Ten Little Wizards: A Lord Darcy Novel (3 page)

Lord Peter nodded to the two guards flanking the doors, and entered the throne room. The King was not present; the two hours of public audience did not begin until two o’clock. But Marquis Sherrinford, resplendant in his forest-green and silver court costume, was already at his small desk to the side of the ancient oak throne, sorting dockets, perusing files, listening to urgent pleas, deciding who would get to see His Majesty today and who would not. Harbleury, the gnomelike ancient who was his personal assistant and was privy to more of the secrets of state than many a duke, stood behind him.

Lord Peter looked with concern at his master as he approached. Marquis Sherrinford suffered from headaches. For the past year they had been growing more frequent and stronger, and had proved beyond the reach of the healer’s arts. He refused to consider easing up on his duties, and indeed, the headaches did not seem to be affecting his judgment; but at times these days he was difficult to work with. Besides, above everything else, he was Lord Peter’s good friend, and being impotently unable to help a friend in pain is not a good feeling.

“Ah, good day, Lord Peter,” His Lordship said, taking his spectacles off and looking up as his private secretary approached. He rubbed at his temples briefly with his thumbs, then replaced the wire-rim spectacles. “You bring the day’s post from London, I presume. Anything of note?”

Lord Peter removed the blue-tied bundle from his shoulder bag. “For His Lordship, the Duke of Clarence,” he said. Then, removing the remaining green-tied bundle: “For Your Lordship.”

“I shall pass this on to His Lordship of Clarence immediately,” Marquis Sherrinford said. “Harbleury, see to it. Now, is there anything in our pile that demands our immediate attention?”

Lord Peter took the letter from his inside pocket and passed it over to the King’s Equerry. “I fancy Your Lordship will agree that this merits such,” he said.

Marquis Sherrinford took his spectacles off, wiped them with a bit of white linen, carefully hooked them back behind his ears, and then unfolded the three sheets of stiff paper. “Ha,” he said. “Hmm.”

Lord Peter looked up at Harbleury, who had passed the blue-tied bundle of documents on to an aide and was once again standing at his master’s back. He raised an eyebrow slightly, and Harbleury shook his head. The nonverbal exchange of information was complete. Is His Lordship suffering from one of his attacks? Not at the moment, as far as Harbleury could tell. Lord Peter nodded his thanks to the old man.

Marquis Sherrinford stared at each page of the letter long enough to have read it several times, and then gathered them together and laid the letter on the table, neatly and precisely. A frown formed across his brow. “What do you think, Peter?” he asked without looking up.

“I think we must treat it as though it is true,” Lord Peter said. “Although I will at once, of course, try to check through my own sources.”

“Yes,” the Marquis said impatiently, “but what do you
think?
Is it true?”

I can only say that I’ll investigate,” Lord Peter repeated. “I have heard nothing of it. It is very hard to establish a negative, so if it is not true, we may be some time in proving it. in the meantime, we must proceed as though it were fact.”

Marquis Sherrinford tapped the end of his pen impatiently on the desk top. “Why have none of your sources picked it up?”

Lord Peter shrugged. “Perhaps because it isn’t true. Perhaps because it is well hidden. Perhaps because I am incompetent, Your Lordship.”

The Marquis glanced up sharply, looking over his wire-rim spectacles. “Take this seriously, Lord Peter, but not personally. Somewhere in this kingdom there must be a man more competent and more loyal than yourself, and more able at his job, but l have not met him.” He picked up the stiff sheets of paper and shook them, making them rattle. “We must act. Go find His Grace the Archbishop of Paris, Richard of Normandy, Sir Darryl Longuert, and Lord Darcy, and ask them to do me the honor of meeting with me in the Map Room at four o’clock, Do it personally; we want as few ears and mouths privy to this as possible. And return yourself, of course.”

“Of course, my lord,” Lord Peter said. He bowed and turned away, his footsteps ringing hollowly on the tile floor as he strode toward the ceremonial doors of state, the fastest way to the private quarters where he would probably find His Grace the Archbishop. His perusal of the Queen’s Corridor would have to wait.

“Now,” Marquis Sherrinford said, sticking the offending letter in in the inner pocket of his dress tunic and turning back to the other papers on his table. “I have an appointment with that Italian healer fellow at one o’clock. Probably can’t help me, but I’d better go. Which gives us twenty more minutes to devote to this, Harbleury; let’s get to it.”

* * * * * * *

Twenty minutes later
Harbleury tapped his master on the shoulder. “It is time for your appointment, my lord,” he said.

“What? Oh, yes. Suppose I’d better go. Damn nuisance, though. This fellow—what’s his name...?”

“Count d’Alberra, my lord. Very highly recommended, my lord.”

“Yes. Well, I suppose anything’s better than the damn headaches. It’s just that I can’t afford the time right now.”

“You never can, my lord,” Harbleury told him. “Your cloak, my lord.”

“You’re right as usual, Harbleury,” Marquis Sherrinford said, rising and letting his assistant help him on with the ornate cloak. “Tidy things up here and go prepare the Map Room for our four o’clock meeting. And—thank you.”

Marquis Sherrinford left the throne room, traversed the Great Hall, and buttoning his cloak around him against the rain, left the main building. He crossed the outer bailey of Arthur Keep—which was now actually an inner bailey, as construction over the centuries had surrounded Arthur Keep with new layers of castle. He was pleased to see that the drainage system was working well and the bailey was staying fairly puddle-free even under this heavy assault of spring flooding. He must remember to commend the Castle maintenance crew.

Against what had been the bailey’s outer wall nestled the monastery of Saint Stephain, where pious, dedicated, and Talented men had studied and advanced the healing arts for the past five hundred years. He approached it and knocked at the tiny front door, over which, deeply chiseled, were the words
sed libera nos a malo
: “but deliver us from evil.” After a moment a lay brother opened the door and admitted him.

Some of the greatest healers of the past centuries had been Stephainites. In the fourteenth century the Stephainite monk Saint Hilary Robert had the flash of insight that showed a mathematical relationship within certain healing arts. Then he spent the next twenty years of his life working out exactly what that relationship was. When he was done, he published the
Mathematicka Manticka
, establishing the logical basis for the laws of magic, and the physical world was never again the same.

Not everyone had the Talent, for unknown reasons, but those who did could study his principles and achieve consistent, reproducible results. Healers could practice the Laying On of Hands, and with the license of the Mother Church, confidently expect to help many, if not most, of their patients. The art of healing was the first of the magical arts to be exploited, and perhaps was the best understood to this very day.

Over the centuries men and women had come to the Stephainite monastery at Walsingham, where Saint Hilary Robert had lived, or to the other centers at Liverno, Geneva, and here at Castle Cristobel, to be trained in the healing arts.

But some ills lay outside the skills of the healers. A broken bone, for example, had to be reset by a chirurgeon before the Laying of Hands would speed the recovery. And some ills seemed to lie outside the art of healing.

The cure for most headaches lay within the healing arts. A headache caused by tension, by anxiety, by the retreat of an overly worried mind into pain, could be eased even by lay healers. Of course, the underlying cause would have to be treated or the pain would recur, but it could be eased. A headache caused by a complex sickness of the mind, or a headache with an underlying physical cause, such as a brain tumor, called for the services of professional healers, usually priests, who were well trained in the specialty in question. But usually these, too, gave way before the healer’s art; sometimes combined with the chirurgeon’s skill.

But magic and healing were human arts, and thus imperfect; Miracles remained the province of the Divine. Some broken arms failed, for unknown reasons, to heal properly; some infections spread and worsened despite the most accomplished healer’s hands; some headaches refused to depart.

Marquis Sherrinford’s headaches had at first been minor and easily abated by his family healer. But as they grew more frequent, and more extreme, they proved intractable to the Laying On of Hands. Some of the best sensitives in the Empire had examined him, and all agreed that they could find no underlying physical or mental cause.

The Marquis bore his affliction with dignity and disdain, refusing to allow it to interfere with his work or his private life. But he also was wise enough not to allow himself to become a martyr. When the possibility of a new cure came along, he was willing to try it, provided it did not sound too silly or take up too much of his time.

Father Phillip, the elderly abbot who was in temporal charge of the monastery, met Marquis Sherrinford at the door to his small, uncluttered office, where the lay brother brought him. “Good to see you again, my lord,” he said, waving the Marquis to one of the two hard-backed chairs. “Let us pray that we can do something for you this time.”

“Visiting you is always a welcome pause in a too-hectic day, Father,” Marquis Sherrinford said, lowering himself into the chair. “And the additional possibility of some alleviation of these headaches makes this a haven indeed. Tell me about this Count d’Alberra. Do you think he can do anything?”

Father Phillip shook his head. “I would not like to guess,” he said. “He helps some. More than I would have guessed. His record of success in Rome and Como and Verona is very impressive, and is attested by His Holiness himself. So there is no question that this method of his has merit. But he has only been here a few weeks—hardly long enough for me to judge what his system can or cannot do.”

“Tell me about the man himself,” Marquis Sherrinford said, taking his glasses off and polishing them with a cloth.

“A very nice, soft-spoken gentleman from the north of Italy. Count d’Alberra is attached to the court of King Pietro and is a professor of something they call ‘Mental Science’ at the University of Verona. His theories of healing come from his studies of the mind. He has written a book called
Non-Physical Symptomology of the Mind and its Possible Non-Magical Treatment
. He is not, himself, a healer, you know.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“It is true.” Father Phillip sighed. “One should not attempt to explain the ways of God to man, for life itself is enough of a wonder to spend a lifetime considering.”

“Well, if he isn’t a healer, than what does he do?” Marquis Sherrinford asked.

“Count d’Alberra talks and listens,” Father Phillip said. “As far as I can see, that’s what he does.”

“And he cures people?”

“In many cases. He seems to.”

Marquis Sherrinford took off his glasses and rubbed his temples with his thumbs. “I’m not surprised that the man is a scientist,” he said. “His method sounds decidedly unmagical. But if it works, who am I to argue?”

“I’ll take you in to see him now, my lord,” Father Phillip said. “He was delighted that you decided to come. He says he hopes he can help you.”

“So do I,” Marquis Sherrinford told the good father, sounding a bit doubtful. “So do I.”

Count d’Alberra was a small, dark-haired man with a closely trimmed beard and mustache. The beard came to a point, emphasizing the angularity of his head. He dressed in the somewhat more ornate costume common to central Italy, all blues, yellows, and tasseled gold fringes. He met them at the door to his treatment room. “It is a pleasure—a pleasure—to meet you, my lord marquis,” he said, taking Marquis Sherrinford by the hand and wringing it firmly. “Thank you, Father, for recommending me. I shall most sincerely try to help.”

“I can ask no more than that,” Marquis Sherrinford said, allowing himself to be pulled into the small room.

“I’ll leave you now,” Father Phillip said. “God bless.” He smiled, nodded, and walked away.

“Just what is it that you do here?” Marquis Sherrinford asked, looking around the small room. It contained a desk, a chair, and a leather couch.

“Nothing mysterious,” Count d’Alberra assured him. “I will start by taking a patient history, and then we will talk. You, actually, will do most of the talking. I will ask you to lie on the couch, since I have found that most patients are able to relax better lying down. But if that bothers you, I can have another chair brought in.”

“No, no,” Marquis Sherrinford said. “I have no objection to lying down. Quite the contrary. You’ll have a job keeping me talking, though. I’m liable to drift off to sleep. It’s been a busy day, and it’s only half over.” A look of concern suddenly crossed his face. “You don’t ask me about my work, do you? You know I can’t discuss—”

”I assure you,” Count d’Alberra interrupted, holding up his hand. “I have no concern with your lordship’s work. Our conversations will revolve mostly about your childhood, your relations with your parents, things of that sort. We may also touch upon how you feel about, ah, the ladies, or what sports you like and why.”

“That’s all?”

“That is all.”

“And this may cure my headaches? Asking questions about my childhood?”

“If, indeed, as the healers say, there is
nothing organically wrong that they can find, it well may.”

Marquis Sherrinford lay back on the black leather couch. “Go ahead, friend Count, ask away.”

“First the history,” Count d’Alberra said, uncapping his fountain pen. “Where were you born?”

The skinny county armsman refused to sit, and instead shifted uneasily from foot to foot as he waited, looking and feeling out of place in the elaborate drawing room of this sumptuous suite. Lord Darcy could sympathize with him; the ornate, cane-bottomed Gwiliam II chairs did look as though they would break under anything but the most delicate behind. He was not entirely at home here himself, but the seneschal had assigned him these quarters, and with the hundreds of people arriving for the coronation, it would not be fair to ask the the seneschal to do a musical-chairs act because Lord Darcy would have been happier in plainer surroundings. At least they had found a large desk and comfortable chair for him.

The armsman kept making surreptitious moves to doff his hat in the presence of so much finery. But he would remember that he was in uniform and under arms, and in the presence of the Chief Investigator of the King’s Court of Chivalry, and his hands would snap back down to his sides. Then he would try to polish the sole of one boot against the heel of the other, distributing even more drying mud onto the plum carpet in the process. Lord Darcy found the series of motions annoying, and he almost snapped at the man before realizing how unfair that would be. Instead he looked up from the letter the armsman had brought and twisted his lips into a smile, hoping the smile didn’t look as artificial as it felt.

“I’ll be about ten minutes or so composing a reply to this letter,” Lord Darcy said. “Why don’t you go inside, through that door, and have my man Ciardi fix you a drink, er, of caffe, since you are still on duty.”

“Very good, my lord. Thank you,” the armsman said with evident relief, and he retreated hastily through the indicated door.

One of our country cousins
, Lord Darcy thought. Then he did smile, recognizing the expression as one that his good friend and companion Mary, Duchess of Cumberland, used to describe the inept or the unsophisticated.

The message the armsman had brought was from another old friend of Lord Darcy’s, from the days when he was merely the chief investigator of the Duchy of Normandy, instead of Investigator in Chief of the Court of Chivalry for the whole Angevin Empire. It was short and to the point, but the unwritten subtext went on at some length.

Dear Lord Darcy,

I hope you won’t think it presumptuous of me to write you after all this time. I heard you were at the Castle Cristobel in charge of security for the coming coronation. His Majesty could not have picked a better man.

There has been a double murder here in the small town of Tournadotte, at an inn named the
Gryphon d’Or
. The killings had no motive that anyone here can determine. The identity of one of the victims is also still a mystery. I thought this might interest you, since you are, so to speak, in the neighborhood. The village of Tournadotte is but two stops farther down the Paris-Le Havre line, at the Calais junction.

It would be good to see you again. I remember fondly how you helped me in the matter of the disappearance of the late Marquis of Cherbourg.

Your Friend,

Henri Vert

Prefect of Police

Duchy of Normandy

Lord Darcy remembered the case of the missing marquis well. It had been a long time ago, when life had been less complex. Or, perhaps, it had only seemed less complex.

What Darcy’s old friend Henri Vert, who was now the highest uniformed police official for the whole duchy, wanted from Darcy was clear: He needed help—or thought he did—in solving these two murders. The fact that he sent an armsman to deliver the letter personally showed that. He could not ask for aid from the Court of Chivalry directly unless one of those killed was noble, or a noble was suspected of complicity in the killings, or the murders were somehow of importance to the Empire. And, clearly, he could not demonstrate that.

But does not any man’s death diminish us?
came the quote, unbidden, into Lord Darcy’s thoughts. And, after all, he was in the neighborhood—less than three hours by train to the
Gryphon d’Or
, according to the note. Unsolved murders were not good for the soul of the people. When he could get time off from his present duties, Lord Darcy decided, he would go down and see if he could give Chief Henri a hand, if the spring flooding did not close down the railway line, as it was threatening to. He was sure that Master Sean O Lochlainn, the Angevin Empire’s Chief Forensic Sorcerer and Darcy’s good right hand, would also volunteer to accompany him.

Lord Darcy spent the whole ten minutes composing his answer. He would have to speak to Coronel Lord Waybusch, commander of the Castle Guard, to see if he could get free for a couple of days. He couldn’t just leave, even though he was not in charge of security, as Chief Henri thought, but merely on hand to observe and advise on security for the coronation. But there was no point in antagonizing the Coronel, a friendly, hard-working trooper who welcomed his advice. And in case he
couldn’t
get free, or the railroad did stop running, he didn’t want Master Henri to have been waiting for him instead of investigating on his own.

When Lord Darcy was happy with the reply, he made a clean copy, then folded it and sealed it with his signet, and called the armsman back into the room. “Tell Prefect Henri that I will look forward to working with him, if I can get away,” he said, handing the paper to the armsman.

Ciardi came to the door as the armsman was leaving. “Lord Peter Whiss to see you, Your Lordship,” he said.

“Lord Peter? At midday? How strange. What does he want?” Lord Darcy asked.

“He didn’t say,” Ciardi replied. “And it is well past midday, my lord. It is almost four o’clock.”

“So it is,” Lord Darcy agreed. “Show His Lordship in, please, Ciardi.” He stood up and slipped into his jacket, which had been hanging over the back of his chair.

“Sorry to bother you, Lord Darcy,” Lord Peter said, barely sticking his head around the door. “But, much as I regret it, I must drag you away from all this.”

“If you must,” Lord Darcy said, buttoning his jacket and adjusting the lace cuffs of his shirt. “Are we going outdoors? No? Good, then I won’t need my rain cape or overboots. Lead the way!”

A minute later they were bustling together down the long castle corridor. “You are the last of the invited guests to be notified,” Lord Peter explained. “And we’re running a few minutes late, as it took me longer than expected to locate His Grace the Archbishop. I must say, Darcy, that you are surprisingly uninquisitive for a man who has just been suddenly pulled away from his work. I expected at least a couple of questions, if not an argument.”

“You said that you
must
drag me away,” Lord Darcy pointed out. “I took you at your word. You are not frivolous with language.”

“That is so,” Lord Peter admitted. “These days I will admit I seldom feel frivolous about anything.” He stopped at the Map Room door, which, Lord Darcy noted, had an armed guard from the King’s Own standing at attention beside it. “Well, here we are. After you, my lord.”

Lord Darcy entered the Map Room ahead of Lord Peter and greeted the five people already there: His Grace Archbishop Maximilian of Paris; His Highness Duke Richard of Normandy, the King’s brother; Master Sir Darryl Longuert, the Wizard Laureate of England; His Lordship the Marquis Sherrinford, the King’s Equerry; and Goodman Harbleury, the Marquis Sherrinford’s amanuensis and shadow.

“Good day, Lord Darcy,” Marquis Sherrinford said. “Please sit down, and we’ll begin.”

The Map Room, a part of the Royal Archives, was a fourteen-by-twenty- foot room, equipped, as its name indicated, to store, display, and examine maps. The rear wall was one vast walnut cabinet of long, wide, flat drawers for storing unfolded maps. Along the wall to the right of that, below the high-set windows, were rows of oblong bins, crafted of the same wood, for storing rolled-up maps. The front wall contained devices for hanging maps for study, and the large, walnut table that dominated the room was inlaid with a complex set of brass fittings that would enable one to hold down, examine, magnify, or pantographically duplicate or enlarge a map.

Lord Darcy dropped into the nearest straight-back walnut chair and rested his hands on the table. He had spent many hours in this room during the years he was Chief Investigator for the Duke of Normandy, examining and committing to memory the plans of the kingdom’s major castles and many of the minor ones. It was a knowledge that had proven useful more than once.

Marquis Sherrinford pushed himself out of his chair. “Thank your lordships all for coming,” he said. “I’ll be as brief as possible, as I know you all have important duties that you put aside to come here.”

“And without a word of explanation too,” Duke Richard said. “It is a mark of the esteem in which we all hold you, my lord marquis.”

“I would not abuse your confidence, I assure Your Highness,” Marquis Sherrinford said. “I wish to read you a letter that arrived this noon, addressed to me.” He took the letter from the table and unfolded it. “It was first opened by Lord Peter, and he passed it directly on,” he said, then began reading.

To His Lordship, the Right Honorable the Marquis Sherrinford.

From His Lordship the Marquis of London.

On Monday, the 25th of April, in the Year of Our Lord 1988.

Greetings Noble Cousin.

I hesitate to bother Your Lordship, busy as you must be with plans for the impending coronation of His Royal Highness. I would be there myself but, as you know, pressing business keeps me in London—

“Pressing business!” Duke Richard interrupted, laughing, “pressing weight is more like it. He hasn’t left that palace of his in something like thirteen years. There isn’t a carriage that would hold him; he’d have to hire a dray. He must weigh thirty stone.”

“Nonetheless,” Marquis Sherrinford pointed out, “he carries out his duties as Chief Magistrate for the City of London very well.”

“That’s so,” Sir Darryl agreed, nodding his angular, bony head. “The man never leaves his house, and yet he knows more about what goes on in London than if he ran about all day peering around corners. And the inferences he can make from the merest speck of dust or spot of food on a waistcoat are truly astonishing.”

“Oh, yes,” Duke Richard agreed. “The man is a brilliant investigator, no question about that. A relative of yours, I believe, Darcy?”

“Distant cousin,” Lord Darcy said.

“Just so,” Marquis Sherrinford said. “Now, if Your Highness will permit me to continue—

“Of course,” Duke Richard said. “Sorry.”

“‘—pressing business keeps me in London,’” the Marquis picked up where he had left off.

A certain piece of information has come to my attention during the routine investigation of a series of bizarre robberies. Since you are concerned with the safety of our beloved King John, I thought I had better pass it on. It is probably of no moment, but you are in a better position to judge that than I.

At the mention of the king’s safety, a sudden palpable tension entered the room. “Our beloved King John” was not just a formula with these men, but an expression of an honestly held emotion.

Here are the details, to the extent that we know them:

The robber, who turned out to be one Goodman Albert Chall, was apprehended on Sunday—yesterday—by my assistant, Lord Bontriomphe who is not without a certain primitive cleverness. In trying to escape along a rooftop, Goodman Chall leaped over a parapet and fell six storeys onto a paved walk.

Lord Bontriomphe reached him as he was expiring—it is nothing short of a miracle that he lived even that long—and held a brief colloquy with him which he subsequently quoted to me verbatim. I am sure you are familiar with Lord Bontriomphe’s abilities along that line. I quote the conversation in full:

Bontriomphe:
Just lie still, I’ve called for an ambulance.

Chall:
That ain’t no good. You know that, gov. Look at me; I’m all broken up. I can’t feel nothin’.

Bontriomphe:
Is there anything you want me to do?

C: I got to tell you somethin’.

B: About the robberies? You don’t have to—

C: No, no—it’s somethin’ else. I was kind of holdin’ this as a trump, ‘case I got caught. But I won’t need it now. I won’t need nothin’ now. I want to get it said in case I—in case I don’t make it. Which it looks like I won’t.

B: What is it?

C: I would have told anyway. You can see that, can’t you? I would have told anyway before June first. You know that?

B: Told what?

C: About them killin’ His Majesty. I wouldn’t have let them do that. You believe me, don’t you? I would have told anyway. You know that.

B: Of course I do. I believe you. Tell me about it now.

C: I heard about it by accident. Oh Gawd, the pain is startin’. It hurts somethin’ awful. I must be all busted up inside.

B: There’ll be a healer here in a minute. Talk to me—it will keep your mind off the pain. What about them killing His Majesty?

C: I overheard them talkin’. It was at my ten percenter’s. They didn’t know as I was there. They’re goin’ to do it for His Majesty at the coronation. They’s been plannin’ it for a long time, is what it sounded like.

B: Who? Who are they?

C: Why—the Poles. I thought I said so. It’s not so far, once you’re started. The trick is wearin’ of the right hat. You can fool anybody if they see the right hat. And...and...and it’s pointed the wrong way. That’s what will fool them, you see. It’s pointed the wrong way!

And with these words Albeit Chall, master thief, expired. We assume the last sentence or so to be a dying ramble, but as to the rest, we are not sure. We are, of course, doing what we can to ascertain the veracity of his story, but there is small hope of discovering anything beyond his dying words.

The identity of his “ten percenter” is being assiduously pursued. There is some chance of locating that person and interviewing him, and I will, of course, immediately inform you of the results of such an interview. To the best of our information Goodman Chall neither spoke nor understood Polish. If there is any further information we can give you, please inform us post haste.