"I should think that would do it," said Lord Darcy.
Father Bright nodded wordlessly and left the room.
* * * * *
Dr. Pateley took off his pince-nez and polished the lenses carefully
with a silk handkerchief. "How long will your spell keep the body
incorrupt, Master Sean?" he asked.
"As long as it's relevant. As soon as the case is solved, or we have
enough data to solve the case--as the case may be, heh heh--he'll
start to go. I'm not a saint, you know; it takes powerful motivation
to keep a body incorrupt for years and years."
Sir Pierre was eying the gown that Pateley had put on the table. The
button was still in place, as if held there by magnetism. He didn't
touch it. "Master Sean, I don't know much about magic," he said, "but
can't you find out who was wearing this robe just as easily as you
found out that the button matched?"
Master Sean wagged his head in a firm negative. "No, sir. 'Tisn't
relevant sir. The relevancy of the integrated dress-as-a-whole is
quite strong. So is that of the seamstress or tailor who made the
garment, and that of the weaver who made the cloth. But, except in
certain circumstances, the person who wears or wore the garment has
little actual relevancy to the garment itself."
"I'm afraid I don't understand," said Sir Pierre, looking puzzled.
"Look at it like this, sir: That gown wouldn't be what it is if the
weaver hadn't made the cloth in that particular way. It wouldn't be
what it is if the seamstress hadn't cut it in a particular way and
sewed it in a specific manner. You follow, sir? Yes. Well, then, the
connections between garment-and-weaver and garment-and-seamstress are
strongly relevant. But this dress would still be pretty much what it
is if it had stayed in the closet instead of being worn. No
relevance--or very little. Now, if it were a well-worn garment, that
would be different--that is, if it had always been worn by the same
person. Then, you see, sir, the garment-as-a-whole is what it is
because of the wearing, and the wearer becomes relevant."
He pointed at the little handgun he was still holding in his hand.
"Now you take your gun, here, sir. The--"
"It isn't my gun," Sir Pierre interrupted firmly.
"I was speaking rhetorically, sir," said Master Sean with infinite
patience. "This gun or any other gun in general, if you see what I
mean, sir. It's even harder to place the ownership of a gun. Most of
the wear on a gun is purely mechanical. It don't matter _who_ pulls
the trigger, you see, the erosion by the gases produced in the
chamber, and the wear caused by the bullet passing through the barrel
will be the same. You see, sir, 'tisn't relevant _to the gun_ who
pulled its trigger or what it's fired at. The bullet's a slightly
different matter. To the bullet, it _is_ relevant which gun it was
fired from and what it hit. All these things simply have to be taken
into account, Sir Pierre."
"I see," said the knight. "Very interesting, Master Sean." Then he
turned to Lord Darcy. "Is there anything else, your lordship? There's
a great deal of county business to be attended to."
Lord Darcy waved a hand. "Not at the moment, Sir Pierre. I understand
the pressures of government. Go right ahead."
"Thank you, your lordship. If anything further should be required, I
shall be in my office."
As soon as Sir Pierre had closed the door, Lord Darcy held out his
hand toward the sorcerer. "Master Sean; the gun."
Master Sean handed it to him. "Ever see one like it before?" he asked,
turning it over in his hands.
"Not _exactly_ like it, my lord."
"Come, come, Sean; don't be so cautious. I am no sorcerer, but I don't
need to know the Laws of Similarity to be able to recognise an
_obvious_ similarity."
"Edinburgh," said Master Sean flatly.
"Exactly. Scottish work. The typical Scot gold work; remarkable
beauty. And look at that lock. It has 'Scots' written all over it--and
more. 'Edinburgh', as you said."
Dr. Pateley, having replaced his carefully polished glasses, leaned
over and peered at the weapon in Lord Darcy's hand. "Couldn't it be
Italian, my lord? Or Moorish? In Moorish Spain, they do work like
that."
"No Moorish gunsmith would put a hunting scene on the butt," Lord
Darcy said flatly, "and the Italians wouldn't have put heather and
thistles in the field surrounding the huntsman."
"But the _FdM_ engraved on the barrel," said Dr. Pateley, "indicates
the--"
"Ferrari of Milan," said Lord Darcy. "Exactly. But the barrel is of
much newer work than the rest. So are the chambers. This is a fairly
old gun--fifty years old, I'd say. The lock and the butt are still in
excellent condition, indicating that it has been well cared for, but
frequent usage--or a single accident--could ruin the barrel and
require the owner to get a replacement. It was replaced by Ferrari."
"I see," said Dr. Pateley somewhat humbled.
"If we open the lock ... Master Sean, hand me your small screwdriver.
Thank you. If we open the lock, we will find the name of one of the
finest gunsmiths of half a century ago--a man whose name has not yet
been forgotten--Hamish Graw of Edinburgh. Ah! There! You see?" They
did.
Having satisfied himself on that point, Lord Darcy closed the lock
again. "Now, men, we have the gun located. We also know that a guest
in this very castle is Laird Duncan of Duncan. The Duncan of Duncan
himself. A Scot's laird who was, fifteen years ago, His Majesty's
Minister Plenipotentiary to the Free Grand Duchy of Milan. That
suggests to me that it would be indeed odd if there were not some
connection between Laird Duncan and this gun. Eh?"
* * * * *
"Come, come, Master Sean," said Lord Darcy, rather impatiently. "We
haven't all the time in the world."
"Patience, my lord; patience," said the little sorcerer calmly. "Can't
hurry these things, you know." He was kneeling in front of a large,
heavy traveling chest in the bedroom of the guest apartment occupied
temporarily by Laird and Lady Duncan, working with the lock. "One
position of a lock is just as relevant as the other so you can't work
with the bolt. But the pin-tumblers in the cylinder, now, that's a
different matter. A lock's built so that the breaks in the tumblers
are not related to the surface of the cylinder when the key is out,
but there is a relation when the key's _in_, so by taking advantage of
that relevancy--Ah!"
The lock clicked open.
Lord Darcy raised the lid gently.
"Carefully, my lord!" Master Sean said in a warning voice. "He's got a
spell on the thing! Let me do it." He made Lord Darcy stand back and
then lifted the lid of the heavy trunk himself. When it was leaning
back against the wall, gaping open widely on its hinges, Master Sean
took a long look at the trunk and its lid without touching either of
them. There was a second lid on the trunk, a thin one obviously
operated by a simple bolt.
Master Sean took his sorcerer's staff, a five-foot, heavy rod made of
the wood of the quicken tree or mountain ash, and touched the inner
lid. Nothing happened. He touched the bolt. Nothing.
"Hm-m-m," Master Sean murmured thoughtfully. He glanced around the
room, and his eyes fell on a heavy stone doorstop. "That ought to do
it." He walked over, picked it up, and carried it back to the chest.
Then he put it on the rim of the chest in such a position that if the
lid were to fall it would be stopped by the doorstop.
Then he put his hand in as if to lift the inner lid.
The heavy outer lid swung forward and down of its own accord, moving
with blurring speed, and slammed viciously against the doorstop.
Lord Darcy massaged his right wrist gently, as if he felt where the
lid would have hit if he had tried to open the inner lid. "Triggered
to slam if a human being sticks a hand in there, eh?"
"Or a head, my lord. Not very effectual if you know what to look for.
There are better spells than that for guarding things. Now we'll see
what his lordship wants to protect so badly that he practices sorcery
without a license." He lifted the lid again, and then opened the inner
lid. "It's safe now, my lord. _Look at this!_"
Lord Darcy had already seen. Both men looked in silence at the
collection of paraphernalia on the first tray of the chest. Master
Sean's busy fingers carefully opened the tissue paper packing of one
after another of the objects. "A human skull," he said. "Bottles of
graveyard earth. Hm-m-m--this one is labeled 'virgin's blood.' And
this! A Hand of Glory!"
It was a mummified human hand, stiff and dry and brown, with the
fingers partially curled, as though they were holding an invisible
ball three inches or so in diameter. On each of the fingertips was a
short candle-stub. When the hand was placed on its back, it would act
as a candelabra.
"That pretty much settles it, eh, Master Sean?" Lord Darcy said.
"Indeed, my lord. At the very least, we can get him for possession of
materials. Black magic is a matter of symbolism and intent."
"Very well. I want a complete list of the contents of that chest. Be
sure to replace everything as it was and relock the trunk." He tugged
thoughtfully at an earlobe. "So Laird Duncan has the Talent, eh?
Interesting."
"Aye. But not surprising, my lord," said Master Sean without looking
up from his work. "It's in the blood. Some attribute it to the
Dedannans, who passed through Scotland before they conquered Ireland
three thousand years ago, but, however that may be, the Talent runs
strong in the Sons of Gael. It makes me boil to see it misused."
While Master Sean talked, Lord Darcy was prowling around the room,
reminding one of a lean tomcat who was certain that there was a mouse
concealed somewhere.
"It'll make Laird Duncan boil if he isn't stopped," Lord Darcy
murmured absently.
"Aye, my lord," said Master Sean. "The mental state necessary to use
the Talent for black sorcery is such that it invariably destroys the
user--but, if he knows what he's doing, a lot of other people are hurt
before he finally gets his."
Lord Darcy opened the jewel box on the dresser. The usual traveling
jewelry--enough, but not a great choice.
"A man's mind turns in on itself when he's taken up with hatred and
thoughts of revenge," Master Sean droned on. "Or, if he's the type who
_enjoys_ watching others suffer, or the type who doesn't care but is
willing to do anything for gain, then his mind is already warped and
the misuse of the Talent just makes it worse."
Lord Darcy found what he was looking for in a drawer, just underneath
some neatly folded lingerie. A small holster, beautifully made of
Florentine leather, gilded and tooled. He didn't need Master Sean's
sorcery to tell him that the little pistol fit it like a hand in a
glove.
* * * * *
Father Bright felt as though he had been walking a tightrope for
hours. Laird and Lady Duncan had been talking in low, controlled
voices that betrayed an inner nervousness, but Father Bright realized
that he and the Countess had been doing the same thing. The Duncan of
Duncan had offered his condolences on the death of the late Count with
the proper air of suppressed sorrow, as had Mary, Lady Duncan. The
Countess had accepted them solemnly and with gratitude. But Father
Bright was well aware that no one in the room--possibly, he thought,
no one in the world--regretted the Count's passing.
Laird Duncan sat in his wheelchair, his sharp Scots features set in a
sad smile that showed an intent to be affable even though great sorrow
weighed heavily upon him. Father Bright noticed it and realized that
his own face had the same sort of expression. No one was fooling
anyone else, of that the priest was certain--but for anyone to admit
it would be the most boorish breach of etiquette. But there was a
haggardness, a look of increased age about the Laird's countenance
that Father Bright did not like. His priestly intuition told him
clearly that there was a turmoil of emotion in the Scotsman's mind
that was ... well, _evil_ was the only word for it.
Lady Duncan was, for the most part, silent. In the past fifteen
minutes, since she and her husband had come to the informal tea, she
had spoken scarcely a dozen words. Her face was masklike, but there
was the same look of haggardness about her eyes as there was in her
husband's face. But the priest's emphatic sense told him that the
emotion here was fear, simple and direct. His keen eyes had noticed
that she wore a shade too much make-up. She had almost succeeded in
covering up the faint bruise on her right cheek, but not completely.
My lady the Countess D'Evreux was all sadness and unhappiness, but
there was neither fear nor evil there. She smiled politely and talked
quietly. Father Bright would have been willing to bet that not one of
the four of them would remember a word that had been spoken.
Father Bright had placed his chair so that he could keep an eye on the
open doorway and the long hall that led in from the Great Keep. He
hoped Lord Darcy would hurry. Neither of the guests had been told that
the Duke's Investigator was here, and Father Bright was just a little
apprehensive about the meeting. The Duncans had not even been told
that the Count's death had been murder, but he was certain that they
knew.
Father Bright saw Lord Darcy come in through the door at the far end
of the hall. He murmured a polite excuse and rose. The other three
accepted his excuses with the same politeness and went on with their
talk. Father Bright met Lord Darcy in the hall.
"Did you find what you were looking for, Lord Darcy?" the priest asked
in a low tone.
"Yes," Lord Darcy said. "I'm afraid we shall have to arrest Laird
Duncan."
"Murder?"
"Perhaps. I'm not yet certain of that. But the charge will be black
magic. He has all the paraphernalia in a chest in his room. Master
Sean reports that a ritual was enacted in the bedroom last night. Of
course, that's out of my jurisdiction. You, as a representative of the
Church, will have to be the arresting officer." He paused. "You don't
seem surprised, Reverence."
"I'm not," Father Bright admitted. "I felt it. You and Master Sean
will have to make out a sworn deposition before I can act."
"I understand. Can you do me a favor?"
"If I can."
"Get my lady the Countess out of the room on some pretext or other.
Leave me alone with her guests. I do not wish to upset my lady any
more than absolutely necessary."
"I think I can do that. Shall we go in together?"
"Why not? But don't mention why I am here. Let them assume I am just
another guest."
"Very well."
* * * * *
All three occupants of the room glanced up as Father Bright came in
with Lord Darcy. The introductions were made: Lord Darcy humbly begged
the pardon of his hostess for his lateness. Father Bright noticed the
same sad smile on Lord Darcy's handsome face as the others were
wearing.
Lord Darcy helped himself from the buffet table and allowed the
Countess to pour him a large cup of hot tea. He mentioned nothing
about the recent death. Instead, he turned the conversation toward the
wild beauty of Scotland and the excellence of the grouse shooting
there.
Father Bright had not sat down again. Instead, he left the room once
more. When he returned, he went directly to the Countess and said, in
a low, but clearly audible voice: "My lady, Sir Pierre Morlaix has
informed me that there are a few matters that require your attention
immediately. It will require only a few moments."
My lady the Countess did not hesitate, but made her excuses
immediately. "Do finish your tea," she added. "I don't think I shall
be long."
Lord Darcy knew the priest would not lie, and he wondered what sort of
arrangement had been made with Sir Pierre. Not that it mattered except
that Lord Darcy had hoped it would be sufficiently involved for it to
keep the Countess busy for at least ten minutes.
The conversation, interrupted but momentarily, returned to grouse.
"I haven't done any shooting since my accident," said Laird Duncan,
"but I used to enjoy it immensely. I still have friends up every year
for the season."
"What sort of weapon do you prefer for grouse?" Lord Darcy asked.
"A one-inch bore with a modified choke," said the Scot. "I have a pair
that I favor. Excellent weapons."
"Of Scottish make?"
"No, no. English. Your London gunsmiths can't be beat for shotguns."
"Oh. I thought perhaps your lordship had had all your guns made in
Scotland." As he spoke, he took the little pistol out of his coat
pocket and put it carefully on the table.
There was a sudden silence, then Laird Duncan said in an angry voice:
"What is this? Where did you get that?"
Lord Darcy glanced at Lady Duncan, who had turned suddenly pale.
"Perhaps," he said coolly, "Lady Duncan can tell us."
She shook her head and gasped. For a moment, she had trouble in
forming words or finding her voice. Finally: "No. No. I know nothing.
Nothing."
But Laird Duncan looked at her oddly.
"You do not deny that it is your gun, my lord?" Lord Darcy asked. "Or
your wife's, as the case may be."
[Illustration]
"_Where did you get it?_" There was a dangerous quality in the
Scotsman's voice. He had once been a powerful man, and Lord Darcy
could see his shoulder muscles bunching.
"From the late Count D'Evreux's bedroom."
"What was it doing there?" There was a snarl in the Scot's voice, but
Lord Darcy had the feeling that the question was as much directed
toward Lady Duncan as it was to himself.
"One of the things it was doing there was shooting Count D'Evreux
through the heart."
Lady Duncan slumped forward in a dead faint, overturning her teacup.
Laird Duncan made a grab at the gun, ignoring his wife. Lord Darcy's
hand snaked out and picked up the weapon before the Scot could touch
it. "No, no, my lord," he said mildly. "This is evidence in a murder
case. We mustn't tamper with the King's evidence."
He wasn't prepared for what happened next. Laird Duncan roared
something obscene in Scots Gaelic, put his hands on the arms of his
wheelchair, and, with a great thrust of his powerful arms and
shoulders, shoved himself up and forward, toward Lord Darcy, across
the table from him. His arms swung up toward Lord Darcy's throat as
the momentum of his body carried him toward the investigator.
He might have made it, but the weakness of his legs betrayed him. His
waist struck the edge of the massive oaken table, and most of his
forward momentum was lost. He collapsed forward, his hands still
grasping toward the surprised Englishman. His chin came down hard on
the table top. Then he slid back, taking the tablecloth and the china
and silverware with him. He lay unmoving on the floor. His wife did
not even stir except when the tablecloth tugged at her head.
Lord Darcy had jumped back, overturning his chair. He stood on his
feet, looking at the two unconscious forms.
* * * * *
"I don't think there's any permanent damage done to either," said Dr.
Pateley an hour later. "Lady Duncan was suffering from shock, of
course, but Father Bright brought her round in a hurry. She's a devout
woman, I think, even if a sinful one."
"What about Laird Duncan?" Lord Darcy asked.
"Well, that's a different matter. I'm afraid that his back injury was
aggravated, and that crack on the chin didn't do him any good. I don't
know whether Father Bright can help him or not. Healing takes the
co-operation of the patient. I did all I could for him, but I'm just a
chirurgeon, not a practitioner of the Healing Art. Father Bright has
quite a good reputation in that line, however, and he may be able to
do his lordship some good."
Master Sean shook his head dolefully. "His Reverence has the Talent,
there's no doubt of that, but now he's pitted against another man who
has it--a man whose mind is bent on self-destruction in the long run."
"Well, that's none of my affair," said Dr. Pateley. "I'm just a
technician. I'll leave healing up to the Church, where it belongs."
"Master Sean," said Lord Darcy, "there is still a mystery here. We
need more evidence. What about the eyes?"