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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.

 

Copyright © 2002 by the Estate of Randall Garrett

 

"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 inAnalog, 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.

 

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.

 

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.

...