Death and the Jubilee lfp-2 Page 18

  Marie was twenty-three years old with masses of curly brown hair. Her eyes were green, green for the countryside in the rain, her lover said, green for the Wicklow Mountains in the morning, green for Ireland.

  The top page of her sketchbook showed the view from Hammersmith Bridge, the river sloping away towards Chiswick, the great bulk of Harrods’ new depository on the other side. She worked fast, pausing to smile shyly at the passers-by who stopped to admire her work. When she was alone, she flicked to the page below. This showed a very detailed drawing, as accurate as her accurate eye could make it, of the ground directly below the bridge, of the distances between the ironwork, spaces where a man or a woman might hide a parcel, or a package. Or a bomb.

  Marie O’Dowd had sketched three of London’s bridges this morning. Each page had its shadow, the one with the details, the one with the spaces for the parcel.

  This afternoon she was going to Piccadilly and Ludgate Hill to sketch what she thought was the route of the procession on Jubilee Day. Tonight she would go back to Dublin and give her sketchbook to her lover. To Michael Byrne, the man who waited by the dark waters of Glendalough, the man determined that Queen Victoria’s Jubilee would be a very special day.

  16

  Jones the Blackwater butler rose to his feet once more. The flagstone where he knelt had a small indentation in the centre. It was even more polished than its fellows. ‘Forgive me, my lord,’ he said quietly. As he rose his arm brushed on the door of the spartan wardrobe where he kept his clothes. Powerscourt caught a glimpse of neatly ironed shirts, of black trousers hanging evenly in their presses. But something glowed at the bottom. Powerscourt could not see what it was.

  ‘Thank you for telling me your story,’ said Powerscourt, still not sure whether he believed it or not. It would be frightfully difficult to check, he thought. The Dominican, if he could ever find him, if indeed he was still alive, would not tell him anything. Did the authorities at Santiago keep records of the pilgrims who passed through the shrine? Probably not, and they were not likely to be accurate with so many different nationalities trudging across Europe to stand before the Portal de la Gloria.

  ‘Perhaps you could take me to the library, Jones. I need to speak to Mr Harrison.’ The cross of golden coins remained impassive on its wall, Jones’s belt still anchored inside. The hundreds of shells looked out at the life of Christ on the opposite wall. Jones led the way out of his little cell. As he entered the passageway Powerscourt darted back to open the door of the wardrobe. The bottom was lined with bottles, not of some sacred liquor, or Communion wine, but of whisky. There must have been over a hundred of them, lying in formation on the bottom. Was Jones going to make another cross, this time composed of the bottles he had consumed, alone with his shells in his basement cell? Or was he merely a hopeless drunk, his fantastic story concocted and embroidered while he lay on his little bed, staring at his cross, growing drunker and drunker on his whisky?

  Powerscourt hurried back to the corridor. They passed through the basement room where he had first met Jones that morning, the polished candlesticks still standing to attention on their table. They went up the stairs. Powerscourt passed a settee with a scallop-shell crest in the inner hall. He shook his head in disbelief. More shells. Was the whole house and its mysterious lake an enormous puzzle, clues and distractions lying about in equal measure?

  ‘Mr Harrison. Lord Powerscourt, my lord.’

  Jones spoke in funereal tones. Powerscourt shook Charles Harrison warmly by the hand and stood back to look at his library. It was one of the most beautiful libraries Powers-court had ever seen. It had a green carpet with a pattern of interlacing motifs like a Roman pavement. The books, thousands of them, were set into the walls. Two elegant Regency windows looked out over the garden. The barrelled ceiling, green like the carpet, arched across the library. At the far end, on a handsome Chippendale desk, stood a statue of Hercules, hand on hip, staring across the mahogany at the leather-bound volumes in the corner of the room.

  ‘I was just telling the Inspector about the arrangements here, the night-time routine, all that sort of thing,’ said Charles Harrison.

  Inspector Wilson was looking out of place, standing awkwardly by the marble fireplace.

  ‘Could I ask you, Mr Harrison, if you saw anything unusual on the night of the fire, when you left the house and returned to London, I mean?’

  ‘Any sign of any intruders, Lord Powerscourt? No, I did not. I left, as I said, about half-past ten in the evening. The good Inspector tells me that the fire people think the blaze must have started in the early hours of the morning. Any intruders must have come later than that.’

  Powerscourt watched Charles Harrison’s red eyebrows contracting and expanding as he spoke. ‘Quite so,’ he said thinking in his head about railway timetables and early morning milk trains.

  ‘Could I ask you one question before I go?’ Charles Harrison sounded almost apologetic. ‘I have to make arrangements with the vicar about the funeral. Then I have to go back to London. There is so much to see to at the bank. Maybe it is best that we are kept busy at a time like this, we have less time to grieve. But to my question.’

  Charles Harrison looked from Inspector Wilson at the fireplace to Powerscourt glancing idly at the collected works of Voltaire, published in Paris in the year 1825.

  ‘Do you think there is an attack being mounted on my family? First Old Mr Harrison is found floating in the Thames, now my uncle perishes in this fire. Is it all a coincidence? Or is it a conspiracy? Do you think my own life is in danger? Should I take precautions, whatever you gentlemen might advise?’

  Inspector Wilson looked at Powerscourt. Powerscourt looked carefully at the cover of Candide. He turned to face Charles Harrison, flanked by the naked back of Hercules.

  ‘Mr Harrison,’ he began. He did not know quite what to say. ‘I wish I could give you an answer to that, I really do. Until further inquiries are made here we do not know the precise cause of the fire. It was almost certainly started by natural means. Most fires are.’

  He caught the Inspector giving him a very curious glance. He looked as if he might be about to speak. Powerscourt hurried on. ‘Once we know more, of course we shall let you know. In the meantime, all I can say is that we know nothing of any conspiracy against your family. But it might be prudent to be careful over the coming weeks.’

  Charles Harrison looked sombre. He thanked them both and set off on his melancholy business. As he left the library he turned back. ‘Please feel free, gentlemen, to use this room as long as your inquiries continue. It is the most beautiful room in the house, or what remains of the house.’

  Shortly afterwards they heard the sound of carriage wheels fading down the drive. Inspector Wilson lowered himself into an armchair.

  ‘Did you mean what you said just now, sir? About the fire starting by accident and there being no danger to Mr Harrison?’

  ‘I did not, Inspector. I most certainly did not. But it seemed the best thing to say for the moment. God help me if I am wrong again.’

  From the other side of the house the shouts of the firemen and Mr Hardy’s instructions to his photographer drifted through the open window.

  ‘Inspector,’ said Powerscourt, ‘I know I have no official standing in this matter. I am here merely as an observer. But there are certain lines of inquiry I would wish to ask of you.’

  ‘You’re official enough for me, my lord. I have this note here from the Chief Constable himself instructing me to give you every possible assistance in your inquiries, whatever your requests may be.’

  The Inspector pulled an envelope from his pocket and waved it in front of Powerscourt. ‘Signed, William F. Bampfylde, Oxfordshire Constabulary.’

  ‘That is most helpful,’ said Powerscourt, joining Inspector Wilson in an armchair in front of the fire, a relief on the overmantel depicting some biblical scene he did not recognize. He hoped it had nothing to do with shells or St James the Apostle.

  ‘Now th
en, Inspector, we need to find out about people who might have come in and out of the house last night. Could you check the railway station for the times of all the trains arriving and departing from the station in the night and in the early hours of the morning? Could you ask at the inn about any strangers they might have seen on the night of the fire?’

  Powerscourt stopped suddenly, staring into space. A blind Milton looked down from above the entrance. Blind, like me, he thought, blind about motive, blind about the sequence of events, blind about where all this is going to end.

  ‘How far is the river from here, Inspector?’

  ‘The Thames, my lord? I should say it’s less than a mile from the bottom of that lower lake, the one with the waterfall.’

  ‘Could somebody have come here or left here by boat,’ said Powerscourt, ‘coming or going from one of those little places with railway stations up and down the river? Could you ask? Who else wanders about the place in the middle of the night? Poachers? Thieves coming to burgle houses in the small hours of the morning?’

  ‘Plenty of both of those, my lord, especially poachers. Lots of the poorer people round here eat quite well.’ Inspector Wilson nodded meaningfully at Powerscourt.

  ‘And tell me this, if you would, Inspector. You have talked to Mr Harrison about his movements the day after the fire. Where did he say he was? Why did he not come here until the evening?’

  Inspector Wilson turned back five or six pages in his notebook. ‘He left here that night because he had an important meeting the next day in Norwich, my lord. Something to do with his bank. He returned from Norwich in the afternoon.’

  The Inspector looked up, alarmed. He’s not going to ask me to check the trains to and from Norwich, is he? he said to himself. We don’t have those kind of timetables in the station.

  ‘I shall take it upon myself to check the trains to East Anglia, Inspector,’ said Powerscourt cheerfully. ‘I know a man who could tell me inside five minutes about every known means of reaching Norwich by train.’

  ‘My lord.’ Inspector Wilson was becoming confused, his mind struggling to keep up with all the inquiries. ‘Do you have a theory as to what went on? With the fire, I mean?’

  Powerscourt smiled a feeble smile. ‘I have many theories, Inspector. They could all be wrong. They probably are all wrong. The fire could have been caused by accident. That must remain the most likely possibility, but I should not be surprised if it was not. The fire could have been caused by somebody inside this house.’

  He thought of mentioning the mysterious butler, praying in his basement cell, hiding his bottles of whisky. Did whisky burn easily? Pour a bottle down yourself in the basement. Pop upstairs to start a fire and then retire to the golden cross and the shells down below. You probably wouldn’t remember a thing in the morning. He thought a further raft of suspicious information might leave the Inspector completely confused.

  ‘The fire could have been caused by an intruder,’ Powerscourt went on, ‘come to steal valuables, paintings, books maybe, like these. This library must be worth a fortune with some of those shady London booksellers. Anything with an old binding is gratefully received, then sold on to America where no questions are asked about where they come from.

  ‘Or the fire could have been caused by somebody who left the house early in the evening and then came back and let himself in again. And after he completed his business he let himself out again.’

  Inspector Wilson whistled quietly to himself.

  ‘When we know the results of your inquiries, Inspector, and when the fire gentlemen let us know their findings, we shall be in a better position to form a judgement.’ Or, he thought bitterly to himself, I may be more confused than ever.

  Lady Lucy was sitting on a sofa in the upstairs drawing room staring sadly at a portrait of her grandfather when her husband dashed into Markham Square. ‘Oh, Francis,’ she said, ‘it’s so sad, so terribly sad.’

  ‘What’s so sad, Lucy?’ said Powerscourt, dreading yet more bad news. ‘I can’t stop. I have to see William straight away. I’ve got to go to the City. I should be in Blackwater, but William can’t wait.’ He sounded distracted.

  ‘It’s that poor family, the Farrells, Francis, the ones I told you about. Do you have to rush off straight away?’

  ‘I can wait a while, Lucy,’ said Powerscourt. He was concerned about the terrible sadness in his wife’s face. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Oh, Francis . . .’ Powerscourt sensed his wife was close to tears. ‘You remember the baby was ill, with the terrible fever?’

  Powerscourt nodded.

  ‘Well, little Peter died. The doctors couldn’t save him. The funeral was this morning.’ Lucy was fighting back the tears. ‘Now the oldest child, a very skinny girl called Bertha, is ill with the same thing. So is the father. He is so ill he can’t go to work. If they haven’t any money coming in they won’t be able to pay the rent and they’ll get thrown out.’

  ‘We can help with the rent, surely,’ said Powerscourt gently, taking hold of Lucy’s hands. ‘Of course we can.’

  ‘There’s a very curious thing, too, Francis.’ Lady Lucy looked across at her husband. ‘I only discovered it today when I was talking to the vicar. The flats where they live are run by a charity, but they are held in the name of Harrison’s Bank, the private one. Isn’t that a coincidence?’

  Powerscourt remembered William Burke telling him that the private Harrisons did a lot of business with charities. Then Lady Lucy remembered she had more news to tell her husband.

  ‘There’s something else, Francis,’ she said. ‘Somebody came here earlier today when I was out asking about Johnny Fitzgerald, wanting to know where he was.’

  ‘What sort of person, Lucy? Was he official, a postman or somebody like that?’

  ‘No, he wasn’t. Rhys said he was just a young man who said he was a friend of Johnny’s.’

  Garel Rhys, the Powerscourt butler, had been a sergeant with him in India.

  ‘But why did he come here?’ Powerscourt was looking concerned now. ‘Did he know Johnny was a friend of ours?’

  ‘The first thing he said, I think, was, “Is your husband at home?” Then he said, “Is he a friend of Lord Fitzgerald?” When Rhys said he was, then he started asking where Johnny was. He said he was an old friend from before.’

  ‘So what did Rhys tell him, Lucy? Did he say where Johnny is?’

  ‘Well, yes, I think he did,’ said Lady Lucy, looking anxiously at her husband. ‘Rhys said Johnny was in Berlin, that he should be back soon. He didn’t say anything about investigations or anything like that, Francis.’

  ‘Where was this fellow from, Lucy?’ Powerscourt was worried now, worried for his friend far away in Berlin. ‘Was he English? Irish perhaps if he’s an old friend from before?’

  Powerscourt hoped he was Irish.

  ‘Rhys didn’t think he was Irish or English, Francis,’ said Lady Lucy, alarmed at the look on her husband’s face, ‘He said the young man was very well-spoken but he did have an accent. Rhys thought he was German.’

  ‘German? Oh, my God!’ said Powerscourt, and fled into the afternoon towards the City of London.

  There’s one mystery down by the lake at Blackwater, Powerscourt said to himself as his cab laboured up Ludgate Hill. There’s another mystery about the unknown woman behind the feud in Harrison’s Bank. There’s a third mystery surrounding Jones the butler. Even now he couldn’t make up his mind whether Jones was telling him the truth. Twenty years would be time enough to concoct a story like that, the shells purchased block by block in the fish markets of London, the pictures on the walls picked up in clandestine visits to junk shops. A visit to one of the larger lending libraries would provide enough information about the legend of St James without going any further than Oxford or Maidenhead, or maybe even the nearest Catholic seminary where Jones would have been welcomed with enthusiasm, fresh pilgrims always welcome into the fold.

  A group of policemen and soldiers, they might
have been Royal Engineers, had closed off the front of St Paul’s, taking measurements, carrying things up and down the steps. They must be preparing for the Jubilee Day, Powerscourt thought, now just six weeks away, its high point the arrival of the aged Queen at these very steps for a Service of Thanksgiving.

  William Burke was waiting for him in his office, a small room with high windows looking out over Cheapside.

  ‘Francis,’ the financier said, ‘you look worried. I got your wire. I think I have the answers you required about the capital and shareholding of Harrison’s Bank.’

  ‘Thank you so much,’ said Powerscourt, sipping a cup of tea. ‘What is the position?’

  ‘It is difficult to be certain,’ said Burke the banker. ‘These private banks are extremely secretive about their financial arrangements.’

  ‘They’re bloody secretive about all their bloody arrangements, William,’ Powerscourt butted in. ‘I only wish they weren’t.’

  Burke looked closely at his brother-in-law. His normal irony and detachment seemed to have deserted him this afternoon.

  ‘The Harrisons all had identical arrangements about their share of the bank’s capital,’ Burke went on. ‘I have inspected the wills of the earlier ones who have passed away. Each time the entire capital of the deceased passes directly to the next family member. That way the capital of the bank remains intact.’

  ‘Do you mean, William, that Old Mr Harrison’s share went straight to Mr Frederick and his share goes direct to Mr Charles? So is he now in sole charge of the bank and its monies?’

  ‘He is certainly the biggest shareholder by far,’ said Burke, ‘but he is not the only one. There are, you will be relieved to hear, no female relatives with any holdings. There is only one other person with a share in the bank and that is the chief clerk, a man called Williamson, who is now a partner. If my guess is accurate, he controls less than a tenth of the bank’s capital.’