Death of a Chancellor

by David Dickinson

  ‘I have not spoken to Gregory Williams for some weeks now, not since we met at a party in the Bishop’s Palace, to be precise.’

  Powerscourt found himself wondering briefly precisely what a party in the Bishop’s Palace might be like. Quizzes on the names of the Old Testament prophets? Or which came first in Egypt, the death of the first born or the plague of locusts? He pressed on. ‘Let me tell you, in confidence, if I may, the facts that have not been made public about this death.’ Powerscourt paused. ‘The body was actually found attached to the roasting spit in the kitchen of the Vicars Hall. There was a powerful fire burning. The body had been roasting in the flames for a number of hours, five or six probably, before it was discovered. Somebody killed the poor man and then roasted him as if were an ox or a stag or a deer. I do not need to tell you, doctor, the condition of the body when it was found.’

  ‘How terrible, how absolutely frightful,’ said the doctor. Even he, Powerscourt noticed, turned rather pale. ‘But why are you telling me all this?’

  Powerscourt was looking very sombre. ‘Let me be perfectly frank with you, Dr Blackstaff. I have to admit that there were certain inconsistencies, certain discrepancies, between your account of what happened on the night of John Eustace’s death and the account of the butler Andrew McKenna.’ Powerscourt had no intention of spelling out what the inconsistencies were. If he did, he suspected that the leaky vessel that was their story might be hastily repaired. Dr Blackstaff looked as if was about to speak, but Powerscourt held up his hand to stop him.

  ‘Please hear me out, doctor. And please make your own allowances for the tendency of my profession to be forever looking at the darkest sides of human nature. But suppose for a moment, if you will, that my employer’s suspicions are correct, that her brother was murdered. Now we have not one death but two. And in the case of the second one we know that there is a murderer on the loose with a macabre, not to say demented, method of killing his victims. Suppose the two deaths were linked in some way. Suppose that it was the same motive that led to the deaths of John Eustace and Arthur Rudd. And suppose that the murderer has not yet got what he wanted. Suppose there are going to be more victims in the days and weeks ahead, bodies discovered nailed to a cross on the Cathedral Green, maybe, or hanging in chains from the roof of the chapter house. I put it to you, Dr Blackstaff, that anybody in possession of any information that might be relevant to these inquiries should unburden themselves of it immediately. I put it to you that anybody in possession of such information who chooses to remain silent, may be contributing to another terrible death, or even deaths, in Compton and its surroundings. And I would remind you that any such information passed on to me would be treated in the strictest confidence.’ Powerscourt stopped for his words to sink in. Then he asked very quietly, ‘Is there anything you would like to tell me, Dr Blackstaff?’

  The doctor opened his mouth as if to speak. Later Powerscourt wondered if he had come within a second or two of telling him something. Then the doctor thought better of it. He went over to the sideboard and returned with his whisky decanter.

  ‘Let me refresh your glass, Powerscourt,’ he said, ‘and let me tell you that I have nothing further to add to my earlier account of the last night and day of my friend John Eustace. It may be that there are inconsistencies between my account and that of the butler. I would be surprised if there were not. At times of great strain people often find it difficult to recall things precisely. I have known patients – and this happens more frequently than you might think and not just with the old – who have forgotten most of what I tell them in my surgery before they reach their own front doors. I wish I could be of more assistance, I really do.’

  There was an extraordinary variety of equipment on show running down the hill with an equal variety of techniques on display for controlling them. Sleds, sledges, toboggans, some with ropes to steer them, some without, one-seaters, two-seaters, one enormous toboggan that looked as if it could hold four people. More snow had fallen overnight and the great hill at the front of Fairfield Park had become a paradise for the Powerscourt children. James Bell, the coachman, had introduced Thomas and Olivia to the sledges early that morning, making repairs where necessary, checking that the ropes were in good order. He had created one enormous length of rope which stretched from one of the great oak trees at the top all the way down the slope so the children could pull themselves back up to the summit again. He had organized them to build a snow wall round the ancient statue of Neptune, halfway down the run, in case they crashed into the stone plinth and knocked themselves out.

  Powerscourt and Lady Lucy were standing at the very top of the hill. From there the house itself was invisible. Only a third of the way down the twisting driveway did the rooftops begin to appear.

  ‘I’ve always wondered why they didn’t build the house up here in the first place, Lucy,’ said Powerscourt, rubbing his hands together to keep warm. ‘Just look at the view. You can see for miles.’ On a sunny day like this the view stretched for about forty miles over the snow-covered hills and the surrounding countryside.

  ‘Maybe it was the wind up here,’ said Lady Lucy taking her husband’s arm. ‘I think we should go part of the way down so we can see the bottom. The children are more likely to crash further down.’ There was a very loud shout of ‘Tally-ho!’ from halfway down the hill. Johnny Fitzgerald had narrowly missed the statue and was heading at considerable speed towards the giant snowman a hundred yards from the house.

  ‘Are you going to take a ride, Francis?’ asked Lucy, squeezing his arm.

  ‘I think I may have to,’ said her husband gloomily. ‘Thomas asked me if I was too old for it. I haven’t been in one of those things for years.’

  Powerscourt had been fascinated by the different approaches of his two children. Thomas, the elder, was cautious, proceeding with great care down the white slopes and veering off to the left or right if he thought he was going too fast. Only once, as far as Powerscourt could see, had he reached the bottom of the run. But Olivia was like a thing possessed. She climbed in, pointed her sledge towards the bottom, kicked herself up to a good speed and hurtled down the slope, screaming with delight as she went. Her father was sure he had heard her shouting ‘Faster, faster,’ at her sledge as she went.

  Johnny Fitzgerald was hauling himself back up the slope. ‘Francis,’ he said, ‘this is excellent sport. I thought I was going to crash into that bloody snowman just now.’

  ‘Can I ask you to do something for me, Johnny?’ said Powerscourt. ‘I want you to go down among the dead.’

  Tombstones, Francis? Opening up the graves in the Compton cemetery, is that what you want me to do?’

  Powerscourt smiled at his friend. ‘I don’t want you to turn into a grave robber, though it might just have its advantages.’ Powerscourt suspected that if he could just look inside the coffin of the late John Eustace, some of his problems might be solved. But he also knew that it would be almost impossible to secure an exhumation order. The Compton coroner was Dr Blackstaff’s brother and Powerscourt could not see the doctor agreeing to an exhumation. And, as Powerscourt remembered from a previous case, there was a section from the Burial Act of 1857 which stipulated that the Home Secretary had to give his consent to such an exhumation.

  ‘It’s the undertakers in Compton, Johnny, that’s where I want you to make some new friends. There must be a couple of labourers there who do most of the heavy work, lifting the bodies about, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Why do I always get such exciting jobs, Francis?’ said Johnny Fitzgerald, throwing a snowball at the passing figure of Olivia. ‘Wasn’t there anything more cheerful you could think of, making friends with the people in the morgue, perhaps? Rolling up sleeves with the staff at the local abattoir?’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll be able to cope, Johnny,’ said Powerscourt. He noticed that Master Thomas had finally plucked up enough courage to get to the bottom of the hill on his sledge. He was waving a small and very dirty fist in the
air in triumph. ‘They have very recently received the body of Arthur Rudd, the roasted vicar choral. They must have some pretty good stories to tell about him. But what I want to know about is the body of John Eustace, the one transported there at such speed if you recall. Maybe they’ve got some stories to tell about that one too. That’s what we’re after, Johnny.’

  ‘Very good, Francis,’ said Fitzgerald. ‘Maybe I’ll just take a turn or two down the hill before I go. I don’t suppose you managed to see if there’s a decent inn near the undertakers where a thirsty fellow might go after he’d finished packing the dead into their coffins?’

  Powerscourt laughed as his friend departed up the hill. ‘I think you’ll find it’s called the Stonemason’s Arms, Johnny. Good local beer.’ Then he saw that a deputation was coming his way. The two children were pulling their sledges up the hill towards him. Lady Lucy was with them, with a rather larger model. She was smiling at him. She knew what was coming.

  ‘Papa,’ said Thomas seriously.

  ‘Yes, Thomas,’ replied Powerscourt.

  ‘It’s time you took a ride in one of these sledges. You can’t just stand around in the snow talking to Johnny all the time. Mama has brought one for you.’

  ‘And it’s great fun,’ Olivia chimed in, ‘you can go really fast.’

  ‘Well, I’m not sure,’ said Powerscourt, looking down at the two faces beside him. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever done it before. We didn’t have much snow in Ireland when I was growing up, you know. It’s against the rules.’

  Thomas looked at him suspiciously. ‘That’s not true, Papa. There must be snow in Ireland.’

  ‘Course there’s snow in Ireland, Papa,’ said Olivia, who had no idea where Ireland actually was.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Powerscourt, moving on to a second line of defence, ‘I’m far too old for it. Didn’t you see the sign in the stables where the sledges are kept? People over thirty are forbidden to use these sledges, it said.’

  He looked down at his children with his most serious face.

  ‘That’s not true! You’re making it up,’ said Thomas defiantly.

  ‘You’re not too old at all, Papa,’ said Olivia. ‘You’re only sixty-five or whatever it is. That’s a lot less than thirty.’ Olivia had always been confused by big numbers. ‘Very well,’ said Powerscourt, ‘I give in. Lucy,’ he went on as the three of them began their ascent of the hill, ‘I hold you personally responsible for this. You will find my will in the bottom left-hand drawer of my desk in Markham Square.’

  The workmen found the body in the crypt late that afternoon. Ever since the archivist and the architect decided that the ancient crypt must be slightly larger than it appeared, they had been taking down a low wall at the eastern end of the structure. Once a section of the stones had been removed they could see that there was a space extending away from the main structure for about eight to ten feet. Closer inspection revealed a very ancient wooden coffin. Behind the coffin, as if concealed by it, was a small wooden box, about three feet square. Both were heavily covered with dust and mould.

  ‘Another bloody coffin,’ said William Bennett, the foreman in charge of operations. ‘That makes six we’ve found in the last ten years. I’d better tell the archivist and he can decide what to do with this one. I’ll bring him the box as well. Maybe it’s got buried treasure inside.’

  10

  ‘Soup,’ said Powerscourt. ‘I think I’ll have the soup, and then the lamb.’ He smiled at the waitress in the dining room of the Queen’s Head. ‘Will you join me in some wine, Mr Butler?’

  The newspaper editor and the investigator were seated at a corner table of the room. Behind them the snow was beginning to melt in the hotel gardens. A flock of sparrows were hopping busily among the bushes.

  ‘That would be very kind,’ said Patrick Butler, feeling rather grown up. He felt sure that the great newspaper editors and feature writers must often have lunch with distinguished people. Maybe he’d be entertaining cabinet ministers in ten years’ time. Powerscourt had already given the young man the details, in confidence, of some of his previous cases. He had also told him that he had been asked by the Bishop to look into the death of Arthur Rudd. Now he was scanning the wine list. A slight look of pain crossed his features as he surveyed the offerings of the Queen’s Head. He didn’t think Johnny Fitzgerald would approve of any of it. Then he found salvation hiding at the bottom of the page.

  ‘Nuits St Georges, please,’ he said, smiling again at the waitress. ‘That should warm us up on a day like this.’

  ‘Mr Butler,’ he turned to his companion, ‘I need to ask you for some assistance.’ Flattery, he felt, would not do any harm at all. ‘I am a stranger here in Compton. A man in your position must know everything that goes on here.’

  ‘I have to tell you, Lord Powerscourt,’ said Patrick Butler, still slightly overawed, ‘that I have not been here very long, only about nine months or so. But I’d be only too pleased to help in any way I can.’

  Two enormous plates of the Queen’s Head’s finest country vegetable soup were laid before them. The bottle of red wine was placed carefully in the centre of the table so they could help themselves.

  ‘Let me ask you about the cathedral, if I may, Mr Butler. Are there any secrets up there? Any feuds? Any of those long-running disputes about ritual and vestments and so on that have caused such trouble in recent years?’

  Patrick Butler was eating his soup very quickly. ‘They say, Lord Powerscourt, that there is only one insoluble mystery up at the cathedral.’

  ‘And what might that be?’ said Powerscourt, leaning forward to refill the young man’s glass.

  ‘Where does the Archdeacon go on Thursdays?’ said Patrick with a laugh. ‘Sorry to be flippant, Lord Powerscourt, but that is what most people in Compton would tell you. It’s become a sort of running joke in the community. Every Thursday Archdeacon Beaumont leaves Compton on an early train. He says he is going to visit the outlying parishes in the diocese. But there are never any reports of him being seen in any of these places. He usually returns in time for Evensong up at the cathedral.’

  ‘And what,’ said Powerscourt, tucking into his lamb, munificently adorned with gravy and mint sauce, ‘does informed opinion in Compton say is going on?’

  ‘I don’t need to tell you, Lord Powerscourt, that gossip can be quite frightful in a little place like this. The least popular theory is that the Archdeacon has another job on Thursdays, teaching Hebrew or Greek in a school or college, maybe, because he needs the money. The second is that he keeps a married woman hidden away somewhere in the country and goes to see her every Thursday. The most salacious rumour – none of these, needless to say, have any foundation in fact – is that the Archdeacon goes to visit the prostitutes of Exeter.’

  Patrick Butler took another sip of his Nuits St Georges. Outside one of the waitresses was throwing the rejected bread on to the grass. A battalion of sparrows were circling overhead.

  ‘Forgive me, Lord Powerscourt, for giving you a totally useless piece of information. It’s not something I would ever consider publishing in the Grafton Mercury.’ Butler paused to dissect an enormous roast potato. ‘You ask about secrets and feuds and obscure theological disputes. I have no other cathedral to compare it with, so I cannot say how typical our situation here is. There is a certain amount of friction between the Dean and the Bishop. That is well known, but I think it’s only the mutual irritation that could arise between one man whose chief bent is efficiency and proper administration and another whose main interest is in scholarship.’

  Powerscourt was impressed with the maturity of the judgement. He was beginning to take to Patrick Butler.

  ‘I don’t think there are any real feuds or vendettas up there in the Cathedral Close,’ he went on, ‘not like some of those you hear of elsewhere. Maybe that’s the curious thing. You see, Lord Powerscourt, I have quite a lot of dealings with the members of the Chapter in one way and another. They always seem to me to be a bit
enclosed, locked up in their own world. Maybe they are all really close to God and that sets them apart.’

  ‘Army regiments can be a bit like that,’ said Powerscourt, ‘they can seem closed off to outsiders. But then they’re more concerned with killing people on this earth than saving their souls for the next one. Tell me,’ he went on, ‘leaving aside the possible position of the Archdeacon on Thursdays, are there any emotional entanglements in the Close that might lead to murder? I thought when I heard of the death of Arthur Rudd that jealousy might have been the motive.’

  ‘Do you know the full story of his death, Lord Powerscourt? Do you know all the details?’ The young man placed a heavy emphasis on the word all. Powerscourt knew full well that Patrick Butler had been taken by the doctor to view the corpse in person. He had, after all, suggested it himself.

  ‘I do, I’m afraid,’ Powerscourt said. ‘and I’d be curious to know why you didn’t print it in your newspaper.’

  ‘I wanted to, I wanted to print it very much,’ said Patrick Butler sadly, ‘but then I thought it would upset a lot of people, especially the women. I’m sure at least as many women as men read the Grafton Mercury. If we really turned their stomachs then they might stop buying the paper. It was pure self-interest in the end, however much I regretted it.’

  The main course had been cleared away. An enormous trolley appeared, filled with equally enormous puddings. There were apple pies fit for a giant, monstrous edifices of fruit and custard and cream disguised as strawberry trifles, lemon meringue tarts. Patrick Butler opted for Goliath’s apple pie, Powerscourt asked for a small, David-sized helping of the lemon meringue.

  ‘To get back to any emotional entanglements on the Close, Mr Butler, if I may. Deans and archdeacons, forgive me for saying so, can be as liable to the attractions of other people’s wives as everybody else.’

  Patrick Butler was looking thoughtful. ‘I don’t think there are,’ he said, ‘and I’ve just realized something I hadn’t noticed before. I checked out Arthur Rudd, by the way. None of his colleagues knew of any emotional involvements anywhere at all, or if they did, they weren’t telling me. But it’s quite odd, Lord Powerscourt. The main reason I don’t think affairs of the heart can have anything to do with it is that there are hardly any women up there. The Bishop isn’t married. The Dean isn’t married. The Precentor isn’t married. Chancellor Eustace wasn’t married. I don’t think any of the vicars choral are married, not that you could afford to have a wife and family on their wages. Oh, there are housekeepers and so on but hardly any wives.’