Lord Darcy Investigates Read online

  Lord Darcy Investigates

  Copyright © 1981 Randall Garrett

  All rights reserved.

  “A Matter of Gravity” copyright © 1974 by the Condé-Nast Publishing Company.

  “The Ipswich Phial” copyright © 1976 by the Condé-Nast Publishing Company.

  “The Sixteen Keys” copyright © 1976 by the Ultimate Publishing Company.

  “The Napoli Express” copyright © 1979 by Randall Garrett; first published in Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine, Davis Publications, Inc.

  Published as an e-book by Jabberwocky Literary Agency, Inc. in 2013.

  Cover art by Sarah Semark.

  ISBN: 9781625670236

  To Jerry Pournelle and James Baen,

  who made it possible

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  A Matter of Gravity

  The Ipswich Phial

  The Sixteen Keys

  The Napoli Express

  Also by Randall Garrett

  A Matter of Gravity

  The death of My Lord Jillbert, Count de la Vexin was nothing if not spectacular.

  His lordship lived and worked in Castle Gisors, which towers over the town of the same name, the capital of the County of the Vexin in the eastern part of the Duchy of Normandy. The basic structure of the ancient fortress has been there since the Eleventh Century although it has been added to and partly rebuilt since.

  De la Vexin had succeeded to the County Seat in 1951, and had governed the Vexin wisely and well. He had a son, a daughter, and a hobby.

  It was a combination of all these that killed him.

  On the night of April 11, 1974, after attending the Mass of Holy Thursday, My Lord of the Vexin ascended the helical stairway that wound itself around the inside of the Red Tower, followed by two trusted sergeants of the Count’s Own Guard—who were, in turn, followed by a four-man squad of ordinary guardsmen.

  This was My Lord Count’s regular procedure when he went to his sanctum sanctorum on the top floor of the Red Tower. When he went up there, eighty feet above the flagstoned courtyard, he wanted no interruptions while he attended to his avocation.

  At one minute of ten, he entered his private rooms, leaving his guardsmen outside. No one but himself had been authorized to enter the uppermost room of the Red Tower in twenty years.

  He dropped the heavy bar after locking the door, completely sealing the room.

  Only two people saw him alive again, and then only for a matter of seconds.

  * * *

  Across the wide, flagstoned courtyard from the Red Tower stood St. Martin’s Hall, a new addition built in the early Sixteenth Century, as its Ricardian style attested. Its great mullioned windows cast a warm, yellowed light on the courtyard outside; the hall was brightly illuminated from within, and would remain so all night, for there was a vigil at the Altar of Repose in the Lady Chapel.

  Inside, a small fire crackled in the enormous fireplace—just enough blaze to take the slight chill from the air of a pleasant spring evening. On the mantelpiece, a large clock swung its pendulum as the minute hand moved inexorably upward to mark the hour of ten.

  Lord Gisors, the only son of de la Vexin, poured himself another glass of Xerez. Of average height, his blocky, not unhandsome face was almost a younger replica of his father’s, except that he had his mother’s near-black hair and dark brown eyes instead of the brown-and-blue combination of his father. He turned from the sideboard, still holding the unstoppered decanter. “Care for another, my dear?”

  The girl seated in the big easy chair in front of the fireplace smiled. “Please.” With her right hand, she held out her glass, while her left brushed the long fair hair back from her brow. She looks beautiful, his lordship thought.

  Lord Gisors poured, then walked back to the sideboard with the decanter. As he put the glass stopple back in, he began: “You mustn’t think badly of My Lord father, Madelaine, even though he is a bit testy at times. He—”

  “I know,” she interrupted. “I know. He thinks only of the County. Never of individuals.”

  Frowning slightly, his lordship came back with his glass and sat down in another easy chair near her. “But he does think of individuals, my love. He must think of every individual in the Vexin—as I must when I succeed to the County Seat. He has to take the long view and the broad view, naturally, but he is concerned about individuals.”

  She sipped at her glass of wine, then looked up at him with solemn gray eyes. “Does his concern for individuals include you? Or me? He knows we love each other, but he forbids our marriage, and insists that you marry Lady Evelynne de Saint-Brieuc—in spite of the fact that you do not love her nor she you. Is that concern for the individual or simply the desire to make an advantageous political marriage for you?”

  Lord Gisors closed his eyes and held his tongue for a moment. The two of them had been over and over this ground many times; there was nothing new here. He had explained many times that, whereas My Lord the Count could forbid a marriage, he could not force one. Gisors had even reiterated time and again that he could appeal his case for marriage to His Royal Highness of Normandy, and, if that failed, to His Imperial Majesty—but that he would not do so out of deference to his father. His head seemed to ache at the monotony of “time and again.”

  He had not, of course, mentioned his own plans for marrying Madelaine without all the rigamarole. She might very likely rebel at the notion.

  He opened his eyes again. “Be patient, my darling. I can assure you that he will—”

  “—Come round to your way of thinking?” she cut in. “Never! The only time the Count de la Vexin will give his consent to our marriage will be when you are Count de la Vexin! Your father—”

  “Quiet!” Lord Gisors said in an imperative undertone. “My sister.”

  At the far end of the hall, the door to the Lady Chapel had opened and closed. The woman walking toward them with a rather solemn smile on her face was carefully removing her chapel veil as she came down the wide carpeting to the fireplace. She nodded silently to each of them, then said: “Your watch, My Lord brother. Ten to eleven, remember?”

  Lord Gisors finished his wine and stood up with a smile. “Of course, My Lady Beverly. ‘Cart you not spend one hour with me?’ The Gospel according to Matthew.” Tomorrow would be the Friday of the Crucifixion; this, the night before, would be symbolically spent in the Garden of Gethsemane with Our Lord. Gisors looked at the clock. It was the last second before ten.

  “ ‘Father, my hour has come,’ St. John—” Gisors began.

  The pendulum swung down.

  The clock struck the first note.

  “What the devil was that?” Lord Gisors yelled.

  Outside, there had been a horrendous scream.

  * * *

  In the courtyard itself, a minute or so earlier, two militiamen of the Count’s Own had been standing near the wall of St. Martin’s Hall. One was the man at post, the other the Sergeant-of-the-Guard, who was making his evening rounds. They exchanged the usual military courtesies. The guardsman reported the state of his post as being quiet; the sergeant thanked him in the proper military manner. Then he said, with a grin: “It’s better doing night duty in April than in March, eh, Jaime?”

  Guardsman Jaime grinned back. “At least I’m not freezing my nose off, Sergeant Andray.” His eyes shifted upward as he saw a gleam of light from the corner of his eye. “Here comes My Lord Count.”

  Sergeant Andray turned his head to follow Jaime’s gaze. He knew that Jaime did not mean that My Lord the Count was actually approaching the post, merely that his lordship was going into his private room at the top of the
Red Tower. It was an occurrence both of them were used to. The Count was irregular in his visits to his private workshop, but his behavior each time was predictable. He made his presence known to those in the courtyard below by the light of his flickering torch showing through the lozenged window as he approached it from the door of his laboratory.

  Then, as he stood on the desk in front of the window to light the gas jet just above the lintel, the flame of the torch rose, lifting out of sight above the window, leaving only a half-halo of light beneath.

  Then the routine changed drastically.

  Instead of the warm glow of the gaslight, there was an odd, moving flare of white light that seemed to chase itself around the room for a second or two.

  Then, suddenly and violently, the leaded, lozenged window burst asunder, splattering glass through the air. Through that shattered window came the twisting figure of My Lord de la Vexin, a scream tearing from his throat as he somersaulted eighty feet to the stone pavement below, his small torch still in his hand, trailing a comet’s tail of flame and sparks.

  The Count and the courtyard met with fatal violence, and the sudden silence was punctuated only by the tinkling rain of shards of glass still falling from the ruined window above.

  * * *

  At 12:44 that evening, Jaque Toile, Chief Master-at-Arms for the city of Gisors, was waiting at the railroad station with two Sergeants-at-Arms as the train from Rouen pulled into the station.

  Chief Jaque’s hard eyes scanned the late-night passengers as they alighted from the first-class coaches. There were few of them, and the Chief quickly spotted the trio he was looking for. “Let’s go,” he said to the sergeants. “That’s them.”

  The three Officers of the King’s Peace moved in.

  The three men who were their target stepped out of the coach and waited. The first was a tall, brown-haired, handsome man with lean features, wearing the evening dress of an aristocrat; the second was shorter and muscularly tubby wearing the working dress of a sorcerer; the third was a rather elderly, dried-up-looking fellow with gray hair, who wore pince-nez and the evening dress of a gentleman. On the shoulders of the latter two was embroidered the badge of the Duke of Normandy.

  Chief Jaque walked up to the aristocratic-looking gentleman. “My Lord Darcy?”

  Lord Darcy, Chief Investigator for His Royal Highness the Duke of Normandy, nodded. “I am. Chief Jaque Toile, I believe?”

  “Yes, m’lord.”

  “My colleagues,” said Lord Darcy by way of introduction, “Sean O Lochlainn, Master Sorcerer, Chief Forensic Sorcerer for His Royal Highness; Doctor James Pateley, Chief Forensic Chirurgeon.”

  The Chief Master-at-Arms acknowledged the introductions, then: “Sergeants Paul and Bertram, m’lord. We have an official carriage waiting, m’lord.”

  Four minutes later, the carriage was rolling toward Castle Gisors, its coil spring suspension and pneumatic tires making the ride comfortable in spite of the cobblestone streets. After what seemed a long silence, Lord Darcy’s voice came smoothly.

  “You seem pensive, my dear Chief.”

  “What? Oh. Yes. Sorry, m’lord. Just thinking.”

  “That was painfully apparent. May I inquire as to the subject of your thoughts?”

  “Don’t like cases like this,” said Chief Jaque. “Not equipped for ‘em. Ghosts, demons, black magic, that sort of thing. I’m not a scientist; I’m a peace officer.”

  Master Sean’s blue eyes lit up with interest. “Ghosts? Demons? Black magic?”

  “One moment,” Lord Darcy said. “Let us be systematic. The only information we received at Rouen was that de la Vexin has fallen to his death. No details were given us via teleson. Just what did happen, Chief Jaque?”

  The Chief Master-at-Arms explained what had happened as pieced together from the reports of the guardsmen on duty, just prior to My Lord de la Vexin’s death.

  “No question he was dead,” the Chief said. “Skull smashed. Neck broken. Guard Sergeant Andray called for an extension fire ladder. Only way to get up into that room. Sent the guard from the courtyard up the stairs to notify the two men on duty at his lordship’s door.”

  “They hadn’t known?” Lord Darcy asked.

  Chief Jaque shook his head. “Door’s too thick. Too thick to break down in a short time, even. Need an ax. That’s why Andray went up the ladder. Climbed in the window and went over to unbar the door. By that time, the door guards were alerted. That’s where the funny part comes in.”

  “Indeed?” murmured Lord Darcy. “Funny in what way?”

  “Nobody in the room. Doesn’t make sense.”

  Master Sean thumbed his chin thoughtfully. “If that’s the case, Chief Jaque, then he wasn’t pushed, eh? Might it be that it was purely an accident? That when he got up on that desk to light the gaslamp, something slipped and he fell accidentally through the window and to his death?”

  The Chief Master-at-Arms shook his head. “Not very likely, Master Sorcerer; body was eighteen feet from the wall. Glass spattered even farther.” He shook his head again. “Didn’t just fall. Not possible. He was pushed.”

  Dr. Pateley took his pince-nez from his thin nose and looked at them as he polished them with a fine linen handkerchief. “Or jumped, perhaps?” he asked in his diffident voice.

  The Chief glanced at him sharply. “Jumped? You mean suicide?”

  “Not necessarily,” said the chirurgeon. He glanced up at Lord Darcy. “There are many reasons why a man might jump—eh, my lord?”

  Lord Darcy held back a smile. “Indeed, Doctor. Most astute of you.” He looked at Chief Jaque. “Could he have jumped, Chief?”

  “Could have. Doesn’t make sense, though. Man doesn’t commit suicide by jumping through a closed window. Doesn’t make sense. A suicide who decides to jump opens the window first. Doesn’t just take a flying leap through a pane of glass.”

  “That’s not the point I had in mind,” said Dr. Pateley, replacing his glasses carefully. “What if he were trying to get away from something?”

  Chief Jaque’s eyes widened. “I knew it! Demons!”

  * * *

  Twenty-five minutes later, Master Sean was saying: “Well, me lord, whatever it was that killed My Lord de la Vexin, it was certainly none of Chief Jaque’s ‘demons,’ nor any other form of projected psychic elemental.”

  Dr. Pateley frowned. “A what?”

  “Elemental, my dear Doctor. A projected psychic manifestation symbolized by the four elementary states of matter: solid, liquid, gas, and plasma. Or earth, water, air, and fire, as they used to call them.”

  Along with Lord Darcy, Master Sean and the chirurgeon were standing in the room in the Red Tower from which the late Count had been ejected so forcibly. Master Sean had prowled round the room with his eyes half closed, his golden crux ansata in his right hand, probing everywhere. The others had stood by silently; it is unwise to disturb a magician at work. Then the round little Irish sorcerer had made his pronouncement.

  Lord Darcy had not wasted his time in watching Master Sean; he had seen that process too many times to be interested in it. Instead, his keen gray eyes had been carefully surveying the room.

  It was a fairly large room, covering the entire top floor of the Fourteenth Century tower except for the small landing at the head of the stairs. The landing was closed off by a heavy, padded walnut door.

  Having noted that, Lord Darcy looked at the rest of the large room.

  It was square, some twenty by twenty feet, the tower having been built in the old Norman style. There was only the one window in the room; the rest of the walls were covered with shelving and cabinets. Along the length of the west wall ran a shelf some thirty-two inches deep and three feet from the floor: it was obviously used as a worktable, for it was littered with various kinds of glassware, oddly-shaped pieces of wood and metal, a couple of balances and other paraphernalia. The shelves above it contained rows of bottles and jars, each neatly labeled, containing liquids, powders, and crystals of
various kinds.

  On the south wall, flanking the shattered window, were two sections of shelves full of books. Half the east wall was filled with books, the other half with cabinets. There were more shelves and cabinets flanking the door of the north wall.

  Because of the slight breeze that came in chillingly through the broken window, the gas flame in the sconce above it flickered and danced, casting weird shadows over the room and making glittering highlights on the glassware.

  The Court’s writing desk was set directly beneath the big window, its top flush with the sill. Lord Darcy walked over to the desk, leaned over it and looked down through the smashed window. There had been no unusual evidence there. My Lord the Count had, from all indications, died of a broken neck and a crushed skull although the autopsy might tell more. A search of the body had revealed nothing of any consequence—but Lord Darcy now carried the key to the late Count’s ultraprivate chamber in his pocket.

  Below Chief Jaque and his men were carefully lifting the body from a glittering field of broken glass and putting it into the special carriage of the local chirurgeon. The autopsy would be performed in the morning by Master Sean and Dr. Pateley.

  Lord Darcy leaned back and looked up at the gas flame above the window. The Count de la Vexin had come in with his torch, as usual. Climbed up on his desk as usual. Turned on the gas, as usual. Lit the gas with his torch, as usual. Then—

  What?

  “Spooky-looking place, eh, me lord?” Master Sean said.

  His lordship turned round, putting his back to the window.

  “Gloomy, at any rate, my dear Sean. Are there no other gas jets in this room? Ah, yes; I see them. Two on each of the other walls. Evidently the pipes were lengthened when the shelving was put in.” He took out his pipe lighter. “Let’s see if we can’t shed a little more light on the subject.” He went around the room carefully and lit the other six lamps. Even inside their glass chimneys, they tended to flicker; the room was better illuminated, but the shadows still danced.

  “Ah! And an old-fashioned oil chandelier,” Lord Darcy said, looking up. It was a brass globe some fifteen inches in diameter with a ring at the bottom and a wick with a glass chimney on top, suspended by a web of chains and a pulley system that allowed it to be pulled down for refueling and lighting. Even standing on tiptoe, Lord Darcy couldn’t reach the ring.