Mrs Henderson had said to Sarah that she would have liked to attend Dauntsey’s funeral. But, she went on, she had had a trial run the day after his death was announced to see if she could walk to the end of their road. Just over halfway down, only fifty yards from her house, she reported, her legs simply gave out and a kind stranger had had to help her back to the sanctuary of her home. Could Sarah, therefore, be extra vigilant in reporting the proceedings? Sarah had smiled and promised a detailed account whenever the funeral might be.
Sarah was working on a secret treat for her mother in the springtime. There was only one snag in the scheme. It involved a wheelchair, and wheelchairs, even the mention of wheelchairs, brought her mother to rage and despair. Sarah always wanted to cry when this happened. She felt so sorry for her mother. Wheelchairs, Sarah knew, spelt the end in her mother’s mind, the end of activity, the end of choice, the start of dependence, the start of the long, maybe short, decline into the final immobility. But if the wheelchair enabled her mother to be whisked round Queen’s Inn, to see the various courts and the rooms where the lawyers who now peopled her imagination actually lived, what a delight that would be. With luck they could make the short journey to the Inner and Middle Temple and her mother could rest in the beauty of Temple Gardens and watch the majesty of the law stalk past her en route to the Central Criminal Court. What a day that would be! Sarah had one brother and one sister, both older, both living away from home. To her great irritation the brother approved the scheme, the sister did not, leaving Sarah no wiser than before. But she thought about it all the time, something to bring joy to her mother’s heart before it was too late.
Barton Somerville was flanked by two other benchers of Queen’s Inn when Powerscourt was shown into his room. On the left sat Barrington Percival KC, a specialist in commercial law, a thin little man with a thin face and a tiny beard. On the right was Gabriel Cadogan, KC, a specialist in criminal law, a huge bear of a man with an enormous beard and a booming voice.
‘Thank you for coming to see us, Lord Powerscourt,’ Barton Somerville began. ‘We thought we’d like to have a little discussion before we proceed further. We don’t want to rush things, do we? I presume you know why you are here?’
Powerscourt nodded. Even after less than a minute he was beginning to have some sympathy with the policeman. He was being made to feel as if he was applying for a junior position in somebody’s chambers and that he would be extraordinarily lucky to be taken on. Most people inquired about his past cases and came to him with recommendations from previous clients. His first sponsor, Lord Rosebery, was a former Foreign Secretary and Prime Minister for God’s sake. His reputation had been enough for the minders of the Prince of Wales, apparently, but not for the benchers of Queen’s Inn.
‘What do you think of the police, Lord Powerscourt? The Metropolitan Police, I mean.’ Cadogan sounded as though he could do duty as a foghorn at weekends if he wanted alternative employment. His voice echoed on even after he had stopped speaking.
‘I think very highly of them, sir,’ said Powerscourt, determined not to let down the people who had assisted him so nobly down the years. ‘I understand there has been some unfortunate misunderstanding between them and yourselves in this matter, but I am sure that can be patched up.’
Powerscourt, advocate of friendship with all men, smiled at the trio. They stared at him. ‘It may be that the age of the Chief Inspector is an issue,’ he went on. ‘I do not believe it should be so. I have heard only the highest reports of his abilities. And surely, gentlemen, there must be times when a shooting star will cross the Bar, some young man of such brilliance that he immediately rises to the top by sheer ability.’
Barton Somerville snorted. ‘Haven’t seen one of those for years, not in my Inn at any rate.’ Something told Powerscourt that brilliant young men might not be very welcome in Queen’s Inn.
‘Tell us this, Lord Powerscourt,’ Barrington Percival’s thin voice sounded insubstantial after Cadogan’s, ‘why should we co-operate with the police at all? If they were that successful, people wouldn’t employ investigators like yourselves. You’d all be out of a job. But you’re not.’
‘I have always worked with the police most carefully in all the cases I have been involved with,’ said Powerscourt. ‘They have always been most useful. To take but a few examples of their uses, they have extensive records. They can tell, in a way I could not, if people have criminal records. They have resources of manpower which I could only dream of. I have one close friend who works with me and one gentleman from Scotland I sometimes send for. That is the extent of my manpower. The police have thousands of officers all over the country. They can be very useful when you need them.’
The boom was back. Gabriel Cadogan was cross-examining now. ‘So tell us what your plan of campaign would be if, and I emphasize the word if, we hired you to investigate this murder, Lord Powerscourt. How would you solve it?’
Powerscourt was beginning to feel really irritated. He wondered if the murderer might have enough poison left to return and polish off this troublesome threesome. He rather hoped he had. He just managed to smile. ‘I have no idea,’ he said. ‘Until I start, no idea at all.’
‘Surely you must have some general principles you adhere to?’ Cadogan was now clutching the lapel of his jacket. The jury, Powerscourt thought, were right behind him. ‘I find it hard to believe that an investigator of your experience does not have some scheme he adheres to.’ Once more the boom lived on, hurtling across the room to perish in the velvet curtains.
‘No,’ said Powerscourt. The three benchers looked at each other. Even the delights of this interview had not prepared Powerscourt for what was to come.
‘Perhaps,’ said Somerville, ‘you’d like to wait outside for a few minutes. We’ll call you when we’re ready for you.’
Powerscourt was incandescent as he made his way to the outer office. Outside the wind whipped across the grass and the gravel. Further away tiny wavelets were beating helplessly against the side of the Thames. The seagulls were out in force, complaining about something as usual. Five minutes passed, then ten. Groups of people, three or four at a time, were making their way out of the Inn for lunch in one of the neighbouring restaurants. Fifteen minutes gone. Powerscourt seriously considered walking out. Almost twenty had passed before Gabriel Cadogan opened the door and boomed at Powerscourt to return. His anger had ebbed in the outer room. Now he felt it returning.
‘Thank you for waiting,’ said Barton Somerville with the air of a man who couldn’t care less how long anybody had waited. ‘I am pleased to be able to tell you that by a majority verdict we have decided to appoint you as investigator to this matter.’
So one of these bastards doesn’t want me, Powerscourt said to himself. To hell with him. To hell with them all. There was a pause. Powerscourt said nothing.
‘Have you got nothing to say, man? Don’t you want to know about your terms of employment? The manner in which you would be expected to conduct yourself?’
Powerscourt rose to his feet and looked down coldly on the three lawyers. ‘I think you are labouring under a misapprehension, gentlemen. I’m sure it must be rare in your world. But let me remind you of a few things. I did not apply for this position. You invited me to come here this morning. I came. It is not for you to appoint me to a position I did not apply for. I have urgent business to attend to. I shall consider your offer with family and friends this evening. I shall let you know of my decision in the morning. And, I fear that, like yours, it may be a majority verdict. Good day to you.’