Randall Garrett - Too Many Magicians

“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.’ ”

“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 witnesses 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.”