The two men paused. ‘Let me say,’ the Chief Inspector began, ‘that we have, as it were, made a lot of noise today not only in Compton but all around these other villages, not just, I would remind you, in the ones where we found parts of the unfortunate Mr Gillespie, but in the ones where we didn’t. I think it would be difficult to contain the truth. A lot would depend on how the information was presented, of course. But the more the public are on our side, dare I say it, the more frightened they are, the more they will be willing and eager to help us in our inquiries.’
Powerscourt wondered if the dead man would be referred to for ever after as the unfortunate Mr Gillespie.
‘Lord Powerscourt,’ the Dean was looking at his watch, winding himself up for his later meeting perhaps, ‘what would your advice be?’
‘I’m sure,’ said Powerscourt, ‘that the Chief Inspector is correct when he refers to the way the information is presented. Patrick Butler is a responsible fellow, after all. He won’t want to offend his readers, especially the women, with the gory details. To say that the body had been cut up is much less offensive than what actually happened.’
‘Very well,’ said the Dean, preparing to leave, ‘I shall send for the young man at once. If I have to interrupt my meeting, so be it. If I may so express it, finance may have to wait for death. There’s just one other matter, gentlemen.’ The Dean had suddenly lost a fraction of his normal composure, running his hands through his hair, looking anxiously at his watch. ‘It’s about Edward Gillespie,’ he said nervously. The Chief Inspector was fiddling about in his pockets, looking for a notebook. ‘It’s bound to come out sooner rather than later. I’d rather you hear it from me rather than as a piece of chapter gossip.’
Powerscourt wondered what was coming. Was Gillespie also in debt, like his fellow chorister, the late Arthur Rudd? Was he about to be kicked out of the choir?
‘I think, no, I am certain . . .’ The Dean paused, as if he wasn’t quite sure how to deliver his message. He was, Powerscourt noticed, turning rather red. ‘Gillespie was carrying on with the wife of one of the shopkeepers in the Square,’ he blurted out at last, ‘a very pretty young woman called Sophia. He told me the other day that the husband had found out about it. He was a very worried man.’
‘Had the husband threatened Gillespie with violence?’ asked the Chief Inspector, looking up from his notebook.
‘I’m not sure. I think he probably did. Now, if you’ll excuse me I must go and chair my finance meeting. I’m late already.’
‘Just two very quick questions, Dean, before you attend to your duties,’ said Powerscourt quickly. ‘The Chief Inspector and I will accompany you to the front door. What is the name of the shopkeeper, and what was the nature of his trade?’ All three were now striding up the corridor towards the main entrance, their boots echoing on the stone floor.
‘The man’s name was Fraser, James Fraser,’ said the Dean. He marched on. Chief Inspector Yates thought he knew the answer now, but he asked the second question once again.
‘And his occupation?’
Again that pause from the Dean of Compton. Then he whispered it very softly. ‘He was a butcher. The best butcher in all of Compton.’
‘Oh, my God,’ Powerscourt said very quietly. His brain was full of images of carcasses hanging on great hooks on the wall, of butchers’ blocks and butchers’ knives, long ones, thin ones, short ones, all of them honed to a pitch of sharpness that could dissect cows or sheep or pigs or lambs or humans. The best butcher in all of Compton.
‘My wife has been a customer of Fraser’s for over five years now,’ said the Chief Inspector. ‘His meat is excellent. But let me deal with this, my lord. Gillespie’s affair with Mrs Fraser may have nothing to do with his death. I shall make inquiries now and let you know.’
Powerscourt stared at the disappearing figure of Chief Inspector Yates. Had John Eustace met a perfectly innocent death? Were the butler and the doctor telling him the truth after all? Had Arthur Rudd been killed for his debt? And Edward Gillespie, had he been butchered by a cuckolded husband? The best butcher in all of Compton?
Powerscourt was on his way to reclaim his horse from the police station and return to Fairfield Park when he bumped into Patrick Butler, just leaving Anne Herbert’s cottage on the edge of Cathedral Close. Patrick already knew most of the story of Compton’s latest murder. He grimaced with distaste when Powerscourt filled him in on the final details.
‘I couldn’t possibly print all that, Lord Powerscourt. Old ladies would be fainting in their beds. I’ll have to keep it very simple.’
‘You’re about to receive a summons from the Dean, Patrick. I think he’s going to ask you to be responsible.’
‘I’ll be responsible all right,’ said the young man. Then he cheered up considerably. Powerscourt wondered for a moment if he had proposed over the Assam or the Darjeeling. He hadn’t. ‘I’ll tell you one thing, Lord Powerscourt. I thought of the most fantastic headline while I was taking tea with Anne. I couldn’t possibly use it, of course. But I think it’s almost perfect.’
‘What is this Platonic headline, Patrick?’
The young man laughed and whispered very softly into Powerscourt’s ear.
‘Hung, Drawn and Quartered.’
A musical medley, a rather confused musical medley, greeted Powerscourt on his return. He could hear one piano note, played very loudly. Then there were voices, singing out of tune. He wondered if Lady Lucy had managed to steal a couple of choirboys for the evening and then he thought better of it. Choirboys couldn’t possibly be that out of tune. The piano note sounded once more.
‘Hal,’ sang a voice, in tune, which he recognized as Lucy’s.
‘Hal,’ sang a second voice, out of tune.
‘Orr,’ sang a third voice, nearly in tune.
Then he remembered that his children were due to arrive that afternoon for a short stay. He listened on outside the drawing-room door. The piano and therefore the singing party were at the far end of the room.
‘You’re doing very well,’ he heard Lady Lucy say. ‘Let’s just try to put the whole thing together.’ She sounded out four notes on the piano. Then she played them again.
‘One, two, three,’ said Lady Lucy.
‘Hallelujah,’ sang the three voices, although Powerscourt thought Olivia was singing Orrerujah rather than Handel’s preferred text.
‘Hallelujah’ they sang again, Thomas still out of tune. Powerscourt opened the door and ran to embrace Thomas and Olivia. He could still remember all those long evenings in South Africa when he would have paid thousands of pounds for an armful of his children.
‘We’ve been singing, Papa,’ Olivia told him proudly. ‘It’s called the Orrerujah Chorus.’
‘It’s from Handel’s Messiah, actually,’ said Thomas Powerscourt in his most grown-up voice.
‘That’ll do for today,’ said Lady Lucy, smiling at her very own choir. ‘We’ll do some more practising tomorrow.’
‘Can we come and watch you singing in the church?’ asked Thomas. ‘When you sing in front of everybody?’
‘We’ll have to see about that,’ said Lady Lucy tactfully. ‘You might put me off.’
‘Why was that man called Handel?’ asked Olivia. ‘I thought that had something to do with opening doors.’
‘It does,’ said Powerscourt, ‘have something to do with opening doors. But Handel the composer, the man who wrote the music for the Messiah, came from Germany originally. George Frederick Handel was his name.’
‘Time for bed now,’ said Lady Lucy briskly. ‘Off you go. Papa will come and read you a story later.’
It was just before ten o’clock when a weary William McKenzie returned from his travels and took a seat in the drawing room, armed with a cup of tea and a plate of biscuits. Powerscourt remembered that McKenzie’s reports were always couched in rather unfathomable prose in case they fell into enemy hands.
‘I first encountered the subject at the railway station, my lord,’ McKenzie began. Powerscourt mentally substituted the word Archdeacon for subject and listened on.