David Dickinson: Death in a Scarlet Coat

‘You did say tenor and soprano, didn’t you, Mr Drake?’ Powerscourt was looking meaningfully at Lady Lucy as he spoke.

‘Yes, I did,’ said Drake, looking perplexed.

Powerscourt managed to raise an eyebrow in inquisitive mode in Lady Lucy’s direction. There was a slight but unmistakable nod in reply.

‘Well,’ said Powerscourt, ‘if you’re willing to take a chance, Mr Drake, then we might just be able to help you.’

‘What do you mean?’ said a confused Drake.

‘This and only this. Lady Powerscourt and I have sung the tenor and soprano parts in the Messiah before. The tunes are so memorable you never really forget them but I think we would need a quick refresher course in the solo parts at least. What do you say to that, Mr Drake?’

The hotel manager was on his feet, shaking them both by the hand and performing a sort of impromptu jig on his carpet, nearly knocking over the Earl Grey and scones of a couple of elderly spinsters come to the hotel for a peaceful afternoon tea.

‘Thank God!’ he cried. ‘Thank God for the crooked bridge that brought your car low! Thank God you are here in our hour of need! I will bring you straight away to St Michael’s and the vicar can run you through your paces. I must just tell Mabel to mind the hotel while I’ve gone. She’s much better at it than I am anyway.’

Two minutes later the three of them were walking briskly up the street towards St Michael and All Angels. Attentive passers-by would have heard a female voice singing, ‘I know that my Redeemer liveth and that he shall stand at the latter day upon the Earth.’ Lady Lucy’s voice soared upwards into the evening sky and was lost before it reached the stars.

‘At least we’ll be able to get our hands on some money now the old bastard’s dead.’ Edward Dymoke, tubby third son of the late Lord Candlesby, was addressing his elder brother Henry in the saloon of Candlesby Hall, a mangy dog with three legs lounging at his feet. Richard the redhead, the eldest son, the new Earl, was reading a newspaper at the far side of the room, as if he wished to put as much space as possible between himself and his brothers. Most of the space between them was occupied by a disused billiard table with two pockets hanging out and a rug concealing whatever damage the young of Candlesby had managed to inflict on the playing surface over the years.

‘Absolutely,’ said Henry. ‘I’m up for a spot of money too. I’ll be able to place some decent bets at the races at last. Do you know, I think I might take a holiday in Monte Carlo and have a flutter at the tables. What are you going to do with yours?’

‘I thought I would escape from all this dreary countryside for a start,’ said Edward, kicking a decrepit stuffed fox by the side of the hearth. ‘I’ve had enough of fields and grass and wheat and harvests and rain and trees and wet leaves and beefy women who look as if they’ve done nothing but bake and wash clothes all their lives. It’s the city life for me. London? New York? Paris? I’ve been told there are plenty of gorgeous whores on the Champs-Elysees and the Boulevard Saint-Michel.’

‘I wonder how much there is,’ said Henry reflectively. ‘Money, I mean.’

‘God knows,’ said Edward, reluctant to return to Candlesby Hall from his trysts with the good-time girls of Paris, ‘but if you stand at the highest point near here up by that dreary mausoleum on the hill – it’s not what you’d call high but it’s the highest thing for miles around – all the land you can see belongs to us. Maybe we should sell some of it.’

There was a cackle that might have been a snarl from the far side of the room. Richard put down his newspaper, revealing a large damp patch on the wall behind him, and advanced towards his brothers.

‘You stupid pair!’ he began. ‘Who in heaven’s name do you think you are, to start talking about money and how you’re going to spend it? What makes you think you are going to inherit any money?’

Richard had reached the other side of the room and was now in spitting distance of his brothers. He glanced at them both in turn in a gesture of supreme contempt.

‘How do you know there is any money, for God’s sake? Or are you just assuming there must be some because you’d like to get your hands on as much of it as you can? Well, let me tell you one or two things that might not have occurred to you.’

Richard sat down and continued to address his brothers as if they had just failed the entrance test for England’s stupidest regiment.

‘Let me remind you for a start of the batting order round here. I am the eldest son. I inherit the title. You don’t. I inherit the estate. You don’t. I inherit this house. You don’t. You don’t inherit a thing. Quite soon I shall be called to London to be installed as a member of the House of Lords, where I shall make my views known to my fellow countrymen. I shall do everything in my power to make life difficult for that vulgar little commoner Lloyd George. You two’ – he stared balefully at his brothers – ‘are younger sons. Younger sons, unless they are very lucky, do not inherit. They do not inherit anything at all. That is why so many occupations like vicars and wine merchants and those people who play with money in the City of London were invented; it’s all to give younger sons something to do, something that can stop them being a drain on their families. Monte Carlo? The prostitutes of Paris? I think not, brothers!’

As he made his way to the door Richard turned for a parting shot. ‘There’s one other thing you should be aware of,’ he said. ‘You talk as if there was money, as if the estate and everything is solvent. Well, I had a talk with our steward this afternoon. There isn’t any money. There are only debts, mortgages, loans that could add up to as much as seventy or eighty thousand pounds, maybe more. We don’t know the final figure yet. That’s not money we’ve got. That’s money we owe other people. There’s absolutely nothing for younger sons!’

An elderly verger was lighting the candles in the church of St Michael and All Angels as Drake and the Powerscourts arrived. An erect old lady with white hair was dusting the pews one last time, paying particular attention to the two front rows, where distinguished visitors could be expected to sit. Specks of dust, after all, might be clearly visible on the Episcopal purple. Kneeling by the rail in front of the altar as if he were a candidate for communion, the vicar, the Reverend Peter Moorhouse, could be heard faintly, praying for deliverance.

When the introductions were made and he realized that here were a new tenor and a new soprano, risen from the ditch by the humpbacked bridge to solve the problems of the Candlesby Messiah , he seized them both by the hand.

‘Truly,’ he said, ‘salvation is come to us here. May the Lord bless you and keep you. May the Lord make the light of his countenance shine upon you and be gracious unto you and give you his peace … Heavens, I’m confusing the prayers for Evensong with my thanks for you; how silly of me. It is surely as the poet says: more things are wrought by prayer than this world dreams of. And I had thought it almost presumptuous of me to ask God to send us reinforcements. Now then, I’m talking too much. My dear wife always tells me I talk too much – what were you saying, George, a little rehearsal, was it?’ The vicar still had the lithe figure of the long distance runner he had been at university. The Reverend Moorhouse also held the record for the longest sermon ever delivered from the pulpit at St Michael and All Angels at one hour twenty-seven minutes. The more sporting members of his choir and congregation placed bets on the duration every week.