‘My clients believe they can show,’ said Stamford Joyce for the cathedral, ‘that the two later wills were made under coercion or when the deceased was not in full possession of his faculties. There are many in senior positions in the cathedral and the Close willing to testify that the deceased had frequently informed them how he wished to leave the money. There is indeed, quite extensive correspondence with various members of the Chapter leaving detailed instructions on how he wished his estate to be used.’
A vision of the Dean, Bishop, Precentor and Archdeacon all filing into the witness box in quick succession crossed Powerscourt’s mind. He wondered what they would wear. Suit? Cassock? Purple? Would the Staff and Mitre come too?
‘I’m sure that’s all perfectly possible,’ said Alaric Wall for the Salvation Army. ‘I’m sure the gentlemen of the cloth would be happy to appear in the witness box in pursuit of a million pounds. But nothing they could say would necessarily mean that the late John Eustace couldn’t have changed his mind. Which he obviously did.’
‘I beg your pardon,’ said Sebastian Childs for Mrs Cockburn, ‘my client is able to prove that she, as the sister of the deceased man, was in a much better position to understand his intentions than the people he happened to meet occasionally at his place of work. There is ample precedent for family considerations being given their proper place in the judgements of the Chancery Court. Appledore versus Bailey in 1894, for instance. Or Smith versus Crooks in 1899.’
They’re bringing their weapons out now, Powerscourt felt. He wondered if it had been wise of Childs to reveal his precedents so early. Various bright young men in the offices of Wall and Sons and Joyce, Hicks, Joyce and Josephs would be poring through the records of those cases very soon.
‘Gentlemen, please.’ Oliver Drake was on his feet this time. ‘I feel that this argument could go on for most of the day, if not most of the week.’ He paused and looked round the combatants very slowly. ‘I have a suggestion to make, gentlemen. You are perfectly welcome to throw it out. I do not know,’ he smiled benignly at Sebastian Childs, ‘if there are any precedents.’
The lawyers were writing in their books no longer. They stared, temporarily transfixed, at Oliver Drake.
‘My suggestion is this, gentlemen. It is based on the enormous sums of money available. I propose that we come to an informal agreement among ourselves. Let Will A go forward as I believe it should. But let there be no objections from the other parties. When the business is completed, let the money be divided three ways. One third for the cathedral. One third for the Salvation Army. One third for Mrs Cockburn. If my calculations are correct, each party should receive a sum slightly in excess of four hundred thousand pounds.’
Drake sat down. Neat, thought Powerscourt, very neat, the judgement if not of Solomon, then of Oliver Drake, solicitor of Compton. Everybody wins, nobody wins. Nobody loses, everybody loses. Then, as he heard the muttered conversations between client and lawyer start up around the table, he saw the flaw. Everybody wins, except the lawyers. No contested will, no expensive visits to the Probate Divorce and Admiralty Division of the High Court, no need for any further representation or indeed any fees at all if the Drake plan went ahead.
There was a slight cough from Alaric Wall for the Salvation Army. ‘Ingenious, very ingenious,’ he said, ‘but I could not in all conscience suggest to my clients that they willingly forgo the sum of eight hundred thousand pounds, a sum which would make such an enormous difference to the poor and needy in our great cities.’
Powerscourt didn’t think it likely that Alaric Wall would shortly be joining the ranks of the poor and needy in our great cities in person.
‘I fear that my clients,’ it was Stamford Joyce’s turn now, speaking for the Dean, ‘would also find that such a scheme, however superficially attractive, was not in the best interests of the Church or the cathedral or the architectural heritage of Great Britain.’
Powerscourt wondered if Drake had ever thought that his plan might work. Maybe he had a warped sense of humour.
‘And for my part,’ said Sebastian Childs for Mrs Cockburn, ‘I could not recommend to my client that she accepts such an arrangement which could deprive her and her family of their rightful inheritance.’
At least Oliver Drake now had the chance to close the meeting. He told everybody that he was going to seek proof of Will A and the others were free to lodge their caveats if they wished. The three briefcases and their owners and clients shuffled slowly out of the boardroom.
‘That business with Fairfield Park, Powerscourt,’ said Drake as he collected his papers, ‘it’s all absolutely fine. Thank you for the very generous down payment of the rent.’ He looked out into the street. Two of the lawyers were having a stand-up row on the pavement outside his office. It looked as if they might come to blows.
‘What a bad-tempered meeting,’ said Drake. ‘There was only one redeeming feature, Powerscourt. Did you spot it?’
Powerscourt shook his head.
‘That bloody woman,’ said Drake. ‘That bloody woman Augusta Cockburn. She didn’t say a single word. Can you believe it?’
9
The Rule of St Augustine. The Rule of St Benedict. The Imitation of Christ by Thomas a Kempis. Edmund Burke, Reflections on the French Revolution. Lord Francis Powerscourt was browsing through the small library in Fairfield Park. Mrs Cockburn and her lawyer had both departed to London to plot further assaults on the will of the late John Eustace. Mrs Cockburn informed Powerscourt that she was going to take her family abroad for a while until the legal business was settled. Her parting shot showed that she had lost little of her venom.
‘I shall be most surprised, Powerscourt, if you have solved the mystery of what happened to my brother before I return. But I shall send you an address in case you turn lucky.’
Powerscourt, now temporary master of the house, had invited Lady Lucy and the children to come and stay. He had also asked Johnny Fitzgerald.
Powerscourt was now browsing through a large box with the words ‘History of Fairfield’ on the cover. He learnt that there had been a house here in Tudor times, that most of the present building had been constructed at the end of the seventeenth century by a man called Crosthwaite, Secretary of State for War and paymaster of the armies of William the Third. There were several references to the French style of architecture fashionable at the time, the enclosed courtyard in the front, the low wings containing nurseries, and the covered passage. Covered passage? What covered passage? Powerscourt said to himself, suddenly wide awake despite the late hour. Where did it go to? Where did it start?
Further researches revealed that the passage was concealed behind a door beside the fireplace in the drawing room. But the drawing room in the sketches of the time did not correspond with where the drawing room was now. Some later Crosthwaite must have moved it. Powerscourt found an earlier map of the house, which contained no reference to this mysterious passage, but did show the previous layout of the ground floor. What had been the drawing room, he decided, must have been turned into the library, where he was now. And, sure enough, there was a door to the left of the fireplace, less than fifteen feet from where he was standing.