Death of an Old Master

23

Rarely in its long history had Number 25 Markham Square been such a whirl of social activity. The mornings brought a constant rush of visitors, nearly always female. Streams of post, delivered by postmen, footmen or by hand of bearer, poured through the letterbox. At lunchtime Lady Lucy would go out to a rendezvous with some more of her informants. By three thirty in the afternoon she was back At Home to receive another wave. In the early evening tea sometimes turned into early evening drinks. In the evenings she and Powerscourt would dine out with yet more of her relations, Powerscourt for once not complaining about anything at all. The auxiliaries, as Powerscourt referred to the outer ring of the vast regiment of relatives, were often the most productive of all in terms of information as they moved in different circles of London society. There were now three days left before the trial.

The letters were divided into two piles, one for Bridge and one for Buckley. Lady Lucy had purchased a large black notebook, rapidly filling up with entries, the first half devoted to Bridge, the second to Buckley.

Powerscourt read all the letters. He listened gravely to his wife’s account of her various conversations across the West End of London. Some of the reports came from places as far away as Hampstead or Richmond. Random pieces of information lodged themselves in Powerscourt’s brain. Alice Bridge was a most accomplished pianist, he read. There was confirmation that Rosalind Buckley was noted for her skill in archery.

‘What do you think, Lucy?’ he said to her late one evening. They had just returned from what he thought was one of the most boring evenings he had ever spent. The obituary columns or the lists of financial prices in the newspapers, he felt, would have been more entertaining. But he had smiled, he had kept the conversational ball in play, he had done his duty. ‘What do we have to show for all your magnificent efforts?’ He smiled at her and kicked off his shoes to lie full length on the sofa.

‘Two things, Francis. Alice Bridge has changed in the last month or two. There was definitely a romantic attachment. It seems to have ended. But nobody seems to know who it was. Nobody has heard of Christopher Montague. I think I shall be able to find out at the beginning of next week. Is that too late?’

‘My learned friend Mr Pugh,’ said Powerscourt, ‘said he doesn’t think the prosecution case will take very long. He could be on his feet for the defence as early as the second day of the trial.’

‘I’ll be as quick as I can,’ said Lady Lucy, ‘but my informant will only be back from the country late on Sunday night.’

‘And the second thing, my love?’ said Powerscourt, thinking that all this activity seemed to suit Lady Lucy.

‘When she was much younger, Rosalind Buckley, or Rosalind Chambers as she was then, lived in Rome. There was some terrible scandal, whether it was to do with the Romans or to do with the Chambers, I do not know. But three different people have mentioned it to me.’

‘Scandal in Rome,’ said Powerscourt happily, his imagination drifting away. ‘Poison in the College of Cardinals. Pope’s mistress murdered. Swiss Guard supposed to protect the Pontiff at all times engaged in vice and drugs trade.’

‘Come back, Francis,’ Lady Lucy smiled at him.

‘Probably all happened at one time or another, I shouldn’t wonder. Should I ask Johnny Fitzgerald to go to Rome?’ Johnny Fitzgerald had returned to the porters of the art world he had met earlier, buying them drinks, subtly picking their brains.

‘Wouldn’t the Italian Ambassador be a bit easier, Francis? He lives only a couple of streets away from here.’

‘You’re absolutely right, Lucy. I shall write to the fellow immediately. I’m sure Johnny would have liked Rome, you know. So very different from Norfolk.’

One resident of Markham Square was not taking part in the great round of socializing. Early every morning William McKenzie set off on private journeys of his own. Each day he was travelling further and further afield in quest of his prey. Each evening he reported another day of failure to Powerscourt. He would spread the net wider yet, he would say. Powerscourt thought he would soon end up far out of London. Maybe he would reach Guildford or even Winchester.

Charles Augustus Pugh was writing furiously at his desk in Gray’s Inn very early the following morning.

‘Take a seat, Powerscourt, I won’t be a minute.’ Pugh had been entranced by the news that the forger was prepared to give evidence. He had risen from his chair and paced round the room, addressing perhaps an imaginary jury as he went. ‘A forger, a forger,’ he kept muttering to himself. ‘Did I hear you right, Lord Powerscourt, that you also have some of his forgeries in your possession? We could have a parade of bogus Titians or whatever the damned things are called? How simply splendid! It’ll be a sensation. Tell me, do you have a copy of the catalogue of the exhibition of Venetian paintings?’

Powerscourt said he was sure he could lay a hand on one. And with that news Charles Augustus Pugh had thrown back his head and laughed a laugh of pure unadulterated joy. He was still writing furiously, the courtyard outside his windows very silent. Only the birds were at their business this morning.

‘Sorry about that,’ he said finally, leaning back and returning his shoes to their accustomed place on top of his desk. The suit was dark blue this morning, the shirt Italian silk. ‘I presume that so far you haven’t managed to find the Holy Grail?’

Powerscourt shook his head.

‘Never mind,’ Pugh went on, ‘maybe it’ll turn up in time. Now this is the plan of campaign. Tell me what you think.’

Pugh paused for a moment and looked up at the ceiling. ‘The weakest point in the prosecution’s case is the murder in Oxford. We know that Jenkins was a friend of Montague. The prosecution will be saying that Buckley killed Montague, bloody man admits he was in the same room as the victim on the day of his death, damn it. And he had a very strong motive. He killed one, therefore he killed the other. Buckley admits to being in Oxford on the same day. Then there’s that business with the tie. That’s all. No real evidence that he went to the room, no witnesses apart from the man who saw him come off the train and the man who saw him at the bottom of the Banbury Road in Oxford that same day. I think we could confuse the jury about the times of Buckley’s movements. And we have the godson in Keble who gave Buckley tea. So that’s the first line of attack, as it were.

‘The second is the art dealer chap, Johnston. National Gallery fellow. Think we can show how much he had to lose if Montague’s article came out, how many commissions would go somewhere else.

‘But our best line of defence is Edmund de Courcy Closely followed by the forger. Closely followed by the forgeries themselves. That’s our strongest card. And both Johnston and de Courcy have been called as prosecution witnesses. They both saw Montague on the day he died. So I can cross examine both of them.’

Powerscourt wondered if his hunch was right. Maybe Buckley had killed them both after all. ‘That sounds splendid,’ he said. ‘I am going to Oxford this morning to see if I can find anybody who remembers seeing Buckley at Evensong. I thought we had plenty of time before the trial starts but we’ve hardly got any at all. If I’d known how tight everything is, I’d have gone to Oxford weeks ago. Johnny Fitzgerald should be sending you later today the name of the Corsican previously in the employ of de Courcy and Piper.’

That faraway look came back over Pugh’s Roman profile. ‘What a collection of witnesses,’ he said, a smile spreading slowly across his face. ‘Think of it, all in the same session. A real-life forger come to the witness stand. A line of Old Masters bearing silent testament to his crimes. Edmund de Courcy, the man who almost certainly controlled the forger’s activities. And to cap it all, we have the vanishing Corsican, hands stained no doubt with bloody crimes committed on his native island. The newspapers will go mad, Powerscourt, absolutely mad.’

Charles Augustus Pugh came back to earth. He stared at Powerscourt.

‘Oxford, did you say? Looking for witnesses from Christ Church? Could you do me a great favour, my friend? Could you bring me a map of the city centre? Preferably one with the railway station, the Banbury Road and Christ Church Cathedral all clearly marked? And in the biggest typeface you can find. Some of the jurors they send us nowadays are nearly blind.’

The clerk of the court had a list of names placed in his tall black hat on the table in front of him. ‘Albert Warren,’ he said loudly. A small nervous-looking man in a tweed suit that had seen better days came forward to take the oath. With the Bible in his right hand and a card in his left he read the juror’s oath.

‘I swear by Almighty God to try the case on the basis of the evidence and to find a verdict in accordance with the truth.’ Albert Warren was the first man to take his place on the jurors’ benches. Twelve good men and true, their names picked out of a hat in Court Number Three of the Central Criminal Court. Ratepayers, property owners, summoned for a fortnight to see justice done, maybe to deprive a fellow citizen of his life.

Charles Augustus Pugh, now resplendent in wig, gown and wing collar, watched them carefully. Only once did Sir Rufus Fitch for the prosecution rise to his feet while the man was reading the oath. George Jones was stumbling through the words. It was obvious that he couldn’t read. ‘Objection! Stand by for the Crown!’ Sir Rufus’s high-pitched voice echoed through the courtroom. Pugh noticed the objection with interest. As George Jones was led away to the back of the court to be replaced with another name from the clerk’s hat, he wondered why the prosecution didn’t want a man who couldn’t read. Some prosecutors liked a stupid jury.

For the rest of the day Sir Rufus took the jury through the details of the prosecution case. Edmund de Courcy and Roderick Johnston testified that they had seen Montague in the late afternoon and early evening on the day of his death. Inspector Maxwell told the court of the discovery of the body, the vanished books, the empty desk.

Sir Rufus read out the sworn statements of the people who had seen Buckley in Oxford. Chief Inspector Wilson produced as an exhibit the tie found under the chair in Jenkins’ room, a tie similar to one previously in Horace Aloysius Buckley’s possession. He also read out Buckley’s admission that he, Buckley, had been in Montague’s flat on the evening of the first murder.

Mrs Buckley, dressed in a sombre black, testified briefly to her friendship with Christopher Montague. She gave details of the tie from her husband’s college, Trinity, in the University of Cambridge, that had gone missing with the stain on the bottom. Sir Rufus Fitch made it perfectly clear to the jury, without ever actually saying so, that sexual jealousy was the motive for murder.

When Sir Rufus was on his feet, he held himself absolutely still, like a human pillar. He stood in his place like some mighty Dreadnought of the law, fixing his eyes on the jury, speaking to them quite slowly. Trust in me, he seemed to be saying to them. I have been here before. I have long and distinguished experience in matters of this kind. This is all pretty straightforward. All you have to do is to bring in the guilty verdict.

Charles Augustus Pugh spent most of his time not watching the witnesses but watching the jury Some of the time the fingers of his right hand were playing the notes of a Mozart piano concerto on his gown. He watched the ones who looked disapproving as they heard of the friendship between Montague and Mrs Buckley. He watched two middle-aged men at the back who nearly fell asleep as the waves of Sir Rufus’s sonorous prose rolled across them. He watched the ones who spent their time looking at the prisoner in the dock. Pugh was certain that many jurors reached their final verdict, not on the basis of the evidence presented to them, but according to the look of the defendant. If he looked shifty or embarrassed, if he stared down at the floor, they would decide he was guilty. Pugh had told Horace Aloysius Buckley that at all times in the court, whatever his inner feelings, he was to look like a leading London solicitor, a regular worshipper at his local church, a respected pillar of his local community. Pugh smiled quietly to himself as he checked his client’s demeanour. Horace Aloysius Buckley gave his evidence clearly. He remained resolute as the evidence against him unfolded all through the afternoon. At four forty-five in the afternoon, as if Sir Rufus had to catch an early evening train, the prosecution case drew to a close.

‘Not too bad,’ had been Pugh’s verdict as he and the Powerscourts and Johnny Fitzgerald met in his chambers at the end of the day. ‘What do we have to bring to bear tomorrow?’

Johnny Fitzgerald passed him the name of the Corsican recently in the employ of de Courcy and Piper. Powerscourt said he had telegraphed to the chief of police in Calvi, the dubious Captain Imperiali, for any further details of the man. Powerscourt reported that he had had a fruitless interview with the Italian Ambassador. Scandals in Rome? the Ambassador had purred, impossible surely. Rome is the Eternal City. Scandals are simply out of the question. He had smiled pleasantly at Powerscourt throughout the exchange but said nothing. Johnny Fitzgerald was going to dinner with three Italian journalists based in London. Lady Lucy reported that she was on the verge of discovering more information about Alice Bridge’s relationship with Christopher Montague.

‘Will she give evidence?’ asked Pugh. ‘We could subpoena her tonight, if you think that would help.’

‘I think a subpoena might be a bit fierce. I have lined up her two grandmothers and three aunts for a family conclave tomorrow morning,’ said Lady Lucy, impressed herself by the amount of domestic firepower being brought into play. ‘I’m pretty sure she will.’

‘Excellent,’ said Pugh. ‘Tomorrow morning we begin to throw mud in their eyes.’

‘Call the Dean of Christ Church!’ The jury looked up with interest. Illicit love affairs, men garrotted with piano wire had been on the bill of fare yesterday. Now they were going to begin the day with a senior churchman. The Dean, the Very Reverend Oliver Morris, was an imposing figure, well over six feet tall. He was dressed in a black cassock with a silver crucifix hanging from his neck. The Dean looked as if he would have belonged to the Archdeacon Grantly party rather than the Proudie faction in the internecine doctrinal squabbles that had swirled around the Cathedral Close at Barchester. A hunting, port-drinking sort of Dean, rather than an evangelical parson, obsessed with individual sin and the need for a personal salvation. He took the oath in the confident tone of a man whose voice had filled the great cathedrals of England.

‘I, Oliver Morris, do solemnly swear that the evidence I shall give shall be the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.’

Pugh glanced briefly at the jury Four of them, he thought, were impressed by this patriarch of the Church, three indifferent, the rest curious.

‘Were you the minister taking the service of Evensong in Christ Church Cathedral in Oxford on 9th November this year?’ said Pugh.

‘I was.’

‘Could you tell the court at what time the service commenced?’

‘The service started at five fifteen that day. It would have lasted about forty-five minutes.’

‘So it would have finished about six o’clock?’

‘That is correct.’

‘Dean, I would ask you to take a look at the prisoner in the dock. Please take as long as you like.’ Pugh paused while the churchman looked closely at Buckley. Buckley stared impassively back.

‘Do you recognize this man as a member of your congregation on that day?’

‘I do.’

‘Could you tell the court when you first saw him?’ Pugh thought the Dean was proving an impressive witness.

‘I usually take a brief look at the worshippers shortly before the service is due to begin,’ said the Dean, addressing the jury as though it were attending a service in his cathedral. ‘It sometimes helps to know the size of the likely congregation. I should say I first noticed him, sitting very near the choir stalls, at about five past five.’

‘And was he present throughout the service?’

‘He was.’ The Dean stroked his crucifix.

‘And did you see him afterwards?’

‘I did. It is my custom at that time of year to invite those members of the congregation who wish to come back to the Deanery for tea and sandwiches, or a glass of sherry if they prefer. Some of the destitute from the city come to Evensong. It is an unobtrusive means of feeding them, getting some nourishment into their poor bodies.’

Pugh noticed the church party among the jury nodding in approval. Feed the poor. The feeding not of the five thousand but of the impoverished of Oxford.

‘And did Mr Buckley attend this function?’

‘He did.’ Dean Morris permitted himself a slight smile. ‘We had a long conversation about an expedition he was planning, to attend Evensong in all the great cathedrals of England. I gave him my blessing for the project. I should say Mr Buckley left the Deanery shortly before seven, maybe slightly later.’

‘One last question, Dean,’ said Pugh. ‘You know Oxford well, I presume? You have lived there for some time?’

‘I have lived there for ten years now.’

‘Could you tell us how long it would take a man like Mr Buckley to walk from the railway station to the bottom of the Banbury Road?’

‘Objection, my lord!’ Sir Rufus Fitch was on his feet. ‘We are here to try Mr Buckley on a charge of murder, not to recommend walking routes for tourists on their first visit to Oxford!’

‘Mr Pugh?’ the judge inquired politely.

‘My lord, the defence intends to show serious flaws in the prosecution’s account of Mr Buckley’s movements while he was in Oxford. Central to that argument is the length of time it would take to walk from the railway station to the bottom of the Banbury Road, and from Keble College to Christ Church, if you will permit me, my lord. What more reliable witness could we find for such matters than the Dean himself?’

‘Objection overruled, Sir Rufus. Mr Pugh.’

‘Let me repeat the question,’ said Charles Augustus Pugh. ‘How long would it take to walk from the railway station to the bottom of the Banbury Road?’

‘It would take about twenty-five minutes,’ said the Dean firmly.

‘It is the contention of the defence, Dean, that Mr Buckley went on his arrival in Oxford to visit his godson in Keble College. Would that route take you past the bottom of the Banbury Road, just here?’ Pugh pointed to the road on his map.

‘It could do,’ said the Dean circumspectly. ‘It could certainly do so.’

‘And how long,’ asked Charles Augustus Pugh, ‘would it take you to walk from Keble to Christ Church?’

‘About twenty minutes, I should think.’

‘Thank you, Dean. No further questions.’ Pugh returned to his desk. Sir Rufus declined to cross examine the witness, sensing perhaps that character assassination attempts on a Dean might not go down too well with the jury.

‘Call Mr Paul Lucas.’

A pale, rather frail-looking young man was sworn into Court Number Three of the Central Criminal Court. Pugh rose to his feet once more, with a friendly smile to welcome his new witness.

‘You are Paul Lucas, currently an undergraduate of Keble College, Oxford?’

‘I am,’ said the young man.

‘And what are your plans,’ asked Pugh in his gentlest voice, ‘when your time at Oxford is completed?’

‘I hope to be ordained as a priest of the Church of England, sir.’ Lucas gave his future profession with pride.

‘You are also, Mr Lucas,’ Pugh went on, ‘the godson of the defendant in this case, Mr Horace Aloysius Buckley. Perhaps you could tell the court about his visit to you on the afternoon of 9th November of this year, the day, I would just remind the members of the jury, that Thomas Jenkins was killed.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Paul Lucas composed himself. ‘My godfather called on me in my rooms at Keble somewhere around twenty past four in the afternoon. He said that he was going to attend Evensong in Christ Church. We had tea together. He left me at a quarter to five to walk to Christ Church. I remember the precise time because Mr Buckley said something like “Quarter to five, I should be on my way.”’

‘Thank you, Mr Lucas. One final question. You are absolutely sure of those times?’

‘Yes, sir, I am,’ said Paul Lucas firmly.

‘No further questions,’ said Pugh.

Sir Rufus had decided not to cross examine the Dean. But now he could see a very plausible alibi being established in front of the jury’s eyes. He rose slowly to his feet and moved into the attack.

‘Mr Lucas, could you tell the court how often your godfather comes to visit you in Oxford?’

‘He normally comes two or three times a term, sir.’ Paul Lucas was feeling slightly overwhelmed by his surroundings.

‘So what was the date when he came to see you on the previous occasion?’

Paul Lucas looked thoughtful. ‘It must have been sometime in October, I think.’

‘Sometime in October, but you cannot remember the precise date? Let us see what else you might be able to remember, Mr Lucas. Did your godfather send you money after his visit in November?’

‘He did, sir.’

‘And can you recall the date the cheque or banker’s order actually arrived with you?’

‘I am afraid I cannot, sir,’ said Lucas after another pause, now looking rather desperately at Pugh as if he could save him from his ordeal.

‘Perhaps you can help me here, Mr Lucas.’ Sir Rufus was trying to kill the young man with kindness. ‘You cannot remember the date when your godfather came to see you in October. You cannot remember the date when his cheque or banker’s order arrived after his visit, even though that is the most recent event. But you are able to remember the precise date and time in November. Is that so?’

Paul Lucas was going quite red now. ‘That is true, sir,’ he said finally.

‘Tell me, Mr Lucas,’ another line of attack suddenly came to Sir Rufus, ‘are you financially dependent on your godfather?’

‘I’m not quite sure what you mean,’ said the young man.

‘Does he support you financially at Oxford, Mr Lucas? It takes quite a lot of money to keep an undergraduate there for three years.’

Paul Lucas looked again at Pugh. ‘He does, sir. My father is dead and my mother has very little money.’

Sir Rufus had not expected to find such treasure as this. ‘Do I understand you correctly, Mr Lucas? All your bills and so on are paid for by Mr Buckley? I’m sure you must be very grateful to him, is that not so?’

‘I am indeed grateful to him, sir.’

‘Would it be fair to say, Mr Lucas, that you would do anything you could to help Mr Buckley if he was in trouble?’

Paul Lucas may have been rattled but he could sense what might be coming.

‘Of course I would help my godfather,’ he said, taking his time, ‘as long as it was the right and proper thing to do.’

‘And would you regard it as the right and proper thing to do, Mr Lucas, to remember the precise date and time of a visit from your godfather when you cannot recall even the approximate date of his previous visit and the date his money arrived?’

‘Only if it was the proper thing to do,’ said Lucas.

‘I put it to you, Mr Lucas, that you are only able to pursue your studies at Oxford through the generosity of Mr Buckley. I further put it to you that you were more than willing to help him by fabricating the date of his visit to you on 9th November to help your godfather be acquitted on a charge of murder. That is the case, is it not?’

‘That is not true,’ said Lucas, now looking rather shaken. Sir Rufus sat down. Pugh rose to his feet once more.

‘Let us just make sure that the jury are clear in their minds here, Mr Lucas,’ he said, smiling once more at his witness. ‘On 9th November of this year did Mr Buckley come to visit you in your rooms at Keble between the hours of twenty past four and a quarter to five in the afternoon?’

‘He did,’ said Lucas.

‘Recall Chief Inspector Wilson.’

Wilson was a veteran of many trials. Indeed he was often used by the Oxfordshire Constabulary in the training of new recruits going to court and giving evidence for the first time. Always be respectful, he would tell the young men in their bright new uniforms. Don’t let them rile you. Look them straight in the eye. Sound as though you believe every word you say. Think before you speak.

‘Chief Inspector Wilson.’ Pugh had been deferential with the Dean, gentle with the future minister of the Church. He was now charming with the Chief Inspector, but hinting ever so slightly that Wilson might not be very bright. ‘I would just like to run through the prosecution account of Mr Buckley’s movements in Oxford, if I may. The post-mortem said that Thomas Jenkins was probably killed between the hours of four and seven o’clock. Your first statement,’ Pugh sorted through some papers in his hand, ‘stated that Mr Buckley was seen at the railway station at about ten to four. There is a London train that arrives five minutes before. Is that correct?’

‘That is correct,’ said the Chief Inspector.

‘And your second witness statement said that he was seen at the bottom end of the Banbury Road where Thomas Jenkins lived shortly before or about a quarter past four. Is that correct?’

‘It is,’ said the Chief Inspector, suddenly remembering Powerscourt’s doubts about the second murder. He looked quickly around the court. Powerscourt was sitting directly behind Charles Augustus Pugh.

‘You will forgive me, Chief Inspector, if I say that you are better acquainted with the geography of Oxford than the members of the jury I have here a map of the relevant areas of central Oxford to assist them.’

Pugh rested a large map on the edge of the table in front of him. Powerscourt had brought it back for him on his last trip to Oxford. Pugh’s junior came round to hold it steady. The map was clearly visible to the judge and jury.

‘Please correct me if I make any mistakes, Chief Inspector,’ said Pugh cheerfully. He took a pencil and pointed to a red line on the map that began at the railway station. ‘This is the position shortly before four o’clock. Mr Buckley is at the railway station here. Then he walks along this red line,’ Pugh’s pencil was tracing the route on the map, ‘from the station here, past the front of Worcester College here, along Walton Street, over Little Clarendon Street there and crosses the Woodstock Road. He arrives here at the bottom of the Banbury Road at about a quarter past four.’

The red line stopped. The jury stared in fascination at the map.

‘Now, Chief Inspector, you, like our friend the Dean, know Oxford well. Number 55 Banbury Road is some distance up that thoroughfare.’ Pugh’s pencil pointed to a large circle further up the road on his map with the number 55 written inside in large letters. ‘Would you say a further ten minutes away?’

‘Something like that,’ said the Chief Inspector, worried suddenly by the direction of the questions. Pugh’s pencil was back at the end of the red line, moving slowly towards the circled 55.

‘So, Chief Inspector, it would have taken Mr Buckley ten minutes to arrive at Number 55,’ the pencil stopped inside the circle, ‘let us say ten minutes for the despatch of Mr Jenkins, another ten minutes,’ the pencil was moving quickly now, ‘back to the bottom of the Banbury Road. That would make it four forty-five. Yet we know from the evidence of Mr Lucas that Mr Buckley was taking tea in Keble between the hours of four twenty and forty-five. The University of Oxford, Chief Inspector, is famed for its expertise in mathematics and metaphysics. Can you explain how the defendant could have been in two places at one time?’

Chief Inspector Wilson paused before replying. Pugh felt a momentary sense of triumph.

‘It is the prosecution case that the defendant did murder Mr Jenkins on that day,’ Wilson said, sensing that his face might be turning red.

‘Ah, but when, Chief Inspector? When? That is the question. Let us just make the remaining journeys of Mr Buckley in Oxford on that day last month perfectly clear to the members of the jury.’ Out came the pencil again. ‘At a quarter to five, as Mr Lucas told us, he leaves Keble.’ The second line was black. ‘He comes into St Giles here, past the Ashmolean over there, past Carfax and down St Aldate’s to Christ Church along this black route on the map. A journey, as Dean Morris told us, of some twenty minutes. And sure enough, he was seen in his position in the choir stalls shortly after five o’clock.’

Pugh paused. Chief Inspector Wilson looked more and more uncomfortable. Pugh’s pencil was hovering over the cathedral.

‘Let us just examine the final window of time in which Mr Buckley might, I stress the word might, have been able to go to 55 Banbury Road and murder Mr Jenkins. The Dean himself has just told us that the defendant left the Deanery shortly before seven. And seven is the latest time the doctors give for the time of death.’ The pencil of Charles Augustus Pugh began to make darting movements between Christ Church and the Banbury Road. ‘An angel of the Lord or one of the fastest runners in the University Athletics Club might have made the journey from Christ Church to Mr Jenkins’ lodgings in the time available. It would take half an hour or more.’ The pencil was shooting back and forth now between the two locations at a dizzying speed. ‘But it was surely impossible for a man of Mr Buckley’s age.’ Pugh paused. Chief Inspector Wilson looked as if he was about to speak. Pugh didn’t let him.

‘Tell me, Chief Inspector,’ he went on, ‘what other evidence do you have that the defendant murdered Mr Jenkins?’

The Chief Inspector looked defiant. ‘There is the tie, the tie found in his room which had gone missing from Mr Buckley’s wardrobe.’

‘Ah the tie, Chief Inspector.’ Pugh had turned charming again. ‘Have you ever lost any ties? I certainly have. There are often times when one simply cannot find them. Is that the case with you?’

‘I have on occasion lost some ties,’ admitted the Chief Inspector. ‘My wife usually finds them later on.’ There was a faint ripple of laughter around the court.

‘Indeed so, Chief Inspector, indeed so. We can all lose our ties. Let me ask you a further sartorial question, Chief Inspector. Do you have any ties with stains on them?’

Chief Inspector Wilson looked quickly round the court as if checking that his wife was not there. ‘I believe I may have one or two in such a condition,’ he said defensively.

‘Never mind,’ said Charles Augustus Pugh, smiling at the members of the jury, ‘I’m sure we all have a few ties with stains on them. Could you remind the jury what sort of tie it was?’

‘It was the tie belonging to Trinity College, Cambridge, Mr Buckley’s old college,’ Wilson replied, feeling on firmer ground.

‘Trinity College, Oxford,’ said Pugh, with a slightly patronizing air, ‘is a very small college. But Trinity College, Cambridge is a very large college. Do you happen to know how many new undergraduates it takes in every year?’

‘Objection, my lord.’ Sir Rufus was on his feet once more. ‘Unfair questioning of the witness.’

‘Mr Pugh?’ said the judge firmly.

‘I was just coming to the point, my lord, before my learned friend interrupted me.’

‘Objection overruled,’ said the judge. ‘Mr Pugh.’

‘Let me tell you the answer, Chief Inspector. About one hundred and fifty undergraduates go up to Trinity College, Cambridge every year. Fifteen hundred in ten years. And assuming that a man will live for three score years and ten, that makes seven thousand five hundred people who could have been wearing that tie.’ Pugh paused briefly. ‘With or without a stain. Rather a lot of suspects, wouldn’t you say, Chief Inspector?’

Pugh didn’t wait for the answer. He sat down and began looking through his papers.

‘No further questions.’

‘Damned good witness, that Dean of yours, Powerscourt.’ Pugh was pouring tea back in his chambers, the jacket draped once more across his chair, his own tie removed.

‘Bloody well should have been,’ said Powerscourt. ‘The fellow was on the same staircase as me at Cambridge.’

Pugh glanced curiously at Powerscourt. He looked as if he was about to speak. But when he did it was to do with events on the following day.

‘Friday tomorrow, Powerscourt. This judge likes to get away early on Fridays. He’s got some huge pile in Hampshire. Needs to catch the five twenty from Waterloo. Tomorrow morning I shall recall Johnston, the National Gallery fellow, then Edmund de Courcy I hope we can save the forger and all his works for the afternoon. I’ve had one of our people here speak to the newspapers, warning them that there may be a sensation in court.’

What Charles Augustus Pugh did not say was that widespread coverage in the press would publicize his name. Publicity was no bad thing for up and coming young silks.

‘As yet,’ said Powerscourt, ‘I have had no reply from the Chief of Police in Calvi, but I sent him another wire saying that it was vital we heard any news he had as soon as possible.’

Powerscourt set off from Pugh’s chambers to walk back to Markham Square. His route took him along the river, the dark waters of the Thames flowing swiftly towards the sea. Parties of gulls circled round the shipping. When he reached Piccadilly he passed the offices of the Royal Academy, all lights extinguished now, where he had first met Sir Frederick Lambert weeks before. He remembered the extraordinary classical paintings on the walls, the terrible coughing, the handkerchiefs covered with blood secreted away behind Lambert’s desk. He remembered his last visit to the old man, the ruined hands forming and re-forming the stamps from his correspondence on the table in front of him, the nurse in her crisp white uniform waiting to terminate his interview. He remembered his own promise to Lambert on that occasion, that he would find out who killed Christopher Montague before Sir Frederick died. Hang on, Sir Frederick, he whispered into the London evening, hang on. We might be nearly there. Nearly, but not quite. Just hang on for a few days longer.