‘I’m terribly sorry, I really am,’ said Powerscourt. ‘I’m afraid it’s not as simple as that.’
22
The Chief Constable glowered at Powerscourt, screwing his monocle tighter and tighter into position. Inspector Blunden had the air of one who wishes most devoutly that the earth would swallow him up whole immediately. Johnny Fitzgerald was growing restive, as if he might go and knock the Chief Constable down. Charles Dymoke had a slight smile playing round the corner of his mouth as if he were keeping score.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Powerscourt again, looking at the Chief Constable steadily. ‘I haven’t finished yet.’
‘What do you mean, you haven’t finished yet? It’s perfectly obvious what we have to do! Let’s get on with it! Skeggs!’
The villainous-looking fellow sprang to attention. Nobody knew how things might have developed had there not been an intervention from a most unexpected quarter.
‘For God’s sake, Chief Constable, do sit down and do shut up.’ Charles Dymoke’s stutter seemed to have deserted him in this hour of need.
‘I would remind you, sir, of two things. It was I who invited Lord Powerscourt to carry out his investigation. I and my brothers have a right to hear his full report. Second, this is our house. It is not a police station or a police examination room or a cell for the detention of the guilty. You are our guest here. As
Charles sat down and blew a few more smoke rings. The Chief Constable turned red. Chief Inspector Skeggs glowered at the world in general. Johnny Fitzgerald laughed.
‘As I was saying,’ Powerscourt carried on as if nothing had happened, ‘I think matters in this case are not as simple as they might appear. For a long time I thought it was a matter of the poor and the exploited against the big house, the droit de seigneur against the human rights of the villagers. I do not think that any more, but I find this even more difficult to prove. Consider, if you will, the family Lawrence. There is certainly motive there. They have a long-standing grudge against the old Lord Candlesby for cheating them out of a considerable and recurring amount of revenue from a railway concession. When I went to speak to old Mr Lawrence – this on the very day when they had been forced to move out of their ancestral home through lack of funds, funds they felt they would have possessed in abundance had it not been for the theft of the railway contract – he took great pains to tell me that the whole family had been in London at the time of the first murder.
‘He gave me the name of the hotel they stayed in, White’s, and the name of the theatre where they had been to see a play in the evening, the Savoy. Did he protest too much?
‘I think it will be easier if I describe the Lawrence trip to London in chronological order. On Wednesday October the sixth the family sets off for the station. Before they leave Boston, Carlton Lawrence, the eldest son of the old Mr Lawrence I met when he was moving house, tries to withdraw a very large sum in cash from his bank. The manager informs him that they don’t have that much money in Treasury notes in the safe, but promises to wire ahead to the London branch nearest to White’s Hotel where the funds required will be ready for collection the following morning. The Lawrence party reach their hotel in the middle of the afternoon. At five fifteen a telegram arrives from Boston. I will speak about its contents a little later if I may.’
Johnny Fitzgerald was staring intently at a couple of stuffed foxes, perched in their case at the very edge of the billiard table and looking as if they might make a run for it at any moment. Chief Inspector Skeggs was inspecting a pair of handcuffs very closely, as if preparing a fitting for Powerscourt’s wrists.
‘The following morning, Thursday October the seventh, the day of the first murder, Carlton Lawrence goes to his bank and withdraws a very large sum in cash. He stows it in his briefcase and goes back to Boston. There’s a train from London to Boston that arrives there at ten past three. A number of people report him hanging round the station for the next hour, never venturing very far away. Perhaps he was waiting to meet somebody. Carlton Lawrence then took the train back to London, leaving Boston at four fifteen, arriving at eight thirty. What was he doing up there in Lincolnshire? Whatever it was, he was back in London, not for the start of the play, but probably in time for the end of it. He went back to the hotel on his way from the station to the theatre where he was seen to have dropped off his briefcase – maybe he didn’t want to be seen at the theatre carrying it. He was able to sleep in his bed in his London hotel and be seen at breakfast the following morning. Between the hours of ten in the evening on Thursday the seventh of October and four in the morning the next day the old Lord Candlesby was murdered. Carlton Lawrence was in London all that time.’
The Chief Constable was turning red in the face. Unbeknown to everybody else in the room, he played a regular round of golf with Carlton Lawrence on Saturday afternoons. His friend was being traduced in front of all these people.
‘So, what was going on?’ Powerscourt continued. ‘We know that the Lawrence money came from the sale of their house and estate. We believe that all the bills outstanding from that transaction have been settled. We believe from reports in Candlesby village that the place is awash with money, more than the villagers have ever seen in all their days. For once in their lives the Lawrences had enough money to take their revenge on the man who had robbed them of the railway contract and all the monies they believed were due to them. I believe the original day set for the meeting between Helen and the Earl was the Wednesday. Then Carlton couldn’t come up with the cash. Promissory notes, cheques, bills of exchange, none of these financial instruments have any currency in Candlesby village. The meeting was rescheduled for the Thursday. Maybe they said Helen was unwell or recovering from the influenza, so the date is switched to the following day, Thursday. Carlton collects the cash, meets a Candlesby intermediary at the station, and hurries back to London for the curtain calls at the Savoy. The whole purpose of the expedition was to create a near perfect alibi for the Lawrences in general and Carlton Lawrence in particular. He couldn’t have been murdering the Earl by the windmill if could prove he was in London at the time.’
Constable Merrick was still writing busily. He was becoming more than ever determined to become a detective and solve great mysteries in front of an astonished audience.
‘So, if my theory is right, the Lawrences paid the villagers to kill the earl. I would remind you again that when I went to see old Mr Lawrence he mentioned that he was employing a number of men from Candlesby village to organize his move. “They’re marvellous at packing the carts,” he told me, “very clever with their hands.” Which of them, Lawrence or villagers, is guilty in law I am not qualified to say. It may be germane to note that the entire Lawrence family have gone away again, not to London this time, but to an unknown destination. The house they were moving to on the day I met old Mr Lawrence is let for the next six months with an option for renewal. We have to thank Inspector Blunden and his men for this information.’
The Chief Constable was recovering his composure now. He was exchanging a series of notes with Chief Inspector Skeggs, planning his next move. Johnny Fitzgerald was looking at them carefully, and checking his watch. Charles Dymoke had lit another cigar and was blowing smoke rings at the ceiling. Lady Lucy seemed to have disappeared.
‘I have nearly finished, ladies and gentlemen.’ Powerscourt was on the last lap. ‘I do have one very important caveat at the end. Earlier this week I went to London and took the advice of one of London’s leading defence lawyers. I laid the broad outlines of the case before him. His advice was clear and unambiguous. It would, he said, require a miracle more remarkable than the raising of Lazarus to secure a conviction in this case. The defence would instruct everybody in Candlesby village, male and female, to say nothing at all. The only other witness to the sad events of that night by the windmill is interred in the Candlesby mausoleum. The prosecution case would collapse for the lack of evidence. It is not for me, thank God, to decide whether or not to proceed with a prosecution. I doubt if the Candlesby family would care to have their father’s peccadilloes and worse brought before a court of law and trumpeted abroad in the newspapers, but that is a matter for them.’