‘Crime is not for the few who are rich, most of the time. They don’t need to bother. It is London’s more numerous poor who have to resort to it, either to find enough money to live on, or they are fuelled by drink. So many of our cases in this red area over here,’ he pointed a sad finger at the reprobate East End, ‘are related to drink.’
Powerscourt remembered that Sir John was the treasurer of the local church in his little village in Surrey where most of the inhabitants did not know of his occupation and thought he worked in a bank. He also remembered, though he could not recall where this information came from, that Sir John painted rather gruesome watercolours of the Thames in his spare time.
‘Blackmail in Belgravia, as the headline writers might put it,’ Powerscourt went on with a smile. ‘What I want to know is this, Sir John. Do you have any records in recent years of a blackmailer, either an insider or an outsider, operating in what is called Society? And if there is such a man, is there any suggestion that he may be at work now?’
Sir John was worried about Powerscourt’s eyes. There was some strain, some worry there behind and beyond the particular requests he was making. He remembered those eyes from before, always courageous, always curious, always delighting in the hunt for the truth.
‘My second query is more delicate yet. It concerns London’s homosexual fraternity, the rich ones again. I understand that they have recently purchased a house by the river between Hammersmith and Chiswick where they may go about their business in peace. Is there any evidence of blackmail being carried out there, or any other criminal activities?’
‘We know about that house, we’ve known about it for some time.’ Sir John looked carefully at his map of West London as if the mark of Cain might have suddenly appeared over Chiswick. ‘We find it easier to leave those people alone as my officers find any investigation so very distasteful.’
Sir John stared intently at London’s West End on his map. ‘How soon would you like this information, Lord Powerscourt? I do not have to tell you that we shall begin work as soon as we can.’
‘I have to go on a long journey the day after tomorrow.’ Powerscourt looked for railway stations on the maps. ‘I may be away for some time. Could I call on you again in about ten days’ time?’
‘Of course you can. That will be a pleasure.’
After packing Powerscourt into yet another cab, the Commissioner watched him go, his coat pulled tightly round him in the fog. I’ll say he’s going on a journey, he said to himself, as Powerscourt’s cab disappeared round the corner, a journey of discovery. God help him on his way, the Commissioner thought, returning to contemplation of his city, laid out in four maps across his wall, criminal red spattered all across the East End.
14
There were primroses everywhere, plaster primroses, stucco primroses. Were those marble primroses? Powerscourt had never really noticed them before. A field of artificial primroses surrounded the London home of Archibald Philip Primrose, fifth Earl of Rosebery. Now he thought about it he remembered seeing Rosebery once in evening dress, a pair of cuff links adorned with golden primroses glittering among the candles.
‘Lord Powerscourt. Good morning to you. I regret to have to inform you that my master is not at home. He should return presently, if Your Lordship would care to wait.’
William Leith, Rosebery’s butler, was a short square man with a gloomy expression like an undertaker off duty. Powerscourt remembered Rosebery once getting rid of a butler who was taller than himself. ‘Couldn’t stand the fellow looking down at me all the time,’ he had complained, ‘made me feel like a fag at Eton.’
‘It was not Lord Rosebery that I wished to speak to on this occasion,’ said Powerscourt, stepping into the hall.
‘Indeed, my lord.’ Leith deftly removed Powerscourt’s coat and hat.
‘I need some advice from you, Leith.’
‘Indeed, my lord.’ Leith deposited the coat in a vestibule off the hall.
‘I have to go on a long train journey, or journeys. I am not sure yet how many journeys.’
‘Indeed, my lord.’ A flicker of interest, indeed pleasure, crossed Leith’s face. Rosebery, in his more frivolous moments, referred to Leith as the Traveller’s Friend. He had a prodigious memory for the train timetables of Britain, an encyclopedic knowledge of the routes across the Continent of Europe. Rosebery believed he had recently purchased volumes of railway information about America and Africa. ‘If you want to get to Vienna without going through Germany, or if you need to reach Brindisi or Berlin in a hurry, Leith is your man. What he doesn’t know, he looks up. What he can’t look up, he finds out by devious means. He may have his own secret agents in Thomas Cook and the Compagnie of Wagon-Lits. I believe his library of railway timetables may one day be more valuable than my own humble collections.’
‘Perhaps Your Lordship would like to step this way. My lord.’ Leith ushered Powerscourt into his office half-way down the stairs into the basement.
I’m in the Holy of Holies, thought Powerscourt. Now I get to see the Ark of the Covenant itself. I wonder if Rosebery has ever been in here. Two walls were covered with books of timetables. The other two had railway maps of Britain and Europe, many places marked with Leith’s microscopic writing.
‘St Andrews in Scotland. Amble in Northumberland. Aberystwyth in Wales. Greystones, County Dublin, in Ireland. Those are the places I need to get to. I may only need to go to one of them if I find what I am looking for on the first journey. Or I may have to go to them all.’
‘Indeed, my lord. Your Lordship has been given a list of difficult destinations.’ Leith pulled a couple of volumes from his shelves. ‘Greystones, my lord. I fear it may be in County Wick-low rather than in County Dublin. No matter.’
Scarcely pausing to consult his library, Leith fixed his eyes on the ceiling, his face a smile of pleasure. The lights in front of him in his driver’s cab were green, the green flag waved in his mind and he was off.
‘Evening train to Liverpool, my lord. Euston. I would suggest Your Lordship takes the 3.30 as it is less crowded than its successors. Night boat to Dublin or Kingstown, preferably Kingstown. Arrives 7.30 in the morning. Local service every half an hour, stops at Greystones. I feel Your Lordship should be able to catch the 7.45.
‘Amble is easier, my lord. Express to Edinburgh, stopping at Morpeth. My Lordship and I travel that line regularly. The ten o’clock from King’s Cross is the fastest. Cab to Amble, not very far. Or irregular local service to Warkworth. Very infrequent, my lord.
‘Aberystwyth, 9.15 from Euston, change at Birmingham and change again at Ludlow. Very slow journey from there, my lord. Very slow. Stopping train.’ Leith looked down sadly as though stopping trains were a cross he had to bear. ‘Or you could take the 9.20 express to Cardiff. Paddington, I fear. Change at Cardiff on to the 4.15 North Wales connection. Very slow again. Mountains, my lord.
‘St Andrews, same train from Euston as for Amble, my lord. Continue to Edinburgh Waverley and change there. The eight o’clock from King’s Cross would enable you to catch the seven o’clock non-stop service to St Andrews.
‘Or, my lord,’ Leith, like his trains, was drawing to a halt, ‘you could circumvent all those problems of changes and connection by taking a special.’
‘A special, Leith?’
‘Indeed, my lord. A special train. My Lordship takes them frequently. You simply hire one train and it takes you everywhere you want to go.’ Leith’s face took on a rapturous expression as if he wished his last journey to be taken in a special, non-stop express to St Peter’s railway station.
‘I don’t feel a special would be appropriate on this occasion.’ Powerscourt could sense Leith’s disappointment, the funeral director’s look swiftly obliterating the glory of the special. ‘But I shall certainly bear it in mind for future occasions.’