David Dickinson - Death of an Old Master

Imogen had the answer. ‘I have some experience with horses,’ she said to Powerscourt. ‘Put him across the saddle and I will ride behind him. I’ve done it before.’

Powerscourt was on the verge of asking where she had learnt this technique, now proving invaluable in a snowstorm in the middle of a Norfolk night, when she told him.

‘My sister fell off once miles from anywhere and injured her back. I had to bring her home.’

‘I wish it would start to snow again,’ said Powerscourt, staring up at what he could see of the sky. ‘Then it would cover our tracks. If it doesn’t we’re going to leave a route map behind us for any of our friends to follow.’

Very slowly the tiny cavalcade set off from de Courcy Hall. Imogen had the reins in one hand, the other trying to anchor Orlando in his position. She wondered if they should have tied him on. Powerscourt brought up the rear, casting nervous glances behind. Fifteen minutes later they reached the main lodge, twin cottages on either side of the road. Both were empty, broken panes of glass and swinging doors bearing witness to the desolation of the estate.

‘Left here,’ whispered Powerscourt. ‘We turn right in a hundred yards or so, then right again. That’s the main road to Cromer. God knows what we’ll find when we get there.’

Five minutes later a man materialized out of a line of trees. He held out his hand, requesting them to stop. Imogen looked round desperately at Powerscourt. Was this the end of their escape? Had they come this far only to be recaptured so near their destination? Powerscourt dismounted and shook the stranger by the hand. Bizarre introductions were made as the snow began to fall again.

‘Johnny Fitzgerald, this is Imogen. And this is Orlando Blane, shot in the leg. Johnny Fitzgerald. What’s the score up there, Johnny?’

‘It’s not good, Francis.’ Fitzgerald was panting heavily. ‘There’s two of them watching this road about half a mile further up. Another two have gone off to the railway station.’

‘Let’s try putting ourselves in their shoes for a minute, Johnny.’ Powerscourt was stroking his horse’s head very gently, as if the animal knew the answers. ‘Those four ruffians know these two have escaped. They don’t know Orlando is wounded. They don’t know either of us from Adam. At some point they’re going to return to the Hall to see if Orlando and Imogen have gone back there. The ruffians probably think they’re hiding until the first train in the morning. They won’t go back until they’ve seen who boards it. In a perfect world we’d just wait until the middle of the morning and go into Cromer then. But we can’t. This young man needs a doctor.’

‘Maybe we need a diversion, Francis.’ Johnny Fitzgerald looked as though he was enjoying himself. ‘Wait here for about ten minutes or so. I’m going to draw those two fellows away from the road. When you hear a scream, press on with full speed.’ Johnny disappeared into the woods to their right. Imogen was stroking Orlando’s head and whispering into his ear. Powerscourt watched the softly falling snow, erasing the tracks behind them.

Then there was a scream. One very loud scream. Powerscourt led the way, urging Imogen to make all speed. They heard sounds of people crashing through the bushes on their right. Then there was another scream. Powerscourt thought he could hear the two guards shouting to each other in confusion. But they were through. They had passed the point where the sentries had been on guard. Powerscourt led them on a little track which led along the sea front to the hotel. They were almost invisible from the clifftop above. Twenty minutes later Orlando was stretched out on Johnny Fitzgerald’s bed. The night porter had been sent to bring the doctor.

Johnny Fitzgerald had secured a bottle of brandy and was inspecting its label with extreme scepticism. ‘Don’t think they’d serve this stuff in the better London clubs,’ he said to Powerscourt, ‘but you can’t be particular after a night like that.’

‘Johnny,’ said Powerscourt, ‘I’ve just had a daft idea.’

‘For God’s sake, Francis,’ Johnny Fitzgerald was pouring himself a giant refill already, ‘it’s half-past two in the morning. We’ve just spent an idyllic few hours wandering about in a snowstorm with Romeo next door nearly killed by one of those characters. And you start talking about daft ideas.’ He took a giant’s mouthful. ‘What is it?’

Powerscourt smiled at his friend. ‘It’s those pictures, Johnny. I think they might be really useful in the court case. Do you think you could get them out of the house?’

Fitzgerald looked at him thoughtfully. ‘Could one man carry them? From that big room upstairs with all those windows?’

‘I think it would need two people, Johnny. I’d come with you but I want to see Romeo and Juliet safe in Rokesley It might be too late by the time I got back.’

Johnny Fitzgerald laughed suddenly. ‘Once a Sergeant Major, always a Sergeant Major, that’s what I say, Francis. Where do you want the bloody things delivered to?’

‘The paintings,’ said Powerscourt, guessing suddenly how Johnny was going to manage it, ‘should be reunited with their maker, Orlando Blane. I’ve always felt the need of some really first rate pictures in my country house at Rokesley.’

‘Dear Lucy . . .’ Powerscourt was writing again to his wife from the sitting room of his house in Northamptonshire. Rokesley Hall was host not just to its owner but to a pair of refugees, Orlando Blane, lying on a sofa by the window of the drawing room, and Imogen Foxe, currently reading aloud to Orlando from a book of romantic poetry.

I hope you and the children are well and that you received my earlier letters. This one is more prosaic, I fear, than the last two. The doctors say I will be able to question Orlando the forger this afternoon. Even then I must not tire his strength. He is going to make a full recovery, but his condition was made much worse by all those hours in the snow. I hope to be home by tomorrow morning at the latest.

Lucy, I would like to ask you an enormous favour, which comes ill from one who has complained for so long about your relations! Alice Bridge. Mrs Rosalind Buckley. Could you put the tribe on full and instant alert to discover as much as they possibly can about these two young women, their families, their education, their romantic entanglements. And as quickly as possible.

Tell Thomas and Olivia that I have been riding round on a great many trains,

All love,

Semper Fidelis,

Francis.

Thirty-six hours after the lovers’ flight Johnny Fitzgerald was making another visit to de Courcy Hall. He was travelling in some style, in a large enclosed carriage with an officious-looking man at the reins. Great carpets of snow covered the long drive from the main road. The roof of the little dovecot inside the walled garden had turned from red to white. The sun was shining brightly although it was bitterly cold. Johnny knew that his plan depended on two things. First, the Sergeant Major must not have reported the flight to his masters in London. Earlier that morning Johnny had checked the railway station. One of the ruffians was still watching. Another one had gone to Norwich by an earlier train. He had passed a third patrolling the road into Cromer, looking rather dejected. The Sergeant Major should be on his own in the house. The second factor depended on the ingrained habit of obedience to superior officers drilled for years into the brains of every single Sergeant Major in Her Majesty’s Army. Johnny took a quick swig from his hip flask as the coach drew up outside de Courcy Hall. He strode through the main door, shouting loudly.

‘Sergeant Major! Sergeant Major!’

A bleary-eyed man approached him in the Great Hall. Fitzgerald put on his loudest voice.