Too Many Magicians

CHAPTER 22

There were nine guests in the office of my lord the Marquis of London that night. Sir Frederique Bruleur had brought in enough of the yellow chairs to seat eight. Lord Bontriomphe and the Marquis sat behind their desks. Lord Darcy sat to the left of Bontriomphe’s desk, in the red leather chair, which had been swiveled around to face the rest of the company. From left to right, Lord Darcy saw, in the first row, Grand Master Sir Lyon Gandolphus Grey, Mary of Cumberland, Captain Percy Smollett, and Commander Lord Ashley. And in the second row, Sir Thomas Leseaux, Lord John Quetzal, Father Patrique, and Master Sean O Lochlainn. Behind them, near the door, stood Chief Master-at-Arms Hennely Grayme, who had told Sir Frederique that he preferred to stand.

Sir Frederique had served drinks all around, then had quietly retired.

My lord the Marquis of London looked them all over once and then said: “My lords, Your Grace, gentlemen.” He paused and looked them all over once again. “I will not say that it was very good of you to come. You are not here by invitation, but by fiat. Nonetheless, all but one of you have been asked merely as witnesses to help us discover the truth, and all but that one may consider themselves my guests.” He paused again, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. “It is my duty to inform you that you are all here to answer questions if they are put to you — not simply because I, as Lord of London, have requested your cooperation, but, more important, because you are here by order of our Most Dread Sovereign, His Majesty the King. Is that understood?”

Nine heads nodded silently.

“This is, then,” My Lord Marquis continued, “a Court of Inquiry, presided over by myself as justice of the King’s Court. Lord Bontriomphe is here as Clerk of the King’s Court. This may seem irregular but it is quite in accord with the law. Is all of that understood?” Again, there were nine silent nods of assent. “Very well. I hardly think I need say — although by law I must — that anything anyone of you says here will be taken down by Lord Bontriomphe in writing, and may be used in evidence.

“The Reverend Father Patrique, O.B.S., is here in the official capacity of amicus curia, as a registered Sensitive of Holy Mother Church.

“As official Sergeant-at-Arms, we have Chief Master-at-Arms Hennely Grayme of this City.

“Presenting the case for the Crown is Lord Darcy, at present of Rouen, Chief Investigator for His Royal Highness, Prince Richard, Duke of Normandy.

“Although this Court has the power to make a recommendation, it is understood that anyone accused may appeal without prejudice, and may be represented in such Court as our Most Dread Sovereign His Majesty the King may appoint, by any counsel such accused may choose.”

My Lord Marquis took another deep breath and cleared his throat. “Is all of that quite clear? You will answer by voice.” And a ragged chorus of voices said, “Yes, my lord.”

“Very well.” He heaved his massive bulk up from his chair, and everyone else stood. “Will you administer the oath, Reverend Father,” he said to the Benedictine. When the oath had been administered to everyone there, my lord the Marquis sat down again with a sigh of comfort. “Now, before we proceed, are there any questions?”

There were none.

The Marquis of London lifted his head a fraction of an inch and looked at Lord Darcy from beneath his brows. “Very well, my Lord Advocate. You may proceed.”

Lord Darcy stood up from the red leather chair, bowed in the direction of the Court, and said, “Thank you, my Lord Justice. Do I have the Court’s permission to be seated during the presentation of the Crown’s case?”

“You do, my lord. Pray be seated.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Lord Darcy settled himself again in the red leather chair.

His eyes searched each of the nine in turn, then he said, “We are faced here with a case of treason and murder.

“Although I am aware that most of you know the facts, legally I must assume that you do not. Therefore, I shall have to discuss each of those facts in turn. You must understand that the evidence proving these facts will be produced after my preliminary presentation.

“Three days ago, shortly before eleven o’clock on the morning of Tuesday, October 25, Anno Domini One Thousand Nine Hundred and Sixty-Six, a man named Georges Barbour was stabbed to death in a cheap rooming house in Cherbourg. Evidence which will be produced before this Court will show that Goodman Georges was a double agent; that is, he was a man who, while pretending to work for the Secret Service of His Slavonic Majesty King Casimir IX, was also in the pay of our own Naval Intelligence, and was, as far as the evidence shows, loyal to the Empire. Will you testify to that, Captain Smollett?” he asked, looking at the second chair from his right.

“I will, m’lud Advocate.”

“Very shortly after he was killed,” Lord Darcy went on, “Commander Lord Ashley of the Naval Intelligence Corps reported the discovery of Goodman Georges’ body to the Armsmen of Cherbourg. He also reported that he had been ordered to give one hundred golden sovereigns to Goodman Georges because the double agent in question needed it to pay off a certain Goodman FitzJean.”

Bit by bit, item by item, Lord Darcy outlined the case to those present, omitting no detail except the precise nature and function of the confusion projector. Lord Darcy described it simply as a “highly important Naval secret.”

He described the discovery of the murder of Sir James Zwinge, the attack upon the Damoselle Tia, the fight upon the bridge, the Damoselle Tia’s statement, the discovery of the body of Goodman Paul Nichols, and the search for and arrest of Master Ewen MacAlister.

“The questions before this Court,” Lord Darcy said, “are: Who killed those three men: And why? It is the contention of the Crown that one person, and one only, is responsible for all three deaths.”

He looked over the nine faces before him, trying to assess the expressions on their faces. Not one betrayed any sign of guilt, not even the one whom Lord Darcy knew was guilty.

“I see you have a question, Captain Smollett. Would you ask it, please? No, don’t bother to rise.”

Captain Smollett cleared his throat. “M’lud.” He paused, cleared his throat again. “Since we already have the guilty man under arrest, may I ask why this inquiry is necessary?”

“Because we do not have the guilty man under arrest, Captain. Master Ewen, no matter what his actual crimes, is not guilty of a single murder — much less a triple one.”

Captain Smollett said “Um,” and nothing more.

“You have before you, my lords, Your Grace, gentlemen, every bit of pertinent evidence. It is now the duty of myself as Advocate of the Crown to link up that evidence into a coherent chain. First, let us dismiss the theory that Master Ewen MacAlister was more than remotely connected with these murders. Master Ewen was, it is true, an agent of His Slavonic Majesty, working with the owner of the Manzana de Oro, the Sidi al-Nasir. This evidence can be produced later; let us merely accept these facts as true.”

He turned to the Chief of Naval Intelligence. “Captain Smollett.”

“Yes, m’lud?”

“I wish to put to you a hypothetical question, and for the sake of security let us keep it hypothetical. If… I say, if… you were aware of the identity of the Polish Chief of Intelligence for France and the British Isles, would you order him assassinated?”

Captain Smollett’s eyes narrowed. “No, m’lud, never.”

“Why not, Captain?”

“It would be stupid, m’lud. Yes. As long as we know who he is… uh… if we knew who he was… it would be much more to our advantage to keep an eye on him, to watch him; to see to it, in fact, that he got the information that we wanted him to have, rather than the information he wants. Also, our knowing the Chief of Polish Intelligence would lead us to his agents. It is much easier to keep the body under surveillance when one can identify the head, m’lud.”

“Then would you say, Captain, that it would be very stupid of Polish Intelligence to have murdered Master Sir James Zwinge?”

“Very stupid, m’lud. Wouldn’t be at all good Intelligence tactics. Not at all.” For a moment, Captain Smollett blinked solemnly, digesting this new thought.

“Not even if Master Sir James had discovered that Master Ewen was working for the Poles?” Lord Darcy asked.

“Hmn-m-m. Probably not. Much better to pull Master Ewen out, move him to another post, give him a new identity.”

“Thank you, Captain Smollett.

“Now. As you have seen,” his words took in the entire company, “there is some question about whether Master Ewen could have committed this crime by Black Magic, and so skillfully hidden the evidence thereof that his complicity in the crime was undetectable. I put it to you, my lords, Your Grace, gentlemen, that he could not.

“Father Patrique.” He looked at the Benedictine.

The priest bowed his head. “Yes, my lord?”

“You have examined Master Ewen since his arrest, Reverend Father?”

“I have, my lord.”

“Is Master Ewen’s Talent as strong, as powerful, as effective as that of Master Sean O Lochlainn?”

“My lord Advocate…” The good father then turned his attention to my lord of London. “…And may it please the Court…”

“Proceed, Reverend Sir,” said my lord the Marquis.

“…I feel that, while my own testimony is adequate, it is not the best. In answer to your direct question, my lord, I must say that Master Ewen’s Talent is weaker, far poorer, than that of Master Sean O Lochlainn.

“But I put it to you, my lords, that this is not the best evidence. Observe, if you will, the relative ease with which Master Sean conquered Master Ewen in the battle of wills at the Manzana de Oro. Observe how very simple it was to break the spells on Master Ewen’s room lock and upon the carpetbag in which he carried his tools. I beg your pardon, my lord Advocate, if I am out of order.”

“Not at all, Reverend Sir,” said Lord Darcy. “But I will ask you once more. Will you testify that Master Sean’s Talent is much more powerful than Master Ewen’s?”

“It is, my lord.”

Lord Darcy looked at Grand Master Sir Lyon Gandolphus Grey.

“Have you anything to add to this, Grand Master?”

Sir Lyon nodded. “If it please the Court, I should like to put a question to Commander Lord Ashley.”

“Permission granted,” rumbled de London. “Ask your question.”

“My Lord Commander,” said Sir Lyon. “You have described to the investigators the use by Master Ewen of the Tarnhelm Effect upon his smallsword. Would you—”

“One moment,” said Lord Darcy. “I should like My Lord Commander to testify directly. If you would, Lord Ashley?”

“Of course, my lord.”

Lord Darcy looked at Sir Lyon. “You want a description of the battle on Somerset Bridge, Sir Lyon?”

“Yes, if you please, my lord.”

Lord Darcy looked at Lord Ashley. “If you will, My Lord Commander.”

Lord Ashley described exactly the sword fight on the bridge.

Then Sir Lyon said, “With the Court’s permission I should like to ask the witness a question or two.”

“Granted,” said My Lord de London.

“My Lord Commander,” said Sir Lyon, “what kind of sword was Master Ewen using?”

“A smallsword, Grand Master. A sword with a triangular cross section — no edge — about two and a half feet in length — very sharp point.”

Sir Lyon nodded. “You saw it. Then, when he began to use it, it disappeared?”

“Not exactly disappeared, Sir Lyon,” Lord Ashley said. “It… it flickered. I… I find it difficult to explain. It is simply that I couldn’t keep my eyes on it. But I knew it was there.”

“Thank you, Commander,” said Sir Lyon. “Now, if the Court will permit, I will give my testimony. A really powerful sorcerer, such as Master Sir James or Master Sean O Lochlainn—”

“Or yourself?” Lord Darcy asked suddenly.

Sir Lyon smiled. “…Or myself, if you insist, my lord Advocate. Any powerful sorcerer could have made his sword so completely invisible as to be totally undetectable.”

“Thank you,” said Lord Darcy. “The question I wish to put before the Court is this: Is it possible that a man of Master Ewen’s limited Talent — even though it was of Master grade — could have acted out a rite of Black Magic and then covered it up to such an extent that neither Master Sean O Lochlainn nor the combined Talents of the other Masters of the Guild at the Convention could have failed to discover what he had done?”

“Absolutely impossible, my lord,” said Sir Lyon firmly.

Lord Darcy glanced back at the Benedictine priest. “What say you, Reverend Father?”

“I agree completely with Grand Master Sir Lyon,” Father Patrique said quietly.

Lord Darcy turned to look at the Marquis of London. “Is there any need at this point, my lord, to call to the Court’s attention the testimony of Master Sean O Lochlainn, Master Sorcerer, that he could detect no Black Magic involved in the murder of Master Sir James Zwinge?”

“You may proceed, my lord. If such evidence becomes necessary, Master Sean’s testimony will be called for if and when it is needed.”

“Thank you, my lord. We have” — Lord Darcy paused and looked the group over again — “then the evidence before us that Sir James Zwinge was killed by ordinary physical means. There was no Black Magic involved in the murder of Sir James Zwinge, and yet the evidence shows that he was alone in his room when he was stabbed at approximately nine o’clock and when he died half an hour later. Now, how could that be?

“I put it to you that we are far too prone to accept a magical explanation, when a simply material explanation will do.”

He leaned back in his chair, but before he could say anything, Sir Thomas Leseaux raised his hand. “If I may, my lord, I should like to say that any theory of this murder which includes thaumaturgical processes would be mathematically impossible — but I do not see how a man could have been killed in the middle of a locked room by ordinary material means.”

“That is why I must explain the Crown’s case,” said Lord Darcy. “Although, I repeat, the evidence is all before you.

“The point we have all tended to overlook is that a man need not be in the same room with another in order to kill him. There was no one else in Goodman Georges Barbour’s room when he was stabbed, true — and yet he fell so near the door that it is not only quite possible but very probable that someone standing in the hall stabbed him.”

“Come now,” said Commander Lord Ashley, “that may be possible with Goodman Georges, but it certainly does not apply to Master Sir James.”

“Oh, but it does, My Lord Commander,” Lord Darcy said. “Given the proper implement, Master Sir James might easily have been stabbed from the hallway outside his room.”

“But — through a locked door?” asked Lord John Quetzal.

“Why not?” asked Lord Darcy. “Locked doors are not impermeable. The doors to the rooms in the Royal Steward are very old — couple of centuries or more. Look at the size of the key required to open them. And then look at the size of the keyhole required to admit such a large, heavy key. Although the door to Sir James’ room was locked, its keyhole was easily large enough to admit a one-inch wide blade.”

Lord Darcy looked at Master Sean O Lochlainn. “You have a question, Master Sean?”

“That I do, my lord. I agree with you that the blade that stabbed Master Sir James came in through the keyhole. At your suggestion, I took scrapings from the keyhole and found traces of Sir James’ blood. But” — he smiled a little — “if your lordship will pardon me, I suggest a demonstration of how a man could be given a high downward stab through a keyhole.”

“I agree,” said Lord Darcy. “First, I must direct the Court’s attention to the peculiar bloodstain near the door. A full description of that bloodstain appears in the written record.”

My lord the Marquis nodded. “It does. Proceed, my lord Advocate.”

Lord Darcy turned and looked to his right at Lord Bontriomphe. “Would you ask Sir Frederique to bring in the door?”

Lord Bontriomphe reached behind him and pulled a cord. The rear door opened and Sir Frederique Bruleur, followed by an assistant, brought in a heavy oaken door. They placed it in the center of the room between the area of yellow chairs and the Marquis’ desk, and held it upright.

“This demonstration is necessary,” said Lord Darcy. “This door is exactly similar to the one on Sir James’ room. It is taken from another room of the Royal Steward Hotel. Can all of you see both sides of it? Good.

“Master Sean, would you do me the favor of playing the part of your late colleague?”

“Of course, my lord.”

“Excellent. Now, you will stand on” — he gestured — “that side of the door, so that the door handle and keyhole are on your left. For the purposes of this demonstration, I shall play the part of the murderer.” He picked up a sheet of paper from Lord Bontriomphe’s desk. “Now, let’s see. Lord Ashley, might I borrow your sword?”

Without a word, Commander Ashley drew his narrow-bladed Naval sword from its sheath and presented it to Lord Darcy.

“Thank you, Commander. You have been most helpful throughout this entire investigation.

“Now, Master Sean, if you will take your place, we shall enact this small play. You must all assume that what you are about to see actually occurred, but you must not assume that the words I use were those that were actually used. There may have been slight variations.”

Master Sean stood on one side of the door. Lord Darcy walked up to the other and rapped.

“Who is there?” said Master Sean.

“Special courier from the Admiralty,” said Lord Darcy in a high-pitched voice that did not sound like his own.

“You were supposed to pick up the envelope at the desk,” said Master Sean.

“I know, Sir James,” said Lord Darcy in the same high-pitched voice, “but this is a special message from Captain Smollett.”

“Oh, very well,” said Master Sean, “just push it under the door.”

“I am to deliver it only into your hands,” said Lord Darcy, and with that he inserted the tip of the sword blade into the keyhole.

“Just push it under,” said Master Sean, “and I’ll take it. It will have been delivered into my hand.”

“Very well, Sir James,” said Lord Darcy. He knelt and, still keeping the tip of the sword blade in the keyhole, he pushed the paper underneath the door.

Master Sean, on the other side, bent over to pick it up.

And, at that point, Lord Darcy thrust forward with the sword.

There was a metallic scrape as the sword point touched Master Sean’s chest.

Immediately Lord Darcy pulled the sword back. Master Sean gasped realistically, staggered back several feet, then fell to the floor. Lord Darcy pulled the paper from beneath the door and stood up.

“Master Sean,” he said, “happens to be wearing an excellent shirt of chain mail — which, unfortunately, Master Sir James was not.

“You see, then, what happened. Master Sir James, bending over to pick up the proffered envelope, presented his left breast to the keyhole.

“The sword came through and stabbed him. A single drop of his blood fell — half of it falling upon the carpet, the other half upon the presumed message. The blade itself would stop the flow of blood until it was withdrawn and Master Sir James staggered back away from the door.

“He collapsed in a state of shock. His wound, though deep, was not immediately dangerous, since the blade had not severed any of the larger blood vessels, nor pierced the lung. There was some bleeding, but not a great deal. He lay there for approximately half an hour.

“The weapon had, however, cut the wall of the great pulmonic aorta to such an extent that there was only a layer of tissue keeping it intact.

“At half past nine, Master Sean, who had an appointment with him at that time, rapped on the door.

“The noise of the knocking roused Master Sir James from his stupor. He must have known that time had passed; he must have been aware that it was Master Sean at the door. Lifting himself from the floor, he grabbed at his desk, upon which were lying the key to his room and his silver-bladed contact cutter. He cried out to Master Sean for help.

“But this increased strain was too much for the thin layer of tissue which had thus far held the walls of the pulmonic aorta together. The increased pressure burst the walls of the blood vessel, spurting forth Sir James’ life blood. Sir James collapsed again to the floor, dropping the knife and his key. He died within seconds.”

Master Sean arose from the floor, carefully brushing off his magician’s robe. Sir Frederique and his assistant removed the door.

“If it please the Court,” the Irish sorcerer said, “the angle at which My Lord Darcy’s thrust struck my chest would account exactly for the wound in Sir James’ body.”

Lord Darcy carefully put the sword he was holding on Lard Bontriomphe’s desk. “You see, then,” he said, “how Master James was killed, and how he died.

“Now, as to what happened:

“We must go back to the mysterious Goodman FitzJean. That Tuesday morning, he had discovered that Goodman Georges was a double agent. It became necessary to kill him. He walked up to Goodman Georges’ room and knocked on the door. When Goodman Georges opened the door, FitzJean thrust forward with a knife and killed him. Naturally, there was no evidence that anyone was in the room with Georges Barbour, simply because there wasn’t. FitzJean was standing in the hallway.

“Barbour had already discovered FitzJean’s identity and, earlier that morning, had sent a letter to Zed — Sir James Zwinge. FitzJean, in order to keep his identity from being discovered, came here to London. Then he managed to get hold of a communication, which — so he believed — reported his identity to the Admiralty. It was, he thought, a letter to the Admiralty reporting the information from Barbour which disclosed FitzJean’s identity. He immediately went up to Sir James’ room, and, using that same envelope, which, of course, would identify it as an Admiralty message, tricked Sir James into bending over near the keyhole” — Lord Darcy gestured with one hand — “with the results which Master Sean and I have just displayed to you.”

His eyes moved over the silent group before him. “By this time, of course, you all realize who the killer is. But, fortunately, we have further proof. You see, he failed to see the possibility of an error in his assumptions. He assumed that a letter sent by Barbour on the morning of Tuesday, October 25th, would arrive very early in the morning of Wednesday, the 26th, the following day. He further assumed that Barbour would have sent the letter to the Royal Steward Hotel, and that Barbour’s letter, plus his own communication, was what was contained in the envelope addressed to the Admiralty by Sir James Zwinge.

“But, he failed to realize that Barbour might not have known that Sir James was at the Royal Steward, that indeed it was far more probable, from that point of view, for Barbour to address the letter to Sir James here at the Palace du Marquis.”

He rose from his chair and walked to the desk of the Marquis. “May I have the envelope, my lord justice?” he asked.

Without a word, the Marquis de London handed Lord Darcy a pale blue envelope.

Lord Darcy looked at it. “This is postmarked Cherbourg. Tuesday October 25, is marked as the posting date, and it is marked as having been received on Wednesday morning, the 26th. It is addressed to Sir James Zwinge.”

He turned back toward the group, and noted with approval that Chief Master-at-Arms Hennely Grayme had moved up directly behind one man.

“There was one peculiarity about these communications,” he continued blandly. “Master Sir James had given to his agents special paper and ink, a special blue sealing wax, and a special seal. These had been magically treated so that unless the envelope was opened by either Master Sir James himself or by Captain Smollett, the paper within would be blank. Am I correct, Captain Smollett?”

“Yes, m’lud.”

Lord Darcy looked at the envelope in his hand. “That is why this envelope has not been opened. Only you can open it, Captain, and we have reason to believe that it will disclose to you the identity of the so-called Goodman FitzJean — Sir James’ murderer. Would you be so good as to open it?”

The Naval officer took the envelope, broke the blue seal, lifted the flap, and took out a sheet of paper. “Addressed to Sir James,” he said. “Barbour’s handwriting; I recognize it.”

He did not read the entire letter. When he was halfway through, his head turned to his left. “You!” he said, in a low, angry, shocked voice.

Commander Lord Ashley rose to his feet and his right hand reached toward his sword scabbard.

And then he suddenly realized it was empty, that the sword was halfway across the room, on Lord Bontriomphe’s desk. At the moment of that realization, he recognized one other thing — that there was something pressed against his back.

Chief Master-at-Arms Hennely Grayme, holding his pistol steady, said, “Don’t try anything, my lord. You’ve killed enough as it is.”

“Have you anything to say, Commander?” Lord Darcy asked.

Ashley opened his mouth, closed it, swallowed, then opened it again to speak. His eyes seemed to be focused upon something in the far distance.

“You have me, my lords,” he said hoarsely. “I’m sorry I had to kill anybody, but… but, you would have thought me a traitor, you see. I needed the money, but I would never have betrayed the Empire. I didn’t know the secret.” He stopped again and put his left hand over his eyes. “I knew that Barbour was a Polish agent. I didn’t know he was a double agent. I thought I could get some money from him. But I… I wouldn’t have betrayed my King. I was just afraid someone would think I had, after that.”

He stopped, took his hand down. “My lords,” his voice quivered as he tried to keep it even, “I should like to make my confession to Father Patrique. After that, I should like to make my confession to the Court.”

The Marquis de London nodded at Lord Darcy. He nodded back at the Marquis. “You have the Crown’s permission, my lord,” said Lord Darcy, “but I must ask you to leave behind your scabbard and your jacket.”

Without a word, Commander Lord Ashley dropped his sword belt on the chair behind him, removed his jacket and put it on top of it.

“Chief Hennely,” the Marquis de London said, “I charge you to take this man prisoner upon his own admission. Take him to the outer room, where the Reverend Father may hear his sacramental confession. You will observe the laws pertaining thereto.”

“Yes, my lord,” said Chief Hennely, and the three of them left the room.

“And now, my lord Advocate,” said the Marquis. “Would you kindly report the full story to the Court and the witnesses present”

Lord Darcy bowed. “I shall, my lord.

“I first began to suspect Ashley when I saw that, according to the register, he had come into the hotel at 8:48 on Wednesday, giving as his business there the delivery of a message for Master Sean — and yet he had not even attempted to locate Master Sean until 9:25, when he spoke to Lord Bontriomphe. But that is neither here nor there, my lord. Here is what happened.

“As he told us, Ashley needed money. I will explain why in a few moments. He attempted to sell a secret he did not have and could not prove he had. Finally he was reduced to accepting a payment of one hundred golden sovereigns from Georges Barbour merely to identify himself.

“On Monday night when he arrived in Cherbourg, he went to Barbour to identify himself and was told that he would be paid the following morning. Then, Tuesday morning, Commander Ashley was told to take the hundred sovereigns to Goodman Georges.

“At that point, he panicked — not as you or I might think of panic, but cold, frightened panic, for that is the way Ashley’s mind works.

“He knew that once he took the money to Barbour in his own persona, Barbour would recognize him. Besides, he knew that his scheme had fallen through, since Barbour was a double agent. So he went up to Barbour’s room, and, when Barbour opened the door, Ashley stabbed him, using a cheap knife he had bought for the purpose.

“Then he reported the murder, assisted by the fact that the concierge of Barbour’s rooming house had, fortunately for him, been out for a few minutes before Lord Ashley arrived. But he also found that, in the meantime, the information as to his identity had already been sent to Zed. Therefore, he had to cut off that information; he had to prevent it from reaching the Admiralty.”

Lord Darcy took a deep breath. “In a way,” he said, “you might say that I assisted him. Naturally, I did not know at that time that Ashley was a killer. Therefore, I made a request that he transmit a message to Master Sean. That enabled him to get into the Royal Steward Hotel.

“At 6:30 Wednesday morning, the mail from Cherbourg was delivered to the Royal Steward. Master Sir James picked up his at 7:00. Then, having decoded the messages he received, he went down to the desk and asked a man whom he trusted, Goodman Paul Nichols, to hold an envelope for an Admiralty courier, and at the same time he sent one of the hotel boys to the Admiralty with a message for Smollett to pick up the packet.

“Sir James returned to his room, followed by the Damoselle Tia. There followed the discussion and argument which all of you have heard of. When Tia left, Master Sir James locked his door for the last time. At 8:48 Lord Ashley arrived, ostensibly looking for Master Sean. He walked up to the registration desk and started to ask for Master Sean. But Paul Nichols immediately assumed that he was the courier from the Admiralty.”

Lord Darcy gestured with an open hand. “This can’t be proved, of course, but it fits in precisely. Nichols must have said something like this: ‘Ah, Commander, you are the courier from the Admiralty to pick up Sir James’ packet? And what could Lord Ashley do? He said, ‘Yes.’ He took the packet. Sir James’ room number was on the outside of that envelope, and Lord Ashley went directly to that room.

“Then he and Sir James played out some version of the little act that Master Sean and I enacted.”

He made a slight gesture with one hand. “And there I should like to point out a peculiar thing. Murderers are quite often — more often than we like to think — very lucky. It is quite possible that sheer luck could have allowed an ordinary person to kill Sir James in the precise manner in which he was killed. An ordinary person, if luck were with him, could have made that thrust through the door after having decoyed Sir James into just the right position, and the results would have been the same as they actually were.

“But that was not the way that Commander Ashley operated. The Commander has one advantage: Occasionally, in times of emotional stress, he is able to see a short time into the future.

“I call your attention again to that keyhole. The door is thick. The keyhole, though large enough to admit the blade of a Naval sword, allows very little play for it. There is no way to aim that blade except in the direction the keyhole guides it.

“Even when Sir James was maneuvered into position by the Commander’s use of the letter under the door, the odds against Sir James being in precisely the right position were formidable.

“Just think of the positions it is possible to take to pull a piece of paper from under a door.

“The attitude which Sir James actually assumed is the most likely one, but would any reasonably intelligent murderer depend upon it? I think not.

“This, then, was another of the many clues which led me to identify Commander Lord Ashley as the murderer. Because of the emotional tension he was undergoing, his prophetic ability allowed him to know — know beyond any shadow of a doubt — precisely where Sir James would be and when he would be there. And he knew exactly what he would have to do to get Sir James into that position.

“Sir James would not allow Commander Ashley in the room; he would not unlock the door for him. Therefore, Ashley had to kill him by the only means available. And because of his touch of the Talent, he was able to do so.

“The sword went through the keyhole in a straight line. A single drop of blood fell — half of it on the carpet, the other half on the envelope.

“I think that is perfectly clear. Lord Ashley then returned the envelope to his pocket and his sword to his sheath. That is why I asked him to leave both jacket and scabbard.”

He gestured toward the chair where the Commander had left his sword belt and jacket. Master Sean had already looked the jacket over.

“You were right, my lord,” he said, “there’s a smear on the inside of his jacket pocket, and I have no doubt that there’ll be another inside the scabbard.”

“Nor do I,” agreed Lord Darcy. “Let me continue. At that point, Lord Ashley realized something else. He realized that one man — and one man only — knew that he had picked up that packet.

“I don’t know exactly how Paul Nichols died, but I respectfully suggest to the Court that it was something like this:

“Commander Lord Ashley arrived back in the lobby just at 9:00 and saw Nichols leaving. The hallway toward the back door is easily visible from the lobby; he must have seen Nichols leaving his own office.

“He went back and told Nichols some kind of story, and lured him into the furniture room. A quick blow to the head and a rope around the neck” — Lord Darcy snapped his fingers — “and Goodman Paul Nichols was eliminated as a witness.

“Then, I think, panic must have struck Lord Ashley again. Standing there in that closet, over the body of a man he had just strangled, he wanted to see what was in that packet. He tore it open, scattering pieces of blue sealing wax over the body of the man he had just killed.

“And, of course, he saw nothing, for the papers came out a total blank. I presume he burnt those papers later. It would have been the intelligent thing to do.

“But he still had one more thing to do. He had to relay my message to Master Sean.

“He found Lord Bontriomphe in the lobby and — well, you all know what happened after that.

“However, I’d like to point out in passing that Lord Ashley actually returned to the lobby around 9:10, although he did not speak to Bontriomphe until 9:25. The obvious assumption is that he was afraid to speak to any sorcerer for fear that his emotional state would give him away, and that not until he saw Lord Bontriomphe could he find the courage to speak to anyone.”

Captain Smollett raised his right hand and the golden stripes of rank at his cuff gleamed in the gaslight. “A question, m’lud, if I may.” His normal hearty complexion now seemed somewhat grayed. It is not easy for the head of an Intelligence operation to discover that one of his most trusted men has betrayed him.

“Of course, Captain. What is it?”

“I think I understand what the Commander did and how he did it. What I don’t understand is why. D’you have any idea, my lord?”

“Until just a few hours ago, Captain, that was the main thing that bothered me. His motive was a desire for money. As a matter of fact, a conversation I had with him yesterday at the Admiralty showed that he could only think of betrayal in terms of money. Every motive that he attributed to other possible suspects had a monetary basis.

“But, until the raid at the Manzana de Oro I did not understand the motive behind the motive. I did not know why he needed money so badly.

“Master Ewen MacAlister has made a full confession, and since this is merely a Court of Inquiry I can tell you what it contained without bringing him here as a witness.” He paused and smiled. “At the moment, I am afraid that Master Ewen is in no condition to appear as a witness.”

He placed the tips of his fingers together and looked down at the toes of his boots. “Master Sorcerer Ewen MacAlister, in the pay of the Polish Government, was working with the Sidi al-Nasir of the Manzana de Oro to obtain Commander Lord Ashley’s services as a Polish agent by blackmailing him.

“When the wheel spins — when the card turns — when the dice tumble — a gambler feels a momentary surge of psychic tension. That is why the gambler gambles — because of the thrill. Lord Ashley’s advantage was that when these surges of tension came, he was occasionally able to see what the winning play would be.

“Not often, mind you; the tension was not that great. But it gave the Commander what gamblers call an ‘edge.’ The odds in his favor were increased. The Commander won when he played — not always, and not spectacularly, but regularly.

“The Commander’s rare ability, of course, is not detectable by the sorcerers who work in any gambling club. It cannot even be detected by a Master Sorcerer.” He looked at Sir Thomas Leseaux. “Am I correct, Sir Thomas?”

The theoretical thaumaturgist nodded. “You are correct, my lord. That particular form of the Talent, since it deals with time, and since it is passive rather than active — that is, observational in nature — is undetectable. Unlike the clairvoyant, whose Talent allows him to see through space, and, occasionally, into the past, the precognitive sense, which operates into the future, is almost impossible to predict, train, or control.”

Sir Thomas Leseaux shrugged slightly. “Perhaps one day a greater mathematician than I will solve the problem of the asymmetry of time. Until then…” He shrugged again, and left his sentence hanging.

“Thank you, Sir Thomas,” said Lord Darcy. “However, it is possible for a sorcerer to thwart, under certain circumstances, the precognitive sense. Master Ewen MacAlister proceeded to act upon the gambling devices at the Manzana de Oro when, and only when, Commander Lord Ashley was playing.

“The Commander began to lose. Before he knew it, he was deeply in debt — and because of that he did what he did.”

Lord Darcy smiled. “By the way — and this is something that Master Ewen made a great point of in his confession — I should like all of you to think for a moment of Master Ewen’s position on Somerset Bridge last night, when he suddenly realized he was faced by a man who was predicting his every action. However, that is by the by.

“Actually, My Lord Commander was able to perpetrate his crimes because of fantastic good luck. He did not plot his actions; he merely acted on impulse and managed to commit one of the most baffling crimes it has ever been my good fortune to investigate.

“And then by an equally fantastic stroke of bad luck, he was betrayed. He is an adroit and cool man when faced with danger; he can act or he can lie with equal facility. Excellent attributes in an Intelligence agent, I must admit. But the lie he told in Sidi al-Nasir’s office simply did not hold water. Yesterday afternoon, when we were looking for Paul Nichols, I asked you, Captain, if you had any notion of where he might be hiding, of where the headquarters of this Polish espionage ring might be. And you said you had no notion, none whatever.

“But, in Sidi al-Nasir’s office this evening, Lord Ashley calmly admitted that he owed the Sidi some one hundred and fifty golden sovereigns, a rather large amount of money even for a Commander in His Majesty’s Navy.

“His explanation to me was that Naval Intelligence had long suspected the Sidi and that he, the Commander, had contrived to get himself into debt so that Sidi al-Nasir would propose that the Commander pay the debt off by acting as an agent for His Slavonic Majesty.

“That is why I say that his luck, at that point, had turned from fantastically good to fantastically bad. In actual fact, Commander Lord Ashley had no notion that Sidi al-Nasir was in the pay of the Poles. He had got himself into debt at the Manzana de Oro, and the Sidi had threatened to inform you of that fact. What would you have done, Captain Smollett, if you had been so informed? Would you have cashiered the Commander?”

“Doubt it,” said Smollett. “Would have had him transferred, of course. Can’t have a man who gambles that way in Intelligence work. I don’t object to gambling in itself, my lord; but a man should only gamble what he has — not upon his expectations.”

“Exactly,” said Lord Darcy. “I quite understand. There would, however, have been a black mark upon his record? He would have had little chance to rise above his present rank?”

“Little chance, my lord? I should say none whatever. Couldn’t give a man Captain’s stripes with a mark like that against him.”

Lord Darcy nodded. “Of course not. And Ashley knew that. He had to do something to pay off Sidi al-Nasir. So he concocted this fantastic scheme to pry money out of a man whom he knew to be a Polish agent. As His Grace the Archbishop of York remarked to me yesterday, there is no evil in this man. There is, as you can see, only desperation. I think we can believe his statement that he would not willingly betray King and Country.

“Had Sidi al-Nasir made his proposition to My Lord Commander two weeks ago, or even only a week ago, none of this would have happened. It is my personal opinion that if al-Nasir had asked Lord Ashley to pay off his debt by betraying his country before tonight, his lordship’s facile mind would have come up with the same lie that he told me this evening, except, Captain Smollett, that he would have told it to you.

“What would you have said if — say, a week ago — the Commander had come to you and told you that, by deliberately going into debt, he had trapped the head of the local Polish spy ring into betraying himself? That he, Commander Ashley, had been asked to become a double agent and could now become — if the term is proper — a triple agent? Be honest, Captain, what would you have said?”

Captain Smollett looked at his knees for what seemed a long time. The others in the room seemed to be holding their breaths, waiting. When Captain Smollett raised his eyes it was to look at the Marquis de London rather than at Lord Darcy. “If it please the Court, my lord,” he said slowly. There was pain in his eyes. “I am forced to admit that had things come about the way Lord Darcy has just outlined them, I should have believed Commander Lord Ashley’s story. I should very likely have recommended him for promotion.”

At that moment, the door opened, and Father Patrique came in. He was followed by Commander Lord Ashley, whose face was pale and whose wrists were encased in padded shackles. In the rear came the watchful-eyed Chief Master-at-Arms Hennely Grayme, his pistol holstered, but his hand ready.

“My Lord justice,” the priest said gravely, “it is my duty to request the attention of the Court.”

“The Court recognizes the Reverend Father Patrique as amicus curia,” the Marquis rumbled.

“My Lord justice,” the good Father said, “My Lord Ashley, a Commander of the Imperial Navy of Our Most Dread Sovereign the King, wishes, of his own free will, to make a statement and deposition before this Court.”

The Marquis de London glanced once at Lord Bontriomphe, who was taking down everything in his notebook, then back at Lord Ashley.

“You may proceed,” he said.