Early the next morning Powerscourt was seated at the desk in John Eustace’s study, train timetable to one side of him, writing paper to the other. He wrote to the Dean, requesting the name and home addresses, if possible, of the two dead members of the community of vicars choral. Powerscourt was trying to avoid all human contact with members of the cathedral for fear it might endanger their lives if they were not the murderer, and endanger his own if they were. He still had occasional flashbacks to the falling masonry, his night vigil with the dead in their stone and marble. He wondered about the Bishop, apparently so unworldly, but with a record, Patrick Butler had informed him, of distinguished service in the Grenadier Guards. He wondered about the Dean, so impassive as he watched the horror being unveiled in the morgue. He wondered about the Archdeacon and his weekly pilgrimages to Melbury Clinton. He wrote to his old tutor in Cambridge, requesting the name and an introduction to the foremost scholar in Britain on the Reformation and the Dissolution of the Monasteries. He wrote to the Ferrers family of 42 Clifton Rise, Bristol, asking if he could call on them at four o’clock in the afternoon in two days’ time. He explained that he was looking into the strange deaths in Compton and wanted to talk to them. He did not specify the reason for his visit. He wrote to his old friend Lord Rosebery former Prime Minister in the liberal interest, saying that he proposed to call on him in five or six days to discuss his latest case. He particularly asked Rosebery if he could secure him, Powerscourt, a meeting with the Home Secretary. He wrote to Dr Williams asking for his co-operation in a very delicate matter.
‘So which Archdeacon is the real one, Francis? The Protestant one or the Catholic one?’ said Johnny Fitzgerald.
His correspondence complete, Powerscourt had joined the others over breakfast. Thomas and Olivia had gone to climb the trees in the garden.
‘God only knows,’ said Powerscourt. ‘Maybe even God doesn’t know.’
‘Can you be a Protestant Archdeacon and a Jesuit Father at the same time?’ said Lady Lucy. ‘Doesn’t each side think the other one to be heretics, if you see what I mean?’
‘I don’t know the answer to that one either,’ said Powerscourt. ‘But I’m going to find out’ He made a mental note to write a further letter to Cambridge requesting an interview with a theologian. ‘The other question, of course,’ he went on through a mouthful of bacon and eggs, ‘is whether it is just the Archdeacon who is a Jesuit or a Roman Catholic. Maybe there are other members of the Cathedral Close who are secret adherents of the old religion.’
‘Maybe they all are,’ said Johnny Fitzgerald. Everybody laughed.
‘Seriously though,’ said Powerscourt, ‘this investigation has become exceedingly difficult. I dare not ask questions of the Bishop and his people. I feel it would be too dangerous, either for me or for any of us here, or for them if they were known to have been asked those kind of questions.’
William McKenzie had been working his way through a small mountain of toast, thinly coated with butter but without marmalade, at the far end of the table.
‘I’ve been thinking about the time, my lord. If the butler at Melbury Clinton is right, the subject has been celebrating Mass there for eight years. He travels in his Protestant clothes, if you like, and changes when he gets there. He’s like a spy in some ways, isn’t he, Johnny? But who is he spying on? It doesn’t seem likely that the Protestant authorities in Compton want secret information about what goes on in Melbury Clinton. Nor does it seem likely that the Catholic family in Melbury Clinton want secret information about what happens in the cathedral at Compton. It’s all very difficult.’
McKenzie consoled himself with a further intake of toast.
‘It comes back to my original question,’ said Johnny Fitzgerald cheerfully. ‘Which one is the real one?’ He picked up a fork and speared a sausage which he held up for general inspection. ‘This,’ he said, ‘is the Protestant Archdeacon sausage.’ With his left hand he impaled another sausage with his spare fork. ‘And this is the Jesuit sausage. It seems to me that the Protestant sausage,’ he waved the fork around in a menacing fashion, ‘is taking a lot of risks going off to Melbury Clinton once a week for eight years to turn into the Jesuit sausage. No doubt he picked the place because it’s so far away but somebody from there could easily have come to Compton and recognized him.’
‘Unless,’ Powerscourt interrupted the charcuterie display ‘the people from Melbury know all about his role in Compton and would not be surprised. We can assume from the distance and the precautions that the right-hand sausage, the Protestant Archdeacon, does not want anybody to know about his role as the Jesuit in Melbury.’
‘Consider another factor,’ said Johnny, bringing his two sausages side by side, ‘what a strain it must be to alternate between these two lives.’ He swapped the two sausages round at bewildering speed. ‘We’ve all done bits of spying in our time, pretending to be somebody else for the greater good of Queen and country. It’s an exhausting business. At any moment the whole thing can go wrong.’ He dropped the two sausages back on to his plate and began to consume the Protestant Archdeacon. ‘So why the eight years? Is he going to continue the pretence until his dying day? Is he waiting for a signal to emerge into his true colours?’
Powerscourt was running his right hand through his hair, a gesture Lady Lucy knew only too well. It meant that he could not see the answer. Johnny Fitzgerald had now carved the Jesuit sausage into small pieces. McKenzie was still eating his toast. Lady Lucy was sipping her tea.
‘We’re in the dark,’ said Powerscourt, smiling at her as he said it. ‘All I would hazard is that the Jesuit Archdeacon is more likely to be the real one. If you were going to betray one faith in the cause of another I’d be much more frightened of the Jesuits than of the Bishop of Compton. Today I’m going to have another rummage in John Eustace’s papers. I may even go and call on Dr Blackstaff again. Tomorrow I am going on a journey. I think I’ll be away for a couple of days. William,’ he turned to McKenzie who had finally finished his consumption of toast, ‘I think you should turn your attention to this Italian gentleman who stays with the Archdeacon. I’m not sure if he’s there at the moment.’
‘He’s there all right,’ said Johnny Fitzgerald. ‘I saw him creeping about the town yesterday.’
‘Excellent,’ said Powerscourt. ‘Follow him when he goes, William. Follow him wherever he goes. Find out where he comes from. I don’t care if you have to go back to London with him.’
‘Maybe he comes from Melbury Clinton,’ said Johnny cheerfully. ‘Maybe he’s another bloody Jesuit. Pops over to Compton to keep the Archdeacon on the straight and narrow.’
‘Johnny,’ Powerscourt went on, ‘I want you to try the impossible. We need to know if any other members of the Close are secret Roman Catholics. God knows how you do it. The last thing you can do is ask any of them.’
‘I’ll try,’ said Johnny, picking up the last of his Jesuit sausage and popping it into his mouth, ‘I’ll certainly try.’