Randall Garrett - Lord Darcy

Lord Darcy

Table of Contents

PREFACE

PART ONE

The Eyes Have It

A Case of Identity

The Muddle of the Woad

Too Many Magicians

PART TWO

A Stretch of the Imagination

A Matter of Gravity

The Bitter End

PART THREE

The Ipswich Phial

The Sixteen Keys

The Napoli Express

Appendix

The Spell of War

Lord Darcy

Randall Garrett

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any

resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

"The Eyes Have It" was first published inAnalog, January 1964. "A Case of Identity" was first published

inAnalog, September 1964. "The Muddle of the Woad" was first published inAnalog, June 1965. "A

Stretch of the Imagination" was first published inOf Men and Malice (Dean Dickensheet, ed.)

Doubleday 1973. The four stories listed above were reissued under the titleMurder and Magic by Ace

Books in 1979.Too Many Magicians was first published in serialized form inAnalog, August-November

1966, and then reissued as a novel by Doubleday in 1967. "The Ipswich Phial" was first published in

Analog, December 1976. "A Matter of Gravity" was first published inAnalog, October 1974. "The

Napoli Express" was first published inAsimov's SF, April 1979. "The Sixteen Keys" was first published

inFantastic, May 1976. The four stories listed above were reissued under the titleLord Darcy

Investigates by Ace Books in 1981. "The Bitter End" was first published inAsimov's SF,

September–October 1978. "The Spell of War" was first published inThe Future At War (R. Bretnor,

ed.) Ace 1979.

A Baen Books Original

Baen Publishing Enterprises

P.O. Box 1403

Riverdale, NY 10471

www.baen.com

ISBN: 0-7434-3548-6

Cover art by Gary Ruddell

First printing, July 2002

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Garrett, Randall.

Lord Darcy / by Randall Garrett, ed. and compiled by Eric Flint & Guy Gordon.

p. cm.

"A Baen Books original"—T.p. verso.

Contents: The eyes have it—A case of identity—The muddle of the woad—Too many magicians— A

stretch of the imagination—A matter of gravity—The bitter end—The Ipswich phial—The sixteen

keys—The Napoli Express—The spell of war.

ISBN 0-7434-3548-6 (pbk.)

1. Darcy, Lord (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Richard I, King of England, 1157–1199—Fiction. 3.

Detective and mystery stories, Amercan. 4. Fantasy fiction, American. I. Flint, Eric. II. Gor- don, Guy,

1951– III. Title.

PS3557.A7238 A6 2002

813'.54—dc21

2002018523

Distributed by Simon & Schuster

1230 Avenue of the Americas

New York, NY 10020

Production by Windhaven Press, Auburn, NH

Printed in the United States of America

PREFACE

Randall Garrett's Lord Darcy is, without doubt, one of the best known and most popular detectives in

science fiction and fantasy. The stories are set in an alternate universe where magic works and the

Plantagenet dynasty of England never fell. (Yes, that's Richard the Lion-Hearted and the rest of the

crew—say what else you will about them, the Plantagenets were the most colorful dynasty in English

history.) This volume marks the first time that all eleven stories, including the full-length novelToo Many

Magicians , have been collected between the covers of a single book.

With the exception of "The Spell of War," which we've placed as an appendix, all the stories are

arranged in chronological order. An interesting facet of this series is that the date in the story corresponds

closely to the year it was written. Garret wanted to give you the feel that this was taking placenow —as

our world would be with two "minor" changes. * * *

Lord Darcy's career as the Chief Investigator for the Duke of Normandy (and Special Investigator for

the High Court of Chivalry) spans a period of approximately a dozen years. The first story, "The Eyes

Have It," begins with Darcy as a well-established detective, a man in his early forties. (We are never

given his exact age, but since he is depicted as an 18-year-old lieutenant in the "War of '39," it is safe to

assume that by the time "The Eyes Have It" opens—in the year 1963 of Garrett's alternate universe—he

is approximately 42 years old.)

The stories contained in Part I, concluding with the novelToo Many Magicians, all take place within a

relatively brief period of about three years. From there, we leap forward several years. Part II contains

three stories beginning in 1972 and ending two or three years later. The three stories in Part III take

place shortly thereafter. We have placed them in their own section because they are closely connected.

"The Napoli Express" is a direct sequel to "The Sixteen Keys," the basis for which, in turn, is set in "The

Ipswich Phial."

Finally, we placed "The Spell of War" as the conclusion to the volume, even though in terms of internal

chronology it is by far the earliest of the tales. The reason we did so is because this story is atypical. It is

a war story, not a detective story. It was the last Darcy story which Garrett wrote, late in his career. It

tells the tale of how Darcy first met Sean O Lochlainn—not, as they would become a quarter of a

century later, as Chief Investigator and Master Sorcerer, but as a very young lieutenant and a young

sergeant, fighting together with guns and magic in the trenches of the War of '39.

—Eric Flint & Guy Gordon, editors

P.S. Those of you who are also fans of the mystery genre—as Garrett was himself—will enjoy spotting

the many clever allusions he tucked into the stories referring to famous detectives of fiction. Some of

them, such as Rex Stout's Nero Wolfe, Archie Goodwin, and even the Pink Panther, are obvious

enough. But our personal favorite is in danger of being lost in time. Not many will remember the

once-popular 1960s TV showThe Man From U.N.C.L.E. The pun, it is often said, is the lowest form of

humor (which, needless to say, never stopped us from laughing at Garrett's superb display of the art).

See if you can spot it three ways in his novelToo Many Magicians .

PART ONE

The Eyes Have It

Sir Pierre Morlaix, Chevalier of the Angevin Empire, Knight of the Golden Leopard, and

secretary-in-private to my lord, the Count D'Evreux, pushed back the lace at his cuff for a glance at his

wrist watch—three minutes of seven. The Angelus had rung at six, as always, and my lord D'Evreux had

been awakened by it, as always. At least, Sir Pierre could not remember any time in the past seventeen

years when my lord had not awakened at the Angelus. Once, he recalled, the sacristan had failed to ring

the bell, and the Count had been furious for a week. Only the intercession of Father Bright, backed by

the Bishop himself, had saved the sacristan from doing a turn in the dungeons of Castle D'Evreux.

Sir Pierre stepped out into the corridor, walked along the carpeted flagstones, and cast a practiced eye

around him as he walked. These old castles were difficult to keep clean, and my lord the Count was

fussy about nitre collecting in the seams between the stones of the walls. All appeared quite in order,

which was a good thing. My lord the Count had been making a night of it last evening, and that always

made him the more peevish in the morning. Though he always woke at the Angelus, he did not always

wake up sober.

Sir Pierre stopped before a heavy, polished, carved oak door, selected a key from one of the many at

his belt, and turned it in the lock. Then he went into the elevator and the door locked automatically

behind him. He pressed the switch and waited in patient silence as he was lifted up four floors to the

Count's personal suite.

By now, my lord the Count would have bathed, shaved, and dressed. He would also have poured down

an eye-opener consisting of half a water glass of fine Champagne brandy. He would not eat breakfast

until eight. The Count had no valet in the strict sense of the term. Sir Reginald Beauvay held that title, but

he was never called upon to exercise the more personal functions of his office. The Count did not like to

be seen until he was thoroughly presentable.

The elevator stopped. Sir Pierre stepped out into the corridor and walked along it toward the door at

the far end. At exactly seven o'clock, he rapped briskly on the great door which bore the

gilt-and-polychrome arms of the House D'Evreux.

For the first time in seventeen years, there was no answer.

Sir Pierre waited for the growled command to enter for a full minute, unable to believe his ears. Then,

almost timidly, he rapped again.

There was still no answer.

Then, bracing himself for the verbal onslaught that would follow if he had erred, Sir Pierre turned the

handle and opened the door just as if he had heard the Count's voice telling him to come in.

"Good morning, my lord," he said, as he always had for seventeen years.

But the room was empty, and there was no answer.

He looked around the huge room. The morning sunlight streamed in through the high mullioned windows

and spread a diamond-checkered pattern across the tapestry on the far wall, lighting up the brilliant

hunting scene in a blaze of color.

"My lord?"

Nothing. Not a sound.

The bedroom door was open. Sir Pierre walked across to it and looked in.

He saw immediately why my lord the Count had not answered, and that, indeed, he would never answer

again.

My lord the Count lay flat on his back, his arms spread wide, his eyes staring at the ceiling. He was still

clad in his gold and scarlet evening clothes. But the great stain on the front of his coat was not the same

shade of scarlet as the rest of the cloth, and the stain had a bullet hole in its center.

Sir Pierre looked at him without moving for a long moment. Then he stepped over, knelt, and touched

one of the Count's hands with the back of his own. It was quite cool. He had been dead for hours.

"I knew someone would do you in sooner or later, my lord," said Sir Pierre, almost regretfully.

Then he rose from his kneeling position and walked out without another look at his dead lord. He locked

the door of the suite, pocketed the key, and went back downstairs in the elevator.

* * *

Mary, Lady Duncan stared out of the window at the morning sunlight and wondered what to do. The

Angelus bell had awakened her from a fitful sleep in her chair, and she knew that, as a guest of Castle

D'Evreux, she would be expected to appear at Mass again this morning. But how could she? How could

she face the Sacramental Lord on the altar—to say nothing of taking the Blessed Sacrament itself?

Still, it would look all the more conspicuous if she did not show up this morning after having made it a

point to attend every morning with Lady Alice during the first four days of this visit.

She turned and glanced at the locked and barred door of the bedroom.He would not be expected to

come. Laird Duncan used his wheelchair as an excuse, but since he had taken up black magic as a hobby

he had, she suspected, been actually afraid to go anywhere near a church.

If only she hadn't lied to him! But how could she have told the truth? That would have been

worse—infinitely worse. And now, because of that lie, he was locked in his bedroom doing only God

and the Devil knew what.

If only he would come out. If he would only stop whatever it was he had been doing for all these long

hours—or at least finish it! Then they could leave Evreux, make some excuse—any excuse—to get

away. One of them could feign sickness. Anything, anything to get them out of France, across the

Channel, and back to Scotland, where they would be safe!

She looked back out of the window, across the courtyard, at the towering stone walls of the Great

Keep and at the high window that opened into the suite of Edouard, Count D'Evreux.

Last night she had hated him, but no longer. Now there was only room in her heart for fear.

She buried her face in her hands and cursed herself for a fool. There were no tears left for weeping—not

after the long night.

Behind her, she heard the sudden noise of the door being unlocked, and she turned.

Laird Duncan of Duncan opened the door and wheeled himself out. He was followed by a malodorous

gust of vapor from the room he had just left. Lady Duncan stared at him.

He looked older than he had last night, more haggard and worn, and there was something in his eyes she

did not like. For a moment he said nothing. Then he wet his lips with the tip of his tongue. When he

spoke, his voice sounded dazed.

"There is nothing to fear any more," he said. "Nothing to fear at all."

* * *

The Reverend Father James Valois Bright, Vicar of the Chapel of Saint-Esprit, had as his flock the

several hundred inhabitants of the Castle D'Evreux. As such, he was the ranking priest—socially, not

hierarchically—in the County. Not counting the Bishop and the Chapter at the Cathedral, of course. But

such knowledge did little good for the Father's peace of mind. The turnout of his flock was abominably

small for its size—especially for weekday Masses. The Sunday Masses were well attended, of course;

Count D'Evreux was there punctually at nine every Sunday, and he had a habit of counting the house. But

he never showed up on weekdays, and his laxity had allowed a certain further laxity to filter down

through the ranks.

The great consolation was Lady Alice D'Evreux. She was a plain, simple girl, nearly twenty years

younger than her brother, the Count, and quite his opposite in every way. She was quiet where he was

thundering, self-effacing where he was flamboyant, temperate where he was drunken, and chaste where

he was—

Father Bright brought his thoughts to a full halt for a moment. He had, he reminded himself, no right to

make judgments of that sort. He was not, after all, the Count's confessor; the Bishop was.

Besides, he should have his mind on his prayers just now.

He paused and was rather surprised to notice that he had already put on his alb, amice, and girdle, and

he was aware that his lips had formed the words of the prayer as he had donned each of them.

Habit, he thought, can be destructive to the contemplative faculty.

He glanced around the sacristy. His server, the young son of the Count of Saint Brieuc, sent here to

complete his education as a gentleman who would some day be the King's Governor of one of the most

important counties in Brittany, was pulling his surplice down over his head. The clock said 7:11.

Father Bright forced his mind Heavenward and repeated silently the vesting prayers that his lips had

formed meaninglessly, this time putting his full intentions behind them. Then he added a short mental

prayer asking God to forgive him for allowing his thoughts to stray in such a manner.

He opened his eyes and reached for his chasuble just as the sacristy door opened and Sir Pierre, the

Count's Privy Secretary, stepped in.

"I must speak to you, Father," he said in a low voice. And glancing at the young De Saint-Brieuc, he

added: "Alone."

Normally, Father Bright would have reprimanded anyone who presumed to break into the sacristy as he

was vesting for Mass, but he knew that Sir Pierre would never interrupt without good reason. He nodded

and went outside in the corridor that led to the altar.

"What is it, Pierre?" he asked.

"My lord the Count is dead. Murdered."

After the first momentary shock, Father Bright realized that the news was not, after all, totally

unexpected. Somewhere in the back of his mind, it seemed he had always known that the Count would

die by violence long before debauchery ruined his health.

"Tell me about it," he said quietly.

Sir Pierre reported exactly what he had done and what he had seen.

"Then I locked the door and came straight here," he told the priest.

"Who else has the key to the Count's suite?" Father Bright asked.

"No one but my lord himself," Sir Pierre answered, "at least as far as I know."

"Where is his key?"

"Still in the ring at his belt. I noticed that particularly."

"Very good. We'll leave it locked. You're certain the body was cold?"

"Cold and waxy, Father."

"Then he's been dead many hours."

"Lady Alice will have to be told," Sir Pierre said.

Father Bright nodded. "Yes. The Countess D'Evreux must be informed of her succession to the County

Seat." He could tell by the sudden momentary blank look that came over Sir Pierre's face that the Privy

Secretary had not yet realized fully the implications of the Count's death. "I'll tell her, Pierre. She should

be in her pew by now. Just step into the church and tell her quietly that I want to speak to her. Don't tell

her anything else."

"I understand, Father," said Sir Pierre. * * *

There were only twenty-five or thirty people in the pews—most of them women—but Alice, Countess

D'Evreux was not one of them. Sir Pierre walked quietly and unobtrusively down the side aisle and out

into the narthex. She was standing there, just inside the main door, adjusting the black lace mantilla about

her head, as though she had just come in from outside. Suddenly, Sir Pierre was very glad he would not

have to be the one to break the news.

She looked rather sad, as always, her plain face unsmiling. The jutting nose and square chin which had

given her brother the Count a look of aggressive handsomeness only made her look very solemn and

rather sexless, although she had a magnificent figure.

"My lady," Sir Pierre said, stepping toward her, "the Reverend Father would like to speak to you before

Mass. He's waiting at the sacristy door."

She held her rosary clutched tightly to her breast and gasped. Then she said, "Oh. Sir Pierre. I'm sorry;

you quite surprised me. I didn't see you."

"My apologies, my lady."

"It's all right. My thoughts were elsewhere. Will you take me to the good Father?"

Father Bright heard their footsteps coming down the corridor before he saw them. He was a little fidgety

because Mass was already a minute overdue. It should have started promptly at 7:15.

The new Countess D'Evreux took the news calmly, as he had known she would. After a pause, she

crossed herself and said: "May his soul rest in peace. I will leave everything in your hands, Father, Sir

Pierre. What are we to do?"

"Pierre must get on the teleson to Rouen immediately and report the matter to His Highness. I will

announce your brother's death and ask for prayers for his soul—but I think I need say nothing about the

manner of his death. There is no need to arouse any more speculation and fuss than necessary."

"Very well," said the Countess. "Come, Sir Pierre; I will speak to the Duke, my cousin, myself."

"Yes, my lady."

Father Bright returned to the sacristy, opened the missal, and changed the placement of the ribbons.

Today was an ordinary Feria; a Votive Mass would not be forbidden by the rubrics. The clock said

7:17. He turned to young De Saint-Brieuc, who was waiting respectfully. "Quickly, my son—go and get

the unbleached beeswax candles and put them on the altar. Be sure you light them before you put out the

white ones. Hurry, now; I will be ready by the time you come back. Oh, yes—and change the altar

frontal. Put on the black."

"Yes, Father." And the lad was gone.

Father Bright folded the green chasuble and returned it to the drawer, then took out the black one. He

would say a Requiem for the Souls of All the Faithful Departed—and hope that the Count was among

them. * * *

His Royal Highness, the Duke of Normandy, looked over the official letter his secretary had just typed

for him. It was addressed toSerenissimo Domino Nostro Iohanni Quarto, Dei Gratia, Angliae,

Franciae, Scotiae, Hiberniae, Novae Angliae et Novae Franciae, Rex, Imperatore, Fidei

Defensor, . . . "Our Most Serene Lord, John IV, by the Grace of God King and Emperor of England,

France, Scotland, Ireland, New England and New France, Defender of the Faith, . . ."

It was a routine matter; simple notification to his brother, the King, that His Majesty's most faithful

servant, Edouard, Count of Evreux, had departed this life, and asking His Majesty's confirmation of the

Count's heir-at-law, Alice, Countess of Evreux as his lawful successor.

His Highness finished reading, nodded, and scrawled his signature at the bottom:Ricardus Dux

Normaniae .

Then, on a separate piece of paper, he wrote: "Dear John, May I suggest you hold up on this for a

while? Edouard was a lecher and a slob, and I have no doubt he got everything he deserved, but we

have no notion who killed him. For any evidence I have to the contrary, it might have been Alice who

pulled the trigger. I will send you full particulars as soon as I have them. With much love, Your brother

and servant, Richard."

He put both papers into a prepared envelope and sealed it. He wished he could have called the King on

the teleson, but no one had yet figured out how to get the wires across the Channel.

He looked absently at the sealed envelope, his handsome blond features thoughtful. The House of

Plantagenet had endured for eight centuries, and the blood of Henry of Anjou ran thin in its veins, but the

Norman strain was as strong as ever, having been replenished over the centuries by fresh infusions from

Norwegian and Danish princesses. Richard's mother, Queen Helga, wife of His late Majesty, Charles III,

spoke very few words of Anglo-French, and those with a heavy Norse accent.

Nevertheless, there was nothing Scandinavian in the language, manner, or bearing of Richard, Duke of

Normandy. Not only was he a member of the oldest and most powerful ruling family of Europe, but he

bore a Christian name that was distinguished even in that family. Seven Kings of the Empire had borne

the name, and most of them had been good Kings—if not always "good" men in the nicey-nicey sense of

the word. There was a chance that Duke Richard might be called upon to uphold the honor of that name

as King. By law, Parliament must elect a Plantagenet as King in the event of the death of the present

Sovereign, and while the election of one of the King's two sons, the Prince of Britain and the Duke of

Lancaster, was more likely than the election of Richard, he was certainly not eliminated from the

succession.

Meantime, he would uphold the honor of his name as Duke of Normandy.

Murder had been done; therefore justice must be done. The Count D'Evreux had been known for his

stern but fair justice almost as well as he had been known for his profligacy. And, just as his pleasures

had been without temperance, so his justice had been untempered by mercy. Whoever had killed him

would find both justice and mercy—in so far as Richard had it within his power to give it.

Although he did not formulate it in so many words, even mentally, Richard was of the opinion that some

debauched woman or cuckolded man had fired the fatal shot. Thus he found himself inclining toward

mercy before he knew anything substantial about the case at all.

Richard dropped the letter he was holding into the special mail pouch that would be placed aboard the

evening trans-Channel packet, and then turned in his chair to look at the lean, middle-aged man working

at a desk across the room.

"My lord Marquis," he said thoughtfully.

"Yes, Your Highness?" said the Marquis of Rouen, looking up.

"How true are the stories one has heard about the late Count?"

"True, Your Highness?" the Marquis said thoughtfully. "I would hesitate to make any estimate of

percentages. Once a man gets a reputation like that, the number of his reputed sins quickly surpasses the

number of actual ones. Doubtless many of the stories one hears are of whole cloth; others may have only

a slight basis in fact. On the other hand, it is highly likely that there are many of which we have never

heard. It is absolutely certain, however, that he has acknowledged seven illegitimate sons, and I dare say

he has ignored a few daughters—and these, mind you, with unmarried women. His adulteries would be

rather more difficult to establish, but I think Your Highness can take it for granted that such escapades

were far from uncommon."

He cleared his throat and then added, "If Your Highness is looking for motive, I fear there is a

superabundance of persons with motive."

"I see," the Duke said. "Well, we will wait and see what sort of information Lord Darcy comes up with."

He looked up at the clock. "They should be there by now."

Then, as if brushing further thoughts on that subject from his mind, he went back to work, picking up a

new sheaf of state papers from his desk.

The Marquis watched him for a moment and smiled a little to himself. The young Duke took his work

seriously, but was well-balanced about it. A little inclined to be romantic—but aren't we all at nineteen?

There was no doubt of his ability, nor of his nobility. The Royal Blood of England always came through.

* * *

"My lady," said Sir Pierre gently, "the Duke's Investigators have arrived."

My Lady Alice, Countess D'Evreux, was seated in a gold-brocade upholstered chair in the small

receiving room off the Great Hall. Standing near her, looking very grave, was Father Bright. Against the

blaze of color on the walls of the room, the two of them stood out like ink blots. Father Bright wore his

normal clerical black, unrelieved except for the pure white lace at collar and cuffs. The Countess wore

unadorned black velvet, a dress which she had had to have altered hurriedly by her dressmaker; she had

always hated black and owned only the mourning she had worn when her mother died eight years before.

The somber looks on their faces seemed to make the black blacker.

"Show them in, Sir Pierre," the Countess said calmly.

Sir Pierre opened the door wider, and three men entered. One was dressed as one gently born; the

other two wore the livery of the Duke of Normandy.

The gentleman bowed. "I am Lord Darcy, Chief Criminal Investigator for His Highness, the Duke, and

your servant, my lady." He was a tall, brown-haired man with a rather handsome, lean face. He spoke

Anglo-French with a definite English accent.

"My pleasure, Lord Darcy," said the Countess. "This is our vicar, Father Bright."

"Your servant, Reverend Sir." Then he presented the two men with him. The first was a

scholarly-looking, graying man wearing pince-nez glasses with gold rims, Dr. Pateley, Chirurgeon. The

second, a tubby, red-faced, smiling man, was Master Sean O Lochlainn, Sorcerer.

As soon as Master Sean was presented he removed a small, leather-bound folder from his belt pouch

and proffered it to the priest. "My license, Reverend Father."

Father Bright took it and glanced over it. It was the usual thing, signed and sealed by the Archbishop of

Rouen. The law was rather strict on that point; no sorcerer could practice without the permission of the

Church, and a license was given only after careful examination for orthodoxy of practice.

"It seems to be quite in order, Master Sean," said the priest, handing the folder back. The tubby little

sorcerer bowed his thanks and returned the folder to his belt pouch.

Randall Garrett - Lord Darcy

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