As he sped off towards Cashel Johnny wondered if Savage really had been arrested or if this was some ploy to drag an unwilling Hayward back across the Irish Sea. He suspected, from his knowledge of Powerscourt, that it was a ploy, but that the steward Savage really was locked up in Spalding jail along with the drunks and the poachers and the cattle thieves.
A couple of hours later he was knocking once again on the front door of the house where he had been thrown out less than a week before.
‘It’s you again,’ said the farmer’s wife. ‘The devil finds work for idle hands, so he does now. What in God’s name do you want this time? I told you, Jack Hatward, or whatever he’s called, isn’t here.’
‘We are faced with a grave situation now, madam,’ said Johnny, trying to sound as serious as his old headmaster at school. ‘I will not beat about the bush. Time is short. You tell Jack Hayward that one of his greatest friends over the water in Candlesby has been arrested for murder. His name is Savage, Walter Savage. Have you got that? He is at present locked up in Spalding jail with the other lawbreakers of Lincolnshire. He is asking for Jack to come to his assistance. He seems to think Jack could secure his release. I cannot foretell the future, madam, but if Jack does not come this unfortunate man Savage could end up being taken from the court where he has been found guilty and hanged by the neck until he is dead. You tell Jack Hayward that. I shall come back in half an hour. Good day to you.’
With that he strode off and found solace in the Kilkenny Arms two hundred yards away. Here, he thanked God, none of the natives spoke to him at all. He had long suspected that he would be accosted some day in one of these Irish pubs by people claiming to have survived the famine and demanding compensation in liquid form.
The woman’s attitude was very different when he came back. ‘You’d better come in,’ she said, closing the door quickly. She showed him into a small sitting room adorned with ghoulish paintings of the Stations of the Cross. Johnny could hear a lot of talking in the passageway outside but he couldn’t catch the words. In the distance, upstairs perhaps, he could hear a child crying.
‘Who the hell are you?’ The man was of normal height, clean shaven with curly black hair and an air of authority about him. Johnny wondered if he had the same influence on humans as he did on horses.
Johnny rose and shook him by the hand. ‘Jack Hayward?’ he said. The man nodded. ‘My name is Fitzgerald, Johnny Fitzgerald. I work with a private investigator called Powerscourt, Lord Francis Powerscourt. We are investigating the murders of the past two Earls of Candlesby with the Lincolnshire police.’
‘Murders?’ said Jack Hayward. ‘Has there been another one?’
‘I’m afraid there has. Richard the heir was on his way to take his place in the House of Lords when he was garrotted on his train.’
‘Great God. I didn’t know. They don’t put much Lincolnshire news in the papers round here.’
‘It’s Walter Savage we’re concerned about here, Mr Hayward. He thinks you can help secure his release from prison.’
‘I once visited a man in Spalding jail,’ said Jack Hayward thoughtfully. ‘They thought he had been stealing horses but he hadn’t. But tell me this, how do I know you’re telling the truth? This could be some terrible trick.’
Johnny had realized on his journey that he could show Hayward Powerscourt’s telegram. Probably his friend had written it with that in mind. He handed it over. ‘Inspector Blunden is the chief investigating officer. Lady Lucy is Powerscourt’s wife.’
Jack Hayward read it very quickly. He stared at Johnny for a moment. ‘All right. Dammit, I’ll come. I don’t want to come but I don’t think that I have much choice. I can’t let Walter down. If this is a trick, you’ll have to pay for it. I’m not going to bring the wife or the children with me. They’ll be safer here. I gather there is an outbreak of influenza in Candlesby village.’ He stared at the Stations of the Cross for a moment. ‘I’ll just go and tell the wife and gather a few things. I should be ready to go in fifteen minutes.’
Forty-five minutes later Johnny was waiting with Jack Hayward for the express to Dublin. He had just despatched a telegram to Powerscourt. He had made it as short as possible. ‘Hayward Redux’, it said. Jack Hayward was coming home.
Back in Candlesby Hall the normal routines of life that had held for the past twenty or thirty years were breaking down. For Henry and Edward there was a great gap left by the absence of their tyrannical father, killed in a manner as yet unknown, and their eldest brother, garrotted in his special train on his special day. Henry was now the Earl of Candlesby, and his younger brother Edward was seized with jealousy at the caprices of birth. Why should he lose out just because he had been born a couple of years later? He might not have been bastard like Edmund in King Lear, but he felt the unfairness just as deeply. They made desultory plans for what they would do when the murders were cleared up. They would sell the house and the estate, a happy dream, until the steward told Henry the full facts of the financial situation. They dreamt on, their fantasies fuelled by drink. They would go and live in London – a life of glittering prizes where they would be welcomed as heirs to one of the great titles of the kingdom. They would go to Paris and sink into the voluptuous luxury of the most sophisticated city in Europe. They would go to California and start a new life in the new world.
Then catastrophe struck. They had both noticed – they had believed from their earliest years in the quantity rather quality school of wine consumption – that the bottles Barnabas Thorpe the butler brought up each morning were tasting worse and worse. They set forth on an expedition to the cellar, a great dark underground chamber in the basement near the kitchen surrounded by a rabbit warren of store rooms and pantries and the tunnel that led to the stable block. Neither brother had ever seen the kitchen or the wine cellar before. Each had a candle in his hand. They stared in disbelief at row after row of empty wine racks labelled Claret and Burgundy and Hock and Chablis and Port. Only in the far corner where the shadows and the dust were deepest was there a small section with bottles still in their place. There was no label, no indication of any kind as to where this stuff came from. This underground cave, as the French called their cellars, which had once held thousands of bottles to quench the thirst of Candlesbys past, was virtually empty. And when they spoke to Thorpe the butler about ordering fresh supplies from the family wine merchants, his reply distressed them as much if not more than the deaths of their father and brother.
‘I’m afraid that will not be possible at present, my lord,’ he had said in his most mournful voice.
‘Why not?’ said Henry, trying to sound like an Earl.
‘I tried to replenish our supplies very recently, my lord. The wine merchants said that would not be possible. The wine here has been bought on credit for the past ten years. The firm are not prepared to extend any more until things settle down.’
‘Bastards,’ said Henry and Edward in unison. ‘Things settle down? What does that mean?’ Henry carried on.
‘It means, my lord, that we shall not be able to order anything at all until one of two things happens, or possibly both.’
Henry raised an eyebrow. ‘Like what?’
‘The first is that the recent difficulties here’ – a well-trained butler’s finest euphemism for murder – ‘are cleared up.’
‘And the second?’
‘The second is simpler. No more wine will be sent until somebody pays the bill.’
On the top floor, on the opposite side of the house to the Caravaggio room, things were not much better in the apartment where James lived with his attendant. James had not been seen much since the day when he marched into the lake and was only saved by the intervention of his brother Charles. The youngest of the Candlesbys, the one his elder brothers referred to as ‘not right in the head’ in their charitable moments and ‘stark staring mad’ in their normal moments, seemed to be deteriorating. He ran a high fever much of the time and had to be confined to bed, complaining of the cold in spite of a great fire roaring in the grate. When he got up James would sit huddled in an armchair wrapped in blankets and stare endlessly at the flames. When he spoke he did not make much sense, talking of storms and lightning and the wrath of God. Charles was his constant companion. His younger brother had an insatiable appetite for information about the murders. Which horse, he would ask, for like Charles he was a great lover of horses, had carried his father back from his death? What colour was the special train? How many niches were left in the mausoleum? Charles answered all his questions as best he could. He had no idea of the shape of the disease that was destroying his brother and even less idea of what form it might take in the future. But if love could have cured, James Candlesby would have taken up his bed and walked. Unlike the rest of his family Charles loved his brother very deeply and prayed against hope for his recovery.