“Or someone else had gone through them,” said the Chief thoughtfully.
“Yes. That’s possible, of course,” the Commander agreed. “But would the killer have had time to look through Barbour’s papers?”
“Suppose,” the Chief said slowly, “that there was one single paper — or maybe a single set of them — that the killer was after. And suppose he knew enough to be able to recognize those papers on sight. He wouldn’t have needed more than a few seconds to find them, would he?”
The Commander and the Admiral glanced at each other.
“No,” said the Commander after a moment. “No, he wouldn’t.”
“Do you have any idea what such paper or papers might pertain to?” Chief Henri asked with deceptive casualness.
“None,” said My Lord Admiral firmly. “And I give you my word that I am concealing nothing. This office was not even aware of the very existence of Georges Barbour; we have no idea what he was doing or what sort of papers he may have been handling. This was our first knowledge of him, and we have received no further word from London. Thus far, London does not, of course, even know he is dead. One day, perhaps, some sorcerer may discover a way to get teleson lines across the Channel, but until then we must rely on dispatches sent by courier.”
“I see.” Chief Henri rubbed his hands together rather nervously. “I trust that your lordships understand that I am bound to do my duty. A murder has been committed. It must be solved. I am bound to expend every effort to discover the identity of the killer and bring him to justice. There are certain steps which I must, by law, take.”
“We quite realize that, Chief Henri,” said the Lord Admiral.
The Chief finished the rest of his brandy. “At the same time, we have no desire to hamper the Navy in any way nor to disclose information publicly that may be of benefit to our country’s enemies.”
“Naturally,” the Lord Admiral agreed.
“But this case is a difficult one,” Chief Henri went on. “We know — thanks to the evidence of the concierge — the time at which the crime was committed to within ten minutes. We know that Barbour stayed in that room all night, left this morning at about five minutes of ten, and came back at approximately twenty after. Everyone else in the house had left much earlier, since they are all working folk. There was no one in the building except Barbour and the concierge. All very fine so far as it goes.
“But this case is almost clueless. We do not know Barbour. We have no notion of whom he might have known, whom he might have met, or with whom he might have had dealings. We have no idea who might have owned the very common knife with which he was killed.
“When all that is added to the international ramifications of this affair, I am forced to admit that the case is beyond me. The law is clear upon that point; I must notify the Investigation Department of His Royal Highness at Rouen.”
Admiral Brencourt nodded. “That’s quite clear. Certainly, anyone from His Highness’ offices would be of assistance. Is there any further way in which we can help you?”
“If it is possible, My Lord Admiral, there is. Presumably someone in London knows something about this fellow Barbour. If it would not be a violation of security, I should like to know as much about him as possible. I should like very much to have more information from London.”
“I shall certainly see what can be done, Chief Henri,” the Lord Admiral said. “Lord Ashley is returning to England within the hour. The Office of the Lord High Admiral must be informed of this development immediately, of course. I shall send a letter requesting the information you desire.”
In spite of himself, Chief Henri grinned. “By the Blue! Lord Darcy is never wrong!”
“Darcy?” My Lord Admiral blinked. “I don’t… Oh, yes. I recall now. Chief Investigator for His Highness. He cleared up that situation here in Cherbourg last year — the ‘Atlantic Curse’ business — didn’t he?”
Chief Henri coughed delicately. “I may say that he did, My Lord Admiral. I am not permitted to discuss details.”
“Of course, of course. But why do you say that he is never wrong?”
“Well, I have never known him to be,” Chief Henri said staunchly. “When I made my call to Rouen to inform his lordship of the murder, he told me that he would not be able to come immediately, that he was sending down his second-in-command, Sir Eliot Meredith, to take charge until he could get here. He also said that you would undoubtedly be sending a courier to London almost immediately and he wondered if I would be so good, as he put it, to ask My Lord Admiral if the courier could carry a special message for him.”
Lord Admiral Brencourt chuckled. “An astute gentleman, Lord Darcy. I dare say we can see our way clear to that. What is the nature of the message?”
“Lord Darcy’s chief forensic sorcerer, Master Sean O Lochlainn, is attending a convention in London at the Royal Steward Arms. He would like you to convey the message that he is to return to Normandy, to come straight here to Cherbourg, as soon as possible.”
“Certainly,” the Lord Admiral said agreeably. “If you will write the letter, Lord Ashley will deliver it upon his arrival. The Royal Steward is not far from the Admiralty offices.”
“Thank you,” said Chief Henri. “The mail packet will not leave Cherbourg until this evening, and the letter wouldn’t be delivered until late tomorrow afternoon. This will save a great deal of time. May I borrow pen and paper?”
“Certainly; here you are.”
Chief Henri dipped the Admiral’s pen in the inkstand and began to write.
CHAPTER 2
Sean O Lochlainn, Master Sorcerer, Fellow of the Royal Thaumaturgical Society, and Chief Forensic Sorcerer to His Royal Highness, Richard, Duke of Normandy, was excruciatingly angry and doing his best not to show it. That his attempt to do so was highly successful was due almost entirely to his years of training as an officer of the law; had his Irish blood been allowed to follow its natural bent, it would have boiled over. But above all things, a sorcerer must have control over his own emotions.
He was not angry at any person, least of all himself. He was furious with Fate, with Chance, with Coincidence — poor targets upon which to vent one’s wrath even if one were to allow oneself to do so. Therefore, Master Sean channeled his ire, converted it, and allowed it to show as a pleasant smile and a pleasant manner.
But that did not keep him from thinking more about the paper he had spent six months in preparing, only to find that he had been anticipated, than in listening to what his lordship the Bishop of Winchester was saying. His eyes wandered over the crowd in the Main Exhibit Hall while the voice of the Bishop — who was a fine thaumaturgist and Healer, but a crashing bore — droned on in his right ear, keeping just enough attention on the episcopal voice to enable him to murmur “Yes, my lord,” or “Indeed, my lord,” at appropriate intervals.
Most of the men and women in the hall were wearing the light blue dress clothing appropriate to sorcerers and sorceresses, but there were many spots of clerical black, and several of episcopal purple. Over in one corner, four bearded Healers in rabbinical dress were conversing earnestly with the Archbishop of York, whose wispy white hair seemed to form a cloud around his purple skullcap. Over near the door, looking rather lost, was a Naval Commander in full dress uniform, complete with gold braid and a thin, narrow-bladed dress sword with a gilded hilt. Master Sean wondered briefly why a Naval officer was here. To give a paper, or as a guest?