‘It all looked fairly peaceful to me, William. Deer running about, spring flowers everywhere, the vast hinterland of that house smothered in dust jackets and sheeting. So, it must be the Inn, or perhaps I should say it is more likely to be the Inn. What could be going on there?’
Burke rose from his chair and wandered over to the window. He looked out into the square below, a couple of pedestrians going home, a lone policeman plodding along the opposite side. He came back and sat on his sofa.
‘I can’t say I know very much about how an Inn of Court organizes its finances, Francis. They must have somebody, I presume, to arrange the collection of all those rents for the various chambers. I doubt if anything fishy could be going on there. If they pitched the rents too high, presumably the barristers might decamp to Gray’s Inn or the Middle Temple.’
Burke paused. ‘Let me ask you a question, Francis. Presumably you think this worry about money might have been important. Do you think it might have led to the two deaths? Because if you do think that, then it must have been some enormous financial crime for somebody to have murdered these two fellows.’
Now it was Powerscourt’s turn to pause. ‘I simply don’t know. It might be nothing at all. But just give me a list, if you would, of the kinds of money crimes that could lead to murder.’
‘The actual crime might not that be all that huge, Francis. But suppose there was blackmail. Suppose Dauntsey and Stewart were operating some kind of blackmailing ring down there in Queen’s. A worm turns. Poisons one and shoots the other. In terms of the big financial crimes, they’re almost all related to theft in one form or another, theft from fellow shareholders like Mr Puncknowle, theft from banks, theft from the public by fraud and deception. What makes life so difficult with the Inn, Francis, is that they will all keep silent on you. They may all have been paying Danegeld to some blackmailer or other for years and years but they’re not going to tell you about it. Any attempt to get a look at the accounts of individual chambers isn’t going to be greeted with birthday cake and balloons, and any attempt to look at the accounts of the Inn itself will be running into a blank wall. “Terribly sorry, Powerscourt,” they will say, “Inn is a closed body, under no obligation to show our accounts to anybody, even if we wanted to, which we don’t.”’
‘I’m very grateful, William. You’ve raised a whole host of possibilities.’
‘I’m sure,’ said Burke, ‘that I haven’t got the right one. Let me give you a word of advice. I do not know how many other possible theories you have for the motive for these murders, quite a few, I suspect. But let’s suppose it does have to do with the money. Let’s suppose that supposition holds good. If you get anywhere near the truth, Francis, you won’t live to tell the tale. These people have killed twice already. No reason to doubt they will do it again. I don’t mind going to the funerals of very aged and decrepit customers of my bank, but I’m damned if I’m going to go to yours.’
10
A rather sombre council of war took place later that evening in the Powerscourt drawing room in Manchester Square. Johnny Fitzgerald had returned from talking to the fringes of London’s underworld about the deaths in Queen’s Inn. Lady Lucy had returned from another mission round the outer fringes of her relations for any fresh intelligence of Mr and Mrs Dauntsey. Powerscourt told them first about Mrs Dauntsey and her reaction to the fairy tale. Lady Lucy was fascinated.
‘So it must be true, that rumour,’ she said, looking intensely at her husband, ‘but don’t you see what it means, Francis? If the Queen has obeyed her husband and lain with cousins and brothers she’s still not pregnant. So what are they, what were they, going to do now? If they cannot get an heir from the Dauntsey blood lying with Dauntsey’s wife, then surely the answer is obvious.’
‘What is the answer, Lucy?’ Johnny Fitzgerald was fiddling with a corkscrew but he hadn’t yet opened a bottle.
‘Well, there are two possible answers, now I think about it, but I’m sure which one I think is right. Poor Mrs Dauntsey. Either she has to start consorting with people who aren’t her husband’s relations at all, in which case any heir wouldn’t have any Dauntsey blood in them. Or it’s time the boot went on the other foot. It’s time for Mr Dauntsey to find somebody to bear his child.’
‘And if the person was married her husband might not take too kindly to her being used as a sort of brood mare,’ said Powerscourt, thinking of Mrs Dauntsey as she poured the tea with that slight smile playing around her eyes.
‘He might even think of dropping poison into Dauntsey’s drink,’ said Johnny Fitzgerald, ‘and then have to shoot Woodford Stewart because he’d seen him do it.’
‘I think we should slow down a bit,’ said Powerscourt, ‘or we’ll all get carried away. We just need to keep a very close eye on Mr Dauntsey’s doings and any new friends he may have been making. What news do you have, Johnny?’
Johnny Fitzgerald still had an unopened bottle of Nuits St Georges in front of him. He was peering closely at the label. ‘Lucy, Francis, do you think this St George chap is the same George as the English patron saint? That he had to slay the dragon because the creature was guarding the bloody vineyards? So all he really wanted was some nice burgundy and the fire-breathing creature got in the way? Never mind. I have to tell you, Francis, that I am worried, very worried indeed, about what I have discovered down there in the East End and one or two other places as well.’
‘What’s that, Johnny?’ said Lady Lucy, concerned that the news might affect her husband.
‘My purpose in going to talk to all these people was to do with Jeremiah Puncknowle and his co-defendants, as you both know. Was it likely that any of those defendants would have tried to organize the murder of Mr Dauntsey or Mr Stewart, or indeed carried out the deed themselves? From all over London, in the back rooms of public houses, in the stinking alleyways of Shoreditch, in the corners of illegal drinking dens, the answer was always the same. The answer was No. The risk was too great. But,’ Johnny paused and looked closely at his friend, ‘somebody knew something about the murder of Dauntsey. Maybe it had to do with the poison, I couldn’t find out. But there was something else, Francis, something to do with you. Some of these criminals sounded as though they were actually concerned with your health. I don’t think there is a contract out on your life, but I think somebody has been making inquiries about who would take the job on, how much it might cost, how it could be arranged. Most of them knew something was going on. One of the villains, delightful man till you remembered he’d served fifteen years for armed robbery with violence, said you ought to leave the country. So what have you been doing with these lawyers, Francis, down there in the Strand with the wigs and the gowns and the daily refreshers, that they’re thinking of arranging your murder?’
‘Are you serious, Johnny?’ Lucy had turned pale and hurried to her husband’s side.
‘I am deadly serious, Lucy,’ said Fitzgerald, leaning forward to open his bottle at last. ‘I think Francis should take his gun with him every time he leaves the house.’
‘It’ll be like being back in South Africa, going round armed. That’s twice in one night I’ve been told to take care of my health,’ said Powerscourt bitterly, ‘and I still don’t have much of an idea who is behind these murders. It reminds me of Easter Week in that case in Compton when the whole cathedral chapter was going to desert the Anglican faith and become Catholic. I was terrified one of the clerics would change their mind and be killed like the other three before them. It may be the same with these bloody lawyers. Ask the wrong question, or more likely ask the right question, and you’ve signed your death warrant. Well, I don’t care what people say, I’m not going to give up now.’