“Excellent. Thank you, m’lud.”
“I shall see you later, gentlemen. Good day.” Lord Bontriomphe walked out the door as if he were pleased at the prospect of finally having something he could sink his teeth into.
“As for me, Captain,” said Lord Darcy, “I should like to ask your indulgence in what I know may be a touchy matter.”
“What might that be?”
“I should like to have a look at your secret files, most especially at the letters from Barbour concerning FitzJean and the confusion projector.”
“M’lud,” said Captain Smollett with a wintery smile, “any Intelligence organization is justly jealous of its secret files and our Corps is no exception. Until now, these files have been classified Most Secret. Barbour’s existence as a double agent was known only to the high echelons of the Admiralty. But you’ve taken me to task once for withholding information. Won’t happen again. I shall have the pertinent files brought in so that both you and Commander Ashley can study them. And may I ask your indulgence?”
“Certainly, Captain, what is it?”
“With your permission, I’d like to make Commander Lord Ashley the liaison officer between the civilian investigators and the Navy. To be more specific, between you and me. He knows the Navy, he knows Intelligence work, and he knows something about criminal investigation. He was in the Naval C.I.D. before he was transferred to this Corps. His orders will be to assist you in every possible way. You agree, m’lud?”
“Of course, Captain. A splendid idea.”
“Very well, Commander; those are your orders then.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.” He smiled at Lord Darcy. “I’ll keep out from underfoot as much as possible, my lord.”
“That’s settled, then,” said Captain Smollett, getting to his feet. “Now I’ll go get those files.”
Master Sean O Lochlainn stood near the closed door of the murder room and surveyed its entire contents. Then he turned to Journeyman Sorcerer Lord John Quetzal who stood next to him. “Now, d’ye understand what we have to be careful of? We are not yet ready to take the preservative spell off the body, so we have to be careful that none of the spells that we’re working with inside the room interfere with it. D’ye understand?”
Lord John Quetzal nodded. “Yes, Master, I think I do.”
Master Sean smiled at him. “I think you do, too, my lad. You followed through on the blood tests beautifully.” He paused. “By the by, d’ye think you could do them by yourself next time, should you happen to be called upon to perform them?”
Lord John Quetzal glanced sideways at the little sorcerer. “The blood tests? Yes, Master Sorcerer, I think I could,” he said firmly.
“Ah, good.” Master Sean nodded with satisfaction. “But” — he raised a warning finger — “this next one’s a little tougher.
“We’re dealing here with psychic shock. Now, whenever a man’s hurt, or when he dies, there’s psychic shock — unless, of course, he just fades away in his sleep or something like that.
“But here we’re talking about violence.”
“I understand,” said Lord John Quetzal.
“All right. Now, you’re going to be my thurifer. The ingredients are laid out on the table. Now I’ll ask you to prepare the thurible, seeing as how it’s you that’s got to use it.”
“Very well, Master,” said the young Mechicain nobleman, with the tiniest trace of uneasiness in his voice.
On the table near the door sat the instrument which Master Sean had taken from his symbol-decorated carpetbag. It was a brazen pot with a perforated brazen cap, which, when assembled, would swing from the end of a clutch of chains some three feet long. Now, it was open, on the table.
Lord John Quetzal took several tools from his own carpetbag. Under the watchful eye and sharp ear of Master Sean O Lochlainn, the young sorcerer prepared the contents of the thurible.
After placing the brazen pot on an iron tripod, he fired up several lumps of charcoal in the bottom of it. Then, from the row of jars and bottles which had been lined up on the table, he took various ingredients and put them into his special golden mixing bowl, using a small golden spoon. With his own pencil-sized golden wand, he cast a spell over each ingredient as he added it, stirring it into the mixture.
There was frankincense and sweet balsam, samonyl and fenogreek, turmeric and taelesin, sandalwood and cedarwood, and four other lesser known but even more powerful ingredients — added in a precise order, each with its unique and individual spell.
And when he had finished the mixing, and cast the final spell, the journeyman sorcerer lifted his head and turned his dark eyes to the tubby little Master.
Sean O Lochlainn nodded his head. “Very well done. Very well done.” He smiled. “Now I’ll not ask you if you know what you’ve done. It’s a habit of mine to assume that a student lacks knowledge. Being, as it were, a student meself, I know how much knowledge I lack. And besides,” he chuckled, “as Lord Darcy would tell you, I’m a man who’s fond of lecturing.
“The spell we’re about to perform is a dynamic spell, and must be warded off by a dynamic spell — which means that in order to protect the body I’ll have to be working while you are censing the room. D’ye understand, my lad?”
“I do, Master.”
“Very well. Now, when you place that mixture into the thurible, there will be given off a smoke, which is composed of many different kinds of small particles. Because of the spell you’ve cast on them, these particles will tend to be attracted to, and adhere to, the walls and the furniture in this room in a particular manner.
“They will form what we call hologram patterns upon the surfaces they touch. Each of the different kinds of smoke particles forms its own pattern according to the psychic influences which have been impressed upon those surfaces. And by understanding the totality of those patterns we may identify definitely those psychic impressions.”
He folded his arms on his chest, looked up at the tall young Mechicain, and gave him his best Irish grin. “Ah, lad, you’re the kind of student a man looks for. You listen when the old master talks, and you don’t get bored by what you already know, because you’re waiting for more information.”
Again, that almost invisible flush colored John Quetzal’s dark skin. “Yes, Master Sean,” he said carefully, “I have learned pattern theory.”
“Aye — pattern theory you’ve learned. But you’re wise enough to admit that you know only theory, not practice.” He nodded his head in satisfaction. “You’ll make a fine forensic sorcerer, lad. A fine forensic sorcerer!” Then his smile twisted slightly. “That is, you have the right attitude, me lad. Now we’ll see if you have the technique.”
He turned away from Lord John Quetzal and looked again at the walls. “If you do this thing right, Lord John Quetzal, there will be, upon those walls, patterns in smoke particles, each individual pattern distinguished by the spell cast on the various substances, and the hologram patterns distinguished by the combination of those spells. No man without the Talent will see anything but slightly smudgy walls — if that. You and I will see the patterns, and I’ll do my best to show you how to interpret them.”
He turned again.
“Are you ready, my lad?”
Lord John Quetzal set his lips. “I’m ready, Master.”