe, and cleared his throat again.

  “Provided … ahum … that he prove to Barbour that he—FitzJean, that is—prove that he was a person who had access to the secret.”

  Captain Smollett put his pipe back in his mouth and surveyed the others with his eyes. “I trust you follow, m’luds,” he said, clenching the pipe in his molars and speaking round it. “FitzJean wouldn’t divulge the plans of the device without cash in hand. But how were the Polish agents to know that the secret was worth anything? Eh?”

  Captain Smollett held up a finger. “That, m’luds, is what our double agent Barbour told FitzJean. Not the truth, of course. Barbour had to give a cover story to His Slavonic Majesty’s agents. Told them, as a matter of fact, that he had contacted an Imperial Naval officer who was willing to give him the plans for the deployment of Imperial and Scandinavian ships in the North Sea and the Baltic. Price, according to what Barbour told his Polish superiors, was two hundred golden sovereigns.” Captain Smollett spread his hands in a gesture of disgust. “Most they’d pay, of course, since fleet deployment can be changed rather quickly. But still useful.

  “Evidently, the Poles agreed. But they wouldn’t pay until they’d received the information. On the other hand, FitzJean demanded a hundred gold sovereigns just to prove that he was in earnest.

  “We agreed. Barbour was to pretend that the money was coming from Poland. Said that, upon proof of FitzJean’s bona fides, he’d give FitzJean a hundred sovereigns and then get the other forty-nine hundred and pay them when the details of the secret were delivered. Trouble was, FitzJean wouldn’t make a definite appointment. Clever of him, you know. Kept Barbour on tenterhooks, as it were. D’you follow, m’luds?”

  “I follow,” said Lord Bontriomphe. “This FitzJean was actually trapped into giving away his identity for five thousand silver sovereigns. Right? But he didn’t do so, did he? That is, your organization never paid the hundred gold sovereigns, did they?”

  “No, m’lud, said Captain Smollett. “The hundred sovereigns were never paid.” He looked across the table. “Explain, Commander,” he said to Lord Ashley.

  Commander Lord Ashley nodded. “Aye, sir.” He looked at Lord Darcy, then at Lord Bontriomphe. “I was supposed to bring the money to him yesterday morning. He was dead when I arrived; stabbed only minutes before, evidently.”

  He went on to explain exactly what he had done following his examination of the body, including the conversation with Chief Henri and Lord Admiral Brencourt.

  Lord Bontriomphe listened without asking questions until the commander’s narrative was finished; then he looked at the Lord High Admiral and waited expectantly.

  “Huhum!” The Lord High Admiral gave a rumbling chuckle. “Yes, my lords. The connection, of course. It was this: Sir James Zwinge, Master Sorcerer and Chief Forensic Sorcerer for the City of London, was also the head of our counterespionage branch—operating under the code name of ‘Zed.’ ”

  9

  “And now,” said Lord Darcy an hour later, “I am prepared to make an arrest for the murder of Master Sir James Zwinge.”

  My lord the Marquis of London remained all but motionless behind his desk. Only the slight narrowing of his eyes gave any indication that he had heard what the Chief Investigator of Normandy had said.

  Lord Darcy and Lord Bontriomphe had returned to de London’s office immediately after His Majesty had dismissed the meeting at Westminster Palace. Lord Darcy could still hear the King’s last orders: “Then we are agreed, my lords. Our civilian investigators will proceed to investigate these murders as though they were in no way connected with the Navy, as though they were merely seeking a murderer. No connection must be made between the killing of Barbour and the killing of Sir James, as far as the public is concerned. Meanwhile, the Naval Intelligence Corps will be working to uncover the other contacts of Barbour, and make a minute investigation of the reports he filed with ‘Zed’ and the reports ‘Zed’ filed with the London office. There may be more evidence than we realize in those report files. Finally, we must all do our best to see that His Slavonic Majesty’s secret agents remain at least as much in the dark as we are.”

  For a moment, Lord Darcy had thought that last bit of heavy sarcasm from the King had made Lord High Admiral Peter de Valera ap Smith angry. Then he had realized that the Lord High Admiral’s choked expression came from a valiant and successful attempt to smother a laugh.

  By Heaven, Lord Darcy had thought, I must get to know that old pirate better.

  My lord of London had been seated behind his desk reading a book when Lord Darcy and Lord Bontriomphe had entered the office. The Marquis had picked up a thin golden bookmark, put it carefully between the pages of the book, closed the book and placed it on the desktop before him. “Good morning, my lords,” he had rumbled, inclining his head perhaps an eighth of an inch. “There is a letter for you, Lord Darcy.” He had pushed a white envelope across the desk with a fat forefinger. “Delivered this morning by special courier.”

  “Thank you,” Lord Darcy had murmured politely, picking up the envelope. He had broken the seal, read the three sheets of closely written paper, refolded them, replaced them in the envelope, and smiled.

  “A very informative letter from—as you no doubt noticed from the seal, My Lord Marquis—Sir Eliot Meredith, my Assistant Chief Investigator. And now, I am prepared to make an arrest for the murder of Master Sir James Zwinge.”

  “Indeed?” said my lord the Marquis after a moment. “You have solved the case? Without checking the evidence personally? Without questioning a witness? How extraordinarily astute—even for you, my dear cousin.”

  “You are hardly one to cavil at lack of personal investigation,” Lord Darcy said mildly, seating himself comfortably in the red leather chair. “As for my witness, there is no need to question him any further. The information is before us; we have but to examine it.”

  The Marquis put his palms flat on his desktop, inhaled four pecks of air, and let it out slowly through his nose. “All right. Let’s hear it.”

  “It is simplicity itself. So obvious, in fact, that one tends to overlook it because of the very obviousness of the killer. Consider: A man is killed inside a locked and sealed room—in a hotel full of magicians. Naturally, we are led to believe that it is black magic. Obvious. In fact, too obvious. That is exactly what we are supposed to believe.”

  “How was it done, then?” asked the Marquis, becoming interested.

  “Zwinge was stabbed to death right in front of the very wi
tnesses who were there to testify that the room was locked and sealed,” Lord Darcy said calmly.

  My lord the Marquis closed his eyes. “I see. That’s the way the wind blows, eh?” He opened his eyes again and looked at Lord Bontriomphe. Lord Bontriomphe looked back at him, steadily, expressionlessly. “Continue, Lord Darcy,” the Marquis said. “I should like to hear all of it.”

  “As you have deduced, dear cousin,” Lord Darcy continued, “only Bontriomphe could have done it. It was he who broke the door down. He was the first one in the room. He ordered the others to stay out, to stay back. Then he bent over the unconscious body of Sir James, and, concealing his actions with his own body, sank a knife into the Master Sorcerer’s heart.”

  “How did he know Sir James would be unconscious? Why did Sir James scream? What motive did Bontriomphe have?” The three questions were deliberate, almost emotionless. “You have explanations, I presume?”

  “Naturally. There are several drugs in the materia medica of the adept herbalist which will cause unconsciousness and coma. Bontriomphe, knowing that Sir James intended to lock himself into his room yesterday morning, managed to slip some such drug into the sorcerer’s morning caffe—a simple job for an expert. After that, all he had to do was wait. Eventually, Sir James would be missed. Someone would wonder why he had not kept an appointment. Someone would check his room and find it locked. At last, someone would ask the management to see if something could be wrong. When the manager found he could not open the door, he would ask for official help. And, fortuitously, Lord Bontriomphe, Chief Investigator for My Lord Marquis of London, just happens to be right on the spot. He calls for an ax and …” Lord Darcy turned one hand palm up as though he were handing the Marquis the whole case on a platter, and left the sentence unfinished.

  “Go on.” There was a dangerous note in the Marquis’ voice.

  “The scream is easily explained,” Lord Darcy said. “Sir James was not completely comatose. He heard Master Sean knock. Now, Sean had an appointment at that time; Sir James knew it was he at the door. Aroused by the knock, he called out: ‘Master Sean! Help!’ And then he collapsed back into his drugged coma. Bontriomphe, of course, could not have known that would happen, but it was certainly a stroke of luck, even though it was completely unnecessary to his plan. If there had been no scream, Sean would certainly have known something was amiss and notified the manager. After that, everything would have followed naturally.”

  Lord Darcy folded his arms, slumped back in the chair, rested his chin on his chest, and looked at the speechless, glowering de London from beneath his brows. “The motive is quite clear. Jealousy.”

  “Pah!” the Marquis exploded. “Now I have you! Up to now, you have been clever. But now you show that your wits are addled. A woman? Pfui! Lord Bontriomphe may occasionally play the fool, but he is not a fool about women. I will not go so far as to say that the woman does not live whom Lord Bontriomphe could not get if he wanted her, but I will say that his ego is such that he would have no desire for a woman who did not want him or who had rejected him for another. He would not go out of his way to snap his fingers at such a woman, much less kill because of her.”

  “Agreed,” said Lord Darcy complacently. “I mentioned no woman. And I was not speaking of his jealousy.”

  “Of whose, then?”

  “Of yours.”

  “Hah! This is fatuous.”

  “Not at all. Your hobby of herb cultivation, my lord, is one of the strongest passions of your life. You are an acknowledged expert and are proud of that fact. Zwinge, too, was an herbalist, but not quite in your league. Still, if you ever had any real rival in the field, it was Master Sir James Zwinge. Recently, Sir James succeeded in growing Polish devilwort from the seed instead of from cuttings, as is normally done. You have failed to do so. Therefore, out of pique, you asked Bontriomphe to remove your rival; he, out of loyalty, proceeded to do so. And there you have it, my lord: Method, Motive, and Opportunity. Quod erat demonstrandum.”

  My Lord Marquis swiveled his head and glared at Lord Bontriomphe. “Are you an accessory to this imbecilic tomfoolery?”

  Lord Bontriomphe shook his head once, left to right. “No, my lord. But it does look as though he has us dead to rights, doesn’t it?”

  “Buffoon!” the Marquis snorted. He looked back at Lord Darcy. “Very well. I know when I am being gulled as well as you do. I regret having jailed Master Sean; it was frivolous. And you are well aware that I would just as soon go to the Tower myself as to lose the services of Lord Bontriomphe for any extended length of time. Outside this building, he is my eyes and ears. I will sign an order for Master Sean’s release immediately. Since you have been assigned to this case by the King, you will, of course, be remunerated from the Royal Privy Purse?”

  “Beginning today, yes,” said Lord Darcy. “But there is the little matter of yesterday—including cross-Channel transportation, train ticket, and cab fare.”

  “Done,” the Marquis growled. He signed a release form, poured melted sealing wax on it, and stamped it with the seal of the Marquisate of London, all without a word. Then he heaved his massive bulk out of the chair. “Lord Bontriomphe, give my lord cousin what is owed him. Open the wall safe and take it out of petty cash. I am going upstairs to the plant rooms.” He did not quite slam the door as he left.

  Lord Bontriomphe looked at Lord Darcy. “Look here—you don’t really think …”

  “Chah! Don’t be ridiculous. I know perfectly well that every word of your narrative was accurate and truthful. And the Marquis is quite aware that I know it.” Lord Darcy was not one to err in a matter of judgment like that, and, as it turned out, he did not. Lord Bontriomphe’s recital was correct and precise in every detail.

  “Let’s get to the Tower,” said Lord Darcy.

  Lord Bontriomphe was at his desk taking a pistol out of a drawer. “Just a second, my lord,” he said, “I once resolved never to go out on a murder case unarmed. By the way, don’t you think it would be best to set up an auxiliary headquarters in the Royal Steward? That way we can keep in touch with each other and with Chief Hennely’s plainclothes investigators.”

  “An excellent idea,” said Lord Darcy, “and speaking of plainclothes investigators, did you get statements from everyone concerned yesterday?”

  “As many as possible, my lord. Of course, we couldn’t get everyone, but I think the reports we have now are fairly complete.”

  “Good. Bring them along, will you? I should like to look them over on our way to the Tower. Are you ready to go?”

  “Ready, my lord,” said Lord Bontriomphe.

  “Very well, then,” said Lord Darcy. “Come, let’s get Master Sean out of durance vile.”

  10

  As the official carriage, bearing the London arms, moved through the streets toward the Royal Steward Hotel, its pneumatic tires jouncing briskly on their spring suspensions as a soft accompaniment to the clopping of the horses’ hooves, Sean O Lochlainn, Master Sorcerer, leaned back in the seat, clutching his symbol-decorated carpetbag to his round paunch.

  “Ah, my lords,” he said to the two men on the seat opposite, “a relief it is, indeed, to be free again. Twenty-four hours of sitting in the Tower is not my notion of a grand time, and you may be sure of that. Not that I object to being alone in a comfortable room for a while; any sorcerer who doesn’t take a week or so off every year for a Contemplation Retreat will find his power deserting him. But when there’s work to be done …” He paused. “My lord, you didn’t get me out of the Tower by solving this case, did you?”

  Lord Darcy laughed. “No fear, my good Sean. You haven’t missed any of the excitement yet.”

  “His lordship,” said Lord Bontriomphe, “got you out by simple but effective blackmail.”

  “Counter-blackmail, if you please,” Lord Darcy corrected. “I merely showed de London that Lord Bontriomphe could be jailed on the same sort of flimsy evidence that the Marquis used to jail you.”

  “Now wait a m
oment,” said Lord Bontriomphe. “The evidence wasn’t all that flimsy. There was certainly enough—in both cases—to permit holding a man for questioning.”

  “Certainly,” Lord Darcy agreed. “But My Lord Marquis had no intention of questioning Master Sean. He was adhering to the letter of the law rather than to its spirit. It is a matter of family rivalry; we have, the Marquis and I, similar although not identical abilities, and therefore a basically friendly but at times emotionally charged antagonism. He would not dare have locked up an ordinary subject of His Majesty on such evidence unless he honestly believed that the suspect had actually committed the crime. Indeed, I will go further: he would never even have considered such an act.”

  “I’m glad to hear you say that,” said Lord Bontriomphe, “since it happens to be true. But once in a while, this rivalry goes a little too far. Normally, I keep out of it, but then—”

  “Permit me to correct you,” Lord Darcy said with a smile. “Normally, you do not keep out of it. To the contrary, you are normally rigidly loyal to My Lord Marquis; you normally take his side, forcing me to outwit both of you—an admittedly difficult job. This time, however, you felt that imprisoning Master Sean in order to get at me was just a little too much. I am well aware that, had it been I who went to the Tower, the matter would have been quite different.”

  Lord Bontriomphe gazed dreamily at the roof of the carriage. “Now there’s a thought,” he said in a speculative tone.

  “Don’t think on it too hard, my lord,” said Master Sean with gentle menace. “Not too hard at all, at all.”

  Lord Bontriomphe brought his eyes down sharply and started to say something, but his words were forever lost as the carriage slowed suddenly and the driver opened the trapdoor in the roof and said: