‘I gather you have been to see my brother Leopold in Cornwall, Lord Powerscourt,’ said Lothar with a smile. ‘And that you are interested in our family history.’
‘I must confess,’ said Powerscourt, ‘that I found your brother crystal clear on the subject of money and banking, but somewhat, how should I put it, hesitant, on the subject of women.’
Lothar Harrison roared with laughter. ‘Hesitant,’ he said, ‘I like that, Lord Powerscourt. How can I assist you in your inquiries?’
‘I am also hesitant,’ Powerscourt went on with a smile, ‘because of the impact it had on your brother, to mention the words family feud, but I would be most interested to know the full story. If only,’ he went on quickly, ‘so that I could eliminate any suspicions of it having a bearing on the recent murder.’
Lothar Harrison walked to his windows and gazed out at the grey sea. ‘I will tell you all I know,’ he said at last, ‘because I do not think it could have any bearing on what has just happened in London. The people concerned are too far away.’
He turned and walked back to his armchair. Powerscourt noticed that Lothar had an enormous collection of paintings of railway engines from all over the world on his walls. Thomas would be happy here, he felt. Thomas would be happy here for hours, if not days.
‘I’m afraid you’re going to have to listen to some more Harrison family history,’ said Lothar. ‘I’ll make it as simple as I can.’ He paused and looked in the large mirror over the fireplace. Powerscourt thought he must have been looking at the reflections of some mighty trains built to cross the Rocky Mountains.
‘My uncle, my late uncle, Carl Harrison was the youngest of three brothers. The sister, as you know, still lives in Blackwater. My father, the middle brother, died in Frankfurt before we moved to England. The eldest brother, Wolfgang, had nothing to do with the bank at all. He was a soldier. The trouble came with his son, also called Wolfgang, who made a most imprudent marriage to a woman called Leonora. Everything went fine in the early years. She produced a son called Charles who now works in the City Bank. Then she ran off with this impoverished Polish count. He was a perfectly charming fellow but he seemed to think that the world owed him a living. I don’t think he ever did a day’s work in his life. Two years after she left, Wolfgang drank himself to death with a broken heart. Before she departed, Leonora stole all the family jewels. When they had all been sold and the proceeds spent, she came back and asked for more money. That’s when the family fell out. My brother Leopold was adamant that we should give her more money. By this time other members of the family were bringing up Charles who seemed to hate everybody because his mother had run away. I think he blamed her for his father’s death as well.’
Now it was Powerscourt’s turn to look in the mirror. He found himself looking at an enormous empty landscape somewhere in the vast spaces of the American Mid-West. The train lines were like pencil marks drawn by a ruler across the earth. Just visible towards the horizon a train was marking its passage with a cloud of smoke. Wild birds were circling overhead. He was wondering about Charles Harrison. Had the events of his past made him so disturbed that he could set about cutting off his relatives’ heads? And their hands?
‘Did you give Leonora the money?’ asked Powerscourt.
‘That’s when the row started. My brother and I wanted to make her an allowance. We said we couldn’t have her starving somewhere. My uncle Carl refused to give her another penny. He said he didn’t care what happened to her. Willi and Frederick supported their father.’
Lothar Harrison paused, memories of the family arguments of long ago filling his thoughts.
‘What happened to Leonora?’ said Powerscourt gently. ‘Did you give her the money?’
Harrison shook his head. ‘Uncle Carl prevailed. She didn’t receive another penny, however many begging letters she wrote. I think she was last heard of living in a garret in Vienna with her impoverished Pole. I believe she’s still alive.’
‘Do you think,’ Powerscourt asked, ‘that the family row could have anything to do with the murder?’ He realized to his horror that those who opposed giving Charles Harrison’s mother the money were all dead, drowned, burnt to death, head and hands cut off, floating by London Bridge.
‘I don’t believe it could for a moment,’ said Harrison firmly. ‘It’s all so long ago.’
‘And do you know of anything else in the family past which might have a bearing on the death?’ Powerscourt thought he knew the answer. He wondered how much of the truth he had been told. As little as possible? Enough to put him off this particular line of inquiry? Was any of it true? It would, after all, be very difficult to track down a couple of elderly persons of German and Polish extraction, living in penury in Vienna.
‘I don’t think there is, Lord Powerscourt.’ Lothar Harrison had been very definite. Had he been too quick with that last answer? Powerscourt wondered, as he left for the station. Were there more dark secrets hidden in there behind the railway engines?
As he made his way along the sea front, the voice of an old crone, seated on the top step of a gypsy caravan across the street, followed him towards the centre of the town.
‘Cross my palm with silver,’ the old gypsy woman with a rumpled bonnet on her head proclaimed. ‘Learn your future. Hear all your tomorrows. Cross my palm with silver.’
Powerscourt wondered if she was any good at solving murders.
Inspector Wilson found him in the library one sunny morning, with news about trains and travellers on the night of the fire.
‘Let me tell you about the trains first, my lord. There are trains here that go to London or connect to trains that go to London at 10.47, 11.17, and 11.47 every evening. Three miles down the road there’s another station at Marlow that links in with Maidenhead. That’s got trains at 11.25, 12.05 and 12.50, arriving in London a couple of hours later. If you want a later train, then you’ve got to get yourself further down the river again, to Henley. There’s some funny train that stops there at 1.30 in the morning.’
‘What happens if you go as far as Reading, Inspector?’ Powerscourt widened the net.
‘Reading, my lord, that’s a place where you could catch a train to almost anywhere. You could connect yourself to all sorts of lines there. But it’s a long way from here, even with a fast carriage, and there were no carriages seen on the roads round here that night.’
Inspector Wilson looked at Powerscourt for enlightenment.
‘Suppose you took a boat, Inspector, and rowed yourself down the river. For a strong man, it shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours. Nobody would see you, and if they did, they would think you were out fishing.’
‘I suppose you could do that,’ said the Inspector doubtfully.
‘I have no doubt at all,’ Powerscourt went on, ‘that from Reading you could go cross country, or go into London and change stations, and be in, let us say, Norwich, in time for a meeting the next day.’
Mr Charles Harrison had been going to Norwich.
‘What about the people who were seen about the place, Inspector?’ Powerscourt went on. ‘You said you were going to deal with the trains first.’
‘Not much luck with the people at all, my lord. There are no reports of anybody who might have been an intruder. There are no reports of anybody who might have been recognized as a resident of Blackwater House either, my lord.’
‘I didn’t think we’d have much luck there,’ said Powerscourt, staring once more at the busts of the blind Milton on either side of the door.
There was a knock at the door. Jones the butler appeared.