Once again Powerscourt presented his account of his investigation so far. It was, perhaps, less full than the one he had given to Inspector Clayton that afternoon. He would, he said, confine himself to the facts in the first instance. When they had heard Johnny’s report on Mrs Martin, he might speculate. He made no mention of the torture chambers in the basement of the Okhrana headquarters or of the grisly paintings in the special section of the Hermitage. He stressed two things, the differences between the various Russian ministries and the secret service, and the fact that Martin had actually seen the Tsar. He mentioned the tapping of the Embassy telegraphs by the Okhrana and the private system operational between the brothers Crabbe in St Petersburg and London. He said he thought the investigation would now assume less and less importance in the eyes of the Russians. Their thoughts and their agencies would be increasingly devoted to the threat of terrorism and the broader political dilemma of repression or reform. He told of the affair between Roderick Martin and Tamara Kerenkova and the circumstances surrounding her banishment at the time of his last visit. The single most important thing in helping solve the problem, he said gravely, would be an interview with the Tsar. But then, his, Powerscourt’s, fate might be the same as Mr Martin’s. He said he had tried to think of a message to the British Embassy, ostensibly sent to de Chassiron, but designed to be read by the Okhrana, which might precipitate events that would unlock the mystery. So far he had failed. In any case, he pointed out, he wasn’t sure the Okhrana knew any more than he did. He looked forward to hearing Johnny’s report but unless there was some firm evidence from the solicitors or the telegraph company, he feared that the death of Mrs Martin would remain a mystery. If they could discover more about the telegraphs sent from the British Embassy on the evening or the night of Martin’s death, the situation might become clearer. For if Martin had sent a message to his wife, and if the message contained compromising material, and if the Okhrana read it almost immediately, then that might account for Martin’s death, assuming the message was sent after his visit to the Tsar. It would also explain the death of Mrs Martin, killed for the same reason as her husband. They were killed to keep their knowledge a secret. Martin could, he admitted, have sent a message earlier in the day once he knew his business would be concluded by his interview with the Tsar. He also looked forward, he said, to hearing the views of Lucy and Johnny. The only firm plan he had at present, he told them, was to stop off in Paris on his way back to St Petersburg and speak to somebody high up in the French secret service. He passed on de Chassiron’s judgement that they were the best informed organization in Europe about Russia and the court of the Tsar.
Johnny Fitzgerald began his account with the answers, as far as he knew them, to Powerscourt’s queries sent from St Petersburg. William Burke, he said, had reported that there were erratic swings in the balances of Martin’s bank account, consistent, Johnny now realized, with the visits to Russia and the possible purchases of treats and other delights for la Kerenkova. Martin’s train tickets for his various expeditions to the Russian capital had not been bought through the Foreign Office, but through a branch of Thomas Cook round the corner. That was perfectly proper as he was going on private business, or, possibly, spying business. Then he moved on to the life and times of Mrs Letitia Martin in her own village of Tibenham with a very large swig of his port. Johnny looked round happily at his friends. ‘I’ve got one surprise for you all,’ he said, ‘but as in all the best stories, I’m going to save it to the end. The first thing to say about Mrs Martin is that she was very popular. She always arrived in the village on her horse, never on foot, never in a carriage. The natives seem to like that. She was well known in the few shops. The vicar spoke warmly of her as a regular participant at Communion and a generous giver to the fund for the restoration of his church spire. Stood for four hundred years, could fall down next week, give generously today, as the vicar’s sign outside the church proclaims. There’s just one slight crack in this perfection. Mrs Martin was always very late in paying her bills. Sometimes, the butcher told me when his shop was completely empty, her suppliers might have to wait over a year to be paid.’
‘Had this been going on for a long time, Johnny, or was it a recent development?’ Powerscourt was fiddling with a fountain pen.
‘It had got very bad in the past few years, they said. Even the vicar had heard about it, for God’s sake. But it may tie in with William’s information about the fluctuating bank balance.’
Johnny seemed to regard discreditable information that reached the ears of the Church as especially trustworthy, almost as reliable as Holy Writ.
‘What about the Colonel, Johnny?’ said Lady Lucy. ‘I’m very keen to hear about the Colonel.’
‘The Colonel, the Colonel, I’m just coming to the Colonel, Lucy,’ said Johnny with a grin, virtually singing the words “the Colonel” as if it were the refrain in a ballad. ‘Colonel Peter Templeton Fitzmaurice, formerly of the Irish Rangers, one-time resident at Castleford Lodge, some ten miles from Tibenham, nine miles from the Grange. I have to say, ladies and gentlemen,’ Johnny looked at his hosts in turn, ‘that the hard evidence for any sort of relationship between those two is, well . . .’ Johnny paused, searching for the most appropriate phrase, ‘flimsy might be the right word. Or thin. Certainly inadmissible in a court of law. It started in the lounge bar of the Coach and Horses. I don’t mean any affair started there, but my information did. It was ten minutes or so before opening time and the landlady, a handsome woman in her early thirties, years younger than her husband, referred to them. “Of course, there’s that Mrs Martin and her special friend the Colonel,” she said, nodding vigorously at the word “special”. The same process then began to repeat itself. You know, Francis, you know those people who go about studying strange tribes in remote places and asking them questions – anthropologists, are they called? – they could have a field day down in rural Kent. Communication by non-verbal means, they could call it. I don’t think a single person used words like affair, close friendship, love, certainly not love. There was the serious nod, making the recipient of the nod complicit in the knowledge of the nodder. There was the tap, or even the double tap on the side of the nose. There was the rolling of the eyes. There were phrases like no better than she should be, carry on, carry along even. The lad who drives the little fly to the station and back was regarded as a priceless witness for the prosecution because he had once seen them standing together on the station platform With Luggage. No evidence that they were necessarily travelling together With Luggage, of course, but grist to the mill all the same.’
‘Was there any truth in it, Johnny? As far as you could discover?’ Lady Lucy smiled at him.
‘Well, yes, I think there is. Or was. You see, I took a trip over to Castleford Lodge earlier today. The Colonel is not in residence. The housekeeper is. I don’t know why, but housekeepers for some reason are much more forthcoming than butlers in my experience.’
‘It’s because you’re male,’ Powerscourt cut in.
‘I don’t think you should undermine a fellow investigator’s talents in that way, Francis, I really don’t. It’s quite uncalled for. She didn’t know Mrs Martin was dead, the housekeeper. Her face fell and she looked very pale when I told her. “The master would be so upset if he knew that,” she said, “he was so fond of that lady, he really was. When she came here to stay he’d be happy for days afterwards.” Then she burst into tears. I didn’t think it politic to inquire about the sleeping arrangements at that precise moment, so I left.’
‘Isn’t it curious,’ said Lady Lucy, ‘how the words could apply to her master alive or dead. I find that very strange. So which is he, Johnny, the amorous Colonel? Is he alive or is he dead?’