I had a plain blue stole with no ornaments whatsoever, though I’d been toying with the idea of embroidering “GED” on it in red, white, and blue thread. Molly was the only one in the room wearing a brown robe.
People were avoiding our gazes.
The White Council loved its ceremonies. Anastasia Luccio appeared in the doorway in her full regalia, plus the grey cloak of the Wardens. Her arm was still in a sling, but she carried the ceremonial staff of office of the Captain of the Wardens in one hand. She entered the room, and the murmuring buzz of the crowd fell silent. She slammed the end of the staff three times upon the floor, and the six members of the Senior Council entered in their dark robes and purple stoles, led by the Merlin. They proceeded to the center rear of the stage and stood solemnly. Peabody appeared, carrying a lap-sized writing desk, and sat down on the far end of the bench from Molly and me, to begin taking notes, his pen scratching.
I put my hand on Mouse’s head and waited for the show to begin—because that’s all this was. A show.
Two more Wardens appeared with a bound figure between them. Morgan was brought in and stood as all accused brought before the Council did—with his hands bound in front of him and a black hood over his head. He wasn’t in any shape to be walking, the idiot, but he was managing to limp heavily along without being physically supported by either Warden. He must have been on a load of painkillers to manage it.
The Merlin, speaking in Latin, said, “We have convened today on a matter of justice, to try one Donald Morgan, who stands accused of the premeditated murder of Senior Council Member Aleron LaFortier, conspiracy with the enemies of the White Council, and treason against the White Council. We will begin with a review of the evidence.”
They stacked things up against Morgan for a while, laying out all the damning evidence. They had a lot of it. Morgan, standing there with the murder weapon in his hand, over the still-warm corpse. The bank account with slightly less than six million dollars suddenly appearing in it. The fact that he had escaped detention and badly wounded three Wardens in the process, and subsequently committed sedition by misleading other wizards—Molly and I were just barely mentioned by name—into helping him hide from the Wardens.
“Donald Morgan,” the Merlin said, “have you anything to say in your defense?”
That part was sort of unusual. The accused were very rarely given much of a chance to say anything.
It clouded issues so.
“I do not contest the charges,” Morgan said firmly through his black hood. “I, and I alone, am responsible for LaFortier’s death.”
The Merlin looked like he’d just found out that someone had cooked up his own puppy in the sausage at breakfast that morning. He nodded once. “If there is no other evidence, then the Senior Council will now pass—”
I stood up.
The Merlin broke off and blinked at me. The room fell into a dead silence, except for the scratch of Peabody’s pen. He paused to turn to a new page and pulled a second inkwell out of his pocket, placing it on the writing desk.
Anastasia stared at me with her lips pressed together, her eyes questioning. What the hell was I doing?
I winked at her, then walked out into the center of the stage and turned to face the Senior Council.
“Warden Dresden,” Ebenezar said, “have you some new evidence to present for the Senior Council’s consideration?”
“I do,” I said.
“Point of order,” Ancient Mai injected smoothly. “Warden Dresden was not present at the murder or when the accused escaped custody. He can offer no direct testimony as to the truth or falsehood of those events.”
“Another point of order,” Listens-to-Wind said. “Warden Dresden earns a living as a private investigator, and his propensity for ferreting out the truth in difficult circumstances is well established.”
Mai looked daggers at Injun Joe.
“Warden Dresden,” the Merlin said heavily. “Your history of conflict with Warden Morgan acting in his role as a Warden of the White Council is well-known. You should be advised that any damning testimony you give will be leavened with the knowledge of your history of extreme, sometimes violent animosity.”
The Merlin wasn’t the Merlin for nothing. He had instincts enough to sense that maybe the game wasn’t over yet, after all, and he knew how to play to the crowd. He wasn’t warning me, so much as making sure that the wizards present knew how much I didn’t like Morgan, so that my support would be that much more convincing.
“I understand,” I said.
The Merlin nodded. “Proceed.”
I beamed at him. “I feel just like Hercule Poirot,” I said, in my reasonably functional Latin. “Let me enjoy this for a second.” I took a deep breath and exhaled in satisfaction.
The Merlin had masterful self-control. His expression never changed—but his left eye twitched in a nervous tic. Score one for the cartoon coyote.
“I first became suspicious that Morgan was being framed . . . well, basically when I heard the ridiculous charge against him,” I said. “I don’t know if you know this man, but I do. He’s hounded me for most of my life. If he’d been accused of lopping off the heads of baby bunny rabbits because someone accused them of being warlocks, I could buy that. But this man could no more betray the White Council than he could flap his arms and fly.
“Working from that point, I hypothesized that another person within the Council had killed LaFortier and set Morgan up to take the blame. So I began an independent investigation.” I gave the Senior Council and the watching crowd of wizards the rundown of the past few days, leaving out the overly sensitive and unimportant bits. “My investigation culminated in the theory that the guilty individual was not only trying to fix the blame upon Morgan, but planting the seeds of a renewed outbreak of hostilities with the vampire White Court, by implicating them in the death.
“In an effort to manipulate this person into betraying himself,” I continued, “I let it be known that a conspirator had come forward to confess their part in the scheme, and would address members of the White Council at a certain place and time in Chicago. Working on the theory that the true killer was a member of the Council—indeed, someone here at headquarters in Edinburgh—I hypothesized that he would have little choice but to come to Chicago through the Way from Edinburgh, and I had the exit of that Way placed under surveillance.” I held up the manila envelope. “These are the photographs taken at the scene, of everyone who came through the Way during the next several hours.”
I opened the envelope and began passing the Senior Council the photos. They took them, looking at each in turn. Ebenezar calmly confirmed that the images of the Wardens exiting the Way together with himself, Mai, and Listens-to-Wind were accurate.
“Other than this group,” I said, “I believe it is highly unlikely that anyone from Edinburgh should have randomly arrived at the Way in Chicago. Given that the group was indeed assaulted by creatures with the support of a wizard of Council-level skill at that meeting, I believe it is reasonable to state that the killer took the bait.” I turned, drawing out the last photo with a dramatic flourish worthy of Poirot, and held it up so that the crowd could see it while I said, “So why don’t you tell us what you were doing in the Chicago area last night . . . Wizard Peabody?”
If I’d had a keyboard player lurking nearby for a soap-opera organ sting, it would have been perfect.
Everyone on the Senior Council except Ebenezar and, for some reason, the Gatekeeper, turned to stare slack-jawed at Peabody.
The Senior Council’s secretary sat perfectly still beneath his little lap desk. Then he said, “I take it that you have proof more convincing than a simple visual image? Such things are easily manufactured.”