David Dickinson - Death of a wine merchant

Powerscourt waited. There might be more to come yet. Would she speak of Randolph’s wandering eye, he wondered? Did he dare ask? How should he phrase it?

She rang the bell again. ‘Lord Powerscourt is just leaving us,’ she said to the dwarf butler, as Powerscourt now referred to him in his mind. ‘I think it’s for the best,’ she said to Powerscourt, trying to rise from her chair and falling back again. Powerscourt bowed to Hermione Colville and set out from the house towards the railway station. The air of Moulsford was refreshing, he thought. Especially when you were out of doors.

Powerscourt wondered about Mrs Colville in his train back to London. How much should he believe of what she had said? All of it? None of it? Was this In Vino Veritas? Or was it rather In Vino A Pack Of Lies? On the whole he subscribed to the latter theory, that most of what Hermione had said could be put down to a maudlin self-pity and an over-dramatized version of her position brought on by the increasing pull of the Chablis.

He wondered too about Timothy Barrington White, married to Lady Lucy’s cousin Milly, and his friend Beauchamp Trumper at their drinking club near Paddington station. For Powerscourt had now reconciled himself to the kind of defence they would have to offer for Cosmo Colville. It was now unlikely that he was going to make one major discovery that would turn the prosecution case upside down and force them to withdraw. He thought of their position in building terms. He no longer felt that he would be able to produce a whole new floor, composed of sound boards and solid walls, large windows letting in the light. Instead, Powerscourt reckoned, they would have to come up with a mosaic of doubts and suspicions and uncertainties that might persuade the jury that they could not be certain Cosmo was the murderer. Into such a mosaic, rather like that in some long-abandoned Roman villa, Timothy Barrington White and his drinking companion might be profitably accommodated. First the friend would have to be persuaded to give evidence about Barrington White’s threat to kill the Colvilles.

Then White would have to take the stand and answer questions about his previous rows with them. Charles Augustus Pugh would remind him of his threat. Pugh would then put it to White that he had, in fact, carried out his threat, that he had, indeed, only gone to the wedding to commit murder. White would deny it, of course, but some collateral damage might have been inflicted on the prosecution case.

There was, Powerscourt well knew, only one problem with his plan, maybe two. Lady Lucy would have to approve for a start. If he organized it with Pugh’s people and Pugh’s chambers without telling Lucy there would be hell to pay. He would, he decided, write to Pugh as soon as he could and ask his advice. Powerscourt suspected the whole scheme might be a waste of time. He approached the subject gingerly as he inspected an atlas of Norfolk for his trip later that day.

‘Do you want me to organize this for you, Francis?’ Lady Lucy said. ‘Talk to the parties concerned and then tell Mr Pugh to sign them up or whatever it is he has to do?’

‘Well,’ said Powerscourt, ‘let’s wait and see what Pugh has to say.’

The conversation was cut short by the arrival of the twins. Ever since they could understand things they had been fascinated by maps. They stared at the page opened at the county of Norfolk. They understood that the lines of black ladders meant railways. On an earlier occasion, Powerscourt remembered, they had climbed up on the table and run their fingers along the railway symbol all the way from Plymouth to Inverness. On this occasion their interest lay elsewhere.

‘Blue,’ said Christopher.

‘Blue,’ said Juliet.

‘Sea?’ said Christopher, looking hopefully at his father.

The sea, in Powerscourt’s experience, was the only thing known to have reduced the twins to total silence. That summer he and Lady Lucy had taken them to a great beach in Dorset and Powerscourt made them close their eyes until he gave the word. When the party was right at the top of the beach, the sea about four hundred yards away, Powerscourt told them to open their eyes. They looked at their parents. They looked at the sea. They looked at each other. They looked at the sea again. They stood perfectly still for over a minute without any fighting or kicking. Then with a great war whoop they held hands and hurtled off towards the water at full speed.

‘All the way round the coast,’ Powerscourt’s finger ran in a great arc round the coast of Norfolk from Hunstanton to Lowestoft, ‘there is the sea. North Sea, it’s called.’ He closed the atlas rapidly in case the twins worked out where he was going and asked to come too. He was saved by the voice of Cook offering fresh buns in the kitchen. He kissed Lady Lucy on the lips and set off for the railway station.

Powerscourt had arranged to meet Inspector Cooper at the Black Boys Hotel in Aylsham early that evening. He had taken the liberty of asking the young detective to bring copies of his two seating plans with him. He had pointed out that the defence could easily ask for them to be introduced as pieces of evidence at the trial. He thought again about the case against Cosmo with the gun in his hand. He still found it hard to believe that they could assemble a defence that could secure his acquittal. Piece by piece, he said to himself, scintilla of doubt followed by scintilla of doubt, undermining the jury’s confidence like the incoming tide eroding a sandcastle on the beach.

‘Good evening, Lord Powerscourt.’ Inspector Cooper was there to greet him in the lounge of his hotel.

‘I trust I find you well, Inspector,’ said Powerscourt, shaking the young man’s hand.

‘More than well,’ said Cooper, beaming broadly at his visitor.

‘Has some happy event brightened up your life?’ asked Powerscourt with a smile.

‘It has indeed, my lord. I am engaged to be married, so I am, and that’s a fact.’

‘I take it this happened fairly recently?’ said Powerscourt. ‘May I wish you every happiness in your married life.’

‘I asked Charlotte two Sundays ago. I was going to ask her on Christmas Eve, you know, but she looked so lovely that afternoon it sort of slipped out. Then I asked her father for her hand this Sunday gone. He was very happy for us.’

A rising police inspector would be a good match for your daughter, Powerscourt thought, a steadily growing income, sufficient money to support a family, a reliable pension at the end. A man might do worse for his daughter, a lot worse.

Powerscourt thought the Inspector had turned into a puppy, he was so happy. ‘Forgive me for turning to business, Inspector, but were you able to find the time to have copies made of those two seating plans?’

‘Of course,’ said Inspector Cooper, fetching a large envelope from his briefcase. ‘This is the one that relates to the moments before they left the garden and went upstairs, and this relates to where we think they were just before the shooting.’ Each wedding guest, Powerscourt noted, was represented by a circle with a name inside. The large sheets of stiff paper were encrusted with circles.

‘Thank you so much,’ said Powerscourt, popping them back into their envelope for now. ‘You don’t happen to have addresses for all these people, do you, by any chance?’

‘I don’t but Mrs Nash does, I think. She had them all to send out the invitations. I was going to borrow her list when – when other matters intervened and the investigation was closed.’

‘I hope to see Mrs Nash tomorrow as a matter of fact. Tell me, Inspector, has any fresh evidence come to light concerning this case? I presume you have been involved with other cases but there is often a trickle of fresh intelligence.’