“Why, yes, but—”
“Then surely you see that a blade in the shape of an isosceles triangle — two inches wide at the base, and five inches long — could not have made a stab wound five inches deep if the cut it made was less than an inch wide.
“Even more important — as I pointed out to Master Sean earlier today — a knife of pure silver, while harder than pure gold, is softer than pure lead. Its edges would certainly have been noticeably blunted if it had cut into two ribs. And yet, the knife retained its razor edge.
“It follows that Master Sir James was not killed by his own contact cutter — further, that the weapon which killed him was not in the room in which he died.”
Lord Bontriomphe stared at Lord Darcy for a long second, then he turned and looked at the Marquis of London. “All right. As I said, I didn’t like those hypotheses, because they don’t explain away the heel print — and now they don’t explain the missing knife. So I’ll stick to my original theory, with one small change: Tia brought her own knife and took it away with her.”
The Marquis of London did not even bother to look up from his desk. “Most unsatisfactory, my lord,” he said, “most unsatisfactory.” Then he glanced at Lord Bontriomphe. “And you intend to put the blame on the Damoselle Tia? Hah! Upon what evidence?”
“Why — upon the evidence of her heel print.” Lord Bontriomphe leaned forward. “It was Master Sir James’ blood, wasn’t it? And how could she have got it on her heel except after Master Sir James bled all over the middle of the floor?”
The Marquis of London looked up toward the ceiling. “Were I a lesser man,” he said ponderously, “this would be more than I could bear. Your deductions would be perfectly correct, Bontriomphe — if that were the Damoselle Tia’s heel print. But, of course, it was not.”
“Whose else could it have been?” Bontriomphe snapped. “Who else could have made a half-moon print in blood like that?”
My lord the Marquis closed his eyes and, obviously addressing Lord Darcy, said: “I intend to discuss this no further. I shall be perfectly happy to preside over this evening’s discussion — especially since we have obtained official permission for it. I shall return when our guests arrive.” He rose and headed toward the rear door, then he stopped and turned. “In the meantime, would you be so good as to dispel Lord Bontriomphe’s fantasy about the Damoselle Tia’s heel print?” And then he was gone.
Lord Bontriomphe took a deep breath and held it. It seemed a good three minutes before he let it out again — slowly.
“All right,” he said at last, “I told you I wasn’t the genius around here. Obviously you have observed a great deal more in this case than I have. We’ll do as my lord of London has agreed. We’ll get them all up here and talk to them.”
Then, abruptly, he slammed the flat of his hand down upon the top of his desk. “But — by Heaven, there’s one thing I want to know before we go on with this! Why do you say that that heel print did not belong to Damoselle Tia?”
“Because, my dear Bontriomphe,” said Lord Darcy carefully, “it was not a heel print.” He paused.
“If it had been, the weight of the person wearing the heel would have pressed the blood down into the fiber of the rug; and yet — you will agree that it did not? That the blood touched only the top of the fibers, and soaked only a little way down?”
Lord Bontriomphe closed his eyes and let his exceptional memory bring up a mental picture of the bloodstain. Then he opened his eyes. “All right. So I was wrong. The bloodstain was not a heel print. Then where did I make my mistake?”
“Your error lay in assuming that it was a bloodstain,” said Lord Darcy.
Lord Bontriomphe’s scowl grew deeper. “Don’t tell me it wasn’t a bloodstain!”
“Not exactly,” said Lord Darcy. “It was only half a bloodstain.”
CHAPTER 22
There were nine guests in the office of my lord the Marquis of London that night. Sir Frederique Bruleur had brought in enough of the yellow chairs to seat eight. Lord Bontriomphe and the Marquis sat behind their desks. Lord Darcy sat to the left of Bontriomphe’s desk, in the red leather chair, which had been swiveled around to face the rest of the company. From left to right, Lord Darcy saw, in the first row, Grand Master Sir Lyon Gandolphus Grey, Mary of Cumberland, Captain Percy Smollett, and Commander Lord Ashley. And in the second row, Sir Thomas Leseaux, Lord John Quetzal, Father Patrique, and Master Sean O Lochlainn. Behind them, near the door, stood Chief Master-at-Arms Hennely Grayme, who had told Sir Frederique that he preferred to stand.
Sir Frederique had served drinks all around, then had quietly retired.
My lord the Marquis of London looked them all over once and then said: “My lords, Your Grace, gentlemen.” He paused and looked them all over once again. “I will not say that it was very good of you to come. You are not here by invitation, but by fiat. Nonetheless, all but one of you have been asked merely as witnesses to help us discover the truth, and all but that one may consider themselves my guests.” He paused again, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. “It is my duty to inform you that you are all here to answer questions if they are put to you — not simply because I, as Lord of London, have requested your cooperation, but, more important, because you are here by order of our Most Dread Sovereign, His Majesty the King. Is that understood?”
Nine heads nodded silently.
“This is, then,” My Lord Marquis continued, “a Court of Inquiry, presided over by myself as justice of the King’s Court. Lord Bontriomphe is here as Clerk of the King’s Court. This may seem irregular but it is quite in accord with the law. Is all of that understood?” Again, there were nine silent nods of assent. “Very well. I hardly think I need say — although by law I must — that anything anyone of you says here will be taken down by Lord Bontriomphe in writing, and may be used in evidence.
“The Reverend Father Patrique, O.B.S., is here in the official capacity of amicus curia, as a registered Sensitive of Holy Mother Church.
“As official Sergeant-at-Arms, we have Chief Master-at-Arms Hennely Grayme of this City.
“Presenting the case for the Crown is Lord Darcy, at present of Rouen, Chief Investigator for His Royal Highness, Prince Richard, Duke of Normandy.
“Although this Court has the power to make a recommendation, it is understood that anyone accused may appeal without prejudice, and may be represented in such Court as our Most Dread Sovereign His Majesty the King may appoint, by any counsel such accused may choose.”
My Lord Marquis took another deep breath and cleared his throat. “Is all of that quite clear? You will answer by voice.” And a ragged chorus of voices said, “Yes, my lord.”
“Very well.” He heaved his massive bulk up from his chair, and everyone else stood. “Will you administer the oath, Reverend Father,” he said to the Benedictine. When the oath had been administered to everyone there, my lord the Marquis sat down again with a sigh of comfort. “Now, before we proceed, are there any questions?”
There were none.
The Marquis of London lifted his head a fraction of an inch and looked at Lord Darcy from beneath his brows. “Very well, my Lord Advocate. You may proceed.”
Lord Darcy stood up from the red leather chair, bowed in the direction of the Court, and said, “Thank you, my Lord Justice. Do I have the Court’s permission to be seated during the presentation of the Crown’s case?”
“You do, my lord. Pray be seated.”