Lord Darcy Investigates Page 22

  “Well,” Cesare said seriously, “what do we have here? We have twelve Naval officers going to the funeral of a beloved late Captain. Also, a thirteenth—the man who betrayed that same Captain and brought him to disgrace. A Judas.

  “We know they are lying when they tell us that their conversations with him last night were just casual. They could have spoken to him at any time during the day, yet none of them did. They waited until night. Then each of them, one at a time, goes to see him. Why? No reason is given. They claim it was for a casual chat. At that hour of night? After every one of them had been up since early morning? A casual chat! Do you believe that, Reverend Sir?”

  Lord Darcy shook his head slowly. “No. We both know better. Every one of them was—and still is—lying.”

  “Very well, then. What are they lying about? What are they trying to cover up? Murder, of course.”

  “But, by which one of ‘em?” Master Sean asked.

  “Don’t you see?” The Praefect’s voice was low and tense. “Don’t you see? It was all of them!”

  “What?” Master Sean stared. “But—”

  “Hold, Master Sean,” Lord Darcy said. “I think I see where he’s going. Pray continue, Praefect Cesare.”

  “Certainly you see it, Father,” the Praefect said. “Those men probably don’t consider it murder. It was, to them, an execution after a drumhead court-martial. One of them—we don’t know who—talked his way into Peabody’s compartment. Then, when the opportunity presented itself, he struck. Peabody was knocked unconscious. Then, one at a time, each of the others went in and struck again. A dozen men, a dozen blows. The deed is done, and no single one of them did it. It was execution by a committee—or rather, by a jury.

  “They claim they did not know Peabody was coming along. But does that hold water? Was he on this train, in this car, by coincidence? That stretches coincidence too far, I think.”

  “I agree,” Lord Darcy said quietly. “It was no coincidence that put him on this train with the others. It was very carefully managed.”

  “Ah! You see, Master Sean?” Then a frown came over Sarto’s face. “It is obvious what happened, but we have no solid proof. They stick to their story too well. We need proof—and we have none.”

  “I don’t think you’ll get any of them to confess,” Lord Darcy said. “Do you, Master Sean?”

  “No,” said the sorcerer. “Not a chance.”

  “What we need,” Lord Darcy said, “is physical proof. And the only place we’ll find that is in Compartment Number One.”

  “We’ve searched that,” Praefect Cesare said.

  “Then let us search it again.”

  20

  Lord Darcy went over the body very carefully this time, his lean, strong fingers probing, feeling. He checked the lining of the jacket, his fingertips squeezing everywhere, searching for lumps or the crackle of paper. Nothing. He took off the wide belt, looking for hidden pockets. Nothing. He checked the boot heels. Nothing.

  Finally he pulled off the calf-length boots themselves.

  And, with a murmur of satisfaction, he withdrew an object from a flat interior pocket of the right one.

  It was a flat, slightly curved silver badge engraved with the double-headed eagle of the Imperium. Set in it was what looked like a dull, translucent, grayish, cabochon-cut piece of glass. But all three men, knew that if Peabody’s living flesh had touched that gem, it would have glowed like a fire-ruby.

  “A King’s Messenger,” the Praefect said softly.

  No one else’s touch would make that gem glow. The spell, invented by Master Sorcerer Sir Edward Elmer back in the Thirties, had never been solved, and no one knew what sorcerer at present had charge of that secret and made these badges for the King.

  This particular badge would never glow again.

  “Indeed,” Lord Darcy said. “Now we know what Commander Peabody has been doing since he retired from the Navy, and how he managed to retire honorably at such an early age.”

  “I wonder if his shipmates know,” Sarto said.

  “Probably not,” Lord Darcy said. “King’s Messengers don’t advertise the fact.”

  “No. But I don’t see that identifying him as such gets us any further along.”

  “We haven’t searched the rest of the room thoroughly yet.”

  Twenty minutes later, Praefect Cesare said: “Nothing. Absolutely nothing. And we’ve searched everywhere. What are you looking for, anyway?”

  “I’m not sure,” Lord Darcy admitted, “but I know it exists. Still, it might have ended up on the track with the compartment key. Hmmm.” With his keen eyes, he surveyed the room carefully. Then he stopped, looking at the area just above the bed where the body lay. “Of course,” he said very softly. “The upper berth.”

  The upper berth was folded up against the wall and locked firmly in place, making a large compartment that held mattress and bedclothes safely out of the way.

  “Get Fred,” Lord Darcy said. “He has a key.”

  Fred, indeed, had a key, and he had been using it. The beds were all made in the other compartments, the lowers changed to sofas and the uppers folded up and locked.

  He couldn’t understand why the gentlemen wanted that upper berth unlocked, but he didn’t argue. He reached up, inserted the key, turned, and lowered the shelf until it was horizontal, all the time doing his best to keep his eyes off the thing that lay in the lower berth.

  “Ahh! What have we here?” There was pleasure in Lord Darcy’s voice as he picked up the large leather case from where it lay in the upper berth. Then he looked at Fred. “That’ll be all for now, Fred; we’ll call you when it’s time to lock up again.”

  “Certainly, Father.” He went on about his business.

  Not until then did his lordship turn the seventeen-by-twelve-by-three leather envelope over. It bore the Royal Emblem, stamped in gold, just beneath the latch.

  “Uh-oh!” said Master Sean. “More here than we thought.” He looked at Lord Darcy. “Did you expect a diplomatic pouch, Father?”

  “Not really. An envelope of some kind. King’s Messengers usually carry messages, and this one would probably not be verbal. But this is heavy. Must weigh five or six pounds. The latch has been unlocked and not relocked. I’ll wager that means two keys on the railroad track.” He opened it and lifted out a heavy manuscript. He leafed through it.

  “What is it?” Cesare Sarto asked.

  “A treaty. In Greek, Latin, and Anglo-French. Between Roumeleia and the Empire.” There was a jerkiness in his voice.

  Master Sean opened his mouth to say something and then clamped it shut.

  Lord Darcy slid the manuscript back into the big leather envelope and clicked the latch shut. “This is not for our eyes, gentlemen. But now we have our evidence. I can tell you exactly how John Peabody died and prove it. You can make your arrest very soon, Praefect.”

  21

  There were seventeen men in the observation car of the Napoli Express as she rumbled southeast, along the coast of the Tyrrhenian Sea, toward the mouth of the Tiber.

  Besides the twelve Naval officers, Praefect Cesare, Master Sean, and Lord Darcy, there were also Fred, the day attendant, and Trainmaster Edmund Norton, who had been asked to attend because it was, after all, his train, and therefore his responsibility.

  Praefect Cesare Sarto stood near the closed door to the observation deck at the rear of the car, looking at sixteen pairs of eyes, all focused on him. Like an actor taking his stage, the Praefect knew, not only the plot, but his lines and blocking.

  Father Armand was at his left, seated at the end of the couch. Fred was behind the bar. The Trainmaster was seated at the passageway end of the bar. Master Sean was standing at the entrance to the passageway. The Navy men were all seated. The stage was set.

  “Gentlemen,” he began, “we have spent many hours trying to discover and sift the facts pertaining to the death of your former shipmate, Commander John Peabody. Oh, yes, Captain Sir Stanley, I know who y
ou all are. You and your fellow officers have consistently lied to me and evaded the truth, thus delaying our solution of this deadly puzzle. But we know, now.

  “First, we know that the late Commander was an official Messenger for His Imperial Majesty, John of England. Second, we know that he was the man who reported to higher authority what he knew about the late Captain Nicholas Jourdan’s inamorata, certain facts which his own investigations, as a Ship’s Security officer, had brought out. These facts resulted in Captain Jourdan’s forced retirement, and, possibly, in his ultimate demise.”

  His eyes searched their faces. They were all waiting, and there was an undercurrent of hostility in their expressions.

  “Third, we know how John Peabody was killed, and we know by whom it was done. Your cover-up was futile, gentlemen. Shall I tell you what happened last night?”

  They waited, looking steadily at him.

  “John Peabody was a man with enormous resistance to the effects of alcohol, and yet he passed out last night. Not because of the alcohol, but because someone drugged one of his drinks. Even that, he was able to fight off longer than was expected.

  “Then, when Peabody was unconscious, a man carefully let himself into Peabody’s compartment. He had no intent to kill; he wasn’t even armed. He wanted to steal some very important papers which, as a King’s Messenger, Peabody was carrying.

  “But something went wrong. Peabody came out of his drugged stupor enough to realize what was going on. He made a grab for his silver-headed stick. The intruder got it first.

  “Peabody was a strong man and a skillful fighter, even when drunk, as most of you know. In the struggle that ensued, the intruder used that stick as a club, striking Peabody again and again. Drugged and battered, that tough, brave man kept fighting.

  “Neither of them yelled or screamed: Peabody because it was not in his nature to call for help; the intruder because he wanted no alarm.

  “At last, the blows took their final toll. Peabody collapsed, his head smashed in. He was dying.

  “The intruder listened. No alarm had been given. He still had time. He found the heavy diplomatic pouch in which those important documents were carried. But what could he do with them? He couldn’t stop to read them there, for Tonio, the night man, might be back very soon. Also, he could not carry them away, because the pouch was far too large to conceal on his person, and if Tonio saw it, he would report it when the body was found.

  “So he concealed it in the upper berth of Peabody’s compartment, thinking to retrieve it later. Then he took Peabody’s key, locked the compartment, tossed the key off the train, and went on about his business. He hoped he would have plenty of time, because the body should not have been found until about an hour ago.

  “But Peabody, though dying, was not dead yet. Scalp wounds have a tendency to bleed profusely, and in this case, they certainly did. The blood pooled on the floor and ran out under the door.

  “Tonio found the blood—and the rest you know.

  “No, gentlemen, this was not a vengeance killing as we thought at first. This was done by a man whom we believe to be an agent of, or in the pay of the Serka—the Polish Secret Service.”

  They were no longer looking at Cesare Sarto, they were looking at each other.

  Sarto shook his head. “No; wrong again, gentlemen. Only one man had the key to that upper berth last night!” He lifted his eyes and looked at the bar.

  “Trainmaster Edmund Norton,” he said coldly, “you are under arrest!”

  The Trainmaster was already on his feet, and he turned to run up the passageway. If he could get to the door and lock these men in—

  But stout little Master Sean O Lochlainn was blocking his way.

  Norton was bigger and heavier than the sorcerer, but Norton had only seconds, no time for a fight. From somewhere, he produced a six-inch knife and made an underhand thrust.

  Master Sean’s right hand made a single complex gesture.

  Norton froze, immobile for a long second.

  Then, like a large red-and-blue sack of wet oatmeal, he collapsed to the deck. Master Sean took the knife from his nerveless fingers as he fell.

  “I didn’t want him to fall on the knife and hurt himself,” he explained, almost apologetically. “He’ll come around all right when I take that spell off.”

  The Navy men were all on their feet, facing Master Sean.

  Commander Hauser fingered his streaked beard. “I didn’t know a sorcerer could do anything like that,” he said in a hushed, almost frightened voice.

  “It can’t be done at all unless a sorcerer is attacked,” Master Sean explained. “All my spell did was turn his own psychic energy back on itself. Gave his nervous system a devil of a shock when the flow was forcibly reversed. It’s similar to certain forms of unarmed combat, where the opponent’s own force is used against him. If he doesn’t attack you, there’s not much you can do.”

  The Roman Praefect walked over to where the Trainmaster, lay, took out a pair of handcuffs, and locked Norton’s wrists behind his back. “Fred, you had best go get the Assistant Trainmaster; he’ll have to take over now. And tell the Master-at-Arms who is waiting at the far end of the passageway to come on in. I want him to take charge of the prisoner now. Captain Sir Stanley, Commander Hauser, do you mind if I borrow Compartment Eight until we get to Rome? Good. Help me get him in there.”

  The Assistant Trainmaster came back with Fred, and the Praefect explained things to him. He looked rather dazed, but he took charge competently enough.

  Behind the bar, Fred still looked shocked. “Here, Fred,” the Praefect said, “you need some work to do. Give a drink to anyone who wants one, and have a good stiff one, yourself.”

  “How did you know it wasn’t me who unlocked that upper berth last night?” Fred whispered.

  “For the same reason I knew no one in the other cars on this train did it,” Cesare whispered back. “The dining car was locked, and you do not have a key. Tonio did, but he had no key to the berth. Only the Trainmaster has all the keys to this train. Now make those drinks.”

  There were sixteen drinks to serve; Fred went about his work.

  Boothroyd smoothed down his white hair. “Just when did the Trainmaster drug Peabody’s drink, anyway?”

  Master Sean took the question. “Last night, after we left Marsaille, when Norton sent Tonio off on an errand. He told Tonio to get some towels, but those towels wouldn’t be needed until this morning. Tonio would have had plenty of time to get them after we retired. But Peabody was drinking, and Norton wanted to have the chance to drug him. I’ve seen how easy it is for a barman to slip something into a drink unnoticed.” He did not look at Zeisler.

  Sir Stanley cleared his throat. “You said we were all lying, Praefect, that our cover-up was futile. What did you mean by that?”

  Lord Darcy had already told Sarto to take credit for everything because “it would be unseemly for a man of the cloth to be involved in such things.” So Cesare Sarto wisely did not mention whose deductions he was expounding.

  “You know perfectly well what I mean, Captain. You and your men did not go into Peabody’s compartment, one at a time, for a ‘friendly chat.’ You each had something specific to say to the man who turned in Captain Jourdan. Want to tell me what it was?”

  “Might as well, eh? Very well. We were pretty certain he’d been avoiding us because he thought we hated him. We didn’t. Not his fault, you see. He did his duty when he reported what he knew about that Sicilian woman. Any one of us would have done the same. Right, Commander?”

  “Damn right,” said Commander Hauser. “Would’ve done it myself. Some of us older officers told the Captain she was no good for him from the start, but he wouldn’t listen. If he was brokenhearted, it was mostly because she’d made a proper fool of him, and no mistake.”

  Captain Sir Stanley took up the story again. “So that’s what we went in there for, one at a time. To tell him we didn’t hold it against him. Even Lieutenant Jamieson, eh,
my boy?”

  “Aye, sir. I didn’t like him, but it wasn’t for that reason.”

  The Praefect nodded. “I believe you. But that’s where the cover-up came in. Each and every one of you was afraid that one of your group had killed Peabody!”

  There was silence. The silence of tacit assent.

  “I watched you, listened to you,” the Praefect went on. “Each of you considered the other eleven one by one, and came up with a verdict of ‘Innocent’ every time. But that doubt remained. And you were afraid that I would find a motive in what Peabody did three years ago. So you told me nothing. I must confess that, because of that evasion, that lying, I was suspicious at one time of all of you.”

  “By S’n George! Then what made you begin to suspect that Norton was guilty, sir?” asked Lieutenant Valentine Herrick.

  “When it was reported to me that the Trainmaster showed up within half a minute after he had been sent for, right after Tonio found the blood. Norton had been awake since three o’clock yesterday morning: what was he still doing up, in full uniform at nearly one o’clock this morning? Why hadn’t he turned things over to the Assistant Trainmaster, as usual, and gone to sleep long before? That’s when I began to wonder.”

  Lieutenant Lyman Vandepole ran a finger over his hairline mustache. “But until you found that pouch, you couldn’t be sure, could you, sir?”

  “Not certain, no. But if one of you had gone in there with deliberate murder on his mind, he’d most likely have brought his own weapon. Or, if he intended to use that sword-stick, he would have used the blade, since every one of you knew it was a sword-stick. But Norton didn’t, you see.”

  Senior Lieutenant Simon Lamar looked at “Father Armand.” “With all that fighting going on next door, I’m surprised it didn’t wake you up, Reverend Sir.”

  “I’m sure it would have,” Lord Darcy said. “That is how we were able to pinpoint when it happened. Tonio left the car to go forward about midnight. At that time, Master Seamus and I were out on the rear platform. I was having a smoke, and he was keeping me company. We went back to our compartment at twenty after twelve. Norton didn’t know we were out there, of course, but the killing must have taken place during that twenty minutes. Which means that the murder took place before we reached the Italian border, and Norton will have to be extradited to Provence.”