Death in a Scarlet Coat

22

The Chief Constable glowered at Powerscourt, screwing his monocle tighter and tighter into position. Inspector Blunden had the air of one who wishes most devoutly that the earth would swallow him up whole immediately. Johnny Fitzgerald was growing restive, as if he might go and knock the Chief Constable down. Charles Dymoke had a slight smile playing round the corner of his mouth as if he were keeping score.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Powerscourt again, looking at the Chief Constable steadily. ‘I haven’t finished yet.’

‘What do you mean, you haven’t finished yet? It’s perfectly obvious what we have to do! Let’s get on with it! Skeggs!’

The villainous-looking fellow sprang to attention. Nobody knew how things might have developed had there not been an intervention from a most unexpected quarter.

‘For God’s sake, Chief Constable, do sit down and do shut up.’ Charles Dymoke’s stutter seemed to have deserted him in this hour of need.

‘I would remind you, sir, of two things. It was I who invited Lord Powerscourt to carry out his investigation. I and my brothers have a right to hear his full report. Second, this is our house. It is not a police station or a police examination room or a cell for the detention of the guilty. You are our guest here. As

Charles sat down and blew a few more smoke rings. The Chief Constable turned red. Chief Inspector Skeggs glowered at the world in general. Johnny Fitzgerald laughed.

‘As I was saying,’ Powerscourt carried on as if nothing had happened, ‘I think matters in this case are not as simple as they might appear. For a long time I thought it was a matter of the poor and the exploited against the big house, the droit de seigneur against the human rights of the villagers. I do not think that any more, but I find this even more difficult to prove. Consider, if you will, the family Lawrence. There is certainly motive there. They have a long-standing grudge against the old Lord Candlesby for cheating them out of a considerable and recurring amount of revenue from a railway concession. When I went to speak to old Mr Lawrence – this on the very day when they had been forced to move out of their ancestral home through lack of funds, funds they felt they would have possessed in abundance had it not been for the theft of the railway contract – he took great pains to tell me that the whole family had been in London at the time of the first murder.

‘He gave me the name of the hotel they stayed in, White’s, and the name of the theatre where they had been to see a play in the evening, the Savoy. Did he protest too much?

‘I think it will be easier if I describe the Lawrence trip to London in chronological order. On Wednesday October the sixth the family sets off for the station. Before they leave Boston, Carlton Lawrence, the eldest son of the old Mr Lawrence I met when he was moving house, tries to withdraw a very large sum in cash from his bank. The manager informs him that they don’t have that much money in Treasury notes in the safe, but promises to wire ahead to the London branch nearest to White’s Hotel where the funds required will be ready for collection the following morning. The Lawrence party reach their hotel in the middle of the afternoon. At five fifteen a telegram arrives from Boston. I will speak about its contents a little later if I may.’

Johnny Fitzgerald was staring intently at a couple of stuffed foxes, perched in their case at the very edge of the billiard table and looking as if they might make a run for it at any moment. Chief Inspector Skeggs was inspecting a pair of handcuffs very closely, as if preparing a fitting for Powerscourt’s wrists.

‘The following morning, Thursday October the seventh, the day of the first murder, Carlton Lawrence goes to his bank and withdraws a very large sum in cash. He stows it in his briefcase and goes back to Boston. There’s a train from London to Boston that arrives there at ten past three. A number of people report him hanging round the station for the next hour, never venturing very far away. Perhaps he was waiting to meet somebody. Carlton Lawrence then took the train back to London, leaving Boston at four fifteen, arriving at eight thirty. What was he doing up there in Lincolnshire? Whatever it was, he was back in London, not for the start of the play, but probably in time for the end of it. He went back to the hotel on his way from the station to the theatre where he was seen to have dropped off his briefcase – maybe he didn’t want to be seen at the theatre carrying it. He was able to sleep in his bed in his London hotel and be seen at breakfast the following morning. Between the hours of ten in the evening on Thursday the seventh of October and four in the morning the next day the old Lord Candlesby was murdered. Carlton Lawrence was in London all that time.’

The Chief Constable was turning red in the face. Unbeknown to everybody else in the room, he played a regular round of golf with Carlton Lawrence on Saturday afternoons. His friend was being traduced in front of all these people.

‘So, what was going on?’ Powerscourt continued. ‘We know that the Lawrence money came from the sale of their house and estate. We believe that all the bills outstanding from that transaction have been settled. We believe from reports in Candlesby village that the place is awash with money, more than the villagers have ever seen in all their days. For once in their lives the Lawrences had enough money to take their revenge on the man who had robbed them of the railway contract and all the monies they believed were due to them. I believe the original day set for the meeting between Helen and the Earl was the Wednesday. Then Carlton couldn’t come up with the cash. Promissory notes, cheques, bills of exchange, none of these financial instruments have any currency in Candlesby village. The meeting was rescheduled for the Thursday. Maybe they said Helen was unwell or recovering from the influenza, so the date is switched to the following day, Thursday. Carlton collects the cash, meets a Candlesby intermediary at the station, and hurries back to London for the curtain calls at the Savoy. The whole purpose of the expedition was to create a near perfect alibi for the Lawrences in general and Carlton Lawrence in particular. He couldn’t have been murdering the Earl by the windmill if could prove he was in London at the time.’

Constable Merrick was still writing busily. He was becoming more than ever determined to become a detective and solve great mysteries in front of an astonished audience.

‘So, if my theory is right, the Lawrences paid the villagers to kill the earl. I would remind you again that when I went to see old Mr Lawrence he mentioned that he was employing a number of men from Candlesby village to organize his move. “They’re marvellous at packing the carts,” he told me, “very clever with their hands.” Which of them, Lawrence or villagers, is guilty in law I am not qualified to say. It may be germane to note that the entire Lawrence family have gone away again, not to London this time, but to an unknown destination. The house they were moving to on the day I met old Mr Lawrence is let for the next six months with an option for renewal. We have to thank Inspector Blunden and his men for this information.’

The Chief Constable was recovering his composure now. He was exchanging a series of notes with Chief Inspector Skeggs, planning his next move. Johnny Fitzgerald was looking at them carefully, and checking his watch. Charles Dymoke had lit another cigar and was blowing smoke rings at the ceiling. Lady Lucy seemed to have disappeared.

‘I have nearly finished, ladies and gentlemen.’ Powerscourt was on the last lap. ‘I do have one very important caveat at the end. Earlier this week I went to London and took the advice of one of London’s leading defence lawyers. I laid the broad outlines of the case before him. His advice was clear and unambiguous. It would, he said, require a miracle more remarkable than the raising of Lazarus to secure a conviction in this case. The defence would instruct everybody in Candlesby village, male and female, to say nothing at all. The only other witness to the sad events of that night by the windmill is interred in the Candlesby mausoleum. The prosecution case would collapse for the lack of evidence. It is not for me, thank God, to decide whether or not to proceed with a prosecution. I doubt if the Candlesby family would care to have their father’s peccadilloes and worse brought before a court of law and trumpeted abroad in the newspapers, but that is a matter for them.’

Powerscourt sat down. The Chief Constable rose to his feet. Johnny Fitzgerald groaned aloud.

‘How right you are, Powerscourt, to tell us that it is not for you to decide whether to proceed with a prosecution in this case. You have failed miserably. You admit yourself that your discoveries would not stand up in a court of law. You can take your failure away with you and never return. We of the Lincolnshire constabulary shall not fail. It is for me, thank God, to decide whether to prosecute or not. I have no doubt that we shall be successful once we have collected enough witnesses. I repeat what I said before. Will you please give us the name of the girl you referred to as Helen? Come along now, you are not above the law.’

Powerscourt looked him in the eye. ‘I will not,’ he said firmly.

‘Skeggs!’ said the Chief Constable. ‘Prepare to make an arrest! I repeat, Powerscourt, for the last time, will you give to us the name of the girl you called Helen?’

Events intervened before Powerscourt had time to reply. There was a noise of heavy boots on the floorboards outside. A boy of fifteen or so burst into the room. His eyes were bloodshot and seemed to be staring right out of their sockets. His hair was wild. Tiny flecks of foam hovered at the corners of his mouth. He had a gun in his hand and was waving it about as if to shoot somebody at any moment. James Dymoke had come to join his brothers in the family conclave.

‘I’ve locked them both up, my guards, my jailers,’ he announced to the company. Charles was advancing across the room towards his brother. Henry and Edward looked frightened. Powerscourt realized that something and somebody completely unpredictable had entered the room. The irrational, maybe even the mad was standing less than ten feet away from him with a gun in his hand.

‘And I’ve got the keys of my room.’ James giggled and patted his jacket pocket. ‘I gather you’ve been discussing who killed my father and my brother,’ he carried on, the flecks of foam growing larger as he spoke. ‘Didn’t think to ask me. Pity, that. You’ve got it wrong. All wrong.’

At this point he pointed the gun at his eldest living brother. ‘You killed my father. You killed Richard too. You think I haven’t heard you talking to yourself when you thought nobody was listening, about what you’d do when you were Earl? All the pretty ladies you were going to have? All the nice food you were going to eat every day? Well, you’re not going to be able to have those thoughts any more. Not where you’re going. Not now.’ He fired at Henry. The bullet passed peacefully beyond Henry’s left side and ended up safely embedded in a stuffed peacock on the far side of the fireplace. James ran out of the room and hurtled down the stairs towards the lower floors. Charles, closely followed by Powerscourt, Johnny Fitzgerald and Constable Merrick, raced off in pursuit. They could hear the footsteps clattering down into the basement.

‘He’s going to the tunnels!’ shouted Charles. ‘He always loved those as a child.’

Powerscourt put a hand on Constable Merrick’s shoulder. The boy was just eighteen. This was no place for one so young, with a mother and father at home and a madman with a pistol up in front. ‘Constable!’ said Powerscourt. ‘Can you please go back and report to Inspector Blunden. Suggest to him that he puts a guard on the exits from this and any other tunnels it might lead to. Tell him – and this is most important – that nobody is to fire at the young man or threaten him in any way! Go now!’

Constable Merrick shot off. They were in the tunnel now, a red-brick construction that twisted its way under the house, scarcely higher than a man and with room abreast for just a couple of people at a time. James’ boots could be heard clearly further ahead. Drips of cold water fell from the ceiling. In the short corridors that opened off the main passage tens of tiny rats’ eyes peered in amazement at their visitors. Johnny Fitzgerald had snatched a torch from a shelf in the ante-room. Enormous shadows of a monstrous Powerscourt and an elongated Charles Dymoke were etched on the walls until Johnny turned it down.

‘Where does this go, Charles?’ Powerscourt spoke as quietly as he could but his voice must have carried even so. The shot echoed down the tunnel and back again, bouncing off the walls and fading to an echo. Nobody knew where the bullet went. Powerscourt thought this was a very dangerous place to be. A bullet could ricochet off the walls for a long time, killing or wounding anybody who got in the way. Charles drew his hands into a fork and pointed further up the tunnel. To the right he pretended to be a horse, making hoof noises with his feet. The stables. To the left he whispered ‘Garden’ as quietly as he could. However hard they tried they were still making a lot of noise as they went, boots and shoes sounding loud as they hit the brick floor of the tunnel. An enormous ante-chamber appeared to the left. Charles took a long swig of an imaginary bottle. The cellars. Johnny Fitzgerald smiled. There was more water on the bottom now, a tiny rivulet flowing back towards the sculleries and the pantries beside the kitchen. James must have stopped to take a better shot. The bullet stuck this time in a gap between the bricks and did no damage. Three bullets gone. Powerscourt was counting, as he had counted the yards towards the spot where the old Earl’s body had been dumped. Charles made the tunnel sign again. It sounded as though James was running now. The noise grew distant.

‘He’ll be going to the garden and the lake,’ whispered Charles. ‘He used to hide down here pretending to be a Christian in the catacombs hiding from the Romans until a few years ago.’

Powerscourt decided not to point out that the said Christian had almost certainly been caught and thrown to the lions in the Colosseum.

They were at the junction now, the passage to the stables going uphill, the one to the garden sloping slightly down, as if towards the lake. Charles led them to the left. ‘Do you think he wants to kill us?’ asked Powerscourt. ‘Or is he just trying to get away from anyone coming after him?’

‘I don’t think he knows what he is doing,’ said Charles. ‘His mind’s gone. Poor boy.’

As if in confirmation there was a loud shout from further along. ‘Will you please go away?’ The voice was almost sobbing. ‘Please! Why can’t you leave me alone?’ A despairing fourth bullet was despatched down the tunnel but it got lost somewhere in the bends. This tunnel had slightly more water on the bottom. They were sloshing along now, water seeping over the sides of their shoes. On the walls bright green slime had taken over from the handsome red bricks nearer the house. Like the rest of the bloody place, Powerscourt thought, nobody’s bothered to maintain it in living memory.

Charles was pressing on. There was a bad smell now, coming from further up. ‘Way out’s near the compost heap,’ Charles whispered. ‘Nobody’s managed to move it since the tunnel was built.’ Extreme stress, Powerscourt suddenly realized, must be the best cure for stammerers ever invented. Maybe they could organize courses for the sufferers down here in the Candlesby tunnels, the stutterers pursued by mad people with pistols. Charles could lead the way.

Johnny Fitzgerald was waving his torch forward in confident arcs. ‘I think he’s gone, Francis; I think he’s out of the tunnel now.’ He turned the torch behind him for a moment. Ahead there was a very small pinprick of light. The smell was growing worse. A couple of rats, refugees from the compost perhaps, shot past them back down the tunnel. In the far distance they heard another shot, muffled by the earth and the bricks. ‘Damn and blast!’ said Powerscourt. ‘I hoped nobody was going to threaten him. It’ll only make him more dangerous.’ Five shots gone, Powerscourt said to himself. One left.

‘Let’s run,’ said Charles suddenly. ‘I’m sure he won’t be waiting to pick us off as we come out of the tunnel.’ Three pairs of pounding boots echoed back towards the stables and the cook’s private cupboards. The tunnel was lower here. Johnny Fitzgerald swore violently as he failed to duck enough and scraped his head on the roof. Charles was muttering to himself as he ran. Powerscourt thought he was saying the Lord’s Prayer over and over again. They shot out of the tunnel as if they had been fired from a cannon. No hostile bullets greeted them.

A group of people were lined up behind the tunnel entrance. The Chief Constable was in the front. ‘My God,’ muttered Johnny Fitzgerald, ‘the old fool thinks he’s back in command. God help us all.’ Behind the Chief Constable stood Skeggs, looking, Powerscourt thought, like a faithful hound waiting to pick up the dead birds, with Inspector Blunden and Constable Merrick stationed behind them. The reserves, expecting fresh orders. The two brothers seemed to be still in the house, awaiting developments. Between them and the lake James Dymoke was walking slowly towards the water. He seemed to be reciting poetry at the top of his voice, not concerned about the group of men behind him, many with pistols. He stopped once to pick up a piece of wood about the size of a walking stick and twirled it in the air.

‘Good to see you’ve arrived at last!’ said the Chief Constable. ‘No idea why it took you so long. Now then. We’re going to charge. Skeggs and me and the three of you. Like the cavalry. I’m in command, of course. I’ll give the orders. Take the madman from the rear. Take him off to the nearest asylum quick as we can. Now then, what are you waiting for? Fall in! Prepare to advance!’

Nobody moved. Johnny Fitzgerald whispered to Powerscourt that he was happy to knock the Chief Constable out. One blow should do it, he said. He’d been thinking of it all day. Powerscourt said it was Charles’ call, his land, his county, his brother.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Charles Dymoke. ‘If you charge he’ll turn and shoot. Somebody might get killed. Hold your peace. I’m going to talk to him.’

Charles set off towards his brother. James was now very close to the lake. A faint breeze was causing ripples on the surface. On an island in the middle a couple of herons watched the proceedings with care, their long necks turned towards the action. It began to rain.

‘James?’ Charles was only about ten feet behind his brother. James turned round. As he did so, the Chief Constable, having moved Blunden and Merrick into the front line, yelled, ‘Charge!’ and pointed his finger towards the lake as if he was back in India, attacking the natives. What James saw was a group of five men charging towards him, some waving their pistols in the air. He must, Powerscourt decided, have thought they were coming to kill him.

James raced towards the lake. He plunged into the water as he had done before. Chief Inspector Skeggs knocked Charles to the ground as he hurtled past. James took the stick in his right hand and whirled it round his head a few times. Then he shouted as loud as he could. His voice must have carried back to the house.

‘Then with both hands I flung him, wheeling him;

But when I looked again, behold an arm,

Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,

That caught him by the hilt, and brandished him

Three times, and drew him under in the mere.’

The wooden stick, Excalibur, the sword of Arthur in James’ befuddled mind, floated away on the surface of the lake. ‘Tennyson,’ said Charles, scrambling to his feet, ‘Idylls of the King. I think he knows most of it by heart. He’ll have turned into Sir Bedevere or somebody by now. Better if it was Merlin but I doubt it.’

The charging party stopped at the edge of the water. James was up to his neck. Charles had reached the edge. Powerscourt and Fitzgerald watched, some ten feet away.

‘Stop!’ said James. ‘Stop! All of you! And you, Charles! This is it! This is the end!’ With that he pulled the gun from his pocket, placed it in his mouth and pulled the trigger. The explosion echoed round the lake. After a minute where he seemed to totter very slowly from side to side, James Dymoke fell into the water. A small red ring formed round the place where his body had been. The ripples stretched back towards the shore and out to the island. Charles dived into the water but he had little hope.

‘I’ll have to get Jack Hayward to pull him out,’ he said sadly as he returned to dry land. ‘He always knows what to do in these situations.’ Jack Hayward, Powerscourt thought, always at hand to retrieve the body of a dead Candlesby, young or old.

The military party had dissolved with James’s death. Inspector Blunden and Constable Merrick were trudging slowly towards the house. The Chief Constable was addressing the faithful Skeggs.

‘If only Powerscourt and his friends had done what they were told,’ he said, ‘everything would have been fine.’

‘Everything would not be fine.’ Charles Dymoke had a vicious tone in his voice now, water dripping down his shirt and his jacket. ‘If you hadn’t indulged your taste for petty heroics with that ludicrous charge, my brother wouldn’t have felt threatened. He might still be alive. You stupid, stupid man. Get off our land now! Get out of our house! Go on, before I put the dogs on you!’

The Chief Constable slunk away, muttering something about the merits of military discipline no longer being taught properly in schools. Charles went to stand in front of Powerscourt. He looked extremely young.

‘Nobody knew …’ He began to cry, very quietly. ‘Nobody knew about it but me. James didn’t have more than a month or two to live. The disease had taken over. The worst thing is,’ the tears were coming faster now, ‘I said to the doctors that they should tell him. How long he had left, I mean. If I hadn’t done that, he wouldn’t have known he was dying. He wouldn’t have killed himself.’ Powerscourt gathered the young man into his arms and held him very tight for a very long time.

Lady Lucy was waiting for him when Powerscourt returned to the hotel an hour or two later. He told her about the death of James and the latest lunacies of the Chief Constable. ‘I’ve got a confession to make, Francis,’ she said. Powerscourt wondered what was coming. ‘When the Chief Constable was going on and on about the secret source I suddenly thought it wouldn’t take very long to identify Lucy, Lucy Carter, I mean. So I left the saloon and drove down to the village. I put her lying down on the back seat in case anybody saw us and brought her back to the hotel.’

‘Where is she now?’ said Powerscourt.

‘Mr Drake has found her a room here nobody knows about. She’s fast asleep up there now. I told her mother Lucy could act as my maid if she needs to stay away for a while.’

‘Let me just recap a moment here, Lucy,’ said Powerscourt with a smile. ‘You went from the Hall to the village to the hotel in the Ghost? That’s right, isn’t it?’

Lady Lucy nodded. ‘I did,’ she said proudly. ‘It’s not all that difficult, driving, once you have got used to it.’