Too Many Magicians

by Randall Garrett

  “No, my lord; it won’t do. It just isn’t humanly possible.”

  Lord Darcy let his gaze wander over the room. “That’s settled, then. Our killer did not go out those windows either by thaumaturgical or by ordinary physical means. Therefore, we—”

  “Wait a minute!” said Lord Bontriomphe, his eyes widening. He pointed a finger at Master Sean. “Look here; suppose it happened this way. The killer stabs Master Sir James. His victim screams. The killer knows that you are outside the door. He knows he can’t get out through the door. The windows are out, too, for the reasons you’ve just given. What can he do? He uses the Tarnhelm Effect. When I come busting in here with an ax, I don’t see him. As far as I’m concerned, the room is empty except for the corpse. I wouldn’t be able to see him, would I? Then, when the door’s open, he walks out as cool as an oyster, with nobody noticing him.”

  Master Sean shook his head. “You wouldn’t notice him; that’s so. But I would have. And so would Grand Master Sir Lyon. We were both looking in through that hole in the door, and a man can see the whole room from there—even the bathroom, when the door to it is open.”

  Lord Bontriomphe looked at the bathroom through the open door. “No, you can’t. Take a look. Suppose he were lying down in the tub. You couldn’t even see him from in here.”

  “True. But I distinctly recall your looking down directly into the tub. You couldn’t have done that if a killer using the Tarnhelm Effect were in it.”

  Lord Bontriomphe frowned thoughtfully. “Yes. I did. Hm-m-m. Well, that eliminates that. He wasn’t in the room, and he didn’t leave the room.” He looked at Lord Darcy. “What does that leave?”

  “We don’t know yet, my dear fellow. We need more data.” He stepped over to where the body lay and knelt down, being careful not to disturb anything.

  * * * *

  Master Sir James Zwinge had been a short, lean man, with receding gray hair and a small gray beard and moustache. He was wearing a neat, fairly expensive gentleman’s suit, rather than the formal sorcerer’s costume to which he was entitled. As Bontriomphe had said, it was difficult to see the stab wound at first glance. It was small, barely an inch long, and had not opened widely. It was further obscured by the blood which covered the front of the dead magician’s clothing. Nearby, a black-handled, silver-bladed knife lay in the pool of blood on the floor, its gleaming blade splashed with red.

  “This blood—” Lord Darcy gestured with his hand. “Are you absolutely certain, Bontriomphe, that it was fresh when you broke into this room?”

  “Absolutely certain,” Bontriomphe said. “It was bright red and still liquid. There was still a slight flow of blood from the wound itself. I’ll admit I am not a chirurgeon, but I am certainly no amateur when it comes to knowing something about that particular subject. He couldn’t have been dead more than a few minutes when I first saw his body.”

  Lord Darcy nodded. “Indeed. The condition of the blood even now, under the preservation spell, shows a certain freshness.”

  He gestured toward a key that lay a few feet away from the body. “Is that your key, my lord?”

  Lord Bontriomphe nodded. “Yes. I put it there to mark the spot when I picked up Sir James’ key.”

  “It is still where you put it?”

  “Yes.”

  Lord Darcy measured the distance between the key and the door with his eye. “Four and a half feet,” he murmured. He stood up. “Give me Sir James’ key. Thank you. An experiment is in order.”

  “An experiment, my lord?” Master Sean repeated. His face brightened.

  “Not of the thaumaturgical variety, my good Sean. That will come in good time.” He walked over to the door and opened it, ignoring the two Armsmen who stood at attention outside. He looked down at his feet. “Master Sean, would you be so good as to remove this brazier?”

  The tubby little Irish sorcerer bent over and put his hand near the brazen bowl. “It’s still a little hot. I’ll put it on the table.” He picked up the tripod by one leg and carried it into the room.

  “I don’t see what you’re getting at,” said Lord Bontriomphe.

  “Surely you have noticed the clearance between the bottom of the door and the floor?” Lord Darcy said. “Is it possible that the murderer simply stabbed Sir James, came out, locked the door behind him, and slid the key back under the door?”

  Master Sean blinked. “With me standing outside the door all the time?” he said in surprise. “Why, that’s impossible, me lord!”

  “Once we have eliminated the impossible,” Lord Darcy said calmly, “we shall be able to concentrate on the merely improbable.”

  He knelt down and looked at the floor beneath the door. “As you see, the space is somewhat wider than it appears to be from the inside. The carpeting does not extend under the door. Close the door, if you will, Master Sean.”

  The sorcerer pushed the door shut and waited patiently on the other side. Lord Darcy put the heavy brass key on the floor and attempted to push it under the door. “I thought not,” he said, almost to himself. “The key is much too large and thick. It can be forced under—” He pushed hard at the key. “But it wedges tight. And the thickness of the carpet would stop it on the other side.” He pulled the key out. “Open the door again, Master Sean.”

  The door swung inward. “Observe,” Lord Darcy continued, “how the attempt to push it under has scored the wood at that point. It would be impossible even to make the attempt without leaving traces, much less—” He paused, cutting off his own words abruptly. “What is this?” he said, leaning over to peer more closely at a spot on the carpet inside the room.

  “What’s what?” asked Lord Bontriomphe.

  Lord Darcy ignored him. He was looking at a spot on the carpet near the right-hand doorpost, on the side away from the hinges, and approximately eight inches in from the edge of the carpet itself.

  “May I borrow your magnifying glass, Master Sean?” Lord Darcy said without looking up.

  “Certainly.” Master Sean went over to the table, opened his symbol-decorated carpetbag, took out a large bone-handled lens, and handed it to his lordship.

  “What is it?” he asked, echoing Lord Bontriomphe’s question. He knelt down to look, as Lord Darcy continued to study a small spot on the carpet without answering.

  The mark, Master Sean saw, was a dark stain in the shape of a half circle, with the straight side running parallel to the door and the arch curving in toward the interior of the room. It was small, about half the size of a man’s thumbnail.

  “Is it blood?” asked Master Sean.

  “It is difficult to tell on this dark green carpet,” said Lord Darcy. “It might be blood; it might be some other dark substance. Whatever it is, it has soaked into the fibers of the pile, although not down to the backing. Interesting.” He stood up.

  “May I?” said Lord Bontriomphe, holding out his hand for the glass.

  “Certainly.” He handed over the lens, and while the London investigator knelt to look at the stain, Lord Darcy said to Master Sean: “I would be much obliged, my dear Sean, if you would make a similarity test on that stain. I should like to know if it is blood, and, if so, whether it is Sir James’ blood.” He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. “And while you’re at it, do a thorough check of the bloodstain around the body. I should like to be certain that all of the blood is actually Sir James Zwinge’s.”

  “Very good, my lord. Would you want any other tests besides the usual ones?”

  “Yes. First: Was there, in fact, anyone at all in this room when Sir James Zwinge died? Second: If there was any black magical effect directed at this room, of what sort was it?”

  “I shall endeavor to give satisfaction, my lord,” Master Sean said doubtfully, “but it won’t be easy.”

  Lord Bontriomphe rose to his feet and handed Master Sean the magnifying glass. “What would be difficult about it?” he asked. “I know those tests aren’t exactly routine, but I’ve seen journeyman sorcerers perform them.” />
  “My dear Bontriomphe,” said Lord Darcy, “consider the circumstances. If, as we assume, this act of murder was committed by a magician, then he was most certainly a master magician. Knowing, as he must have, that this hotel abounds in master magicians, he would have taken every precaution to cover his tracks and hide his identity—precautions that no ordinary criminal would ever think of and could not take even if he had thought of them. Since Master Sir James was killed rather early yesterday morning, it is likely that the murderer had all of the preceding night for the casting of his spells. Can we, then, expect Master Sean to unravel in a few moments what another master may have taken all night to accomplish?”

  He put his hand into an inside jacket pocket and took out the envelope which de London had handed him earlier. “Besides, I have further evidence that the killer or killers are quite capable of covering their tracks. This morning’s communication from Sir Eliot Meredith, my Chief Assistant, is a report of what he has thus far discovered in regard to the murder of the double agent Georges Barbour in Cherbourg. It contains two apparently conflicting pieces of information.” He looked at Master Sean.

  “My good Sean. Would you give me your professional opinion of the journeyman who is the forensic sorcerer for Chief Master-at Arms Henri Vert in Cherbourg?”

  “Goodman Juseppy?” Master Sean pursed his lips, then said: “Competent, I should say; quite competent. He’s not a Master, of course, but—”

  “Would you consider him capable of bungling the two tests which I have just asked you to perform?”

  “We are all capable of error, my lord. But … no. In an ordinary case, I should say that Goodman Juseppy’s testimony as to his results would be quite reliable.”

  “In an ordinary case. Just so. But what if he were pitted against the machinations of a Master Sorcerer?”

  Master Sean shrugged. “Then it’s certainly possible that his results might be in error. Goodman Juseppy simply isn’t of that caliber.”

  “Then that may account for the conflicting evidence,” Lord Darcy said. “I hesitate to say definitely that it does, but it may.”

  “All right,” said Lord Bontriomphe impatiently, “just what is this conflicting evidence?”

  “According to Goodman Juseppy’s official report, there was no one in Barbour’s room at the time he was killed. Furthermore, there had not been anyone but himself in the room for several hours before.”

  “Very well,” said Lord Bontriomphe, “but where is the conflict?”

  “The second test,” said Lord Darcy calmly. “Goodman Juseppy could detect no trace whatever of black magic—or, indeed, of any kind of sorcery at all.”

  In the silence that followed, Lord Darcy returned the envelope to his jacket pocket.

  Master Sean O Lochlainn sighed. “Well, my lords, I’ll perform the tests. However, I should like to call in another sorcerer to help. That way—”

  “No!” Lord Darcy interrupted firmly. “Under no circumstances! As of this moment, Master Sean, you are the only sorcerer in this world in whom I can unhesitatingly place complete trust.”

  The little Irish sorcerer turned, took a deep breath, and looked up into Lord Darcy’s eyes. “My lord,” he said in a low, solemn voice, “in all humility I wish to point out that while yours is undoubtedly the finest deductive mind upon the face of this Earth, I am a Master Sorcerer.” He paused. “We have worked together for a long time, my lord. During that time I have used sorcery to discover the facts, and you have taken those facts and made a cogent case of them. You cannot do the one, my lord, and I cannot do the other. Thus far there has been a tacit agreement between us, my lord, that I do not attempt to do your job, and you do not attempt to do mine. Has that agreement been abrogated?”

  Lord Darcy was silent for a moment, trying to put his thoughts into words. Then, in a startlingly similar low voice, he said: “Master Sean, I should like to express my most humble apologies. I am an expert in my field. You are an expert on sorcery and sorcerers. Let it be so. The agreement has not been abrogated—nor, I trust, shall it ever be.”

  He paused for a moment, then, after a deep breath, said, in a more normal tone of voice, “Of course, Master Sean. You may choose any kind of consultation you wish.”

  During the moment of tension between the two friends, Lord Bontriomphe had quietly turned away, walked over to the corpse, and looked down at it without actually seeing it.

  “Well, my lord—” There was just the slightest touch of embarrassment in Master Sean’s voice. He cleared his throat and began again. “Well, my lord, it wasn’t exactly consultation I was thinking of. What I really need is a good assistant. With your permission, I should like to ask Lord John Quetzal to help me. He’s only a journeyman, but he wants to become a forensic sorcerer and the experience will be good for him.”

  “Of course, Master Sean, an excellent choice I should say. Now let me see—” He looked across at the body again. “I shan’t disturb the evidence any more than is necessary. Those ceremonial knives are all constructed to the same pattern, are they not?”

  “Yes, my lord. Every sorcerer must make his own, with his own hands, but they are built to rigid specifications. That’s one of the things an apprentice has to learn right off, to build his own tools. You can’t use another man’s tools in this business, nor tools made by an ordinary craftsman. It’s the making of them that attunes them to the individual who uses them. They must be generally similar and individually different.”

  “So I understand. Would you permit me to examine your own, so that I need not disturb Sir James’?”

  “Of course.” He got the knife from his carpetbag and handed it to his lordship. “Mind you don’t cut yourself; that blade is razor sharp.”

  Lord Darcy eased the onyx-handled knife from its black couirbouilli sheath. The gleaming blade was a perfect isosceles triangle, five inches from handguard to point and two inches wide at the handguard. Lord Darcy turned it and looked at the base of the pommel. “This is your monogram and symbol. I presume Sir James’ knife is identified in the same way?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Would you mind looking at that knife and telling me whether you can positively identify it as his?”

  “Oh, that’s the first thing I looked at. Many’s the time I’ve seen it, and it’s his knife, all right.”

  “Excellent. That accounts for its being here.” He slid the deadly-looking blade back into its sheath and handed it back to the little sorcerer.

  “That blade is pure silver, Master Sean?” Lord Bontriomphe asked.

  “Pure silver, my lord.”

  “Tell me: how do you keep a razor edge on anything that soft?”

  Master Sean smiled broadly. “Well, I’ll admit it’s a hard job getting the edge on it in the first place. It has to be finished with jeweler’s rouge and very soft kidskin. But it’s only used as a symbolical knife, d’ye see. We never actually cut anything material with it, so it never needs to be sharpened again if a man’s careful.”

  “But if you never cut anything with it,” said Lord Bontriomphe, “then why sharpen it at all? Wouldn’t it work as well if its edges were as dull as, say, a letter opener?”

  Master Sean gave the London investigator a rather pained look. “My lord,” he said with infinite patience, “this is a symbol of a sharp knife. I also have a slightly different one with blunt edges; it is a symbol for a dull knife. Your lordship should realize that, for many purposes, the best symbol for a thing is the thing itself.”

  Lord Bontriomphe grinned and raised one hand, palm outward. “Sorry, Master Sorcerer; my apologies. But please don’t give me any lectures on advanced symbolic theory. I never could get it through my head.”

  “Is there anything else you wanted to look at, Bontriomphe?” Lord Darcy asked briskly. “If not, I suggest we be on our way, and permit Master Sean to go about his work. We will instruct the guards at the door that you are not to be disturbed, Master Sean. When you have finished, notify Chief Mas
ter-at-Arms Hennely Grayme that we should like an autopsy performed upon the body immediately. And I should appreciate it very much if you would go to the morgue and personally supervise the chirurgeon’s work.”

  “Very well. I’ll see to it. I’ll get the report to My Lord Marquis’ office as soon as possible.”

  “Excellent. Come, Bontriomphe; there is work to be done.”

  11

  As Lord Bontriomphe gave instructions to the Armsmen outside the late Master Sir James Zwinge’s room, Lord Darcy walked across the hall to the door facing the murder room and rapped briskly on it at a point just above the keyhole.

  “Are you decent, Your Grace?”

  There was a muffled flurry of movement inside, and the door flew open. “Lord Darcy!” said the Dowager Duchess of Cumberland, flashing him a brilliant smile. “You startled me, my lord.”

  Lord Darcy pitched his own voice low enough so that the Armsmen and Lord Bontriomphe could not hear. “There is an old adage to the effect that people who listen at keyholes often hear things that startle them.”

  Raising his voice to a normal speaking tone, he went on. “I should like to speak to Your Grace privately for a moment, if I may.”

  “Certainly, my lord.” She stepped back to let him in the room, and he closed the door behind him.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “A few quick questions, Mary. I need your help.”

  “I thought you were going back to Cherbourg as soon as you got Master Sean out of the Tower.”

  “Circumstances have changed,” he cut in. “Bontriomphe and I are working together on the case. But never mind that now. When you told me about the Damoselle Tia last night, the one thing you failed to mention was her connection with Sir Thomas Leseaux.”

  Her Grace’s blue eyes widened. “But—aside from the fact that he was among those who recommended her for apprenticeship in the Guild, I don’t know of any connection. Why?”

  Lord Darcy frowned in thought. “Unless I am very much mistaken, the connection goes a great deal deeper than that. Sir Thomas is in love with the girl—or thinks he is. He is also afraid that she might be mixed up in something illegal, something criminal—and he is afraid to admit the possibility to himself.”