“Agreed,” Lord Darcy repeated.
“Sir James?” Ashley paused. “I don’t know. Certainly he was not a wealthy man.”
He stared at the ceiling for another twenty seconds, then lowered his head and looked at Darcy. “Here’s a suggestion for you, my lord. I don’t know how good it is, but we can try it for size.”
“Proceed,” said Lord Darcy. “I should be grateful for any light you may shed upon the subject.”
“All right; suppose that Zwinge and Barbour were in this together. Naturally, to cover themselves, they would have to invent the mysterious FitzJean. No one ever saw FitzJean and Barbour together. Our agents saw him enter Barbour’s place, and they saw him leave it. He came from nowhere and vanished into nowhere. What could be simpler than for Barbour himself to impersonate this mysterious being? Barbour, after all, actually did have contacts with Polish agents.”
“Barbour wasn’t Zwinge’s only contact,” Lord Darcy pointed out. “Why not use one of the others, and quietly sell the secret without all this play-acting?”
The Commander put his hand on the table, palm up. “What would happen if he did? As soon as the Royal Polish Navy was equipped with this device, we would find it out. We would know that one of those three men had sold it. Our first suspicion would naturally fall on Zwinge, because, of the three, only he was known to have had any contacts with Polish agents.
“After all, an ordinary man with a secret to sell can’t simply say to himself, ‘Well, I guess I’ll just dot out and peddle it to a Polish agent.’ Polish agents aren’t that easy to find.”
“True,” Lord Darcy said thoughtfully. “It is difficult to sell something if you don’t know how to get in contact with your customers. Pray continue.”
“Very well then. In order to divert suspicion from himself, he sets up this little playlet with Barbour. Everyone is looking for the mysterious FitzJean. A trap is laid for him. Meanwhile, Barbour is actually dealing with the Poles, giving them the same story about FitzJean.”
“How was the playlet to end, then?” Lord Darcy asked.
“Well, let’s see. The secret is given to the Poles. The Poles pay off Barbour. I imagine Zwinge would have found some excuse to be there at the same time. I doubt if he would have trusted Barbour with five thousand golden sovereigns.
“The trap for the mysterious FitzJean fails, of course, since there is no FitzJean, and — after we find that the Polish Navy has the confusion projector — Zwinge’s excuse is: ‘FitzJean must have become suspicious of Barbour and peddled the secret elsewhere.’
“Zwinge may have intended to pay off Barbour, to split the money with him, or he may have intended to kill him. We can’t know which.”
“Interesting,” said Lord Darcy. “There is certainly nothing impossible about just such a plan having been conceived, but, if so, the plan did not come off. What, then, are your theories as to what actually did happen?”
“Personally,” said the Commander, “I believe that the Poles discovered that Barbour was working for Zed, and that Zed was Sir James. Now then, if my hypothesis is anywhere close to the truth, there are at least two possible explanations for what happened.
“One: The Poles decided that the whole business about the confusion projector was mere bait for some kind of trap, a hoax cooked up for some reason by Sir James; so they sent out agents to eliminate both.
“Or, two: They had reason to believe that Sir James actually was a traitor and was ready to negotiate with them. They would know that Sir James wouldn’t give the plans and specifications for the device to Barbour unless all the arrangements were made. But they would also know that he would have had to have those plans in a place where he could lay his hands on them quickly. He must have had them already drawn up and hidden somewhere; he could hardly have expected to be able to sit down and draw them from memory at the snap of a finger.
“So, while one group of agents is dealing with Barbour in Cherbourg, another is watching Zwinge in London. Arrangements for the payoff are made in Cherbourg, and Barbour sends this information to Zwinge. Zwinge, not knowing he is being watched by Polish agents, fetches the plans to send them to Barbour. But now, the Poles know where those plans are because Zwinge has taken them from their hiding place. They send orders to Cherbourg to dispose of Barbour, and the agents here kill Zwinge and grab the plans, thereby saving themselves five thousand golden sovereigns.”
“I must admit,” said Lord Darcy slowly, “that my lack of knowledge of international intelligence networks has hampered me. That theory would never have occurred to me. What about the actual mechanism of Sir James’ murder? How did the Polish agents actually go about killing him?”
Commander Lord Ashley shrugged eloquently. “Now there you have me, my lord. My knowledge of black magic is nil, and, in spite of Captain Smollett’s statement of my qualifications, I am forced to admit that my experience in the Naval C.I.D. never included a murder investigation.”
Lord Darcy laughed. “Well, that is honest enough, anyway. I hope this investigation will allow you to see how we poor benighted civilians go about it. What o’clock is it?” He looked at the watch at his wrist. “Heavens! It’s after six. I thought the Admiralty closed at six o’clock.”
The Commander grinned. “I daresay Captain Smollett left word for us not to be disturbed.”
“Of course,” said Lord Darcy. “All right. Let’s put these folders back in their files and go to the hotel. I want to ask Sir Lyon Grey some questions if we can get hold of him, and also I should like to speak to His Grace the Archbishop of York. We need to know more about a girl named Tia Einzig.”
“Tia Einzig?” Lord Ashley blinked. The name was totally new to him.
“I’ll tell you what little I know about her on the way over to the hotel. Will the Admiralty have transportation for us? Or will we have to find a cab?”
“I’m afraid the Admiralty coaches are all locked up at six, my lord,” said the Commander. “We’ll have to take a cab — if we can find one.”
“If not, we can walk,” said Lord Darcy. “It’s not as if the Royal Steward were halfway across the city.”
A few minutes later, they walked down the darkened corridors of the Admiralty offices. In the lobby, an armed Petty Officer let them out through the front door. “Awfully foggy out tonight, my lords,” he said. “Trust you have a good ride. Captain Smollett left orders that a coach be waiting for you.”
“Let us thank God for small favors,” said Lord Darcy.
The fog was even heavier than it had been the night before. At the curb, barely visible in the dim glow of the gas lamp above the doors of the Admiralty Building, stood a coach bearing the Admiralty arms. The two men went down the steps to the curb. Commander Lord Ashley said:
“Petty Officer Hosquins, is that you?”
“Yes, My Lord Commander,” came a voice from the driver’s seat, “Captain Smollett told us to wait for you.”
“Excellent. Take us to the Royal Steward, then.” And the two men climbed into the coach.
It took longer to make the trip than it had earlier that afternoon. Most of the visitors, anticipating the fog, had gone home. Lord Darcy and Lord Ashley found the lobby almost deserted. A man wearing the silver-slashed blue of a Master Sorcerer was looking at one of the displays. Lord Darcy and Lord Ashley went over to him and Lord Darcy tapped him on the shoulder.
“Your pardon, Master Sorcerer,” he said formally. “I am Lord Darcy, special investigator under a King’s Warrant, and I would appreciate it if you could tell me where I might find Sir Lyon Gandolphus Grey.”
The master sorcerer turned, an obsequious smile on his face. “Ah, Lord Darcy,” he said. “It is indeed a pleasure to meet your lordship. I am Master Ewen MacAlister. My very good friend Master Sean O Lochlainn has told me a great deal about you, your lordship.” Then his face fell in sudden gloom. “I am sorry to say, your lordship, that Grand Master Sir Lyon is unavailable at the moment. He is attending a Special Executive Session of the top officers of the Royal Thaumaturgical Society and the Sorcerers Guild. Can I do anything else to help your lordships?”