David Dickinson - Death Called to the Bar

‘So it must be true, that rumour,’ she said, looking intensely at her husband, ‘but don’t you see what it means, Francis? If the Queen has obeyed her husband and lain with cousins and brothers she’s still not pregnant. So what are they, what were they, going to do now? If they cannot get an heir from the Dauntsey blood lying with Dauntsey’s wife, then surely the answer is obvious.’

‘What is the answer, Lucy?’ Johnny Fitzgerald was fiddling with a corkscrew but he hadn’t yet opened a bottle.

‘Well, there are two possible answers, now I think about it, but I’m sure which one I think is right. Poor Mrs Dauntsey. Either she has to start consorting with people who aren’t her husband’s relations at all, in which case any heir wouldn’t have any Dauntsey blood in them. Or it’s time the boot went on the other foot. It’s time for Mr Dauntsey to find somebody to bear his child.’

‘And if the person was married her husband might not take too kindly to her being used as a sort of brood mare,’ said Powerscourt, thinking of Mrs Dauntsey as she poured the tea with that slight smile playing around her eyes.

‘He might even think of dropping poison into Dauntsey’s drink,’ said Johnny Fitzgerald, ‘and then have to shoot Woodford Stewart because he’d seen him do it.’

‘I think we should slow down a bit,’ said Powerscourt, ‘or we’ll all get carried away. We just need to keep a very close eye on Mr Dauntsey’s doings and any new friends he may have been making. What news do you have, Johnny?’

Johnny Fitzgerald still had an unopened bottle of Nuits St Georges in front of him. He was peering closely at the label. ‘Lucy, Francis, do you think this St George chap is the same George as the English patron saint? That he had to slay the dragon because the creature was guarding the bloody vineyards? So all he really wanted was some nice burgundy and the fire-breathing creature got in the way? Never mind. I have to tell you, Francis, that I am worried, very worried indeed, about what I have discovered down there in the East End and one or two other places as well.’

‘What’s that, Johnny?’ said Lady Lucy, concerned that the news might affect her husband.

‘My purpose in going to talk to all these people was to do with Jeremiah Puncknowle and his co-defendants, as you both know. Was it likely that any of those defendants would have tried to organize the murder of Mr Dauntsey or Mr Stewart, or indeed carried out the deed themselves? From all over London, in the back rooms of public houses, in the stinking alleyways of Shoreditch, in the corners of illegal drinking dens, the answer was always the same. The answer was No. The risk was too great. But,’ Johnny paused and looked closely at his friend, ‘somebody knew something about the murder of Dauntsey. Maybe it had to do with the poison, I couldn’t find out. But there was something else, Francis, something to do with you. Some of these criminals sounded as though they were actually concerned with your health. I don’t think there is a contract out on your life, but I think somebody has been making inquiries about who would take the job on, how much it might cost, how it could be arranged. Most of them knew something was going on. One of the villains, delightful man till you remembered he’d served fifteen years for armed robbery with violence, said you ought to leave the country. So what have you been doing with these lawyers, Francis, down there in the Strand with the wigs and the gowns and the daily refreshers, that they’re thinking of arranging your murder?’

‘Are you serious, Johnny?’ Lucy had turned pale and hurried to her husband’s side.

‘I am deadly serious, Lucy,’ said Fitzgerald, leaning forward to open his bottle at last. ‘I think Francis should take his gun with him every time he leaves the house.’

‘It’ll be like being back in South Africa, going round armed. That’s twice in one night I’ve been told to take care of my health,’ said Powerscourt bitterly, ‘and I still don’t have much of an idea who is behind these murders. It reminds me of Easter Week in that case in Compton when the whole cathedral chapter was going to desert the Anglican faith and become Catholic. I was terrified one of the clerics would change their mind and be killed like the other three before them. It may be the same with these bloody lawyers. Ask the wrong question, or more likely ask the right question, and you’ve signed your death warrant. Well, I don’t care what people say, I’m not going to give up now.’

That night Lady Lucy added another prayer to her collection. She prayed that God would save and preserve her Francis, that He would keep him safe from the devices of his enemies, that he might live long as father to his children and husband of his wife.

The main court of Queen’s Inn looked like a convocation of ravens to Powerscourt as he crossed it at about nine thirty on Monday morning. Down every stairway they came, sometimes singly, sometimes in pairs, sometimes in threes and fours, ravens in pack formation. Papers were checked, ties adjusted, fragments of dust flicked off gowns that had spent the last few days on a hook at the back of a door, wigs settled firmly in place. Then the convoy set off, arms flapping in their gowns, to the welcoming embrace of the Royal Courts of Justice or the Old Bailey. The whole procession must have taken ten or fifteen minutes, one or two latecomers actually running at full speed across the grass so as to reach their courtroom on time.

Edward was not among them. Edward was a solitary bird this morning, still devilling into the fraud case of Jeremiah Puncknowle, now expected to start later that week.

‘Can you spare me half an hour, Edward?’ asked Powerscourt respectfully as his young friend sat down with his papers.

‘Of course, sir,’ said Edward, who would have laid down his life for Powerscourt or his family.

Powerscourt led the way out of the Inn down the Strand and into a quiet corner of the Regent’s Hotel, looking over the river. He ordered coffee.

‘I apologize for all the secrecy, Edward. I very much need to ask you for some information. But I think it could be very dangerous for both of us if we were overheard in Queen’s.’

Edward looked sceptical for a moment.

‘Think of it like this, my friend,’ said Powerscourt, taking a large gulp of his coffee. ‘Suppose it was something to do with money that led to the two deaths. I know for a fact that Dauntsey was very worried about the accounts in the period before he died.’ Powerscourt took care not to let slip where his information had come from or that it might have related to accounts other than those of Queen’s Inn. ‘If the murders are to do with the money, then anybody else found inquiring too closely into the finances may well end up murdered too.’

Edward nodded. ‘You’re not going to get murdered, are you, Lord Powerscourt? I couldn’t bear that, not after the way you and your family have been so kind to me.’

Powerscourt grinned. ‘I have absolutely no intention of departing this life and leaving Lucy a widow and the children a life without a father. Why, there’s hardly been time so far to get to know the twins properly. Anyway, Edward, I am presuming that the accounts are not available for general inspection by members of the Inn. I believe that there must be some official who supervises the payments of rent for chambers and bills for food and so on, though that person would not necessarily know the true state of the accounts.’

‘There’s a new Financial Steward who came last year,’ said Edward. ‘The chap who did the job before, man by the name of Bassett, kept going till he was seventy-five before he stopped. For some reason they all stay for a very long time. There’s only been six of them in the Inn’s history.’