“Of course,” said Sir Lyon. “But it is still unpleasant when it does happen. The last time was back in ’39, when Sir Edward Elmer was Grand Master. I was on the Special Executive Commission then, and I had rather hoped it would not happen again in my lifetime. However, we shall do what must be done.”

He rose. “Is there anything further I can do for you?”

“I think not, Sir Lyon, not at the moment. Thank you very much for your information.

“Oh, yes. One thing. Would you tell the sorcerers who are searching for him that if Master Ewen is taken during the night I am to be notified immediately, no matter what o’clock it is. I have several questions which I wish to put to him.”

“I have already given such instructions in regard to myself,” said Sir Lyon. “I shall see that you are notified. Good night, my lord. Good night, Your Grace. I shall be in my room if there is any word.”

When the silvery-bearded old sorcerer had left, the Dowager Duchess said, “Well, I hope they don’t catch him until morning; you need a good night’s sleep. But at least this horrible mess is almost over.”

“Don’t be too optimistic,” said Lord Darcy. “There are far too many questions which remain unanswered. As you implied, they have not yet caught Master Ewen, and Paul Nichols has managed to remain hidden wherever he is for more than thirty-six hours. We still do not have the results of Master Sean’s Herculean labors. There are still too many knots in this tangled string to say that the end is in sight.”

He looked down at his empty mug. “Would you mind bringing me another one of those? Without the good Father’s additional flavorings this time, if you please.”

“Certainly.”

But when she returned, Lord Darcy was fast asleep, and the hot mug became her own nightcap instead of his.

CHAPTER 18

“I trust you are feeling fit, my lord.”

The always punctilious Geffri put the caffe urn and the cup on the bedside table.

“Quite fit, Geffri; thank you,” said Lord Darcy. “Ah! the caffe smells delicious. Brewed by your own hand as usual, I trust? Carlyle House is, except for my own home, the only place in the Empire where one can get one’s morning caffe at exactly the right temperature and brewed to perfection.”

“It is most gratifying to hear you say so, my lord,” said Geffri, pouring the caffe. “By the by, I have taken the liberty, my lord, of bringing up this morning’s Courier. There is, however, another communication which your lordship might prefer to peruse previous to perusal of the news.” He produced an envelope, ten inches wide by fourteen long. Lord Darcy immediately recognized Master Sean’s personal seal upon the flap.

“Master Sean,” said Geffri, “arrived late last night — after your lordship had retired. He requested that I deliver this to your lordship immediately upon your lordship’s awakening.”

Lord Darcy took the envelope. It was quite obviously the report on the tubby little Irish sorcerer’s thaumaturgical investigation and the autopsy report on the body of Sir James Zwinge.

Lord Darcy glanced at his watch on the bedside table. “Thank you, Geffri. Would you be so good as to waken Master Sean in forty-five minutes and tell him that I should like to have him join me for breakfast at ten o’clock?”

“Of course, my lord. Is there anything else, my lord?”

“Not at the moment, I think.”

“It is a pleasure to serve you, my lord,” said Geffri. Then he was gone.

By the time an hour had passed, Lord Darcy had read both Master Sean’s report and the London Courier, and was awaiting the knock on the door that came at precisely ten o’clock. By that time, Lord Darcy was dressed and ready for the day’s work, and the hot breakfast for two had been brought in and laid out on the table in the sitting room.

“Come in, my good Sean,” Lord Darcy said. “The bacon and eggs are waiting.”

The sorcerer entered with a smile on his face, but it was quite evident to Lord Darcy that the smile was rather forced.

“Good morning, my lord,” he said pleasantly. “You’ve read my report?” He seated himself at the table.

“I have,” Lord Darcy said, “but I see nothing in it to account for that dour look. We’ll discuss it after breakfast. Have you seen this morning’s Courier?”

“No, my lord, I have not.” Master Sean seated himself and began to dig into the bacon and eggs. “Is there something of interest there?”

“Not particularly,” said Lord Darcy. “Except for some rather flattering references to myself, and some even more flattering references to you, there is little of interest. You may peruse it at your leisure. The only offering of any consequence is the fact that there will be no fog tonight.”

The next quarter of an hour was spent in relative silence. Master Sean, usually quite loquacious, seemed to have little to say.

Finally, with some irritation, Lord Darcy pushed his plate aside and said: “All pleasantries aside, Master Sean, you are not your usual ebullient self. If there is anything I should know besides what is contained in your report, I’d like to hear it.”

Master Sean smiled across his caffe cup. “Oh, no, it’s all there. I have nothing to add to it. Don’t mean to disturb you. Perhaps I’m a bit sleepy.”

Lord Darcy frowned, reached over, picked up the carefully written report and flipped it open. “Very well. I do have a question or two, merely as a matter of clarification. First, as to the wound.”

“Yes, my lord?”

“According to your report, the blade entered the chest vertically, between the third and fourth ribs, making a wound some five inches deep. It nicked the wall of the pulmonic aorta and made a small gash in the heart itself, and this wound was definitely the cause of death?”

“Definitely, my lord.”

“Very well.” He stood up. “If you will, Master Sean, take that spoon and assume that it is a knife. Yes. Now, would you be so good as to stab me at the precise angle which would cause exactly such a wound as you discovered in Sir James’ chest.”

Master Sean grasped the handle of the spoon, lifted it high over his head, and brought it down slowly in a long arc to touch his lordship’s chest. “Very good, Master Sean, thank you. The wound, if extended, then, would have gone well down into the bowels?”

“Well, my lord, if a bullet had entered at that angle, it would have come out the small of the back.”

Lord Darcy nodded, and looked back down at the report. “And,” he mused, “as could be surmised from the exterior aspect of the wound, the blade actually did slice into the ribs above and below the cut itself.”

He looked up from the report. “Master Sean, if you were going to stab a man, how would you do it?”

Master Sean reversed the spoon in his hand so that his thumb was pointing toward the bowl. He moved his hand forward to touch Lord Darcy. “This way, of course, my lord.”

Lord Darcy nodded. “And in that position, the flat of the knife is parallel to the ribs instead of perpendicular to them.”

“Well, of course, my lord,” said Master Sean. “With the blade up and down you’re likely to get your blade stuck between the ribs.”

“Precisely,” Lord Darcy agreed. “Now, according to the autopsy report which Sir Eliot sent us yesterday from Cherbourg, Goodman Georges Barbour was stabbed in the efficient manner you have just demonstrated, and yet Sir James was stabbed in a manner which no efficient knifesman would use.”

“That’s true, my lord. Nobody who knew how to use a knife would come in with a high overhand stab like that.”

“Why should the same man stab with two such completely different techniques?”

“If it was the same man, my lord.”

“Very well, assuming that there were two different killers, which is the Navy’s hypothesis, the blow that killed Sir James was still inefficient, was it not? Would a professional hired killer have deliberately used a thrust like that?”