David Dickinson - Death of a wine merchant

‘Don’t suppose there’s any chance of that?’ said Powerscourt.

‘No, there isn’t,’ said Pugh, blowing an enormous cloud of smoke towards the ceiling, ‘but it’s worth a try. The thing is, I don’t think many of these judges understand fingerprints. One of them told me after a case not long ago that he believed they changed every time a person washed his hands. Stood to reason, his lordship said, all that water running over the skin, it’s bound to change the patterns.’

‘You are bound to be a much better judge than I of what might weigh with the jury, Pugh. Now the fingerprint evidence is gone, what are we left with?’

‘Don’t underestimate the cleaning lady, Powerscourt. I have high hopes of the cleaning lady. I shall recall the elderly police person before her. She may show up the Norfolk Constabulary for a collection of fools who couldn’t look after things properly, and ipso facto, were unlikely to have arrested the right man. Mind you, they may get some director person up from the Theatre Royal in Norwich to coach her. I’ve known provincial police forces do stranger things in my time.’

‘The mysterious Frenchman,’ said Powerscourt, ‘how do you rate him?’

‘Ah,’ said Pugh, ‘if anything I like the mysterious Frenchman even more than I like the cleaning lady of Fakenham. That couple from the hotel are going to appear for the defence. Tell me this, Powerscourt, you have been writing to lots of people who were near to where the murder was committed in the Long Gallery, is that not so? And none of them remember a Frenchman?’

‘Not one,’ said Powerscourt.

‘I just wonder if we shouldn’t shift the focus. Look at it this way. If our theory is correct, and the mysterious Frenchman was the murderer, then I don’t think he would have gone back into the crowd after he’d done the deed. He’d have cleared off as fast as he could, down the stairs from the state bedroom and legged it round the empty side of the Hall. So he wouldn’t have been up there in the Long Gallery for any of your correspondents to see. Why don’t we try the other seating plan, the one taken in the garden before they went into the house, and see if any of those people remember a Frenchman or a stranger. He’s bound to have been lurking about then. He had to get into the house to commit the murder after all.’

‘Right,’ said Powerscourt, ‘we’ll write to them all.’

‘What about the vanished under footman or trainee coachman or whatever he was,’ said Pugh. ‘Has he turned up yet?’

‘William Stebbings,’ Powerscourt replied, ‘trainee footman, close to the butler and the murder scene at Brympton Hall. No sign of him as yet. I think the Nashes are beginning to lose hope.’

‘I’m sure you know as well as I do, Powerscourt,’ said Charles Augustus Pugh, ‘horrible thing to say, but he’s more use to us dead than alive. God forgive me, but if he was murdered I could almost guarantee to get Cosmo off.’

Powerscourt nodded across the desk. ‘Lucy and I were saying the same thing only the other day. I’d like to pick your brain on a slightly different tack, if I may. It doesn’t help us in the short term with the defence, mind you.’

‘As things stand at present,’ said Pugh, now nearing the end of his cheroot, ‘we don’t have enough to save Cosmo. Unless we can work a miracle, he’s going to swing. Tell me what you want to pick my brain about.’

‘It’s this,’ said Powerscourt, ‘why is Cosmo refusing to say a word? Nobody’s made any sense of that so far. Let’s leave women out of it for a moment. What on earth would persuade a conservative character like Cosmo to play the hero? Does he know who the murderer is? Does he refuse to give somebody away? Is it a question of honour in some way? Did some dark secret of the Colvilles have to remain a secret? Family honour and all that? I can just about see Cosmo taking that line, you know. Like a lot of people who aren’t necessarily very clever, I’m sure he could be very obstinate when it came to what he saw as his interests or his family’s interests. Did the secret have to do with the family row? God knows, Pugh, I’m sure I don’t.’

‘I’m sure the notion of honour, probably family honour, is a runner. But your theory worked on an assumption that women had nothing to do with it. I seem to remember you telling me that one of his relations said Randolph was a ladies’ man throughout his lifetime, before and after his marriage. Who might he have been carrying on with who could have brought dishonour and disgrace to his family? The wife of a Colville? The wife of a competitor? Some pretty twenty-year-old serving maid? Somebody whose lowly origins would have brought disgrace to the family? But how could that lead to his death? Unless he promised money, marriage and all that to the girl and then changed his mind. Then she shoots him. That’s no good at all, Powerscourt. It remains the very centre of this case, that little tableau in the state bedroom, Randolph lying dead on the floor, Cosmo sitting opposite him with a gun in his hand, refusing to speak. If we could unravel that we could get Cosmo off, but we can’t.’

Johnny Fitzgerald dropped into Markham Square late that afternoon. He refused all offers of tea. He had further news to report, though none of it, he would be the first to admit, likely to lead to an acquittal.

‘My first piece of news,’ he began, ‘has to do with the man we used to call the Necromancer.’

‘Used to call the Necromancer?’ Powerscourt cut in. ‘Is he dead?’

‘No, he’s not dead. I followed that Septimus Parry to a warehouse in Shadwell. Huge forbidding place, about six or seven floors. Maybe they’re all filled with fake wines. Anyway I was trying to listen at the door when they pulled me in. I was, thank God, a tramp for the afternoon, rather than myself. I had to confess to working for a Lord Francis Powerscourt every now and then, before they kicked me out. Literally. I’ve got a bloody great bruise on my leg. The thing is he’s not called Necromancer at all. He’s called the Alchemist. He was very cross that his fakery had been discovered. He uttered some dire threats against you, Francis.’

‘He’ll get over it,’ said Powerscourt, ‘I’m not too worried about a few threats from a forger. He’ll probably find another corner of another warehouse tomorrow, I shouldn’t wonder. What news of Colvilles, Johnny?’

‘I think I’ve finally discovered what all the young men there are frightened of,’ Johnny said, stretching himself out full-length on a Powerscourt sofa. ‘They think the firm is going to go bust. It was bad enough, they said, with Randolph and Cosmo alive. Neither of them ever paid very much attention to the future. Their main concern was that things should go on as they had done in the past. But now they’re both gone, there’s nobody with any grip left in the place. There’s an old general manager who’s apparently no use to anybody at all. There’s a young relation called Tristram who tried to move into Randolph’s shoes and Randolph’s office recently but he was more interested in going out to lunch than he was in the business. He’s cleared off now. What they should do is to advertise for a first rate man from one of the other wine merchants and pay him handsomely to drag Colvilles back from the brink. One of the young men told me the place was running on collective memory, nothing else.’

‘I don’t suppose,’ said Powerscourt, ‘that any of the young men had any information about dark secrets that might lie beneath the surface?’

Johnny Fitzgerald shook his head. ‘I tried them all, all the bad words. Family rows, blackmail – I went on and on about blackmail – adultery, mistresses, fallen women. None of them registered. One of them told me they were too far from the centre to pick up any of that, and he was probably right.’