Death and the Jubilee lfp-2 Page 28

  ‘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 arrangin
g 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.