Lord Darcy refrained from pointing out that thus far he had done nothing at all to help their lordships. “Ah, that is too bad. But no matter. Tell me, is His Grace the Archbishop of York also attending that meeting?”
“Oh no, your lordship. His Grace is not a member of the Executive Committee. His ecclesiastical ties are much too onerous to permit him to take on the added burden. As a matter of fact, I saw His Grace only a few moments ago. He is taking his evening tea in the restaurant — in the Buckler Room, your lordship.”
He lifted his hand and took a quick glance at his wristwatch. “Yes, that was only a few minutes ago, your lordships. His Grace should still be there.
“Tell me, is there anything else I can do to help your lordships?” Before either of them could answer, he went on, “Can I do anything that will aid you in apprehending the fiendish criminal who perpetrated the heinous murder of” — he suddenly looked very sad — “our good friend Master Sir James? A deplorable thing. Is your lordship prepared to make an arrest?”
“We shall do our best, Master Ewen,” said Lord Darcy briskly. “We thank you for your information. Good evening, Master Ewen, and thank you again.”
He and Lord Ashley turned and walked toward the restaurant, leaving Master Ewen MacAlister looking blankly after them.
“Master Ewen MacAlister, eh?” said Lord Ashley. “Oily little bastard, isn’t he?”
“I should have known him, from Master Sean’s description, even if he had not introduced himself.”
“Is there any possibility, my lord,” Lord Ashley said thoughtfully, “that Master Ewen is involved in the matter?”
Lord Darcy took two more steps before he answered the question. “I shall be honest with you,” he said then. “Although I have no evidence, I feel it highly probable that Master Ewen MacAlister is one of the prime movers in the mystery which surrounds Sir James’ death.”
Lord Ashley looked surprised. “You didn’t seem disposed to question him any further.”
“I have read the statement he made to Lord Bontriomphe yesterday. He was in his room all that morning until ten or fifteen minutes after nine. He is not sure of the time. After that, he was down in the lobby. Master Sean corroborates a part of his testimony. The interesting thing, however, is that Master Ewen’s room is on the floor above, and directly over, the room in which Sir James was killed.”
“That is food for thought,” said Ashley as they approached the door of the Buckler Room.
Lord Darcy pushed the door open and the two men went in. The courtyard outside, which had been visible that morning from Sir James’ room, was now shrouded in fog, but the gas lamps gave bright illumination to the restaurant itself. The two men stopped and surveyed the room. At one table an elderly man in episcopal purple sat by himself, sipping tea.
Lord Darcy said, “That, I believe, is His Grace of York.” They walked toward the table.
The Archbishop appeared to be deep in thought. He had a notebook on the table and was carefully marking down symbols upon its open pages.
“My apologies for this interruption, Your Grace,” said Lord Darcy politely. “I would not willingly disturb your cogitations, but I come upon the King’s Business.”
The old man looked up with a smile, the light from the gas lamps making a halo of the silver hair that surrounded his purple skullcap. Without rising he extended his hand. “You do not interrupt, my lord,” he said gently. “My time is yours. You are Lord Darcy from Rouen, I believe?”
“I am, Your Grace,” said Lord Darcy, “and this is Commander Lord Ashley of the Imperial Naval Intelligence Corps.”
“Very good,” said the wise old Sensitive. “Please be seated, my lords. Thank you. You come then to discuss the problem propounded by the death of Sir James Zwinge.”
“We do, Your Grace,” said Lord Darcy, settling himself in his chair. His Grace of York folded his hands upon the table.
“I am at your service. Anything that may be done to clear this matter up…”
“Your Grace is most kind,” said Lord Darcy. “I am not, as you know, a Talented man,” he began, “and there are, therefore, certain data which you may possess that I do not.”
“Very probably. Such as what?”
“As I understand it, it would be difficult for a sorcerer to perform a rite of Black Magic within this hotel without giving himself away. Furthermore, every sorcerer here has been examined for orthodoxy of practice and carries a license signed by his diocesan bishop attesting to that examination.”
“And so your question is,” the Archbishop interjected smoothly, “how is it such a person could have escaped our notice.”
“Precisely.”
“Very well, I shall attempt an explanation. Let us begin with the license to practice. This license is given to an individual sorcerer when, upon completing his apprenticeship, he becomes qualified, according to the rules of the Guild, to practice his Art. Each three years thereafter he is reexamined and his license renewed if he passes the qualifications. You are aware of this?”
Lord Darcy nodded. “Yes, Your Grace.”
“Very well,” said the Archbishop, “but what would disqualify a sorcerer? What would prevent the Church from renewing his license? Well, there are many things, but chief among them would certainly be the practice of Black Magic. Unfortunately, except for a very few peculiarly qualified Sensitives it is not possible to detect when a man has practiced what is technically known as Black Magic if the spells are minor, if the harm they have done is relatively small, if the practitioner has not been too greatly corrupted by the practice. Do you follow?”
“I think so,” said Lord Darcy.
“Then,” continued the Archbishop, raising a finger, “you will see how it is that a man may get away with practicing Black Magic for some time before it has such an effect upon his psyche that it becomes obvious to a Board of Examiners that he can no longer be certified as practicing orthodox sorcery.
“Now a major crime, such as murder, would, of course, instantly be detectable to a certifying commission assembled for the purpose. The sorcerer in question would be required to undergo certain tests which he would automatically fail if he had used his Art to commit so heinous a crime as murder.”
He turned a hand palm upward. “But you can see that it would be impossible to give every sorcerer here such a test. The Guild must assume that a member is orthodox unless there is sufficient evidence to warrant testing his orthodoxy.”
“I quite understand that,” said Lord Darcy, “but I also know that you are one of the most delicate Sensitives and one of the most powerful Healers in Christendom.” He looked directly into the Archbishop’s eyes. “I knew Lord Seiger of Yorkshire.”
His Grace’s eyes showed sadness. “Ah, yes, poor Seiger. A troubled soul. I did for him what I could, and yet I knew… yes, I knew… that in spite of everything he would not live long.”
“Your Grace recognized him as a psychopathic killer,” said Lord Darcy. “If we have such a killer in our midst now, would he not be as easily recognizable as was Lord Seiger?”
The Archbishop’s troubled eyes looked first at Lord Darcy and then at Lord Ashley. “My lords,” he said carefully, “the realm of magic is not that easily divisible into stark white and deadly black, nor can human souls be so easily judged. Lord Seiger was an extreme case, and, therefore, easily perceived and easily isolated, even though he was difficult to treat. But one cannot say ‘this man is capable of killing,’ and ‘this man has killed,’ and for that reason alone isolate him from society. For these traits are not necessarily evil. The ability to kill is a necessary survival characteristic of the human animal. To do away with it by fiat would be in essence to destroy our humanity. For instance, as a Sensitive I can detect that both of you are capable of killing; further, that both of you have killed other human beings. But that does not tell me whether or not these killings were justified. We Sensitives are not angels, my lords. We do not presume to the powers of God Himself. Only when there is true, deep-seated evil intent does it become so blatantly obvious that it is instantly detectable. I find, for instance, no such evil in either of you.”