Lord Darcy Investigates Read online

  The tall, husky man with the receding white hair and the white, clipped, military mustache introduced himself first.

  “Name’s Martyn Boothroyd. Looks like we’re going to be on the train together for a while, eh?” His attention was all on the sorcerer.

  “So it would seem, Goodman Martyn,” the stout little Irish sorcerer said affably. “Seamus Kilpadraeg I am, and pleased to meet you.”

  The blocky-faced man with the two-inch scar on his right cheek was Gavin Tailleur; the blond man with the big nose was Sidney Charpentier.

  The waiter came, took orders, and went.

  Charpentier rubbed a forefinger against the side of his imposing nose. “Pardon me, Goodman Seamus,” he said in his deep, rumbling voice, “but when you came aboard, didn’t I see you carrying a magician’s bag?”

  “You did, sir,” said the sorcerer pleasantly.

  Charpentier grinned, showing strong white teeth. “Thought so. Journeyman? Or should I have called you ‘Master Seamus’?”

  The Irishman smiled back. “Master it is, sir.”

  All of them were speaking rather loudly, and around them others were doing the same, trying to adjust their voice levels to compensate for the roar and rumble of the Napoli Express as she sped southwards towards Lyon.

  “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Master Seamus,” Charpentier said. “I’ve always been interested in the field of magic. Sometimes wish I’d gone into it, myself. Never have made Master, though; math’s way over my head.”

  “Oh? You’ve a touch of the Talent, then?” the sorcerer asked.

  “A little. I’ve got my ticket as a Lay Healer.”

  The sorcerer nodded. A Lay Healer’s License was good for first aid and emergency work or for assisting a qualified Healer.

  The blocky-faced Tailleur tapped the scar on his cheek with his right forefinger and said, in a somewhat gravelly voice: “This would’ve been a damn sight worse than it is if it hadn’t been for old Sharpy, here.”

  Boothroyd said suddenly: “There’s a question I’ve always wanted to ask—oops, here’s breakfast.” While the waiter put plates of hot food on the table, Boothroyd began again. “There’s a question I’ve always wanted to ask. I’ve noticed that Healers use only their hands, with perhaps a little oil or water, but sorcerers use all kinds of paraphernalia—wands, amulets, thuribles, that sort of thing. Why is that?”

  “Well, sir, for one thing, they’re slightly different uses of the Talent,” the sorcerer said. “A Healer is assisting in a process that naturally tends in the direction he wants it to go. The body itself has a strong tendency to heal. Furthermore, the patient wants it to heal, except in certain cases of severe aberration, which a Healer can take care of in other ways.”

  “In other words,” Charpentier said, “the Healer has the cooperation of both the body and the mind of the patient.”

  “Exactly so,” the sorcerer agreed. “The Healer just greases the skids, so to speak.”

  “And how does that differ from what a sorcerer does?” Boothroyd asked.

  “Well, most of a sorcerer’s work is done with inanimate objects. No cooperation at all, d’ye see. So he has to use tools that a Healer doesn’t need.

  “I’ll give you an analogy. Suppose you have two friends who weigh fourteen stone apiece. Suppose they’re both very drunk and want to go home. But they are so drunk that they can’t get home by themselves. You, who are perfectly sober, can take ‘em both by the arm and lead ‘em both home at the same time. It may be a bit o’ trouble; it may require all your skill at handling ‘em. But you can do it without help because, in the long run, they’re cooperating with you. They want to get home.

  “But suppose you had the same weight in two sandbags, and you want to get them to the same place at the same time. You’ll get no cooperation from three hundred and ninety-two pounds of sand. So you have to use a tool to assist you. You have a great many tools, but you must pick the right one for the job. In this case, you’d use a wheelbarrow, not a screwdriver or a hammer.”

  “Oh, I see,” said Boothroyd, “you’d say a healer’s job was easier, then?”

  “Not easier. Just different. Some men who could wheel twenty-eight stone of sand a mile in fifteen minutes might not be able to handle a couple of drunks at all without using physical force. It’s a different approach, you see.”

  Master Seamus had let his eyes wander over the other men in the rear of the dining car as he talked. There were only fourteen men at breakfast. The white-haired priest was listening to two rather foppish-looking men discourse earnestly on church architecture at the next table. He couldn’t hear any of the others because of the noise of the train. Only one man was missing. Apparently the bushy-bearded Goodman John Peabody had not wanted any breakfast.

  4

  The saba game started early.

  An imposing man with a hawk nose and a full beard, completely white except for two narrow streaks of dark brown beginning at the corners of his mouth, came over to where Master Seamus was sitting in the lounge.

  “Master Seamus, I’m Gwiliam Hauser. A few of us are getting up a little game and thought maybe you’d like to join us.”

  “I thank you for the offer, Goodman Gwiliam,” the sorcerer said, “but I’m afraid I’m not much of a gambling man.”

  “Hardly gambling, sir. Twelfth-bit ante. Just a friendly game to pass the time.”

  “No, not even a friendly game of saba. But, again, I thank you.”

  Hauser’s eyes narrowed. “May I ask why not?”

  “Ah, that you may, sir, and I’ll tell you. If a sorcerer gets in a saba game with men who don’t have the Talent, he can only lose.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because if he wins, sir, there’s sure to be someone at the table who will accuse him of using his Talent to cheat. Now you should see a saba game played among sorcerers, sir. That’s something to watch, though likely you’d not see most of what was going on.”

  Hauser’s eyes cleared, and a chuckle came from somewhere inside the heavy beard. “I see. Hadn’t thought of it that way. Boothroyd said you might like to play, so I asked. I’ll pass on your bit of wisdom to him.”

  Actually, it would never occur to most folk to distrust a magician, much less accuse one of cheating at cards. But a heavy loser, especially if he’s been drinking, will quite often say things he regrets later. Sorcerers rarely gamble with un-Talented people unless they are close friends.

  Eventually Hauser, Boothroyd, Charpentier, the plump, nearly late Jason Quinte, and one of the two fops—the tall one with the hairline mustache, who looked as though he had been pressed into his clothes—ended up at a corner table with a deck of cards and a round of drinks. The saba game was on.

  The sorcerer watched the game for a while from across the room, then opened the copy of the Journal of the Royal Thaumaturgical Society and began to read.

  At eight-fifteen, the Irish magician finished the article on “The Subjective Algebra of Kinetic Processes” and put the Journal down. He was tired, not having had enough sleep, and the swaying motion of the train made it difficult to keep his eyes focused on the lines of print. He closed his eyes and massaged the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger.

  “Beg y’pardon, Master Seamus. Mind if I join you?”

  The sorcerer opened his eyes and looked up.

  “Not at all. Pray sit down.”

  The man had reddish hair, a bulbous nose, and sagging features that hung loosely on his facial bones. His smile was pleasant and his eyes sleepy-looking. “Zeisler’s my name, Master Seamus. Maurice Zeisler.” He extended his right hand; his left held a large glass of ouiskie and water—heavy on the ouiskie.

  The two shook hands, and Zeisler eased himself into the chair to the sorcerer’s left. He gestured toward the saba table.

  “Damn silly game, saba. Have to remember all those cards. Miss one, play wrong, and you’re down the drain for a sovereign at least. Remember ‘em all, hav
e all the luck, bluff all the others out, and you’re four sovereigns ahead. I never get the luck, and I can’t keep the cards straight. Vandepole can, every time. So I stand ‘em all a round of drinks and let ‘em play. Lose less that way.”

  “Very wise,” murmured the sorcerer.

  “Buy you a drink?”

  “No, thank you, sir. It’s a bit early for me. Later, perhaps.”

  “Certainly. Be a pleasure.” He took a hefty swig from his glass and then leaned confidentially toward the sorcerer. “What I would really like to know is, is Vandepole cheating? He’s the well-dressed chap with the hairline mustache. Is he using the Talent to influence the fall of the cards?”

  The sorcerer didn’t even glance at the saba table. “Are you consulting me professionally, sir?” he asked in a mild voice.

  Zeisler blinked. “Well, I—”

  “Because, if you are,” Master Seamus continued relentlessly, “I must warn you that a Master’s fees come quite high. I would suggest you consult a Journeyman Sorcerer for that sort of thing; his fees would be much lower than mine, and he’d give you the same information.”

  “Oh. Well. Thank you. I may do that. Thank you.” He took another long pull at his drink. “Uh—by the by, do you happen to know a Master Sorcerer named Sean O Lochlainn?”

  The sorcerer nodded slowly. “I’ve met him,” he said carefully.

  “Fortunate. Never met him, myself, but I’ve heard a great deal about him. Forensic sorcerer, you know. Interesting work. Like to meet him sometime.” His eyes had wandered away from the sorcerer as he spoke, and he was gazing out the window at the French countryside flowing by.

  “You’re interested in magic, then?” the Irishman asked.

  Zeisler’s eyes came back. “Magic? Oh, no. Got no Talent at all. No, what I’m interested in is investigative work. Criminal investigation.” He blinked and frowned as though trying to remember something. Then his eyes brightened and he said: “Reason I brought up Master Sean was that I met the man he works for, Lord Darcy, who’s the Chief Investigator for His Royal Highness, the Duke of Normandy.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. The ouiskie was strong on his breath. “Were you at the Healers and Sorcerers Convention in London some years back, when a sorcerer named Zwinge got murdered at the Royal Steward Hotel?”

  “I was there,” the sorcerer said. “I remember it well.”

  “I imagine so, yes. Well, I was attached to the Admiralty offices at the time. Met Darcy there.” He winked an eye solemnly. “Helped him crack the case, actually, but I can’t say anything more about it than that.” His gaze went back out the window again. “Great investigator. Absolute genius in his field. Nobody else could crack that case, but he solved it in no time. Absolute genius. Wish I had his brains.” He drained his glass. “Yes, sir, I wish I had his brains.” He looked at his empty glass and stood up. “Time for a refill. Get you one?”

  “Not yet. Later, perhaps.”

  “Be right back.” Zeisler headed for the bar.

  He did not come back. He got into a conversation with Fred, the attendant who was mixing drinks, and forgot about Master Seamus completely, for which the stout little Irish sorcerer was extremely grateful.

  He noticed John Peabody, he of the full and bushy beard, was sitting alone at the far end of the long couch, apparently still reading his newspaper, and seemingly so thoroughly engrossed in it that it would be boorish for anyone to speak to him. But the sorcerer knew that the man was keeping at least a part of his attention on the long hallway that ran forward, past the compartments.

  Master Seamus looked back at the saba game. The foppishly dressed man with the hairline mustache was raking in sizeable winnings.

  If Vandepole were cheating, he was doing it without the aid of the Talent, either latent or conscious; such usage of the Talent would have been easy for the sorcerer to pick up at this short range. It was possible, of course, that the man had a touch of the precognitive Talent, but that was something which the science of magic had, as yet, little data and no theory on. Someone, some day, might solve the problem of the asymmetry of time, but no one had done it yet, and even the relatively new mathematics of the subjective algebrae offered no clue.

  The sorcerer shrugged and picked up his Journal again. What the hell, it was no business of his.

  5

  “Lyon, Gentlemen!” came Goodman Fred’s voice across the lounge, fighting successfully against the noise of the train. “Lyon in fifteen minutes! The bar will close in five minutes! Lunch will be served in the station restaurant, and we will leave at one-fifteen! It is now twelve noon!”

  Fred had everyone’s attention now, so he repeated the message.

  Not everyone was in the lounge. After the bar was closed—Zeisler had managed to get two more during the five minutes—Fred went forward along the passageway and knocked on each compartment door. “Lyon in ten minutes! Lunch will be served in the station restaurant. We will leave for Marsaille at 1:15.”

  The stout little Irish sorcerer turned in his couch to look out the window at the outskirts of Lyon. It was a pleasant place, he thought. The Rhone valley was famous for its viniculture, but now the grape arbors were giving way to cottages more and more densely packed, and finally the train was in the city itself. The houses were old, most of them, but neat and well-tended. Technically, the County of Lyonnais was a part of the Duchy of Burgundy, but the folk never thought of themselves as Burgundians. The Count de Lyonnais commanded their respect far more than the Duke of Burgundy did. His Grace respected those feelings, and allowed My Lord Count as free a hand as the King’s Law would permit. From the looks of the countryside, it appeared My Lord Count did a pretty good job.

  “Excuse me, Master Sorcerer,” said a soft, pleasant voice.

  He turned away from the window. It was the elderly-looking gentleman in clerical garb. “How may I help you, Father?”

  “Allow me to introduce myself; I am the Reverend Father Armand Brun. I noticed you sitting here by yourself, and I wondered if you would care to join me and some other gentlemen for lunch.”

  “Master Seamus Kilpadraeg at your service, Reverend Sir. I’d be most happy to join you for lunch. We have an hour, it seems.”

  The “other gentlemen” were standing near the bar, and were introduced in that quiet, smooth voice. Simon Lamar had thinning dark hair that one could see his scalp through, a long face and lips that were drawn into a thin line. His voice was flat, with just a touch of Yorkshire in it as he said: “I’m pleased to meet you, Master Seamus.”

  Arthur Mac Kay’s accent was both Oxford and Oxfordshire, and was smooth and well-modulated, like an actor’s. He was the other foppishly dressed man—immaculate, as though his clothes had been pressed seconds before. He had dark, thick, slightly wavy hair, luminous brown eyes surrounded by long, dark lashes, and a handsome face that matched. He was almost too pretty.

  Valentine Herrick had flaming red hair, an excessively toothy smile, and a body that seemed to radiate health and strength as he shook the sorcerer’s hand. “Hate to see a man eat alone, by S’n George! A meal’s not a meal without company, is it?”

  “Not really,” the sorcerer agreed.

  “Especially at these train station restaurants,” said Lamar in his flat voice. “Company keeps your mind off the tasteless food.”

  Mac Kay smiled angelically. “Oh, come; it’s not as bad as all that. Come along; you’ll see.”

  The Heart of Lyon restaurant was a fairly comfortable-looking place, not more than fifty years old, but designed in the King Gwiliam IV style of the late Eighteenth Century to give it an air of stability. The decor, however, reflected a mild pun on the restaurant’s name—which had probably been carefully chosen for just that reason. Over the door, three-quarters life size, legs braced apart, right hand on the pommel of a great naked sword whose point touched the lintel, left arm holding a shield bearing the lions of England, stood the helmed, mail-clad figure of King Richard the Lion-Hearted in polychromed bas-r
elief. The interior, too, was decorated with knights and ladies of the time of Richard I.

  It was fitting. Although most of the first ten years of his reign had been spent in the noble and heroic, but foolish and expensive, fighting of the Third Crusade, he had settled down after his near-fatal wound at the seige of Chaluz to become a really effective ruler. There were some historians who claimed that if Richard had died at Chaluz, a Capet would now be sitting on the throne of the Anglo-French Empire instead of a Plantagenet. But the Capets had died out long ago, as had the unstable cadet branch of the Plantegenets descended from the exiled Prince John, Richard’s younger brother. It was Richard and Arthur, the nephew who had succeeded him in 1219, who had held the Anglo-French nation together during those troubled times, and it had been the descendants of King Arthur who had kept it stable through seven and a half centuries.

  Old Richard may have had his faults, but he had been a fine king.

  “Interesting motif for the decorations,” Father Armand said as the waiter led the five men to a table. “And very well done, too.”

  “Not period, though,” Lamar said flatly. “Too realistic.”

  “Oh, true, true,” Father Armand said agreeably. “Not early Thirteenth Century style at all.” He seated himself as the waiter pulled out a chair for him. “It’s the painstakingly detailed realism of the late Seventeenth, which fits in very well with the style of the rest of the interior. It must have been expensive; there are very few artists nowadays who can or will do that sort of work.”

  “Agreed, Father,” said Lamar. “Workmanship in general isn’t what it used to be.”

  Father Armand chose to ignore that remark. “Now, you take a look up there, at Gwiliam the Marshal—at least I presume it’s he; he’s wearing the Marshal arms on his surcoat. I’ll wager that if you climbed up there on a stepladder and looked closely, you could see the tiny rivets in every link of his mail.”