“The sword came through and stabbed him. A single drop of his blood fell — half of it falling upon the carpet, the other half upon the presumed message. The blade itself would stop the flow of blood until it was withdrawn and Master Sir James staggered back away from the door.
“He collapsed in a state of shock. His wound, though deep, was not immediately dangerous, since the blade had not severed any of the larger blood vessels, nor pierced the lung. There was some bleeding, but not a great deal. He lay there for approximately half an hour.
“The weapon had, however, cut the wall of the great pulmonic aorta to such an extent that there was only a layer of tissue keeping it intact.
“At half past nine, Master Sean, who had an appointment with him at that time, rapped on the door.
“The noise of the knocking roused Master Sir James from his stupor. He must have known that time had passed; he must have been aware that it was Master Sean at the door. Lifting himself from the floor, he grabbed at his desk, upon which were lying the key to his room and his silver-bladed contact cutter. He cried out to Master Sean for help.
“But this increased strain was too much for the thin layer of tissue which had thus far held the walls of the pulmonic aorta together. The increased pressure burst the walls of the blood vessel, spurting forth Sir James’ life blood. Sir James collapsed again to the floor, dropping the knife and his key. He died within seconds.”
Master Sean arose from the floor, carefully brushing off his magician’s robe. Sir Frederique and his assistant removed the door.
“If it please the Court,” the Irish sorcerer said, “the angle at which My Lord Darcy’s thrust struck my chest would account exactly for the wound in Sir James’ body.”
Lord Darcy carefully put the sword he was holding on Lard Bontriomphe’s desk. “You see, then,” he said, “how Master James was killed, and how he died.
“Now, as to what happened:
“We must go back to the mysterious Goodman FitzJean. That Tuesday morning, he had discovered that Goodman Georges was a double agent. It became necessary to kill him. He walked up to Goodman Georges’ room and knocked on the door. When Goodman Georges opened the door, FitzJean thrust forward with a knife and killed him. Naturally, there was no evidence that anyone was in the room with Georges Barbour, simply because there wasn’t. FitzJean was standing in the hallway.
“Barbour had already discovered FitzJean’s identity and, earlier that morning, had sent a letter to Zed — Sir James Zwinge. FitzJean, in order to keep his identity from being discovered, came here to London. Then he managed to get hold of a communication, which — so he believed — reported his identity to the Admiralty. It was, he thought, a letter to the Admiralty reporting the information from Barbour which disclosed FitzJean’s identity. He immediately went up to Sir James’ room, and, using that same envelope, which, of course, would identify it as an Admiralty message, tricked Sir James into bending over near the keyhole” — Lord Darcy gestured with one hand — “with the results which Master Sean and I have just displayed to you.”
His eyes moved over the silent group before him. “By this time, of course, you all realize who the killer is. But, fortunately, we have further proof. You see, he failed to see the possibility of an error in his assumptions. He assumed that a letter sent by Barbour on the morning of Tuesday, October 25th, would arrive very early in the morning of Wednesday, the 26th, the following day. He further assumed that Barbour would have sent the letter to the Royal Steward Hotel, and that Barbour’s letter, plus his own communication, was what was contained in the envelope addressed to the Admiralty by Sir James Zwinge.
“But, he failed to realize that Barbour might not have known that Sir James was at the Royal Steward, that indeed it was far more probable, from that point of view, for Barbour to address the letter to Sir James here at the Palace du Marquis.”
He rose from his chair and walked to the desk of the Marquis. “May I have the envelope, my lord justice?” he asked.
Without a word, the Marquis de London handed Lord Darcy a pale blue envelope.
Lord Darcy looked at it. “This is postmarked Cherbourg. Tuesday October 25, is marked as the posting date, and it is marked as having been received on Wednesday morning, the 26th. It is addressed to Sir James Zwinge.”
He turned back toward the group, and noted with approval that Chief Master-at-Arms Hennely Grayme had moved up directly behind one man.
“There was one peculiarity about these communications,” he continued blandly. “Master Sir James had given to his agents special paper and ink, a special blue sealing wax, and a special seal. These had been magically treated so that unless the envelope was opened by either Master Sir James himself or by Captain Smollett, the paper within would be blank. Am I correct, Captain Smollett?”
“Yes, m’lud.”
Lord Darcy looked at the envelope in his hand. “That is why this envelope has not been opened. Only you can open it, Captain, and we have reason to believe that it will disclose to you the identity of the so-called Goodman FitzJean — Sir James’ murderer. Would you be so good as to open it?”
The Naval officer took the envelope, broke the blue seal, lifted the flap, and took out a sheet of paper. “Addressed to Sir James,” he said. “Barbour’s handwriting; I recognize it.”
He did not read the entire letter. When he was halfway through, his head turned to his left. “You!” he said, in a low, angry, shocked voice.
Commander Lord Ashley rose to his feet and his right hand reached toward his sword scabbard.
And then he suddenly realized it was empty, that the sword was halfway across the room, on Lord Bontriomphe’s desk. At the moment of that realization, he recognized one other thing — that there was something pressed against his back.
Chief Master-at-Arms Hennely Grayme, holding his pistol steady, said, “Don’t try anything, my lord. You’ve killed enough as it is.”
“Have you anything to say, Commander?” Lord Darcy asked.
Ashley opened his mouth, closed it, swallowed, then opened it again to speak. His eyes seemed to be focused upon something in the far distance.
“You have me, my lords,” he said hoarsely. “I’m sorry I had to kill anybody, but… but, you would have thought me a traitor, you see. I needed the money, but I would never have betrayed the Empire. I didn’t know the secret.” He stopped again and put his left hand over his eyes. “I knew that Barbour was a Polish agent. I didn’t know he was a double agent. I thought I could get some money from him. But I… I wouldn’t have betrayed my King. I was just afraid someone would think I had, after that.”
He stopped, took his hand down. “My lords,” his voice quivered as he tried to keep it even, “I should like to make my confession to Father Patrique. After that, I should like to make my confession to the Court.”
The Marquis de London nodded at Lord Darcy. He nodded back at the Marquis. “You have the Crown’s permission, my lord,” said Lord Darcy, “but I must ask you to leave behind your scabbard and your jacket.”
Without a word, Commander Lord Ashley dropped his sword belt on the chair behind him, removed his jacket and put it on top of it.
“Chief Hennely,” the Marquis de London said, “I charge you to take this man prisoner upon his own admission. Take him to the outer room, where the Reverend Father may hear his sacramental confession. You will observe the laws pertaining thereto.”
“Yes, my lord,” said Chief Hennely, and the three of them left the room.
“And now, my lord Advocate,” said the Marquis. “Would you kindly report the full story to the Court and the witnesses present”