Death and the Jubilee

25

It was almost four o’clock by the time Sophie Williams reached the City. She had called again on Richard’s mother. No, he still had not come back. He’s probably dead by now, Mrs Martin assured Sophie, wiping her eyes.

Cheapside, that’s where the bank was. Richard had brought her for a walk round the City one Sunday afternoon when the place was deserted, the streets quiet, the coffee houses closed. Sophie summoned up her courage in this alien world and spoke to the commissionaire on duty at the entrance to Harrison’s Bank.

‘I’m so sorry to disturb you. Could I have a quick word with Mr Richard Martin, please?’

The commissionaire looked at her gravely. She makes a change from all those rude young men delivering messages and skylarking about in the streets, he thought.

‘He works here,’ Sophie added, looking up at the sentinel of the banking hall within.

‘He did work here, miss. Until yesterday that is. We haven’t seen him at all this week, not yesterday, not today. We thought he must be ill. He is ill, isn’t he?’

The commissionaire looked worried suddenly. Richard Martin was a well-respected young man. He was always polite to commissionaires, he didn’t give himself airs like so many of these arrogant young pups they got nowadays from the public schools.

‘I don’t know if he is ill or not,’ said Sophie. ‘We thought he might have been working late at the bank and had to stay over.’

‘Bless you, miss,’ said the commissionaire kindly, ‘there’s no likelihood of anyone working late here at the moment. The place is as quiet as the grave. Sorry I can’t help you, miss. I expect he’ll turn up. Maybe he went out with some of his friends and fell ill that way.’

Sophie looked at him coldly. Richard was not likely to go out on the town with friends and get so drunk he couldn’t go to work the next day. That was not Richard’s style at all.

‘Thank you so much for your help,’ said Sophie firmly. ‘I shall continue my inquiries elsewhere.’

Quite where elsewhere was going to be Sophie had no idea. She moved away down Poultry towards the Royal Exchange. What was the name of Richard’s friend, the one who took them to the cricket match? James Clarke, that was it. And what was the name of his governor, the nice middle-aged gentleman who had looked after them at lunch? Broad? Bucknall? Broughton? Was it Broughton? No, it wasn’t, she said to herself triumphantly, it was Burke, Mr Burke of the London and Provincial Bank. She looked around at the nameplates that surrounded her. There were so many banks here, foreign ones, American ones, German ones, British ones. How was she to find the London and Provincial?

She decided to ask one of the doorkeepers at the Bank of England, resplendent in their top hats and frock coats, guardians of the guardian of the City’s wealth.

‘London and Provincial?’ said the man. ‘I’m afraid there are three or four of those around here, miss. Do you happen to know which one, or does that not matter? The nearest is just round the corner. Or is there a particular person you wish to see?’

‘Mr Burke,’ said Sophie firmly.

‘Mr Burke, Mr William Burke?’ said the man.

‘Yes, that’s him,’ Sophie nodded.

‘Why didn’t you say, miss? Mr Burke is to be found at the Head Office in Lombard Street, just over there.’

Powerscourt had just sat down in Burke’s office when the porter knocked on the door.

‘There’s a young lady here asking to see you, sir. She says she’s a friend of Mr Clarke and that she met you at a cricket match last Saturday, sir.’

Very faintly, behind the deference, Powerscourt thought the porter detected a whiff of scandal. A pretty girl meets Mr Burke on Saturday, then she turns up at the office on the Tuesday. Who could tell what might have been going on, what demands for money might now be forthcoming.

‘What’s her name, man? What’s her name?’ said Burke testily. He too had sensed the suspicion in the porter’s eyes.

‘Miss Williams, sir. Miss Sophie Williams. A very pretty young woman, sir.’ The porter sounded as if he was congratulating William Burke on his choice.

‘Show her up. And ask Mr James Clarke to step this way if you would. At once. The porter left. Bloody man thinks I’ve been up to no good with young Miss Williams,’ said Burke angrily.

‘Why has she come here, William?’ said Powerscourt softly. ‘She works as a schoolteacher, doesn’t she? What business has she got in the City? Unless, unless . . .’ A terrible thought struck Powerscourt. He remembered Burke’s shouted instructions to Sophie Williams’ friend to come and see him on Monday morning, a scowling Charles Harrison listening among the trees. What had happened to Richard Martin? Visions of another body flashed across his mind, this one only twenty-two years old.

‘William,’ he said quickly, ‘that young man, the one at the cricket match. Did he come to see you yesterday morning?’

‘He did not,’ said Burke, looking uneasy. There was a knock at the door.

‘Miss Williams, Mr Clarke, do come in. Please sit down. How can I help you?’ Burke smiled a cheerful smile.

Sophie Williams didn’t quite know how to put it. She stumbled into her story.

‘It’s Richard, sir, Richard Martin. He works at Harrison’s Bank. You met him at the cricket match.’ She stopped, gazing helplessly at the two older men in the room. ‘Last night he didn’t come home. He lives very close to me. Usually we see each other when he takes the neighbour’s dog for a walk. I checked again with his mother this morning. He still hadn’t come home. And when I checked at Harrison’s Bank just now, they said they hadn’t seen him yesterday or today. He’s disappeared.’

She began to cry, very quietly, tears dropping on to her dress.

‘Here,’ said Burke quickly, offering her an enormous handkerchief. ‘Try to compose yourself, Miss Williams. I’ll order some tea. This is terrible news.’

Powerscourt waited. James Clarke made consoling noises. Burke poured the tea.

‘Forgive me, Miss Williams,’ said Powerscourt, ‘please forgive me if I ask you some questions. I am an investigator. I am currently looking into the strange death of Old Mr Harrison, the man found floating in the Thames by London Bridge.’

Sophie looked terrified. Was her Richard also going to be killed and floated down the Thames? She looked as though the tears were about to start again.

‘Do not be alarmed, Miss Williams. I am sure nothing untoward has happened to Richard.’ William Burke was using his most emollient voice, the one he used for angry shareholders. ‘Lord Powerscourt is one of the finest investigators in the land. He is also my brother-in-law. I am sure he has no wish to frighten you.’

Burke looked meaningfully at Powerscourt. He hoped the domestic detail might help reassure the girl.

‘Could I ask you, Miss Williams,’ said Powerscourt, ‘if Richard talked to you at all about Harrison’s Bank? Friends often talk to each other about the details of their daily lives.’

‘Well, he did. He did, a little. He was always very circumspect.’ Sophie looked defensively at the two bankers who surrounded her.

‘Goodness me, Miss Williams,’ said James Clarke, ‘we’re all meant to keep things in confidence, but that doesn’t really apply to close friends and family.’

‘When he told you a little, Miss Williams,’ Powerscourt smiled at the girl, ‘can you remember what it was? A little can go a long way sometimes.’

There was a pause. James Clarke was admiring Sophie’s eyes. He had been very taken with them at the cricket match. Burke was pouring more tea. Powerscourt dropped a biscuit on the floor.

‘Richard’s been worried about what was happening at the bank for quite a long time,’ Sophie began.

‘How long a time would that be?’ said Powerscourt. ‘Weeks, or months?’

‘Months, I think. At first he wouldn’t give any details, he had to keep things confidential. Then, fairly recently, he said something quite important. I mean, I think now it may be important, but I didn’t then.’

She stopped and drank some tea.

‘We’d been out walking the next-door neighbour’s dog. Rufus, it’s called. Richard said it was the money. He said that most of the time in a bank money goes in and money goes out. But that at Harrison’s it was only going out. Richard said that in a couple of months’ time the bank wouldn’t have any money left. He seemed to think that you couldn’t have a bank with no money.’

Sophie looked at William Burke. ‘Can you have a bank with no money, Mr Burke? Can you? Or was Richard right?’

‘I fear Richard was right, Miss Williams,’ said Burke, frowning at such irregularities in banking custom. ‘You can’t have a bank with no money. It wouldn’t be a bank any more. It’s a contradiction in terms.’

‘Did Richard mention any changes that had taken place?’ Powerscourt spoke very gently. He thought he knew the answer. And if the answer was what he expected, then, at last, he might have the whole mystery in his hands. But he knew that almost everybody would say he was mad.

‘He did, Lord Powerscourt. How clever of you to know about it. He said that new people had come in and changed all the counting systems, the accounting systems, I’m not sure which.’

‘Did he say where they were from? From another bank in the City perhaps?’

Sophie Williams frowned. ‘I’m sure he said something about that. But for the moment I can’t just remember what it was.’

She closed her eyes, recreating the walk with Richard and Rufus the dog. Burke saw that Powerscourt was on tenterhooks for the reply. Nobody spoke.

‘That’s it,’ she said finally. ‘He said a new man had come in from Germany to change the counting or the accounting systems.’

‘You’re sure it was from Germany?’ Powerscourt was almost whispering.

‘I’m certain of it,’ said Sophie Williams, ‘absolutely certain.’

William Burke was watching Powerscourt very carefully. A very slight smile crossed his features.

‘Is that all you can remember of what Richard said, Miss Williams? Nothing more?’

‘That’s all I can remember for now,’ said Sophie sadly. ‘I know it isn’t very much. I can’t see how it’s going to help in finding him. You don’t think, Lord Powerscourt,’ she looked him full in the face, her bright blue eyes fearful of the future, ‘you don’t think he’s dead, do you?’

‘No, I don’t think so. Certainly not.’ Powerscourt wished he was as sure as he sounded. ‘Now then, there is something you can do to help us find him. As it happens I am on my way to see the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police on other business. It’s not every day, I assure you, that I travel between Mr Burke’s bank and the police headquarters, but this is such a day. If you would like to write a description of Richard, height, colour of hair, colour of eyes, what he might have been wearing going to work on Monday morning, I shall take it directly to the police.’ Powerscourt handed her a sheet of the bank’s best writing paper. He took a further three sheets himself and began writing furiously.

‘William, perhaps you could ask one of your people to take this one to Johnny Fitzgerald. This one is for Lady Lucy. Ah, Miss Williams, you have finished your description, I see. Thank you so much.’

‘Miss Williams,’ Burke was organizing the despatch of Powerscourt’s mail, ‘could I make a suggestion? Perhaps our Mr Clarke here could take you home. You must be exhausted after such a day. And thank you so much for coming to see us. Please tell Richard’s mother if you should see her that everything possible is being done to find him.’

James Clarke looked pleased with his late afternoon assignment. They heard him asking Sophie if she would like to see round the bank while she was there, if she had time, of course.

‘What about your third letter there, Francis? Where do you want that to go?’ Powerscourt looked grave. ‘This one is for you, William. If I am right, when we have the answers, we may have solved the entire mystery. God knows where you will have to go to find the information, but we must have it by tomorrow morning.’

Burke read the letter. Then he read it again. He stared at Powerscourt as if he had just arrived from another planet.

‘Francis,’ he spluttered, ‘you can’t be serious. This is monstrous, monstrous. I’ve never heard anything so terrible in my life. It can’t be true. Here in the City of London.’

‘I’m sure that stranger things have happened here before now, William. And it is possible, isn’t it?’

‘I suppose it’s possible,’ said Burke, reading his letter once more. ‘But it’s monstrous. Quite monstrous.’

‘Lord Powerscourt, I owe you an apology. I am so very sorry.’

The Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police had removed the four maps of London from his walls. Powerscourt wondered if crime had temporarily ceased and the righteous had finally inherited the earth. In their place was an enormous map of the route of Queen Victoria’s procession from Buckingham Palace to St Paul’s, crosses and circles marking the disposition of his forces.

‘I’m sure you don’t owe me an apology at all, Commissioner,’ said Powerscourt politely.

‘Oh, but I do. First of all we failed to prevent the death of that man Williamson. Now this. It’s this wretched Jubilee, you see.’ He nodded at his great map. ‘We’re very hard pressed for staff. We’re bringing officers in from all over the Home Counties. If you want to commit a crime on Jubilee Day, Lord Powerscourt, don’t come to London. Go to Weybridge or Reading or Bedford, there won’t be any police left there at all.

‘The reason for my apology is that one of my assistants took away the men watching one of your suspects, a Mr Charles Harrison. I only found out an hour ago. I am terribly sorry.’

‘You mean,’ said Powerscourt anxiously, ‘you mean that there’s nobody watching him at all?’

‘I’m afraid so,’ said the Commissioner. ‘Is that serious?’

‘I’m afraid it is very serious. Very serious indeed.’

Powerscourt looked back at the map. He noticed that there were times of arrival marked on all the key points of the journey, very precisely, as if it were a railway timetable. The military must have gone over the route over and over again, each detachment knowing it had exactly seven minutes to get to Piccadilly or Temple Bar.

‘How can I make amends, Lord Powerscourt?’ said the Commissioner. Powerscourt still stared at the map.

‘I cannot be sure, but I believe Mr Charles Harrison may be about to leave the country. Indeed he may have already gone, but I do not think so. He will probably try to leave four or five days before the Jubilee Day itself. Could you keep an eye out for him and detain him if you find him?’

‘Of course we could,’ said the Commissioner. ‘Do you know where he will be travelling to? And what should we charge him with?’

Powerscourt laughed. The Commissioner wondered if he was beginning to crack under the strain.

‘Forgive me, Commissioner. I think you will find he is travelling to Germany. By rail, probably, maybe by boat. Officially you could say that the police wish to question him further about the fire at Blackwater. Unofficially – let me ask you this, Commissioner. Do you have many officers working on possible terrorist threats during the Jubilee?’

‘We most certainly do, Lord Powerscourt.’

‘Well, if I am right,’ said Powerscourt grimly, ‘and I will only know the answer in the morning, Mr Charles Harrison has placed a time bomb under the City of London. It’s been in preparation for a very long time. We’ve got less than a week to find it. Only it’s not a real bomb, Commissioner. It’s a bomb made of money and it could blow the City to smithereens.’

Powerscourt and Johnny Fitzgerald were alone in their compartment as the train drew out of Paddington. The light was fading fast when they reached Wallingford station. Powerscourt explained to Johnny on the final stages of their journey what he thought was going on.

‘It’s as if this German secret society, or Charles Harrison and the secret society, is launching two series of attacks on the Jubilee,’ he said, staring out at the colours draining from the passing landscape. ‘They provide money and weapons for the Irish to take a shot at somebody on the day of the great parade. Maybe somebody in Dublin, maybe even the Queen Empress herself. And then there’s the other half.’

He told Fitzgerald what he had written in his note to William Burke that afternoon.

‘Is that possible, Francis? Are you sure?’ Johnny Fitzgerald sounded doubtful.

‘We should know the answer in the morning, Johnny,’ said Powerscourt. ‘I’m glad to see you’ve brought your burglar’s kit along. You don’t need a gun. I’ve got one.’ Powerscourt patted his coat pocket. He had borrowed the gun from the Commissioner’s people before he left the office.

Now they were walking the mile and a half from Wallingford station to Blackwater House. Powerscourt had hurried Fitzgerald out of the side entrance to the station, avoiding the couple of cabs left on duty. Soon they were deep in the country, trees lining the little road. There were thin clouds overhead, parting from time to time to reveal a very bright moon.

‘Let me just give you the key features of the people who live in Blackwater House where we are going, Johnny. Life expectancy in the House of Harrison has not been good recently. Old Mr Harrison, as you know, found floating by London Bridge with his head cut off. Before that, his son, Wilhelm or Willi Harrison, drowned in a boating accident. The other son, Frederick, Friedrich if you prefer, burnt to a cinder in the blaze at Blackwater House. Man now in charge of the show, Charles Harrison, nephew of Wilhelm. Are you with me so far, Johnny?’

‘Just about keeping up, Francis,’ said Fitzgerald, ‘trying my best, you know. But what are we doing here now?’

‘I’m just coming to that.’ There was a rustling noise in the wood to their left. A couple of guilty lovers peered out at them, fumbling with their clothes, and then retreated back to the ground.

‘Christ, that made me jump, Johnny. I’m getting old. Where was I?’

‘Why are we here, Francis?’

‘Very important philosophical question that, Johnny. I’m sure the meaning of life, the purpose of our short stay here on earth can often be discerned in the quiet of the evening when the day’s work is done -’

Fitzgerald punched him quite hard on the shoulder.

‘Right, right,’ said Powerscourt, ‘this Charles Harrison is up to no good in his bank. A young man you saw at the cricket match called Richard Martin works for Harrison’s Bank. On Saturday evening Harrison hears William Burke inviting Martin to come and see him on Monday morning. Martin doesn’t make it. Martin disappears, last seen by the widow Martin on Monday morning. Martin’s friend Miss Williams raises the hue and cry. That is why we are here.’

‘I’m getting slow, Francis,’ Fitzgerald said. ‘Martin disappears in the City. I presume he lives in London somewhere with the widowed mother, as you say. I do not imagine for one moment that the Martin household is to be found round here, is it?’ Fitzgerald waved at what could be seen of the countryside.

‘Let me try again, Johnny. Charles Harrison is up to no good in his bank. He thinks young Richard Martin may have some inkling of what is going on. When he hears Martin arranging to go and see Burke he thinks Martin is going to spill the beans. So he makes sure Martin doesn’t get to Burke in the first place. He or his associates spirit him away. And I think they may have spirited him away here. Not just here, but at Blackwater.’

‘So do we walk up to the front door and ask if we can see Mr Richard Martin?’ said Fitzgerald happily.

‘We do not, Johnny. I don’t think they would have taken him to the big house – the butler is still there in his basement, I expect, but at least half the house is a ruin.’

‘So where is he?’

Powerscourt tapped Fitzgerald on the shoulder and beckoned him into a clump of trees. About one hundred yards ahead they could see Blackwater church and the row of cottages where the Parkers lived. An owl was hooting in the distance. Shimmering in the moonlight less than a quarter of a mile away the Blackwater lake was keeping its secrets in the dark.

‘All around this lake there are temples and things, Johnny, perfect places for hiding somebody you wanted kept out of the way.’ Powerscourt was whispering now.

‘Do they have doorbells, Francis? Each one with its own High Priest to admit you to the presence?’

‘Alas, they do not,’ said Powerscourt. ‘I think we’d better knock at the windows if we can find any. What would you do if you were Charles Harrison, Johnny? I’m sure he wants to find out what Martin knows about what’s going on in the bank. Whatever he knows, they don’t want him wandering about the place and talking to William Burke.’

Powerscourt and Fitzgerald tiptoed their way through the trees. The moon had gone behind a cloud, the only light coming from a few stars in the east.

‘Right, Johnny,’ Powerscourt murmured, ‘up this little hill is the Temple of Apollo. Our first port of call, I think.’

Johnny Fitzgerald pulled a fearsome spanner from his pocket and proceeded to tap, softly at first, then more loudly, on the walls. They listened. Nothing moved in the woods around them. No noise came from inside. Fitzgerald tried again. There was a faint echo from the blows, the sound dying among the trees.

‘No good, Francis,’ whispered Fitzgerald. ‘Nothing doing here.’

They went carefully down a rocky path that led to the edge of the lake. On the far side they could see the outline of the Pantheon, its six columns standing to attention in the dark. Powerscourt dislodged a small boulder which rolled down the hill and splashed into the water. The ripples made their way across the surface of the lake, fading as they went.

‘Temple of Flora next,’ muttered Powerscourt quietly, leading the way on the path by the water’s edge. Just beyond the little temple Powerscourt could see the boathouse and the rowing boat that had carried him on his mission to the island. The island was sitting perfectly still in the water.

Fitzgerald peered carefully through the windows. He motioned Powerscourt to be still. He tapped slowly on the glass. There was no answer. Fitzgerald tapped again. Silence ruled once more over the Blackwater lake.

‘Blank again, Francis,’ muttered Fitzgerald. ‘Do you think we are on a wild goose chase?’

‘No I do not.’ Powerscourt was defiant. ‘Two more places to try, at least.’

They walked across the little path that separated the two lakes. To their left they could hear the noise of the waterfall, cascading down its rocks into the water below. The moon had come out from behind its clouds. The Pantheon was bathed in a ghostly light, beckoning them on across the water. Powerscourt felt for his pistol in his pocket. Johnny Fitzgerald was rubbing his spanner. They passed under the columns and looked at the great door that guarded the statues within. Powerscourt thought he might go mad if anybody locked him in there, surrounded for the night by Hercules and the pagan deities.

‘Do you want me to force this door open?’ Fitzgerald whispered. He was inspecting its hinges carefully. ‘If I could get some leverage on it I think it might give way.’

‘There’s another door inside, Johnny. A bloody great thing made of iron bars.’

‘Very good,’ said Fitzgerald, and began knocking on the wooden doors. Then he walked round the temple, tapping loudly on its walls. Powerscourt saw a fox had come to join them, standing at the water’s edge, a look of astonishment on its face at the nocturnal practices of its human neighbours. Fitzgerald climbed up a tree and scrambled on to the roof. There was a domed rotunda at the top. He knocked once more on the roof, then slid back down to earth again.

‘No humans in there, Francis. Only those bloody statues. Gave me the creeps, all standing there in the moonlight as if they’re waiting for somebody.’

‘Just one place left, Johnny. There’s a little cottage up here that’s been converted into a summerhouse.’

Powerscourt led the way. The fox had trotted off. Two owls were sending messages to each other across the trees. The Temple of Flora was now reflected in the moonlight on the other side of the lake, the pillars rippling in the water.

Suddenly Powerscourt realized they should have started here. He stopped suddenly, holding Johnny Fitzgerald by the arm. He pointed to the path ahead.

‘That leads up to the house, through the trees over there to the left. Can you see anybody coming?’

Once again he had the sensation of being watched, of eyes following his every move. Maybe the statues are restless, he said to himself. Maybe the Roman gods themselves come out at night, prowling round the lake, seeking out the unpurified spirits and banishing them to the underworld.

‘Nobody coming,’ whispered Fitzgerald, who was now making his way round the back of The Cottage.

‘Look, Francis.’ He pointed to some heavy footprints in the ground by the back door. ‘It rained quite hard when we were in the train. Somebody’s been here very recently. Very recently indeed.’

Powerscourt went back to the path to keep watch for any other visitors to The Cottage. Fitzgerald began tapping very softly on a window. He tapped again a little louder. There was a scraping noise coming from inside now, as if a hand was scratching on the wall. Fitzgerald summoned Powerscourt from his vigil. He tapped again. Again the scraping sound came back.

‘Right, Francis. I’m going in there.’ He checked the doors. He checked the windows at the front and the back. Powerscourt felt suddenly afraid. There was a muffled tinkling of glass. Fitzgerald had placed his coat above the middle lock on one of the windows. A dark patch was spreading across his hand. Maybe he had hit the window harder than he intended. He reached inside and lifted the window pane up as far as it would go. It creaked loudly as it went. A small colony of spiders hurried quickly away. Then he was inside. The first room was empty.

The second room was not. Tied to a chair, his mouth gagged, with dark marks on his face, was a young man Fitzgerald had not met. To hell with the introductions, he said to himself as he untied the gag.

‘Name’s Fitzgerald. Friend of Powerscourt. Friend of William Burke. Rescue mission.’

The knots were naval ones, he noticed, the rope drawn tight along the young man’s arms and legs. Fitzgerald carried him back out through the window and dumped him on the grass. The young man looked very frightened indeed. He whimpered on the turf rubbing at his arms and legs.

‘Who are you? What are you going to do with me now?’

‘We’re friends, Richard,’ Powerscourt whispered, ‘Powerscourt’s the name. We met at the cricket match. Sophie Williams told people you hadn’t been home.’

He tried to lead his little band away from The Cottage to safety. But Richard could hardly walk. Fitzgerald picked him up as if he were a sack of coal and set off towards the Pantheon.

‘I’ve got to tell you something,’ croaked the young man, ‘something terribly important.’

Richard Martin’s voice was very faint. Fitzgerald sat him on the ground. It was dark again, the moon hidden behind the clouds. The fox was on patrol once more, lurking outside the temple. A slight wind had risen, whispering through the tops of the trees.

‘I lost track of time in there,’ Martin said, ‘I must have been inside that place for over a day. But they said they were coming back for me at midnight. If I didn’t tell them what they wanted to know then, they were going to seize my mother and bring her to join me.’

‘What time is it, Francis?’ said Fitzgerald, staring at the blood that was drying on his arm.

‘It’s ten to twelve.’ Powerscourt peered at his watch. ‘We’ve got ten minutes to get out of here. I don’t fancy going back to the station. It’s the first place they’ll look for us. There’s a path behind the Pantheon that leads down to the river. There’s a couple of rowing boats down there.’

Powerscourt stopped suddenly. Far off, beyond the lake, coming down the track from Blackwater House maybe, they could hear voices. Three of them, thought Powerscourt, stifling the urge to run.

‘Follow me,’ he whispered. ‘Try to be as quiet as you can.’

He took the path behind the temple. It was not much used, brambles lying on the ground, the route sometimes invisible through the dark wood. They passed the lower lake with the waterfall and began going downhill. Once Johnny Fitzgerald, still carrying Richard Martin on his shoulder, stumbled and nearly fell. Powerscourt made them stop every now and then to listen for the voices. They heard nothing, but the owners of the voices could not be far from The Cottage now and would realize that they had been cheated of their prey.

‘Where is the bloody river, Francis?’ Fitzgerald was panting heavily. He looked as if he couldn’t go on for much longer.

‘Just there, Johnny,’ said Powerscourt. He realized that his left hand had been wrapped round the pistol ever since the discovery of Richard Martin.

They clambered into one of the rowing boats. Richard was bent almost double at the stern. Fitzgerald cut the rope.

’Do you want me to put a hole through the bottom of this other boat here, Francis? In case we have company a little later on?’

‘No,’ said Powerscourt. ‘I am sure they will check the station first. I think we should get out of here.’

The little boat had two seats in the centre for the rowers and further seats at the bow and stern. Powerscourt settled himself in the central seat and began to row as quietly as he could. Soon they rounded a bend in the river and Blackwater passed out of sight. Fitzgerald was keeping a watchful eye behind.

Captain Powerscourt banned all speech for the first ten minutes of their journey. Then it was only in whispers. They were on a long straight stretch now, trees lining both banks. A barrel overtook them rolling from side to side as it went. They could see a town approaching on their left.

‘The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks,’ Powerscourt muttered to himself,

‘The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep moans round with many voices.’

There was a scuffling at the back. Richard Martin was sitting upright at last, rubbing sadly at the bruises on his face.

‘Push off,’ he said, smiling through the pain,

‘and sitting well in order smite

The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds

To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths

Of all the western stars, until I die.’

Fitzgerald was peering back down the river, straining to see what other craft might lie behind. They shot under the centre arch of a great railway bridge.

‘It may be that the gulfs will wash us down,’ Powerscourt went on,

‘It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,

And see the great Achilles whom we knew.’

‘To hell with Achilles for now.’ Johnny Fitzgerald sounded very worried. ‘The gulfs or the Happy Isles would do me fine at this moment. The only thing is, there’s another bloody rowing boat behind and they’re gaining on us. We might meet Achilles sooner than we think. We’re going to need him.’

He leapt into the central thwart, grabbed a pair of oars and pulled for all he was worth.

‘Richard, there,’ said Powerscourt, ‘can you see the others? The other boat I mean.’

‘Yes, I can, sir. They’re about two hundred yards away.’

Nobody spoke as Powerscourt and Fitzgerald tried to widen the gap. They had left the little town behind and were in wide open country, fields and pasture spreading out beside the Thames. The only noise was the splashing of the oars and the ripple of the water beside the boat. Powerscourt was feeling stiff again from his cricket. Twenty-five years have gone since I last rowed a boat in anger, he said to himself. Maybe we’ll reach Henley. We could have our very own regatta in the middle of the night.

‘I’m terribly sorry, sir,’ said Richard Martin squinting back up the river, ‘I think they’re gaining on us.’

Far off to the left a puff of smoke announced the arrival or departure of a late night train. They had entered a long sharp bend so the pursuing boat was lost from sight. Another town materialized out of the gloom, nestling along the river’s edge.

‘Steer over to the bank, Johnny, quick as you can. We could get out on the towpath over there and vanish into the streets.’

‘That won’t do you much good,’ said Fitzgerald, ‘once they realize this boat is empty they’ll come back and look for us in there.’

‘We don’t have much time, Johnny,’ said Powerscourt anxiously.

‘Tell you what,’ said Fitzgerald. ‘You and Richard get out right now. I’ll keep going. They won’t know you’re not on board any longer. Quickly now. I’m sure this boat will go better with only one person. And I’m sure I can row faster than those other buggers.’

Powerscourt and Richard Martin leapt on to the towpath. Powerscourt gave the boat a huge shove and ran into the side streets. Johnny was making good speed, shooting through the central arch of the town bridge. He sounded as if he had begun to sing. Powerscourt thought he recognized the drinking song from La Traviata as Fitzgerald serenaded himself on his night flight down the Thames.