David Dickinson - Death Called to the Bar

The following morning a bizarre meeting was taking place in the Powerscourt dining room in Manchester Square. All the chairs, except three at the top end, had been taken away from the table and placed against the wall. Stretching round the table were a series of cardboard labels, roughly inscribed with a thick black pen, with the legends nine to ten, ten to eleven, eleven to twelve and so on all the way round the clock to seven to eight. And standing behind the three chairs were Powerscourt, Detective Chief Inspector Jack Beecham and his detective sergeant, an absurdly young-looking man called Richard Gibson whose uniform was slightly too big for him. Looking at Sergeant Gibson, Powerscourt wondered if his mother thought he hadn’t finished growing yet. And piled up on the table in front of the trio was an enormous heap of paper, the typed records of the detectives’ interviews with the inhabitants of Queen’s Inn, and the two black notebooks where Powerscourt kept his own records of his interviews. And, to complete the display, several pairs of scissors.

Chief Inspector Beecham set out the rules. ‘We’re most grateful to you, Lord Powerscourt, for inviting us here. What we want to do is to sort all this lot out in terms of time of day.’ He pointed to the small mountain of paper. ‘We have here the records of all the people we have talked to in the Inn. Sergeant Gibson, despite his tender years, is an expert not only in the shorthand but in the typing department. The training school of the Metropolitan Police believe his is the fastest hand they have ever seen, faster than all those young ladies you see going off to adorn the offices of the City of London. Now, the procedure is quite clear. If the transcript mentions a time between eight and nine then it goes over there.’ The Chief Inspector pointed to the relevant cardboard label. Powerscourt noticed that the nails were bitten down to the quick. Perhaps the detective was very highly strung.

‘And if,’ he continued, ‘the interviewee saw him twice at different times of day, then we just cut the paper at the relevant point and move the new section to the later time. I don’t think it should take us very long.’

Gradually the piles of paper began to decrease. And all three of them found it easier to talk as they entered their material under the relevant time. A ghostly history of Dauntsey’s last hours began to emerge, a plainchant between two policemen and an investigator that followed a man to his death.

‘Eight thirty or just afterwards. Dauntsey seen by the porter coming into the Inn.’ This in a solemn voice from the Chief Inspector.

‘Eight forty, clerk of chambers reports exchanging Good Mornings as he enters his chambers.’ This from the sergeant in a nervous voice.

‘Eight forty-five, meeting with Edward in his room about forthcoming fraud case.’ Powerscourt, wondering how much effort it cost Edward to pass on the information.

‘Ten fifteen, meeting with clerk about forthcoming cases.’ The Chief Inspector again.

‘Ten forty-five, leaves his chambers. Meeting in chambers of Woodford Stewart about forthcoming fraud case.’

‘Twelve thirty, leaves Inn with Stewart, lunches in the Garrick, returns shortly after two.’

The piles were growing around their cardboard sentries, Powerscourt noticed. But the bulk of the replies were still on the table in front of him. He presumed that the feast, with the largest number of lawyers present, must also have contained the largest number of sightings. The paper round continued. Powerscourt paid particular attention when it reached five o’clock. The doctors were still not sure what time the poison must have been administered but the earliest possible hour was five o’clock.

‘Ten past five,’ said the sergeant. Dauntsey had been in the library since four thirty-five, looking up some precedent for the fraud case. ‘Dauntsey back in his own chambers. Has tea with Edward during further meeting about fraud case. Edward leaves Dauntsey still wearing normal clothes at five forty-five.’

‘Six o’clock, Dauntsey leaves his rooms in evening clothes to attend pre-feast drinks party in the Treasurer’s chambers in Fountain Court.’ The Chief Inspector added his paper to the pile and shuffled it into a neat package.

‘Two of these reports, sir.’ the sergeant held two pieces of paper aloft as if they were suspects. ‘Unknown person spotted on staircase of Dauntsey’s rooms shortly after five forty-five. Another witness saw the person shortly after six o’clock. Described as of average height, slim, with light brown hair, late twenties or early thirties. Smiled, but did not speak to our witnesses, sir.’

‘Who the devil do you think it was, Powerscourt?’ said the Chief Inspector. ‘Not normal for total strangers to be wandering about an Inn of Court that time of day, is it?’

‘A murderer?’ said Powerscourt quietly. ‘A murderer of average height with light brown hair, come to drop something into Dauntsey’s tea or his gin or his sherry if he had started to drink at this time? I don’t suppose there are any reports of him entering Dauntsey’s room, sergeant?’

‘No, sir, there aren’t. There’s nothing between Edward leaving and Scott, the man in the chambers above, seeing him set off for Barton Somerville’s rooms a couple of minutes after six.’

The sergeant had been scrabbling around in the papers left on the table. ‘I hadn’t connected this person with the mysterious visitor, sir, but here we go. The porter at the gate reported somebody leaving the Inn at about ten past six. If you weren’t a very quick walker, that’s about the time it would take you to get to the lodge from Dauntsey’s rooms, sir. The porter said goodnight and the man nodded but didn’t speak, sir. Wonder why he never opened his mouth, sir?’

‘Foreigner perhaps?’ murmured the Chief Inspector. ‘Strong regional accent?’

‘Sore throat?’ said Powerscourt flippantly. ‘Dumb visitor? Both pretty unlikely.’

‘You don’t suppose, sir,’ said the sergeant, ‘that the visitor might have had something to do with the feast? Something to do with the catering arrangements?’

‘If he had,’ said the Chief Inspector firmly, sounding as though he had a pretty poor view of this particular theory, ‘he’d have gone to the kitchens or the Hall, not to a barrister’s room.’

‘Client of Dauntsey’s? Any mention by the clerk of our mysterious visitor?’

‘No, sir, there isn’t,’ said the sergeant.

They continued the distribution of the papers, an enormous pile in the seven to eight section when the guests at the feast turned into witnesses to a murder.

‘There we are, sir,’ said the Chief Inspector at half past eleven. ‘Sergeant Gibson will type up an hour-by-hour version for us all. I’ll make sure you get a copy first thing in the morning.’

Powerscourt had ordered coffee and biscuits as a reward for finishing the job.

‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘that is an excellent morning’s work. But there is one area where I know I have not been able to talk to the relevant people, and that is the steward and his waiters who served the food and drink. The steward has been ill, I understand, and without him there is little point in speaking to the waiters, half of whom, I think, were brought in from outside.’

‘That is correct, Lord Powerscourt,’ said the Chief Inspector, ‘but the steward will be back in the next few days. Would you like to join us when we speak to him?’

‘Very much so,’ said Powerscourt, ‘but I would venture a further suggestion. We need to talk to the steward and the waiters in the Hall itself. We need to put them back in exactly the roles they had at the feast. There is a catering committee here in the Inn and I spoke to its senior member yesterday about the way things are handled at the feast. And,’ Powerscourt paused for a sip of his coffee, ‘from what he told me, it would have been extraordinarily difficult, if not impossible, to poison Mr Dauntsey at the feast.’