Too Many Magicians

CHAPTER 12

Lord Bontriomphe had not misjudged the time very much; it was less than four minutes later when Darcy and Bontriomphe climbed out of the coach in front of the big, bulky, old building that housed the Admiralty offices of the Imperial Navy. They went up the steps and through the wide doors into a large anteroom that was almost the size of a hotel lobby. They were heading toward a desk marked Information when Lord Darcy suddenly spotted a familiar figure.

“There’s our pigeon,” he murmured to Lord Bontriomphe, then raised his voice:

“Ah, Commander Ashley.”

Lord Ashley turned, recognized them, and gave them an affable smile. “Good afternoon, my lords. Can I do anything for you?”

“I certainly hope so,” said Lord Darcy.

Lord Ashley’s smile disappeared. “What’s the trouble? Has anything happened?”

“I don’t know. That’s what I want you to tell me. Why is the Navy so interested in a certain Paul Nichols, the night manager at the Royal Steward?”

Lord Ashley blinked. “Didn’t Captain Smollett tell you?”

“Sure he did,” said Lord Bontriomphe. “He told us all about it. But we forgot. That’s why we’re here asking questions.”

Commander Lord Ashley ignored the London investigator’s sarcasm. There was a vaguely troubled look in his seaman’s eyes. Abruptly he came to a decision. “That information will have to come from Captain Smollett. I’ll take you to his office. May I tell him that you have come to get the information directly from him?”

“So,” said Lord Darcy with a dry smile, “Captain Smollett prefers that his subordinates keep silent, eh?”

Lord Ashley grinned lopsidedly. “I have my orders. And there are good reasons for them. The Naval Intelligence Corps, after all, does not make a habit of broadcasting its information to the four winds.”

“I’m aware of that,” said Lord Darcy, “and I am not suggesting that the corps acquire such habits. Nonetheless, His Majesty’s instructions were, I think, explicit.”

“I’m certain it was merely an oversight on the captain’s part. This affair has the whole Intelligence Corps in an uproar, and Captain Smollett and his staff, as I told you this morning, do not have any high hopes that the killers will be found.”

“And frankly don’t much care, I presume,” said Lord Darcy.

“I wouldn’t go so far as to say that, my lord; it is simply that we don’t feel that the tracking down of hired Polish assassins is our job. We’re not equipped for it. Our job is the impossible one of finding out everything that King Casimir’s Navy is up to and keeping him from finding out anything at all about ours. You people are equipped and trained to catch murderers, and we — very rightly, I think — leave the job in your hands.”

“We can’t do it without the pertinent information,” said Lord Darcy, “and that’s what we’re here to get.”

“Well, I don’t know whether the information is pertinent or not, but come along; I’ll take you to Captain Smollett.”

The two investigators followed the commander down a corridor, up a flight of stairs, and down another corridor toward the rear of the building.

There was a middle-aged petty officer sitting behind a desk in the outer office who looked up from his work as the three men entered. He did not even bother to look at the two civilians.

“Yes, My Lord Commander?” he said.

“Would you tell Captain Smollett that Lord Darcy and Lord Bontriomphe are here to see him. He will know what their business is.”

“Aye, my lord.” The petty officer got up from behind the desk, went into an inner office, and came out again a minute or so later. “Compliments of the captain, my lords. He would like to see all three of you in his office immediately.”

There are three ways of doing things, Lord Darcy thought to himself, the right way, the wrong way, and the Navy way.

Captain Smollett was standing behind his desk when they went into the room, a pipe clenched firmly between his teeth, his gray-fringed bald head gleaming in the afternoon sunlight that streamed through the windows at his back.

“Good afternoon, m’luds,” he said briskly. “Didn’t expect to see you again so soon. Trust you have some information for me.”

“I was rather hoping you had some information for us, Captain,” Lord Darcy said.

Smollett’s eyebrows lifted. “Eh? Not much, I’m afraid,” he said, speaking through his teeth and around his pipestem. “Nothing new has happened since this morning. That’s why I was hoping that you had some information.”

“It is not new information I want, Captain Smollett. By now, indeed, it may be rather stale.

“Yesterday afternoon at 2:54 your agent, Commander Lord Ashley, returned to the Royal Steward Hotel. After that, several other of your agents came and went. The General Manager, Goodman Lewie Bolmer, has informed us that he is under strict instructions from the Navy, in the King’s Name, to give information to no one, including, presumably, duly authorized Officers of the King’s Peace, operating under a special warrant which also permits them to act and speak in the King’s Name.

“I could have forced the information from him but he was acting in good faith and he had enough troubles as it is. I felt that you could give me all the information he has and a great deal more besides. We met My Lord Commander downstairs, but doubtless he, too, is under orders, so, as with Goodman Lewie, it would not be worth my time to pry the information out of him when I can get it from you.

“This much we know: Goodman Paul Nichols, the night manager, failed to show up for work at midnight last night. This, apparently, is important; and yet, your agents were asking questions about him some nine hours before. What we want to know is why. I shall not ask you why we were not given this information this morning; I shall merely ask that we be given it now.”

Captain Smollett was silent for the space of several seconds, his cold gray eyes looking with unblinking directness into Darcy’s own. “Um,” he said finally, “I suppose I deserve that. Should have mentioned it this morning. I admit it. Thing is, it just isn’t in your jurisdiction — that is, normally it wouldn’t be. We have men looking everywhere for Nichols, but he hasn’t done a thing we can prove.”

“What do you think he’s done?”

“Stolen something,” said Captain Smollett. “Trouble is, we can’t prove the thing we think he’s stolen ever existed. And if it did exist, we’re not certain of its value.”

“Very mysterious,” said Lord Bontriomphe. “At least, to me. Does this have a beginning somewhere?”

“Hm-m-m. Beg your pardon. Don’t mean to sound mysterious. Here, will you be seated? Brandy on the table over there. Pour them some brandy, Commander. Make yourselves comfortable. It’s a rather longish story.”

He sat down behind his desk, reached out toward a pile of file folders, and took an envelope out of the top one.

“Here’s the picture: Zwinge was a busy man. Had a great many things to keep an eye on. Being Chief Forensic Sorcerer for the City of London would be a full-time job for an ordinary man.” He looked at Lord Bontriomphe. “Be frank, m’lud. Did you ever suspect that he was working for the Naval Intelligence Corps?”

“Never,” Bontriomphe admitted, “though Heaven knows he worked hard enough. He was always busy, and he was one of those men who think that anything more than five hours sleep a night is an indication of sloth. Tell me, Captain, did My Lord Marquis know?”

“He was never told,” said Captain Smollett. “Zwinge did say that he suspected that My Lord de London was aware of his Navy work, but if so he never mentioned it.”

“He wouldn’t,” said Lord Bontriomphe.

“No, of course not. At any rate, Zwinge had a great many irons in the fire. More things going on in Europe than just this one affair, I can assure you. Nonetheless, he felt it necessary to go to this Healers and Sorcerers Convention. Look odd if he didn’t, he said, what with his being right here in London and all. But of course he kept right on working, even there.”

“That is undoubtedly why he put the special spell on the lock of his hotel room,” said Lord Darcy.

“No doubt, no doubt,” agreed Captain Smollett. “At any rate, yesterday morning he sent this letter to me by messenger from the hotel.” He handed the envelope to Lord Darcy. “You’ll notice it is stamped 7:45 a.m.”

Lord Darcy looked at the outside of the envelope. It was addressed to Captain Percy Smollett and was marked “Personal.” Darcy opened it and took out the single sheet of paper. “This is in code,” said Lord Darcy.

“Of course,” said Captain Smollett. He took another sheet from the file and handed it over. “Here is the clear,” he said. Lord Darcy read the message aloud:

“ ‘Sir: I have a special packet for you containing information of the utmost importance which I have just received. It is impossible for me to leave the hotel at this time, and I do not wish to entrust this information to a common messenger. Accordingly, I have given the envelope with my seal upon it to the hotel manager, Goodman Paul Nichols. He has placed it in the hotel safe and has been instructed to hand it over to your courier.’ ”

The note was signed with the single letter “Z.”

Lord Darcy handed the papers back to the captain. “I see, Captain. Pray continue.”

“As I said, the message arrived at 7:45. It was placed on my desk with the rest of my morning mail. Now — I didn’t arrive here at the office until a few minutes before ten. Hadn’t had time to even glance at my mail when Commander Ashley came in, bringing the news from Cherbourg that Barbour had been murdered — which was bad enough — and the further intelligence that Master Sir James had been stabbed to death only half an hour before. Since you already know of the importance we’ve attached to this affair, you’ll understand that for the next few hours I was a very busy man. Didn’t have a chance to look at my mail until well after two o’clock. When I decoded the letter, I sent Ashley, here, over to fetch the packet.” He looked at the Commander. “You’d better take it from there, Commander. I’m sure Lord Darcy prefers to get his facts as directly as possible.”

“Aye, sir.” He turned to face Lord Darcy. “I went directly to the hotel and asked to see Goodman Lewie, and told him that Sir James had left an envelope addressed to Captain Smollett in the safe, to be delivered to the Navy.

“He said he knew nothing of it, and I told him that it had been left with Goodman Paul.

“He informed me that Goodman Paul had made no mention of it when he went off duty at nine, but he agreed to open the safe and get the envelope out.

“I was standing by him when he opened the safe. It’s a small one and there wasn’t much inside it. Certainly there was no envelope addressed to Captain Smollett, nor any sign that there had ever been one. Bolmer swore that he had not opened the safe that morning, and both of the desk clerks substantiated that. Bolmer and his two assistant managers are the only ones who know the combination, and the security spell only allows the assistant managers to open the safe during the time they are on duty, that is, from three p.m. till midnight for the afternoon manager and from midnight to nine a.m. for the night manager.”

Lord Darcy nodded. “That does rather narrow it down to Goodman Paul. Only he could have removed that packet from the safe.”

“My thought exactly,” said Commander Lord Ashley. “Naturally, I insisted upon speaking to Paul Nichols immediately, and asked for his home address. It turns out that he lived there in the hotel; he has a room up on the top floor. Bolmer took me up and I knocked on Nichols’ door, got no answer, and Bolmer let us in with a pass key. Nichols wasn’t in. His bed was made and certainly didn’t look as though it had been slept in. Bolmer said that was odd because usually Nichols goes out to have a bite to eat after he gets off work, then comes back to the hotel and sleeps until around six o’clock.”

“Did you find out whether Nichols took advantage of the hotel’s maid service?” Lord Darcy asked.

The Commander nodded. “He did. Nichols quite often went out of an evening, and the maid had orders to make up his room between 7:30 and 8:30. I looked the room over and checked through his things. He didn’t seem to have packed anything. His suitcase, empty, was in the closet, and Bolmer said that as far as he knew it was the only suitcase Nichols owned.”

“That’s the advantage of being a counterspy,” said Lord Bontriomphe with a sigh. “If an officer of the King’s Peace tried searching a man’s room without a warrant he’d find himself in the Court of the King’s Bench trying to explain to My Lord justice how he had come to make such a mistake.”

“Well, I didn’t really search the place,” Ashley said. “I was just taking a look around.”

“So,” said Lord Darcy, “you found that Nichols was not there and apparently had not been to bed since the bed was made on the previous evening.”

“Right. I questioned some of the hotel servants. No one had seen him come back from his breakfast — or perhaps for him it was supper — so I instructed Bolmer to say nothing but to let us know as soon as Nichols returned. Then I came back here and reported to Captain Smollett.”

Lord Darcy nodded and looked back at the captain.

“Been looking for him ever since. Sent men over to the hotel, to wait for him to come to work at midnight; he didn’t show up. Still no sign of him. Not a trace.”

“You suspect then,” said Lord Darcy, “that the disappearance of the packet and the disappearance of Nichols are linked. I agree with you. The contents of that envelope would have been in code, would they not, Captain?”

“Yes indeed. And not the simple code used for that note, either. Furthermore, Zwinge always used ink and paper with a special spell on it. If an unauthorized person broke the seal, the writing would vanish before he could get the paper out of the envelope.”

“Obviously, then, Nichols did not remove it from the safe, read it over, and decide that it was valuable on the spur of the moment.”

“Obviously not,” agreed Captain Smollett. “Furthermore, Zwinge was no fool. Wouldn’t have given it to Nichols unless he trusted him. Also, since the envelope had that protective spell on it, the only way to read the contents would be to get it to a magician who is clever enough and powerful enough to analyze and nullify Master Sir James Zwinge’s spell.”

“Do you have any idea what sort of information might have been in that envelope, Captain Smollett?” Lord Darcy asked.

“None. None whatsoever. Can’t have been terribly urgent — that is, not requiring immediate action — or Zwinge would have brought it here himself, in spite of everything. But it was certainly important enough to drive King Casimir’s agents to murder to get it.”

“How do you think this ties in with the murder of Barbour, then? And with the Navy’s new secret weapon?”

The captain scowled and puffed at his pipe for a few seconds. “Now there we’re on shaky ground. Obviously it was discovered that Barbour was a double agent; otherwise he wouldn’t have been killed.”

“I agree with you there,” said Lord Darcy.

“Very well. But that leaves us several possible speculations about FitzJean and about the Poles’ knowledge of the confusion projector.

“If, as we hope, they know nothing of the device, then they knew nothing about FitzJean except the purely mendacious material which Barbour had passed on to them. When they discovered he was a double agent, they simply killed him and ignored FitzJean. Information on fleet disposition isn’t worth taking any great pains over.

“However, I am afraid that we would be unrealistically optimistic to put any faith in the notion that the Polish Government is entirely unaware of the existence of the confusion projector.

“Much more likely, they are sparing no effort to find out what it is and how it works — which would still indicate that they know nothing whatever about FitzJean. If they did, they would certainly not have killed Barbour until they could get their hands on FitzJean — which, of course, they may have done. Or again they may already have the secret and not give two hoots in Hell about FitzJean.

“And finally, there is the possibility that FitzJean was himself a Polish agent sent in to test Barbour. When they discovered that Barbour’s output to them differed drastically from what they knew the input to be, his death warrant was sealed.”

Captain Smollett spread his hands. “But these are mere speculations; they tell us nothing. Important thing right now’s to get our hands on Paul Nichols. Would have given you this before, but, as I said, there’s actually nothing we can hold Nichols on. Can’t prove that envelope ever existed, much less that he stole it. So how could we turn the matter over to Officers of the King’s Justice?”

“My dear Captain, you should study something besides Admiralty law. Fleeing the scene of a crime is always enough evidence to warrant asking for a man’s arrest and detention for questioning. Now the first question any investigator asks himself is: Where would the suspect go? To the Polish Embassy?”

Smollett shook his head. “No. There’s a twenty-four hour watch on everyone entering or leaving the Polish Embassy.”

“Exactly. I know that. So do the Poles. But the local headquarters for this Polish espionage ring is somewhere in the City. Where?”

“Wish I knew,” said the captain. “Give half a year’s pay for that information. We have reason to believe that there are at least three separate rings operating here in London, each unknown to the others, or at least known only to a select few. We know some of the agents, of course. We keep an eye on ’em; I’ve had my men watching every known agent in London for the past eighteen hours. So far, no news. But what we do not know is where any of their headquarters might be. Hate to admit it, but it’s true. We have no hint, no suggestion, no clue of any kind.”

“Then the only way to find Nichols,” Lord Darcy said, “is to comb London for him. And that requires legwork. While your men are searching for him covertly, Lord Bontriomphe and the Armsmen of London can be looking for him for questioning on the charge of fleeing the scene of a crime.”

Bontriomphe nodded. “We can have a net out for him within an hour. If we find anything, Captain, I’ll let you know immediately.”

“Very good, m’lud.”

“I’d better get started on it,” Bontriomphe said, getting to his feet. “The quicker the better. If you need to contact me for any reason, Captain, send word to the Royal Steward. We have set up our headquarters there; there will be a Sergeant-at-Arms on duty at all times, and I shall be checking in there regularly.”

“Excellent. Thank you, m’lud.”

“I shall see you later, gentlemen. Good day.” Lord Bontriomphe walked out the door as if he were pleased at the prospect of finally having something he could sink his teeth into.

“As for me, Captain,” said Lord Darcy, “I should like to ask your indulgence in what I know may be a touchy matter.”

“What might that be?”

“I should like to have a look at your secret files, most especially at the letters from Barbour concerning FitzJean and the confusion projector.”

“M’lud,” said Captain Smollett with a wintery smile, “any Intelligence organization is justly jealous of its secret files and our Corps is no exception. Until now, these files have been classified Most Secret. Barbour’s existence as a double agent was known only to the high echelons of the Admiralty. But you’ve taken me to task once for withholding information. Won’t happen again. I shall have the pertinent files brought in so that both you and Commander Ashley can study them. And may I ask your indulgence?”

“Certainly, Captain, what is it?”

“With your permission, I’d like to make Commander Lord Ashley the liaison officer between the civilian investigators and the Navy. To be more specific, between you and me. He knows the Navy, he knows Intelligence work, and he knows something about criminal investigation. He was in the Naval C.I.D. before he was transferred to this Corps. His orders will be to assist you in every possible way. You agree, m’lud?”

“Of course, Captain. A splendid idea.”

“Very well, Commander; those are your orders then.”

“Aye, aye, Captain.” He smiled at Lord Darcy. “I’ll keep out from underfoot as much as possible, my lord.”

“That’s settled, then,” said Captain Smollett, getting to his feet. “Now I’ll go get those files.”

Master Sean O Lochlainn stood near the closed door of the murder room and surveyed its entire contents. Then he turned to Journeyman Sorcerer Lord John Quetzal who stood next to him. “Now, d’ye understand what we have to be careful of? We are not yet ready to take the preservative spell off the body, so we have to be careful that none of the spells that we’re working with inside the room interfere with it. D’ye understand?”

Lord John Quetzal nodded. “Yes, Master, I think I do.”

Master Sean smiled at him. “I think you do, too, my lad. You followed through on the blood tests beautifully.” He paused. “By the by, d’ye think you could do them by yourself next time, should you happen to be called upon to perform them?”

Lord John Quetzal glanced sideways at the little sorcerer. “The blood tests? Yes, Master Sorcerer, I think I could,” he said firmly.

“Ah, good.” Master Sean nodded with satisfaction. “But” — he raised a warning finger — “this next one’s a little tougher.

“We’re dealing here with psychic shock. Now, whenever a man’s hurt, or when he dies, there’s psychic shock — unless, of course, he just fades away in his sleep or something like that.

“But here we’re talking about violence.”

“I understand,” said Lord John Quetzal.

“All right. Now, you’re going to be my thurifer. The ingredients are laid out on the table. Now I’ll ask you to prepare the thurible, seeing as how it’s you that’s got to use it.”

“Very well, Master,” said the young Mechicain nobleman, with the tiniest trace of uneasiness in his voice.

On the table near the door sat the instrument which Master Sean had taken from his symbol-decorated carpetbag. It was a brazen pot with a perforated brazen cap, which, when assembled, would swing from the end of a clutch of chains some three feet long. Now, it was open, on the table.

Lord John Quetzal took several tools from his own carpetbag. Under the watchful eye and sharp ear of Master Sean O Lochlainn, the young sorcerer prepared the contents of the thurible.

After placing the brazen pot on an iron tripod, he fired up several lumps of charcoal in the bottom of it. Then, from the row of jars and bottles which had been lined up on the table, he took various ingredients and put them into his special golden mixing bowl, using a small golden spoon. With his own pencil-sized golden wand, he cast a spell over each ingredient as he added it, stirring it into the mixture.

There was frankincense and sweet balsam, samonyl and fenogreek, turmeric and taelesin, sandalwood and cedarwood, and four other lesser known but even more powerful ingredients — added in a precise order, each with its unique and individual spell.

And when he had finished the mixing, and cast the final spell, the journeyman sorcerer lifted his head and turned his dark eyes to the tubby little Master.

Sean O Lochlainn nodded his head. “Very well done. Very well done.” He smiled. “Now I’ll not ask you if you know what you’ve done. It’s a habit of mine to assume that a student lacks knowledge. Being, as it were, a student meself, I know how much knowledge I lack. And besides,” he chuckled, “as Lord Darcy would tell you, I’m a man who’s fond of lecturing.

“The spell we’re about to perform is a dynamic spell, and must be warded off by a dynamic spell — which means that in order to protect the body I’ll have to be working while you are censing the room. D’ye understand, my lad?”

“I do, Master.”

“Very well. Now, when you place that mixture into the thurible, there will be given off a smoke, which is composed of many different kinds of small particles. Because of the spell you’ve cast on them, these particles will tend to be attracted to, and adhere to, the walls and the furniture in this room in a particular manner.

“They will form what we call hologram patterns upon the surfaces they touch. Each of the different kinds of smoke particles forms its own pattern according to the psychic influences which have been impressed upon those surfaces. And by understanding the totality of those patterns we may identify definitely those psychic impressions.”

He folded his arms on his chest, looked up at the tall young Mechicain, and gave him his best Irish grin. “Ah, lad, you’re the kind of student a man looks for. You listen when the old master talks, and you don’t get bored by what you already know, because you’re waiting for more information.”

Again, that almost invisible flush colored John Quetzal’s dark skin. “Yes, Master Sean,” he said carefully, “I have learned pattern theory.”

“Aye — pattern theory you’ve learned. But you’re wise enough to admit that you know only theory, not practice.” He nodded his head in satisfaction. “You’ll make a fine forensic sorcerer, lad. A fine forensic sorcerer!” Then his smile twisted slightly. “That is, you have the right attitude, me lad. Now we’ll see if you have the technique.”

He turned away from Lord John Quetzal and looked again at the walls. “If you do this thing right, Lord John Quetzal, there will be, upon those walls, patterns in smoke particles, each individual pattern distinguished by the spell cast on the various substances, and the hologram patterns distinguished by the combination of those spells. No man without the Talent will see anything but slightly smudgy walls — if that. You and I will see the patterns, and I’ll do my best to show you how to interpret them.”

He turned again.

“Are you ready, my lad?”

Lord John Quetzal set his lips. “I’m ready, Master.”

“Very well, then.”

Master Sean took two wands from his symbol-decorated carpetbag, walked over to the corpse which lay near the edge of the desk, and stood over it. “I’m ready, lad. Go ahead. Watch your spells.”

The young Mechicain blew gently on the lumps of charcoal in the bottom of the thurible until they flared red-orange, then, his lips muttering a special spell, he poured the aromatic contents of the golden cup over the glowing coals. Immediately a dense cloud of white smoke rose toward the ceiling. Lord John Quetzal quickly fitted the perforated cap down over the bowl, locked it in place, and picked up the thurible by its clutch of chains. His left hand held the end of the chains, his right hand held them about halfway down, allowing the thurible to swing free. He moved over to the nearest wall, swinging the censer in a long arc, allowing the dense smoke to drift toward it.

He moved along the wall step by step, swinging the thurible rhythmically, his lips moving in time with it, and the dense smoke drifted along the walls and billowed upwards, spreading a clinging, heavy fragrance through the room.

While his assistant performed the censing, the Master Sorcerer stood immobile over the body, a long wand of glittering crystal in each hand, his arms flung wide to provide the psychic umbrella which would protect the corpse from being affected by the magical ritual that John Quetzal was enacting.

The Irish sorcerer’s pose did not seem strained. There was an aura of strength about him; he seemed taller, somehow; and his thick torso had an appearance of hardness about it. The light from the gas lamp glittered and flickered in the depths of the two crystal wands, flashing sparkling rainbows about the room.

The smoke from the censer avoided the area under Master Sean’s control. It billowed in great clouds, but there seemed to be an invisible force that kept that portion of the room totally clear of the tiny particles. Those microscopic bits of fragrant ash moved toward walls, furniture and ceiling, each clinging in its individual way — but none came near the powerful figure of the Master Sorcerer who shielded one area of evidence from their effect.

Three times, the young sorcerer made the circuit of the room with his swinging thurible, and except for that one specially protected area, the air grew dimly blue with smoke.

Then, while Master Sean still remained unmoving, he went back to the table, placed the hot, smoking thurible on the iron tripod, removed the perforated cap, and replaced it with a solid cap which cut off the flow of smoke and smothered the burning coals.

From his own symbol-decorated carpetbag, he took a silver wand with a knoblike thickening at one end. Grasping it by the other end, he turned and traced symbols in the air toward each wall in turn.

As he did so, the fog of smoke moved even more strongly toward the walls, and the air quickly cleared.

After a moment, Lord John Quetzal softly said: “It is finished, Master.”

Master Sean looked around the room, lowered his arms, walked over and put the two crystal wands back in his carpetbag. Then he surveyed the room once more.

“A fine job, my lad,” he said. “Indeed a fine job. Now, can you tell me what happened here?”

Lord John Quetzal looked. Although both sorcerers were using their eyes, it was not their eyes with which they saw. To a man without the Talent, the psychic patterns wrought by the acts which had taken place within the room, and brought out by the censing process, would have been totally invisible. To a man with the Talent they were quite clear.

But while Lord John Quetzal could perceive the patterns, he had not yet had enough training to interpret them. Master Sean sensed his hesitation. “Go ahead, lad,” he said. “Rely on your hunches. Make a guess. ’Tis the only way you can check on your perceptions, and thereby progress from supposition to certainty.”

“Well,” Lord John Quetzal began uncertainly, “it looks like—” He stopped, then said: “But of course that’s ridiculous. It just couldn’t be that way.”

Master Sean let out his breath in an exasperated manner. “Oh, lad, lad! You’re trying to second-guess yourself. You’re trying to make a logical interpretation before you’ve subjectively absorbed the data. Now I’ll ask you again. What does it seem to you happened?”

Lord John Quetzal took another look. This time he pivoted slowly, turning a full three hundred and sixty degrees, taking in every bit of his surroundings. Then, carefully, he said: “There was no one else in this room but Sir James…” He hesitated.

“That’s correct, absolutely correct,” said Master Sean. “Go on. You still haven’t said what it is that looks paradoxical.”

Lord John Quetzal said, in a faintly puzzled voice, “Master, it looks to me as though Sir James Zwinge were killed twice. Several minutes — perhaps as much as half an hour — intervened between the murders.”

Master Sean smiled and nodded. “You almost have it, lad. I think the results of the autopsy will bear you out. But you haven’t analyzed the full significance of what is there.” He made a broad sweeping gesture with his arm. “Take a good look at what the patterns show. There are two strong patterns superimposed chronologically. Two successive psychic shocks occurred while our late colleague was alone in this room. And, as you’ve pointed out, they were separated in time by half an hour. The first, d’you see, was when he was killed; the second occurred when he died.”