Lord Darcy and Master Sean went around through the orchestra area and out the interior hall, until they reached the service door to the ballroom. There Lord Darcy paused to survey the room from this new angle, and then, carefully staying on the cardboard path, he and Master Sean went out to examine the body.
“It looks like we’ve got our locked-room mystery,” Lord Darcy told Master Sean.
“So it would appear, my lord,” Master Sean agreed. He was holding his hands out in front of him and rubbing the air between his fingers, palping it for any feel of the miasma of evil that would surround the body if black magic had been used in his murder.
There were, indeed, but one set of tracks—the victim’s own—in the damp shellac. They came from the left-hand side door and terminated at the victim’s body, which lay about twenty feet into the room. “That’s curious,” Lord Darcy said. “Notice the definition on those tracks, Master Sean. The flat of the foot and the toe are well defined, but the heel is hardly in evidence. I would say he was running, except that the footprints are so close together. Hardly more than a two-foot separation from one print to the next. It’s a strange sort of hesitant running.”
“And what would you say was the cause of that?” Master Sean asked, kneeling down to get a better look at the nearest footprint.
“I don’t know. If something were pushing him back while he was trying to run, that would explain it. But what that something could be, I can’t say—and it didn’t leave footprints. But I have a feeling that when we figure out what it was, we will be a long way toward knowing what happened here.”
The floor was still tacky, as Lord Darcy verified by pressing the side of his hand against it. He knelt down by the body and looked it over carefully. After a few moments Master Sean joined him. “What do you think?” Lord Darcy asked.
“I think he’s dead,” Master Sean replied. “Look at his face, my lord; it is an expression of terror frozen at the moment of death. I think Master Paul was in mortal terror of someone—or some thing—and it chased him in here and killed him. Could it have been sheer terror that caused him to run with that hesitant step?”
“I don’t think so,” Lord Darcy replied. “But it was something.” He looked up at the balcony. “Is Goodman Domreme still up there?” he called. “Good! Please get some more of this cardboard and bring it out here.”
Lord Darcy stood up and stared musingly at the body until Goodman Domreme arrived with the cardboard. The goodman did not seem disposed to remain, and Lord Darcy did not insist. “Just one thing before you go, Goodman,” Lord Darcy said. “Tell me how long you think before the floor will be completely dry.”
Goodman Domreme knelt and poked at the floor by the door, and then repeated the gesture farther out on the cardboard, keeping his eyes carefully averted from the still figure on the floor. “I should say another two days or so, Your Lordship,” he said.
“Thank you, Goodman Domreme. You have been a great help.”
Goodman Domreme bowed and scurried out of the room. Lord Darcy and Master Sean spread the cardboard about until the floor all around the corpse was covered for three or four feet in every direction. “Give me some help with this, Master Sean, Lord Darcy said, indicating the corpse, “and I’ll get out of your way as quickly as possible.”
“You’re not in my way, my lord,” Master Sean insisted, as he efficiently helped Lord Darcy roll the body over onto its back on the cardboard.
“Well,” Lord Darcy said, “will you look at this!”
He reached down to the collar of the dead man’s tunic. There, pinned to the fabric with a long, straight pin, was a rectangle of stiff paper.
“What did you find, my lord?” Marquis Sherrinford called from the balcony, where he was still interestedly watching the procedure.
“It wouldn’t happen to be a wee bit of doggerel verse?” Master Sean asked.
“It is a piece of paper pinned to the dead man’s tunic, my lord,” Lord Darcy called to the Marquis. “On it are printed the following words:
Nine little wizards snickered at fate
One wizard laughed aloud—and then there were eight!
Lord Darcy twisted the stiff paper between his fingers and took it over to the nearest gas lamp to improve his light. “Not the same paper as the first one, my lord,” he called, “but I’d judge that it was the same pen. Broad steel nib. Probably the same ink. And the same hand—although that’s harder to tell. I’ll have Master Sean check the two notes for similarity.”
There was a long silence after this, finally broken by Marquis Sherrinford. “I shall go speak to His Highness,” he called down. “He must know about this at once. Please report to me when you have anything to add.”
“Of course, my lord marquis,” Lord Darcy assured him. “But it will be at least a day before I have anything to report, unless the killer made some stupid blunder. Which, given the present indications, seems unlikely.”
The group of balcony watchers trooped out behind Marquis Sherrinford, leaving Lord Darcy and Master Sean alone to perform their miracles of magic and deduction.
Lord Darcy carefully searched the body, removing everything found in vest pocket, watch pocket, sleeve pocket, belt purse, and outer tunic pockets and laying each item precisely on one of the squares of cardboard. Master Paul had been a conservative man, judging by his dress, unwilling to adopt the newfangled notion of putting pockets in trowsers. He was possessed of a fine rabbit-skin wallet and card case, which held his sorcerer’s license, signed by the Bishop of Ulster, and a quantity of parchment business cards.
“Magicians seem to have an affinity for parchment,” Lord Darcy remarked, examining the wallet and setting it aside.
“The people expect it of us,” Master Sean explained. “And as symbolism is very important in magical invocation, and the best symbol for an object is the object itself, the symbolic value of the commonplace is never overlooked by a prudent wizard. A commercial sorcerer such as Master Paul here probably performed many small magical feats for his company’s clients and customers. He would find having a parchment business card very useful for transferences, removals, affinities, and the like. He probably also has three fountain pens, with blue, red, and green ink. Possibly a fourth with brown.”
Lord Darcy uncapped the three fountain pens from the stack of Master Paul’s belongings one at a time, and scribbled briefly with each on the back of a business parchment. “No brown,” he said shortly. “But you’re right on the others. Are you saying that this Master Paul Elovitz reduced wizardry to the level of tomfoolery? Is that the usual course of business magic?”
“Not at all, my lord,” Master Sean said. “You misunderstand. Most magicians get a great deal of pleasure from being able to entertain their friends and neighbors—and business acquaintances—with small examples of their skill. Just as a poet might write a sonnet to amuse a friend.”
“I stand corrected, my friend,” Lord Darcy replied. “I spoke without proper reflection. After all, is that not in a sense what occupies Master Sir Darryl Longuert much of the time? The Wizard Laureate to the Court of King John IV, one of the ablest practical magicians of our time, so I understand, spends most of his time thinking up party tricks.”
“Ah, yes, my lord,” Master Sean said, chuckling, “but they are memorable party tricks.”
Lord Darcy nodded. “Let’s see what else we have here,” he said. “A pipe, a tobacco pouch, a tiny brass bowl, a flint and steel, a small, symbol-decorated leather pouch—I take this to be a sort of miniature sorcerer’s tool bag, Master Sean, what do you think?”
Master Sean took the pouch and carefully opened it. “Not protected,” he said. “No spell on it. I suppose he never let it leave his person. Let me see: a nutmeg, a vial of hmmm, a toad’s stone, cinnabar, powdered ah, so, hmmm... . Yes, my lord, judging by the contents, it is a small sorcerer’s bag. Not by any means complete, but indeed enough to amuse one’s friends.”
Lord Darcy stared critically at the pouch. “G
o over that at your leisure, Master Sean,” he said, “and make sure that everything is as it should be. If you find anything suggestive of a different interpretation on the use of that pouch, let me know.”
“Aye, my lord,” Master Sean said, closing the pouch and placing it inside of his own wizard’s carpetbag. “Have you anything in mind that I am to look for?”
“Frankly, Master Sean, I have not. Still, we must look.” Lord Darcy leaned over and closely examined the body for some time, from head to foot, pausing to minutely study the wound in the throat with a pocket magnifying glass. “A very sharp, fine cut,” he commented, “possibly with a razor. Unusually wide. Notice, Master Sean, it is almost literally from ear to ear. And placed high up on the neck, right under the chin. See—it’s above Master Paul’s rather prominent Adam’s apple. An unlikely place for a knife wound.”
“What do you make of that, my lord?”
“At the moment I am merely collecting data,” Lord Darcy said. “No hypothesis springs to mind. But I am sure, my dear friend Master Sean, that once I have heard your report, all will be made clear.” He stood up and looked around. “I have a problem, Master Sean. Perhaps you could help me.”
“My lord?”
“I would like to look over this floor. Very carefully. Inch by inch. But to do so, I would have to either cover it all with cardboard mats, and therefore not be able to see it, or creep about the uncovered floor on my hands and knees, thereby destroying the evidence, if any, as quickly as I uncovered it.”
“An interesting problem, my lord. “How can I help?”
“It occurs to me, Master Sean, that you possess the skill to levitate objects. I, for the purpose of this discussion, wish to become an object.”
“Aha!” Master Sean said, his ruddy face breaking into a large smile. “I understand, my lord. An interesting idea. Let us make the experiment.”
“The strain wouldn’t be too taxing, would it, Master Sean?” Lord Darcy asked. “I shall probably require about half an hour’s worth of floor study. Of course, we don’t have to do it all at once.”
“No problem at all, my lord, I assure you. If you wish to do it all at once, that’s fine. It is not, you understand, exactly my own strength that is being used to support you in the levitation.”
“I don’t understand,” Lord Darcy admitted. “For any man who doesn’t have the Talent to study magic is as frustrating an undertaking as for a completely tone-deaf man to study the clavier. The gratification that a Talented person gets from seeing that the spells and incantations work provides instant reinforcement for all that mathematics and symbolic logic that they teach in the mantic arts courses. But for the rest of us, except for a rare dedicated soul like Sir Thomas Leseaux, it will forever remain a mystery.” Lord Darcy spoke of a mutual friend, now living in London, who had been involved in an important case some years earlier.
“Ah yes, my lord. Sir Thomas may not have the Talent, but he has a talent for subjective algebra and symbological theory that has advanced the magical arts as much as any Talented practitioner.” Master Sean stood up and removed a bronze brazier and tripod and a few other small objects from his magical carpetbag. “Give me a few moments to prepare my spells, my lord, and I’ll be ready to levitate you the length and breadth of this ballroom for as long as you require.”
“Very good, Master Sean,” Lord Darcy said. “Let me go get a small lantern while you are preparing, and I, in my turn, will be ready to go exploring.”
Lord Darcy went off to borrow a small bull’s-eye lantern from the Castle arms room, and when he returned, he found Master Sean swinging a silver thurible through a wide arc over the body and muttering the last of a complex spell in Aramaic. The bronze brazier set on a tripod by the corpse was giving off a pungent, sweet smell.
“I didn’t realize all this was necessary, Master Sean,” Lord Darcy said, indicating the brazier and the thurible. “I thought you simply lifted yourself off the ground.”
“Oh, I do, my lord,” Master Sean replied, setting the thurible aside and picking up his gold-capped black wand. “But lifting you off the ground is a different proposition. Besides, I have to protect the body from any possible slippage of the spell. I haven’t examined it yet.”
“Of course,” Lord Darcy said. “Well, let’s get to it. After I’ve gone over the floor, I’ll leave you to your examination of the body. We seem to be examining a lot of bodies this week.”
Following Master Sean’s instructions, Lord Darcy lay down on his stomach on the cardboard. Master Sean leaned over and daubed a thick salve smelling of cloves and musk on Lord Darcy’s wrists, ankles, and forehead. Then he stood up, and taking his wand, waved it in a series of magical passes over Lord Darcy’s prone form.
Lord Darcy felt himself rising into the air until he was about a foot off the cardboard. “You can propel yourself by thinking of where you want to go,” Master Sean told him. “Picture it in your mind. I’ll stand here and keep you levitated until you’re done. Is the, ah, altitude about right, my lord?”
“I think so, yes,” Lord Darcy said. He uncovered the bull’s-eye on the small lantern and thought Front door on the left as clearly as he could.
He began to move. Slowly he glided across the floor toward the front door on the left. His speed picked up. He was going to hit the door! Stop! he thought.
Lord Darcy came to a jerking stop about a foot away from the door. “This requires a little concentration,” he called to Master Sean.
“That is so, my lord,” Master Sean agreed. “Let me know if you need anything.”
Lord Darcy turned to look at Master Sean. He was standing a short distance from the corpse, his feet planted firmly on the cardboard, approximately three feet apart, his arms outstretched over his head, with the wand in his right hand pointing toward the sky—or, in this case, the ceiling.
“Are you comfortable, Master Sean?” Lord Darcy asked. “That looks like a difficult position to hold.”
“Only mildly uncomfortable, my lord,” Master Sean told him. “Apprentice magicians learn to hold postures like this for hours at a time. Just go on with your investigation. I’ll be all right.”
“Very good,” Lord Darcy agreed. He slowly moved his horizontal body around the ballroom, examining the floor carefully with the aid of the bull’s-eye lantern and his magnifying glass. The areas around the various doors received his most concentrated attention. After about twenty minutes he declared himself done and directed his prone form to move over the cardboard.
“You can put me down now, Master Sean,” he said.
Master Sean waved his wand thrice in the air, and Lord Darcy was deposited back on the cardboard as gently as a soap bubble. “I hope the experience was interesting and helpful, my lord,” Master Sean said.
“Interesting, certainly,” Lord Darcy replied. “I have never had an experience like that before. The feeling of flying is quite remarkable, even when you’re only a foot off the floor. As for being useful, I think it well might have been. It might indeed.”
“You found something?”
“An indication only. And at the moment I’m not quite sure what it is an indication of. But it is something.” Lord Darcy squatted down beside the body and squinted across the floor. “Yes. I think I can just make it out from here. As I thought, the marks are in a direct line between the body and the door on the left.”
Master Sean knelt beside him and peered at the newly shellacked light wood floor. The bright gaslight from the rows of lamps on all sides made flickering highlights on the glossy finish. It was hard to see anything that you were not staring directly down at. And Master Sean was not sure exactly where to stare. “What marks, my lord?” he asked.
“Two very slight, thin lines, no more than a sixteenth of an inch wide, if that. One is about eight feet from the body in the direction of the door, about three inches long; and the other about ten feet farther on and about eight inches long. The marks are very distinct if they happen to catch your eye, and
practically invisible if they don’t. They are on the left-hand side of Master Paul’s footprints, about two feet away.”
Master Sean spread his arms out and gestured with his wand. Slowly he rose into the air and rotated forward until he was parallel to the ground. Tucking his robes back so they would not drag, he lowered himself to a foot off the floor and then floated over to where Lord Darcy indicated the first mark was. He examined it for a minute and then moved on to the other mark. “What could have caused them, my lord?” he asked, floating back to the cardboard and righting himself, to settle down effortlessly on his feet.
Lord Darcy shook his head. “I have only a vague and unsettling idea,” he said. “But they are clearly there since the floor was shellacked. And the only other thing introduced into this room since then is this corpse, whose course of entry they parallel. So I feel that somehow they are related. But at the moment I know not how.”
“I will run similarity tests on the marks, my lord,” Master Sean said, staring doubtfully at the shiny floor, “if I can think of anything to which they might be similar.”
“Test them for signs of blood, Master Sean,” Lord Darcy suggested seriously. “Specifically, Master Paul’s blood. And oil—test them for oil.”
“Oil, my lord?”
“Yes. Oil or grease. Just the slightest trace, probably. Won’t hurt to try.”
“Certainly, my lord,” Master Sean agreed, clearly baffled at the suggestion.
“I will leave you now to perform your magic on the corpse and surroundings,” Lord Darcy said. “Fully confident that you will come from here in an hour with the name and location of the murderer ensorceled from the thin air and writ large on a scrap of wizard-gray parchment.”
Master Sean sighed and opened his symbol-encrusted carpetbag. “I would that it were that simple, my lord,” he said. “But I trust that I shall come out of here with my meager findings, and you will make that logical leap that is beyond the magic arts and discover the murderer’s name among the dry words of my report.”
Ten Little Wizards: A Lord Darcy Novel Page 12