David Dickinson - Death of an Old Master

‘That is correct, sir.’ Orlando Blane nodded carefully.

‘No further questions,’ said Pugh, and sat down. He took a long drink of cold water, slightly laced with gin.

Sir Rufus rose slowly to his feet. It was time for the prosecution to throw some mud in the defence’s eye.

‘Mr Blane,’ he said, looking at the new witness with considerable distaste, ‘how much were you paid for these forgeries of yours?’

Pugh suspected this would come. He had taken Orlando through the likely questions the evening before.

‘I was not paid, sir,’ said Orlando, ‘I was discharging a debt.’

‘How much was the debt for? How was it incurred?’

Powerscourt thought Pugh would rise to object. He didn’t. He was holding his fire.

‘The debt was for ten thousand pounds. It was incurred at the gambling tables of Monte Carlo.’

Another buzz ran round the court. The newspapermen could not believe their ears. This was almost too good to be true. One or two of them were smiling broadly at the sheer perfection of the story. It was much better than fiction.

‘Have you ever been imprisoned for debt in your past life, Mr Blane?’ Sir Rufus was sounding as offensive as he could.

‘No,’ he said. It was with great difficulty, he told Imogen later, that he did not add the words, ‘Have you?’

‘Did you cheat at the tables at Monte Carlo?’ Sir Rufus was trying his best.

‘I did not,’ said Orlando, remembering Pugh’s words about keeping calm at all times.

‘What other crimes have you been guilty of in your time, Mr Blane?’

‘Objection, your honour.’ Pugh was very quick to his feet. ‘My learned friend is trying to blacken the witness’s character.’

‘I was only trying to establish the veracity of the witness,’ said Sir Rufus, looking at the jury like a pompous headmaster. ‘A man who loses money he does not possess at the gaming tables, a man who cheats and deceives the public with his forgeries, cannot be regarded as a credible witness.’

‘I would remind you, Sir Rufus,’ said the judge, taking a surreptitious glance at his watch, ‘that we are here to try Mr Buckley on a charge of murder, not to preach a morality tale to the members of the jury. Objection sustained.’

Sir Rufus Fitch sat down. Powerscourt wondered if Pugh would ask some more questions. Ship definitely hit by hostile fire, he thought. Holed but not below the water line. Pugh rose to his feet again. He had noticed the judge checking the time. About half an hour before the train from Waterloo. He wasn’t finished yet. ‘No more questions,’ he said. ‘I would like to recall Mr de Courcy, your honour.’

Edmund de Courcy returned reluctantly to the stand. He was very pale.

‘Mr de Courcy,’ said Pugh, taking another sip of his water, ‘did you have in your employ until recently a Corsican person called Pietro Morazzini? Employed as a porter in your gallery?’

‘I did,’ said de Courcy, unsure where this new onslaught was going to take him.

‘And was he in your employ,’ Pugh went on, ‘at the time of the murder of Christopher Montague?’

‘I believe he was. Shortly after that he had to return home.’

‘I am afraid, Mr de Courcy,’ Pugh hurried on, aware that Sir Rufus might be about to mount another objection at any moment, ‘that people in this country are somewhat suspicious of Corsicans. Unfortunate, no doubt, but true, nevertheless. The defence has been making inquiries about your Pietro Morazzini.’ Pugh paused to search among his papers. Powerscourt felt sure that Pugh knew exactly where the message was.

‘I have here,’ he went on, looking carefully at the jury, ‘a cable from the Chief of Police in the city of Calvi, one of the principal cities of Corsica.’ He held the missive aloft. ‘Pietro Morazzini had to leave Corsica because of a vendetta, a blood feud. He murdered a man in the citadel of Calvi itself. The victim’s family swore vengeance on Morazzini. He was only allowed home recently to attend his mother’s funeral. They attach great importance to the last rites, these Corsicans. Then he will have to flee again. Signed Captain Antonio Imperiali, Chief of Police, Calvi.’

Pugh paused briefly. ‘Did you know, Mr de Courcy, that you were employing a murderer on your staff?’

‘I did not.’ De Courcy was stammering now. This had been the worst afternoon of his life.

‘The good Captain Imperiali does not tell us how he murdered his victim. Gun maybe. Knife possibly. Perhaps he garrotted them, Mr de Courcy. I believe there is a lot of that in Corsica.’

A silence fell briefly across the court.

‘I put it to you, Mr de Courcy, that you had the motive for the murder of Christopher Montague. You had the means in the person of this disreputable Corsican you had employed, Morazzini. Did you kill Christopher Montague?’

‘No, I did not,’ said de Courcy.

‘Did you send your very own murderer round to Brompton Square to kill him?’

‘Objection, your honour,’ said Sir Rufus, ‘unfair and unjustified line of questioning.’

‘Mr Pugh?’

‘I am trying to alert the members of the jury to the fact there are other people who could have committed this terrible crime, your honour.’

‘Objection sustained, Mr Pugh.’

‘No further questions,’ said Pugh and returned to his seat. The damage had been done before the interruption. He took another glass of his water.

As Mr Justice Browne made his way back to Hampshire, the Prime Minister was in conclave with his Private Secretary in his study at Number 10 Downing Street.

‘Look at them, McDonnell,’ said the Prime Minister, pointing to a great pile of cables on his desk from South Africa. ‘It’s one disaster after another. These damned Boers seem able to strike at will. Our bloody generals haven’t a clue what they’re doing. The fools in the War Office and the Colonial Office have no idea either. We’re losing this bloody war, and it’s got to stop.’

‘Yes, Prime Minister,’ said Schomberg McDonnell.

‘As a rule, as you know,’ the Prime Minister went on, shaking his head at the messages in front of him, ‘it is my custom to leave my ministers and my generals alone. Let them get on with the job. That day is past. I cannot let this continue. There is a complete failure of intelligence out there. Nobody knows where the bloody Boers are. Nobody knows where they may strike next. I want my own man in there, McDonnell, answerable to the generals, of course, but primarily working for me.’

The Prime Minister rose to his feet.

‘Find me the best intelligence officer in Britain,’ he said. ‘I don’t care if he is currently in uniform or not. Find him for me by Monday morning. Bring him here on Monday afternoon.’

With that the Prime Minister walked slowly from the room.

‘Yes, Prime Minister,’ said Schomberg McDonnell.

Opinions were divided in Charles Augustus Pugh’s chambers that evening. Johnny Fitzgerald was sure the jury could no longer believe that Buckley was guilty. Lady Lucy was certain they would be forced to acquit. Powerscourt was not so sure. Neither was Pugh. He looked exhausted from his day in court.

‘I wouldn’t have missed it for the world,’ he said to everybody, his feet in their favourite position on his desk. ‘Sir Rufus looked very irritated indeed as he left. He didn’t even wish me good evening as we came out of the court.’

And Pugh threw his head back and laughed his enormous laugh once more. The tension was beginning to drain out of him.

‘But I don’t know if it’s enough. Not yet. Forty-eight hours to go, Powerscourt. Only two days left. This case will close on Monday. I have a few witnesses left to call, maybe more.’ He looked meaningfully at Powerscourt. ‘Then Sir Rufus will sum up for the prosecution. I shall sum up for the defence. Mr Justice Browne will deliver his closing thoughts. God only knows what they’ll be like. After that . . .’ He paused and looked again at Powerscourt. ‘After that the jury will decide. Twelve good men and true.’