“Agreed, of course, my lord.”
“It is this. I believe that you were the last person to see him alive. The evidence I have thus far indicates that. But I want you to know that I do not believe you are in any way responsible for his death.”
“Thank you, my lord,” she said, and suddenly there were tears in her eyes.
Lord Darcy took her hand. “Come, my dear, this is a poor time to cry. Come now, no more tears.”
She smiled in spite of her tears. “You’re very kind, my lord.”
“Oh, no, my dear Tia, I’m not kind at all. I am cruel and vicious and I have ulterior motives.”
She laughed. “Most men do.”
“I didn’t mean it quite that way,” said Lord Darcy dryly. “What I intended to convey was that I do have another question to ask.”
She brushed tears from her eyes with one hand, and gave him her impish smile. “No ulterior motives, then. That’s a shame.” Then she became serious again. “What is the question?”
“Why did Master Ewen decide to kill you?” Lord Darcy was quite certain that he knew the answer, but he did not want to disclose to the girl how he knew it.
This time her smile had the same cold, vengeful quality that he had seen the night before. “Because I learned the truth,” she said. “Yesterday evening I was approached by a friend of my uncle’s—a Goodman Colin MacDavid—a Manxman whom I remembered from when I was a very little girl. Goodman Colin told me the truth.
“My Uncle Neapeler escaped from the trap that I told you of. Goodman Colin helped him escape, and my uncle has been working with him on the Isle of Man ever since. He is safe. But he has been in hiding all this time, because he is afraid the Poles will kill him. He thought I was dead—until he saw my name in the London Courier, in the list of those attending the Convention; then he sent Goodman Colin straight away to find me.
“But Goodman Colin also explained that when my uncle escaped he left behind evidence indicating that he had been killed. He did this to protect me. All the time Master Ewen was using my uncle’s life as a weapon against me, he and the Polish Secret Police actually thought he was dead. Do you wonder that I was furious when I finally found out the truth?”
“Of course not,” said Lord Darcy. “That was yesterday evening.”
“Yes,” she said. “Then I got a note from Master Ewen telling me to meet him in a pub called the Hound and Hare. Do you know of it?”
“I know where it is,” said Lord Darcy. “Go on.”
“I suppose I lost my temper again,” she said. “I suppose I said the wrong things, just as I did with Sir James.” Her eyes hardened. “But I’m not sorry for what I said to Master Ewen! I told him what I thought of him, I told him I would report everything to the Imperial authorities, I told him I wanted to see him hanged, I—” She stopped suddenly and gave Lord Darcy a puzzled frown. “I’m not quite sure what happened after that. He raised his hand,” she said slowly, “and traced a symbol in the air, and … and after that I remember nothing, that is … nothing until this morning, when I woke up here and saw Father Patrique.”
She reached out suddenly and grasped Lord Darcy’s right hand in both of her own. “I know I have done wrong, my lord. Will I … will I have to appear before His Majesty’s Court of High Justice?”
Lord Darcy smiled and stood up. “I rather think that you will, my dear—you will be our most important witness against Master Ewen MacAlister. I think I can assure you that you will not appear before the Court in any other capacity.”
The girl was still holding Lord Darcy’s hand. With a sudden movement she brought it to her lips, kissed it and then let it go.
“Thank you, my lord,” she said.
“It is I who must thank you,” said Lord Darcy with a bow. “If I may do you any further service, Damoselle, you have but to ask.”
He went out the door of the Gardenia Suite expecting to see two men waiting for him in the hall. Instead, there were three. Father Patrique and Sir Thomas looked at him as he closed the door behind him.
“How is she?” asked Father Patrique.
“Quite well, I think.” Then he glanced at the third man, a uniformed Sergeant-at-Arms.
“Sergeant Peter has news for you,” Father Patrique said, “but I would not allow him to interrupt. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll see my patient.” The door closed behind him as he went into the Gardenia Suite.
Lord Darcy smiled at Sir Thomas. “All is well, my friend. Neither of you has anything to fear.”
Then he looked back at the Sergeant-at-Arms. “You have information for me, Sergeant?”
“Yes, my lord. Lord Bontriomphe said it was most important. We have found Goodman Paul Nichols.”
“Oh, indeed?” said Lord Darcy. “Where did you find him? Has he anything to say for himself?”
“I’m afraid not,” said Sergeant Peter. “He was found in a lumber room at the hotel. And he was dead, my lord. Quite dead.”
19
Lord Darcy strode across the lobby of the Royal Steward Hotel, closely followed by the Sergeant-at-Arms. He went down the hallway, past the offices, toward the rear door. Sergeant Peter had already told him where the room in question was, but the information proved unnecessary, since there were two Armsmen on guard before it. It led off to the left from the narrow hallway, about halfway between the temporary headquarters office and the rear door. The room was a workshop, set up for furniture repair. There were worktables and tools around the walls, and several pieces of half-finished furniture scattered about. Towards the rear of the room was an open door, beyond which Lord Darcy could see only darkness.
Near the door stood Lord Bontriomphe and Master Sean O Lochlainn. They both looked around as Lord Darcy walked across the room toward them.
“Hullo, Darcy,” said Lord Bontriomphe. “We’ve got another one.” He gestured past the open door which, Lord Darcy now saw, opened into a small closet filled with odds and ends of wood and pieces of broken furniture. Beyond the door, just inside the closet, lay a man’s body.
It was not a pleasant sight. The face was blackened and the tongue protruded. Around the throat, set deep into the flesh, was a knotted cord.
Lord Darcy looked at Lord Bontriomphe. “What happened?”
Lord Bontriomphe did not take his eyes off the corpse. “I think I shall go out and beat my head against a wall. I’ve been looking for this man ever since yesterday afternoon. I’ve combed London for him. I’ve asked every employee in this hotel every question I could think of.” Then he looked up at Lord Darcy. “I had finally arrived at what I thought was the ridiculous conclusion that Goodman Paul Nichols had never left the hotel.” He gave Lord Darcy a rather lopsided smile. “And then, half an hour ago, one of the hotel’s employees, a joiner and carpenter whose job it is to keep the hotel’s furniture in repair, came in here and opened that door.” He gestured toward the closet. “He needed a piece of wood. He found—that. He came running out into the hall in a screaming fit. Fortunately I was in the office. Master Sean had just shown up, so we came back to take a look.”
“He has definitely been identified as Paul Nichols?” Lord Darcy asked.
“Oh, yes, no question of that.”
Lord Darcy looked at Master Sean. “There is no rest for the weary, eh, Master Sean? What do you find?”
Master Sean sighed. “Well, I won’t know for sure until after the chirurgeon has performed the autopsy, but it’s my opinion the man’s been dead for at least forty-eight hours. There’s a bruise on his right temple—hard to see because of the coagulation of the blood in the face, but it’s there all right—which indicates that he was knocked unconscious before he was killed. Someone hit him on the side of the head, and then took that bit of upholsterer’s cord and tightened it around his throat to strangle him.”
“Forty-eight hours,” said Lord Darcy thoughtfully. He looked at his watch. “That would be, give or take an hour or so, at approximately the same time Master Sir James was killed. Interestin
g.”
“There’s one thing, my lord,” said Master Sean, “which you might find even more interesting.” He knelt down and pointed at some bits of material lying on the corpse’s shirt front. “What does that look like to you?”
Lord Darcy knelt and looked. “Sealing wax,” he said softly. “Bits of blue sealing wax.”
Master Sean nodded. “That’s what they looked like to me, my lord.”
Lord Darcy stood up. “I hate to put you through another session of such grueling work, Sean, but it must be done. I must know the time of his death, and—”
Master Sean took one more look at the dead man’s shirt front, and then stood up himself. “And something more about those bits of blue sealing wax, eh, my lord?”
“Exactly.”
“Well,” said Lord Bontriomphe, “at least this time we know who killed him.”
“Yes, I know who killed him, all right,” Lord Darcy said. “What I don’t understand is why.”
“You mean, the motive?” Lord Bontriomphe asked.
“Oh, I know the motive. What I want to know is the motive behind the motive, if you follow me.”
Lord Bontriomphe didn’t.
* * * *
Another half hour of meticulous investigation revealed nothing of further interest. The murder of Paul Nichols appeared to be as simple as that of Sir James had been complex. There was no locked door, no indication of Black Magic, no question as to the method of death. By the time he was finished looking the area over, Lord Darcy was convinced that his mental reconstruction of the murder was reasonably accurate. Paul Nichols had been enticed into the workshop, knocked unconscious, strangled with a handy piece of upholsterer’s cord, and dumped into the small lumber room. Exactly what had happened after that was not quite as clear, but Lord Darcy felt that subsequent data would not drastically change his hypothesis.
Satisfied, Lord Darcy left the remainder of the investigation to Lord Bontriomphe and Master Sean. Now, he thought to himself, what to do next? Go to the Palace du Marquis first and pick up a gun, he decided. He had mentioned to Lord Bontriomphe that he had lost his own weapon in the Thames, and Bontriomphe had said, “I have another in my desk, a Heron .36. You can use that if you want; it’s a good weapon.” Lord Darcy decided that one good stiff drink would probably stand him in good stead before he took a cab to the Palace du Marquis. He went to the Sword Room and ordered a brandy and soda.
There was still a state of tension in the hotel, and the Convention seemed to have been held in abeyance. Of all the sorcerers he had seen that morning, with the exception of Master Sean himself, not one had been wearing the silver slashes of a Master. Lord Darcy saw a familiar face further down the bar, a young man who was giving his full attention to a pint of good English beer. With a slight frown, Lord Darcy picked up his glass and walked down to where the other man was sitting.
“Good morning, my lord,” he said. “I should have thought you would be out on the chase.”
Journeyman Sorcerer Lord John Quetzal looked up, a little startled. “Lord Darcy! I’ve been wanting to talk to you,” he said. The smile on his face looked a little sad. “They didn’t ask me to help find Master Ewen,” he said. “They’re afraid a journeyman couldn’t hold his own against a Master.”
“And you think you could?” Lord Darcy asked.
“No!” Lord John Quetzal said excitedly. “That’s not the point, don’t you see? Master Ewen may be a more powerful sorcerer than I am, I don’t argue with that. But I don’t have to face him down. If he uses magic when he’s cornered, another, more powerful sorcerer can take care of him then. The point is that I can find Master Ewen. I can find out where he is. But nobody listens to a journeyman sorcerer.”
Lord Darcy looked at him. “Now let me understand you,” he said carefully. “You think you can find where Master Ewen is hiding now?”
“Not just think; I know! I am positive I can find him. When you brought the Damoselle Tia in last night, she stank to high Heaven of Black Magic.” He looked apologetic. “I don’t mean a real smell, you understand, not the way you’d smell tobacco smoke or”—he gestured towards Lord Darcy’s glass—“brandy, or something like that.”
“I understand,” said Lord Darcy. “It is merely a psychic analogy to the physical sense which it most nearly resembles. That is why people with your particular kind of Talent are called witch-smellers.”
“Yes, my lord; exactly. And any given act of black sorcery has its characteristic ‘aroma’—a stink that identifies the sorcerer who performed it. You asked me Wednesday night if I suspected anyone, and I refused to tell you. But it was Master Ewen. I could detect the taint on him even then. But now, with an example of his work to go on, I could smell him out anywhere in London.”
He smiled rather sheepishly. “I was just sitting here trying to make up my mind whether I should go out on my own or not.”
“You could detect the stink of Black Magic on the Damoselle Tia,” Lord Darcy said. “How did you know that it was not she who was practicing the Black Art?”
“My lord,” said Lord John Quetzal, “there is a great deal of difference between a dirty finger and a dirty finger-mark.”
Lord Darcy contemplated his drink in silence for a full minute. Then he picked it up and finished it in two swallows.
“My Lord John Quetzal,” he said briskly. “Lord Bontriomphe and his Armsmen are searching for Master Ewen. So are Sir Lyon and the Masters of the Guild. So are Commander Lord Ashley and the Naval Intelligence Corps. And do you know what?”
“No, my lord,” said Lord John Quetzal, putting down his empty beer mug, “what?”
“You and I are going to make them all look foolish. Come with me. We must fetch a cab. First to the Palace du Marquis, and then, my lord—wherever your nose leads us.”
20
It took hours.
In a little pub far to the north of the river, Journeyman Sorcerer Lord John Quetzal stared blankly at a mug of beer that he had no intention of drinking.
“I think I have him, my lord,” he said dully. “I think I have him.”
“Very good,” said Lord Darcy.
He dared say nothing further. During all this time he had followed Lord John Quetzal’s leads, making marks on the map as the young Mechicain witch-smeller came ever closer to the black sorcerer who was his prey.
“It’s not as easy as I thought,” said Lord John Quetzal.
Lord Darcy nodded grimly. Witch-smelling—the detection of psychic evil—was not the same as clairvoyance, but even so the privacy spells in London had dimmed the young Mechicain’s perceptions.
“Not easy, perhaps,” he said, “but just as certain, just as sure.” His lordship realized that the young journeyman had not yet perfected his innate ability to its utmost. That, of course, would come with time and further training. “Let’s go through it again. Tell me the clues as you picked them up.”
“Yes, my lord,” said the young Mechicain. After a moment he began: “He’s surrounded by those who will help him—Master Ewen is, I mean. But they will not risk their own lives for him.
“There is a tremendous amount of psychic tension surrounding him,” Lord John Quetzal continued, “but it has nothing to do with him personally. They don’t know that he exists.”
“I understand, my lord,” said Lord Darcy. “From the descriptions you have given me, it appears to me that Master Ewen is surrounded by generally un-Talented people who are attempting to use the Talent.” He spread his map of London out on the table. “Now, let’s see if we can get a fix.” He tapped a spot on the map. “From here”—he moved his finger—“in that direction, eh?”
“Yes, my lord,” said Lord John Quetzal.
“Now,” Lord Darcy moved his finger further down the map. “From here”—he moved his finger again—“to there. Eh?”
“Yes.”
Lord John Quetzal knew direction and magnitude, but he seemed unable to give any further information. Time after time Lord Darcy had
gone through this same routine—so many times that it seemed monotonous, repetitive.
And yet, each time, more information came to the fore. At last, Lord Darcy was able to draw a circle on the map of London, and tap it with the point of his pencil.
“He is somewhere within that area. There is no other possible answer.” Then he reached out and put his hand on the young journeyman’s shoulder. “I know you’re tired. Fatigue is the normal condition of an Investigator for the King.”
Lord John Quetzal straightened his shoulders and looked up suddenly. “I know. But”—he tapped the spot that Lord Darcy had circled—“that’s quite a bit of area. I thought that I could locate him precisely, exactly.” He took a deep breath. “And now I find that …”
“Oh, come,” Lord Darcy said. “You give in too easily. We have him located; it is simply that you do not realize how closely we have surrounded our quarry. We know the general area, but we do not have the exact description of his immediate surroundings.”
“But there I cannot help,” Lord John Quetzal said, the dullness coming back into his voice.
“I think you can,” said Lord Darcy. “I ask you to put your attention upon the symbols surrounding Master Ewen MacAlister—not his actual physical surroundings but his symbolic surroundings.”
And then Lord Darcy waited.
Suddenly Lord John Quetzal looked up. “I have an intuition. I see …” Lord John Quetzal began again. “It is the blazon of a coat of arms, my lord: Argent, in saltire, five fusils gules.”
“Go on,” said Lord Darcy urgently, making a rapid notation on the margin of the map.
Lord John Quetzal looked out into nothing. “Argent,” he said, “in pale, three trefoils sable, the lower-most inverted.”
Lord Darcy made another note, and then put his hand very carefully on the top of the table, palm down. “I ask you to give me one more, my lord—just one more.”
“Argent,” said Lord John Quetzal, “a heart gules.”
Lord Darcy leaned back in the booth, took a deep breath and said, “We have it, my lord, we have it. Thanks to you. Come, we must get back to Carlyle House.”
Too Many Magicians Page 22