Lord Darcy Investigates Read online

  Then, abruptly, there seemed to be thousands of tiny white fireflies moving over the upper part of the dead man’s face—and over the knob of the stick. There were several thin, twinkling threads of the minute sparks between face and knob.

  After several seconds, Master Sean gave his wand a final snap with his wrist, and the tiny sparks vanished.

  “That’s it. Turn up the lights, if you please. The stick was definitely the murder weapon.”

  Praefect Cesare Sarto nodded slowly, looking thoughtful. “Very well. What’s our next step?” He paused. “What would Lord Darcy do next?”

  His lordship was standing behind and a little to the left of the Italian, and, as Master Sean looked at both of them, Darcy traced an interrogation point in the air with a forefinger.

  “Why, me lord’s next step,” said the sorcerer as if he had known all along, “would be to question the suspects again. More thoroughly, this time.” Lord Darcy held up the forefinger, and Master Sean added: “One at a time, of course.”

  “That sounds sensible,” Sarto agreed. “And I can get away with having you two present by saying that you are Acting Forensic Sorcerer on this case and that you, Reverend Sir, are amicus curia as a representative of Holy Mother Church. By the way, are you a Sensitive, Father?”

  “No, unfortunately, I am not.”

  “Pity. Well, we needn’t tell them that. Let them worry. Now, what sort of questions do we ask? Give me a case of tax fraud, and I have an impressive roster of questions to ask the people involved, but I’m a little out of my element here.”

  “Why, as to that,” Lord Darcy began…

  18

  “They are lying,” Praefect Cesare said flatly, three hours later. “Each and severally, every single one of the bastards is lying.”

  “And not very well, either,” added Master Sean.

  “Well, let us see what we have here,” Lord Darcy said, picking up his notes.

  They were seated at the rear table in the lounge; there was no one else in the car. Segregation of the suspects had not been difficult; the Trainmaster had opened up the dining car early, and the Genovese Master-at-Arms that Sarto had brought with him was watching over it. The men had been taken from their compartments one at a time, questioned, then taken back to the dining car. That kept them from discussing the questioning with those who hadn’t been questioned yet.

  Tonio, the night man, had been questioned first, then told to get out of the car and stay out. He didn’t mind; he knew there would be no business and no tips that morning.

  The Trainmaster had arranged for caffe to be served early in the rear of the dining car, and Lord Darcy had prepared the three interrogators a pot from behind the bar.

  At eight o’clock, the stewards had begun serving breakfast in the dining car. It was now nearly nine.

  Rome was some three hours away.

  Lord Darcy was looking over his transcript of the questioning when the Roman Praefect said: “Do you see the odd thing about this group? That they know each other?”

  “Well, some of ‘em know each other,” Master Sean said.

  “No, the Praefect is perfectly right,” Lord Darcy said without looking up. “They all know each other—and well.”

  “And yet,” Cesare Sarto continued, “they seem anxious that we should not know that. They are together for a purpose, and yet they say nothing about that purpose.”

  “Master Sean,” Lord Darcy said, “obviously you did not read the Marsaille newspaper I left on your berth last night.”

  “No, Father. I was tired. Come to think of it, I still am. You refer to the obituary?”

  “I do.” Lord Darcy looked at Sarto. “Perhaps it was in the Genova papers. The funeral of a certain Nicholas Jourdan is to be held in Napoli on the morrow.”

  “I heard of it,” Praefect Cesare said. “And I got more from the talk of my fellow officers than was in the paper. Captain Nicholas Jourdan, Imperial Navy, Retired, was supposed to have died of food poisoning, but there’s evidence that it was a very cleverly arranged suicide. If it was suicide, it was probably dropped by the Neapolitan officials. We don’t like to push that sort of thing if there’s no crime involved because there’s such a fuss afterwards about the funeral. As you well know.”

  “Hmm,” said Lord Darcy. “I didn’t know the suicide angle. Is there evidence that he was depressed?”

  “I heard there was, but nobody mentioned any reason for it. Health reasons, perhaps.”

  “I know of another reason,” Lord Darcy said. “Or, at least, a possible reason. About three years ago, Captain Jourdan retired from the Navy. It was an early retirement; he was still a young man for a Captain. Health reasons were given.

  “Actually, he had a choice between forced retirement or a rather nasty court-martial.

  “Apparently, he had been having a rather torrid love affair with a young Sicilian woman from Messina, and was keeping her in an apartment in Napoli. Normally, that sort of thing doesn’t bother the Navy too much, but this particular young person turned out to be an agent of His Slavonic Majesty, Casimir of Poland.”

  “Ahha! Espionage rears its ugly head,” the Praefect said.

  “Precisely. At the time, Captain Jourdan was commanding H.I.M.S. Helgoland Bay and was a very popular commander, both with his officers and his men. Obviously, the Admiralty thought well of him, too, or they shouldn’t have put him in command of one of the most important battleships of the line.

  “But the discovery that his mistress was a spy cast a different light on things. It turned out that they could not prove he knew she was a spy, nor that he had ever told her any Naval secrets. But the suspicion remained. He was given his choice.

  “A court-martial would have ruined his career with the Navy forever, of course. They’d have found him innocent, then shipped him off to some cold little island off the southern coast of New France and left him there with nothing to do but count penguins. So, naturally, he retired.

  “If, as you suggest, it was suicide, it might have been three years of despondency that accounted for it.”

  Praefect Cesare nodded slowly, a look of satisfaction on his face. “I should have seen it. The way these twelve men deport themselves, the way certain of them show deference to certain others… They are some of the officers of the Helgoland Bay. And so, obviously, was Peabody.”

  “I should say so, yes,” Lord Darcy agreed.

  “The trouble is,” Sarto said, “we still have no motive. What we have to do is get one of them to crack. Both of you know them better than I do; which would you suggest?”

  Master Sean said: “I would suggest young Jamieson. Father?”

  “I agree, Master Sean. He admitted that he went back to talk to Peabody, but I had the feeling that he didn’t want to, that he didn’t like Peabody. Perhaps you could put some pressure on him, my dear Praefect.”

  Blond, pink-faced young Charles Jamieson was called in forthwith.

  He sat down nervously. It is not easy for a young man to be other than nervous when faced by three older, stern-faced men—a priest, a powerful sorcerer, and an agent of the dread Roman Praefecture of Police. It is worse when one is involved in a murder case.

  Cesare Sarto looked grim, his mouth hard, his eyes cold. The man he had been named for, Caius Iulius, must have looked similar when faced by some badly erring young centurion more than two millennia before.

  “Young man, are you aware that impeding the investigation of a major felony by lying to the investigating officer is not only punishable by civilian law, but that I can have you court-martialed by the Imperial Navy, and that you may possibly lose your commission in disgrace?”

  Jamieson’s pink face turned almost white. His mouth opened, but nothing came out.

  “I am aware,” the Praefect continued remorselessly, “that one or more of your superiors now in the dining car may have given you orders to do what you have done, but such orders are unlawful, and, in themselves, constitute a court-martial offense.”
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  The young man was still trying to find his voice when kindly old Father Armand broke in. “Now, Praefect, let us not be too hard on the lad. I am sure that he now sees the seriousness of his crime. Why don’t you tell us all about it, my son? I’m sure the Praefect will not press charges if you help us now.”

  Sarto nodded slowly, but his face didn’t change, as though he were yielding the point reluctantly.

  “Now, my son, let’s begin again. Tell us your name and rank, and about what you and your fellow officers did last night.”

  Jamieson’s color had come back. He took a breath. “Charles James Jamieson, Lieutenant, Imperial Navy, British Royal Fleet, at present Third Supply Officer aboard His Imperial Majesty’s Ship Helgoland Bay, sir! Uh—that is, Father.” He had almost saluted.

  “Relax, my son; I am not a Naval Officer. Go on. Begin with why you and the others are aboard this train and not at your stations.”

  “Well, sir, the Hellbay is in drydock just now, and we were all more or less on leave, you see, but we had to stay around Portsmouth. Then, a week ago, we got the news that our old Captain, who retired three years ago, had died and was being buried in Napoli, so we all got together and decided to form a party to go pay our respects. That’s all there is to it, really, Father.”

  “Was Commander John Peabody one of your group?” the Praefect asked sharply.

  “No, sir. He retired shortly after our old Captain did. Until yesterday, none of us had seen him for three years.”

  “Your old Captain was, I believe, the late Nicholas Jourdan?” Sarto asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Why did you dislike Commander Peabody?” the Praefect snapped.

  Jamieson’s face became suddenly pinker. “No particular reason, sir. I didn’t like him, true, but it was just one of those things. Some people rub each other the wrong way.”

  “You hated him enough to kill him,” Praefect Cesare said flatly.

  It was as though Jamieson were prepared for that. He didn’t turn a hair. “No, sir. I didn’t like him, that’s true. But I didn’t kill him.” It was as though he had rehearsed the answer.

  “Who did, then?”

  “It is my belief, sir, that some unknown person got aboard the train during the ten minutes we were at the Italian border, came in, killed the Commander, and left.” That answer, too, sounded rehearsed.

  “Very well,” the Praefect said, “that’s all for now. Go to your compartment and stay there until you are called.”

  Jamieson obeyed.

  “Well, what do you think, Father?” Cesare Sarto asked.

  “The same as you. He gave us some of the truth, but he’s still lying.” He thought for a moment. “Let’s try a different tactic. We can get—”

  He stopped. A man in red-and-blue uniform was coming toward them from the passageway. It was Goodman Fred, the day man.

  He stopped at the table. “Excuse me, gentlemen. I have heard about the investigation, of course. The Trainmaster told me to report to you before I went on duty.” He looked a little baffled. “I’m not sure what my duties would be, in the circumstances.”

  Before Sarto could speak, Lord Darcy said: “What would they normally be?”

  “Tend the bar, and make up the beds.”

  “Well, there will be no need to tend bar as yet, but you may as well make up the beds.”

  Fred brightened. “Thank you, Father, Praefect.” He went back to the passageway.

  “You were saying something about trying a different tactic,” Praefect Cesare prompted.

  “Aye, yes,” said his lordship. And explained.

  19

  Maurice Zeisler did not look any the better for the time since he had had his last drink. He looked haggard and old.

  Sidney Charpentier was in better shape, but even he looked tired.

  The two men sat in the remaining empty chairs at the rear table, facing the three inquisitors.

  Master Sean said: “Goodman Sidney Charpentier, I believe you told me you were a licensed Lay Healer. May I see your license, please.” It was an order, not a question. It was a Master of the Guild speaking to an apprentice.

  There was reluctance, but no hesitation. “Certainly, Master.” Charpentier produced the card.

  Master Sean looked it over carefully. “I see. Endorsed by My Lord Bishop of Wexford. I know his lordship well. Chaplain Admiral of the Imperial Navy. What is your rank, sir?”

  Zeisler’s baggy eyes looked suddenly alert, but he said nothing. Charpentier said: “Senior Lieutenant, Master Seamus.”

  The sorcerer looked at Zeisler. “And yours?”

  Zeisler looked at Charpentier with a wry grin. “Not to worry, Sharpy. Young Jamie must’ve told ‘em. Not your fault.” Then he looked at Master Sean. “Lieutenant Commander Maurice Edwy Zeisler at your service, Master Seamus.”

  “And I at yours, Commander. Now, we might as well get all these ranks straight. Let’s begin with Sir Stanley.”

  The list was impressive:

  Captain Sir Stanley Galbraith

  Commander Gwiliam Hauser

  Lt. Commander Martyn Boothroyd

  Lt. Commander Gavin Tailleur

  Lt. Commander Maurice Zeisler

  Sr. Lieutenant Sidney Charpentier

  Sr. Lieutenant Simon Lamar

  Sr. Lieutenant Arthur Mac Kay

  Sr. Lieutenant Jason Quinte

  Lieutenant Lyman Vandepole

  Lieutenant Valentine Herrick

  Lieutenant Charles Jamieson

  “I presume,” Lord Darcy said carefully, “that if the Helgoland Bay were not in drydock at present, it would have been inconvenient to allow all you gentlemen to leave at one time, eh?”

  Zeisler made a noise that was a blend of a cough and a laugh. “Inconvenient, Father? Impossible.”

  “Even so,” Lord Darcy continued quietly, “is it not unusual for so many of you to be away from your ship at one time? What occasioned it?”

  “Captain Jourdan died,” Zeisler said in a cold voice. “Many men die,” Lord Darcy said. “What made his death so special?” His voice was as cold as Zeisler’s.

  Charpentier opened his mouth to say something, but Zeisler cut him off. “Because Captain Nicholas Jourdan was one of the finest Naval officers who ever lived.”

  Praefect Cesare said: “So all of you were going to the Jourdan funeral—including the late Commander Peabody?”

  “That’s right, Praefect,” Charpentier said. “But Peabody wasn’t one of the original group. There were sixteen of us going; we wanted the car to ourselves, you see. But the other four couldn’t make it; their leaves were suddenly cancelled. That’s how Peabody, the good Father, here, and the Master Sorcerer got their berths.”

  “You had no idea Peabody was coming, then?”

  “None. We’d none of us seen him for nearly three years,” Charpentier said.

  “Almost didn’t recognize him,” Zeisler put in. “That beard, you know. He’d grown that since we saw him last. But I recognized that sword-stick of his, and that made me look closer at the face. I recognized him. So did Commander Hauser.” He chuckled. “Of course, old Hauser would.”

  “Why he more than anyone else?” the Praefect asked.

  “He’s head of Ship’s Security. He used to be Peabody’s immediate superior.”

  “Let’s get back to that sword-stick,” Lord Darcy said. “You say you recognized it. Did anyone else?”

  Zeisler looked at Charpentier. “Did you?”

  “I really didn’t pay any attention until you pointed it out, Maury. Of course, we all knew he had it. Bought in Lisbon four, five years ago. But I hadn’t thought of it, or him, for three years.”

  “Tell us more about Peabody,” Lord Darcy said. “What sort of man was he?”

  Charpentier rubbed his big nose with a thick forefinger. “Decent sort. Reliable. Good officer. Wouldn’t you say, Maury?”

  “Oh, yes,” Zeisler agreed. “Good chap to go partying with, too. I remember
one time in a little Greek bar in Alexandria, we managed to put away more than a quart of ouzo in a couple of hours, and when a couple of Egyptian footpads tried to take us in the street, he mopped up on both of them while I was still trying to get up from their first rush. He could really hold his liquor in those days. I wonder what happened?”

  “What do you mean?” Lord Darcy asked.

  “Well, he only had a few drinks yesterday, but he was pretty well under the weather last night. Passed out while I was talking to him.”

  The Roman Praefect jumped on that. “Then you were the last to see him?”

  Zeisler blinked. “I don’t know. I think somebody else went in to see if he was all right. I don’t remember who.”

  Praefect Cesare sighed. “Very well, gentlemen. Thank you. Go to your compartment. I will call for you later.”

  “Just one more question, if I may,” Lord Darcy said mildly. “Commander Zeisler, you said that the late Peabody worked with Ship’s Security. He was, I believe, the officer who reported Captain Jourdan’s—er—liaison with a certain unsavory young woman from Messina, thereby ruining the Captain’s career?” It was a shot in the dark, and Darcy knew it, but his intuition told him he was right.

  Zeisler’s lips firmed. He said nothing.

  “Come, come, Commander; we can always check the records, you know.”

  “Yes,” Zeisler said after a moment. “That’s true.”

  “Thank you. That’s all for now.”

  When they had gone, Praefect Cesare slumped down in his seat. “Well. It looks as though Praefect Angelo Ratti will have the honor of making the arrest, after all.”

  “You despair of solving the case already?” Lord Darcy asked.

  “Oh, not at all. The case is already solved, Reverend Sir. But I cannot make an arrest.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t follow you, my dear Praefect.”

  A rather sardonic twinkle came into the Italian’s eyes. “Ah, then you have not seen the solution to our problem, yet? You do not see how Commander Peabody came to be the late Commander Peabody?”

  “I’m not the investigating officer here,” Lord Darcy pointed out. “You are. What happened, in your view?”