Death Called to the Bar

by David Dickinson

  Sarah laughed. ‘No, they weren’t that patient. I looked round just before we went into the service and they were all trotting off. Maybe they thought they had done their duty.’

  ‘And the service, Sarah? What was that like?’

  Sarah was beginning to realize how the victims of the Inquisition must have felt as their interrogators kept on and on with their questions. She helped herself to a large slice of Protestant cake.

  ‘All the usual stuff about I am the Resurrection and the Life,’ said Sarah with the world-weary resignation of a twenty-year-old attending her second funeral. ‘Mr Kirk read one lesson. Mr Dauntsey’s brother did another. The vicar preached a sermon about how impossible it was to understand God’s purpose. One of the young barristers in the pew behind me was whispering to his friend that it was equally impossible to understand the purpose of the vicar.’

  Mrs Henderson shook her head at the flippancy of the young.

  ‘They buried him next to his father,’ Sarah carried on. ‘Nearly at the top of the hill. You could see most of the estate and the house and the deer and the cricket pitch, a lovely place to end up in, I thought.’

  ‘Was the church full, Sarah? Fifty mourners? A hundred, would you have said?’

  ‘More than that, mama, some people had to wait outside the church, it was so packed. Hundred and fifty, maybe more. That young policeman came, which I thought was nice of him. And that man Lord Powerscourt the benchers brought in to investigate Mr Dauntsey’s death. He was there.’

  ‘And the widow, Sarah? Was she very upset?

  ‘She looked very beautiful, mama, Mrs Dauntsey. Black suited her. And she had a black veil made of very fine lace, maybe it was a mantilla, which made her look rather mysterious.’

  ‘I’m not sure people should look mysterious at funerals. I was taught they should look sad.’

  ‘I was never very close to her, mama. There was one odd thing just when they were lowering the body into the grave. You know how they have four ropes or runners round the thing before they lower it into the ground? Well, Mr Dauntsey’s coffin sort of slipped. It looked for a second as if it might flip right over and fall in upside down. The bearers had a terrible time, almost wrestling with it. There was a sort of collective gasp from the congregation, everybody holding their breath for a moment. Then it was under control again. Just think, mama, how awful it would have been if Mr Dauntsey’s coffin had fallen in the wrong way round or the wrong way up.’

  Mrs Henderson looked into the fire. ‘You could say, could you not, that the whole thing was a parable, a metaphor for Mr Dauntsey’s life. He ended up the wrong way round, the wrong way up, slumped into his soup bowl at that feast. You’re not meant to end up murdered, not in this bright new century of ours.’

  4

  There was another note from Johnny Fitzgerald waiting for Powerscourt when he returned from the Dauntsey funeral in Kent. Peace, Powerscourt learned, had returned to the troubled East London borough of Whitechapel where Johnny had been sent to check out Winston Howard, the man unsuccessfully defended by Dauntsey at his trial for armed robbery some years before and recently released from prison. Reports from the East End had indicated that the ex-convict might bear a grudge against his legal team for his lengthy incarceration within the unfriendly walls of Pentonville.

  Johnny Fitzgerald claimed to have won prizes for his handwriting at school. Powerscourt had no reason to doubt it. But he wondered if decades of consumption of Pomerol and Meursault, of Chablis and Chardonnay, of Bordeaux and Beaujolais and Muscadet and Armagnac and the other treasures of Johnny’s wine merchants might not have had an impact, the hand grown shakier with the passing years, some letters and words virtually indistinguishable. Then there were all those hours peering at birds through those heavy German binoculars Johnny was so proud of. That must damage your wrists. The Fitzgerald script was becoming more and more indistinct as it staggered its way down the page and over to the other side. There had, Johnny reported, been an obstacle, was it, in Whitechapel. No, it couldn’t be obstacle, it was miracle. Surely not. Miracle in Whitechapel? Powerscourt read on. There was, at the present time, a major crusade being conducted in the crime-ridden borough by the Salvation Army, ever vigilant for the propagation of the gospel and the salvation of souls. At one of these torch-lit rallies, Powerscourt read, the star turn of the preaching department of the Salvation Army, God’s equivalent to W.G. Grace in Johnny’s phrase, had reaped a mighty harvest of souls. The sinners of Whitechapel had formed long queues to confess their sins and be borne into the bosom of the Lord. And among those carried into this spacious resting place, Powerscourt learnt to his astonishment, was none other than Winston Howard, former burglar, armed robber and vicious inhabitant of His Majesty’s prisons. So great was the conversion that Howard had taken to proselytizing in the unlikely quarter of Whitechapel High Street. Johnny himself, the note went on, had been accosted by the prodigal only the day before and could only effect escape from the speeches of conversion by the purchase of four copies of the Salvation Army newsletter. It was therefore unlikely, in Johnny’s view, that Howard would be contemplating violence against any of God’s creatures, or not for a while at any rate, as long as the Salvation Army had him in their clutches.

  The last paragraph was the most difficult to read. Even Lady Lucy, a veteran and expert in decoding Johnny’s messages, was stumped. He was going to watch some birds for a day. Wigeon? Pigeon? Redwing? It was hard to tell. These creatures were expected to come, or was it go, at this time of year over the mudflats of . . . Essex? Sussex? Wessex? Powerscourt doubted if Johnny would be going there. The problems with the decoding became less serious once the last sentence had been deciphered. Johnny would not want Francis to think he was being abandoned. He would be back in London the day after tomorrow. But of one thing he could be sure. Whoever had killed Dauntsey, it was not Winston Howard.

  The following morning a bizarre meeting was taking place in the Powerscourt dining room in Manchester Square. All the chairs, except three at the top end, had been taken away from the table and placed against the wall. Stretching round the table were a series of cardboard labels, roughly inscribed with a thick black pen, with the legends nine to ten, ten to eleven, eleven to twelve and so on all the way round the clock to seven to eight. And standing behind the three chairs were Powerscourt, Detective Chief Inspector Jack Beecham and his detective sergeant, an absurdly young-looking man called Richard Gibson whose uniform was slightly too big for him. Looking at Sergeant Gibson, Powerscourt wondered if his mother thought he hadn’t finished growing yet. And piled up on the table in front of the trio was an enormous heap of paper, the typed records of the detectives’ interviews with the inhabitants of Queen’s Inn, and the two black notebooks where Powerscourt kept his own records of his interviews. And, to complete the display, several pairs of scissors.

  Chief Inspector Beecham set out the rules. ‘We’re most grateful to you, Lord Powerscourt, for inviting us here. What we want to do is to sort all this lot out in terms of time of day.’ He pointed to the small mountain of paper. ‘We have here the records of all the people we have talked to in the Inn. Sergeant Gibson, despite his tender years, is an expert not only in the shorthand but in the typing department. The training school of the Metropolitan Police believe his is the fastest hand they have ever seen, faster than all those young ladies you see going off to adorn the offices of the City of London. Now, the procedure is quite clear. If the transcript mentions a time between eight and nine then it goes over there.’ The Chief Inspector pointed to the relevant cardboard label. Powerscourt noticed that the nails were bitten down to the quick. Perhaps the detective was very highly strung.

  ‘And if,’ he continued, ‘the interviewee saw him twice at different times of day, then we just cut the paper at the relevant point and move the new section to the later time. I don’t think it should take us very long.’

  Gradually the piles of paper began to decrease. And all three of them found it easier
to talk as they entered their material under the relevant time. A ghostly history of Dauntsey’s last hours began to emerge, a plainchant between two policemen and an investigator that followed a man to his death.

  ‘Eight thirty or just afterwards. Dauntsey seen by the porter coming into the Inn.’ This in a solemn voice from the Chief Inspector.

  ‘Eight forty, clerk of chambers reports exchanging Good Mornings as he enters his chambers.’ This from the sergeant in a nervous voice.

  ‘Eight forty-five, meeting with Edward in his room about forthcoming fraud case.’ Powerscourt, wondering how much effort it cost Edward to pass on the information.

  ‘Ten fifteen, meeting with clerk about forthcoming cases.’ The Chief Inspector again.

  ‘Ten forty-five, leaves his chambers. Meeting in chambers of Woodford Stewart about forthcoming fraud case.’

  ‘Twelve thirty, leaves Inn with Stewart, lunches in the Garrick, returns shortly after two.’

  The piles were growing around their cardboard sentries, Powerscourt noticed. But the bulk of the replies were still on the table in front of him. He presumed that the feast, with the largest number of lawyers present, must also have contained the largest number of sightings. The paper round continued. Powerscourt paid particular attention when it reached five o’clock. The doctors were still not sure what time the poison must have been administered but the earliest possible hour was five o’clock.

  ‘Ten past five,’ said the sergeant. Dauntsey had been in the library since four thirty-five, looking up some precedent for the fraud case. ‘Dauntsey back in his own chambers. Has tea with Edward during further meeting about fraud case. Edward leaves Dauntsey still wearing normal clothes at five forty-five.’

  ‘Six o’clock, Dauntsey leaves his rooms in evening clothes to attend pre-feast drinks party in the Treasurer’s chambers in Fountain Court.’ The Chief Inspector added his paper to the pile and shuffled it into a neat package.

  ‘Two of these reports, sir.’ the sergeant held two pieces of paper aloft as if they were suspects. ‘Unknown person spotted on staircase of Dauntsey’s rooms shortly after five forty-five. Another witness saw the person shortly after six o’clock. Described as of average height, slim, with light brown hair, late twenties or early thirties. Smiled, but did not speak to our witnesses, sir.’

  ‘Who the devil do you think it was, Powerscourt?’ said the Chief Inspector. ‘Not normal for total strangers to be wandering about an Inn of Court that time of day, is it?’

  ‘A murderer?’ said Powerscourt quietly. ‘A murderer of average height with light brown hair, come to drop something into Dauntsey’s tea or his gin or his sherry if he had started to drink at this time? I don’t suppose there are any reports of him entering Dauntsey’s room, sergeant?’

  ‘No, sir, there aren’t. There’s nothing between Edward leaving and Scott, the man in the chambers above, seeing him set off for Barton Somerville’s rooms a couple of minutes after six.’

  The sergeant had been scrabbling around in the papers left on the table. ‘I hadn’t connected this person with the mysterious visitor, sir, but here we go. The porter at the gate reported somebody leaving the Inn at about ten past six. If you weren’t a very quick walker, that’s about the time it would take you to get to the lodge from Dauntsey’s rooms, sir. The porter said goodnight and the man nodded but didn’t speak, sir. Wonder why he never opened his mouth, sir?’

  ‘Foreigner perhaps?’ murmured the Chief Inspector. ‘Strong regional accent?’

  ‘Sore throat?’ said Powerscourt flippantly. ‘Dumb visitor? Both pretty unlikely.’

  ‘You don’t suppose, sir,’ said the sergeant, ‘that the visitor might have had something to do with the feast? Something to do with the catering arrangements?’

  ‘If he had,’ said the Chief Inspector firmly, sounding as though he had a pretty poor view of this particular theory, ‘he’d have gone to the kitchens or the Hall, not to a barrister’s room.’

  ‘Client of Dauntsey’s? Any mention by the clerk of our mysterious visitor?’

  ‘No, sir, there isn’t,’ said the sergeant.

  They continued the distribution of the papers, an enormous pile in the seven to eight section when the guests at the feast turned into witnesses to a murder.

  ‘There we are, sir,’ said the Chief Inspector at half past eleven. ‘Sergeant Gibson will type up an hour-by-hour version for us all. I’ll make sure you get a copy first thing in the morning.’

  Powerscourt had ordered coffee and biscuits as a reward for finishing the job.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘that is an excellent morning’s work. But there is one area where I know I have not been able to talk to the relevant people, and that is the steward and his waiters who served the food and drink. The steward has been ill, I understand, and without him there is little point in speaking to the waiters, half of whom, I think, were brought in from outside.’

  ‘That is correct, Lord Powerscourt,’ said the Chief Inspector, ‘but the steward will be back in the next few days. Would you like to join us when we speak to him?’

  ‘Very much so,’ said Powerscourt, ‘but I would venture a further suggestion. We need to talk to the steward and the waiters in the Hall itself. We need to put them back in exactly the roles they had at the feast. There is a catering committee here in the Inn and I spoke to its senior member yesterday about the way things are handled at the feast. And,’ Powerscourt paused for a sip of his coffee, ‘from what he told me, it would have been extraordinarily difficult, if not impossible, to poison Mr Dauntsey at the feast.’

  Powerscourt strode up and down the table, putting the chairs back in position and signalling to the sergeant to move the timetable documents somewhere else. From a large press to the side, he brought out a pair of glasses and a couple of soup bowls.

  ‘Let us pretend, gentlemen, that my dining room is the Hall of Queen’s Inn. This dining table,’ Powerscourt pointed dramatically to his right, ‘is the High Table at the top of the room where the benchers and their guests were sitting. Down there, at right angles to us up here, are three other long trestle tables housing the rest of the barristers.’ Powerscourt waved airily at the imaginary area below him. ‘Now, Chief Inspector, if you would, if we place you here at the very end of our High Table you could be Mr Dauntsey. Sergeant, would you like to be a waiter, or Mr Dauntsey’s neighbour?’

  The sergeant grinned. ‘Don’t think I’d like to be next to Mr Dauntsey when he goes off, sir. Might be a suspect. Think I’ll have to be a waiter.’

  Powerscourt managed to lay a primitive place setting for the Chief Inspector, mat, two sets of knife and fork, a couple of spoons, a cheese knife. He thrust two soup bowls into the sergeant’s hands.

  ‘The important thing,’ said Powerscourt, ‘about the service at the feast, gentlemen, according to my man, is that it is served from two ends.’ He took the sergeant down to the bottom of the room, at the opposite end to the dining table. ‘The food comes from down here. The kitchens are on the far side of that wall with a passage between them and the Hall. Don’t come to serve the soup until I say so, sergeant.’ Powerscourt strode back to the other end of the room and grinned at Jack Beecham. ‘But the drink,’ Powerscourt had found a couple of empty bottles at the back of his cupboard and carried them, one in each hand, to the door into the dining room, ‘the drink comes from the opposite end, what they called the buttery in my college in Cambridge. The white wine will have been kept cool and opened as late as possible. It will, my man informs me, have been served in its original bottles. The red would have been decanted and placed in those elegant French containers the benchers are so proud of. But, alas, we are not concerned with the red here, for Dauntsey was dead before it came on the scene. The bottles will have been lined up on a great bench on the far side of the two Gainsboroughs here on the Inn walls, gentlemen. The only people allowed in there would have been the waiters. Anybody else would have been suspected of wanting to steal some of the Inn’s fine
st wine and kicked out. If you were a murderous waiter, you could pop your poison into a bottle at a special place, but you could not be sure that somebody else would not pick it up first and kill the wrong person. I am just going to pop out and return as a wine waiter complete with bottle.’

  The Chief Inspector smiled. The sergeant waited patiently, his two soup plates filled with imaginary soup. Powerscourt looked quickly up his hall. It was empty. He returned with the bottle in his right hand.

  ‘Right, gentlemen, let us suppose I am the murderous waiter. I have managed to pop the poison into this bottle in the few seconds it takes to pass from the buttery into the top of the Hall here. But the gentlemen are drinking at different speeds. Maybe Mr Dauntsey’s glass is still full, refilled by one of my colleagues. Let us further suppose that I have come back with just one glassful in my bottle. Mr Dauntsey doesn’t want any of it. But two places away the Treasurer himself beckons you over. He likes this Meursault very much. He would like some more. He would like some more this minute. Do you kill the wrong man?’

  The Chief Inspector looked in horror at Powerscourt. ‘My God, Powerscourt, you don’t suppose that it happened as you describe? Only Dauntsey was the wrong man. Some other bencher was meant to be murdered.’

  Powerscourt paused. ‘I think not. I don’t know why. If I could complete the demonstration, I think the same problem applies to the soup. The soup is served at the top end of the kitchen. There is a parade of four to six waiters bringing it up in relays.’ Powerscourt waved at his very own waiter to come forward. ‘Suppose you have somehow managed to drop the poison into one of your soup plates, gentlemen. Hidden up your sleeve perhaps and released by some secret and ingenious mechanism. You have no idea if Mr Dauntsey has been served his borscht or not. If he has, what do you do? You can’t very well turn round and take your deadly cargo back to the kitchens. Everyone will think you are a bit mad and somebody may send the soup out again to kill some other innocent barrister. It’s all very risky, poisoning at the feast.’