Lord John Quetzal returned the smile. “If the question requires that I invoke a spell, I shall most certainly bill you — at the usual Journeyman’s rates, of course. To do otherwise would impair my standing in the Guild. But if you merely want a professional opinion, I am at your service.”
“Then I shall leave the matter in your hands,” said Lord Darcy. “The question is: Have you detected the presence of a black magician amongst the members of the Convention?”
There was a sudden silence, as if time itself were suspended for a moment. Both Sir Thomas and the Duchess seemed to be holding their breaths, awaiting the young Mechicain nobleman’s answer.
But from Lord John Quetzal there was only a moment of hesitancy. When he spoke, his voice was firm.
“My lord, it is my ambition to study forensic sorcery under the tutelage of a Master. I have, as a matter of course, studied both law enforcement and criminal detection. May I counter your question with one of my own?”
“Certainly,” said Lord Darcy.
Lord John Quetzal compressed his lips for a moment in thought before continuing. “Let us suppose that you personally knew, through the exercise of your own abilities, that a certain man was a criminal — that he had committed a particular crime. But let us further assume that, aside from your own personal knowledge, there was not one shred of proof whatever of the fact. My counter-question is: Would you denounce the man?”
“No,” said Lord Darcy without hesitation. “Your point is well taken. It is nugatory to accuse a man without proof. But a word to the investigating officials, merely to give them a lead so they can discover proof if it exists, is certainly not a public accusation.”
“Perhaps not,” said the young sorcerer slowly. “I shall certainly take your words under advisement. But at the moment I feel that my unsupported word alone is not sufficient evidence even for that.”
“That, of course, is your decision,” the investigator said evenly. “But keep it in mind that if your Talent as a witch-smeller is widely known — if it is known, for instance, to someone whose very life might depend upon your silence — then I should advise you to be very careful that you are not silenced permanently.”
Before Lord John Quetzal could answer, the door to the hall opened and Geffri appeared. “I trust you will pardon the intrusion, Your Grace, but I was instructed to notify his lordship as soon as his lordship’s luggage had been taken to the Lily Suite.”
“Oh, yes; thank you, Geffri,” said Lord Darcy.
“I believe I shall put on my evening clothes, too,” said Her Grace. “Will you excuse me, gentlemen? And pray don’t allow my absence to delay your own supper; help yourselves from the array on the buffet.”
Fifteen minutes later, Lord Darcy, having bathed and shaved, was feeling more human than he had for hours. He took one last look at himself in the full-length mirror that hung on the bedroom wall of the Lily Suite. He made minor adjustments to the silver lace at his throat and wrists, flicked an almost microscopic bit of dust from the coral satin of his dress jacket, and decided he was ready to face the company in a better humor than when he had left them.
Downstairs, the door to the salon was open, and, as he approached it, Lord Darcy could hear Sir Thomas Leseaux’s voice.
“The fact remains, my lord, that Sir James is, after all, dead.”
“Couldn’t it have been suicide, Sir Thomas?” asked Lord John Quetzal. “Or an accident?”
It was inevitable, Lord Darcy thought. Great and brilliant men and women, whose usual conversations were in the realm of ideas, would normally shun gossip or sporting events or even crime — except in the abstract — as topics for an evening’s discourse. But give them a murder — not a commonplace death in a public house brawl, nor a shooting in a robbery, nor a sordid killing in a fit of jealousy, nor an even more sordid sex crime, but an inexplicable death surrounded by mystery — give them a nice, juicy, puzzle of murder, and lo! they can speak of nothing else.
Sir Thomas Leseaux had said, less than half an hour ago, that he wanted to get Lord John Quetzal alone to discuss the theory of magic, with special emphasis on witch-smelling — and now he was saying:
“Accident or suicide? Why, as to that, I don’t know, of course, but the authorities seem to be operating upon the assumption that it is murder.”
“But why? I mean, what reason would anyone have for killing Master Sir James Zwinge? What is the motive?”
“A very good question,” said Lord Darcy as he entered the salon. Only the two men were present. Obviously the Duchess had not yet finished dressing. “As a purely cerebral exercise, I have been pondering that question myself. But don’t let me interrupt you. Pray continue your conversation whilst I sample the selection of goodies on the buffet table.”
“Lord John Quetzal,” said Sir Thomas, “seems to be at a loss for discovering a motive for the murder.”
Lord Darcy looked at the row of copper bowls, each with its small alcohol flame flickering brightly beneath, and lifted the cover of the first. “Ah! Ham!” he said. “Very well, Sir Thomas. What about motive? Who might have wanted him dead?” He put a slice of ham on his plate and opened the next bowl.
Sir Thomas frowned. “No one that I know of,” he said slowly. “He could be quite acerb at times, but he would not willingly have harmed anyone, I think.”
Darcy ladled some hot cherry sauce over his ham. “You know of no threats to kill him? No violent arguments with anyone?”
“Aside from his so-called argument with Master Sean, you mean? Yes, come to think of it, there was one such. Master Ewen MacAlister said some rather bitter things about him a month ago. Master Ewen had made application to get on the Naval Research Staff, and Sir James — who had certain connections with Naval Research — recommended that Master Ewen’s application not be approved.”
“A revenge motive, then?” Lord Darcy poured himself a generous glass of claret and seated himself in a chair facing the other two, his tray on his lap. “I have never had the pleasure of meeting Master Ewen MacAlister, but from what Master Sean tells me, the pleasure would be doubtful. Is he the kind of man who would kill for revenge?”
“I… don’t… know,” said Sir Thomas slowly. “I can imagine his killing someone to prevent that person from harming him, but I hesitate to say he would bother to do so after the harm was done.”
Lord Darcy made a mental note to tell Lord Bontriomphe about that in the morning. It might be wise for Bontriomphe to make inquiries to find out whether Master Ewen had made or intended to make application for some other position that Sir James Zwinge had “certain connections” with.
“Anyone else?” Darcy asked, looking down at his plate.
“No,” said Sir Thomas after a moment. “No one that I know of, my lord.”
“Do you know a Damoselle Tia Einzig?” Darcy asked in the same quiet tone of voice.
Sir Thomas’ smile vanished. After several seconds, he said: “I know her, yes, my lord. Why?”
“She seems to have got herself charged with black magic. And it appears that Sir James was killed by black magic.”
Sir Thomas’ normally pale features darkened. “See here! You’re not accusing Tia of this murder, are you?”
“Accuse? Not at all, Sir Thomas. I merely point out a possible connection.”
“Well, there’s nothing to it! Nothing, d’you understand! Tia is no more a witch than you are! I’ll not have you making such insinuations, do you hear?”