The final paragraph was refreshingly conventional. ‘I look forward to seeing you for luncheon tomorrow at twelve thirty. If you should desire drink – another fatal poison in Britain’s bloodstream – I am told the vicar’s wife makes a passable version of something known as dandelion wine. I have some in one of the outhouses. Yours etc., Leticia Hamilton.’
Lady Lucy screwed up her eyes and read it once more. She would ask Johnny Fitzgerald what wine he would recommend to have with the beetroot. Bull’s Blood from Hungary or wherever it came from? Lacryma Christi?
Johnny Fitzgerald was fond of vicars and curates and gentlemen of the cloth but he did not share his friend’s absolute fascination with the breed. Powerscourt had once said that he wished it were possible to preserve some of the more eccentric specimens and keep them in an attic, to be brought back to life at his pleasure. The curate of St Matthew and All Angels, Candlesby, the Reverend Tobias Flint, was a balding man in his middle thirties, clean shaven, with mournful eyes. He carried about with him an air of worry and general distraction as if he felt God was calling him to service in some other place but he wasn’t, for the moment, quite sure where that other place was.
‘Of course, of course, only too pleased to be of some use,’ he had said in reply to Johnny’s general request for help concerning the Candlesbys and Jack Hayward. ‘How precisely can I help you?’
‘To my way of thinking,’ said Johnny, hoping his stay would not be too long in these uncomfortable chairs with the protruding springs that graced what the curate was pleased to call his study, ‘the Earl may have sent the Hayward family away to some of his relations elsewhere in the county or the country. Mr Drake down at the hotel said you were a great man for their family history. Can you think of any place he might have sent them?’
‘I see, I see,’ said the curate, pointing suddenly to shelf after shelf of ancient books and files. ‘It’s my hobby, you know, the Candlesby family history. I’m never sure people in my position should have hobbies when we are meant to be doing God’s work, but my wife always points out that lots of my colleagues ride to hounds or play politics in the House of Lords. Anyway I’ve made a list somewhere of all the people they’ve married and where they came from. That should help. If only, if only, I could remember where I put it.’
The Reverend Flint peered helplessly at his shelves. Then some practical rather than divine inspiration seemed to strike him.
‘How foolish of me,’ he apologized to Johnny Fitzgerald. ‘Wives, filed next to Wills in my system. Of course.’ He pulled down a folder and began to read.
‘I think the beginning of the last century would be a good place to start, don’t you? The family got into a lot of trouble during the Civil War, you know – managed to fall out with both sides at the same time. Miracle they came through, really. Let me see, let me see.’ The curate sent his index finger skimming down the page. ‘First marriage of that time, 1809, eleventh Earl, Thomas Dymoke, married a Herbert, Henrietta Jane, of Bag Enderby quite near here, June fifteenth. She was buried in the Mausoleum in 1862, distant relation of the Wilton Herberts, I believe. No indication of the two families remaining close. Something tells me that the girl’s family didn’t approve of the match. Next Earl, William Edward, 1845, married a Winifred Maria Horne of Louth, August ninth. I think this Winifred was an only child so unlikely to be many family connections left there.’
The curate ran a despairing hand over his balding head and turned a few more pages. ‘This looks more promising: 1865, thirteenth Earl, Randal Henry Alexander Dymoke, married Margaret Alice Harrington of Silk Willoughby Hall, Silk Willoughby, on July twelfth. Now this bride was an only daughter with three brothers who must, therefore, have also been called Harrington.’
The Reverend Flint became animated, rubbing his hands together as though his life depended on it. ‘Now then, Mr Fitzgerald, we need another couple of folders. Baptisms and Deaths, that’s what we need. My predecessors always kept a record of the people from the big house and their friends and relations who came to funerals and baptisms, that sort of thing. Often they were godparents or pallbearers. We have two families of Harringtons making regular appearances up until two or three years ago. One of them still lives at Silk Willoughby Hall and the other is at The Limes, Wrangle Lowgate, very near the coast south of here. Does that help?’
‘Indeed it does. I am most grateful to you,’ said Johnny, anxious to escape ordeal by chair spring. He did wonder if this habit of recording the names and addresses of members of the gentry who came to family milestone services was a regular custom in the Church of England. He suspected it smacked of the behaviour of the oleaginous Mr Collins, rector of Rosings and humble and grateful recipient of the bounty of Lady Catherine de Bourgh in Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice.
Walter Savage, steward of the Candlesby estate, was a solid-looking man of about sixty years of age with white hair and a very ruddy complexion that might, Powerscourt thought, be the result of years spent in the open air, or it might be the result of many years partaking of the solace of grape and grain. He had a very deep voice and a habit of wiping a hand on his trousers every now and then as if it needed cleaning.
‘Well, Lord Powerscourt,’ Walter Savage began, ‘this is a pretty business and no mistake. I’d be pleased to help in any way I can. My father was steward here before me so you could say we’re fairly well acquainted with the place by now. Perhaps you could tell me what you would like to know.’
Powerscourt had wondered before the steward came about whose side he would be on. Would he be a loyal supporter of the family, saying nothing that might do them harm? Or would he bear a grudge against them for some ill treatment in the past and pour out his venom in Mr Drake’s finest sitting room with the prints of the Lake District on the walls?
‘It would be very useful for me to know the general financial position here, Mr Savage. I don’t want any figures or anything like that, of course, but it would be useful for background. Money in all its forms plays such an important part in all our lives these days, don’t you think?’
Walter Savage grunted. ‘Could I ask you a question before we go any further, Lord Powerscourt? Do you think the late Earl was murdered?’
Powerscourt stared for a moment into the dark eyes opposite. Better tell the truth, he said to himself. It had always been one of his mother’s instructions to him and his sisters when they were growing up.
‘I do, as a matter of fact, Mr Savage. But just at this moment I can’t prove it and I’d be grateful if you’d keep that piece of information to yourself for the time being.’
‘Of course, my lord, I shan’t say a word. Now then, you asked me about the condition of the estate. I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say I don’t think it could be worse.’
‘Really?’ said Powerscourt.
‘I’m sure an intelligent man like yourself knows the background to big landed estates like this one, my lord. They say things move in cycles, good after bad and bad after good. Well, the last good times round here were years and years ago. It’s bad after bad after bad these days. Now rents are going down all the time. Foreign produce from abroad, even from as far away as Australia, is cheaper than what we can produce on our own land. Estates are worth less and less per acre. Fads keep coming along that suck the money out of big estates like this one. Twenty years ago drainage was all the rage. Get your land properly drained and the crops will improve, the value of your land will go up, everything will be rosy. People like the Earl here borrowed money to carry out this drainage work. It may have made a bit of difference, I was never convinced myself, my lord, but the debts to the bank were real enough and they had to be repaid. We still haven’t finished paying them off today, now I come to think about it.’