David Dickinson - Death in a Scarlet Coat

‘I think our guests would find a little rehearsal helpful, Vicar,’ said George Drake. ‘Just the solo arias they will have to sing this evening, not the whole thing.’

‘Of course, of course,’ said the vicar, virtually running to the organ and ferreting about among the sheet music.

‘Now then, let me give you both a little word of advice, if I may.’ The vicar was turning over the pages as he spoke. ‘Most people’, he waved a hand upwards in the general direction of the roof, high above, ‘think they have to try really hard to make their voice carry all over this church, because it’s so high. But for some reason – you wouldn’t have thought late medieval stonemasons would have known about the reach of the human voice, would you – that’s not so. The acoustics are almost perfect, so you can sing well within yourself and it’ll carry beautifully. Now then, Lord Powerscourt, I think you open the batting. I’ll give you the cue with my right hand, so.’

The vicar began playing. Powerscourt didn’t need the cue. I was only seventeen years old the last time I sang this, he said to himself, taking a deep breath and launching into ‘Comfort ye, comfort ye, my people, saith your God. Speak ye comfortably to Jerusalem …’ Soon he was so lost in the beauty of the music and his own memories that he forgot to work out how many years had passed since he sang this aria with the local choir in his parents’ church in Ireland, his mother watching proudly from the second row.

‘Excellent,’ said the vicar as they reached the end. ‘That will do splendidly. I don’t think we need try out any more in case your voice grows tired. I’m sure Lady Powerscourt will be even better. Which aria would you like to sing, Lady Powerscourt?’

‘The shepherds? Would that do?’ asked Lady Lucy.

The great organ boomed forth. Lady Lucy sang. The vicar was delighted. George Drake was conferring with the cleaning lady about the Bishop.

‘Seven o’clock start,’ said the vicar. ‘I expect everybody to be here in good time. Thank you so much, Lord and Lady Powerscourt. I cannot tell you how much we owe you.’

The three eldest Dymokes were back in the saloon, bickering among themselves over drinks before dinner. They were about to embark on a fruitless argument about the size of the family debts when the door opened and a pale youth with blond hair and good looks that were almost feminine came in and sat down by the fire.

‘Good evening, brothers,’ he said to the company.

‘My God,’ sneered Edward, ‘look what the cat’s brought in from the madhouse upstairs!’

‘Bedlam has closed its doors for the evening,’ said Henry. ‘Have you left your jailer upstairs? You haven’t come down here to eat with us, have you? Heaven forbid! Why don’t you just head back up the stairs to your own apartment and lock the door behind you?’

James Dymoke was fifteen years old. He was the youngest of the five sons. His mother had died having him and the elder brothers always maintained that she hadn’t had time to finish James off properly before she passed. Bits of him were certainly missing. The doctors thought he was suffering from an incurable form of epilepsy about which they knew very little. On many days he was perfectly normal and showed no signs of illness at all. On others he would have fits, he would be withdrawn and behave briefly like a mad person. He lived in private rooms far from the rest of the family on the top floor with a medical assistant to look after him. Very few people outside Candlesby Hall knew of his existence. He had never been to school.

‘I just thought’, James said hesitantly, ‘that we should be together on the day we lost our father.’

‘We should be together,’ Henry said, pointing in an arc that included his elder brothers but did not include James, ‘but that doesn’t include you. You’re not proper family. You’re not even a proper person. You’re just a freak from the upper floor.’

After all his years in Candlesby Hall James knew that he could expect little better from Henry and Edward. Richard would pretend to be above the fray but would never take his side. James suspected the other two had a private contest to see who could make him cry first. His only supporter was the brother who wasn’t there.

‘He was my father too, you know,’ said James defiantly.

‘She was our mother, too,’ Edward snapped, ‘until you killed her being born.’

‘That’s not true, you know that’s not true,’ James shouted, tears beginning to form in his eyes. His brothers had known for years that their mother was the weakest spot in James’ armour.

The door to the saloon was suddenly flung open. ‘B-b-brothers! P-p-please! Could we not have some family harmony on the day of Father’s death? Arguing is so p-p-pointless these days!’

Charles Dymoke, twenty-two years old, was the fourth in line to the indebted estate. He had become rather a dandy down in London, sporting on this sad day a light brown hunting jacket with a crisp white shirt and a blue cravat.

‘I’d have been here hours earlier, my dears, except some b-b-beastly p-p-porter lost my luggage. So tiresome! Tell me about the arrangements, p-pray. Is Father going to be buried in that divine mausoleum on the hill? I do hope the vicar is going to show up in his finest vestments, lots of p-p-purple rather than that drab grey he seems to wear most of the time. I’ve always thought it would be worth dying if one could be laid to rest in the mausoleum.’

‘Do shut up, Charles.’ Richard was rather enjoying the role of paterfamilias. ‘We should all go in to dinner. It’ll be the first time all five of us have been together for years. Who knows, maybe it’ll be the last.’

The St Michael and All Angels choir’s performance of Handel’s Messiah began exactly on time. The vicar was conducting now, and the headmaster of the local school was in charge of the organ. The choir was about sixty strong with a surprising number of young people in the ranks. Powerscourt wondered if the vicar had worked hard at this element of his team so the choir would become known as a promising place to meet members of the opposite sex.

‘Every valley shall be exalted and every mountain and hill laid low.’

‘And the glory of the Lord shall be revealed and all flesh shall see it together.’

Tenor and bass, soprano and alto, full choir – all took their turn to drive the music on. Powerscourt, after two solos near the beginning, was not needed to sing on his own for some time.

‘O thou that tellest good tidings to Zion, get thee up into the high mountain …’

The choir was growing in confidence as the evening progressed. When they reached the chorus, ‘For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given, and the government shall be upon his shoulder and his name shall be called Wonderful, Counsellor, the mighty God, the everlasting Father, the Prince of Peace,’ it was as if they had forgotten the audience and the organ and the church and the vicar and were communing directly with Georg Friedrich Handel himself.

Then it was Lady Lucy’s turn.

‘There were shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night.’

Suddenly Powerscourt remembered where he had heard her sing like this before. It had been the previous year, in France, and they had gone to visit an ancient Cistercian abbey south of Bourges called Abbaye de Noirlac. It was a beautiful summer’s day and the site was virtually deserted. The ancient abbey with its enormous nave was completely empty. Lady Lucy, he remembered, had gone to stand where the monks would have stood centuries before. She sang ‘I know that my Redeemer liveth’, the same aria that she would sing later this evening near the end of the Messiah . Her voice had filled the huge church. It came out clean and clear and soared around the space, like liquid gold being poured into a phial, or a goblet of perfect Chassagne Montrachet glittering and winking in its glass in the sunshine. Powerscourt had stood perfectly still, tears running down his face, until some fresh visitors arrived and Lady Lucy’s concert came to a sudden end. Her voice had the same clarity tonight.