David Dickinson - Death of a wine merchant

‘I wish I felt able to help you myself,’ Berry said finally, turning back from his vigil at the window overlooking the dark grey palace with its red soldiers like toys in their sentry boxes, ‘but I don’t think my expertise, for what it’s worth, is what you are looking for. You see, we deal with what we like to think of as the more expensive end of the market, the leading hotels in the capital, ten or twelve Oxbridge colleges, most of the top London clubs, a large number of restaurants, and a considerable number of private clients who are interested in their wine and are happy to be advised by us. People like yourself, Lord Powerscourt. But we’re not dealing with the same sort of people as the Colvilles. The new middle class, as they’re often referred to these days, would not buy their wine from us, they would buy it from Colvilles or one of their rivals. I think I know the man you want, he’s got enormous experience in the wine trade. At the moment he is the chief wine buyer for the White Star Line. They sell all kinds of different wine from all kinds of different countries at all kinds of different prices in their ships. He could tell you straight off, I should think, what was a proper claret and what was made in a factory or a warehouse. I’ll give you a letter of introduction.’

George Berry sat down at one of the desks and scribbled a quick note.

‘His name, Berry, you haven’t told me his name.’

‘His name?’ Berry laughed. ‘When he’s happy he says his name has been a great help in his career. When he’s miserable he claims his name has been the ruin of him and he wishes he’d changed it years ago.’

‘For God’s sake, man, what’s he called?’

‘He’s a hereditary baronet. He’s called…’ George Berry paused for a moment for maximum impact. ‘He’s called Sir Pericles Freme.’

‘God bless my soul!’ said Lord Francis Powerscourt.

Randolph Colville’s funeral was finally held a week and a half after his murder. Powerscourt was travelling to the Church of St James the Less at Pangbourne on the Thames where the last melancholy rites were to be performed. He had arranged to travel with one Christopher Fuller, partner in the City law firm of Moorehead, Fuller and Fox who looked after the Colvilles’ affairs. The solicitor, a slim man in his late thirties with brown eyes and dark curly hair, was carrying a particularly large briefcase which he kept beside him on the seat rather than place it in the storage area above.

‘I don’t suppose you’ve had time to make any progress yet, Lord Powerscourt. Innings only just beginning, what?’

Powerscourt smiled. ‘Has your client said anything to you yet? Has he uttered a word?’

‘Not a word, not a single word,’ said Fuller. ‘And I’ve seen him twice now, once in Norwich and once in Pentonville.’

‘Have you any idea what causes the silence? Is he hiding something?’

‘We’re rather hoping you’ll be able to tell us the answers to those questions, Lord Powerscourt.’

‘Look here.’ Powerscourt leaned forward to stress the importance of what he was about to say. ‘I know you’re not meant to say anything about your client’s affairs and all that, but you’re not in the office now and your first duty is surely to keep your man alive, however you do it. Is there anything you know about the Colvilles that throws light on the murder? You don’t have to be specific, if that’s a problem, just some general guidance.’

‘I wish I could help you, Lord Powerscourt, but I don’t see how I can.’

‘Forgive me, but do you mean that you could if you felt so inclined because you have some information, or do you mean that you can’t because you don’t have any information to give me?’

‘The latter, I’m afraid.’

The train had left London now and was racing along through open countryside. Some two hundred yards away the Thames was meandering peacefully towards the great city and the sea.

‘What about Randolph’s will? Is that will in your briefcase?’

‘It is, as a matter of fact.’

‘Are there any surprises in there? All the money left to charity, or to mistresses tucked away somewhere, that sort of thing?’

Christopher Fuller smiled. ‘You’ll find out in due course, if you come back to the house after the service. There is one surprising thing about Randolph’s will and I don’t understand it at all.’

‘What’s that?’ asked Powerscourt.

‘Well, I don’t think I’m speaking out of turn here, but there’s a lot less money than I would have thought. Hundred thousand less, maybe a couple of hundred thousand less. You see, I would have thought Randolph and Cosmo took about the same amount of money out of the business over the years and Cosmo is worth over twice as much as Randolph.’

‘How do you know that, Mr Fuller?’

Christopher Fuller grimaced. ‘I had to draw up a new will for Cosmo in Pentonville the other day. He wasn’t happy with the previous one that had been drawn up by one of my colleagues. He must be the only Colville in history to have his last will and testament witnessed by a couple of prison warders.’

‘What is Cosmo like, Mr Fuller? What sort of man is he?’

The solicitor took his time before he spoke. ‘In some ways they were similar, the brothers Randolph and Cosmo Colville. From their earliest years it had been drummed into them that the business came first. Nothing else really mattered. Old man Walter may have sent them off to Harrow to learn the manners of their betters, rather like Tom Brown going to Rugby, but he wasn’t going to turn them into gentlemen of leisure living comfortably off their dividends. Work was the thing. Always work. Randolph spent a lot of time in France, in Burgundy. He looked after the firm’s interests there and his children used to joke that he was becoming half French himself. But it was their attitudes outside the business that were so different. Randolph was a man of great enthusiasms, fly fishing one minute, French cathedrals the next. Cosmo was more steady, more circumspect. He looked after the firm’s interests in Bordeaux. They actually own a chateau there, you know. He never lost his passion for cricket, Cosmo, and the Test Matches at Lord’s. I’ve always thought that was where he was happiest.’

Powerscourt could sympathize with that. He would work even harder for a man whose grand passion was for Test Matches at Lord’s. ‘What will happen to the succession at Colvilles if both brothers are gone?’

‘They say the old man, Walter, has wanted to give up the chairmanship for years and pass it on to the younger generation. But he’s never been able to make up his mind which one of the younger generation, his boys or his brother Nathaniel’s boys, to give it to. Maybe he’ll have to hang on a little longer.’

The train was slowing down for Pangbourne now. The river was speckled with houseboats and a couple of elderly gentlemen were seated optimistically on the bank with fishing rods in their hands. Powerscourt thought he had time for one last question.

‘Mr Fuller, can I ask you one final question. Do you think Cosmo Colville killed his brother?’

‘I do not,’ replied Fuller.

‘Who do you think did it then?’

‘I’m sorry, Powerscourt, I don’t know. I really haven’t a clue. I wish I did.’

As they walked to the church of St James the Less Powerscourt wondered if Fuller had been telling the truth in his very last answer. Had he protested too much? Was there, somewhere in the well-ordered files of Moorehead, Fuller and Fox of Bishopsgate, a clue about one of the Colvilles, a clue so dangerous it could not be divulged, even to the man employed to save a client from the gallows and the rope?