‘Scandal in Rome,’ said Powerscourt happily, his imagination drifting away. ‘Poison in the College of Cardinals. Pope’s mistress murdered. Swiss Guard supposed to protect the Pontiff at all times engaged in vice and drugs trade.’
‘Come back, Francis,’ Lady Lucy smiled at him.
‘Probably all happened at one time or another, I shouldn’t wonder. Should I ask Johnny Fitzgerald to go to Rome?’ Johnny Fitzgerald had returned to the porters of the art world he had met earlier, buying them drinks, subtly picking their brains.
‘Wouldn’t the Italian Ambassador be a bit easier, Francis? He lives only a couple of streets away from here.’
‘You’re absolutely right, Lucy. I shall write to the fellow immediately. I’m sure Johnny would have liked Rome, you know. So very different from Norfolk.’
One resident of Markham Square was not taking part in the great round of socializing. Early every morning William McKenzie set off on private journeys of his own. Each day he was travelling further and further afield in quest of his prey. Each evening he reported another day of failure to Powerscourt. He would spread the net wider yet, he would say. Powerscourt thought he would soon end up far out of London. Maybe he would reach Guildford or even Winchester.
Charles Augustus Pugh was writing furiously at his desk in Gray’s Inn very early the following morning.
‘Take a seat, Powerscourt, I won’t be a minute.’ Pugh had been entranced by the news that the forger was prepared to give evidence. He had risen from his chair and paced round the room, addressing perhaps an imaginary jury as he went. ‘A forger, a forger,’ he kept muttering to himself. ‘Did I hear you right, Lord Powerscourt, that you also have some of his forgeries in your possession? We could have a parade of bogus Titians or whatever the damned things are called? How simply splendid! It’ll be a sensation. Tell me, do you have a copy of the catalogue of the exhibition of Venetian paintings?’
Powerscourt said he was sure he could lay a hand on one. And with that news Charles Augustus Pugh had thrown back his head and laughed a laugh of pure unadulterated joy. He was still writing furiously, the courtyard outside his windows very silent. Only the birds were at their business this morning.
‘Sorry about that,’ he said finally, leaning back and returning his shoes to their accustomed place on top of his desk. The suit was dark blue this morning, the shirt Italian silk. ‘I presume that so far you haven’t managed to find the Holy Grail?’
Powerscourt shook his head.
‘Never mind,’ Pugh went on, ‘maybe it’ll turn up in time. Now this is the plan of campaign. Tell me what you think.’
Pugh paused for a moment and looked up at the ceiling. ‘The weakest point in the prosecution’s case is the murder in Oxford. We know that Jenkins was a friend of Montague. The prosecution will be saying that Buckley killed Montague, bloody man admits he was in the same room as the victim on the day of his death, damn it. And he had a very strong motive. He killed one, therefore he killed the other. Buckley admits to being in Oxford on the same day. Then there’s that business with the tie. That’s all. No real evidence that he went to the room, no witnesses apart from the man who saw him come off the train and the man who saw him at the bottom of the Banbury Road in Oxford that same day. I think we could confuse the jury about the times of Buckley’s movements. And we have the godson in Keble who gave Buckley tea. So that’s the first line of attack, as it were.
‘The second is the art dealer chap, Johnston. National Gallery fellow. Think we can show how much he had to lose if Montague’s article came out, how many commissions would go somewhere else.
‘But our best line of defence is Edmund de Courcy Closely followed by the forger. Closely followed by the forgeries themselves. That’s our strongest card. And both Johnston and de Courcy have been called as prosecution witnesses. They both saw Montague on the day he died. So I can cross examine both of them.’
Powerscourt wondered if his hunch was right. Maybe Buckley had killed them both after all. ‘That sounds splendid,’ he said. ‘I am going to Oxford this morning to see if I can find anybody who remembers seeing Buckley at Evensong. I thought we had plenty of time before the trial starts but we’ve hardly got any at all. If I’d known how tight everything is, I’d have gone to Oxford weeks ago. Johnny Fitzgerald should be sending you later today the name of the Corsican previously in the employ of de Courcy and Piper.’
That faraway look came back over Pugh’s Roman profile. ‘What a collection of witnesses,’ he said, a smile spreading slowly across his face. ‘Think of it, all in the same session. A real-life forger come to the witness stand. A line of Old Masters bearing silent testament to his crimes. Edmund de Courcy, the man who almost certainly controlled the forger’s activities. And to cap it all, we have the vanishing Corsican, hands stained no doubt with bloody crimes committed on his native island. The newspapers will go mad, Powerscourt, absolutely mad.’
Charles Augustus Pugh came back to earth. He stared at Powerscourt.
‘Oxford, did you say? Looking for witnesses from Christ Church? Could you do me a great favour, my friend? Could you bring me a map of the city centre? Preferably one with the railway station, the Banbury Road and Christ Church Cathedral all clearly marked? And in the biggest typeface you can find. Some of the jurors they send us nowadays are nearly blind.’
The clerk of the court had a list of names placed in his tall black hat on the table in front of him. ‘Albert Warren,’ he said loudly. A small nervous-looking man in a tweed suit that had seen better days came forward to take the oath. With the Bible in his right hand and a card in his left he read the juror’s oath.
‘I swear by Almighty God to try the case on the basis of the evidence and to find a verdict in accordance with the truth.’ Albert Warren was the first man to take his place on the jurors’ benches. Twelve good men and true, their names picked out of a hat in Court Number Three of the Central Criminal Court. Ratepayers, property owners, summoned for a fortnight to see justice done, maybe to deprive a fellow citizen of his life.
Charles Augustus Pugh, now resplendent in wig, gown and wing collar, watched them carefully. Only once did Sir Rufus Fitch for the prosecution rise to his feet while the man was reading the oath. George Jones was stumbling through the words. It was obvious that he couldn’t read. ‘Objection! Stand by for the Crown!’ Sir Rufus’s high-pitched voice echoed through the courtroom. Pugh noticed the objection with interest. As George Jones was led away to the back of the court to be replaced with another name from the clerk’s hat, he wondered why the prosecution didn’t want a man who couldn’t read. Some prosecutors liked a stupid jury.
For the rest of the day Sir Rufus took the jury through the details of the prosecution case. Edmund de Courcy and Roderick Johnston testified that they had seen Montague in the late afternoon and early evening on the day of his death. Inspector Maxwell told the court of the discovery of the body, the vanished books, the empty desk.
Sir Rufus read out the sworn statements of the people who had seen Buckley in Oxford. Chief Inspector Wilson produced as an exhibit the tie found under the chair in Jenkins’ room, a tie similar to one previously in Horace Aloysius Buckley’s possession. He also read out Buckley’s admission that he, Buckley, had been in Montague’s flat on the evening of the first murder.
Mrs Buckley, dressed in a sombre black, testified briefly to her friendship with Christopher Montague. She gave details of the tie from her husband’s college, Trinity, in the University of Cambridge, that had gone missing with the stain on the bottom. Sir Rufus Fitch made it perfectly clear to the jury, without ever actually saying so, that sexual jealousy was the motive for murder.
When Sir Rufus was on his feet, he held himself absolutely still, like a human pillar. He stood in his place like some mighty Dreadnought of the law, fixing his eyes on the jury, speaking to them quite slowly. Trust in me, he seemed to be saying to them. I have been here before. I have long and distinguished experience in matters of this kind.
This is all pretty straightforward. All you have to do is to bring in the guilty verdict.
Charles Augustus Pugh spent most of his time not watching the witnesses but watching the jury Some of the time the fingers of his right hand were playing the notes of a Mozart piano concerto on his gown. He watched the ones who looked disapproving as they heard of the friendship between Montague and Mrs Buckley. He watched two middle-aged men at the back who nearly fell asleep as the waves of Sir Rufus’s sonorous prose rolled across them. He watched the ones who spent their time looking at the prisoner in the dock. Pugh was certain that many jurors reached their final verdict, not on the basis of the evidence presented to them, but according to the look of the defendant. If he looked shifty or embarrassed, if he stared down at the floor, they would decide he was guilty. Pugh had told Horace Aloysius Buckley that at all times in the court, whatever his inner feelings, he was to look like a leading London solicitor, a regular worshipper at his local church, a respected pillar of his local community. Pugh smiled quietly to himself as he checked his client’s demeanour. Horace Aloysius Buckley gave his evidence clearly. He remained resolute as the evidence against him unfolded all through the afternoon. At four forty-five in the afternoon, as if Sir Rufus had to catch an early evening train, the prosecution case drew to a close.
‘Not too bad,’ had been Pugh’s verdict as he and the Powerscourts and Johnny Fitzgerald met in his chambers at the end of the day. ‘What do we have to bring to bear tomorrow?’
Johnny Fitzgerald passed him the name of the Corsican recently in the employ of de Courcy and Piper. Powerscourt said he had telegraphed to the chief of police in Calvi, the dubious Captain Imperiali, for any further details of the man. Powerscourt reported that he had had a fruitless interview with the Italian Ambassador. Scandals in Rome? the Ambassador had purred, impossible surely. Rome is the Eternal City. Scandals are simply out of the question. He had smiled pleasantly at Powerscourt throughout the exchange but said nothing. Johnny Fitzgerald was going to dinner with three Italian journalists based in London. Lady Lucy reported that she was on the verge of discovering more information about Alice Bridge’s relationship with Christopher Montague.
‘Will she give evidence?’ asked Pugh. ‘We could subpoena her tonight, if you think that would help.’
‘I think a subpoena might be a bit fierce. I have lined up her two grandmothers and three aunts for a family conclave tomorrow morning,’ said Lady Lucy, impressed herself by the amount of domestic firepower being brought into play. ‘I’m pretty sure she will.’
‘Excellent,’ said Pugh. ‘Tomorrow morning we begin to throw mud in their eyes.’
‘Call the Dean of Christ Church!’ The jury looked up with interest. Illicit love affairs, men garrotted with piano wire had been on the bill of fare yesterday. Now they were going to begin the day with a senior churchman. The Dean, the Very Reverend Oliver Morris, was an imposing figure, well over six feet tall. He was dressed in a black cassock with a silver crucifix hanging from his neck. The Dean looked as if he would have belonged to the Archdeacon Grantly party rather than the Proudie faction in the internecine doctrinal squabbles that had swirled around the Cathedral Close at Barchester. A hunting, port-drinking sort of Dean, rather than an evangelical parson, obsessed with individual sin and the need for a personal salvation. He took the oath in the confident tone of a man whose voice had filled the great cathedrals of England.
‘I, Oliver Morris, do solemnly swear that the evidence I shall give shall be the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.’
Pugh glanced briefly at the jury Four of them, he thought, were impressed by this patriarch of the Church, three indifferent, the rest curious.
‘Were you the minister taking the service of Evensong in Christ Church Cathedral in Oxford on 9th November this year?’ said Pugh.
‘I was.’
‘Could you tell the court at what time the service commenced?’
‘The service started at five fifteen that day. It would have lasted about forty-five minutes.’
‘So it would have finished about six o’clock?’
‘That is correct.’
‘Dean, I would ask you to take a look at the prisoner in the dock. Please take as long as you like.’ Pugh paused while the churchman looked closely at Buckley. Buckley stared impassively back.
‘Do you recognize this man as a member of your congregation on that day?’
‘I do.’
‘Could you tell the court when you first saw him?’ Pugh thought the Dean was proving an impressive witness.
‘I usually take a brief look at the worshippers shortly before the service is due to begin,’ said the Dean, addressing the jury as though it were attending a service in his cathedral. ‘It sometimes helps to know the size of the likely congregation. I should say I first noticed him, sitting very near the choir stalls, at about five past five.’
‘And was he present throughout the service?’
‘He was.’ The Dean stroked his crucifix.
‘And did you see him afterwards?’
‘I did. It is my custom at that time of year to invite those members of the congregation who wish to come back to the Deanery for tea and sandwiches, or a glass of sherry if they prefer. Some of the destitute from the city come to Evensong. It is an unobtrusive means of feeding them, getting some nourishment into their poor bodies.’
Pugh noticed the church party among the jury nodding in approval. Feed the poor. The feeding not of the five thousand but of the impoverished of Oxford.
‘And did Mr Buckley attend this function?’
‘He did.’ Dean Morris permitted himself a slight smile. ‘We had a long conversation about an expedition he was planning, to attend Evensong in all the great cathedrals of England. I gave him my blessing for the project. I should say Mr Buckley left the Deanery shortly before seven, maybe slightly later.’
‘One last question, Dean,’ said Pugh. ‘You know Oxford well, I presume? You have lived there for some time?’
‘I have lived there for ten years now.’
‘Could you tell us how long it would take a man like Mr Buckley to walk from the railway station to the bottom of the Banbury Road?’
‘Objection, my lord!’ Sir Rufus Fitch was on his feet. ‘We are here to try Mr Buckley on a charge of murder, not to recommend walking routes for tourists on their first visit to Oxford!’
‘Mr Pugh?’ the judge inquired politely.
‘My lord, the defence intends to show serious flaws in the prosecution’s account of Mr Buckley’s movements while he was in Oxford. Central to that argument is the length of time it would take to walk from the railway station to the bottom of the Banbury Road, and from Keble College to Christ Church, if you will permit me, my lord. What more reliable witness could we find for such matters than the Dean himself?’
‘Objection overruled, Sir Rufus. Mr Pugh.’
‘Let me repeat the question,’ said Charles Augustus Pugh. ‘How long would it take to walk from the railway station to the bottom of the Banbury Road?’
‘It would take about twenty-five minutes,’ said the Dean firmly.
‘It is the contention of the defence, Dean, that Mr Buckley went on his arrival in Oxford to visit his godson in Keble College. Would that route take you past the bottom of the Banbury Road, just here?’ Pugh pointed to the road on his map.
‘It could do,’ said the Dean circumspectly. ‘It could certainly do so.’
‘And how long,’ asked Charles Augustus Pugh, ‘would it take you to walk from Keble to Christ Church?’
‘About twenty minutes, I should think.’
‘Thank you, Dean. No further questions.’ Pugh returned to his desk. Sir Rufus declined to cross examine the witness, sensing perhaps that character assassination attempts on a Dean might not go down too well with the jury.
‘Call Mr Paul Lucas.’
A pale, rather frail-looking young man was sworn into Court Number Three of the Central Criminal Court
. Pugh rose to his feet once more, with a friendly smile to welcome his new witness.
‘You are Paul Lucas, currently an undergraduate of Keble College, Oxford?’
‘I am,’ said the young man.
‘And what are your plans,’ asked Pugh in his gentlest voice, ‘when your time at Oxford is completed?’
‘I hope to be ordained as a priest of the Church of England, sir.’ Lucas gave his future profession with pride.
‘You are also, Mr Lucas,’ Pugh went on, ‘the godson of the defendant in this case, Mr Horace Aloysius Buckley. Perhaps you could tell the court about his visit to you on the afternoon of 9th November of this year, the day, I would just remind the members of the jury, that Thomas Jenkins was killed.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Paul Lucas composed himself. ‘My godfather called on me in my rooms at Keble somewhere around twenty past four in the afternoon. He said that he was going to attend Evensong in Christ Church. We had tea together. He left me at a quarter to five to walk to Christ Church. I remember the precise time because Mr Buckley said something like “Quarter to five, I should be on my way.”’
‘Thank you, Mr Lucas. One final question. You are absolutely sure of those times?’
‘Yes, sir, I am,’ said Paul Lucas firmly.
‘No further questions,’ said Pugh.
Sir Rufus had decided not to cross examine the Dean. But now he could see a very plausible alibi being established in front of the jury’s eyes. He rose slowly to his feet and moved into the attack.
‘Mr Lucas, could you tell the court how often your godfather comes to visit you in Oxford?’
‘He normally comes two or three times a term, sir.’ Paul Lucas was feeling slightly overwhelmed by his surroundings.
‘So what was the date when he came to see you on the previous occasion?’
Paul Lucas looked thoughtful. ‘It must have been sometime in October, I think.’
‘Sometime in October, but you cannot remember the precise date? Let us see what else you might be able to remember, Mr Lucas. Did your godfather send you money after his visit in November?’
Death of an Old Master Page 29
