‘It was before my time, Mr Moorhouse. I believe it was thirty years ago.’
‘Was it? Was it really? As long ago as that. Eheu fugaces, eh, as old Horace said. Anyway, murder’s a terrible thing.’ Mr Moor-house stared sadly into space. ‘And the punishment of it. I saw Courvoisier hang, you know. Outside Newgate. Thousands of people there, all howling for the man’s death. Shocking state of affairs. Quite spoiled my opinion of my fellow man. Never been to another hanging since. Wouldn’t go to one now if you offered me a hundred pounds.’
‘There will be no more opportunity for you to go to one, Mr Moorhouse, even should you wish to do so. There are to be no more public hangings. The last to suffer that way was the Fenian bomber two years past.’
‘Really?’ Mr Moorhouse’s ignorance of very nearly everything that had happened in the public world over the last ten years was remarkable. ‘Jolly good show, if you ask me. Brings out the worst in people, a hanging.’
‘I was obliged to give evidence at the inquest into Creech’s death.’
‘Very disagreeable.’ Mr Moorhouse shook his head and made a grimace of sympathy. ‘Never did like courtrooms and those sorts of places. Everyone’s so deucedly rude in them. Asking all kinds of impertinent questions.’
‘Of course, further details of Creech’s life emerged in the course of the inquest.’
Mr Moorhouse seemed to have lost interest in the case. He was gazing into the middle distance. Perhaps, Adam thought, he was remembering some occasion in his past when he had appeared in a courtroom and faced impertinent questions. The old man had once confided in him that he had, many years earlier, made the mistake of affixing his name to a bill of exchange and lived to regret it deeply. Perhaps the regret involved appearing before an unsympathetic judge in a case of financial default.
‘It seems Mr Creech knew several members of our club,’ the young man remarked after a moment.
‘Well, he’d have to know somebody here’ — Mr Moorhouse, returning to awareness of his present surroundings, spoke mildly but with the air of a man pointing out the obvious — ‘in order to be invited to the Speke dinner.’
‘Well, he spoke of Baxendale to me. Said he’d arranged with him to be seated next to me. But I received the distinct impression that he had other friends in the Marco Polo.’
Mr Moorhouse blew a small cumulus cloud of cigar smoke into the air and waved his hand idly through it. ‘Bound to be the case,’ he agreed. ‘Every chap you meet here always seems to know lots of other chaps you’ve already met.’
‘Sir Willoughby Oughtred’s name cropped up at the inquest in connection with Creech’s.’ Adam decided that a white lie was forgivable in the circumstances. ‘And those of two other MPs: Lewis Garland’s and James Abercrombie’s.’
Mr Moorhouse made no reply. He had clearly recovered from his passing shock at the news of Creech’s death. He smiled benignly at his companion but said nothing. Instead he took another puff on his cigar.
‘You know Sir Willoughby, of course,’ Adam prompted. ‘You spoke of shooting on his moors just now.’
‘Oh, yes. Met him many years ago. Not long after Pam came into office for the last time. My brother introduced me to him.’ The old clubman settled even further into the depths of his armchair. ‘Oughtred that is, not Palmerston. Never met him. Don’t think I’d have wanted to.’
‘I had no notion that you had a brother, Mr Moorhouse.’
‘He’s dead now.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘Oh, no need to be.’ Mr Moorhouse waved his hand through the cigar smoke again. ‘He passed away in sixty-six. Poor Robin. Suffered frightfully with his nerves. He knew Sir Willoughby because they were both in the House. He introduced us at a dinner at some house in Curzon Street. I used to go to those sorts of things all the time then.’ Mr Moorhouse spoke as if he could scarcely credit the reckless follies of his earlier self. ‘Never go to them now. Never go anywhere now. I’d much rather just sit here and watch the world go by.’
It was beginning to look as if speaking to the old man would prove a fruitless exercise, but Adam decided to continue anyway.
‘No hint of scandal attaches itself to Oughtred’s name to the best of your knowledge?’
‘Scandal?’ Mr Moorhouse looked perplexed. ‘What kind of scandal?’
‘Financial, perhaps?’ Adam was unsure exactly how frank he could or should be with the elderly clubman. What would he consider enjoyable gossip and what unforgivable indiscretion? Mr Moorhouse was shaking his head. ‘Or marital?’
‘Good Lord, no! Never heard anything of that kind. Oughtred would be the last person I would suspect of that sort of… aah, straying.’ Mr Moorhouse continued to shake his head in vigorous repudiation of the suggestion that he might know anything that would sully the baronet’s reputation. Suddenly, he leaned forward in his chair. ‘Have you heard anything?’ he asked.
‘Nothing.’
‘Pity! Always enjoy a bit of tittle-tattle.’
The old man fell back once more into the comforting depths of his leather armchair. He said nothing more. His eyes closed and, after a few moments, Adam wondered if he had drifted off into a light sleep. It seemed once more as if the idea of questioning Mr Moorhouse had not been an especially inspired one. Adam prepared to leave the smoking room. He had hauled himself to his feet, escaping the clinging embrace of his own chair, and was just about to head for the door when Mr Moorhouse opened one eye and spoke again.
‘Plenty of tittle-tattle about that Garland fellow, of course.’
Adam promptly sat down once more.
‘Never have taken to him,’ Mr Moorhouse continued. ‘Bit too fond of the sound of his own voice, if you ask me. Of course, not much point entering the House if you don’t like listening to yourself pontificating. But people like that fellow go a bit far.’
‘What have you heard of Lewis Garland, Mr Moorhouse?’
‘Oughtred introduced us earlier this year. Fellow was prosing on and on about the state India was in. Pretty dull stuff, if truth be told, but when I ventured to express an opinion of my own, he was downright rude. Made it only too clear he thought I’d no notion at all what I was talking about.’ The old man rescued a cigar which he had allowed to extinguish itself in one of the ashtrays and began fumbling in his pockets for his vesta. ‘Not that I had, to be honest. Never considered myself an expert on the great subcontinent, but any real gentleman would have heard me out at the very least.’
‘What is the gossip about Garland, Mr Moorhouse?’ Adam pulled his own silver vesta box from his jacket and struck one of the matches.
‘Oh, that!’ The old man leaned forward towards the proffered light. He took a drag on his cigar and fell back in his chair. He blew out the smoke and then dipped his head forward once more.
‘Women,’ he whispered, so close that Adam could feel the old man’s breath fluttering in his ear.
Mr Moorhouse collapsed back into his leather armchair with what could only be described as a smirk on his face.
‘Garland has a reputation as a ladies’ man, does he? I had heard something about a pied-à-terre in St John’s Wood.’
‘Ever come across Beattie here?’
‘The name is familiar, but I have not been introduced to him.’
‘Some sort of banker in the City. Terribly nice chap. Been a member of the club for years.’
‘And he knows Garland?’
‘Does business with him regularly. Something to do with a railway company. Garland’s on the board. Maybe Beattie is as well.’ Mr Moorhouse fluttered his fingers vaguely in the air. It was clear that he had only the flimsiest notions of what went on in the City. ‘Anyway, he told me once about Garland’s friend in St John’s Wood. Not sure how he knew but he seemed very certain of his facts.’