The haze of excitement cleared from his brain, and he limped across the bridge to the balustrade on the downstream side.
Black as pitch down there. He could see nothing.
“Darcy!” the Commander’s voice rang out across the water, but the dense fog that brooded over the river seemed to distort and disperse the sound before it traveled far. There was no answer.
Twice more he called, and still there was no answer.
He heard rapid footsteps coming from his right and turned to face them, his hand on the hilt of his narrow-bladed sword.
MacAlister returning? It couldn’t be! And yet…
Damn the fog! He felt as though he were isolated in a little world of his own, whose boundaries were a bank of cotton wool a dozen feet away, and which was surrounded by invisible beings that were nothing but disembodied footsteps.
Then he saw a glow of light, and out of the cotton wool came a friendly figure, carrying a pressure-gas lantern. Lord Ashley didn’t know the big, heavy man, but the black uniform of a London Armsman made him a friend. The Armsman slowed, stopped, and put his hand on the hilt of his own smallsword. “May I ask what’s going on here, sir?” he inquired politely. But his eyes were wary.
Lord Ashley carefully took his hand off the hilt of his own sword. The Armsman kept his where it was. “I heard a disturbance on the bridge, sir,” he said stolidly. “A noise of swords clashing, it sounded like, sir. Then somebody from off the bridge ran past me in the fog. And just now…” He paused. “Were that you shouting, sir?”
It came suddenly to Lord Ashley what a forbidding figure he must be. In his long black Naval cloak, with the hood up, and his back to the lamp, his shadowed face was as invisible as MacAlister’s had been. He reached up with one hand and pulled back the hood, and then pushed the cloak back over his shoulders so that the Armsman could see his uniform.
“I am Commander Lord Ashley,” he said. “Yes, Armsman, there has been trouble. The man you heard running is a criminal wanted for murder.”
“Murder, your lordship?” said the Armsman blankly. “Who was he?”
“I’m afraid he did not give me his name,” said Lord Ashley. The statement was perfectly true, he thought, and he wanted to tell Darcy about MacAlister before he told anyone else. “The point is that a short time ago he pushed a young girl off the bridge. My companion dived in after her.”
“Dived in after her? That were a foolish thing to do on a night like this. Likely we’ve lost two people instead of one, your lordship.”
“That may well be,” Lord Ashley admitted. “I’ve called him and he doesn’t answer. But he’s a powerful man, and although the chances are against his having found the girl, there’s a good chance he can make it to shore by himself.”
“All right, your lordship, we’ll start looking for both of them right away.” He took out his whistle and blew a series of shrill, high, keening notes into the murk-filled air — the “Assistance” call of the King’s Armsmen. A second or two later, they heard distant whistles from both sides of the river blowing the answer: “Coming.” After several more seconds, the Armsman repeated the call, to give his hearers a bearing.
“There’ll be help along in a few minutes. Nothing we can do till then,” the Armsman said briskly. He took a notebook from his jacket pocket. “Now, your lordship, if I might have your name again and the names of the other people involved.”
The Commander repeated his own name, then he said, “The girl’s name is Tia Einzig.” He spelled it. “She is an important witness in a murder case, which is why the killer tried to do away with her. The man who went in after her is Lord Darcy, the—”
“Lord Darcy, did you say?” The Armsman lifted his head suddenly from the notebook. “Lord Darcy, the famous investigator from Rouen?”
“That’s right,” said Lord Ashley.
“The same Lord Darcy,” persisted the Armsman, who seemed to want to make absolutely sure of the identification, “who came over from Normandy to help Lord Bontriomphe solve the Royal Steward Hotel Murder?”
“The same,” Lord Ashley said wearily.
“And he’s gone and jumped in the river?”
“Yes, that’s what I said. He jumped in the river. He was trying to save this girl. By now he’s had time to swim clear to the Nore. If we wait a little longer, he may be on his way back.”
The Armsman looked miffed. “No need to get impatient, your lordship. We’ll get things done as fast as we can.” He put his whistle to his lips again and sent out the distress call a third time. Then, after a moment, a fourth.
Then they could hear hoofbeats clattering on the distant street and the sound changed to a hollow thunder as the horse galloped onto the bridge. They could see a glow of light approaching through the fog; the Armsman signaled with his own lantern. “Here comes the sergeant now, your lordship.”
The mounted Sergeant-at-Arms was suddenly upon them, pulling his big bay gelding to a halt, as the Armsman came to attention. “What seems to be the trouble, Armsman Arthur?”
“This gentleman here, Sergeant, is Commander Lord Ashley of the Imperial Navy.” Referring to his notebook, he went on to report quickly and concisely what Lord Ashley had told him. By that time, they could hear the thud of heavy boots and the clatter of hoofbeats from both ends of the bridge, as more Armsmen approached.
“All right, My Lord Commander,” said the sergeant, “we’ll take care of it. Likely he swam for the right bank since it’s the nearer, but we’ll cover both sides. Arthur, you go to the Thames Street River Patrol Station. Tell them to get their boats out, and to send a message to the other patrol stations downriver. We’ll want everything covered from here to Chelsea.”
“Right away, Sergeant.” Armsman Arthur disappeared into the fog.
“I’d like to ask a favor if I may, Sergeant,” said Lord Ashley.
“What might that be, My Lord Commander?”
“Send a horseman to the Royal Steward Hotel, if you would. Have him report exactly what happened to the Sergeant-at-Arms on duty there. Also, there is an official Admiralty coach waiting for me there, Petty Officer Hosquins in charge. Have your man tell Hosquins that Commander Lord Ashley wants him to bring the coach to Thames Street and Somerset Bridge immediately. I’m going to assume that Lord Darcy made for the right bank, and help your men search that side.”
“Very good, My Lord Commander. I’ll send a man right along.”
Mary de Cumberland walked across the almost deserted lobby of the Royal Steward, doing her best to suppress her nervous impatience.
She felt she ought to be doing something, but what?
She would like to have talked to someone but there was no one to talk to.
Sir Lyon and Sir Thomas were still in conclave with the highest ranking sorcerers of the Empire. Master Sean was at the morgue attending to the autopsy of Sir James Zwinge. Lord Bontriomphe, according to the Sergeant-at-Arms who was on duty in the temporary office, was out prowling the city in search of a missing man named Paul Nichols. (She knew that the Sergeant-at-Arms would not have given her even that much information except that Lord Bontriomphe had told him that Her Grace of Cumberland would be bringing in information. The sergeant apparently assumed that her status in the investigation was a great deal more official than it actually was.)
And Lord Darcy was in a low dive down the street, keeping an eye on Tia.
Which left the Duchess with nothing to do.
Part way across the lobby, she turned and headed down the hall that led back to the temporary office. Maybe some information had come in. Even if none had, it was better to be talking to the sergeant than to be pointlessly pacing the hotel lobby.