David Dickinson - Death of a Chancellor

‘How terrible, how absolutely frightful,’ said the doctor. Even he, Powerscourt noticed, turned rather pale. ‘But why are you telling me all this?’

Powerscourt was looking very sombre. ‘Let me be perfectly frank with you, Dr Blackstaff. I have to admit that there were certain inconsistencies, certain discrepancies, between your account of what happened on the night of John Eustace’s death and the account of the butler Andrew McKenna.’ Powerscourt had no intention of spelling out what the inconsistencies were. If he did, he suspected that the leaky vessel that was their story might be hastily repaired. Dr Blackstaff looked as if was about to speak, but Powerscourt held up his hand to stop him.

‘Please hear me out, doctor. And please make your own allowances for the tendency of my profession to be forever looking at the darkest sides of human nature. But suppose for a moment, if you will, that my employer’s suspicions are correct, that her brother was murdered. Now we have not one death but two. And in the case of the second one we know that there is a murderer on the loose with a macabre, not to say demented, method of killing his victims. Suppose the two deaths were linked in some way. Suppose that it was the same motive that led to the deaths of John Eustace and Arthur Rudd. And suppose that the murderer has not yet got what he wanted. Suppose there are going to be more victims in the days and weeks ahead, bodies discovered nailed to a cross on the Cathedral Green, maybe, or hanging in chains from the roof of the chapter house. I put it to you, Dr Blackstaff, that anybody in possession of any information that might be relevant to these inquiries should unburden themselves of it immediately. I put it to you that anybody in possession of such information who chooses to remain silent, may be contributing to another terrible death, or even deaths, in Compton and its surroundings. And I would remind you that any such information passed on to me would be treated in the strictest confidence.’ Powerscourt stopped for his words to sink in. Then he asked very quietly, ‘Is there anything you would like to tell me, Dr Blackstaff?’

The doctor opened his mouth as if to speak. Later Powerscourt wondered if he had come within a second or two of telling him something. Then the doctor thought better of it. He went over to the sideboard and returned with his whisky decanter.

‘Let me refresh your glass, Powerscourt,’ he said, ‘and let me tell you that I have nothing further to add to my earlier account of the last night and day of my friend John Eustace. It may be that there are inconsistencies between my account and that of the butler. I would be surprised if there were not. At times of great strain people often find it difficult to recall things precisely. I have known patients – and this happens more frequently than you might think and not just with the old – who have forgotten most of what I tell them in my surgery before they reach their own front doors. I wish I could be of more assistance, I really do.’

There was an extraordinary variety of equipment on show running down the hill with an equal variety of techniques on display for controlling them. Sleds, sledges, toboggans, some with ropes to steer them, some without, one-seaters, two-seaters, one enormous toboggan that looked as if it could hold four people. More snow had fallen overnight and the great hill at the front of Fairfield Park had become a paradise for the Powerscourt children. James Bell, the coachman, had introduced Thomas and Olivia to the sledges early that morning, making repairs where necessary, checking that the ropes were in good order. He had created one enormous length of rope which stretched from one of the great oak trees at the top all the way down the slope so the children could pull themselves back up to the summit again. He had organized them to build a snow wall round the ancient statue of Neptune, halfway down the run, in case they crashed into the stone plinth and knocked themselves out.

Powerscourt and Lady Lucy were standing at the very top of the hill. From there the house itself was invisible. Only a third of the way down the twisting driveway did the rooftops begin to appear.

‘I’ve always wondered why they didn’t build the house up here in the first place, Lucy,’ said Powerscourt, rubbing his hands together to keep warm. ‘Just look at the view. You can see for miles.’ On a sunny day like this the view stretched for about forty miles over the snow-covered hills and the surrounding countryside.

‘Maybe it was the wind up here,’ said Lady Lucy taking her husband’s arm. ‘I think we should go part of the way down so we can see the bottom. The children are more likely to crash further down.’ There was a very loud shout of ‘Tally-ho!’ from halfway down the hill. Johnny Fitzgerald had narrowly missed the statue and was heading at considerable speed towards the giant snowman a hundred yards from the house.

‘Are you going to take a ride, Francis?’ asked Lucy, squeezing his arm.

‘I think I may have to,’ said her husband gloomily. ‘Thomas asked me if I was too old for it. I haven’t been in one of those things for years.’

Powerscourt had been fascinated by the different approaches of his two children. Thomas, the elder, was cautious, proceeding with great care down the white slopes and veering off to the left or right if he thought he was going too fast. Only once, as far as Powerscourt could see, had he reached the bottom of the run. But Olivia was like a thing possessed. She climbed in, pointed her sledge towards the bottom, kicked herself up to a good speed and hurtled down the slope, screaming with delight as she went. Her father was sure he had heard her shouting ‘Faster, faster,’ at her sledge as she went.

Johnny Fitzgerald was hauling himself back up the slope. ‘Francis,’ he said, ‘this is excellent sport. I thought I was going to crash into that bloody snowman just now.’

‘Can I ask you to do something for me, Johnny?’ said Powerscourt. ‘I want you to go down among the dead.’

Tombstones, Francis? Opening up the graves in the Compton cemetery, is that what you want me to do?’

Powerscourt smiled at his friend. ‘I don’t want you to turn into a grave robber, though it might just have its advantages.’ Powerscourt suspected that if he could just look inside the coffin of the late John Eustace, some of his problems might be solved. But he also knew that it would be almost impossible to secure an exhumation order. The Compton coroner was Dr Blackstaff’s brother and Powerscourt could not see the doctor agreeing to an exhumation. And, as Powerscourt remembered from a previous case, there was a section from the Burial Act of 1857 which stipulated that the Home Secretary had to give his consent to such an exhumation.

‘It’s the undertakers in Compton, Johnny, that’s where I want you to make some new friends. There must be a couple of labourers there who do most of the heavy work, lifting the bodies about, that sort of thing.’

‘Why do I always get such exciting jobs, Francis?’ said Johnny Fitzgerald, throwing a snowball at the passing figure of Olivia. ‘Wasn’t there anything more cheerful you could think of, making friends with the people in the morgue, perhaps? Rolling up sleeves with the staff at the local abattoir?’

‘I’m sure you’ll be able to cope, Johnny,’ said Powerscourt. He noticed that Master Thomas had finally plucked up enough courage to get to the bottom of the hill on his sledge. He was waving a small and very dirty fist in the air in triumph. ‘They have very recently received the body of Arthur Rudd, the roasted vicar choral. They must have some pretty good stories to tell about him. But what I want to know about is the body of John Eustace, the one transported there at such speed if you recall. Maybe they’ve got some stories to tell about that one too. That’s what we’re after, Johnny.’