David Dickinson - Death Called to the Bar

The authorities of Queen’s Inn seemed to have moved Chief Inspector Beecham and his men around the place as if he was a piece of old furniture waiting for the rag and bone men. First they had operated from an office very close to the rooms of the late Alexander Dauntsey. The surrounding barristers had complained about the volume of their conversations and the noise of their boots on the stairs. They were then transferred to some empty offices at the top of one of the buildings in Fountain Court. Again, the people who lived underneath complained about the noise. Now the detectives were occupying a former classroom that had seen better days, but was hidden away behind the room with the boilers for the heating so that the policemen themselves were complaining about the racket and had to shout to each other when standing virtually on top of one another.

‘Good morning, my lord,’ said the Chief Inspector. ‘I’m sorry the news about Newton reached you so late last night but I thought you would like to know.’

‘I am most grateful to you, Chief Inspector. Do you have any more information about his disappearance? Any leads?’

‘We know now that the last time he disappeared he went to stay with a younger sister in Kent. There he went for walks, played with the children, acted out the role of favourite uncle to perfection. But he hasn’t gone there this time, not so far.’

Powerscourt remembered his last interview with Porchester Newton, the point blank refusal to answer questions, the veins throbbing in his forehead, those huge hands moving forward into what might have been an attack and strangle position.

‘Do you suppose that he had come to learn about your inquiries, that one of them might have really alarmed him? Sorry, Chief Inspector, I’m not expressing myself very well.’ Powerscourt found it hard to think and talk in this noisy inferno. ‘Is it possible that you were pursuing a line of inquiry which would have revealed to Newton that you now knew him to be the murderer? And that, therefore, he had to disappear?’

‘Well, we might have been,’ said Beecham morosely, ‘but if we were, it was an accident.’

Edward and Sarah had finalized the details of the theft the night before. Sarah had agreed that the typewriter should be successful in drawing the gorgon from her lair, as Edward put it. As it happened, Sarah had in her attic a number of box files that had come from the gorgon’s cave, and had labels attached to them in the handwriting of the gorgon herself. Sarah was confident that with a bit of practice she could do a passable imitation of the handwriting to be found on the boxes with the account files.

The first stage of Operation Theft, as Edward liked to call it, was due to take place shortly before nine thirty. Maxwell Kirk, head of the chambers where Edward and Sarah worked, had agreed surprisingly easily to ask for a visit from Barton Somerville on being told that the scheme was really Powerscourt’s and might have a minor role to play in the murder investigation. A porter was sent with the request from New Court across to Fountain Court where the Treasurer’s rooms were. Edward watched him go, a middle-aged porter with the steady walk of one who had travelled this route many times before. Sarah’s room mate was away for the morning so Sarah was contemplating the ruin of her typewriter with some satisfaction. The ribbon had got stuck somewhere in the bowels of the machine, bits of it were wrapped firmly round various keys and would, Sarah thought, take some time to sort out.

Nine forty came and the beginning of the exodus of barristers towards their day in court. There were always a few who departed earlier than they needed to, anxious perhaps to arrange their papers properly before judge and jury. The great mass would go about nine forty-five and it was this throng that Edward hoped Somerville would join. As he watched anxiously at his window, Edward saw the clock move on with agonizing slowness. Ten to ten, five to ten. Maybe Somerville wasn’t coming. Maybe he had simply refused as the request threatened his dignity. He was, after all, a man who asked his colleagues to address him as Treasurer. Five past ten. Edward began to feel like a soldier all geared up for battle, bayonet at the ready, who is told by his commanding officer that the battle has been postponed until another day. He wondered if he should go upstairs and tell Sarah. Then he might miss the arrival of Somerville. Sarah, in the attic floor, leaning out of the window, probably had the best view of the lot.

‘It’s always seemed to me to be perfectly possible that Porchester Newton was the murderer,’ said Powerscourt, ‘though I am somewhat confused about the motive. Was it a continuation of the feud that carried on right up to the benchers’ election? Was it fury that he would not now enjoy the fruits of being a bencher? Did he know more than we do about how rewarding those fruits might be?’

‘It’s a great pity we never found out what the row was about,’ said Beecham. ‘Not one of them would speak to us about it and not one of them would speak to you, Lord Powerscourt.’

‘I think I have the better of you there,’ said Powerscourt, suddenly animated, ‘and I apologize most sincerely for not telling you beforehand. It slipped my mind. I got the information by handing over a considerable sum to the Head Porter. It’s amazing how notes can make people talk. Now then, the main bone of contention in the feud was as follows.’

It was ten past ten before the tall, silver-haired figure of Barton Somerville could be seen, marching slowly across his court towards Maxwell Kirk’s chambers. Edward watched him come in, just beneath his window. Half an hour was the figure he had given Kirk for the length of time required for the meeting. Sarah was to wait one minute before setting out for the gorgon’s lair. Even watching from behind, Edward could tell she was upset. She seemed to have wrenched her hair into a condition of confusion rather than the well-planned order it normally displayed. She was running, if not at full speed, then at a steady pace.

‘Miss McKenna,’ Sarah panted, ‘I’m so pleased you’re here. It’s my typewriter, it’s broken, the ribbon, I can’t fix it and I’ve got this work for Mr Kirk that has to be handed in and I don’t know what to do. Will you please come and help me?’

The gorgon inspected Sarah carefully. Her hair was indeed a mousy colour and she was wearing a suit that Sarah did not believe could ever have been fashionable, in a colour once memorably described by Edward as Repugnant Brown.

‘Take it more slowly, Sarah. Your typewriter is not functioning?’

Sarah nodded.

‘The ribbon is malfunctioning?’

‘It’s come off,’ Sarah said, ‘it’s wrapped round some other part and I can’t undo it. I’m sure you could sort it out for me, Miss McKenna, it would only take you a minute or two.’

By now, in the master plan, the gorgon should have been out of her lair and halfway down the stairs. Edward was rooted to his window. Barton Somerville had been in with Kirk for over ten minutes. It was four minutes since Sarah had set off for the gorgon’s cave. The operation was not going according to plan.

‘Did you say you had some work that has to be completed for Mr Kirk?’

Sarah nodded. ‘Why don’t you borrow another machine?’ Miss McKenna suggested brightly. ‘We could get one of the porters to bring it up for you.’

This possibility hadn’t featured in Sarah’s conversations with Edward at all, but she rose to the occasion magnificently.

‘I thought of that but it wouldn’t do, Miss McKenna. Mr Kirk has a special machine which produces slightly bigger type on the page. I think his eyes must be going. It’s the only one of its kind in Queen’s. And,’ here Sarah looked at her watch and groaned, ‘it’s meant to be handed over by lunchtime and I’ve got pages and pages to do. I’ll get sacked if I don’t finish it. It’s for that big fraud trial, you see. Please, Miss McKenna, won’t you come and help me. You’re the only person in the Inn who can save me now! Please! We must be quick!’