‘It’s a quarter to six. Can’t you get a move on?’
Powerscourt fled down two flights of stairs to his front door. As he opened it he found himself looking at the broad back of an officer of the Metropolitan Police.
‘Lord Powerscourt, sir?’ The back turned round. ‘I have a message for you from the Commissioner’s office, sir.’
‘Come inside, man, come inside.’ Powerscourt struggled with a lamp in his hall. He ripped open the white envelope.
‘Dear Lord Powerscourt,’ he read, ‘there are reports coming in of a terrible fire at Blackwater. We have no more information at this point. I know the Commissioner would have wanted you to be informed as soon as possible. Arthur Stone, Assistant to the Commissioner.’
‘My God. Oh, my God,’ Powerscourt said very quietly. ‘This is terrible news. May I ask you to take a short message back to the Commissioner for me, young man? I won’t keep you a moment.’
‘What is the matter, Francis? Good morning, Constable.’ Lady Lucy appeared unperturbed by her early morning visitor. From the floors above came the noises of younger Powerscourts greeting the new day a little earlier than usual.
‘There’s been a fire at Blackwater, Lucy,’ said Powerscourt. ‘The Commissioner wanted to let me know.’ He was writing furiously. He shoved his note into a dark brown envelope and handed it to the constable. ‘Could you make sure that the Commissioner receives this as soon as possible? Thank you so much.’
The constable made his apologies once again and departed into the cold morning air, fog drifting among the trees in the square.
‘Dear Commissioner,’ Powerscourt had written, ‘thank you so much for the news about the fire at Blackwater. I am more apprehensive than I can say. Pray God there has been no loss of life. Could you please arrange for the foremost fire investigator in London and the Home Counties to be sent to Blackwater without delay? Yours in haste, Powerscourt.’
‘Lucy,’ said Powerscourt, running up his stairs to get dressed, ‘I must get to Blackwater immediately. I dread to think what I will find when I get there. Could you follow me a little later on? I hope old Miss Harrison is still alive. It might be a good time to talk to her.’
Paddington station had been crowded, sacks of mail being unloaded down the platforms, early morning arrivals hastening to their place of work. Sitting in a corner seat in his train to Wallingford, Powerscourt was exceedingly angry. Not with the twist of fate that had led to the blaze at Blackwater, not with the unusually early start to his day. He was angry with himself.
Only last week, he reminded himself, I was thinking of warning the remaining Harrisons that their lives might be in danger, that they should consider removing themselves to a place of greater safety. I didn’t do it. Now one or two or three of them may be dead. And I could have stopped it. Pray to God there are no more funerals.
The Thames could be seen now out of his window, neat cottages lining its sides, early morning river traffic toiling upstream. He thought of his last encounter with the Commissioner in his great office with the maps of London.
‘Officially, Lord Powerscourt, our inquiries into the death of Old Mr Harrison are proceeding. Proceeding quietly but methodically, I should say, if asked. In fact, we have almost closed the case down. Manpower is limited. We know that you are still at work. Do you think, Lord Powerscourt, that we have heard the end of this affair?’
‘I’m afraid I do not,’ had been Powerscourt’s reply. He told the Commissioner of his fears, of the mysterious death at sea, of the sense of foreboding he had about the whole case.
‘Rest assured, Lord Powerscourt,’ had been the Commissioner’s final words, ‘that we shall keep our eyes and ears open for you. Any assistance you require, all you have to do is to ask.’
Samuel Parker was waiting at the station with a small carriage and a couple of horses. To his intense irritation Powerscourt found himself wondering what letter of the alphabet started their names. H for Hephaistos, god of fire perhaps? Better not to ask.
‘Lord Powerscourt,’ said Parker, ‘I wasn’t expecting you here this morning. I thought Mr Charles was to be on the train. Did you see him at all on your journey?’
‘Good morning, Mr Parker,’ said Powerscourt, shaking him gravely by the hand. ‘I did not see Mr Charles Harrison on that train at all. It was almost empty. Would you have time to take me back to the house before the next one arrives?’
‘Of course, sir,’ said Parker, showing Powerscourt into the little carriage. Streams of travellers were waiting on the opposite platform to catch the next express to London. A distant roar announced the arrival of another train, smoke drifting back across the station.
‘What news, Mr Parker?’ said Powerscourt. ‘I heard there had been a fire but no more than that. What can you tell me?’
‘Well, sir, it’s all very confusing. There’s firemen all over the place, and policemen, and doctors too. Then there’s all kinds of locals with nothing better to do who have come to stare at the ruins. I don’t as yet know exactly what happened, sir.’
‘Ruins, Mr Parker, did you say ruins? Is Blackwater burnt down completely?’
‘No, it’s not, not completely, my lord,’ said Samuel Parker, his eyes firmly fixed on the road ahead, ‘but it looks as if over half of it is. Those firemen won’t let anybody into the house at all.’
‘Was anybody injured?’
‘We don’t know that either, sir.’ Parker shook his head. ‘Them firemen won’t say. Old Miss Harrison, now, she’s all right. Jones the butler carried her out of the ruins and she’s resting in our little cottage. She’s in a terrible state. She seems able to speak in German and nothing else. Mabel’s doing her best. The doctor is with her now.’
‘Was there anybody else there?’ Powerscourt was desperate for news of the living and the dead. ‘Anybody who didn’t get out?’
‘Well, my lord . . .’ Parker had turned the little carriage into the main drive up to the house. All around were the signs of England in the spring, the green fields, the trees in bloom, the ever-present sound of the birds. Then Powerscourt saw the sad remains of Blackwater House. Over half of the front of the house was blackened. Thin wisps of smoke could still be seen rising from the upper floors. Firemen on great ladders were plying their hosepipes through the ruined windows.
‘Mr Frederick,’ Parker went on, ‘we think Mr Frederick was in the house. We haven’t seen him at all. Mr Charles was here yesterday evening but he left to go to London. Nobody’s seen Mr Frederick this morning at all.’
Powerscourt felt sick. If Frederick Harrison had perished in the inferno he would feel personally responsible for his death. It was as if the house was cursed, and he, Powerscourt, had failed to prevent the latest attack of the furies.
‘And what exactly do you think you’re doing?’ a voice bellowed at him from inside the charred remains of the entrance hall. ‘We’ve got enough problems round here without strangers tramping around the place and getting in the way. Be off with you.’
A weary policeman advanced slowly into the sunlight, his face blackened, dark bloodstains on his jacket.
Procul, o procul este, profani, Powerscourt thought to himself. Keep away, keep away, unpurified ones. The inscription on the Temple of Flora come to life in an Oxfordshire police inspector.
‘I’m terribly sorry,’ said Powerscourt warily, ‘my name is Powerscourt. I am a private investigator. I have some business with the family here. I came to find out what I could.’
‘And I’m the Queen of Sheba or Dido on her pyre in Carthage,’ said the Inspector, who liked to borrow the classics from his local library. ‘Be off with you, I say. We’ve got work to do here.’
A loud crash from the upper floors announced the collapse of more of the timberwork of Blackwater House.
‘I’m terribly sorry, Inspector, I really am,’ said Powerscourt, ‘perhaps I could show you the message I received from the Metropolitan Police Commissioner’s office this morning.’