David Dickinson - Death in a Scarlet Coat

‘We’ve got another problem here,’ said the Inspector with feeling. ‘It’s one unique to this county and it won’t go away.’

‘Really?’ said Powerscourt, wondering what particular plague had struck the first-born of Lincolnshire.

‘I shouldn’t be saying this, my lord, but you are in the nature of an outsider here. The problem is our new Chief Constable. He’s not been here long. He knows less about police work than my daughter and she’s only three years old. He interferes. He asks for information about cases before anybody’s been charged. It wouldn’t matter if his interventions were sensible or even rational. They’re not. One of my fellow Inspectors firmly believes that he takes cases home to his wife for her to decide what he should do. Only trouble is, she’s even more stupid than he is. And because he’s ex-army he’s big on smart uniforms and polished boots and all that sort of thing.’

‘What’s his name, this new fellow?’

‘Willoughby-Lewis, my lord, Bertram Willoughby-Lewis to be precise. Ex-Indian Army, ex-Major General. They say his brother’s a top official in the Home Office. Maybe that’s how he got the job.’

‘Bertram? You did say Bertram, didn’t you?’ said Powerscourt, a smile spreading across his features. ‘Thin cove, big moustache, very high-pitched voice not perfectly suited to delivering parade ground commands, yes?’

Detective Inspector Blunden looked confused. ‘That’s right, my lord, you’ve got him to a tee. Have you met him?’

‘I think I have, as a matter of fact,’ said Powerscourt. ‘My friend Johnny Fitzgerald and I were stationed close by the man once during our time in India, but never under his command. Johnny could imitate the Willoughby-Lewis voice perfectly. He once managed to reroute an entire day’s march for the Willoughby-Lewis troops by ringing their adjutants late in the day in his best Willoughby-Lewis accents and giving them new orders. There was the most magnificent confusion, especially when all the adjutants told the Major General that they had only followed the new orders because he had telephoned them in person. The only man who worked out what had happened was our commanding officer. God knows how he found out but he sent Johnny and me away on a trip for ten days to keep us out of the way.’

‘I like that story very much,’ said the Inspector. ‘Now then, my lord, what do you think we should do?’

‘Could we press right on and call on the new Earl this afternoon? We could say there are certain irregularities, something like that. I’m sure he should be our first port of call. Telephone? Telegraph?’

Blunden snorted. ‘They’ve only just got running water up there,’ he said. ‘No telegraph, no telephone, no electricity, no motor cars; the place is still back in the Dark Ages. I could send a message saying we propose to call at eleven in the morning tomorrow. And that would give us an opportunity to make one or two inquiries ourselves, my lord. It seems to me that the key person to find is the man who escorted the horse and the body up that road. If he’s a servant they’ll have sworn him to silence. But there are one or two members of the hunt I know who will help us if I ask them. I don’t think the family would be able to silence all of them. And I’ll ask our people who know Candlesby village to make some discreet inquiries up there, not that they ever say much to officers of the law. That should give us a start.’

‘Could I be very forward, Inspector, and make a suggestion entirely outside my province? Feel free to tell me to jump in the lake. But before you do anything I think you should talk to your Chief Constable. I know he’s difficult but if you involve him right from the start then, in my long experience of wayward, unstable, unreliable or even insane commanding officers, he’ll be easier to manage. That’s all.’

Inspector Blunden looked closely at Powerscourt for a moment and then he laughed. ‘You’re absolutely right, my lord. There’s nothing to lose.’

He rose from his chair and adjusted his uniform carefully. ‘Could you bear to wait till I get back? Whole case may have been kicked into the long grass by then for all I know. Then you’d be on your own. But do you know, my lord, we haven’t known each other for long, but I’d much rather we were working together.’

Richard, the new Earl of Candlesby, was in a bad mood even before he received the note from the Inspector proposing a visit at eleven o’clock the following morning. He had now spent the past day and a half working on the accounts with his steward and discovered that his debts were larger than he thought, his income smaller than he expected, and the threat of bankruptcy not yet very close but visible as a small dot on the far horizon, moving ever nearer fairly fast. The impending visit of some unknown private investigator and a Detective Inspector from Spalding left Richard worried. They could only be coming about his father’s death. Richard didn’t know what the penalty was for covering up your father’s murder but he thought it might be pretty bad. As he rehearsed the questions he might be asked in his mind he suddenly realized how great his peril was. He had covered up the death. Therefore he had something to hide. He had insisted on the false death certificate. Yet more proof that he had something to hide. And that something, he said to himself bitterly, could only be, in the eyes of the law, that I covered things up because I killed my father. This was even worse than he had feared.

He told his brothers about the visitors due the next day and summoned them to a meeting early that evening in what was known as the breakfast room. There was what had once been a fine circular English oak table of about 1840 and some paintings of Naples on the walls where the grime had not yet obliterated the views.

Henry and Edward were the first to arrive, their cheeks still bright from a long walk around the estate, arguing over which treasures they should be allowed to take from the house. Charles came last, protesting that the subject of the meeting had nothing to do with him. He hadn’t even been in the county at the time of the meeting of the hunt and the discovery of the body.

‘Do keep quiet, Charles,’ said Richard, writing something in a large red book on the table. ‘This is very serious. If we make a false move tomorrow, we’re done for. I’ve no idea who this Powerscourt person is, he’s described as a private investigator, whatever that means, and the Blunden man is the local Inspector for these parts. Now then, Henry and Edward, I think they’re going to concentrate on the arrival of the body. This is going to be like a parlour game but a deadly serious one. I’m going to pretend to be the police Inspector, so be prepared to answer my questions.’

‘Charades! Dressing up!’ said Charles happily. ‘How simply divine! I do think we should dress up p-p-properly though. There are p-p-policemen’s uniforms in the b-box upstairs. Should I go and get them?’

‘Will you shut up, Charles! If I have to tell you again you will just have to leave. Henry, Edward, can you tell me when you first realized that there was something unusual about the horse coming up the drive?’

Edward and Henry mumbled different answers that made very little sense. Richard took his brothers over the ground again, eventually writing down answers for them to learn before the policeman arrived the following morning. Charles’s only other contribution met with little sympathy.

‘If Father was wearing his scarlet coat,’ he asked, ‘why did p-p-people try to hide it under the b-b-blankets? It was very p-p-pretty, that coat. He looked very handsome in it.’

As Richard went to bed that night he realized that the chances of his brothers putting their feet in it were considerable and that he should keep Charles out of sight at all times. He had, after all, not been present at the vital hours. Most of all he wondered which of them hated him enough to betray him to the authorities.