‘We come back to the gun, surely, Francis.’ Lady Lucy was frowning at her new responsibilities as a jurywoman. ‘How did the Frenchman get hold of the gun?’
‘There’s an answer to that, surely. Randolph remembers the death threat from this volatile French person. Randolph brings the gun in case the Frenchman turns up. But the point here is this, Lucy. Would you believe the story about the Frenchman from Burgundy? Or rather would you believe it enough not to believe in the prosecution version, if you see what I mean?’
‘I’m not sure, Francis. I’m not sure at all. I think I wouldn’t really believe either of them, which means I’d be for an acquittal, I suppose. The evidence against the Frenchman is pretty flimsy when you think about it. Nobody remembers actually seeing him at the wedding. It would be different surely if they had. None of those people on the seating plan you wrote to remembered seeing a Frenchman either, did they?’
‘No, they didn’t, but I don’t think that’s conclusive. Nobody ever knows all the guests at weddings.’
‘One more question, Francis. Why did Randolph Colville change his name in France? Why didn’t he just carry on being Colville? There are plenty of English people with English names living in France after all.’
‘I don’t know the answer to that, Lucy,’ said Powerscourt, ‘but I can guess. Plenty of English people pass through Burgundy for one reason or another. Randolph Colville, they say to themselves? I was at school with the fellow. I’ve bought a lot of wine from him. I wonder how he’s getting on. Fancy him ending up here of all places. I’ll pop over and see him this evening. One or two of those and you’re finished. A visitor from the Home Counties – one is enough – reports back to his friends that he’s seen Randolph Colville in France when they saw him only last week at the races in Epsom. Too risky, I’d say. That’s why I think he changed his name.’
They had now reached their hotel. As they walked up the steps to the entrance they were greeted by a loud shout from a figure holding the largest glass of red wine that Powerscourt had ever seen.
‘Francis! Lucy! How very nice to see you!’ Looking completely unruffled from his hectic charge across France, Johnny Fitzgerald had come to pay his respects. There was a good deal of mutual embracing and kissing on both cheeks.
‘Johnny,’ said Powerscourt, ‘stay here a moment for me. Don’t move.’
He shot into the hotel and communed with the man at reception for some minutes.
‘Johnny,’ he said, returning to join his friend, ‘I hope you haven’t unpacked or anything.’
‘Course I haven’t unpacked yet,’ said Johnny, ‘I’m not a bloody butler, for God’s sake. What’s all this about, Francis?’
‘It is now six forty-five, my friend. At twenty minutes past seven the last Paris express stops in Beaune. There is a night train to Calais, for some reason. Most irregular but never mind.’
‘And why, pray, do I have to get on another train and then another one after that? I’ve only just got off the last one.’
‘While you fetch your bag, Johnny, I am going to write down for you the main points of what we have discovered here. It is most germane to the trial of Cosmo Colville. We don’t know when the trial starts. It could have started already. It is most important that Charles Augustus Pugh receives my note at the earliest possible moment. It could mean the difference between victory and defeat. It’s too sensitive to entrust it to the cable companies. The information could fall into the wrong hands. Lucy will go with you and tell you what we’ve found out while you fetch your bags.’
Five minutes later Johnny Fitzgerald was tucked up in another cab, bound for the station. The cabbie was astonished for it was the same man who had brought him from the station to the hotel less than an hour before. In his breast pocket he had two pages of Powerscourt’s finest handwriting with the details of their discoveries. He leant out of the window as he left, waving his enormous glass at them.
‘Could you sort out the cost of this glass with the barman, Francis? Haven’t been able to finish it yet, damned thing’s so big it must hold about the same amount as a bloody bottle.’
20
On the outside Charles Augustus Pugh appeared confident, sure of his ground as he strode into Court Two of the Old Bailey on the opening day of the trial of Cosmo Colville for the murder of his brother. He smiled at the chief counsel for the prosecution, Sir Jasper Bentinck, and made a slight bow to the judge, Mr Justice Black. The court was full, with the members of the public crammed into their seats and looking forward to the show. It was not every day after all that you could see a senior member of one of London’s leading wine merchants on trial for the murder of his brother. Pugh turned from his table to whisper something to his junior, an industrious young man recently arrived in the Pugh chambers by the name of Napier.
Inwardly, Pugh felt more unhappy about this case than he had about any of his previous outings as principal counsel for the defence. He had little fresh evidence and what he had did not inspire him. He was going to have to proceed through a policy of innuendo and suggestion which was alien to his nature. He was going to have to make his appeal to the Doubting Thomas side of the jury rather than the Sir Lancelot. His principal collaborator in this trial, Lord Francis Powerscourt, had vanished into the hills and vineyards of Burgundy and had not returned. Pugh had begun work on this case with high hopes that Powerscourt might pull an enormous rabbit out of a hat at the very last moment as he had the last time the two of them had worked together. Today there was no sign of anything at all, not even a minute mouse with a minuscule tail.
The area reserved for members of the public was crammed. So was the area reserved for the gentlemen of the press. Many members of the public were regular consumers of the Colville products and had come to see the one who had killed his brother. Others had heard rumours of the defendant who had not spoken a word since the murder and had come to Court Two of the Old Bailey to inspect a man whose silence might cost him his life. The pressmen too had heard, of course, of Cosmo’s silence. Their collective memory, even when fortified by Colvilles’ finest in the Bunch of Grapes at the end of Fleet Street, could not recall such a silent witness in living memory.
Pugh turned to inspect the jury. They seemed younger than the normal run of juries, he thought. They sat up in their place looking very serious, conscious perhaps that over the next few days they held a man’s life in their hands.
Sir Jasper rose to begin the case for the prosecution. He called Georgina Nash as chatelaine of the great house where the events had taken place.
‘Mrs Nash. Could you tell the gentlemen of the jury what was happening at your house on the day in question?’
‘Of course,’ she replied. ‘There was a wedding, my daughter’s wedding.’
‘And could you tell us who your daughter was marrying, Mrs Nash?’
‘She was marrying Montague Colville, son of Mr Randolph Colville and Mrs Hermione Colville.’
‘Did the service go off satisfactorily, Mrs Nash? And could you tell us how many guests were in attendance? Not a precise figure, you understand, just a general idea.’
‘The service was fine. The bride was late, but brides often are. I think I cried but then mothers often do at weddings, I believe. And we had a hundred guests or so.’
‘So what happened after the service, Mrs Nash? Perhaps you could give an idea of the sequence of events leading up to the murder.’
‘After the service everybody came back to the house. We served them champagne in the garden. I remember feeling rather cross because the gardeners hadn’t fixed the fountain. It’s a very impressive fountain when it’s working properly. It sits in the middle of the lawn where everybody can see it. I must have asked those gardeners three or four times.’