“That wasn’t the only Black Magic the little swine was working,” Lord Ashley said. He told Lord Darcy about the ensorcelled sword.
“Then you need not apologize for letting him escape,” Darcy said. “I am thankful that you’re still alive.”
“So am I,” said Lord Ashley. “Look here; there’s not going to be room for all of us in that coach with Tia taking up one whole seat. And I shan’t be needed any more tonight anyway. You two go ahead.” He stepped back. “Petty Officer Hosquins,” he called. “Her Grace and Lord Darcy are going to Carlyle House. One of the Armsmen will get a cab to take me home.”
“Very well, My Lord Commander,” answered Hosquins.
“Thank you,” said Lord Darcy. “Would you do me one favor? Would you go to the Royal Steward and report everything to Lord Bontriomphe? If Master Ewen knows you recognized him, he won’t show up at the hotel, of course. Tell Lord Bontriomphe to notify Sir Lyon. All right?”
“Certainly. I’ll get down there right away. Good night, my lord. Good night, Your Grace,” he said, raising his voice.
Lord Darcy opened the door of the coach. “To Carlyle House, Hosquins,” he said, and climbed in.
* * *
It was more than an hour later before Lord Darcy really felt good again. A hot bath had taken the smell of the Thames from him, and some of the chill out of his blood. A short session with Father Patrique had removed any susceptibility to catching cold. Mary de Cumberland and the good Father had both insisted that he go to bed, so now he found himself in his silken night clothes, propped up on four or five pillows, with a couple of warm woolen blankets over his legs, a heavy shawl around his shoulders, a hot water bottle at his feet, and two bowlsful of hot, nourishing soup inside him.
The door opened and Mary de Cumberland came in, bearing a large steaming mug on a tray. “How do you feel?” she asked.
“Quite fit, really. How is Tia?”
“Father Patrique says she’ll be all right. He put her to sleep. He says that she won’t be able to talk to anyone until tomorrow.” She put the mug down on the bedside table. “Here, this is for you.”
“What is it?” Lord Darcy asked, eyeing the mug suspiciously.
“Medicine. It’s good for what ails you.”
“What’s in it?”
“If you must know, it contains brandy, Oporto, honey, hot water, and a couple of herbs that Father Patrique prescribed.”
“Humph,” said Lord Darcy. “You made it sound good until you mentioned that last.” He picked up the mug and sipped. “Not bad at all,” he admitted.
“Do you feel strong enough to see visitors?” she asked solicitously.
“No,” he said. “I’m on my deathbed. I’m in a coma. My breathing is shallow, my pulse weak and threadlike. Who wants to see me?”
“Well, Sir Thomas wanted to see you; he just wanted to thank you for saving Tia’s life, but the poor man seems on the verge of collapse himself and I told him he could thank you tomorrow. Lord John Quetzal said that he could wait to speak to you until tomorrow, too. But Sir Lyon Grey arrived just a few minutes ago, and I strongly suggest that you see him.”
“And where, may I ask, is Master Sean?”
“I have no doubt that he would be here, my lord, if anyone had thought to tell him of your desire for an invigorating cold bath. He is still at the morgue.”
“Poor chap,” said Darcy, “he’s had a hard day’s work.”
“And what have you been doing?” said Her Grace. “Tatting?”
Lord Darcy ignored her. “I presume that he is making absolutely sure, one way or another, whether drugs or poisons were administered,” he said thoughtfully. “I am strongly inclined to doubt that they were, but when Sean has finished with his work we shall know for certain.”
“Yes,” agreed Her Grace. “Will you see Sir Lyon?”
“Of course, of course. Show him in, will you?”
The Dowager Duchess of Cumberland went out and returned a minute later accompanied by the tall, stately, silver-bearded figure of Sir Lyon Gandolphus Grey. “I understand you have had quite an adventurous evening, my lord,” he said gravely.
“All in the day’s work for an Officer of the King’s Justice, Sir Lyon. Pray be seated.”
“Thank you,” said Sir Lyon. Then, as the Duchess started to leave the room, “Please, Your Grace — if you would be so good as to remain? This concerns every member of the Guild, as well as the King’s Officers.”
“Certainly, Grand Master.”
Sir Lyon looked back at Lord Darcy. “Commander Lord Ashley has informed me of his identification of Master Ewen MacAlister. He and Lord Bontriomphe have sent out word to the Armsmen all over the city to be on the watch for him. I have sent out every available Master Sorcerer in London to accompany the Armsmen, to make certain he does not use his Art to escape.”
“Very good,” said Lord Darcy.
“Lord Ashley’s unsupported word,” continued the Grand Master, “would not be sufficient in itself to bring charges against Master Ewen before the Special Executive Commission of the Guild. But it was enough to make us take immediate action to procure further evidence.”
“Indeed?” said Lord Darcy with interest. “You have found this evidence, of course.”
Sir Lyon nodded gravely. “We have. You are perhaps aware that a sorcerer casts certain protective and precautionary spells upon the bag in which he carries the tools of his trade?”
“I am,” said Lord Darcy, remembering how easily Master Sean had regained possession of his own symbol-decorated carpetbag.
“Then you will understand why we asked Lord Bontriomphe to procure a search warrant from a magistrate immediately, and then went directly to Master Ewen’s room. He, too, had put a special spell on the lock, as Sir James had done, but we solved it within fifteen minutes. Then we solved and removed the protective spells from his bag. The evidence was there — a bottle of graveyard dirt, two mummified bats, human bones, fire powder containing sulphur — and other things which no sorcerer should have in his possession without a special research permit from the Guild and special authority from the Church.”
Lord Darcy nodded. “ ‘Black Magic is a matter of symbolism and intent,’ ” he quoted.
“Precisely,” said Sir Lyon. “Then, in addition, I have Father Patrique’s testimony concerning the black spell that Ewen cast upon Tia this evening. We have, then, my lord, quite sufficient evidence to convict him of Black Magic. Whether or not you can obtain enough evidence to convict him of his other crimes is, of course, another matter. But rest assured that the Guild will do everything in its power to help you obtain it. You have but to ask, my lord.”
“I thank you, Sir Lyon. A question, merely to satisfy my curiosity: Lord Ashley told you, did he not, of the swordplay on Somerset Bridge?”
“He did.”
“Am I correct in assuming that the spell Master Ewen had cast upon his own blade was in some manner a utilization of the Tarnhelm Effect?”
“It was indeed,” Sir Lyon said with a rather puzzled smile. “It was astute of you to recognize it from Lord Ashley’s description alone.”
“Not at all,” Lord Darcy said. “It is simply that Sean is an excellent teacher.”
“It’s more than astute, Grand Master,” said the Dowager Duchess. “To me, it’s irritating. I know what the Tarnhelm Effect is, of course, since I have come across mention of it in my studies, but its utilization and theory are quite beyond me.”
“You should not find it irritating, but gratifying,” Sir Lyon said in a firm voice. “One of the troubles with the world is that so few laymen take an interest in science. If more people were like Lord Darcy, we could eliminate the superstitions that still cling to the minds of ninety-nine people out of a hundred.” He smiled. “I realize you spoke in jest, but it behooves all of us to educate the layman whenever we can. It is only because of ignorance and superstition that hedge magicians and witches and other unlicensed practitioners can operate. It is
only because of ignorance and superstition that so many people believe that only Black Magic can overcome Black Magic, that the only way to destroy evil is by using more evil. It is only because of ignorance and superstition that quacks and mountebanks who have no trace of the Talent can peddle their useless medallions and charms.”
He sighed then, and Lord Darcy thought he looked somehow older and wearier. “Of course, education of that kind will not eliminate the Master Ewens of this world. Modern science has given us an advantage over earlier ages, in that it has enabled us to keep our Government, our Church and our Courts more nearly uncorrupt and incorruptible than was ever before possible. But not even science is infallible. There are still quirks in the human mind that we cannot detect until it is too late, and Ewen MacAlister is a perfect example of our failure to do so.”
“Sir Lyon,” said Lord Darcy, “I should like to suggest that Master Ewen is more than that. In our own history, and in certain countries even today, we find organizations that attempt to hide and gloss over the wrongdoings of their own members. There was a time when the Church, the Government, and the Courts would ignore or conceal the peculations of a priest, a governor, or a judge rather than admit to the public that they were not infallible. Any group which makes a claim to infallibility must be very careful not to make any mistakes, and the mistakes that will inevitably occur must be kept secret or explained away — by lies, subterfuges and distortions. And that will eventually cause the collapse of the entire edifice. Anyone who has power in the Empire today — be it spiritual, temporal, or thaumaturgical — is trusted by the little man who has no power, precisely because he knows that we do our best to uncover the occasional Master Ewen and remove his power, rather than hiding him and pretending he does not exist. Master Ewen then becomes in himself the embodiment of the failure which may be converted to a symbol of success.”
“Of course,” said Sir Lyon. “But it is still unpleasant when it does happen. The last time was back in ’39, when Sir Edward Elmer was Grand Master. I was on the Special Executive Commission then, and I had rather hoped it would not happen again in my lifetime. However, we shall do what must be done.”
He rose. “Is there anything further I can do for you?”
“I think not, Sir Lyon, not at the moment. Thank you very much for your information.
“Oh, yes. One thing. Would you tell the sorcerers who are searching for him that if Master Ewen is taken during the night I am to be notified immediately, no matter what o’clock it is. I have several questions which I wish to put to him.”
“I have already given such instructions in regard to myself,” said Sir Lyon. “I shall see that you are notified. Good night, my lord. Good night, Your Grace. I shall be in my room if there is any word.”
When the silvery-bearded old sorcerer had left, the Dowager Duchess said, “Well, I hope they don’t catch him until morning; you need a good night’s sleep. But at least this horrible mess is almost over.”
“Don’t be too optimistic,” said Lord Darcy. “There are far too many questions which remain unanswered. As you implied, they have not yet caught Master Ewen, and Paul Nichols has managed to remain hidden wherever he is for more than thirty-six hours. We still do not have the results of Master Sean’s Herculean labors. There are still too many knots in this tangled string to say that the end is in sight.”
He looked down at his empty mug. “Would you mind bringing me another one of those? Without the good Father’s additional flavorings this time, if you please.”
“Certainly.”
But when she returned, Lord Darcy was fast asleep, and the hot mug became her own nightcap instead of his.
CHAPTER 18
“I trust you are feeling fit, my lord.”
The always punctilious Geffri put the caffe urn and the cup on the bedside table.
“Quite fit, Geffri; thank you,” said Lord Darcy. “Ah! the caffe smells delicious. Brewed by your own hand as usual, I trust? Carlyle House is, except for my own home, the only place in the Empire where one can get one’s morning caffe at exactly the right temperature and brewed to perfection.”
“It is most gratifying to hear you say so, my lord,” said Geffri, pouring the caffe. “By the by, I have taken the liberty, my lord, of bringing up this morning’s Courier. There is, however, another communication which your lordship might prefer to peruse previous to perusal of the news.” He produced an envelope, ten inches wide by fourteen long. Lord Darcy immediately recognized Master Sean’s personal seal upon the flap.
“Master Sean,” said Geffri, “arrived late last night — after your lordship had retired. He requested that I deliver this to your lordship immediately upon your lordship’s awakening.”
Lord Darcy took the envelope. It was quite obviously the report on the tubby little Irish sorcerer’s thaumaturgical investigation and the autopsy report on the body of Sir James Zwinge.
Lord Darcy glanced at his watch on the bedside table. “Thank you, Geffri. Would you be so good as to waken Master Sean in forty-five minutes and tell him that I should like to have him join me for breakfast at ten o’clock?”
“Of course, my lord. Is there anything else, my lord?”
“Not at the moment, I think.”
“It is a pleasure to serve you, my lord,” said Geffri. Then he was gone.
By the time an hour had passed, Lord Darcy had read both Master Sean’s report and the London Courier, and was awaiting the knock on the door that came at precisely ten o’clock. By that time, Lord Darcy was dressed and ready for the day’s work, and the hot breakfast for two had been brought in and laid out on the table in the sitting room.
“Come in, my good Sean,” Lord Darcy said. “The bacon and eggs are waiting.”
The sorcerer entered with a smile on his face, but it was quite evident to Lord Darcy that the smile was rather forced.
“Good morning, my lord,” he said pleasantly. “You’ve read my report?” He seated himself at the table.
“I have,” Lord Darcy said, “but I see nothing in it to account for that dour look. We’ll discuss it after breakfast. Have you seen this morning’s Courier?”
“No, my lord, I have not.” Master Sean seated himself and began to dig into the bacon and eggs. “Is there something of interest there?”
“Not particularly,” said Lord Darcy. “Except for some rather flattering references to myself, and some even more flattering references to you, there is little of interest. You may peruse it at your leisure. The only offering of any consequence is the fact that there will be no fog tonight.”
* * *
The next quarter of an hour was spent in relative silence. Master Sean, usually quite loquacious, seemed to have little to say.
Finally, with some irritation, Lord Darcy pushed his plate aside and said: “All pleasantries aside, Master Sean, you are not your usual ebullient self. If there is anything I should know besides what is contained in your report, I’d like to hear it.”
Master Sean smiled across his caffe cup. “Oh, no, it’s all there. I have nothing to add to it. Don’t mean to disturb you. Perhaps I’m a bit sleepy.”
Lord Darcy frowned, reached over, picked up the carefully written report and flipped it open. “Very well. I do have a question or two, merely as a matter of clarification. First, as to the wound.”
“Yes, my lord?”
“According to your report, the blade entered the chest vertically, between the third and fourth ribs, making a wound some five inches deep. It nicked the wall of the pulmonic aorta and made a small gash in the heart itself, and this wound was definitely the cause of death?”
“Definitely, my lord.”
“Very well.” He stood up. “If you will, Master Sean, take that spoon and assume that it is a knife. Yes. Now, would you be so good as to stab me at the precise angle which would cause exactly such a wound as you discovered in Sir James’ chest.”
Master Sean grasped the handle of the spoon, lifted it high over his head, and bro
ught it down slowly in a long arc to touch his lordship’s chest. “Very good, Master Sean, thank you. The wound, if extended, then, would have gone well down into the bowels?”
“Well, my lord, if a bullet had entered at that angle, it would have come out the small of the back.”
Lord Darcy nodded, and looked back down at the report. “And,” he mused, “as could be surmised from the exterior aspect of the wound, the blade actually did slice into the ribs above and below the cut itself.”
He looked up from the report. “Master Sean, if you were going to stab a man, how would you do it?”
Master Sean reversed the spoon in his hand so that his thumb was pointing toward the bowl. He moved his hand forward to touch Lord Darcy. “This way, of course, my lord.”
Lord Darcy nodded. “And in that position, the flat of the knife is parallel to the ribs instead of perpendicular to them.”
“Well, of course, my lord,” said Master Sean. “With the blade up and down you’re likely to get your blade stuck between the ribs.”
“Precisely,” Lord Darcy agreed. “Now, according to the autopsy report which Sir Eliot sent us yesterday from Cherbourg, Goodman Georges Barbour was stabbed in the efficient manner you have just demonstrated, and yet Sir James was stabbed in a manner which no efficient knifesman would use.”
“That’s true, my lord. Nobody who knew how to use a knife would come in with a high overhand stab like that.”
“Why should the same man stab with two such completely different techniques?”
“If it was the same man, my lord.”
“Very well, assuming that there were two different killers, which is the Navy’s hypothesis, the blow that killed Sir James was still inefficient, was it not? Would a professional hired killer have deliberately used a thrust like that?”
Master Sean chuckled. “Well, if it were up to me to hire him, my lord, I don’t think he’d pass my employment specifications.”
Too Many Magicians (lord darcy) Page 20