‘I’m sure that stranger things have happened here before now, William. And it is possible, isn’t it?’
‘I suppose it’s possible,’ said Burke, reading his letter once more. ‘But it’s monstrous. Quite monstrous.’
‘Lord Powerscourt, I owe you an apology. I am so very sorry.’
The Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police had removed the four maps of London from his walls. Powerscourt wondered if crime had temporarily ceased and the righteous had finally inherited the earth. In their place was an enormous map of the route of Queen Victoria’s procession from Buckingham Palace to St Paul’s, crosses and circles marking the disposition of his forces.
‘I’m sure you don’t owe me an apology at all, Commissioner,’ said Powerscourt politely.
‘Oh, but I do. First of all we failed to prevent the death of that man Williamson. Now this. It’s this wretched Jubilee, you see.’ He nodded at his great map. ‘We’re very hard pressed for staff. We’re bringing officers in from all over the Home Counties. If you want to commit a crime on Jubilee Day, Lord Powerscourt, don’t come to London. Go to Weybridge or Reading or Bedford, there won’t be any police left there at all.
‘The reason for my apology is that one of my assistants took away the men watching one of your suspects, a Mr Charles Harrison. I only found out an hour ago. I am terribly sorry.’
‘You mean,’ said Powerscourt anxiously, ‘you mean that there’s nobody watching him at all?’
‘I’m afraid so,’ said the Commissioner. ‘Is that serious?’
‘I’m afraid it is very serious. Very serious indeed.’
Powerscourt looked back at the map. He noticed that there were times of arrival marked on all the key points of the journey, very precisely, as if it were a railway timetable. The military must have gone over the route over and over again, each detachment knowing it had exactly seven minutes to get to Piccadilly or Temple Bar.
‘How can I make amends, Lord Powerscourt?’ said the Commissioner. Powerscourt still stared at the map.
‘I cannot be sure, but I believe Mr Charles Harrison may be about to leave the country. Indeed he may have already gone, but I do not think so. He will probably try to leave four or five days before the Jubilee Day itself. Could you keep an eye out for him and detain him if you find him?’
‘Of course we could,’ said the Commissioner. ‘Do you know where he will be travelling to? And what should we charge him with?’
Powerscourt laughed. The Commissioner wondered if he was beginning to crack under the strain.
‘Forgive me, Commissioner. I think you will find he is travelling to Germany. By rail, probably, maybe by boat. Officially you could say that the police wish to question him further about the fire at Blackwater. Unofficially – let me ask you this, Commissioner. Do you have many officers working on possible terrorist threats during the Jubilee?’
‘We most certainly do, Lord Powerscourt.’
‘Well, if I am right,’ said Powerscourt grimly, ‘and I will only know the answer in the morning, Mr Charles Harrison has placed a time bomb under the City of London. It’s been in preparation for a very long time. We’ve got less than a week to find it. Only it’s not a real bomb, Commissioner. It’s a bomb made of money and it could blow the City to smithereens.’
Powerscourt and Johnny Fitzgerald were alone in their compartment as the train drew out of Paddington. The light was fading fast when they reached Wallingford station. Powerscourt explained to Johnny on the final stages of their journey what he thought was going on.
‘It’s as if this German secret society, or Charles Harrison and the secret society, is launching two series of attacks on the Jubilee,’ he said, staring out at the colours draining from the passing landscape. ‘They provide money and weapons for the Irish to take a shot at somebody on the day of the great parade. Maybe somebody in Dublin, maybe even the Queen Empress herself. And then there’s the other half.’
He told Fitzgerald what he had written in his note to William Burke that afternoon.
‘Is that possible, Francis? Are you sure?’ Johnny Fitzgerald sounded doubtful.
‘We should know the answer in the morning, Johnny,’ said Powerscourt. ‘I’m glad to see you’ve brought your burglar’s kit along. You don’t need a gun. I’ve got one.’ Powerscourt patted his coat pocket. He had borrowed the gun from the Commissioner’s people before he left the office.
Now they were walking the mile and a half from Wallingford station to Blackwater House. Powerscourt had hurried Fitzgerald out of the side entrance to the station, avoiding the couple of cabs left on duty. Soon they were deep in the country, trees lining the little road. There were thin clouds overhead, parting from time to time to reveal a very bright moon.
‘Let me just give you the key features of the people who live in Blackwater House where we are going, Johnny. Life expectancy in the House of Harrison has not been good recently. Old Mr Harrison, as you know, found floating by London Bridge with his head cut off. Before that, his son, Wilhelm or Willi Harrison, drowned in a boating accident. The other son, Frederick, Friedrich if you prefer, burnt to a cinder in the blaze at Blackwater House. Man now in charge of the show, Charles Harrison, nephew of Wilhelm. Are you with me so far, Johnny?’
‘Just about keeping up, Francis,’ said Fitzgerald, ‘trying my best, you know. But what are we doing here now?’
‘I’m just coming to that.’ There was a rustling noise in the wood to their left. A couple of guilty lovers peered out at them, fumbling with their clothes, and then retreated back to the ground.
‘Christ, that made me jump, Johnny. I’m getting old. Where was I?’
‘Why are we here, Francis?’
‘Very important philosophical question that, Johnny. I’m sure the meaning of life, the purpose of our short stay here on earth can often be discerned in the quiet of the evening when the day’s work is done -’
Fitzgerald punched him quite hard on the shoulder.
‘Right, right,’ said Powerscourt, ‘this Charles Harrison is up to no good in his bank. A young man you saw at the cricket match called Richard Martin works for Harrison’s Bank. On Saturday evening Harrison hears William Burke inviting Martin to come and see him on Monday morning. Martin doesn’t make it. Martin disappears, last seen by the widow Martin on Monday morning. Martin’s friend Miss Williams raises the hue and cry. That is why we are here.’
‘I’m getting slow, Francis,’ Fitzgerald said. ‘Martin disappears in the City. I presume he lives in London somewhere with the widowed mother, as you say. I do not imagine for one moment that the Martin household is to be found round here, is it?’ Fitzgerald waved at what could be seen of the countryside.
‘Let me try again, Johnny. Charles Harrison is up to no good in his bank. He thinks young Richard Martin may have some inkling of what is going on. When he hears Martin arranging to go and see Burke he thinks Martin is going to spill the beans. So he makes sure Martin doesn’t get to Burke in the first place. He or his associates spirit him away. And I think they may have spirited him away here. Not just here, but at Blackwater.’
‘So do we walk up to the front door and ask if we can see Mr Richard Martin?’ said Fitzgerald happily.
‘We do not, Johnny. I don’t think they would have taken him to the big house – the butler is still there in his basement, I expect, but at least half the house is a ruin.’
‘So where is he?’
Powerscourt tapped Fitzgerald on the shoulder and beckoned him into a clump of trees. About one hundred yards ahead they could see Blackwater church and the row of cottages where the Parkers lived. An owl was hooting in the distance. Shimmering in the moonlight less than a quarter of a mile away the Blackwater lake was keeping its secrets in the dark.
‘All around this lake there are temples and things, Johnny, perfect places for hiding somebody you wanted kept out of the way.’ Powerscourt was whispering now.