Lord Bontriomphe was at the door in less than a minute, ushering Lord Darcy in.
“Darcy! We weren’t expecting you,” he said with an affable smile.
“No?” Lord Darcy asked with a smile that had the hardness of chilled steel about it. “Am I to presume that you expected me to receive My Lord Marquis’ message and then take off on a pilgrimage to Rome?”
Lord Bontriomphe noted the controlled anger. “We expected you to call us on the teleson from Dover,” he said. “We would have had a carriage meet you at the station when the train pulled in.”
“My Lord Marquis,” said Lord Darcy coolly, “has not indicated that he was willing to pay for any expenses; therefore I assumed that such expenses would come out of my own pocket. Weighing the cost of a teleson message against the cost of a cab made me prefer the latter.”
“Um-m-m. I see. Well, come on into the office. I think we’ll find My Lord Marquis waiting for us.” He led Lord Darcy down the corridor, opened a door and stood aside to allow Lord Darcy to pass.
The office was not immense, but it was roomy and well appointed. There were some comfortable-looking chairs and a large one covered with expensive red Moorish leather. There was a large globe of the world on a carved stand, two or three paintings — including a reproduction of a magnificent Vandenbosch which depicted a waterfall — and a pair of large desks.
Behind one of them sat my lord the Marquis de London.
The Marquis could only be described as immense. He was absolutely corpulent, but his massive face had a remarkable sharpness of expression, and his eyes had a thoughtful, introspective look. And in spite of a weight that was better than twenty stone, there was an air of firmness about him that gave him an almost regal air.
“Good evening, my lord,” he said without rising, but extending a broad, fat hand that reminded one of the flipper of a seal.
“My Lord Marquis,” said Lord Darcy, gripping the hand and releasing it.
Then, before the Marquis could say anything more, Lord Darcy put one hand firmly on the desk, palm down, leaned over to look down at de London, and said: “And now, how much of this is flummery?”
“You mock me,” said the Marquis heavily. “Sit down, if you please; I don’t like to have to crane my neck to look up at you.”
Lord Darcy took the red leather chair without taking his eyes off the Marquis.
“None of it is flummery,” the Marquis said. “I admit I do not have the full roster of facts, but I feel I have enough to justify my actions. Would you care to hear Lord Bontriomphe’s report?”
“I would,” Lord Darcy said. He turned and looked at the second desk, behind which Lord Bontriomphe had seated himself. He was a fairly tall, rather good-looking, square-jawed man who was always well dressed and carried about him an air of competence.
“You may report, Bontriomphe,” said the Marquis.
“Everything?”
“Everything. The conversation verbatim.”
Lord Bontriomphe leaned back and closed his eyes for a moment. Lord Darcy prepared himself to listen closely. Bontriomphe had two things which made him of tremendous value to the Marquis of London: a flair for narrative and an eidetic memory.
Bontriomphe opened his eyes and looked at Darcy.
“At my lord’s orders,” he said, “I went to the Sorcerers and Healers Convention to look at the herb displays. He was especially interested in the specimens of Polish devilwort, which he -
The Marquis snorted. “Pah! That has nothing to do with the murder.”
“I haven’t said it did. Where was I? Oh, yes. Which he hasn’t been able to grow from the seed, only from cuttings. He wanted to find out how the seed-grown plants had been cultivated.
“I went in to the Royal Steward a little after nine. The place was packed with sorcerers of every size and description and enough clergy to fill a church from altar to narthex. I had to convince a couple of guards at the door that I wasn’t just some tourist who wanted to gawk at the celebrities, but I made it to the herb displays at about ten after. I took a good long look at the Polish devilwort — it seemed to be thriving well — and then took a survey of the rest of the stuff. I took some notes on a few other rarities, but that wouldn’t interest you, so I’ll omit the details.
“Then I wandered around and looked at the rest of the displays, just to see if there was anything interesting. I didn’t meet anyone I knew, which made me just as happy, since I hadn’t gone there for chitchat. That is, I didn’t meet any acquaintance until nine twenty. That was when Commander Lord Ashley tapped me on the shoulder.
“I turned around, and there he was, in full dress Naval uniform, looking as uncomfortable as a Navy officer at a magicians’ convention.
“ ‘Bontriomphe,’ he said, ‘how good to see you again.’
“ ‘Good to see you,’ I said, ‘and how is the Imperial Navy? Have you become a Specialist in Sorcery?’
“That was a deliberate joke. Tony does have a touch of the Talent; he has what they call ‘an intermittent and diffuse precognitive ability’ that has helped him out of tight spots several times, and which, incidentally, is useful to him at the gaming tables. But in general he doesn’t know any more about magic than an ostrich knows about icebergs.
“He laughed a little. ‘Not yet and not ever,’ he said. ‘I’m here on Naval business. I’m looking for a friend of yours, but I don’t know what he looks like.’
“ ‘Who are you looking for?’ I asked.
“ ‘Master Sean O Lochlainn. I checked at the desk and got his room number, but he isn’t in.’
“ ‘If he’s around,’ I said, ‘I haven’t seen him. But then I haven’t been looking for him.’
“I stood there and looked around, but I couldn’t spot him any place in that crowd. But I did happen to spot another face I knew.
“ ‘If anybody knows where Master Sean is,’ I said, ‘it will be Grand Master Sir Lyon Grey. Come along.’
“Sir Lyon was standing over near one of the doors talking to a man who was wearing the habit of one of the Flemish orders. The monk took his leave just as Lord Ashley and I approached Sir Lyon.
“ ‘Good morning, Sir Lyon,’ I said. ‘I think you’ve met Commander Ashley.’
“ ‘Good morning, Lord Bontriomphe,’ the old sorcerer said. ‘Yes, Commander Ashley and I have met. In what way may I be of assistance?’
“ ‘I have a message for Master Sean O Lochlainn, Sir Lyon,’ said Ashley. ‘Have you any idea where he is?’
“The Grand Master started to answer, but whatever he was going to say was lost. A scrawny little Master Sorcerer with a nose like a spike and rather bugged-out blue eyes suddenly popped from the door nearby, his hands fluttering about like a couple of drunken moths who had mistaken his head for a candle flame. He took a fast look around, saw Sir Lyon, and made a beeline for us, still flapping his hands.
“ ‘Grand Master! Grand Master! I must speak to you immediately!’ he said in a low, excited voice.
“ ‘Compose yourself, Master Netly,’ the Grand Master said. ‘What is it?’
“Master Netly noticed Lord Ashley and me and said: ‘It’s… uh… confidential, Grand Master.’
“The Grand Master bent a little and cocked his head to one side while Master Netly, who is a good foot shorter than Sir Lyon, stood on tiptoe to whisper in his ear. I couldn’t catch a word of what he said, but I saw Sir Lyon’s eyes open wider as the skinny little sorcerer spoke. Then his eyes shifted and he looked straight at me.
“When he straightened up, he was still looking at me. And believe me when Grand Master Sir Lyon Gandolphus Grey fixes you with those eyes of his, you have an urge to search your conscience to see what particularly odious sins you have committed lately. Fortunately, my soul was reasonably pure.