Death in a Scarlet Coat (29 page)

In view of the presence of the Chief Constable and his acolyte, Powerscourt had decided on the spot to conceal the name of Lucy Carter in case a posse of policemen was despatched to arrest her before he even sat down.

‘Sometime before the murder, Candlesby will have sent his ultimatum. The girl was to meet him at the windmill near the sea late in the evening. She had no choice. Candlesby rides out in his scarlet coat, rather odd, you might think, for a seduction scene. But he intends to spend the night with Helen of Candlesby. Undoubtedly he intends to have his way with her again in the morning before he returns home to the hunt and the stirrup cup. So he has to be wearing the clothes he will need in the morning.’

‘She’s your secret source, isn’t she, by God, Powerscourt!’ The Chief Constable was slapping his thigh. ‘She’ll look very pretty in the witness box, I’m sure!’

Powerscourt ignored him. ‘I do not know what roused the village that night. They must have endured similar maltreatment before. Maybe Helen’s father was able to lead the resistance. For Helen did not go to the rendezvous alone. A group of her father’s friends from the village went too, literally like a guard of honour. There may have been half a dozen, there may have been ten or more, I cannot be sure. But they were there. I am sure that they had decided to kill Candlesby before they set out. Maybe they hadn’t given much thought to how they would do it.

‘So, the Earl reaches the windmill. The girl is waiting on her own, I suspect, like live bait, an act of great bravery. The honour guard give Candlesby a minute or so in the little sitting room to become excited at the prospect ahead in the bed on the next floor. Then they rush in and take him. Maybe they beat him up a bit. All this time, remember, the storm is raging outside with tremendous force. Somebody suggests unlocking the sails and fixing him to a chair on a table which will mean that one side of his face is continually exposed to the blows of the sails as they shoot by, a truly terrible way to die. The old Mr Lawrence told me on the day his possessions were being packed up for his move that he had employed a number of men from Candlesby village to help. They were, he assured me, very good at loading things
onto carts. They were very good with their hands. Part of the appeal for the villagers was that their victim would be able to see the other sails approaching even as the one in front of him crashed into his face. Maybe they took it in turns to beat the side of his face with a strangely shaped instrument like a spade found in the basement of the
windmill
, the villagers queuing up for revenge as the tempest raged and the sails sped by. I don’t know if the girl stayed to watch. Probably not. One of the men took Candlesby’s horse and brought Helen home, safe and sound, to her mother. As far as I know, they have kept the horse, or sold it.’

Edward Dymoke had fallen asleep, overcome by
adulterated
claret at lunchtime. He was snoring slightly until his brother prodded him awake.

‘I think the villagers decided to leave the body as far away from the windmill as they could so people would not suspect how the dead man had been killed. One of them took a couple of blankets from the bed upstairs – there are only sheets on it now – and wrapped them round the corpse. They carried it to the place where Jack Hayward was told to find it some hours later. Walter Savage, the steward, thought he heard a sound like cheering in the village around one o’clock in the morning. That could have been the men returning from their night’s work, and being applauded by the rest of the village who would have stayed up for news.’

The Chief Constable had slapped his monocle in his left eye and was inspecting a bundle of documents in his hand. Charles Dymoke was looking very serious by his fireplace. Lady Lucy was watching her husband.

‘I turn now to the other murder,’ Powerscourt went on, taking care never to look at the Chief Constable or his
assistant
. ‘I have reason to believe that Helen was again involved. Maybe the son decided to avail himself of the pleasures denied to his father. I believe he too rode out from Candlesby
Hall on the night of the first murder. Maybe he was going to watch. Maybe he was going to avail himself of her too. But for some reason he turned back. Maybe the storm was too much for him, comfort winning out over lust. More likely his father told him to clear off. He, Candlesby, was going to enjoy the prize on his own. Charles Dymoke reported the servants hearing somebody coming back to the house around midnight. That must have been Richard with his red hair. Anyway, another invitation was issued to the girl to a meeting at the windmill the day after Richard was meant to be installed in the House of Lords. Members of the House of Lords of all people have rights they can enjoy. Richard would not have known his father was killed at the windmill. Many of the villagers work on the railway. Two of their number were selected, or perhaps they volunteered, for the next killing. When you’d killed one Candlesby, maybe it was easier to kill another, I don’t know. Once in their uniform they could pass through the station more or less unnoticed. The GNR regalia rendered them virtually invisible. The two of them boarded the special train. Nobody suspected
anything
. They killed Richard. Then they jumped off the train and went home. I should point out that a large number of Inspector Blunden’s men raided the village of Candlesby at six thirty this morning. Every single adult male in the place was questioned about their whereabouts on the night of the first murder. You will not be surprised to hear that they were all asleep in their beds, every last one of them. Their wives would vouch for them, their children too, if necessary, since many of them had only one room for the whole family to sleep in. They looked, in the words of Constable Andrew Merrick who was one of the police party, as innocent as newborn lambs.’

The Chief Constable jumped to his feet. ‘That’s it then. All the villagers were obviously lying this morning. Not questioned with sufficient vigour, I expect. The case is solved. All we have to do is to get from the girl the names
of those who went with her to kill Lord Candlesby and then we’ve got it! The villains can receive a good dose of English justice!’

‘I’m terribly sorry, I really am,’ said Powerscourt. ‘I’m afraid it’s not as simple as that.’

The Chief Constable glowered at Powerscourt, screwing his monocle tighter and tighter into position. Inspector Blunden had the air of one who wishes most devoutly that the earth would swallow him up whole immediately. Johnny Fitzgerald was growing restive, as if he might go and knock the Chief Constable down. Charles Dymoke had a slight smile playing round the corner of his mouth as if he were keeping score.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Powerscourt again, looking at the Chief Constable steadily. ‘I haven’t finished yet.’

‘What do you mean, you haven’t finished yet? It’s perfectly obvious what we have to do! Let’s get on with it! Skeggs!’

The villainous-looking fellow sprang to attention. Nobody knew how things might have developed had there not been an intervention from a most unexpected quarter.

‘For God’s sake, Chief Constable, do sit down and do shut up.’ Charles Dymoke’s stutter seemed to have deserted him in this hour of need.

‘I would remind you, sir, of two things. It was I who invited Lord Powerscourt to carry out his investigation. I and my brothers have a right to hear his full report. Second, this is our house. It is not a police station or a police
examination
room or a cell for the detention of the guilty. You are our guest here. As

Charles sat down and blew a few more smoke rings. The Chief Constable turned red. Chief Inspector Skeggs
glowered
at the world in general. Johnny Fitzgerald laughed.

‘As I was saying,’ Powerscourt carried on as if nothing had happened, ‘I think matters in this case are not as simple as they might appear. For a long time I thought it was a
matter
of the poor and the exploited against the big house, the droit de seigneur against the human rights of the villagers. I do not think that any more, but I find this even more
difficult
to prove. Consider, if you will, the family Lawrence. There is certainly motive there. They have a long-standing grudge against the old Lord Candlesby for cheating them out of a considerable and recurring amount of revenue from a railway concession. When I went to speak to old Mr Lawrence – this on the very day when they had been forced to move out of their ancestral home through lack of funds, funds they felt they would have possessed in abundance had it not been for the theft of the railway contract – he took great pains to tell me that the whole family had been in London at the time of the first murder.

‘He gave me the name of the hotel they stayed in, White’s, and the name of the theatre where they had been to see a play in the evening, the Savoy. Did he protest too much?

‘I think it will be easier if I describe the Lawrence trip to London in chronological order. On Wednesday October the sixth the family sets off for the station. Before they leave Boston, Carlton Lawrence, the eldest son of the old Mr Lawrence I met when he was moving house, tries to withdraw a very large sum in cash from his bank. The manager informs him that they don’t have that much money in Treasury notes in the safe, but promises to wire ahead to the London branch nearest to White’s Hotel where the funds required will be ready for collection the following morning. The Lawrence party reach their hotel in the middle of the afternoon. At five fifteen a telegram arrives from Boston. I will speak about its contents a little later if I may.’

Johnny Fitzgerald was staring intently at a couple of stuffed foxes, perched in their case at the very edge of the billiard table and looking as if they might make a run for it at any moment. Chief Inspector Skeggs was inspecting a pair of handcuffs very closely, as if preparing a fitting for Powerscourt’s wrists.

‘The following morning, Thursday October the seventh, the day of the first murder, Carlton Lawrence goes to his bank and withdraws a very large sum in cash. He stows it in his briefcase and goes back to Boston. There’s a train from London to Boston that arrives there at ten past three. A number of people report him hanging round the station for the next hour, never venturing very far away. Perhaps he was waiting to meet somebody. Carlton Lawrence then took the train back to London, leaving Boston at four fifteen, arriving at eight thirty. What was he doing up there in Lincolnshire? Whatever it was, he was back in London, not for the start of the play, but probably in time for the end of it. He went back to the hotel on his way from the station to the theatre where he was seen to have dropped off his briefcase – maybe he didn’t want to be seen at the theatre carrying it. He was able to sleep in his bed in his London hotel and be seen at breakfast the following morning. Between the hours of ten in the evening on Thursday the seventh of October and four in the morning the next day the old Lord Candlesby was murdered. Carlton Lawrence was in London all that time.’

The Chief Constable was turning red in the face. Unbeknown to everybody else in the room, he played a regular round of golf with Carlton Lawrence on Saturday afternoons. His friend was being traduced in front of all these people.

‘So, what was going on?’ Powerscourt continued. ‘We know that the Lawrence money came from the sale of their house and estate. We believe that all the bills outstanding from that transaction have been settled. We believe from
reports in Candlesby village that the place is awash with money, more than the villagers have ever seen in all their days. For once in their lives the Lawrences had enough money to take their revenge on the man who had robbed them of the railway contract and all the monies they believed were due to them. I believe the original day set for the meeting between Helen and the Earl was the Wednesday. Then Carlton couldn’t come up with the cash. Promissory notes, cheques, bills of exchange, none of these financial instruments have any currency in Candlesby village. The meeting was rescheduled for the Thursday. Maybe they said Helen was unwell or recovering from the influenza, so the date is switched to the following day, Thursday. Carlton collects the cash, meets a Candlesby intermediary at the
station
, and hurries back to London for the curtain calls at the Savoy. The whole purpose of the expedition was to create a near perfect alibi for the Lawrences in general and Carlton Lawrence in particular. He couldn’t have been murdering the Earl by the windmill if could prove he was in London at the time.’

Constable Merrick was still writing busily. He was
becoming
more than ever determined to become a detective and solve great mysteries in front of an astonished audience.

‘So, if my theory is right, the Lawrences paid the villagers to kill the earl. I would remind you again that when I went to see old Mr Lawrence he mentioned that he was
employing
a number of men from Candlesby village to organize his move. “They’re marvellous at packing the carts,” he told me, “very clever with their hands.” Which of them, Lawrence or villagers, is guilty in law I am not qualified to say. It may be germane to note that the entire Lawrence
family
have gone away again, not to London this time, but to an unknown destination. The house they were moving to on the day I met old Mr Lawrence is let for the next six months with an option for renewal. We have to thank Inspector Blunden and his men for this information.’

The Chief Constable was recovering his composure now. He was exchanging a series of notes with Chief Inspector Skeggs, planning his next move. Johnny Fitzgerald was looking at them carefully, and checking his watch. Charles Dymoke had lit another cigar and was blowing smoke rings at the ceiling. Lady Lucy seemed to have disappeared.

‘I have nearly finished, ladies and gentlemen.’ Powerscourt was on the last lap. ‘I do have one very important caveat at the end. Earlier this week I went to London and took the advice of one of London’s leading defence lawyers. I laid the broad outlines of the case before him. His advice was clear and unambiguous. It would, he said, require a miracle more remarkable than the raising of Lazarus to secure a
conviction
in this case. The defence would instruct everybody in Candlesby village, male and female, to say nothing at all. The only other witness to the sad events of that night by the windmill is interred in the Candlesby mausoleum. The
prosecution
case would collapse for the lack of evidence. It is not for me, thank God, to decide whether or not to proceed with a prosecution. I doubt if the Candlesby family would care to have their father’s peccadilloes and worse brought before a court of law and trumpeted abroad in the newspapers, but that is a matter for them.’

Powerscourt sat down. The Chief Constable rose to his feet. Johnny Fitzgerald groaned aloud.

‘How right you are, Powerscourt, to tell us that it is not for you to decide whether to proceed with a prosecution in this case. You have failed miserably. You admit yourself that your discoveries would not stand up in a court of law. You can take your failure away with you and never return. We of the Lincolnshire constabulary shall not fail. It is for me, thank God, to decide whether to prosecute or not. I have no doubt that we shall be successful once we have collected enough witnesses. I repeat what I said before. Will you please give us the name of the girl you referred to as Helen? Come along now, you are not above the law.’

Powerscourt looked him in the eye. ‘I will not,’ he said firmly.

‘Skeggs!’ said the Chief Constable. ‘Prepare to make an arrest! I repeat, Powerscourt, for the last time, will you give to us the name of the girl you called Helen?’

Events intervened before Powerscourt had time to reply. There was a noise of heavy boots on the floorboards
outside
. A boy of fifteen or so burst into the room. His eyes were bloodshot and seemed to be staring right out of their sockets. His hair was wild. Tiny flecks of foam hovered at the corners of his mouth. He had a gun in his hand and was waving it about as if to shoot somebody at any moment. James Dymoke had come to join his brothers in the family conclave.

‘I’ve locked them both up, my guards, my jailers,’ he announced to the company. Charles was advancing across the room towards his brother. Henry and Edward looked frightened. Powerscourt realized that something and
somebody
completely unpredictable had entered the room. The irrational, maybe even the mad was standing less than ten feet away from him with a gun in his hand.

‘And I’ve got the keys of my room.’ James giggled and patted his jacket pocket. ‘I gather you’ve been discussing who killed my father and my brother,’ he carried on, the flecks of foam growing larger as he spoke. ‘Didn’t think to ask me. Pity, that. You’ve got it wrong. All wrong.’

At this point he pointed the gun at his eldest living brother. ‘You killed my father. You killed Richard too. You think I haven’t heard you talking to yourself when you thought nobody was listening, about what you’d do when you were Earl? All the pretty ladies you were going to have? All the nice food you were going to eat every day? Well, you’re not going to be able to have those thoughts any more. Not where you’re going. Not now.’ He fired at Henry. The bullet passed peacefully beyond Henry’s left side and ended up safely embedded in a stuffed peacock on the far
side of the fireplace. James ran out of the room and hurtled down the stairs towards the lower floors. Charles, closely followed by Powerscourt, Johnny Fitzgerald and Constable Merrick, raced off in pursuit. They could hear the footsteps clattering down into the basement.

‘He’s going to the tunnels!’ shouted Charles. ‘He always loved those as a child.’

Powerscourt put a hand on Constable Merrick’s shoulder. The boy was just eighteen. This was no place for one so young, with a mother and father at home and a madman with a pistol up in front. ‘Constable!’ said Powerscourt. ‘Can you please go back and report to Inspector Blunden. Suggest to him that he puts a guard on the exits from this and any other tunnels it might lead to. Tell him – and this is most important – that nobody is to fire at the young man or threaten him in any way! Go now!’

Constable Merrick shot off. They were in the tunnel now, a red-brick construction that twisted its way under the house, scarcely higher than a man and with room abreast for just a couple of people at a time. James’ boots could be heard clearly further ahead. Drips of cold water fell from the
ceiling
. In the short corridors that opened off the main passage tens of tiny rats’ eyes peered in amazement at their visitors. Johnny Fitzgerald had snatched a torch from a shelf in the ante-room. Enormous shadows of a monstrous Powerscourt and an elongated Charles Dymoke were etched on the walls until Johnny turned it down.

‘Where does this go, Charles?’ Powerscourt spoke as quietly as he could but his voice must have carried even so. The shot echoed down the tunnel and back again, bouncing off the walls and fading to an echo. Nobody knew where the bullet went. Powerscourt thought this was a very dangerous place to be. A bullet could ricochet off the walls for a long time, killing or wounding anybody who got in the way. Charles drew his hands into a fork and pointed further up the tunnel. To the right he pretended to be a horse,
making hoof noises with his feet. The stables. To the left he whispered ‘Garden’ as quietly as he could. However hard they tried they were still making a lot of noise as they went, boots and shoes sounding loud as they hit the brick floor of the tunnel. An enormous ante-chamber appeared to the left. Charles took a long swig of an imaginary bottle. The cellars. Johnny Fitzgerald smiled. There was more water on the bottom now, a tiny rivulet flowing back towards the sculleries and the pantries beside the kitchen. James must have stopped to take a better shot. The bullet stuck this time in a gap between the bricks and did no damage. Three
bullets
gone. Powerscourt was counting, as he had counted the yards towards the spot where the old Earl’s body had been dumped. Charles made the tunnel sign again. It sounded as though James was running now. The noise grew distant.

‘He’ll be going to the garden and the lake,’ whispered Charles. ‘He used to hide down here pretending to be a Christian in the catacombs hiding from the Romans until a few years ago.’