‘Very well,’ said Powerscourt, taking pity on the young man, ‘let us leave it at that for now. My investigation is still in its early stages. Maybe I shall find some other evidence. But let me ask you one final question, Inspector.’
Cooper nodded miserably.
‘Have you watched a man hang? Have you watched that dismal procession early in the morning, the hangman, the criminal, the reluctant vicar, the governor of the prison taking what will be, for one of them, the last walk of his life?’
Inspector Cooper shook his head.
‘Pity that,’ said Powerscourt. ‘I’ve always thought that all policemen involved in murder cases should be taken to witness it at first hand. Now then, Inspector. If I find, close to this trial, that I am no further forward than I am today, may I come back and speak to you again? I wouldn’t want you to have the death of an innocent man on your conscience. There are loyalties higher than those to the police service, I can assure you.’
Albert Cooper looked at him desperately. Was there to be no peace? It seemed easier to agree for now. ‘Of course you can come and see me again if you wish. I can’t stop you. But I can’t guarantee that I will say anything other than I have said today.’
‘That’s fine,’ said Powerscourt. ‘Now then, enough of this serious business. More tea? Scone with jam and cream? A slice of this excellent chocolate cake?’
5
Questions about legal procedure were racing through Powerscourt’s mind as his train took him back to London. Suppose he made no progress in this investigation before the matter came to trial. He thought they could demand access to police documents as part of the defence case. His memory of court procedures told him they could cross-examine Inspector Cooper if he was called as witness for the prosecution. Could they subpoena his various seating plans, for Powerscourt was sure the young man had at least three of them? That would cause a sensation in court. He could hear Pugh’s voice now, echoing round the Old Bailey. ‘I put it to you, Inspector Cooper, that you do not believe the man in the dock, Cosmo Colville, is guilty of this murder. Look at him before you speak. Is that not the case?’ ‘Tell me, Inspector, for I find this scarcely credible, that you, the principal investigating officer, are not sure my client the defendant murdered his brother?’ Powerscourt felt sure that Pugh would not suggest that Inspector Cooper believed Cosmo was innocent. It would be enough to suggest that he was uncertain. Surely that would be enough to sow a doubt so grave that it would lead the jury to an acquittal. He heard Pugh again: ‘Call Inspector Cooper’s superior officer!’
And what, he said to himself, as they reached the outskirts of the capital, would happen to Inspector Cooper? Would he be dismissed from the service? Would his superiors forbid him from giving evidence? Could they save him from disgrace by leaking the story to the newspapers? ‘Shame on you, Norfolk police!’ the headline might scream. ‘Brave policeman defies superiors to see justice done and is fired by Chief Constable!’ Powerscourt suspected that the police were as closed a society as the regiments in the British Army. They would close ranks behind their inferiors and their superiors alike. Inspector Cooper would be ruined. He prayed he would never have to go back to Fakenham to speak to the young man again. He wondered if he would try to bring him to court and to the end of his career if he had to. At least Cooper would still be alive. In the meantime, he, Powerscourt, must write to Charles Augustus Pugh.
Powerscourt found a note from Sir Pericles Freme awaiting him on the hall table in Markham Square. ‘Definitely something odd going on with Colville wine,’ he read, ‘need earlier years’ supply before being able to come to a definite conclusion. Have found splendid recipe involving dried lemon peel for you next time you come. Regards, Freme.’
What in heaven’s name were people doing making wine with lemon peel, Powerscourt asked himself as he went up the stairs to the first-floor drawing room. He found Lady Lucy hard at work writing letters at the little table by the windows. A pile of envelopes, all carefully addressed in her immaculate hand, were awaiting the attentions of the postman.
‘Francis!’ She smiled with pleasure and kissed her husband. ‘How nice to see you. How was Norfolk and that poor Mrs Nash of Brympton Hall?’
‘I think Mrs Nash will pull through in the end,’ said Powerscourt, ‘but they’re all terribly upset. The husband is even thinking of selling up and moving away apparently.’
‘Good Lord,’ said Lady Lucy, for whom moving house was one of life’s most serious enterprises, never to be undertaken lightly, ‘how truly terrible for them.’
‘But tell me, my love,’ said Powerscourt, ‘what of your cousin Milly and the villainous husband?’
Lady Lucy looked grave. ‘It’s even worse that we thought, Francis. It’s frightful. Husband Timothy rejoiced that Randolph Colville was dead. “I’m absolutely delighted,” he said to Milly, “and with any luck that other bugger Cosmo won’t be far behind him. Best news I’ve heard in ages. One shot through the heart, the other about to feel the noose round his neck. Excellent!”’
‘How did he know Randolph was shot through the heart? I thought the wedding guests were only told he was dead.’
‘I expect it will have leaked out,’ said Lady Lucy sadly, ‘and then the husband of the year went off to celebrate in some drinking club he belongs to near Paddington station. He said he was going to drink to the end of the Colvilles.’
‘And what about money, Lucy? Do they have any?’
‘Not as far as Milly can find out, they haven’t. That’s why I’m writing all these letters, Francis. I want to see what the family feeling is about lending them some money while times are bad. We may have to call a family meeting.’
‘Really,’ said Powerscourt, who had never actually seen one of these mass gatherings of Lucy’s tribe in action. He wondered if they would have to hire Lord’s Cricket Ground or the Royal Albert Hall to accommodate all the relations. ‘How will you stop the husband making off with all the money you raise?’
‘I’ve asked them all about that too,’ said Lady Lucy. ‘Somebody must have an answer. There’s one other thing, I nearly forgot. Milly claims she’s sure she saw a man at the wedding reception who wasn’t English. She didn’t think he could be a Nash or a Colville.’
‘Well, the wine business extends all over Europe. There are bound to have been some foreigners there on the Colville side.’
‘I told Milly I’d pass it on, that’s all, Francis. I don’t suppose there’s anything in it.’
Powerscourt did not reply. But as the hours went by that evening he found himself thinking about it more and more. This was the first indication so far that an alien body, a person not a Colville and not a Nash, had been at the scene and could have been the murderer. He wondered if the young Inspector Colville had discovered the same thing, if somewhere on his seating plans there was a guest marked as X or Y because nobody knew their name. Was that why the detective had decided that Cosmo Colville was not the killer?
Powerscourt gasped the following morning as he read the Obituary columns of The Times. Lady Lucy looked at him sharply. This wasn’t normal behaviour for her Francis. ‘Is there anything wrong, my love? Something in the paper that’s upset you?’
Powerscourt held up his hand. ‘Just give me a minute, Lucy, till I’ve finished this.’ When he had finished reading the obituary he folded the newspaper carefully and put it at the back of the table.
‘There’s been another death, Lucy, another Colville gone to meet his maker.’
‘How sad, that’s two in less than a month. Who is it this time?’
‘It’s Walter, the old boy, grandfather of the groom at the wedding, father of Randolph, one of the patriarchs of the Colville wine business.’