Jack Hayward had been placed in one of the outlying wings of the hotel, away from the main concourse where anybody from the locality might have noticed him. Johnny Fitzgerald, in the unusual role of warder, acted as custodian of Hayward’s health from the next-door room.
Inspector Blunden took charge of the situation. Jack Hayward’s room was large with a window looking out over the garden. There was a little table with four chairs where the three of them sat. Hayward was wearing dark blue trousers, a crisp white shirt and a smart jacket, looking, Powerscourt thought, as if he were going to bid for a couple of horses at the Newmarket sales.
‘Now then, Mr Hayward, I think it’s better if we talk to you here, if you don’t mind. It’s a bit more public down at the police station, or in the more open parts of this hotel. I haven’t told Walter Savage you’re here yet, but I hope you’ll be able to see him this afternoon if things go well. So, if you’re comfortable, let us begin.’
If there was one thing Lady Lucy Powerscourt thought they needed in Candlesby village, it was soap in various forms. Soap to clean their front doors, soap to clean their kitchens properly, soap to clean the bedrooms and the bathrooms. Not that she would, for a moment, have accused the women of the village of being slatternly. She knew only too well now how hard they worked, how little spare time there was, if any, how the welfare of their husbands and the children and their own parents was always uppermost in their minds. But a little more cleanliness, she felt, would have been like another moat, another defensive rampart against the slow siege of the disease.
Some of the children were slightly better this morning. Some were worse. One little boy called Will was thought to be at death’s door. Lady Lucy sat by his bedside and watched as he tossed and turned, his forehead burning, a deep frown on his emaciated face. She mopped his brow and held his hand. It was very hot to the touch. His mother flitted in and said she had to see her own mother across the street. ‘A generation above me, and a generation below me,’ she wailed, ‘both about to go on the same day!’
She added that Will had always been fascinated by the Hall and was very fond of cats before she left for another sickbed.
Lady Lucy looked around the room. There were four other beds in it but none of those children were present. Will had been left alone with the strange lady the children called Liddy Lucy as if Liddy were another Christian name. There were no books in the room, so there could be no favourite stories about cats. She thought for a moment and began a long and complicated tale about a cat who visited Candlesby Hall. The sick boy was only awake part of the time but he would still remember bits of it when he told stories to children of his own.
Eventually one of the waitresses from the Candlesby Arms appeared with fresh vegetable soup for everybody. The little boy managed a few mouthfuls before he fell asleep, whispering to Lady Lucy before he went, ‘Can we have some more story later?’
That afternoon, while Will dozed, she was back with the old ladies. The three she spent time with, in adjacent houses, were all very ill, rambling and muttering as they tossed on their beds. There was no demand for tea. Lady Lucy held their hands and stroked their foreheads and did what she could to make them comfortable. But it was on this occasion that she began to note down, on a clean page in her diary, the words that came up over and over again. ‘That girl’, ‘all that money’, ‘deserved it, all of it’, ‘never seen so much money’, ‘storm’. Lady Lucy had no idea what the words meant but she thought it might be important. When she had collected more evidence, she said to herself, she would talk to her husband about it.
PART FOUR
THE TUNNELS OF CANDLESBY HALL
The impression left on me by my extensive wanderings is that English agriculture seems to be fighting against the mills of God … The possession of land is becoming, or has already become, a luxury for rich men, for whom it is a costly joy or a means of indulging a taste for sport. I am sure that one of the worst fates that could befall England is that her land should become either a plaything or a waste.
18
‘Now then, Mr Hayward, perhaps you could tell us in your own words everything that happened on the day of the old Earl’s murder.’ The Inspector spoke kindly, as if he were talking to a rugby player who had committed a foul by accident.
Jack Hayward looked at the Inspector and at Powerscourt. ‘Of course,’ he began. ‘I have to warn you gentlemen that I have been over and over all this so many times in my mind that I sometimes wonder if I am making parts of it up. Anyway, it started with a knock at my door, a loud knock, very early in the morning.’
‘Would you know what time it was? Just for the record, you understand.’ Inspector Blunden had brought a brand-new pencil with him to take notes.
‘I don’t know, I don’t have a watch and we don’t have a clock that works in the house. I would guess that it must have been between five and half past five in the morning. There was a cheap-looking envelope lying by my front door. I say cheap because I’ve seen the expensive ones Walter Savage uses when he sends important letters out from the Hall.
‘It was addressed to me and there was a message inside scribbled on the back of a page torn from a child’s notebook. Here it is, gentlemen.’
Jack Hayward reached onto a pocket and produced his letter. He looked at his two interrogators, who were mesmerized, hearing the best account of the first murder they had heard so far.
‘“Go to the bottom of the main drive,” he read out, “and turn left for four hundred yards or so. Take a horse with you. You will find something you know.”’
‘May I keep that piece of paper for now?’ said the Inspector.
‘Of course, it’s no use to me any more.’
‘Please go on,’ said Powerscourt. ‘Your account is very clear.’
‘You will remember that this was the night of the terrible storm,’ Jack Hayward carried on. ‘It was beginning to die down now, but the wind was still very strong. I did wonder at one point if I should wait until the weather had improved but I thought not. If it was important for somebody to ride over to my house at five in the morning, then surely I could bestir myself. I went to the stables and took the master’s horse, Marlborough he’s called. I’m sure you will ask me why. I have to tell you I have no idea why I did that. Marlborough was a horse I knew very well. He knew me. He was a very sensible animal, quick and strong. If there was going to be trouble, there could be no better companion. I did wonder if was a horse or a deer or a cow or some other animal that might be in difficulties.’
‘Forgive me for interrupting,’ said Powerscourt, ‘but were you expecting trouble? When you reached your appointed destination, I mean?’
‘I have asked myself that question so many times, Lord Powerscourt. I think some part of my brain must have thought there might be trouble ahead. That’s all I can say.’
‘So,’ said Powerscourt, ‘you set off. Did you see anything on the way?’
‘I did not, my lord; it was hard to see anything at all. It was tricky work, keeping control of the horse in that wind. Anyway, I reached the bottom of the drive and turned left. After a quarter of a mile or so I saw what I had been sent to find.’
Jack Hayward paused. Neither the Inspector nor Powerscourt spoke. There was a distant smell of roasting chicken seeping out of the hotel kitchens.
‘Lord Candlesby was lying on the ground. His body had been wrapped in a couple of blankets. It was hard to see the face but I had a torch with me and I took a quick look at it. Have either of you gentlemen seen that face? The late Earl’s face?’