Randall Garrett - Too Many Magicians

“So, while one group of agents is dealing with Barbour in Cherbourg, another is watching Zwinge in London. Arrangements for the payoff are made in Cherbourg, and Barbour sends this information to Zwinge. Zwinge, not knowing he is being watched by Polish agents, fetches the plans to send them to Barbour. But now, the Poles know where those plans are because Zwinge has taken them from their hiding place. They send orders to Cherbourg to dispose of Barbour, and the agents here kill Zwinge and grab the plans, thereby saving themselves five thousand golden sovereigns.”

“I must admit,” said Lord Darcy slowly, “that my lack of knowledge of international intelligence networks has hampered me. That theory would never have occurred to me. What about the actual mechanism of Sir James’ murder? How did the Polish agents actually go about killing him?”

Commander Lord Ashley shrugged eloquently. “Now there you have me, my lord. My knowledge of black magic is nil, and, in spite of Captain Smollett’s statement of my qualifications, I am forced to admit that my experience in the Naval C.I.D. never included a murder investigation.”

Lord Darcy laughed. “Well, that is honest enough, anyway. I hope this investigation will allow you to see how we poor benighted civilians go about it. What o’clock is it?” He looked at the watch at his wrist. “Heavens! It’s after six. I thought the Admiralty closed at six o’clock.”

The Commander grinned. “I daresay Captain Smollett left word for us not to be disturbed.”

“Of course,” said Lord Darcy. “All right. Let’s put these folders back in their files and go to the hotel. I want to ask Sir Lyon Grey some questions if we can get hold of him, and also I should like to speak to His Grace the Archbishop of York. We need to know more about a girl named Tia Einzig.”

“Tia Einzig?” Lord Ashley blinked. The name was totally new to him.

“I’ll tell you what little I know about her on the way over to the hotel. Will the Admiralty have transportation for us? Or will we have to find a cab?”

“I’m afraid the Admiralty coaches are all locked up at six, my lord,” said the Commander. “We’ll have to take a cab — if we can find one.”

“If not, we can walk,” said Lord Darcy. “It’s not as if the Royal Steward were halfway across the city.”

A few minutes later, they walked down the darkened corridors of the Admiralty offices. In the lobby, an armed Petty Officer let them out through the front door. “Awfully foggy out tonight, my lords,” he said. “Trust you have a good ride. Captain Smollett left orders that a coach be waiting for you.”

“Let us thank God for small favors,” said Lord Darcy.

The fog was even heavier than it had been the night before. At the curb, barely visible in the dim glow of the gas lamp above the doors of the Admiralty Building, stood a coach bearing the Admiralty arms. The two men went down the steps to the curb. Commander Lord Ashley said:

“Petty Officer Hosquins, is that you?”

“Yes, My Lord Commander,” came a voice from the driver’s seat, “Captain Smollett told us to wait for you.”

“Excellent. Take us to the Royal Steward, then.” And the two men climbed into the coach.

It took longer to make the trip than it had earlier that afternoon. Most of the visitors, anticipating the fog, had gone home. Lord Darcy and Lord Ashley found the lobby almost deserted. A man wearing the silver-slashed blue of a Master Sorcerer was looking at one of the displays. Lord Darcy and Lord Ashley went over to him and Lord Darcy tapped him on the shoulder.

“Your pardon, Master Sorcerer,” he said formally. “I am Lord Darcy, special investigator under a King’s Warrant, and I would appreciate it if you could tell me where I might find Sir Lyon Gandolphus Grey.”

The master sorcerer turned, an obsequious smile on his face. “Ah, Lord Darcy,” he said. “It is indeed a pleasure to meet your lordship. I am Master Ewen MacAlister. My very good friend Master Sean O Lochlainn has told me a great deal about you, your lordship.” Then his face fell in sudden gloom. “I am sorry to say, your lordship, that Grand Master Sir Lyon is unavailable at the moment. He is attending a Special Executive Session of the top officers of the Royal Thaumaturgical Society and the Sorcerers Guild. Can I do anything else to help your lordships?”

Lord Darcy refrained from pointing out that thus far he had done nothing at all to help their lordships. “Ah, that is too bad. But no matter. Tell me, is His Grace the Archbishop of York also attending that meeting?”

“Oh no, your lordship. His Grace is not a member of the Executive Committee. His ecclesiastical ties are much too onerous to permit him to take on the added burden. As a matter of fact, I saw His Grace only a few moments ago. He is taking his evening tea in the restaurant — in the Buckler Room, your lordship.”

He lifted his hand and took a quick glance at his wristwatch. “Yes, that was only a few minutes ago, your lordships. His Grace should still be there.

“Tell me, is there anything else I can do to help your lordships?” Before either of them could answer, he went on, “Can I do anything that will aid you in apprehending the fiendish criminal who perpetrated the heinous murder of” — he suddenly looked very sad — “our good friend Master Sir James? A deplorable thing. Is your lordship prepared to make an arrest?”

“We shall do our best, Master Ewen,” said Lord Darcy briskly. “We thank you for your information. Good evening, Master Ewen, and thank you again.”

He and Lord Ashley turned and walked toward the restaurant, leaving Master Ewen MacAlister looking blankly after them.

“Master Ewen MacAlister, eh?” said Lord Ashley. “Oily little bastard, isn’t he?”

“I should have known him, from Master Sean’s description, even if he had not introduced himself.”

“Is there any possibility, my lord,” Lord Ashley said thoughtfully, “that Master Ewen is involved in the matter?”

Lord Darcy took two more steps before he answered the question. “I shall be honest with you,” he said then. “Although I have no evidence, I feel it highly probable that Master Ewen MacAlister is one of the prime movers in the mystery which surrounds Sir James’ death.”

Lord Ashley looked surprised. “You didn’t seem disposed to question him any further.”

“I have read the statement he made to Lord Bontriomphe yesterday. He was in his room all that morning until ten or fifteen minutes after nine. He is not sure of the time. After that, he was down in the lobby. Master Sean corroborates a part of his testimony. The interesting thing, however, is that Master Ewen’s room is on the floor above, and directly over, the room in which Sir James was killed.”

“That is food for thought,” said Ashley as they approached the door of the Buckler Room.

Lord Darcy pushed the door open and the two men went in. The courtyard outside, which had been visible that morning from Sir James’ room, was now shrouded in fog, but the gas lamps gave bright illumination to the restaurant itself. The two men stopped and surveyed the room. At one table an elderly man in episcopal purple sat by himself, sipping tea.

Lord Darcy said, “That, I believe, is His Grace of York.” They walked toward the table.

The Archbishop appeared to be deep in thought. He had a notebook on the table and was carefully marking down symbols upon its open pages.

“My apologies for this interruption, Your Grace,” said Lord Darcy politely. “I would not willingly disturb your cogitations, but I come upon the King’s Business.”

The old man looked up with a smile, the light from the gas lamps making a halo of the silver hair that surrounded his purple skullcap. Without rising he extended his hand. “You do not interrupt, my lord,” he said gently. “My time is yours. You are Lord Darcy from Rouen, I believe?”