David Dickinson - Death of an Old Master

Thomas Jenkins of Emmanuel College was waiting for Powerscourt at Oxford railway station. ‘I hope you’re wearing a stout pair of boots, Lord Powerscourt,’ he said cheerfully, ‘we’re going for a walk.’

Powerscourt remembered Jenkins saying he would take him to Christopher Montague’s favourite place in Oxford. He wondered if he was in for a full tour of the more ancient quadrangles, or an inspection of some of the spectacular gardens or some old and dusty library.

But Jenkins led him away from the town. They crossed over a railway bridge and there in front of them was a huge open space. Jenkins pointed dramatically to his right towards the buildings of the city.

‘Over there, Lord Powerscourt, are the walls of Jericho. Here in front of us is Port Meadow, one of the oldest places in Oxford.’

Powerscourt heard no trumpets. But he saw a vast open space of empty land with wild horses and cows roaming about the rich pasture. Two hundred yards away to his left the river snaked its way beneath the hanging trees.

‘This was Christopher’s favourite place in Oxford, Lord Powerscourt,’ said Jenkins, pointing across Port Meadow. ‘We used to walk along here, over the river there and along the towpath to an old inn called the Trout for lunch.’

‘Let us do the same,’ said Powerscourt. ‘But why is it still wild? Why has nobody built on it?’ Powerscourt’s historical curiosity had temporarily won out over the interests of his investigation. A couple of wild horses drew near to the two men. The horses looked at them carefully and trotted off into the meadow.

‘The freemen of Oxford have had the right to graze their animals on this stretch of land since the tenth century,’ said Jenkins proudly. ‘They’ve held on to it ever since. The right is recorded in the Domesday Book. Before that they say that Bronze Age people used to bury their dead here.’

Jenkins and Powerscourt were crossing the river on an ancient bridge. Small sailing boats were lined up in neat rows, waiting for their masters.

‘In a couple of months,’ Jenkins went on, ‘when winter really sets in, almost all of the meadow is flooded. It’s like a huge marsh or bog.’

‘Mr Jenkins,’ said Powerscourt, stepping smartly out of the way of an approaching trio of cyclists, ‘I do not believe you told me the whole truth when we spoke the other day in London.’ He looked at his companion severely. Jenkins blushed slightly and stared down at his feet.

‘What do you mean, Lord Powerscourt? In what particular?’

Powerscourt smiled at the precise academic usage of ‘in what particular’. They were past the trees now. The late October sun was surprisingly warm. ‘It may be, of course, that you simply do not know the answers to my questions. But I think you do. There are two particulars. The first is whether Christopher Montague was going to start a new magazine dealing with the fine arts. The second is whether or not he was having an affair with a married woman in London. I suggest, Mr Jenkins . . .’ Powerscourt paused to retie his bootlaces. ‘I suggest that you consider your answers. We can discuss them more fully when we reach the Trout.’

With that Powerscourt strode ahead up the towpath, overtaking a leisurely canal boat as he went. Ahead was a ruined abbey, the walls covered in ivy, the fading red of the bricks blending in with the landscape.

‘Twelfth-century foundation called Godstow Abbey,’ said Jenkins grumpily, ‘sort of finishing school for the daughters of the nobility. Henry the Second’s mistress was a pupil here and met a mysterious death. Maybe that would be a good subject for one of your investigations.’

Powerscourt laughed. ‘It’s difficult enough investigating mysterious deaths today without asking questions about the past.’ He looked back across Port Meadow. The river swirled its tortuous trail through the weeping willows. Far in the distance the spires of Oxford stood out against the sky. An improbable campanile rose above the walls of Jericho. Powerscourt could see why the place had such an appeal.

The beer tasted fruity. Jenkins and Powerscourt were seated by the water’s edge in the garden of the Trout. Powerscourt wondered if Johnny Fitzgerald, not quite such a connoisseur of beer as he was of wine, would approve.

‘To business, Mr Jenkins,’ said Powerscourt. ‘I have given you fair warning. You told me you had no idea what he was working on at the time of his death. I think he was writing an article about forgery. It was for a new magazine he was going to found. Surely you must have known something of that?’

Thomas Jenkins took a large mouthful of his beer. ‘Well,’ he said, and paused. Powerscourt thought he could tell from the look in Jenkins’ brown eyes that he had been concealing something, ‘Christopher was always talking about founding new magazines. Nothing ever seemed to come of it.’

‘With whom? Was it always the same partner?’

‘Well, it was always the same chap, actually,’ replied Jenkins, ‘a man called Lockhart, Jason Lockhart. He’s a junior partner in a firm of art dealers called Clarke. They’re great rivals of Capaldi’s and that new firm of de Courcy and Piper.’

Powerscourt filed the names away. He would write to the President of the Royal Academy on his return. The garden of the Trout was full now, the tables packed, visitors admiring the swirling waters of the mill pond by the bridge.

‘And the article on forgers,’ Powerscourt went on. ‘Did you know anything about that?’

‘He might have mentioned something about it,’ said Jenkins, taking another swig of his beer. His glass was almost empty. ‘But I didn’t think it worth telling you about. It was like the magazine. Christopher always had hundreds of schemes in his head at any one time. I didn’t mean to mislead you, Lord Powerscourt. There were so many things Christopher talks about.’ He stopped. ‘Used to talk about.’

‘And what about the married woman?’ said Powerscourt, raising his voice above the noise. ‘Did you think that might be misleading too?’

Jenkins shrugged his shoulders. ‘I thought it better to let sleeping dogs lie.’

‘What was her name, man? What was she called?’

Thomas Jenkins stared helplessly at Powerscourt. ‘You’re not going to believe this, Lord Powerscourt. Please don’t be angry with me. I don’t know her name.’

Powerscourt wanted to bang his fist on the table. He refrained. ‘Do you mean that you don’t know her Christian name, or you don’t know her surname?’

Jenkins looked distraught. ‘I don’t know her surname,’ he said very quietly. ‘I never met her.’

‘But you knew her Christian name, didn’t you?’ said Powerscourt.

‘She was called Rosalind,’ Jenkins whispered.

‘And where did she live?’

‘She lived in Chelsea.’ Powerscourt had to lean forward to catch the name. Good God, he thought. Somewhere in Chelsea, not far from where he lived. Maybe her home was on the other side of Markham Square.

‘Do you know what her husband does? Did she have any children? Was she involved in the world of art at all?’

Thomas Jenkins rose from his seat. ‘The answer to all those question is don’t know, don’t know, don’t know. And now, if you will forgive me, I am going back to my college. I’ve done my best. But I’m not going to answer any more questions.’

The entrance hall of the Beaufort Club in Pall Mall was full of Americans. Edmund de Courcy passed quickly through the differing accents, New York, Boston, Chicago, the Midwest. His business was not in the dining room or the smoking room with its large windows and the even larger cigars of the transatlantic visitors. His business was in the basement.