‘Don’t worry about that, Mrs Lewis,’ said the sergeant. ‘We’re engaged on a murder investigation here, nothing to do with taxes.’
‘Thank goodness for that,’ said Mrs Lewis. ‘Now where was I?’
‘You were talking about your meeting with Mr Gill.’
‘Ah, yes. I think we grew close when we were working on the arrangements for the Harvest Festival. It was as if love was blossoming among the fruit and vegetables dotted around the church. After that Roderick used to come to my house after we had a few drinks in the Farmers’ Arms together. Roderick would drink Guinness and I would have a glass of port — Horace introduced me to port years ago — and things progressed from there.’
‘When did you become engaged, Mrs Lewis?’
‘I’ll always remember that, Sergeant. It was after the midnight carol service on Christmas Eve. We were sitting together near the front. I remember thinking that Roderick was coming close to me during “Oh Come all ye Faithful”. Then he came even closer when we were singing “Hark the Herald Angels Sing”. And then, would you believe this, Sergeant, he actually held my hand while we were singing “Silent Night”! Discreetly, of course, not so people could see. I wondered if he was going to propose while we were in church, in “It Came Upon the Midnight Clear” perhaps, but he waited till we were home again.’
The sergeant wanted to ask if the school bursar stayed the night on these romantic evenings, but he thought it better not.
‘Have you told your children about this?’
A small cloud seemed to pass across Mrs Lewis’s features. ‘Well, I did, actually. I think it’s fair to say that neither William nor Montague ever understood Roderick. They never liked him. It was so unfair. Roderick tried so hard.’
‘Did you have rows about it, Mrs Lewis? Sorry, but we have to ask questions like these.’
‘I expect somebody has been telling stories out of school at the Farmers’ Arms. Quite why these snooping people have to listen in to private conversations I’ll never know. Yes, there was a row.’ For the first time in the conversation Mrs Lewis seemed to have lost the power of speech.
‘Was the row about money? About who you were going to leave the shares to?’
‘My goodness, they were listening carefully, weren’t they! Yes, it was. What you must understand is that Horace left the two boys very well off. Each of them has as many shares in the business as I have, if not more. Neither of them has to work at all. So I can’t see why they were so cross when I said I was going to leave my shares to Roderick after we were married and I made a new will.’
‘But you didn’t. Get married, I mean, did you, Mrs Lewis? You didn’t have much time between the engagement and the murder.’
‘No,’ said Mrs Lewis sadly, ‘we didn’t. Such a pity as I’d seen a very beautiful hat over in Norwich. I was so looking forward to getting married in that hat.’
‘And tell me, pray, the will you already had in place, the one that was valid when Mr Gill was killed, where did that leave the money?’
‘That went to the two boys, all of it. I hadn’t even met Roderick when I made that will.’
‘I’ve nearly finished, Mrs Lewis, just one last thing, if I may. Could you just give me the address or addresses for the boys? I don’t think they live locally, do they?’
‘Montague lives at fourteen North Road in Highgate near the school, and William lives at thirty-four Noel Road in Islington. Such pretty houses they have. Now then, will you take a glass of Madeira before you go, Sergeant? A small sherry? I usually have a little tipple about this time!’
The sergeant declined. As he made his way back to the station he wondered if Mrs Lewis realized the import of what she had told him. She had just pointed out that her two sons, singly or together, had very powerful motives for murder.
Powerscourt discovered to his great delight that M. Olivier Brouzet, director general of the French secret service, was not at his elegant headquarters in the Place des Vosges in Paris. He was in London, conferring with his English counterparts. He met Powerscourt in a charming room, hung with Gobelin tapestries, in the French Embassy.
‘Thank you for your note, how pleasant to meet you again, Lord Powerscourt.’ Olivier Brouzet was still slim and dapper with a charming smile. ‘You mention you have been having trouble with secrecy in your secret service? Is that so, Lord Powerscourt?’
Powerscourt explained about the murder at the Jesus Hospital and the two further murders at places connected with the Silkworkers Company. He mentioned the strange marks on the dead men’s chests. He told Brouzet about meeting Colonel Arbuthnot outside the almshouse and his great reluctance to give any details of his interest in the victim and the manner of his death. And he passed on his latest intelligence about the highly suspicious trip to Hamburg and the meeting in London that infuriated Abel Meredith. He complained about the secrecy in the organization he had served.
‘Maybe you should make allowances, my friend. This secret organization of yours is very young. Perhaps they do not yet know how to behave.’
‘Colonel Arbuthnot hinted that Meredith might have been turned into a double agent by the Germans. Do you think that is possible?’
‘Anything is possible in this secret world, my friend. This Meredith would seem to have been used as a courier, but then the colonel more or less admitted that, did he not, when he said his service sometimes used the Silkworkers as messengers. It’s quite smart, I think. Maybe we should infiltrate our winegrowers’ fraternities and use them to take messages to and from Germany under cover of friendly visits to the vineyards of Hock and Moselle. In the world of espionage, Lord Powerscourt, if you look at things very closely for a long time you may end up entertaining the most fantastical notions. You can think you are going mad, and some of us do. It becomes like a repeating image in a hall of mirrors. The man is a double agent, no, he is a triple agent, you can go on for ever. Certainly the British have turned quite a lot of people in recent times. Betraying your country is often preferable to four years in some ghastly English prison where the inmates will beat you up all the time for being a German spy. Patriotism flourishes in the most unlikely places.’
‘What would you advise, Monsieur Brouzet? Should I take this spying business seriously or not?’
‘That is a difficult question, my friend. Part of the difference between our two countries on espionage-related matters is that of geography. You have the waters of the North Sea between you and the Kaiser. For us, he is, literally, next door. That is why I think these matters are taken more seriously in France than in Britain. Let me ask you a question. From what you have told me, you think these mysterious marks hold the key to the crimes, the fact that all three corpses have been defaced in the same way. Is that right?’
‘It is,’ said Powerscourt, wondering where this French logic might be taking him.
‘Well, my friend, it seems unlikely to me that all three dead men were involved with the secret service and acting as couriers to Germany and back. I do not believe the Germans would come all this way to kill all three of them. I think that’s very unlikely. So I think you should not close your mind to the possibilities of espionage in this case, but I do not think it should be at the forefront of your mind either. I tell you what I will do. Quite soon I have a meeting with the superior officer of this Colonel Arbuthnot. I shall ask him about events at the almshouse. I shall tell him that we had an agent holidaying at your Elysian Fields Hotel who heard about the murder inquiry and reported back to us. I shall, of course, let you know what he says.’