Johnny had a different thought. It was a question for hotel manager James Thomas. Had the Lawrences received any telegrams while they were staying at the Ritz? Yes, they had, came the answer: just one, at five fifteen on the first evening, despatched from Boston, Lincolnshire.
Their last request at White’s Hotel was for a further word with the head porter about the Thursday evening. Johnny showed the Lawrence photographs once more. ‘I know it’s a long time ago,’ he began, ‘but do you remember Mr Carlton Lawrence, this gentleman here, coming into the hotel on his own during the evening?’
There was a pause while the head porter scanned through his memory. Johnny Fitzgerald and Constable Merrick waited patiently. An ordinary porter walked past them with a small briefcase in his hand.
‘That’s it!’ said the head porter. ‘He was carrying a briefcase, rather larger than the one that’s just gone by. Your gentleman, Carlton Lawrence I think you said he was called, came into the hotel about a quarter to nine in the evening in question, the Thursday, I’m sure of it. He went out again about five minutes later without the briefcase. He must have dropped it off in his room.’
John Galsworthy’s Strife was still playing at the Savoy Theatre. The staff, accustomed perhaps to watching detective plays on the stage, were quick to grasp the nature of their inquiries.
One usher reported that she had taken the Lawrences into the theatre and directed them to their box on the first floor. Another remembered bringing them the programmes and making sure they were comfortable.
She was able to recognize about half the party from the photographs. She said her memory for people wasn’t as good as some of the girls who could recall faces they had shown to their seats the year before, but she thought there had been one empty seat in the box at the start of the play. She couldn’t be sure, but she thought all the seats were full at the end. That was all. Carlton Lawrence, when pointed out in the photograph, could have been there or he could not. She couldn’t be sure. That was all she had to say.
Forty minutes later Johnny and Constable Merrick were ensconced in the Powerscourt drawing room in Markham Square. Powerscourt had insisted they use his house as a base during their time in London.
‘I have no idea what I think after today, young Andrew.’ Johnny had found a bottle of Beaune hiding in a Powerscourt cupboard. ‘Tell me when you reckon it’s wide of the mark.’
Johnny took an unusually small sip, for him, and began. ‘Let’s assume the whole thing’s an alibi. The only person it can be an alibi for is Carlton Lawrence, son of old man Lawrence whose estate was sold recently. Originally it must have been for the Wednesday, the first day of their stay in London. Then it has to be put back a day. Maybe Carlton would have gone back to Boston station on the Wednesday if the date hadn’t been changed. Quite what it is or was an alibi for we don’t know. Most likely it’s the murder. But he couldn’t have murdered Lord Candlesby because he was back in London by then on the Thursday. You can look at his appearance at Boston station on the Thursday in one of two ways. Either he was very unlucky to be seen, or, and this is the more devious option, he went in order to be seen. Maybe he was hanging about the place for quite a while in order that somebody would recognize him and tell the police later.’
‘But if he wanted an alibi, sir, surely it would have been for something happening in Lincolnshire rather than in London. Otherwise why go to London at all? On the other hand why go back to Boston station if it’s in that area that you want to establish an alibi? It doesn’t make sense, sir.’
‘Why do you think Carlton Lawrence went back to Boston?’ Johnny Fitzgerald thought he could hear noises coming from the upper floors.
‘Could it have been a woman, sir? Maybe Mr Lawrence had promised to bring a mistress some enormous great jewel like a diamond?’
‘In that case why didn’t he bring the woman with him? Or make a separate trip? We don’t even know if he was married.’
‘He must have been married, sir; it was his daughter’s wedding in the photographs. Maybe we’re looking at it the wrong way round, sir.’ Constable Andrew Merrick was feeling extraordinarily grown up, conducting conversations involving mistresses and extravagant jewellery in one of Chelsea’s most fashionable squares. ‘He could have been bringing something from London to Candlesby, or he could have been bringing something from Candlesby to London, sir, some legal documents perhaps, that they had forgotten to bring with them. They might have had legal business in London about the sale of their estate.’
‘What was in the briefcase, do you think, young Andrew?’ Johnny Fitzgerald was swirling his wine round in his glass like an expert sommelier.
‘Legal documents, as I said, sir? Money? Maybe he owed some people a lot of money over the forthcoming sale of the estate.’
‘My head’s beginning to hurt,’ said Johnny, ‘and it’s not this wine.’
Screams could be heard dimly from above, followed by a lot of shouting.
‘What’s going on, sir?’ asked Andrew. ‘It sounds as if somebody is being tortured on the upper floors.’
‘Quite right,’ said Johnny. ‘Two people are being tortured. They’re five years old and they’re being put in the bath. That’s what all the fuss is about. I’m their godfather, God help them. I’d better go and say hello in a minute.’
Andrew Merrick thought of Powerscourt and Lady Lucy having children as another astonishing event, like Powerscourt having a Christian name. Surely, he had thought, such exalted beings didn’t go round having children like everyone else, even if they were twins.
‘How about this,’ said Johnny, now about a third of the way down the bottle. ‘Alibi literally means being somewhere else. Or that’s what I think it means. When would you need an alibi for the first murder in this case? As far as we know, you would need it for sometime in the small hours of the morning or even later. On the first day our man is definitely in White’s Hotel, miles away from the murder scene. On the second day, the day of the storm and the murder, he is probably back in White’s, still miles away from the murder scene. Why did they go to such trouble to establish an alibi?’
Constable Merrick had only had one tiny sip of his wine. He thought it was delicious. I’m going to turn into an alcoholic, he said to himself, just like my granny said.
‘I’m not convinced about the second day,’ said Constable Merrick. ‘Maybe Carlton has a twin, or a brother who looks like him. Maybe he was introduced into the party the second day. Remember, the person who served them all breakfast in the morning wasn’t the same person who served their dinner the night before. The staff would assume that the breakfast one was the same as the dinner one when it could be a completely different person altogether. It seems possible to me that Carlton Lawrence was just unlucky. He arranged for the substitute to take his place. He shoots off to Lincolnshire. He kills old Candlesby. Then he hides up until the party come home.’
There was a hesitant sort of knock at the door.
‘Ah, Mary Muriel – she looks after the children, Andrew – how nice to see you. Do come in. May I introduce Constable Andrew Merrick, from Lincolnshire? How are the little ones?’
Mary Muriel smiled. ‘They’re much the same,’ she said, ‘only older. I won’t come in, sir. The fact is that they are asking for you to come and tell them a story now they’re in bed. I don’t know how they found out you were here, sir, but they certainly know it now.’