Death in a Scarlet Coat (12 page)

Sandy was still engrossed in his own diary.

‘Saturday October ninth, 1909, Palace Theatre, Newcastle. I am sitting in the press area to the left of the main stage. There must be about fifteen of us pressmen here crammed into a very small space. One of the ushers just told me that the place can hold over five thousand people and it is packed to the rafters this afternoon. Some of the local Liberal MPs are here – one of them was kind enough to wave at me just now – but these are the working men of Newcastle
and Gateshead and Sunderland and South Shields, men who work in shipbuilding, in the docks, on the railways, down the mines, the men who man the sinews of industry in the North-East. These are the people who decide general elections. Suddenly the chatter in the theatre dies down, to be followed by a mighty roar, and the Chancellor of the Exchequer cames forward to the rostrum, hands held aloft in thanks for his welcome. How Lloyd George loves these occasions, the way he can play on the crowd, their
affection
for him, his sense of power over the multitude. I have always thought he is happier here with these vast crowds than he is in the House of Commons. I have long felt that his ideal site for one of these monster speeches would be a bare hillside somewhere in North Wales, with a wind blowing in from the sea and the rain not too far away.

‘He begins by talking about the Budget, and how various industries are now doing better than they had been before he announced his financial measures in March. But he says there is a slump in dukes – because a fully equipped duke costs as much to keep as two dreadnoughts.

‘There is a great deal of laughter and prolonged
cheering
at this point. The reporter from the
Daily Telegraph
on my left mutters disrespectfully about bloody Welshmen. Later on Lloyd George fires another broadside against the aristocracy which has the audience punching their fists in the air. Should five hundred men, he asks, ordinary men, chosen accidentally from among the unemployed, override the judgement of millions of people who are engaged in the industry which makes the wealth of the country?

‘I am certain I have just heard one of the defining quotes of the battle between the Lords and the Commons, words likely to prolong the fight, to bring a sword rather than an olive branch to the Palace of Westminster. Maybe this is actually what Lloyd George wants to do, to enrage the members of the Upper House so much that they throw out his Budget and prepare for a final apocalyptic showdown
over where power in Britain really lies, with the people or with the peers.
Alea jacta est
. The die is cast.’

‘Have a look at this lot, my lord. Maybe you’ll have some thoughts about what we should do next.’ Detective Inspector William Blunden handed over a small pile of letters to Powerscourt. They were sitting in his office in the police station a couple of days later, hoping to plan their next moves.

‘“Chief Constable to the Permanent Secretary at the Home Office, copy to the Archbishop’s secretary, Bishop’s Palace, Lincoln, copy to Lord Candlesby, Candlesby Hall,”’ Powerscourt read aloud, ‘“You will have read, I am sure, of the recent death of the Earl of Candlesby, delivered to a meeting of his hunt wrapped in blankets on the back of his horse. We are not satisfied that the correct procedures were followed at the time of his death. We do not feel that the cause of that death has been properly established. We wish, therefore, to request your permission to exhume the body and to carry out a post-mortem so that the matter can be properly investigated. Yours etc., Chief Constable of Lincolnshire.”

‘“Dear Chief Constable, Thank you for your letter, etc. etc. etc…. I do not feel that you have given us sufficient information concerning the death of Lord Candlesby for us to grant permission for an exhumation in this case. I would remind you that you need special permission or a faculty from the Church of England if the aforementioned is interred in consecrated ground or in property pertaining to the Church. And I would also remind you of the need to acquire permission from all the members of the family before this request could be considered. Yours etc., Sir Bartleby Timson, Permanent Secretary, the Home Office, etc. etc. etc.”

‘“Dear Chief Constable, His Grace asks me to inform you that while he is normally sympathetic to all requests for
exhumation, he feels moved to stay his response in this case. He feels that the reasons given might, in certain quarters, be considered inadequate. Perhaps you could get in touch with us here at the Palace when you have obtained the necessary permissions from the family and the necessary clearances from the Home Office. Yours etc. etc., Obadiah Forester, Secretary to His Grace the Bishop of Lincoln.”

‘“Dear Chief Constable, I would remind you that under the Burial Act 1857 permission is required from all living relatives before the authorities can even consider an
exhumation
order. I refuse you such permission. My brothers will be writing to you in the next few days to refuse you their permission too. Then I trust that this outrageous and unjustified request can be abandoned and the family left to grieve in peace, Yours etc. etc., Candlesby.”

‘“Dear Chief Constable, We act for the new Earl of Candlesby. It has come to our attention that a recent request has been submitted for an exhumation of the body of the late Lord Candlesby. Close inspection of the relevant
legislation
leads us to believe that this request is spurious and has no meaning in law. To the best of our knowledge none of the surviving children of the late Earl, all except one past the age of consent, will accede to this request. It is, therefore, going to be refused by the Home Office. We have written to the Permanent Secretary asking for copies of any further correspondence to be sent to us so we can monitor future proceedings. Yours etc. etc. etc. Mark Sowerby, Hopkins Pettigrew & Green, Bedford Square.”

‘My goodness me,’ said Powerscourt with a smile,
handing
the correspondence back to the Inspector, ‘these people could get through an awful lot of ink before they’ve
finished
. And I’d be fairly sure that those solicitors in Bedford Square would be the last to quit the field. I don’t know how much they charge but it’ll be a pretty penny.’

‘If I might say so, my lord,’ said Inspector Blunden, ‘you don’t sound very concerned about these letters.’

‘Well, that’s because I’m not,’ said Powerscourt cheerfully, ‘and neither will you be when you hear what I’ve got to say. You may remember I said last time we talked about this that I needed to find out more abut exhumations?’

The Inspector nodded.

‘I tried a local library and that was no good. But I did ask them who the local coroner was. So I popped back into the car and set off to Spalding to find the good Dr Chapman, His Majesty’s coroner for South Lincolnshire. I bought the fellow lunch, as a matter of fact. Very fond of fish, the
coroner
, fish and rather expensive hock. Never mind. The key thing he told me was this: in important police matters, like possible murder cases, where the suspects may include the relatives of the deceased, the coroner can take the decision on his own. No need to hang around waiting for faculties from the bishop and approval from Sir Bartleby at the Home Office; he can fire the starting pistol all on his own. We have to make sure that there’s a chap from the
undertakers
there, and the coroner himself, and the man doing the post-mortem, and we have to do it in the dark when nobody can see. Quite what anybody would imagine was going on when they saw a body being dug up in the middle of the night doesn’t bear thinking about. Still, the late Earl isn’t going to be dug out of the ground, is he, just slid out of his shelf in that mausoleum. Much less alarming all round. And my coroner friend, over a large glass of brandy in the restaurant, recommended the best man in the country for the post-mortem. Fellow by the name of Carey, Nathaniel Carey at Bart’s in London. Nobody’s going to argue with his findings apparently. I’ve taken the liberty of dropping him a line.’

‘Are you saying, my lord, that all we have to do is to write to this coroner and say we think the Earl was murdered?’

‘Well, Inspector, I think we have to be a bit more specific than that about the very unusual circumstances of this case. Three members of the late Earl’s family are suspects after
all. There is the fact of the body being brought up across the horse with nobody able to see his face apart from three people, the doctor who is dead, the steward who has
disappeared
, and the new Lord Candlesby who is ambiguous, if you recall, on whether he actually looked at the body or not. There is the matter of the doctor, according to himself, being bullied to provide the verdict of death by natural causes, when he knew it wasn’t true. Then, of course, removed from the pressure in the Candlesby stables, the doctor recants and says he believed the man was murdered. I think we need to stress that if any responsible person from the police force had seen the dead man they would have been able to form a view as to whether he was murdered or not. On balance, I would say we believe he was murdered by person or persons unknown. If not – and if the body is untouched, unmarked, inviolate – then we shall still be performing an act of public service by removing the rumours and gossip that are already swirling round the Earl’s death.’

‘That all sounds very persuasive to me,’ said the Inspector.

‘One other thought,’ said Powerscourt. ‘I leave it up to you and the Chief Constable whether to act upon it or not. I think I should say that we propose to bring in the new Earl, the red-headed chap, for questioning. If we do it at the right time, we could arrest him immediately after the post-mortem and the inquest.’

‘Do you think he did it, my lord?’

‘I’m not sure about that. It all seems rather elaborate, if you follow me, the hunt meeting, the despatch of Jack Hayward to collect the body, all that business in the stables which looks so suspicious you think he can’t possibly have done it. Why not just push your father down some stone staircase when nobody’s looking? “He must have tripped, Inspector, what a shame.”’

‘I shall go and talk to the Chief Constable now, my lord. This is one of the days when he’s causing chaos with us rather than with the people in Lincoln.’

‘I am going to pay a visit to the unfortunate Lawrences, who have had to sell their worldly goods. I wonder what they will have to say for themselves.’

Johnny Fitzgerald had called on one lot of Candlesby
relations
already. These Harringtons lived at The Limes, Lower Wrangle Lowgate, very near the coast. They had not heard, or pretended not to have heard, the news of the death of Lord Candlesby. Johnny supposed it was just about possible if they didn’t read any newspapers and hadn’t been out into town or into society since the death. He had found the reactions to the death unusual, to say the least.

‘I say,’ said Rupert Harrington, the paterfamilias, ‘I know we’re not supposed to put it like this, but this is the best news I’ve had for ages. Have you heard, Agnes,’ he called out to his wife who was arranging flowers in the next room, ‘that bastard Candlesby is dead!’

‘Are you sure?’ replied a rather feeble female voice.

Harrington looked at Johnny who nodded vigorously.

‘No doubt at all,’ he yelled through the wall. ‘Definitely dead.’

‘What marvellous news, darling,’ the distant wife said. ‘I’ll ask Simmons to bring up some champagne straight away.’

So, over a glass or two of Dom Perignon, the Harringtons told Johnny their story. They had never gone willingly to any of the christenings or funerals where their
presence
had been recorded by the Reverend Tobias Flint. Mrs Harrington, she explained, had been brought up to regard the family as the centre of the world, its rituals sacrosanct, its requests for attendance at family events to be obeyed at all times.

‘So, you see,’ Mrs Harrington explained, ‘I would have been letting the family down if I hadn’t gone to those
functions
. Thank God, we won’t have to go to any more now.
But, Mr Fitzgerald, I can’t believe you came over here just to tell us the Earl is dead.’

‘How right you are, Mrs Harrington. Let me explain.’ Johnny told them about the corpse being brought up the drive to join the hunt by Jack Hayward, of the diversion of the body into the stables, of Jack Hayward’s disappearance. Was he, perhaps, with them, helping out with horses maybe, being generally useful about the place? He was not, they told him. They only had two horses and they were old now, not fit recipients of the equine experience of a man such as Hayward. They wished Johnny good luck but had no
suggestions
for him.

The Harringtons of Silk Willoughby Hall had certainly heard of the death. Their reaction had been similar to that of their cousins near the sea. They had celebrated by going out to dinner in the most expensive hotel for miles around.

‘I did go to the funeral, I admit that. Maybe it was
hypocritical
,’ St John Harrington told Johnny, ‘but I did want to see how the other mourners behaved. Mourners? I’ve seldom seen so many happy people in my life, rejoicing that the old bastard was dead and come to make sure he was put away in that chilly mausoleum for good. One fellow told me it was one of the finest days of his life. Rarely can death have brought so much joy to those remaining.’

These Harringtons had horses, plenty of horses. Johnny could see them trotting round one of the fields outside the windows. But they were not entertaining Jack Hayward and his family.

‘I knew Jack Hayward quite well,’ Daisy Harrington told Johnny. ‘He used to come over sometimes and advise me about which horses to sell, that sort of thing. If you’re trying to find him you’re having to guess if he went where he was told by the Candlesbys, or where he decided to go himself, aren’t you? Well, if you’ve come to us because you think Jack was sent here by the family, then you’re wrong.’

Johnny wondered if he could enrol Daisy Harrington as a colleague in his quest.