Death in a Scarlet Coat (26 page)

‘Let’s pretend, young Andrew, that the purpose of this trip was to provide an alibi for somebody, almost certainly
Carlton Lawrence, the middle one. Why did they add an extra day to their stay in the hotel? What made them change their mind? Something in London? Something in Lincolnshire? And what was Carlton Lawrence doing back in Boston station on the Thursday? How do we find out if our man could have got back to London in time to sleep in his hotel bed?’

‘I’ve thought of that one, sir. Somebody else could have slept in their bed for half the night and Carlton could have slept there for the other half. But I’ve got the train times. I took them down in the station while we were
waiting
for the express earlier today.’

Constable Merrick consulted his notes and appeared to be carrying out some powerful calculations in his head. ‘How about this, sir? There’s a train from London to Boston that arrives at three ten. There’s a train from Lincoln to Boston that comes in at three fifteen – Oliver Bell could have seen Carlton Lawrence at the station while one got on and the other got off. There’s a train back to London, leaving Boston at four fifteen, arriving at eight thirty. That’s pretty slow – it must have stopped everywhere. So he could have done it, gone up and down to London, I mean, our man Carlton Lawrence. But why would he want to go back to Boston or Candlesby for an hour or so? And another thing, sir. We don’t have any definite proof that Carlton Lawrence came back to White’s at all. Various witnesses, including Oliver Bell, report seeing him at the station. Nobody reports him leaving Boston on a London train.’

Johnny had a different thought. It was a question for hotel manager James Thomas. Had the Lawrences received any telegrams while they were staying at the Ritz? Yes, they had, came the answer: just one, at five fifteen on the first evening, despatched from Boston, Lincolnshire.

Their last request at White’s Hotel was for a further word with the head porter about the Thursday evening. Johnny showed the Lawrence photographs once more. ‘I know it’s a
long time ago,’ he began, ‘but do you remember Mr Carlton Lawrence, this gentleman here, coming into the hotel on his own during the evening?’

There was a pause while the head porter scanned through his memory. Johnny Fitzgerald and Constable Merrick waited patiently. An ordinary porter walked past them with a small briefcase in his hand.

‘That’s it!’ said the head porter. ‘He was carrying a
briefcase
, rather larger than the one that’s just gone by. Your gentleman, Carlton Lawrence I think you said he was called, came into the hotel about a quarter to nine in the evening in question, the Thursday, I’m sure of it. He went out again about five minutes later without the briefcase. He must have dropped it off in his room.’

John Galsworthy’s
Strife
was still playing at the Savoy Theatre. The staff, accustomed perhaps to watching
detective
plays on the stage, were quick to grasp the nature of their inquiries.

One usher reported that she had taken the Lawrences into the theatre and directed them to their box on the first floor. Another remembered bringing them the programmes and making sure they were comfortable.

She was able to recognize about half the party from the photographs. She said her memory for people wasn’t as good as some of the girls who could recall faces they had shown to their seats the year before, but she thought there had been one empty seat in the box at the start of the play. She couldn’t be sure, but she thought all the seats were full at the end. That was all. Carlton Lawrence, when pointed out in the photograph, could have been there or he could not. She couldn’t be sure. That was all she had to say.

Forty minutes later Johnny and Constable Merrick were ensconced in the Powerscourt drawing room in Markham Square. Powerscourt had insisted they use his house as a base during their time in London.

‘I have no idea what I think after today, young Andrew.’ Johnny had found a bottle of Beaune hiding in a Powerscourt cupboard. ‘Tell me when you reckon it’s wide of the mark.’

Johnny took an unusually small sip, for him, and began. ‘Let’s assume the whole thing’s an alibi. The only person it can be an alibi for is Carlton Lawrence, son of old man Lawrence whose estate was sold recently. Originally it must have been for the Wednesday, the first day of their stay in London. Then it has to be put back a day. Maybe Carlton would have gone back to Boston station on the Wednesday if the date hadn’t been changed. Quite what it is or was an alibi for we don’t know. Most likely it’s the murder. But he couldn’t have murdered Lord Candlesby because he was back in London by then on the Thursday. You can look at his appearance at Boston station on the Thursday in one of two ways. Either he was very unlucky to be seen, or, and this is the more devious option, he went in order to be seen. Maybe he was hanging about the place for quite a while in order that somebody would recognize him and tell the police later.’

‘But if he wanted an alibi, sir, surely it would have been for something happening in Lincolnshire rather than in London. Otherwise why go to London at all? On the other hand why go back to Boston station if it’s in that area that you want to establish an alibi? It doesn’t make sense, sir.’

‘Why do you think Carlton Lawrence went back to Boston?’ Johnny Fitzgerald thought he could hear noises coming from the upper floors.

‘Could it have been a woman, sir? Maybe Mr Lawrence had promised to bring a mistress some enormous great jewel like a diamond?’

‘In that case why didn’t he bring the woman with him? Or make a separate trip? We don’t even know if he was married.’

‘He must have been married, sir; it was his daughter’s wedding in the photographs. Maybe we’re looking at it the wrong way round, sir.’ Constable Andrew Merrick was feeling extraordinarily grown up, conducting conversations involving mistresses and extravagant jewellery in one of Chelsea’s most fashionable squares. ‘He could have been bringing something from London to Candlesby, or he could have been bringing something from Candlesby to London, sir, some legal documents perhaps, that they had forgotten to bring with them. They might have had legal business in London about the sale of their estate.’

‘What was in the briefcase, do you think, young Andrew?’ Johnny Fitzgerald was swirling his wine round in his glass like an expert sommelier.

‘Legal documents, as I said, sir? Money? Maybe he owed some people a lot of money over the forthcoming sale of the estate.’

‘My head’s beginning to hurt,’ said Johnny, ‘and it’s not this wine.’

Screams could be heard dimly from above, followed by a lot of shouting.

‘What’s going on, sir?’ asked Andrew. ‘It sounds as if somebody is being tortured on the upper floors.’

‘Quite right,’ said Johnny. ‘Two people are being tortured. They’re five years old and they’re being put in the bath. That’s what all the fuss is about. I’m their godfather, God help them. I’d better go and say hello in a minute.’

Andrew Merrick thought of Powerscourt and Lady Lucy having children as another astonishing event, like Powerscourt having a Christian name. Surely, he had thought, such exalted beings didn’t go round having
children
like everyone else, even if they were twins.

‘How about this,’ said Johnny, now about a third of the way down the bottle. ‘Alibi literally means being
somewhere
else. Or that’s what I think it means. When would you need an alibi for the first murder in this case? As far
as we know, you would need it for sometime in the small hours of the morning or even later. On the first day our man is definitely in White’s Hotel, miles away from the murder scene. On the second day, the day of the storm and the murder, he is probably back in White’s, still miles away from the murder scene. Why did they go to such trouble to establish an alibi?’

Constable Merrick had only had one tiny sip of his wine. He thought it was delicious. I’m going to turn into an alcoholic, he said to himself, just like my granny said.

‘I’m not convinced about the second day,’ said Constable Merrick. ‘Maybe Carlton has a twin, or a brother who looks like him. Maybe he was introduced into the party the second day. Remember, the person who served them all breakfast in the morning wasn’t the same person who served their dinner the night before. The staff would assume that the breakfast one was the same as the dinner one when it could be a completely different person altogether. It seems possible to me that Carlton Lawrence was just unlucky. He arranged for the substitute to take his place. He shoots off to Lincolnshire. He kills old Candlesby. Then he hides up until the party come home.’

There was a hesitant sort of knock at the door.

‘Ah, Mary Muriel – she looks after the children, Andrew – how nice to see you. Do come in. May I introduce Constable Andrew Merrick, from Lincolnshire? How are the little ones?’

Mary Muriel smiled. ‘They’re much the same,’ she said, ‘only older. I won’t come in, sir. The fact is that they are asking for you to come and tell them a story now they’re in bed. I don’t know how they found out you were here, sir, but they certainly know it now.’

‘They have their own sources of information, those twins,’ said Johnny darkly, ‘floorboards, banisters, walls.’

He found Christopher and Juliet in bed, well tucked up, but not losing the power of speech just yet.

‘Johnny!’ they shouted in unison.

‘Story! Story! Toad! Toad! Poop-poop! Poop-poop!’

For what seemed like an eternity Johnny Fitzgerald had been reading the twins
The Wind in the Willows.
He was now, he thought, on the third reading and the twins showed no signs of tiring. He sometimes wondered what the record was for completed readings of the entire book and hoped that the winners received autographed first editions. The arrival of
The Wind in the Willows
had coincided with the arrival of the Powerscourt motor car and various extracts could be heard being shouted from the back seat by the twins when they were travelling in the rear. A respectable middle-aged lady, walking quietly along the King’s Road in Chelsea, Johnny had been told, had looked most put out when pursued by yells of ‘Washerwoman! A
washerwoman
!’ coming from the back of a Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost. Johnny remembered there had been trouble the previous time he had read this particular passage. The twins had become overexcited. It was impossible to calm them down. Powerscourt had had to come upstairs and read them some spectacularly boring bits of the Authorized Version of the Bible with list after list of who begat whom and with no fighting at all.

The twins loved everything about
The Wind in the Willows,
but they especially liked the last battle between Toad and his friends, the Rat, the Mole and the Badger, and the forces of darkness, the stoats and the weasels and the ferrets who had taken over Toad’s ancestral home, Toad Hall. Johnny, on his last reading, had left it at the point where the Toad party, led by Badger, has advanced into the Hall by means of a secret tunnel.

‘Settle down, settle down,’ said Johnny, suddenly
realizing
that he might possess a secret weapon in the
calming-down
department one floor below in the drawing room. He sat on the corner of Christopher’s bed and eyed them gravely.

‘Let us begin,’ he said. Johnny always started like that:

‘Aaah! Help! Yaroo! Look out! Whoops!’

In full voice, Johnny reckoned, Christopher and Juliet would have a good chance of bringing down the walls of Jericho.

After three more pages, with the twins now in uproar, he tiptoed out of the door and shot down the stairs.

‘Constable Merrick,’ he said, panting slightly, ‘duty calls. There is a danger of a serious breach of public order one floor up. You are to proceed upstairs at once and sort it out. I recommend most strongly that you wear your helmet!’

‘Sir!’ Constable Merrick had performed this sort of duty at home before now. He had younger brothers and sisters himself. By now the impactof his uniform had dissolved completely. He was not the master but a figure of fun in his own house.

Here in Markham Square, however, he felt, things might be different. He climbed the stairs as noisily as he could, fixing his helmet to his head as he went. Outside the twins’ door he paused and coughed. As he went in he took out a pencil and a notebook and inspected the twins with great severity.

‘Now then,’ he began.

He did not have to say more. Unknown to him, and unknown to Johnny, an enormous policeman with a huge helmet had told the twins off one day in the park recently
for digging up the flowers. His helmet had made an
indelible
impression. Now the twins were underneath the
bedclothes
, pulling blankets and sheets over themselves as fast as possible before he could make a single note. He stood by the door for a moment, humming to himself. The peace of sleep seemed to be stealing over Christopher and Juliet.

For weeks afterwards Constable Merrick’s ghost haunted the house. Nurse Mary Muriel would warn her charges that she thought she heard the policeman’s footsteps on the stairs. They would fall into bed immediately. Powerscourt was to say afterwards that Constable Merrick had been able to do what few could perform in their lifetime. He could keep the twins quiet. He had achieved a sort of
eternal
life up there with the schoolroom and the boxes of dressing-up clothes and the broken toys on the nursery floor of Markham Square.

Barnabas Thorpe, butler of Candlesby Hall, was a
worried
man. The general uncertainty about the future, with two members of the family involved in unsolved murders, concerned him. The behaviour of the two eldest surviving brothers, Henry and Edward, concerned him even more. They had discovered another wine merchant who would extend them a line of credit. That very morning carters had been unloading case after case of claret and burgundy, port and Madeira into the cellars. Only Barnabas Thorpe had read the fine print of the agreement, left lying around on a broken table in the saloon. It stipulated an enormous rate of interest if the bill was not paid in full within thirty days. After that wealth beckoned for the wine merchants. Thorpe thought it unlikely that the bill would be paid on time.

Then there was the poor strange boy, as Thorpe had always referred to James, on the top floor. The boy’s illness was not Thorpe’s province, but reports of his
deterioration
filtered down through the floors of Candlesby Hall. A medical doctor, expert in the strange ways of the
semi-insane,
was in attendance now, as well as the nurse. The boy was delirious part of the time, rather like the old ladies of Candlesby, talking of King Arthur and the Lady of Shalott and apparently able to quote lines from Tennyson’s poem at will. Barnabas Thorpe had always regarded any interest in poetry as conclusive proof of the softening of the brain,
if not actual insanity itself. Only Charles Candlesby knew the true position about his brother’s health. It was he who had sanctioned the extra expense of hiring the doctor. Only he knew how long the engagement might last.

Charles Candlesby, indeed, was the only positive person in Barnabas Thorpe’s book at this time. Helping the poor, looking after his brother, he was at once the most unlikely Candlesby, but at the same time the most likeable member of the family. This morning he was polishing off an
enormous
bowl of porridge at the Powerscourt breakfast table in Mr Drake’s hotel. He was becoming a regular visitor.

‘Would you like some more porridge, Charles?’ said Lady Lucy, who always treated him as a favourite son.

‘No, no thanks,’ said Charles, ‘I’ll just tuck into a couple of eggs and a few rashers and maybe a tomato. Nothing much.’

‘Charles,’ said Powerscourt, finishing off some toast, ‘do you mind if we talk business for a moment?’

His mouth full of bacon and tomato, Charles managed a vigorous nod of the head by way of reply.

‘It’s this,’ said Powerscourt. ‘I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. You know the habits of your family up at the Hall. Why was your father wearing his scarlet coat on the night he died? We have no idea why he put it on. The pathologist thought he died sometime between the hours of ten in the evening and four the following morning. Now, suppose you go out, intending to meet somebody at the earlier time of ten – he must have been going to meet
somebody
surely, unless he wanted to wander round in the storm which seems unlikely – wouldn’t you expect to come home again after you met them? And you’d have plenty of time to put on your scarlet coat the next morning in time for the hunt. You didn’t have to put it on for the early rendezvous the evening before. Your father was hardly going to meet a fox at that time of day, was he?’

‘I’m not sure’, said Charles sadly, pulling a piece of bacon
out from between his teeth, ‘that I like where this is going to go. B-but p-p-please continue.’

‘Let us look at it from the later date given by the
pathologist
, four o’clock in the morning. Suppose he left home at three for his rendezvous. Again he is wearing the scarlet coat. Why? He must think he is not coming home before the hunt – that he needs to go out dressed in his hunting gear because he has to be wearing it in the morning. So what was he intending to do all that time? Between, say, ten or eleven the night before and eight o’clock in the morning when he would have to set out back to the Hall?’

Powerscourt left his question hanging in the air.

‘Boat?’ said Lady Lucy. ‘Would he have gone somewhere in a boat?’

‘Not in that weather,’ said Powerscourt. ‘Every boat in the county will have been tied up at her mooring that night.’

Charles looked at them sadly. ‘Surely,’ he said, ‘there’s only one conclusion. My father was going to meet
somebody
. He intended to spend the night with them and go b-b-back for the hunt in the morning. That’s why he was wearing the coat. And’, he looked embarrassed now, ‘the somebody was p-p-probably a woman.’

‘We don’t need to dwell on this,’ said Powerscourt, ‘but where on earth, in all that empty space, would you meet a woman? Where would you find one? There isn’t a house for miles.’

‘Maybe’, said Lady Lucy, ‘he did ride for miles, but inland, to the next village. There’s nothing to say he went straight to where he was collected by Jack Hayward. He needn’t have gone near the sea at all. He could have gone in the opposite direction. His murderers could have brought him back and dumped him where he was found.’

Powerscourt put his head in his hands and groaned slightly. ‘Here’s another thing. The horse. Jack Hayward went to collect him with a horse, Marlborough, your father’s horse. But your father must have set off on a different horse.
What happened to that one? The one Lord Candlesby left his house on?’

‘B-b-bolted? Stolen by his killers? Sold by his killers?’ Charles was looking more cheerful all of a sudden.

‘The one person who would have known for sure if a horse had disappeared from those stables was Jack Hayward,’ said Powerscourt, spinning a marmalade jar round faster and faster on the tablecloth. ‘And he was shuffled off the scene before he had a chance to check anything at all.’

‘You said, Francis,’ Lady Lucy chipped in, ‘that Jack Hayward took the Earl’s horse Marlborough to go to collect the body. Why didn’t the Earl take his own horse out when he went to meet whoever it was?’

‘God only knows,’ said Charles. ‘I’m lost, I really am. But b-b-before I forget, Lord P-p-powerscourt, I must tell you what Walter Savage told me when he came out of p-p-prison.’

‘Please do,’ said Powerscourt, relieved to have moved off Charles’s father’s amorous activities on the night of his death.

‘Walter Savage came to see me yesterday,’ said Charles, ‘and he told me something he hasn’t said before. You have to remember that Walter is old. His b-b-bladder isn’t what it was. He has to get up several times a night. On the night of the murder, he opened the window to see how the storm was doing. He heard a noise coming from Candlesby
village
. This was about one or two in the morning, but it might have been earlier. He said it sounded like cheering. He went back to bed and thought no more of it.’

‘Cheering?’ said Powerscourt. ‘Cheering?’

‘That’s what he said. He wasn’t certain, b-b-but it sounded like cheering.’

Inspector Blunden felt that the people of Lincolnshire were plotting against him, conspiring to leave the county and
deprive him of suspects. First Oliver Bell had fled,
misleading
the constabulary about his alibi on the night of the murder before he left. Now the Lawrences had disappeared. First they had gone to London in great numbers, pursued afterwards by Johnny Fitzgerald and Constable Merrick. Now they had vanished, leaving no information at all at their various houses about where they had gone. And worse was to come. A messenger arrived with a summons. He and Powerscourt were to meet the Chief Constable. Constable Merrick was sent for and ordered to the Candlesby Arms on his bicycle at full speed. He was to bring Powerscourt to the police station with all possible despatch. Inspector Blunden hoped Powerscourt would come in his Silver Ghost.

He did. Fifteen minutes later, before the constable had reappeared, Powerscourt was conferring with the Inspector in his office. Inspector Blunden was in happier mood this morning. His wife had managed to introduce another nursery rhyme into his daughter’s repertoire. Last night after supper Emily Blunden had sat on her father’s lap and recited ‘Jack and Jill went up the hill’, with the emphasis on ‘hill’ for some reason, to her father’s great delight.

‘What’s up with the Chief Constable?’ said Powerscourt. ‘Homework not delivered on time? Changing rooms left in a sorry state?’

‘God knows,’ said the Inspector. ‘This is all we need at this point to have him sticking his nose in where it isn’t wanted. He once changed the entire direction of a case because his wife thought she knew who the murderer was.’

‘Did she?’

‘Certainly not. She’d just overheard some people talking in the butcher’s shop.’

‘Maybe she’s been to the greengrocer’s this time,’ said Powerscourt happily. ‘I’ve always been suspicious of
greengrocers
myself. All those enormous vegetables looking as though they might rise up out of their baskets and commit a crime.’

‘We’d better go, my lord,’ said Blunden. ‘One thing he can’t stand is people being late.’

‘Late on parade,’ said Powerscourt as they made their way up the corridor, ‘one of the most serious offences in the military rule book. Probably more serious than murder, now I come to think about it.’

The Chief Constable was waiting behind an enormous desk, looking, Powerscourt thought, rather like a wild
animal
about to spring upon its prey. Two huge watercolours of Simla, summer capital of the British Raj, hung behind his head, one, to Powerscourt’s great delight, showing an enormous number of troops manoeuvring on a vast parade ground.

‘Thank you for coming. Good to see you both,’ he said in a tone that hinted he was less than pleased to meet them again. ‘Now then. This murder. These murders.’ He looked down at his papers as if to check that there had indeed been two murders. ‘Bumped into the Home Secretary at my club yesterday. Fellow wanted to know what was going on. One or two backbenchers been making noises, apparently. Questions likely in the House.’ The Chief Constable looked pleased at his apparent mastery of parliamentary procedure. Powerscourt wondered which London club might contain the improbable pairing of the Home Secretary and the Chief Constable.

‘He wasn’t complaining, the Home Secretary. Understood these things could take time. He did mention a very recent case in Hampshire where the murderer was arrested and charged within forty-eight hours of the crime.’

Inspector Blunden was looking resigned, like a hospital patient who knows he is about to receive mouthfuls of a particularly disagreeable medicine. Powerscourt was feeling rather angry.

‘So bring me up to date, would you, Blunden. Are you any nearer to finding the murderer?’

Blunden decided to say as little as possible. ‘I believe we
are making progress, Chief Constable. There are a number of leads we are following up. Our most important witness has just been brought back from Ireland. We are still
digesting
his evidence.’

‘Digesting?’ snorted the Chief Constable, ‘This isn’t a gourmet restaurant in Paris, man, it’s a murder case. From what you’ve said so far, Blunden, you have no more idea who committed these murders than the Home Secretary, have you, Blunden?’

‘I don’t think that is true, and I don’t think it is fair either,’ said Powerscourt, perfectly willing to meet the Chief Constable at a place of his choosing, weapons to be decided later. ‘This is one of the more difficult cases I have ever been involved in. I believe it will be solved soon because of a line of investigation so secret that I would not tell you about it under any circumstances.’ Lady Lucy had told him late the previous evening about the cryptic clues muttered by the old ladies in their delirium. ‘Indeed, I have not yet told my colleague here about it.’ Powerscourt nodded genially to Inspector Blunden. ‘So you see, Chief Constable, I don’t think the position is as bad as you paint it. Maybe you will have news for the Home Secretary in the near future.’

‘What is it?’ barked the Chief Constable, waving his monocle at Powerscourt as if it were a weapon. ‘This secret source? I demand to be told. I am the Chief Constable round here! I have the right to know!’

Powerscourt thought for a moment. He had no intention of telling the Chief Constable anything. Nor did he
necessarily
want a fight. Nor did he want to embarrass Inspector Blunden.

‘Chief Constable,’ he began, ‘I would like to make use of a military analogy, if I may. I served for a number of years as chief intelligence officer to the forces under the control of General Richardson on the North-West Frontier.’

The Chief Constable seemed to cheer up slightly at the mention of the military.

‘Chukka Richardson?’ he said. ‘Damn fine polo player, Chukka, damn fine.’

‘The same,’ replied Powerscourt. ‘On a number of
occasions
we would be summoned to his quarters, my colleague and I. Either we would propose a scheme to the general, or he would propose a venture to us. Always he would make it very clear what he wanted done. But he never issued a direct order. Nothing was ever put down on paper.’

Powerscourt looked closely at the Chief Constable to see if any light of understanding, even a glimmer, was visible. He saw nothing that pleased him. Bertram
Willoughby-Lewis’
face was as blank as a sheet of fresh notepaper. ‘The general used to say that some damned fool in Whitehall might start asking questions if things were written down. He had a very low opinion of the damn fools in Whitehall, General Richardson. So we would carry out his orders. We never told him any of the details of the operations. He made it clear he never wanted to know. We went about our
business
. He stayed in his tent. The natives were confounded. Everybody was happy. The gentlemen of Whitehall would not have been happy but they were not there.’

‘That’s all very interesting, Powerscourt,’ said the Chief Constable, ‘always fond of a good story myself, but I don’t see what the North-West Frontier has to do with dead Candlesbys here in Lincolnshire. I say again, tell me about your secret source. There’s no time to waste, man. We need to press on.’