‘Oh yes. It seems odd now, but that Abel Meredith, Number Twenty, was shouting at Number Four, “if you call me a coward once more, I’m bloody well going to kill you, so I am.”’
‘Wrong way round,’ said Johnny
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Well, it wasn’t Number Twenty who did the killing. He was the victim, wasn’t he? What happened then?’
‘What happened then?’ Number Two, Freddy Butcher, who had been making his way pretty steadily down the second bottle, sounded suddenly as though the drink might have got the better of him. Then he seemed to get a second wind, cheered on by another large draught of the Pomerol. ‘Well, Warden Monk came out of his office wearing his best blue cravat and told them to shut up. He said that if there were any more rows like that, he would have them thrown out of the hospital, dumped outside the front door with their belongings in a paper bag. He sounded as though he meant it too.’
‘How very interesting,’ said Johnny. ‘Did Warden Monk also tell you all not to mention the row to the police or anybody else?’
‘How did you know that? He did, as a matter of fact. He said that anybody who told the police would also be thrown out, dumped by the front gate and the rest of it, complete with possessions in a paper bag. It’s a pretty powerful threat, Johnny. Most of us don’t have anywhere else to go. That’s why we ended up in the Jesus Hospital in the first place.’
‘And nobody knows any more about what they were arguing about?’
‘No. You know what it’s like in these places, Johnny. If anybody heard any more detail, every single person in the hospital would have known all about it before you could brew a cup of tea.’
When Johnny had seen his guest off the premises after a large helping of apple pie and a glass of calvados, he took a taxi to Maidenhead police station. He thought Inspector Fletcher would be keen to hear his news.
Powerscourt left the knobkerries with the doctor at the Maidenhead Hospital who had examined Abel Meredith, with a request that he telephone Powerscourt as soon as he had reached a decision. There was something at the back of his mind that he couldn’t quite retrieve, something he thought was important. He tried to remember which of the three murders it concerned. Not the Jesus Hospital, he felt sure. Not the murder in the Silkworkers Hall. It had to be something to do with Roderick Gill up at Fakenham. But what? With the boys running up and down the corridor? With Blackbeard himself, sidling into Gill’s office and killing him? With Gill’s papers in their box files lined up by the wall? Hold on a minute. It certainly had to do with Gill and with Gill’s maths teacher friend whose name he could not for the moment remember, but who had told him as they patrolled the school grounds that Gill had been frightened of something in the days before he died. The teacher had never discovered what had frightened him, but the merry widow, who regularly entertained her friend from the church, might know. Powerscourt grabbed his coat and fled into Markham Square, looking for a taxi to take him to Liverpool Street Station and north to Fakenham.
‘Did you say your name was Lord Francis Powerscourt? And that you are an investigator with our policemen?’ Mrs Maud Lewis was inspecting her visitor from London as if he might just have landed in an extraterrestrial vehicle on the edge of her garden.
‘I did, Mrs Lewis.’
‘And are you really a lord? I mean Lord isn’t just some unusual Christian name your parents gave you when you were born?’
‘I’m a real lord, I’m afraid, Mrs Lewis. But I’m what’s called an Irish peer because the family estates were there. I don’t have the right to sit in the House of Lords. Just as well probably, with all the trouble up there at the moment.’
‘Goodness me, how very exciting. I don’t think I’ve ever had a lord, even one who couldn’t sit in the House of Lords, in my humble abode before! And we never had anybody like that in the house when we lived near Birmingham. I don’t think they do lords in Birmingham. Lord Powerscourt, should I call you Lord Powerscourt or Powerscourt or just Lord?’
‘Lord Powerscourt would be fine, Mrs Lewis, don’t worry about it.’ By this stage they had reached the drawing room, with a fire and a couple of dogs asleep on the hearth. Mrs Lewis showed Powerscourt into a chair on the left of the fire.
‘That’s where dear Roderick used to sit, in that very chair. He never sat anywhere else. Such a lot of trouble everybody seems to be having trying to find the murderer.’ Mrs Lewis produced a deep blue handkerchief and began to dab at her eyes. Powerscourt began to fear for the worst.
‘That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, Mrs Lewis.’
‘About the chair where dear Roderick used to sit?’
‘Not exactly,’ said Powerscourt, ‘more about his state of mind in the weeks leading up to his death.’
‘Forgive me for interrupting, Lord Powerscourt, but I normally partake of a little refreshment at this time of day. Sherry, sweet sherry, naturally. Could I interest you in a glass?’
Powerscourt wondered suddenly if she and the late Roderick Gill spent their evenings taking refreshment of one sort or another.
‘That’s very kind, but no thanks.’
Mrs Lewis made her way to a drinks cabinet by the window and came back clutching what looked to Powerscourt to be one of the largest sherry glasses he had ever seen. She settled back into her chair and beamed at her visitor.
‘Sorry, Lord Powerscourt, for the interruption. Horace – he was my first – used to say I was incapable of sitting still for any length of time. Forgive me. You were saying about Roderick?’
‘I was wondering about his state of mind in the weeks before his death, actually, Mrs Lewis. Whether he was upset or depressed, that sort of thing.’
‘That’s a very good question, Lord Powerscourt. He was, I’m not sure if I would call it depressed, he was certainly upset. A woman can usually tell these things, particularly with their loved ones. I thought it had something to do with the church accounts actually, he’d been worried about those in the past. But it wasn’t, it was something even more serious.’
‘What was it, Mrs Lewis? Did he tell you?’
‘Well, at first I thought it had to do with that other woman he used to consort with, the one married to the stonemason who’s disappeared. I saw her looking at my Roderick in church one Sunday and it was so brazen you couldn’t believe it. You could not believe it. She was practically lying down on the ground in front of him. But it wasn’t that, or I don’t think it was that.’
Powerscourt thought Mrs Lewis must have some pretty good intelligence sources if she knew all about the other woman. He was beginning to see what Horace, her first, meant when he said that she was incapable of sitting still. It wasn’t so much a physical sitting still, but a mental one.
‘So what was it, Mrs Lewis?’
There was an uncharacteristic pause. For a second Powerscourt wondered if the woman might be ill.
‘I’m trying to remember exactly what Roderick said, Lord Powerscourt. I think there was a letter that caused the problem. It came from so long ago, he told me, that he had virtually forgotten about it. And that was all he said. He tried to keep up his spirits. He talked of going away for a while but he wasn’t definite. I could never work out if I was included in his plans for going away and so on but I never got an answer, not a satisfactory one anyway. It was all very strange.’
‘Did he show you the letter? Were you able to read it?’
Mrs Lewis shook her head sadly. ‘I never saw it.’ Powerscourt wondered about the collection of files and written material all over Roderick Gill’s office at the school. He hoped they had not been disturbed. He wondered about the papers that had been burnt.
‘Do you keep a diary at all, Mrs Lewis? I wonder if that might jog your memory.’
‘How very clever of you, Lord Powerscourt. I do have a diary. I’ll just go and fetch it from the morning room.’
Powerscourt wondered how to proceed in the affair of the diary. Should he ask if he could take it away, as an impo
rtant piece of evidence to be returned later? Or should he ask her to read the relevant excerpts?
They were pink, the diaries, two of them, each with a great bow on the front. ‘Here we are, Lord Powerscourt. I thought you should have last year’s as well. How nice to think that one’s diaries are an important piece of evidence in a murder trial! You will let me have them back, won’t you? Will you change your mind about that glass of sweet sherry now?’
Powerscourt arranged with the headmaster’s office that he could come to inspect Gill’s papers first thing the following morning. He arranged to see Inspector Grime in an hour. He proposed to fill in the time with an inspection of the pink diaries and their contents in his hotel room. He decided his life would not be the poorer if he omitted all the entries before the entry of Roderick Gill.
Sunday, 19th September. Went to church this morning. First visit to morning service in Fakenham! Was welcomed afterwards by a most charming man called Roderick Gill, bursar at the school. He was most attentive! Also met vicar, nondescript little man who preached a dreary sermon, and his mouse of a wife.
Sunday, 3rd October, church, matins. Talked again to Mr Gill who is taking a most Christian interest in my settling down in Fakenham. Has asked me to meet him in the church for another chat on Wednesday afternoon. He has to do things with the money for the vicar. How kind, seeing he does all that already for the school!
Powerscourt wondered what the secret of Roderick Gill’s success with women might be. He suspected he flattered them, he made them feel better about themselves so they thought better of him.
Wednesday, 6th October, called on Mr Gill at the church. He bought me tea and a slice of cake at that café by the square! My new neighbours invited me to tea. Quite pleasant, except we finished at six thirty and not a drop of drink was offered! Maybe they’re too poor. House poky, so-called dining room so small you couldn’t swing a cat. I should be ashamed to be offering hospitality in such a place. Maybe they’re too poor for that too! Oh dear, hope I’m not being uncharitable to my new neighbours!
Sunday, 24th October, met that nice Mr Gill at church again. Vicar’s wife has excelled herself this morning, wearing a pink creation with frills that was most unsuitable. Have asked Mr Gill to dinner a week on Thursday! He says he’ll come!
He’s off the mark now, Powerscourt said to himself. I wonder if she knows what she’s getting herself into. He skimmed some more dates and found an interesting entry.
Thursday, 4th November, Roderick came to supper! He brought me a bottle of wine and some perfume from Norwich! I hope he thinks I made it worth his while!!!
There were a number of further entries about his visits with triple exclamation marks. And in one case, four.
Saturday, 25th December, 1909, what joy! What happiness! That this should happen to me! Dear Roderick has asked me to be his wife! After the midnight carol service yesterday! And I have said Yes!!!!
Powerscourt flicked on to the days before Gill’s death in the diary.
Friday, 14th Jan. Dear Roderick has not been himself today. He has been withdrawn and rather uncommunicative. Naturally I tried my best to fill in the gaps in the conversation. He will not say what the trouble is. I hope he is not sickening for something.
Sunday, 16th Jan. For the third day running, dear Roderick has not been himself. He tried to laugh everything off but I can tell he is not himself. The boys came and were most unpleasant about Roderick, saying he was just a bounty hunter and other horrid things. I shall leave my money where I want to. They’ve got plenty of it anyway.
Monday, 17th Jan. Boys gone back to London. Dear Roderick still not well. Jumpy, staring out into the garden as if he thinks there’s somebody hiding there. He’s talking of going away for a while and it’s not clear whether I am to be a member of the party or not. Don’t suppose he’s been canoodling with that stonemason woman again. Or has he? Said hello to the vicar in the town this morning. He’s got a hole in his trousers, right where his knees are meant to be.
Friday, 21st January. At last managed to get sense out of Roderick. It’s something from his past, he says, something so long ago that he can hardly remember it. He won’t tell me what it is. But he says there might be some unpleasantness, that’s why he might go away on his own. He doesn’t want me to be upset, he says. I think that’s very gallant of him, to save me from unpleasantness. Had another cup of tea with the neighbours this afternoon. They can’t even serve proper tea over there, their stuff tasted like warmed-up soap.
Some unpleasantness, Powerscourt thought, I’ll say there was some unpleasantness, enough unpleasantness to kill him. Not long to go now.
Sunday, 23rd January. To church for matins. Roderick very jumpy on the way, peering round corners as if he were some sort of hunting dog. Vicar preached a sermon on the text of it being easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God. And he said the definition of rich was any person who had so much money they didn’t have to work! Idlers and wastrels, he called them, the wretched vicar. That means me! Denounced from the pulpit of my own church to which I give generously out of the kindness of my heart! I shall write a stiff letter to the vicar when I have calmed down.
Monday, 24th January. Poor Roderick still very worried. The headmaster’s wife, he says, has called him in to see if she can offer any help. That means the headmaster must be worried about him too. He says the wife is a very superior sort of person. Well, she may seem like that to him, Vera Staunton. The vicar’s wife told me of the times when her family hadn’t two pennies to rub together and lived in a one-bedroom railwayman’s cottage by the side of the train tracks.
Roderick has to go to a late meeting at the school. He is very worried when he comes back, not so much about himself now but about the future of the school. He says there is a plot by some wicked man from London to take away all the money that comes from the Silkworkers. Roderick is in despair.
25th Jan. Some wicked person has killed Roderick at the school this morning. I cannot write any more.
Powerscourt put down the second volume of diaries, most of whose pages were still awaiting further entries. He felt he would be intruding on private grief if he read any more. Just before he went to meet Inspector Grime he asked the hotel reception if they could put him through to his home telephone number. Rhys, the Powerscourt butler-cum-chauffeur, greeted him in his normal telephone manner, that of one welcoming a colleague back from the dead, and put Lady Lucy on the line.
‘Francis,’ she said, ‘how good to talk to you. Listen, there’s been a development. The doctor in Maidenhead called about half an hour ago. He’s going to get a second opinion tomorrow, but he’s virtually certain that a knobkerrie, similar to the ones you sent him, was the weapon used to make those marks on the dead men’s chests.’
‘Did he really, Lucy? Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum. That’s very interesting, very interesting indeed.’
18
Powerscourt felt cheerful as he sat down for an early evening drink with Inspector Grime. He hadn’t found the actual murder weapon but he knew now what had caused the marks on the dead men’s chests. He could suggest that there might be some sort of a link between a battle in Africa thirty-one years previously and the deaths of three people in southern England, all members of the Silkworkers Company. He would have been the first to admit that he had, at present, no clue at all about the possible links between the battle, the knobkerrie and the livery company but there were many avenues left to explore.
Inspector Grime listened to Powerscourt’s ideas with little enthusiasm. He had never put much faith in the theory that the marks were the key to the investigation. Now he felt they were all going to be dragged down an alleyway with little hope of success. He didn’t mention any of his misgivings but Powerscourt felt them emerging from Grime’s body language and general suspicions like a hand signal.
‘I suppose we’ll have to go through all those papers again, the ones in his room and his office.�
� Grime sounded even more melancholy than usual this evening.
‘I’m afraid so,’ said Powerscourt. ‘I could do it on my own, you know, if you’ve got better things to do.’
‘That’s kind of you, my lord, but the fact is that the investigation up here is stalled. We still haven’t found the stonemason, but he’s due to report back to York Minster any day now.’
‘What happened about the two Lewis boys and their lies about the chess match?’
This time, Powerscourt thought, Inspector Grime definitely cheered up. ‘It was only when I threatened to tell their mother what was going on that I got the truth out of them. I said I was going to inform Mrs Lewis that her sons had been arrested in a homosexual brothel. You remember Sir Peregrine and his masseuse in that hotel on the Thames? Well, it seems that something similar was going on in Montague Lewis’s house. They were entertaining a former servant girl of theirs called Nellie and her friend Matilda. They eventually admitted that the discussions were horizontal rather than vertical, if you follow me. The girls confirmed it, though they refused to say if they had been paid which makes me suspect that they probably were. But we couldn’t hold on to them for that. The stonemason is hot favourite now, unless, of course, we find out more about this letter that frightened the bursar.’
That night Powerscourt had a strange dream. He was alone, in military uniform, in some vast open country he did not recognize. From his time with Military Intelligence he thought it might be South Africa. About a hundred yards behind him were a group of about fifty native warriors. They were dressed for combat wearing only their loincloths. Their bodies glistened in the sunlight. In one hand, he saw, they were carrying assegais, the deadly spears they used to stab their opponents to death at close quarters. They were singing some terrible battle cry which throbbed and throbbed until you felt it might be about to enter your bloodstream. Every now and then one of the warriors would raise his spear and utter some blood-curdling war cry. Powerscourt’s companions seemed to have melted away. Perhaps they had already been picked off and were lying on the harsh ground waiting for the vultures. He had two loaded pistols in his jacket, each with six rounds. He doubted if he would be able to find the time to reload once they were upon him. He would be surrounded, stabbed to death in a country a long way from home. When the war cries sounded again, closer this time, much closer, he woke up.
Death at the Jesus Hospital Page 27
