Part 2 (1/2)

”How true are the stories one has heard about the late Count?”

”True, Your Highness?” the Marquis said thoughtfully. ”I would hesitate to make any estimate of percentages. Once a man gets a reputation like that, the number of his reputed sins quickly surpa.s.ses the number of actual ones. Doubtless many of the stories one hears are of whole cloth; others may have only a slight basis in fact. On the other hand, it is highly likely that there are many of which we have never heard. It is absolutely certain, however, that he has acknowledged seven illegitimate sons, and I dare say he has ignored a few daughters--and these, mind you, with unmarried women. His adulteries would be rather more difficult to establish, but I think your Highness can take it for granted that such escapades were far from uncommon.”

He cleared his throat and then added, ”If Your Highness is looking for motive, I fear there is a superabundance of persons with motive.”

”I see,” the Duke said. ”Well, we will wait and see what sort of information Lord Darcy comes up with.” He looked up at the clock.

”They should be there by now.”

Then, as if brus.h.i.+ng further thoughts on the subject from his mind, he went back to work, picking up a new sheaf of state papers from his desk.

The Marquis watched him for a moment and smiled a little to himself.

The young Duke took his work seriously, but was well-balanced about it. A little inclined to be romantic--but aren't we all at nineteen?

There was no doubt of his ability, nor of his n.o.bility. The Royal Blood of England always came through.

”My lady,” said Sir Pierre gently, ”the Duke's Investigators have arrived.”

My Lady Alice, Countess D'Evreux, was seated in a gold-brocade upholstered chair in the small receiving room off the Great Hall.

Standing near her, looking very grave, was Father Bright. Against the blaze of color on the walls of the room, the two of them stood out like ink blots. Father Bright wore his normal clerical black, unrelieved except for the pure white lace at collar and cuffs. The Countess wore unadorned black velvet, a dress which she had had to have altered hurriedly by her dressmaker; she had always hated black and owned only the mourning she had worn when her mother died eight years before. The somber looks on their faces seemed to make the black blacker.

”Show them in, Sir Pierre,” the Countess said calmly.

Sir Pierre opened the door wider, and three men entered. One was dressed as one gently born; the other two wore the livery of the Duke of Normandy.

The gentleman bowed. ”I am Lord Darcy, Chief Criminal Investigator for His Highness, the Duke, and your servant, my lady.” He was a tall, brown-haired man in his thirties with a rather handsome, lean face. He spoke Anglo-French with a definite English accent.

”My pleasure, Lord Darcy,” said the Countess. ”This is our vicar, Father Bright.”

”Your servant, Reverend Sir.” Then he presented the two men with him.

The first was a scholarly-looking, graying man wearing pince-nez gla.s.ses with gold rims, Dr. Pateley, Physician. The second, a tubby, red-faced, smiling man, was Master Sean O Lochlainn, Sorcerer.

As soon as Master Sean was presented he removed a small, leather-bound folder from his belt pouch and proffered it to the priest. ”My license, Reverend Father.”

Father Bright took it and glanced over it. It was the usual thing, signed and sealed by the Archbishop of Rouen. The law was rather strict on that point; no sorcerer could practice without the permission of the Church, and a license was given only after careful examination for orthodoxy of practice.

”It seems to be quite in order, Master Sean,” said the priest, handing the folder back. The tubby little sorcerer bowed his thanks and returned the folder to his belt pouch.

Lord Darcy had a notebook in his hand. ”Now, unpleasant as it may be, we shall have to check on a few facts.” He consulted his notes, then looked up at Sir Pierre. ”You, I believe, discovered the body?”

”That is correct, your lords.h.i.+p.”

”How long ago was this?”

Sir Pierre glanced at his wrist watch. It was 9:55. ”Not quite three hours ago, your lords.h.i.+p.”

”At what time, precisely?”