Powerscourt agreed to take the case on. His only thought at the beginning was that the silence probably meant a woman was involved who was not Cosmo Colville’s wife. Pugh gave him all the details of the families and the wedding party and took him down the street to the solicitors to take up his formal employment in the matter.
Lady Lucy Powerscourt was looking at an auction catalogue when her husband returned to Markham Square from Gray’s Inn. She turned slightly pale when Powerscourt told her the details of his latest case. ‘I’ve got a second cousin, Francis, who’s married to some minor member of the Colville family. I can’t for the moment remember if she’s on the Randolph side or the Cosmo side. How very terrible.’
‘What sort of a fellow was he, the chap your cousin married, I mean?’
‘I’m afraid he was rather a bad lot. He was called Barrington White, Timothy Barrington White, I think, and he embarked on a series of business ventures that seemed to go wrong all the time. The last I heard he had taken a position in the Colville wine business but he didn’t care for it, he never liked being told off by his in-laws. You don’t think he has anything to do with it, do you, Francis? And how do you think you can help that nice Mr Pugh get the Colville person off?’
‘I have absolutely no idea if your relation has anything to do with it, Lucy. I was thinking about possible lines of inquiry on my way back here.’
Powerscourt began pacing up and down his drawing room, hands behind his back, like some thoughtful admiral on his quarterdeck in the Napoleonic Wars. Lady Lucy smiled. The pacing up and down always meant that her husband’s brain was moving towards top speed.
‘There aren’t really all that many motives for murder when you think of it, Lucy. Revenge, that’s always a runner. Jealousy, especially when the opposite sex is concerned, very powerful. Money, securing an inheritance ahead of time or killing off the siblings who might be ahead of you in the queue to inherit grandfather’s millions, another strong contender. Sudden blinding rage, when the murderer goes half insane for the split second it takes to plunge the knife in or pull the trigger, that’s taken a lot of people to the other side. There must be more, lots more.’
‘And which of these deadly sins do you think might apply in this case, Francis?’ Lady Lucy began her question to her husband’s back as he reached the end of his pacing and finished it to his face as he turned round to head back towards the fireplace.
‘I think the silence is important, Lucy, I really do. I think it implies he was protecting somebody, that if he had to answer questions he would end up incriminating somebody, his mistress perhaps. The thing about silence is that there are no two ways about it. Even if he offered to tell just some of what he knows, once he started talking Cosmo Colville would probably find that he had to reveal everything.’
‘You don’t think it might have something to do with his brother, that he was protecting him in some way?’
‘Even after the brother was dead, do you mean? That would have to be some secret, Lucy, don’t you think? Maybe it all has to do with the business.’
‘I find it hard to believe that the wine business could be the reason for murder, Francis. Surely people don’t go round shooting each other in the heart because the claret’s gone off or the Nuits St Georges is corked again.’
‘Maybe there was a scandal waiting to come out. When you refer to the wine business in that way of course it’s hard to see it as a motive for murder. But the Colville business is huge. Think of it as money or as a disgrace that might finish the firm off and it could well be time for pistols in the afternoon. Johnny Fitzgerald is the only wine expert we know and he’s not back from Wales until tomorrow. And even Johnny would be happy to admit that his expertise is more in the consumption end of the trade than in the business side. Lucy, I think it’s time I extended my knowledge of burgundy and Bordeaux. I’m just going to pop into Berry Bros. amp; Rudd. After all, I have been buying wine from them for nearly twenty years.’
The man they called the Alchemist had moved a little table to sit underneath the window. He brought over an electric lamp to increase the visibility further still. On his table he placed three plain bottles with red wine in them and rather unusual labels. The left-hand bottle’s inscription read BX LG68 AG15. The second one said BX LG74 AG12, and the one on the right BX LG78 AG10. Very reverently, as if he was pouring the host at the communion rails in some place of alchemical worship, the man poured a small amount of the liquid from the first bottle into a glass. The Alchemist was humming to himself as he worked. Today it was the Drinking Song from La Traviata. He was very fond of the opera. He went as often as he could. He swirled the liquid round for a moment or two and then tasted it before spitting it out into a small bucket on the floor. He looked thoughtful for a moment and then made some notes in his large notebook. Each legend with the BX heading had a page to itself. When he had finished his tasting the Alchemist smiled a slow smile and replaced the corks in the bottles before placing them on a shelf. ‘They’re coming along well,’ he said out loud, addressing nobody in particular. Blending, the man often reminded himself, was the essence of wine making, as vital to its success as the grapes or the terroir of the vineyard. Was not Haut Brion itself, one of the finest clarets in the world, the result of careful blending? Only the Alchemist knew the secrets of the labels. LG68 meant that sixty-eight per cent of the liquid was composed of standard red vin ordinaire from the Languedoc, AG15 meant that fifteen per cent of it was red from Algeria, a red often referred to as the Infuriator. In the other bottles the mixtures were slightly different, the remaining percentages being composed of good quality claret. The BX at the beginning meant that a claret was being created here, far from the south-west of France and the elegant city of Bordeaux, in a dusty warehouse on London’s river. The wine would be bastard from birth.
Lord Francis Powerscourt was shown into a small library on the first floor of Berry Bros. amp; Rudd at 3 St James’s Street, opposite St James’s Palace and the London home of the Prince of Wales at Marlborough House. Powerscourt was fascinated by the contents of the glass-fronted bookshelves, most of them containing ancient bottles of wine rather than books.
‘Good day to you, Powerscourt,’ said a tall white-haired man of about fifty years, marching across the carpet like the guardsman he had once been to shake Powerscourt by the hand. George Berry had been Powerscourt’s principal point of contact here for all his years with the company, advising more on broad strategies of wine purchase rather than recommending particular bottles. ‘I trust Lady Lucy and the family are well?’
‘Splendid, thanks,’ said Powerscourt with a smile. He had always thought that George Berry with his military bearing, those clear blue eyes and a general impression of tidy competence would have made a perfect con man.
‘What can we do for you today, Lord Powerscourt? Some white burgundies perhaps? We have some splendid wines from Montrachet and Chablis this year.’
‘I want your advice, Berry, and I’m in rather a hurry. Please keep this to yourself but I’ve been asked to look into the Colville murder, the one up in Norfolk. Cosmo’s lawyers have asked me to see if I can come up with anything to help his case.’
‘You’re trying to get him off might be another way of putting it,’ said Berry. ‘What a terrible business. We knew the Colvilles, all of them. We were meant to go to that wedding, but family commitments put a stop to it. Pity, I’ve always wanted to see that house, Brympton Hall. How can I help you?’
‘I’m not quite sure how to put this,’ said Powerscourt. ‘There are all sorts of motives for murder, greed, jealousy, revenge, hatred. Some of those may have been swirling round the Colville business. I need somebody to advise me on the wine trade in general and the Colville companies in particular. Was there anything suspicious going on? Was a scandal about to break? Had they treated anybody or any other company particularly badly?’
George Berry walked over to his window and stared out into the street where a horse-drawn carriage seemed
to be overtaking a wheezing motor car, smoke pouring from its bonnet. Powerscourt remembered that Berry’s favourite activity was playing golf at fashionable courses like Huntercombe or Royal St George’s, Sandwich. Men said that George Berry seldom lost. Powerscourt had always wondered what he drank in the bar at the end of a round. Did he have beer? Or did Berry Bros. amp; Rudd supply some of these golf courses with their finest wines for George Berry and his friends to sample after their eighteen holes?
‘I wish I felt able to help you myself,’ Berry said finally, turning back from his vigil at the window overlooking the dark grey palace with its red soldiers like toys in their sentry boxes, ‘but I don’t think my expertise, for what it’s worth, is what you are looking for. You see, we deal with what we like to think of as the more expensive end of the market, the leading hotels in the capital, ten or twelve Oxbridge colleges, most of the top London clubs, a large number of restaurants, and a considerable number of private clients who are interested in their wine and are happy to be advised by us. People like yourself, Lord Powerscourt. But we’re not dealing with the same sort of people as the Colvilles. The new middle class, as they’re often referred to these days, would not buy their wine from us, they would buy it from Colvilles or one of their rivals. I think I know the man you want, he’s got enormous experience in the wine trade. At the moment he is the chief wine buyer for the White Star Line. They sell all kinds of different wine from all kinds of different countries at all kinds of different prices in their ships. He could tell you straight off, I should think, what was a proper claret and what was made in a factory or a warehouse. I’ll give you a letter of introduction.’
George Berry sat down at one of the desks and scribbled a quick note.
‘His name, Berry, you haven’t told me his name.’
‘His name?’ Berry laughed. ‘When he’s happy he says his name has been a great help in his career. When he’s miserable he claims his name has been the ruin of him and he wishes he’d changed it years ago.’
‘For God’s sake, man, what’s he called?’
‘He’s a hereditary baronet. He’s called…’ George Berry paused for a moment for maximum impact. ‘He’s called Sir Pericles Freme.’
‘God bless my soul!’ said Lord Francis Powerscourt.
3
Randolph Colville’s funeral was finally held a week and a half after his murder. Powerscourt was travelling to the Church of St James the Less at Pangbourne on the Thames where the last melancholy rites were to be performed. He had arranged to travel with one Christopher Fuller, partner in the City law firm of Moorehead, Fuller and Fox who looked after the Colvilles’ affairs. The solicitor, a slim man in his late thirties with brown eyes and dark curly hair, was carrying a particularly large briefcase which he kept beside him on the seat rather than place it in the storage area above.
‘I don’t suppose you’ve had time to make any progress yet, Lord Powerscourt. Innings only just beginning, what?’
Powerscourt smiled. ‘Has your client said anything to you yet? Has he uttered a word?’
‘Not a word, not a single word,’ said Fuller. ‘And I’ve seen him twice now, once in Norwich and once in Pentonville.’
‘Have you any idea what causes the silence? Is he hiding something?’
‘We’re rather hoping you’ll be able to tell us the answers to those questions, Lord Powerscourt.’
‘Look here.’ Powerscourt leaned forward to stress the importance of what he was about to say. ‘I know you’re not meant to say anything about your client’s affairs and all that, but you’re not in the office now and your first duty is surely to keep your man alive, however you do it. Is there anything you know about the Colvilles that throws light on the murder? You don’t have to be specific, if that’s a problem, just some general guidance.’
‘I wish I could help you, Lord Powerscourt, but I don’t see how I can.’
‘Forgive me, but do you mean that you could if you felt so inclined because you have some information, or do you mean that you can’t because you don’t have any information to give me?’
‘The latter, I’m afraid.’
The train had left London now and was racing along through open countryside. Some two hundred yards away the Thames was meandering peacefully towards the great city and the sea.
‘What about Randolph’s will? Is that will in your briefcase?’
‘It is, as a matter of fact.’
‘Are there any surprises in there? All the money left to charity, or to mistresses tucked away somewhere, that sort of thing?’
Christopher Fuller smiled. ‘You’ll find out in due course, if you come back to the house after the service. There is one surprising thing about Randolph’s will and I don’t understand it at all.’
‘What’s that?’ asked Powerscourt.
‘Well, I don’t think I’m speaking out of turn here, but there’s a lot less money than I would have thought. Hundred thousand less, maybe a couple of hundred thousand less. You see, I would have thought Randolph and Cosmo took about the same amount of money out of the business over the years and Cosmo is worth over twice as much as Randolph.’
‘How do you know that, Mr Fuller?’
Christopher Fuller grimaced. ‘I had to draw up a new will for Cosmo in Pentonville the other day. He wasn’t happy with the previous one that had been drawn up by one of my colleagues. He must be the only Colville in history to have his last will and testament witnessed by a couple of prison warders.’
‘What is Cosmo like, Mr Fuller? What sort of man is he?’
The solicitor took his time before he spoke. ‘In some ways they were similar, the brothers Randolph and Cosmo Colville. From their earliest years it had been drummed into them that the business came first. Nothing else really mattered. Old man Walter may have sent them off to Harrow to learn the manners of their betters, rather like Tom Brown going to Rugby, but he wasn’t going to turn them into gentlemen of leisure living comfortably off their dividends. Work was the thing. Always work. Randolph spent a lot of time in France, in Burgundy. He looked after the firm’s interests there and his children used to joke that he was becoming half French himself. But it was their attitudes outside the business that were so different. Randolph was a man of great enthusiasms, fly fishing one minute, French cathedrals the next. Cosmo was more steady, more circumspect. He looked after the firm’s interests in Bordeaux. They actually own a chateau there, you know. He never lost his passion for cricket, Cosmo, and the Test Matches at Lord’s. I’ve always thought that was where he was happiest.’
Powerscourt could sympathize with that. He would work even harder for a man whose grand passion was for Test Matches at Lord’s. ‘What will happen to the succession at Colvilles if both brothers are gone?’
‘They say the old man, Walter, has wanted to give up the chairmanship for years and pass it on to the younger generation. But he’s never been able to make up his mind which one of the younger generation, his boys or his brother Nathaniel’s boys, to give it to. Maybe he’ll have to hang on a little longer.’
The train was slowing down for Pangbourne now. The river was speckled with houseboats and a couple of elderly gentlemen were seated optimistically on the bank with fishing rods in their hands. Powerscourt thought he had time for one last question.
‘Mr Fuller, can I ask you one final question. Do you think Cosmo Colville killed his brother?’
‘I do not,’ replied Fuller.
‘Who do you think did it then?’
‘I’m sorry, Powerscourt, I don’t know. I really haven’t a clue. I wish I did.’
As they walked to the church of St James the Less Powerscourt wondered if Fuller had been telling the truth in his very last answer. Had he protested too much? Was there, somewhere in the well-ordered files of Moorehead, Fuller and Fox of Bishopsgate, a clue about one of the Colvilles, a clue so dangerous it could not be divulged, even to the man employed to save a client from the gallows and the rope?
Powers
court and the solicitor sat discreetly at the back of the church. Randolph Colville had a large turn-out come to see him off. More than half the congregation had been present at a very different service less than a fortnight before when Colville had married Nash at the church of St Peter at Brympton. Willoughby and Georgina Nash had turned up out of sympathy with their daughter’s new family. Walter Colville, father of the dead man, seemed to those who knew him to have aged about five years in the past ten days. His face before the wedding and the murder looked like the face of a man who still entertains hope for the future, who even at the age of seventy-nine can still make plans for himself and his family. Now that face looked as if it had collapsed inwards. His eyes were dead and his cheeks were almost hollow. To bury one son was bad enough; to have to face the prospect of burying the other for murdering the first one, too terrible to contemplate. No parent could think of their child being hung, the rope round the neck, the drop into the dark, the last desperate fluttering of the legs and then oblivion, without shuddering. The only thing Walter had resolved to do was to change his will but he wondered if he should wait till after the trial in case he had to change it again.
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