‘Great Aunt,’ Lady Lucy was bringing the party to a close, ‘we have to go now. Francis has a meeting with the police. But you must come and see us at our hotel. Why don’t you come for tea a week today? We could bring you up to date with the latest news.’
‘I tell you what I will do, my dear. Much better than tea. I’ll organize a series of lunches for you to host at your hotel. You can meet the ladies of Lincolnshire and hear what gossip has to say about mysterious deaths at Candlesby Hall.’
Sandy was still engrossed in his own diary.
‘Saturday October ninth, 1909, Palace Theatre, Newcastle. I am sitting in the press area to the left of the main stage. There must be about fifteen of us pressmen here crammed into a very small space. One of the ushers just told me that the place can hold over five thousand people and it is packed to the rafters this afternoon. Some of the local Liberal MPs are here – one of them was kind enough to wave at me just now – but these are the working men of Newcastle and Gateshead and Sunderland and South Shields, men who work in shipbuilding, in the docks, on the railways, down the mines, the men who man the sinews of industry in the North-East. These are the people who decide general elections. Suddenly the chatter in the theatre dies down, to be followed by a mighty roar, and the Chancellor of the Exchequer cames forward to the rostrum, hands held aloft in thanks for his welcome. How Lloyd George loves these occasions, the way he can play on the crowd, their affection for him, his sense of power over the multitude. I have always thought he is happier here with these vast crowds than he is in the House of Commons. I have long felt that his ideal site for one of these monster speeches would be a bare hillside somewhere in North Wales, with a wind blowing in from the sea and the rain not too far away.
‘He begins by talking about the Budget, and how various industries are now doing better than they had been before he announced his financial measures in March. But he says there is a slump in dukes – because a fully equipped duke costs as much to keep as two dreadnoughts.
‘There is a great deal of laughter and prolonged cheering at this point. The reporter from the Daily Telegraph on my left mutters disrespectfully about bloody Welshmen. Later on Lloyd George fires another broadside against the aristocracy which has the audience punching their fists in the air. Should five hundred men, he asks, ordinary men, chosen accidentally from among the unemployed, override the judgement of millions of people who are engaged in the industry which makes the wealth of the country?
‘I am certain I have just heard one of the defining quotes of the battle between the Lords and the Commons, words likely to prolong the fight, to bring a sword rather than an olive branch to the Palace of Westminster. Maybe this is actually what Lloyd George wants to do, to enrage the members of the Upper House so much that they throw out his Budget and prepare for a final apocalyptic showdown over where power in Britain really lies, with the people or with the peers. Alea jacta est. The die is cast.’
‘Have a look at this lot, my lord. Maybe you’ll have some thoughts about what we should do next.’ Detective Inspector William Blunden handed over a small pile of letters to Powerscourt. They were sitting in his office in the police station a couple of days later, hoping to plan their next moves.
‘“Chief Constable to the Permanent Secretary at the Home Office, copy to the Archbishop’s secretary, Bishop’s Palace, Lincoln, copy to Lord Candlesby, Candlesby Hall,”’ Powerscourt read aloud, ‘“You will have read, I am sure, of the recent death of the Earl of Candlesby, delivered to a meeting of his hunt wrapped in blankets on the back of his horse. We are not satisfied that the correct procedures were followed at the time of his death. We do not feel that the cause of that death has been properly established. We wish, therefore, to request your permission to exhume the body and to carry out a post-mortem so that the matter can be properly investigated. Yours etc., Chief Constable of Lincolnshire.”
‘“Dear Chief Constable, Thank you for your letter, etc. etc. etc…. I do not feel that you have given us sufficient information concerning the death of Lord Candlesby for us to grant permission for an exhumation in this case. I would remind you that you need special permission or a faculty from the Church of England if the aforementioned is interred in consecrated ground or in property pertaining to the Church. And I would also remind you of the need to acquire permission from all the members of the family before this request could be considered. Yours etc., Sir Bartleby Timson, Permanent Secretary, the Home Office, etc. etc. etc.”
‘“Dear Chief Constable, His Grace asks me to inform you that while he is normally sympathetic to all requests for exhumation, he feels moved to stay his response in this case. He feels that the reasons given might, in certain quarters, be considered inadequate. Perhaps you could get in touch with us here at the Palace when you have obtained the necessary permissions from the family and the necessary clearances from the Home Office. Yours etc. etc., Obadiah Forester, Secretary to His Grace the Bishop of Lincoln.”
‘“Dear Chief Constable, I would remind you that under the Burial Act 1857 permission is required from all living relatives before the authorities can even consider an exhumation order. I refuse you such permission. My brothers will be writing to you in the next few days to refuse you their permission too. Then I trust that this outrageous and unjustified request can be abandoned and the family left to grieve in peace, Yours etc. etc., Candlesby.”
‘“Dear Chief Constable, We act for the new Earl of Candlesby. It has come to our attention that a recent request has been submitted for an exhumation of the body of the late Lord Candlesby. Close inspection of the relevant legislation leads us to believe that this request is spurious and has no meaning in law. To the best of our knowledge none of the surviving children of the late Earl, all except one past the age of consent, will accede to this request. It is, therefore, going to be refused by the Home Office. We have written to the Permanent Secretary asking for copies of any further correspondence to be sent to us so we can monitor future proceedings. Yours etc. etc. etc. Mark Sowerby, Hopkins Pettigrew amp; Green, Bedford Square.”
‘My goodness me,’ said Powerscourt with a smile, handing the correspondence back to the Inspector, ‘these people could get through an awful lot of ink before they’ve finished. And I’d be fairly sure that those solicitors in Bedford Square would be the last to quit the field. I don’t know how much they charge but it’ll be a pretty penny.’
‘If I might say so, my lord,’ said Inspector Blunden, ‘you don’t sound very concerned about these letters.’
‘Well, that’s because I’m not,’ said Powerscourt cheerfully, ‘and neither will you be when you hear what I’ve got to say. You may remember I said last time we talked about this that I needed to find out more abut exhumations?’
The Inspector nodded.
‘I tried a local library and that was no good. But I did ask them who the local coroner was. So I popped back into the car and set off to Spalding to find the good Dr Chapman, His Majesty’s coroner for South Lincolnshire. I bought the fellow lunch, as a matter of fact. Very fond of fish, the coroner, fish and rather expensive hock. Never mind. The key thing he told me was this: in important police matters, like possible murder cases, where the suspects may include the relatives of the deceased, the coroner can take the decision on his own. No need to hang around waiting for faculties from the bishop and approval from Sir Bartleby at the Home Office; he can fire the starting pistol all on his own. We have to make sure that there’s a chap from the undertakers there, and the coroner himself, and the man doing the post-mortem, and we have to do it in the dark when nobody can see. Quite what anybody would imagine was going on when they saw a body being dug up in the middle of the night doesn’t bear thinking about. Still, the late Earl isn’t going to be dug out of the ground, is he, just slid out of his shelf in that mausoleum. Much less alarming all round. And my coroner friend, over a large glass of brandy in the restaurant, recommended the best man in the country for the post-mortem. Fellow by the name of Carey, Nathaniel Carey at Bart’s in London. Nobody’s going to argue with his findings apparently. I’ve taken the liberty of dropping him a line.’