Randall Garrett - Too Many Magicians

Lord Darcy reached out for the blue envelope on Lord Bontriomphe’s desk, where Captain Smollett had placed it. He held it up. “You mean this?” he asked rather apologetically. “I am afraid it wouldn’t have done us much good to look for that information here.”

“Why not?” the Dowager Duchess frowned. “Because of the spells?”

“Oh, no,” said Lord Darcy. “Because of the fact that this envelope and its contents did not exist until an hour or so ago.

“The handwriting, while a passable imitation of Georges Barbour’s, is actually my own. I had a chance to study Barbour’s hand thoroughly yesterday afternoon at the Admiralty Office.

“You see, I wanted Ashley’s confession. We actually had very little evidence. I knew what he had done, and how he had done it, by reasoned deduction. There is, of course, the evidence of the blood in his jacket pocket and in his sword sheath, but we couldn’t count on its being there. We needed more than that.

“So — this letter came into being. After all, you see, Ashley couldn’t have been certain that the information from Barbour had been sent to the hotel. Since I knew that he had opened the envelope from the hotel at his first opportunity, I also knew that what he found were blank sheets of paper. He had no way of being sure that those sheets had contained the information that was so dangerous to him.

“The letter was a necessary deception, I think — and if you will cast your mind back, Captain Smollett, you will recall that I did not once tell you that the letter had actually come from Barbour.”

“So you didn’t,” said Captain Smollett. “So you didn’t.”

“Well, my lords, Your Grace, gentlemen,” the Marquis de London said, “this has been a rather strenuous night. I suggest we can make the best use of what is left of it by getting some sleep.”

The eight guests left the Palace du Marquis in a body. With the exception of Captain Smollett, they were all headed for Carlyle House.

There had been still another guest present, Lord Darcy knew, a guest who would remain behind until the others had left.

Behind the Vandenbosch reproduction in My Lord Marquis’ office was a sliding panel, and beyond that a small alcove. When the panel was open, anyone sitting in that darkened alcove could see through the cloth of the painting and observe and hear everything that took place.

Only the Marquis, Lord Bontriomphe, and Lord Darcy had known that someone had been in that alcove during the official inquiry which had resulted in the arrest of a killer, but it was not until some two months later, in Rouen, that Lord Darcy heard anything further from that hidden observer.

A package was delivered to Lord Darcy’s residence by a King’s Messenger. It was not a large package, but it was fairly heavy. There was a note with it which read:

My Lord Darcy:

Again we are indebted to you for your brilliant work in the protection of Our Realm. We understand that you were so unfortunate as to lose the valuable .40 caliber MacGregor which you so obligingly used for the demonstration at Westminster.

Since we deem it fitting that any weapon of this kind worn in Our presence should be Our gift, We are sending you this package.

We would have you understand however, that it is not a purely ceremonial weapon, but is to be used in the course of your duties. If We hear that it is hanging on the wall of your trophy room in a golden frame, or other such foolishness, We will personally come over there and take it away from you.

JIVR

Inside the box lay what was probably MacGregor’s finest creation: a handcrafted, man-stopping, .40 caliber handgun. The gold and enamel work on it made it as beautiful as it was deadly. On both sides of the butt, in hard enamel, were Lord Darcy’s personal arms: Ermine, on a fess gules, a lion passant gardant or . In the golden tracery work surrounding the shield were the lions of England and the lilies of France.