David Dickinson - Death in a Scarlet Coat

‘B-b-bolted? Stolen by his killers? Sold by his killers?’ Charles was looking more cheerful all of a sudden.

‘The one person who would have known for sure if a horse had disappeared from those stables was Jack Hayward,’ said Powerscourt, spinning a marmalade jar round faster and faster on the tablecloth. ‘And he was shuffled off the scene before he had a chance to check anything at all.’

‘You said, Francis,’ Lady Lucy chipped in, ‘that Jack Hayward took the Earl’s horse Marlborough to go to collect the body. Why didn’t the Earl take his own horse out when he went to meet whoever it was?’

‘God only knows,’ said Charles. ‘I’m lost, I really am. But b-b-before I forget, Lord P-p-powerscourt, I must tell you what Walter Savage told me when he came out of p-p-prison.’

‘Please do,’ said Powerscourt, relieved to have moved off Charles’s father’s amorous activities on the night of his death.

‘Walter Savage came to see me yesterday,’ said Charles, ‘and he told me something he hasn’t said before. You have to remember that Walter is old. His b-b-bladder isn’t what it was. He has to get up several times a night. On the night of the murder, he opened the window to see how the storm was doing. He heard a noise coming from Candlesby village. This was about one or two in the morning, but it might have been earlier. He said it sounded like cheering. He went back to bed and thought no more of it.’

‘Cheering?’ said Powerscourt. ‘Cheering?’

‘That’s what he said. He wasn’t certain, b-b-but it sounded like cheering.’

Inspector Blunden felt that the people of Lincolnshire were plotting against him, conspiring to leave the county and deprive him of suspects. First Oliver Bell had fled, misleading the constabulary about his alibi on the night of the murder before he left. Now the Lawrences had disappeared. First they had gone to London in great numbers, pursued afterwards by Johnny Fitzgerald and Constable Merrick. Now they had vanished, leaving no information at all at their various houses about where they had gone. And worse was to come. A messenger arrived with a summons. He and Powerscourt were to meet the Chief Constable. Constable Merrick was sent for and ordered to the Candlesby Arms on his bicycle at full speed. He was to bring Powerscourt to the police station with all possible despatch. Inspector Blunden hoped Powerscourt would come in his Silver Ghost.

He did. Fifteen minutes later, before the constable had reappeared, Powerscourt was conferring with the Inspector in his office. Inspector Blunden was in happier mood this morning. His wife had managed to introduce another nursery rhyme into his daughter’s repertoire. Last night after supper Emily Blunden had sat on her father’s lap and recited ‘Jack and Jill went up the hill’, with the emphasis on ‘hill’ for some reason, to her father’s great delight.

‘What’s up with the Chief Constable?’ said Powerscourt. ‘Homework not delivered on time? Changing rooms left in a sorry state?’

‘God knows,’ said the Inspector. ‘This is all we need at this point to have him sticking his nose in where it isn’t wanted. He once changed the entire direction of a case because his wife thought she knew who the murderer was.’

‘Did she?’

‘Certainly not. She’d just overheard some people talking in the butcher’s shop.’

‘Maybe she’s been to the greengrocer’s this time,’ said Powerscourt happily. ‘I’ve always been suspicious of greengrocers myself. All those enormous vegetables looking as though they might rise up out of their baskets and commit a crime.’

‘We’d better go, my lord,’ said Blunden. ‘One thing he can’t stand is people being late.’

‘Late on parade,’ said Powerscourt as they made their way up the corridor, ‘one of the most serious offences in the military rule book. Probably more serious than murder, now I come to think about it.’

The Chief Constable was waiting behind an enormous desk, looking, Powerscourt thought, rather like a wild animal about to spring upon its prey. Two huge watercolours of Simla, summer capital of the British Raj, hung behind his head, one, to Powerscourt’s great delight, showing an enormous number of troops manoeuvring on a vast parade ground.

‘Thank you for coming. Good to see you both,’ he said in a tone that hinted he was less than pleased to meet them again. ‘Now then. This murder. These murders.’ He looked down at his papers as if to check that there had indeed been two murders. ‘Bumped into the Home Secretary at my club yesterday. Fellow wanted to know what was going on. One or two backbenchers been making noises, apparently. Questions likely in the House.’ The Chief Constable looked pleased at his apparent mastery of parliamentary procedure. Powerscourt wondered which London club might contain the improbable pairing of the Home Secretary and the Chief Constable.

‘He wasn’t complaining, the Home Secretary. Understood these things could take time. He did mention a very recent case in Hampshire where the murderer was arrested and charged within forty-eight hours of the crime.’

Inspector Blunden was looking resigned, like a hospital patient who knows he is about to receive mouthfuls of a particularly disagreeable medicine. Powerscourt was feeling rather angry.

‘So bring me up to date, would you, Blunden. Are you any nearer to finding the murderer?’

Blunden decided to say as little as possible. ‘I believe we are making progress, Chief Constable. There are a number of leads we are following up. Our most important witness has just been brought back from Ireland. We are still digesting his evidence.’

‘Digesting?’ snorted the Chief Constable, ‘This isn’t a gourmet restaurant in Paris, man, it’s a murder case. From what you’ve said so far, Blunden, you have no more idea who committed these murders than the Home Secretary, have you, Blunden?’

‘I don’t think that is true, and I don’t think it is fair either,’ said Powerscourt, perfectly willing to meet the Chief Constable at a place of his choosing, weapons to be decided later. ‘This is one of the more difficult cases I have ever been involved in. I believe it will be solved soon because of a line of investigation so secret that I would not tell you about it under any circumstances.’ Lady Lucy had told him late the previous evening about the cryptic clues muttered by the old ladies in their delirium. ‘Indeed, I have not yet told my colleague here about it.’ Powerscourt nodded genially to Inspector Blunden. ‘So you see, Chief Constable, I don’t think the position is as bad as you paint it. Maybe you will have news for the Home Secretary in the near future.’

‘What is it?’ barked the Chief Constable, waving his monocle at Powerscourt as if it were a weapon. ‘This secret source? I demand to be told. I am the Chief Constable round here! I have the right to know!’

Powerscourt thought for a moment. He had no intention of telling the Chief Constable anything. Nor did he necessarily want a fight. Nor did he want to embarrass Inspector Blunden.

‘Chief Constable,’ he began, ‘I would like to make use of a military analogy, if I may. I served for a number of years as chief intelligence officer to the forces under the control of General Richardson on the North-West Frontier.’

The Chief Constable seemed to cheer up slightly at the mention of the military.

‘Chukka Richardson?’ he said. ‘Damn fine polo player, Chukka, damn fine.’

‘The same,’ replied Powerscourt. ‘On a number of occasions we would be summoned to his quarters, my colleague and I. Either we would propose a scheme to the general, or he would propose a venture to us. Always he would make it very clear what he wanted done. But he never issued a direct order. Nothing was ever put down on paper.’