‘We’ve only got half an hour left to finish these two passages off, or we’re for it,’ said the taller one.
Latin dictionaries lay open on their laps.
‘I think I can manage this first bit,’ said the little one, ‘look up aedificavit, can you? That comes at the end of the sentence. Must be the bloody verb.’
Powerscourt was trying to make sense of the recent revelations. Scandal on the Britannia, that was certain. But then? Did they send Eddy away because he was ill? Was the Bacchante really a sort of hospital ship, specially equipped with doctors and parsons? Could they only come home when he was cured? Or when they thought he was cured? Was he cured?
Or did they send him away so they had time to hush everything up? Did it take the Prince of Wales two whole years to conceal the scandal? Two years in which the mere sight of Eddy could have blown the whole thing apart? No wonder they wanted to conceal the details of Eddy’s death, he said to himself. No wonder they wanted to hide the murder. They’ve been hiding things for years. It must be second nature to them by now, almost a way of life.
‘Thank heavens that’s over,’ said the tall black jacket as the two boys gathered themselves to leave the train. ‘But why did Cicero have to write such long sentences? Wouldn’t those ordinary Romans have forgotten the beginning by the time he got to the end?’
‘Think of Gladstone,’ said the little black jacket. ‘I’m not sure he can remember the start of a sentence by the time he gets to the end. If he ever does. Same thing really.’
And why, thought Powerscourt, watching the thatched cottages on the river go by once more, why should somebody wait thirteen years to kill him? Why not try to do it before? Presumably the Prince of Wales despatched money to keep everybody quiet, heaps and heaps of money probably. So why didn’t they all keep their mouths shut, like they were meant to? Perhaps they had.
The Limes was a compact suburban villa. It had seen better days. The windows were in need of attention. Paint was peeling in large black flakes from the front door. Captain Williams’ wallpaper came back to Powerscourt as he waited, wallpaper peeling off the walls, the bare patches where pictures had once stood.
He knocked firmly on the door.
A small fierce man of about sixty opened it. Dogs could be heard yelping in the background. Old copies of The Times and the Illustrated London News were piled up on a little table in the hall.
‘Are you Mr Robinson? Good morning to you. My name is Powerscourt.’
‘Get out!’ said the small fierce man. ‘Get out!’
‘I wrote to tell you I was coming. I have in my pocket a letter from the Prime Minister for you.’ Long experience had taught Powerscourt to place his left foot firmly against the jamb of the door.
‘Get out. I don’t care if you have a letter from the Prime Minister or the Archbishop of Canterbury or the Pope in Rome. Just get out!’
‘Our conversation would be entirely confidential. Nobody would know anything about it. I give you my word.’
The little man had turned quite red now. Powerscourt thought he could see tears forming in the corners of his eyes.
‘Do you understand English? I said Get out! Before I put the dogs on you.’
‘Please don’t put the dogs on me. I’m very fond of dogs,’ said Powerscourt, hoping against hope that he could charm his way into the house.
‘For the last time, Get out! Don’t come back! Don’t ever come back!’ The little man was actually crying now, tears rolling down his cheeks.
Powerscourt beat the retreat. ‘My apologies for upsetting you Mr Robinson. I’m going now. And don’t worry. I won’t come back.’
The barking of the dogs pursued him down the little drive. From somewhere inside he could hear a man weeping, and a softer woman’s voice trying to comfort him. Mrs Robinson was soothing the little man, fierce no longer, as though he were a small child. She sounded as though she had done it before.
Two hundred yards away the churchyard nestled under its yew trees. Birds, river birds replaced the noise of the barking dogs and the agony of Mr Robinson. Fresh graves, thought Powerscourt, that’s what I am looking for. Well, fairly fresh, not more than a year or two old. Lines of ancient memorials swept away towards the church path, names virtually eroded by time and weather. Here and there a defiant cross or angel marked a richer passing.
On the southern side, on the far side of the church, he found the more recent graves.
Mary William Blunt, beloved wife of Thomas Blunt, of Dorchester, passed away 15 January 1890.
Andrew James Macintosh, churchwarden of this parish, beloved husband of Elizabeth, father of Tabitha, Daniel, Albert. 18 July 1891. May he rest in Peace.
Maud Muriel Smythe, beloved wife of John Smythe, of Dorchester. 25 August 1891. Gone, but not Forgotten.
Peter James Cooper, beloved husband of Louise, father of the twins, 12 September 1891. May he see God.
Simon John Robinson, passed away 25 September 1891, beloved son of John and Mary Robinson, The Limes, Dorchester. Lord forgive them, for they know not what they do.
Powerscourt sank to his knees and prayed. He prayed for the Robinsons, all three of them, he prayed for the growing community of the dead who seemed to surround him, he asked God’s forgiveness for his morning call on the Robinson household. He prayed for his family. He prayed for Johnny Fitzgerald. He prayed for Lady Lucy.
Lord forgive them, he thought as he rose from his knees, a respectful gardener waiting to do his work, for they know not what they do. Who, for the family Robinson, was them? The Prince of Wales and his household? The boys on the Britannia? Was it even, he thought fancifully, the tumours that marked the latter stages of the disease, eating away at the victim’s bones and his brain, unwitting and unfeeling instruments of God’s purpose?
The vicar, the church noticeboard proclaimed, was The Very Rev. Matthew Adams, BA Oxon, M.Litt, London, of The Vicarage, Dorchester.
Mrs Adams opened the door. No dogs this time, Powerscourt thought, as she showed him into a cold sitting-room.
‘My husband has just popped out,’ she said brightly. ‘But he’ll be back presently. Would you like to wait in here? He won’t be long.’
Biblical scenes adorned the room, great vistas of the lake of Galilee and the Mount of Olives. Powerscourt wondered if the vicar painted in his spare time, holidays always spent with canvas and brush. ‘I’ll just be a few moments more, dear, I’ve got to finish these angels.’
‘Good morning to you,’ said the Rev. Adams cheerfully as he strode into the room, a handsome man of about forty years, eyes wary beneath the smile.
I presume he knows I’m not bereaved or anything like that, thought Powerscourt. Probably his wife gives him a clue when unexpected visitors arrive, the weeping, the demented, the lost souls of Dorchester.
‘Please forgive this unannounced intrusion, most impolite of me. My name is Powerscourt. I have had some rather unsatisfactory business here in Dorchester, and I would welcome your local knowledge.’
Powerscourt handed over his card. He explained that he was engaged on an investigation which, by its nature, had to remain secret. He showed the Rev. Adams a copy of his letter from the Prime Minister.
‘Is there anything wrong? With the Government, I mean?’ The Rev. Adams looked as though he would be reluctant to add the troubles of Westminster and Whitehall to the heavy burdens of Dorchester upon Thames.
‘Anything wrong with the Government? No, I don’t think so, no more than usual. My concerns are with a recent parishioner of yours, recently interred in your churchyard. Simon John Robinson.’