Then there was Edward, the slim silent young man who did most of Dauntsey’s devilling, researching and preparing cases and submissions to the legal authorities. Edward did have a surname, but nobody except Edward seemed able to remember what it was. Everybody wondered why he had joined the profession of barrister for he had one overwhelming defect for his chosen calling, a defect that should have told him that, of all professions, this was the last one he should aspire to. Edward watchers, and there were plenty of people fascinated by him, said it was like a man who fainted at the sight of blood trying to become a surgeon or an atheist signing up for the priesthood, although the cynics pointed out that this might be an ideal quality for a career in the modern Church of England and that the atheist would probably end up a bishop at the least, if not Archbishop of Canterbury. Edward was painfully, incurably, woefully shy. The porters referred to him behind his back as Edward the Silent. He could manage to get through whole days without speaking. He could attend case conferences and not say a word. At dinners in Hall he would nod unhappily to his neighbours. Once, when he had really picked up his courage and asked his neighbour to pass the potatoes, a huge cheer had gone up from the company and Edward had fled the Hall, almost weeping with embarrassment. But according to the clerk, Dauntsey said that Edward was the finest deviller he had ever come across, that he had a very sophisticated understanding of the workings of the law in general and of judges in particular. He kept a form book on judges, the clerk told Powerscourt, so he could know how their particular temperaments might be affected by the new cases in front of them and the demeanour of the barristers arguing them.
Powerscourt planned his assault on Edward’s silence like a military operation. For a start he decided to remove Edward from his normal routine and transport him a mile or so across town to the drawing room in Manchester Square for afternoon tea. Lady Lucy, fresh and sustained by a triumph over packing cases and disorder, was on parade to inquire about Edward’s family. Olivia had been pressed into service, instructed to do whatever she could to make the young man feel at home. Even one of the twins was paraded through the drawing room to be admired. It was almost impossible, even in England, Powerscourt felt, for babies to be put on display without those present feeling they had to pass a comment, whether on their looks or their intelligence or their resemblance to more senior members of their families. The twin did not speak but Edward did on this occasion, observing that the infant looked very intelligent.
When the tea campaign was complete, Edward having displayed a considerable appetite for muffins, the family departed, leaving Powerscourt and the young man alone. ‘Thank you so much for coming, Edward. I’d be very grateful if we could have a conversation, in confidence of course, about Mr Dauntsey,’ Powerscourt began. ‘I wonder if you could tell me about his last case.’
There was a pause. For a second Powerscourt wondered if his entire strategy had failed, if the reasonable amount of speech Edward had managed during tea was now going to be replaced with silence once again. Then he was relieved. Perhaps Edward had been collecting his thoughts. Maybe the muffins had done their work.
‘Last case, murder, sir. At the Old Bailey. Eight days. Mr Justice Fairfax.’ Powerscourt thought Edward seemed to have a bias against verbs.
‘Mr Dauntsey appearing for the prosecution, sir. Quite rare these last years. More often retained for the defence. Very horrible case, sir. Young woman battered to death on a beach in Great Yarmouth. Former lover seen in the town on the day of the murder. Former lover had grudge against the victim. Defence admitted the man was in the town but denied that he killed her, sir.’
Verbs, Powerscourt noted, were beginning to make an appearance.
‘That judge didn’t like Mr Dauntsey for some reason, sir. He had quite a difficult time of it. But he won in the end. Jury out for only twenty minutes. Judge puts his black cap on and the defendant is probably gone by now, sir.’
‘Was Mr Dauntsey pleased with the verdict, Edward?’
‘Oddly enough, no, he wasn’t, sir. I think he thought the man was innocent. He never said anything to me but something about his manner gave me that impression, sir. I could be wrong.’
‘What was the defendant’s name, Edward? Can you remember where he came from?’
‘Moorhouse, sir. James Henry Moorhouse, 15 Hornsey Lane, London.’
Powerscourt wondered briefly if Edward knew the shoe and hat size as well.
‘Large family up there in Hornsey Lane, Edward?’
There was a brief pause as if some piece of machinery in Edward’s brain had got stuck. Then it clicked into place.
‘Four elder brothers, two younger sisters, sir.’
‘Thank you. And what about the next case, Edward?’ asked Powerscourt. ‘Not another murder, I hope?’
‘No, sir, the next case would have been a huge one, sir. Mr Dauntsey was going to be Number Two for the prosecution, sir, with Mr Stewart, another one of our benchers, leading. They used to work together a lot in the old days, sir. It’s a fraud trial, sir. You remember that man called Puncknowle, Lord Powerscourt? He started up a whole lot of companies and the public subscribed by the tens of thousands. Companies paid good dividends, close on ten per cent most years, so more people subscribed. Only problem was the companies lost money and the dividends of the old ones were paid for by the new investors in the new companies. That’s why Puncknowle had so many companies, sir, he needed the new money to pay the dividends on the old ones.’
‘Didn’t he run away to America, this fellow, and have to be brought home again?’
‘He did, sir,’ said Edward, ‘and this is one of the most complicated cases I’ve ever seen. The opening speeches are going to last all day or even longer, sir.’
‘Tell me, Edward, you must have known Mr Dauntsey as well as anybody in the months before he died, devilling for him in these complicated cases. Was there anything unusual in him? Did anything change after he became a bencher, for example?’
Edward looked at Powerscourt carefully. Normal speech seemed to have been returned. Powerscourt felt sure Lady Lucy would put the transformation down to feminine company and the ease and security that came from being in a proper home rather than cooped up with a whole lot of men all the time. Edward took his time before he answered.
‘All the other gentlemen have asked me that, sir. Mr Somerville, Mr Cadogan, Mr Kirk, that police inspector. I didn’t tell them anything at all.’
There was another pause. ‘It was after his election as a bencher, sir. Something changed after that. Not immediately but two, maybe three weeks or so later, I should say, sir. Mr Dauntsey was very cross about something. I never knew what it was. One afternoon I came into his room when he wasn’t expecting me. I think he assumed I was in the library. He was studying some figures on a pad in front of him. He looked at me, Mr Dauntsey, sir, almost in despair. “It’s not right, Edward,” he said, “it’s just not right.” He sort of stared at the wall for a moment or two, sir, and then he put away his pad. He never referred to it again, whatever it was, not to me anyway, sir.’
Powerscourt saw Edward out into the evening air of Manchester Square. Lady Lucy came to say goodbye and to tell Edward he could come to tea whenever he liked, he would be most welcome. As Edward passed the Wallace Collection on his way home, lights blazing from the upper floors, Powerscourt wished he had asked just one more question. He should have sought information on any extramarital females in Mr Dauntsey’s life. He felt sure Edward would have had their names and addresses.
But for Edward afternoon tea had been an epiphany, a revelation. He tried to remember the last time he had been able to speak so freely and knew it was a long long time ago. Now perhaps he would be able to do what he most wanted to do in the world, speak to Sarah Henderson. Sarah had many admirers in Queen’s Inn and the Maxwell Kirk chambers, but few as devoted as Edward. He knew the softer tread of her shoes on the staircase as she went up to her attic quarters, he would watch her swinging walk as she made her way across the courts. Three times he had made up his mind to speak to her, three times he had promised himself that this time he would not fail. But he did. Until today he had been bound to fail. But now, with the confidence engendered by Powerscourt tea and Powerscourt muffins, now he would try once more.