A minute or so later, the three men were looking at a clothbound register book which lay open on Bolmer’s desk.
“That’s the page for Wednesday,” Lewie Bolmer said. “From midnight to midnight.”
Lord Darcy and Lord Bontriomphe looked down the list. There were four columns, marked Time Arrived, Name, Business, and Time Departed.
There were not many entries; the first one was for half past six, when a man from the Royal Postal Service had delivered the mail; he had left again at 6:35. At twelve minutes of nine Commander Lord Ashley had arrived, giving as his business “Official message for Master Sorcerer Sean O Lochlainn.” He had left at 9:55. At two minutes after nine, Lord Bontriomphe had come in, on “Personal business of the Marquis de London.” No time of departure was noted. The next entry was for 9:51. It simply said “Chief Master-at-Arms Hennely Grayme, and four Men-at-Arms. On the King’s Business.”
“No help there,” said Lord Bontriomphe. “But then, I didn’t expect there would be.”
Lord Darcy grinned. “What kind of entry were you expecting? ‘9:20 a.m.; Master Sorcerer Lucifer S. Beelzebub. Business: To murder Master Sir James Zwinge. Exit time: 9:31’ I suppose?”
“That would have been helpful,” admitted Lord Bontriomphe.
“I notice there’s no exit time down for you or for the Armsmen.” He looked up at Goodman Lewie. “Why is that?”
The hotel manager was stifling a yawn. “Eh? What, your lordship? The time of leaving? Well, there were so many Armsmen in and out that I simply gave the doormen orders to allow any Officer of the King’s Peace to come and go as he pleased.” He stifled another yawn. “Pardon me. Lack of sleep. My night manager, who has the midnight-to-nine shift, didn’t show up for work last night, so I had to take over.”
“Perfectly all right,” said Lord Darcy, still looking at the register book. There were more entries in the afternoon, mostly merchants and manufacturers who used sorcery or employed sorcerers in the course of their business. One entry caught his eye.
“What’s this?” he said, tapping it with his finger.
Lord Bontriomphe read it aloud: “ ‘2:54; Commander Lord Ashley; official business with Manager Bolmer.’ No exit time marked.”
“Wuh… well, your lordships, there were several Navy men in and out. Official business, you know.”
“Official business? Why did they want to talk to you?” Darcy asked.
“Not to me. To… to Paul Nichols, my night manager.”
“About what?”
“I… I’m not at liberty to say, your lordship. Strict instructions from the Admiralty. In the King’s Name.”
“I see,” said Lord Darcy in a hard voice. “Thank you, Goodman Lewie. There will be a Sergeant-at-Arms around later to take over that office. Come on, Bontriomphe.” He turned and strode out of the office, with Lord Bontriomphe at his heels.
They were halfway across the lobby, threading their way through the crowded exhibits, before Lord Bontriomphe spoke. “Do I detect blood in your eye?”
“Damn right you do,” snapped Darcy. “How far is the Admiralty Office from here?”
“Ten minutes if we walk, or we can take the coach and get there in three.”
“The coach, by all means,” said Lord Darcy.
Barney, the footman, was standing near the coach, which was drawn up alongside the curb a few yards from the front door of the Royal Steward.
“Barney,” Lord Bontriomphe shouted. “Where’s Denys?”
“Still in the pub, my lord,” the footman called back.
“Get ready to go, I’ll fetch him.” He ran across the street to the pub and was out again thirty seconds later with the coachman running alongside him.
“To the Admiralty Office!” Lord Bontriomphe ordered as Denys climbed into his seat. “As fast as you can.” He climbed inside with Lord Darcy.
“So Smollett is holding out on us,” he said, as the coach started forward with a jerk.
“He knows something we don’t, that’s for certain,” said Lord Darcy.
“Keep in mind that those orders to keep quiet were given to Bolmer yesterday, before the King ordered us to work together.”
“True,” said Lord Darcy, “but considering the fact that the Navy is all in a pother about a man who has suddenly turned up missing, and that Goodman Lewie Bolmer shows by his behavior that he is convinced that his night manager will not return, doesn’t it seem odd to you that neither Smollett nor Ashley mentioned it to us this morning?”
“More than odd,” Lord Bontriomphe agreed. “That’s what I said: Smollett is holding out on us. You want to hold him while I poke him in the eye, or the other way around?”
“Neither,” said Lord Darcy. “We’ll each take an arm and twist.”
CHAPTER 12
Lord Bontriomphe had not misjudged the time very much; it was less than four minutes later when Darcy and Bontriomphe climbed out of the coach in front of the big, bulky, old building that housed the Admiralty offices of the Imperial Navy. They went up the steps and through the wide doors into a large anteroom that was almost the size of a hotel lobby. They were heading toward a desk marked Information when Lord Darcy suddenly spotted a familiar figure.
“There’s our pigeon,” he murmured to Lord Bontriomphe, then raised his voice:
“Ah, Commander Ashley.”
Lord Ashley turned, recognized them, and gave them an affable smile. “Good afternoon, my lords. Can I do anything for you?”
“I certainly hope so,” said Lord Darcy.
Lord Ashley’s smile disappeared. “What’s the trouble? Has anything happened?”
“I don’t know. That’s what I want you to tell me. Why is the Navy so interested in a certain Paul Nichols, the night manager at the Royal Steward?”
Lord Ashley blinked. “Didn’t Captain Smollett tell you?”
“Sure he did,” said Lord Bontriomphe. “He told us all about it. But we forgot. That’s why we’re here asking questions.”
Commander Lord Ashley ignored the London investigator’s sarcasm. There was a vaguely troubled look in his seaman’s eyes. Abruptly he came to a decision. “That information will have to come from Captain Smollett. I’ll take you to his office. May I tell him that you have come to get the information directly from him?”
“So,” said Lord Darcy with a dry smile, “Captain Smollett prefers that his subordinates keep silent, eh?”
Lord Ashley grinned lopsidedly. “I have my orders. And there are good reasons for them. The Naval Intelligence Corps, after all, does not make a habit of broadcasting its information to the four winds.”
“I’m aware of that,” said Lord Darcy, “and I am not suggesting that the corps acquire such habits. Nonetheless, His Majesty’s instructions were, I think, explicit.”
“I’m certain it was merely an oversight on the captain’s part. This affair has the whole Intelligence Corps in an uproar, and Captain Smollett and his staff, as I told you this morning, do not have any high hopes that the killers will be found.”
“And frankly don’t much care, I presume,” said Lord Darcy.
“I wouldn’t go so far as to say that, my lord; it is simply that we don’t feel that the tracking down of hired Polish assassins is our job. We’re not equipped for it. Our job is the impossible one of finding out everything that King Casimir’s Navy is up to and keeping him from finding out anything at all about ours. You people are equipped and trained to catch murderers, and we — very rightly, I think — leave the job in your hands.”
“We can’t do it without the pertinent information,” said Lord Darcy, “and that’s what we’re here to get.”