“And finally, there is the possibility that FitzJean was himself a Polish agent sent in to test Barbour. When they discovered that Barbour’s output to them differed drastically from what they knew the input to be, his death warrant was sealed.”

Captain Smollett spread his hands. “But these are mere speculations; they tell us nothing. Important thing right now’s to get our hands on Paul Nichols. Would have given you this before, but, as I said, there’s actually nothing we can hold Nichols on. Can’t prove that envelope ever existed, much less that he stole it. So how could we turn the matter over to Officers of the King’s Justice?”

“My dear Captain, you should study something besides Admiralty law. Fleeing the scene of a crime is always enough evidence to warrant asking for a man’s arrest and detention for questioning. Now the first question any investigator asks himself is: Where would the suspect go? To the Polish Embassy?”

Smollett shook his head. “No. There’s a twenty-four hour watch on everyone entering or leaving the Polish Embassy.”

“Exactly. I know that. So do the Poles. But the local headquarters for this Polish espionage ring is somewhere in the City. Where?”

“Wish I knew,” said the captain. “Give half a year’s pay for that information. We have reason to believe that there are at least three separate rings operating here in London, each unknown to the others, or at least known only to a select few. We know some of the agents, of course. We keep an eye on ’em; I’ve had my men watching every known agent in London for the past eighteen hours. So far, no news. But what we do not know is where any of their headquarters might be. Hate to admit it, but it’s true. We have no hint, no suggestion, no clue of any kind.”

“Then the only way to find Nichols,” Lord Darcy said, “is to comb London for him. And that requires legwork. While your men are searching for him covertly, Lord Bontriomphe and the Armsmen of London can be looking for him for questioning on the charge of fleeing the scene of a crime.”

Bontriomphe nodded. “We can have a net out for him within an hour. If we find anything, Captain, I’ll let you know immediately.”

“Very good, m’lud.”

“I’d better get started on it,” Bontriomphe said, getting to his feet. “The quicker the better. If you need to contact me for any reason, Captain, send word to the Royal Steward. We have set up our headquarters there; there will be a Sergeant-at-Arms on duty at all times, and I shall be checking in there regularly.”

“Excellent. Thank you, m’lud.”

“I shall see you later, gentlemen. Good day.” Lord Bontriomphe walked out the door as if he were pleased at the prospect of finally having something he could sink his teeth into.

“As for me, Captain,” said Lord Darcy, “I should like to ask your indulgence in what I know may be a touchy matter.”

“What might that be?”

“I should like to have a look at your secret files, most especially at the letters from Barbour concerning FitzJean and the confusion projector.”

“M’lud,” said Captain Smollett with a wintery smile, “any Intelligence organization is justly jealous of its secret files and our Corps is no exception. Until now, these files have been classified Most Secret. Barbour’s existence as a double agent was known only to the high echelons of the Admiralty. But you’ve taken me to task once for withholding information. Won’t happen again. I shall have the pertinent files brought in so that both you and Commander Ashley can study them. And may I ask your indulgence?”

“Certainly, Captain, what is it?”

“With your permission, I’d like to make Commander Lord Ashley the liaison officer between the civilian investigators and the Navy. To be more specific, between you and me. He knows the Navy, he knows Intelligence work, and he knows something about criminal investigation. He was in the Naval C.I.D. before he was transferred to this Corps. His orders will be to assist you in every possible way. You agree, m’lud?”

“Of course, Captain. A splendid idea.”

“Very well, Commander; those are your orders then.”

“Aye, aye, Captain.” He smiled at Lord Darcy. “I’ll keep out from underfoot as much as possible, my lord.”

“That’s settled, then,” said Captain Smollett, getting to his feet. “Now I’ll go get those files.”

Master Sean O Lochlainn stood near the closed door of the murder room and surveyed its entire contents. Then he turned to Journeyman Sorcerer Lord John Quetzal who stood next to him. “Now, d’ye understand what we have to be careful of? We are not yet ready to take the preservative spell off the body, so we have to be careful that none of the spells that we’re working with inside the room interfere with it. D’ye understand?”

Lord John Quetzal nodded. “Yes, Master, I think I do.”

Master Sean smiled at him. “I think you do, too, my lad. You followed through on the blood tests beautifully.” He paused. “By the by, d’ye think you could do them by yourself next time, should you happen to be called upon to perform them?”

Lord John Quetzal glanced sideways at the little sorcerer. “The blood tests? Yes, Master Sorcerer, I think I could,” he said firmly.

“Ah, good.” Master Sean nodded with satisfaction. “But” — he raised a warning finger — “this next one’s a little tougher.

“We’re dealing here with psychic shock. Now, whenever a man’s hurt, or when he dies, there’s psychic shock — unless, of course, he just fades away in his sleep or something like that.

“But here we’re talking about violence.”

“I understand,” said Lord John Quetzal.

“All right. Now, you’re going to be my thurifer. The ingredients are laid out on the table. Now I’ll ask you to prepare the thurible, seeing as how it’s you that’s got to use it.”

“Very well, Master,” said the young Mechicain nobleman, with the tiniest trace of uneasiness in his voice.

On the table near the door sat the instrument which Master Sean had taken from his symbol-decorated carpetbag. It was a brazen pot with a perforated brazen cap, which, when assembled, would swing from the end of a clutch of chains some three feet long. Now, it was open, on the table.

Lord John Quetzal took several tools from his own carpetbag. Under the watchful eye and sharp ear of Master Sean O Lochlainn, the young sorcerer prepared the contents of the thurible.

After placing the brazen pot on an iron tripod, he fired up several lumps of charcoal in the bottom of it. Then, from the row of jars and bottles which had been lined up on the table, he took various ingredients and put them into his special golden mixing bowl, using a small golden spoon. With his own pencil-sized golden wand, he cast a spell over each ingredient as he added it, stirring it into the mixture.

There was frankincense and sweet balsam, samonyl and fenogreek, turmeric and taelesin, sandalwood and cedarwood, and four other lesser known but even more powerful ingredients — added in a precise order, each with its unique and individual spell.

And when he had finished the mixing, and cast the final spell, the journeyman sorcerer lifted his head and turned his dark eyes to the tubby little Master.

Sean O Lochlainn nodded his head. “Very well done. Very well done.” He smiled. “Now I’ll not ask you if you know what you’ve done. It’s a habit of mine to assume that a student lacks knowledge. Being, as it were, a student meself, I know how much knowledge I lack. And besides,” he chuckled, “as Lord Darcy would tell you, I’m a man who’s fond of lecturing.

“The spell we’re about to perform is a dynamic spell, and must be warded off by a dynamic spell — which means that in order to protect the body I’ll have to be working while you are censing the room. D’ye understand, my lad?”