“Naturally. There are several drugs in the materia medica of the adept herbalist which will cause unconsciousness and coma. Bontriomphe, knowing that Sir James intended to lock himself into his room yesterday morning, managed to slip some such drug into the sorcerer’s morning caffe — a simple job for an expert. After that, all he had to do was wait. Eventually, Sir James would be missed. Someone would wonder why he had not kept an appointment. Someone would check his room and find it locked. At last, someone would ask the management to see if something could be wrong. When the manager found he could not open the door, he would ask for official help. And, fortuitously, Lord Bontriomphe, Chief Investigator for My Lord Marquis of London, just happens to be right on the spot. He calls for an ax and…” Lord Darcy turned one hand palm up as though he were handing the Marquis the whole case on a platter, and left the sentence unfinished.
“Go on.” There was a dangerous note in the Marquis’ voice.
“The scream is easily explained,” Lord Darcy said. “Sir James was not completely comatose. He heard Master Sean knock. Now, Sean had an appointment at that time; Sir James knew it was he at the door. Aroused by the knock, he called out: ‘Master Sean! Help!’ And then he collapsed back into his drugged coma. Bontriomphe, of course, could not have known that would happen, but it was certainly a stroke of luck, even though it was completely unnecessary to his plan. If there had been no scream, Sean would certainly have known something was amiss and notified the manager. After that, everything would have followed naturally.”
Lord Darcy folded his arms, slumped back in the chair, rested his chin on his chest, and looked at the speechless, glowering de London from beneath his brows. “The motive is quite clear. Jealousy.”
“Pah!” the Marquis exploded. “Now I have you! Up to now, you have been clever. But now you show that your wits are addled. A woman? Pfui! Lord Bontriomphe may occasionally play the fool, but he is not a fool about women. I will not go so far as to say that the woman does not live whom Lord Bontriomphe could not get if he wanted her, but I will say that his ego is such that he would have no desire for a woman who did not want him or who had rejected him for another. He would not go out of his way to snap his fingers at such a woman, much less kill because of her.”
“Agreed,” said Lord Darcy complacently. “I mentioned no woman. And I was not speaking of his jealousy.”
“Of whose, then?”
“Of yours.”
“Hah! This is fatuous.”
“Not at all. Your hobby of herb cultivation, my lord, is one of the strongest passions of your life. You are an acknowledged expert and are proud of that fact. Zwinge, too, was an herbalist, but not quite in your league. Still, if you ever had any real rival in the field, it was Master Sir James Zwinge. Recently, Sir James succeeded in growing Polish devilwort from the seed instead of from cuttings, as is normally done. You have failed to do so. Therefore, out of pique, you asked Bontriomphe to remove your rival; he, out of loyalty, proceeded to do so. And there you have it, my lord: Method, Motive, and Opportunity. Quod erat demonstrandum.”
My Lord Marquis swiveled his head and glared at Lord Bontriomphe. “Are you an accessory to this imbecilic tomfoolery?”
Lord Bontriomphe shook his head once, left to right. “No, my lord. But it does look as though he has us dead to rights, doesn’t it?”
“Buffoon!” the Marquis snorted. He looked back at Lord Darcy. “Very well. I know when I am being gulled as well as you do. I regret having jailed Master Sean; it was frivolous. And you are well aware that I would just as soon go to the Tower myself as to lose the services of Lord Bontriomphe for any extended length of time. Outside this building, he is my eyes and ears. I will sign an order for Master Sean’s release immediately. Since you have been assigned to this case by the King, you will, of course, be remunerated from the Royal Privy Purse?”
“Beginning today, yes,” said Lord Darcy. “But there is the little matter of yesterday — including cross-Channel transportation, train ticket, and cab fare.”
“Done,” the Marquis growled. He signed a release form, poured melted sealing wax on it, and stamped it with the seal of the Marquisate of London, all without a word. Then he heaved his massive bulk out of the chair. “Lord Bontriomphe, give my lord cousin what is owed him. Open the wall safe and take it out of petty cash. I am going upstairs to the plant rooms.” He did not quite slam the door as he left.
Lord Bontriomphe looked at Lord Darcy. “Look here — you don’t really think…”
“Chah! Don’t be ridiculous. I know perfectly well that every word of your narrative was accurate and truthful. And the Marquis is quite aware that I know it.” Lord Darcy was not one to err in a matter of judgment like that, and, as it turned out, he did not. Lord Bontriomphe’s recital was correct and precise in every detail.
“Let’s get to the Tower,” said Lord Darcy.
Lord Bontriomphe was at his desk taking a pistol out of a drawer. “Just a second, my lord,” he said, “I once resolved never to go out on a murder case unarmed. By the way, don’t you think it would be best to set up an auxiliary headquarters in the Royal Steward? That way we can keep in touch with each other and with Chief Hennely’s plainclothes investigators.”
“An excellent idea,” said Lord Darcy, “and speaking of plainclothes investigators, did you get statements from everyone concerned yesterday?”
“As many as possible, my lord. Of course, we couldn’t get everyone, but I think the reports we have now are fairly complete.”
“Good. Bring them along, will you? I should like to look them over on our way to the Tower. Are you ready to go?”
“Ready, my lord,” said Lord Bontriomphe.
“Very well, then,” said Lord Darcy. “Come, let’s get Master Sean out of durance vile.”
CHAPTER 10
As the official carriage, bearing the London arms, moved through the streets toward the Royal Steward Hotel, its pneumatic tires jouncing briskly on their spring suspensions as a soft accompaniment to the clopping of the horses’ hooves, Sean O Lochlainn, Master Sorcerer, leaned back in the seat, clutching his symbol-decorated carpetbag to his round paunch.
“Ah, my lords,” he said to the two men on the seat opposite, “a relief it is, indeed, to be free again. Twenty-four hours of sitting in the Tower is not my notion of a grand time, and you may be sure of that. Not that I object to being alone in a comfortable room for a while; any sorcerer who doesn’t take a week or so off every year for a Contemplation Retreat will find his power deserting him. But when there’s work to be done…” He paused. “My lord, you didn’t get me out of the Tower by solving this case, did you?”
Lord Darcy laughed. “No fear, my good Sean. You haven’t missed any of the excitement yet.”
“His lordship,” said Lord Bontriomphe, “got you out by simple but effective blackmail.”
“Counter-blackmail, if you please,” Lord Darcy corrected. “I merely showed de London that Lord Bontriomphe could be jailed on the same sort of flimsy evidence that the Marquis used to jail you.”
“Now wait a moment,” said Lord Bontriomphe. “The evidence wasn’t all that flimsy. There was certainly enough — in both cases — to permit holding a man for questioning.”
“Certainly,” Lord Darcy agreed. “But My Lord Marquis had no intention of questioning Master Sean. He was adhering to the letter of the law rather than to its spirit. It is a matter of family rivalry; we have, the Marquis and I, similar although not identical abilities, and therefore a basically friendly but at times emotionally charged antagonism. He would not dare have locked up an ordinary subject of His Majesty on such evidence unless he honestly believed that the suspect had actually committed the crime. Indeed, I will go further: he would never even have considered such an act.”