David Dickinson - Death Called to the Bar

‘You know about the first murder in Queen’s Inn, Johnny, the man Dauntsey.’

‘The fellow who fell into his soup?’

‘Precisely so,’ said Powerscourt. ‘There’s been a second murder, another barrister in Queen’s called Stewart. The two of them were going to prosecute that fraudster Jeremiah Puncknowle. Just days before the case is due to start, they’re both in their graves. Convenient for Mr Puncknowle, very convenient. William Burke didn’t think our Jeremiah would go in for violence, not good for the Low Church image, but he sent me this note today.’

Powerscourt handed Burke’s message over to Johnny Fitzgerald.

Good to see you last week. As I said, Puncknowle had no reputation for violence. But he had a colleague who came with him to London from the north. Name of Bradstock, Linton Bradstock. Distinguishable by enormous black beard and very stout cane, carried at all times. If you didn’t keep up your mortgage payments or meet your interest bills on time, you might receive a visit from Bradstock or his friends. Broken legs commonplace, broken arms likewise, in one or two cases people said to have disappeared completely. Also on trial for fraud with Puncknowle. Take very great care, Francis. Love to the family, William.

Johnny handed the note back to his friend. ‘So you would like me to exchange a blackbird for a Bradstock, Francis? I presume you want to know if he or any of his colleagues, who may, of course, not be on trial for fraud, have been knocking off barristers down there in the Strand. You don’t have any idea where he lives, our blackbeard friend, do you?’

Powerscourt pulled another piece of paper from his breast pocket. ‘Very short note from William an hour or so ago. Big mansion in Belgrave Square, he says, Number 25. Place full of Bradstock’s thugs.’

Johnny Fitzgerald took an absent-minded sip of his Sancerre. ‘Think I’ll approach this in a roundabout sort of way, Francis. Don’t fancy knocking on the front door and asking if anybody here murdered a couple of barristers recently. Might not be good for the prospects of The Birds of London , if you follow me. I’ll try to see if there’s any gossip in the criminal circles, there usually is if a job that size has been pulled off.’

‘There’s more news, Francis.’ Lady Lucy had been sitting quietly through the male conversation, waiting for her moment. She was looking very serious. With the late afternoon sun shining on her hair Powerscourt thought she looked very beautiful. He was so proud of her.

‘You remember you asked me to make some discreet inquiries about the Dauntseys?’ she went on, totally unaware of her husband’s reflections about hair and late afternoon sun.

‘Of course, Lucy,’ said Powerscourt, wondering what sort of reply she had received.

‘Well, it’s only a whisper,’ she went on. ‘Maybe a whisper is too strong. My informant said it was like a very distant bell you can just hear ringing a long way off.’

‘And what was the rumour, Lucy?’

‘It had to do with Dauntsey’s brother. The elder one. The rumour said that Mrs Dauntsey had been very close to him, that they had gone on holiday together or short weekends away quite a lot.’

‘How long ago was this meant to be?’ asked Powerscourt, running a hand through his hair.

‘Two years ago, something like that.’

‘And who was your informant?’

‘A second cousin who lives quite close to Calne and has dined there many times. I would regard her as a reliable witness.’

‘So,’ Powerscourt was whispering as if he didn’t want his thoughts to reach the purer minds of the twins. ‘Think of it. Here you are, Alexander Dauntsey and your beautiful wife. You have been trying to have children for years and have failed. For Alexander, one of the cores of his being is his house. His people have lived in it for centuries. His descendants must carry on that tradition. But he cannot have any descendants. Or perhaps his wife cannot have any. They simply do not know. Let’s suppose they are going to try this route first. Dauntsey makes the suggestion to his wife. My brother instead of me. I can imagine her, oddly enough, agreeing to it out of her love for him. He suggests it to his brother, less difficult with such a beautiful woman. But still no children. The adulterous experiment failed. I wonder what happened next. Was the brother married?’

Powerscourt had a sudden vision of a vengeful wife, realizing that the blame lay with the husband rather than the wife, organizing a mysterious visitor to Queen’s Inn, a poison phial concealed about his person.

‘He wasn’t married, the brother. But there’s one thing,’ Lady Lucy was looking at Johnny’s pieces of papers as she spoke, ‘that makes me think it might be true.’

‘What’s that, Lucy?’ asked Johnny Fitzgerald.

‘The elder brother,’ she too spoke very quietly, ‘he’s gone away. They think he’s gone to some remote part of Canada, but nobody knows for certain where he is. They think he may be in Manitoba.’

‘That’s where the Dauntsey lawyers think he is, Lucy. Manitoba.’

‘Do you want me to see if I can find him, Francis?’ asked Johnny Fitzgerald, ‘I’ve always wanted to go to Canada. Wine has to be imported but the birds are said to be wonderful.’

Powerscourt smiled. ‘Not yet, Johnny. We’ve got enough to do here for now. Lucy, do you have further inquiries you can make, the younger brother perhaps, or any male cousins who might have taken part in the same experiment, if there was one?’

‘I discovered some new relations only yesterday, Francis, I’m sorry to say. But they too live not far from Calne.’

Johnny Fitzgerald was gathering up his papers. ‘I’ve just had a thought,’ he said, looking up at his friends. ‘After The Birds of London I wondered about The Birds of East Anglia , The Birds of the West , The Birds of Wales , that sort of thing. But there’s not many people living in those places. It was thinking of Canada and their French connections that did it. Not only a bird book, but a wine book as well. Two for the price of one. The Birds of Bordeaux , Lucy. The Birds of Burgundy , Francis. We could probably do some of them by describing the birds that live in the actual vineyards that produce the Meursault or the Gevrey Chambertin. Wouldn’t that be grand?’

They both laughed. ‘Excellent, Johnny,’ said Lady Lucy. ‘You’ll be famous in France as well, maybe.’

Johnny Fitzgerald looked serious all of a sudden. ‘Tell me, Francis,’ he said, ‘what are you going to be doing in the next few days in case any of these fraudsters and murderers want to kill you too and I need to tell them your whereabouts?’

Powerscourt suspected Johnny had a different motive for his question. After their last adventure at a West Country cathedral and a vicious attempt on Powerscourt’s life, Lucy had taken great care, unobtrusive care, of course, to make sure Johnny was never far away from her Francis.

‘I have two journeys in mind, Johnny, for you to tell your assassin friends about. I shall be going to Calne to renew my acquaintance with Mrs Dauntsey, although how I turn the conversation to where I want it to go, I have no idea. Of mutual embarrassment there could be no end. But before that I am going to visit one of the most extraordinary houses in Britain. It is in England, but it is French, it has telephones and a telegraph, it has furniture that used to belong to Marie Antoinette, it has more Sevres porcelain than anywhere else in England.’

‘Where on earth is this domestic heaven?’ asked Lady Lucy.

‘It is in the Chiltern Hills, my love. It was designed to the wish or the whim of a man who was then thought to be the richest man in Britain. Typically he called his vast pile simply Paradise. The man is Jeremiah Puncknowle and the house is his fantasy and his folly.’