Edmund de Courcy returned reluctantly to the stand. He was very pale.
‘Mr de Courcy,’ said Pugh, taking another sip of his water, ‘did you have in your employ until recently a Corsican person called Pietro Morazzini? Employed as a porter in your gallery?’
‘I did,’ said de Courcy, unsure where this new onslaught was going to take him.
‘And was he in your employ,’ Pugh went on, ‘at the time of the murder of Christopher Montague?’
‘I believe he was. Shortly after that he had to return home.’
‘I am afraid, Mr de Courcy,’ Pugh hurried on, aware that Sir Rufus might be about to mount another objection at any moment, ‘that people in this country are somewhat suspicious of Corsicans. Unfortunate, no doubt, but true, nevertheless. The defence has been making inquiries about your Pietro Morazzini.’ Pugh paused to search among his papers. Powerscourt felt sure that Pugh knew exactly where the message was.
‘I have here,’ he went on, looking carefully at the jury, ‘a cable from the Chief of Police in the city of Calvi, one of the principal cities of Corsica.’ He held the missive aloft. ‘Pietro Morazzini had to leave Corsica because of a vendetta, a blood feud. He murdered a man in the citadel of Calvi itself. The victim’s family swore vengeance on Morazzini. He was only allowed home recently to attend his mother’s funeral. They attach great importance to the last rites, these Corsicans. Then he will have to flee again. Signed Captain Antonio Imperiali, Chief of Police, Calvi.’
Pugh paused briefly. ‘Did you know, Mr de Courcy, that you were employing a murderer on your staff?’
‘I did not.’ De Courcy was stammering now. This had been the worst afternoon of his life.
‘The good Captain Imperiali does not tell us how he murdered his victim. Gun maybe. Knife possibly. Perhaps he garrotted them, Mr de Courcy. I believe there is a lot of that in Corsica.’
A silence fell briefly across the court.
‘I put it to you, Mr de Courcy, that you had the motive for the murder of Christopher Montague. You had the means in the person of this disreputable Corsican you had employed, Morazzini. Did you kill Christopher Montague?’
‘No, I did not,’ said de Courcy.
‘Did you send your very own murderer round to Brompton Square to kill him?’
‘Objection, your honour,’ said Sir Rufus, ‘unfair and unjustified line of questioning.’
‘Mr Pugh?’
‘I am trying to alert the members of the jury to the fact there are other people who could have committed this terrible crime, your honour.’
‘Objection sustained, Mr Pugh.’
‘No further questions,’ said Pugh and returned to his seat. The damage had been done before the interruption. He took another glass of his water.
As Mr Justice Browne made his way back to Hampshire, the Prime Minister was in conclave with his Private Secretary in his study at Number 10 Downing Street.
‘Look at them, McDonnell,’ said the Prime Minister, pointing to a great pile of cables on his desk from South Africa. ‘It’s one disaster after another. These damned Boers seem able to strike at will. Our bloody generals haven’t a clue what they’re doing. The fools in the War Office and the Colonial Office have no idea either. We’re losing this bloody war, and it’s got to stop.’
‘Yes, Prime Minister,’ said Schomberg McDonnell.
‘As a rule, as you know,’ the Prime Minister went on, shaking his head at the messages in front of him, ‘it is my custom to leave my ministers and my generals alone. Let them get on with the job. That day is past. I cannot let this continue. There is a complete failure of intelligence out there. Nobody knows where the bloody Boers are. Nobody knows where they may strike next. I want my own man in there, McDonnell, answerable to the generals, of course, but primarily working for me.’
The Prime Minister rose to his feet.
‘Find me the best intelligence officer in Britain,’ he said. ‘I don’t care if he is currently in uniform or not. Find him for me by Monday morning. Bring him here on Monday afternoon.’
With that the Prime Minister walked slowly from the room.
‘Yes, Prime Minister,’ said Schomberg McDonnell.
Opinions were divided in Charles Augustus Pugh’s chambers that evening. Johnny Fitzgerald was sure the jury could no longer believe that Buckley was guilty. Lady Lucy was certain they would be forced to acquit. Powerscourt was not so sure. Neither was Pugh. He looked exhausted from his day in court.
‘I wouldn’t have missed it for the world,’ he said to everybody, his feet in their favourite position on his desk. ‘Sir Rufus looked very irritated indeed as he left. He didn’t even wish me good evening as we came out of the court.’
And Pugh threw his head back and laughed his enormous laugh once more. The tension was beginning to drain out of him.
‘But I don’t know if it’s enough. Not yet. Forty-eight hours to go, Powerscourt. Only two days left. This case will close on Monday. I have a few witnesses left to call, maybe more.’ He looked meaningfully at Powerscourt. ‘Then Sir Rufus will sum up for the prosecution. I shall sum up for the defence. Mr Justice Browne will deliver his closing thoughts. God only knows what they’ll be like. After that . . .’ He paused and looked again at Powerscourt. ‘After that the jury will decide. Twelve good men and true.’
26
‘Forgeries in Mayfair!’ ‘Fake paintings sold to US Millionaires!’ ‘Master Faker hidden in Norfolk Mansion!’ ‘London Art Dealers Employ Their Very Own Forger!’ The London newspapers on Saturday morning were full of the reports of the trial. Enterprising editors sent fresh teams of reporters to de Courcy Hall itself to bring more news on the secret location of Orlando Blane. They searched in vain for Blane himself. A Mr Thomas Blane, a retired clergyman resident in Wimbledon, was disturbed several times that morning by gentlemen of the press who had discovered his name on the electoral roll. An elderly widow, Mrs Muriel Blane of Fulham, South-West London was also troubled by fruitless journalistic inquiries.
The man at the centre of the whole affair, Horace Aloysius Buckley, did not see the reports. Newspapers are not normally delivered to the cells of Her Majesty’s prisons. Lord Francis Powerscourt and Lady Lucy, breakfasting with Johnny Fitzgerald in Markham Square, bought all the day’s papers to read the coverage.
Charles Augustus Pugh was doing the same. He took out a small red pen and ringed the word Pugh every time he saw it. By the end of his marathon perusal – total reading time over two and a half hours – he had counted fifty-four mentions of his name against a mere sixteen for Sir Rufus Fitch.
The nurse in her crisp white uniform read the main points to Sir Frederick Lambert, President of the Royal Academy, resting in a large chair in his drawing room, a rug thrown over his knees. A faint smile crossed his lips when he heard of the diverse activities of Orlando Blane.
But one group of readers were more vigorous in their response than anybody else. Mr William P. McCracken was taking ham and eggs in the dining room of Edinburgh’s finest hotel, looking out over the Royal Mile. Mr McCracken had paid fifteen thousand pounds for his Gainsborough and eighty-five thousand pounds for his Raphael. One hundred thousand pounds in total. Now he saw he could have been sold a couple of forgeries. Worthless forgeries. Mr McCracken, as he had reminded William Alaric Piper in his gallery in Old Bond Street, was a senior elder in the Third Presbyterian Church of Lincoln Street, Concord, Massachusetts. His minister and his fellow elders would not have been pleased to see him take the name of the Lord in vain that morning. ‘God dammit! God dammit to hell!’ he said in such a loud voice that the waitress just behind his table dropped a dish of fresh kippers on the floor. ‘The bastard!’ he went on, totally oblivious to his surroundings. ‘The bastard! God damn him to hell!’ In fifteen years of commerce nobody had outwitted William P. McCracken. ‘God dammit,’ he went on, ‘I’ll sue that man! I’ll break him, if it’s the last thing I do!’ And with that he ordered his bill and a carriage to take him to the railway station to catch the next express to London.