Death Called to the Bar lfp-5

by David Dickinson

  William Burke took a careful sip of his white port. ‘This really is guessing in the dark, Francis. But I think it is less likely to do with the estate accounts. They will follow the same sort of pattern year after year. There may be some exceptional event like a bad harvest. But even then they work like a see-saw.’

  ‘See-saw, William?’ Powerscourt had a mental image of his daughter going up and down on one. The twins, when their time came, could have an end each.

  ‘Sorry, see-saw in the sense that a bad harvest is bad for the people whose crops fail, but very good for those whose don’t because the prices go through the roof. I don’t think there have been any natural disasters that could have affected things . You didn’t see any sign of natural catastrophe down there in Kent, Francis? Vesuvius-type eruptions? Fire and brimstone consuming the cities of the plain? Death of the firstborn?’

  ‘It all looked fairly peaceful to me, William. Deer running about, spring flowers everywhere, the vast hinterland of that house smothered in dust jackets and sheeting. So, it must be the Inn, or perhaps I should say it is more likely to be the Inn. What could be going on there?’

  Burke rose from his chair and wandered over to the window. He looked out into the square below, a couple of pedestrians going home, a lone policeman plodding along the opposite side. He came back and sat on his sofa.

  ‘I can’t say I know very much about how an Inn of Court organizes its finances, Francis. They must have somebody, I presume, to arrange the collection of all those rents for the various chambers. I doubt if anything fishy could be going on there. If they pitched the rents too high, presumably the barristers might decamp to Gray’s Inn or the Middle Temple.’

  Burke paused. ‘Let me ask you a question, Francis. Presumably you think this worry about money might have been important. Do you think it might have led to the two deaths? Because if you do think that, then it must have been some enormous financial crime for somebody to have murdered these two fellows.’

  Now it was Powerscourt’s turn to pause. ‘I simply don’t know. It might be nothing at all. But just give me a list, if you would, of the kinds of money crimes that could lead to murder.’

  ‘The actual crime might not that be all that huge, Francis. But suppose there was blackmail. Suppose Dauntsey and Stewart were operating some kind of blackmailing ring down there in Queen’s. A worm turns. Poisons one and shoots the other. In terms of the big financial crimes, they’re almost all related to theft in one form or another, theft from fellow shareholders like Mr Puncknowle, theft from banks, theft from the public by fraud and deception. What makes life so difficult with the Inn, Francis, is that they will all keep silent on you. They may all have been paying Danegeld to some blackmailer or other for years and years but they’re not going to tell you about it. Any attempt to get a look at the accounts of individual chambers isn’t going to be greeted with birthday cake and balloons, and any attempt to look at the accounts of the Inn itself will be running into a blank wall. “Terribly sorry, Powerscourt,” they will say, “Inn is a closed body, under no obligation to show our accounts to anybody, even if we wanted to, which we don’t.”’

  ‘I’m very grateful, William. You’ve raised a whole host of possibilities.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ said Burke, ‘that I haven’t got the right one. Let me give you a word of advice. I do not know how many other possible theories you have for the motive for these murders, quite a few, I suspect. But let’s suppose it does have to do with the money. Let’s suppose that supposition holds good. If you get anywhere near the truth, Francis, you won’t live to tell the tale. These people have killed twice already. No reason to doubt they will do it again. I don’t mind going to the funerals of very aged and decrepit customers of my bank, but I’m damned if I’m going to go to yours.’

  10

  A rather sombre council of war took place later that evening in the Powerscourt drawing room in Manchester Square. Johnny Fitzgerald had returned from talking to the fringes of London’s underworld about the deaths in Queen’s Inn. Lady Lucy had returned from another mission round the outer fringes of her relations for any fresh intelligence of Mr and Mrs Dauntsey. Powerscourt told them first about Mrs Dauntsey and her reaction to the fairy tale. Lady Lucy was fascinated.

  ‘So it must be true, that rumour,’ she said, looking intensely at her husband, ‘but don’t you see what it means, Francis? If the Queen has obeyed her husband and lain with cousins and brothers she’s still not pregnant. So what are they, what were they, going to do now? If they cannot get an heir from the Dauntsey blood lying with Dauntsey’s wife, then surely the answer is obvious.’

  ‘What is the answer, Lucy?’ Johnny Fitzgerald was fiddling with a corkscrew but he hadn’t yet opened a bottle.

  ‘Well, there are two possible answers, now I think about it, but I’m sure which one I think is right. Poor Mrs Dauntsey. Either she has to start consorting with people who aren’t her husband’s relations at all, in which case any heir wouldn’t have any Dauntsey blood in them. Or it’s time the boot went on the other foot. It’s time for Mr Dauntsey to find somebody to bear his child.’

  ‘And if the person was married her husband might not take too kindly to her being used as a sort of brood mare,’ said Powerscourt, thinking of Mrs Dauntsey as she poured the tea with that slight smile playing around her eyes.

  ‘He might even think of dropping poison into Dauntsey’s drink,’ said Johnny Fitzgerald, ‘and then have to shoot Woodford Stewart because he’d seen him do it.’

  ‘I think we should slow down a bit,’ said Powerscourt, ‘or we’ll all get carried away. We just need to keep a very close eye on Mr Dauntsey’s doings and any new friends he may have been making. What news do you have, Johnny?’

  Johnny Fitzgerald still had an unopened bottle of Nuits St Georges in front of him. He was peering closely at the label. ‘Lucy, Francis, do you think this St George chap is the same George as the English patron saint? That he had to slay the dragon because the creature was guarding the bloody vineyards? So all he really wanted was some nice burgundy and the fire-breathing creature got in the way? Never mind. I have to tell you, Francis, that I am worried, very worried indeed, about what I have discovered down there in the East End and one or two other places as well.’

  ‘What’s that, Johnny?’ said Lady Lucy, concerned that the news might affect her husband.

  ‘My purpose in going to talk to all these people was to do with Jeremiah Puncknowle and his co-defendants, as you both know. Was it likely that any of those defendants would have tried to organize the murder of Mr Dauntsey or Mr Stewart, or indeed carried out the deed themselves? From all over London, in the back rooms of public houses, in the stinking alleyways of Shoreditch, in the corners of illegal drinking dens, the answer was always the same. The answer was No. The risk was too great. But,’ Johnny paused and looked closely at his friend, ‘somebody knew something about the murder of Dauntsey. Maybe it had to do with the poison, I couldn’t find out. But there was something else, Francis, something to do with you. Some of these criminals sounded as though they were actually concerned with your health. I don’t think there is a contract out on your life, but I think somebody has been making inquiries about who would take the job on, how much it might cost, how it could be arranged. Most of them knew something was going on. One of the villains, delightful man till you remembered he’d served fifteen years for armed robbery with violence, said you ought to leave the country. So what have you been doing with these lawyers, Francis, down there in the Strand with the wigs and the gowns and the daily refreshers, that they’re thinking of arranging your murder?’

  ‘Are you serious, Johnny?’ Lucy had turned pale and hurried to her husband’s side.

  ‘I am deadly serious, Lucy,’ said Fitzgerald, leaning forward to open his bottle at last. ‘I think Francis should take his gun with him every time he leaves the house.’

  ‘It’ll be like being back in South Africa, going round armed. That’s twice in one ni
ght I’ve been told to take care of my health,’ said Powerscourt bitterly, ‘and I still don’t have much of an idea who is behind these murders. It reminds me of Easter Week in that case in Compton when the whole cathedral chapter was going to desert the Anglican faith and become Catholic. I was terrified one of the clerics would change their mind and be killed like the other three before them. It may be the same with these bloody lawyers. Ask the wrong question, or more likely ask the right question, and you’ve signed your death warrant. Well, I don’t care what people say, I’m not going to give up now.’

  That night Lady Lucy added another prayer to her collection. She prayed that God would save and preserve her Francis, that He would keep him safe from the devices of his enemies, that he might live long as father to his children and husband of his wife.

  The main court of Queen’s Inn looked like a convocation of ravens to Powerscourt as he crossed it at about nine thirty on Monday morning. Down every stairway they came, sometimes singly, sometimes in pairs, sometimes in threes and fours, ravens in pack formation. Papers were checked, ties adjusted, fragments of dust flicked off gowns that had spent the last few days on a hook at the back of a door, wigs settled firmly in place. Then the convoy set off, arms flapping in their gowns, to the welcoming embrace of the Royal Courts of Justice or the Old Bailey. The whole procession must have taken ten or fifteen minutes, one or two latecomers actually running at full speed across the grass so as to reach their courtroom on time.

  Edward was not among them. Edward was a solitary bird this morning, still devilling into the fraud case of Jeremiah Puncknowle, now expected to start later that week.

  ‘Can you spare me half an hour, Edward?’ asked Powerscourt respectfully as his young friend sat down with his papers.

  ‘Of course, sir,’ said Edward, who would have laid down his life for Powerscourt or his family.

  Powerscourt led the way out of the Inn down the Strand and into a quiet corner of the Regent’s Hotel, looking over the river. He ordered coffee.

  ‘I apologize for all the secrecy, Edward. I very much need to ask you for some information. But I think it could be very dangerous for both of us if we were overheard in Queen’s.’

  Edward looked sceptical for a moment.

  ‘Think of it like this, my friend,’ said Powerscourt, taking a large gulp of his coffee. ‘Suppose it was something to do with money that led to the two deaths. I know for a fact that Dauntsey was very worried about the accounts in the period before he died.’ Powerscourt took care not to let slip where his information had come from or that it might have related to accounts other than those of Queen’s Inn. ‘If the murders are to do with the money, then anybody else found inquiring too closely into the finances may well end up murdered too.’

  Edward nodded. ‘You’re not going to get murdered, are you, Lord Powerscourt? I couldn’t bear that, not after the way you and your family have been so kind to me.’

  Powerscourt grinned. ‘I have absolutely no intention of departing this life and leaving Lucy a widow and the children a life without a father. Why, there’s hardly been time so far to get to know the twins properly. Anyway, Edward, I am presuming that the accounts are not available for general inspection by members of the Inn. I believe that there must be some official who supervises the payments of rent for chambers and bills for food and so on, though that person would not necessarily know the true state of the accounts.’

  ‘There’s a new Financial Steward who came last year,’ said Edward. ‘The chap who did the job before, man by the name of Bassett, kept going till he was seventy-five before he stopped. For some reason they all stay for a very long time. There’s only been six of them in the Inn’s history.’

  Six in around a hundred and forty years, Powerscourt said to himself. One every twenty-five years or so.

  ‘But I presume, Edward, that these stewards do not necessarily know the true picture of the accounts. They know all about the bread and butter stuff but not any investments that may have been made, or monies or property that may have been inherited.’

  ‘That’s true,’ said Edward. ‘There have been all kinds of rumours about the wealth of Queen’s. At one end of the scale it’s the poorest Inn of Court in London, at the other it owns most of Mayfair and half of Oxford Street. But what do you want me to do?’

  ‘Can you get me the names of all the people who have been benchers here and the dates of their death?’

  Edward dropped his coffee cup on to the hard floor. The cup shattered into a thousand fragments. The coffee concentrated in one narrow stream and made for the nearby carpet. The whole room looked round and stared at Edward as if he had ruined their morning. ‘I’m t-t-t-terribly s-s-sorry,’ he stammered to the elderly maid who arrived at remarkable speed to clear up the mess.

  Powerscourt, disturbed by Edward’s full-blown stuttering, decided to keep talking for a while until calm returned to his mind.

  When the maid was out of earshot Powerscourt continued. ‘If we have those dates, we can look at the wills in Somerset House or wherever they keep them. The wills won’t tell us a great deal, but they will give us an indication of how much may have been left to the Inn, or perhaps to the benchers. Now, they may have invested five per cent of their income from the rents for years and years and made a tidy sum, we just don’t know and the wills won’t help, but they’ll be a start. Do you see my point, Edward?’

  Edward nodded. Then it was his turn to grin. He took a deep breath and swallowed hard. ‘I was thinking how difficult it was going to be, Lord Powerscourt,’ he said. It was all right. He was in control of the words again. Sometimes they were just so elusive, so slippery. ‘Then I remembered. There’s a little guidebook they give to all prospective members, everybody who’s interested in coming here. I think they give it to visitors too, sometimes. It lists all the benchers in the back, and the dates they served. Some places retire people in their late sixties or early seventies. Not here. Once a bencher, you’re a bencher for life. It’s like the Supreme Court in America.’

  ‘So,’ said Powerscourt, suspecting that his job had suddenly become a lot easier, ‘can you remember, and please remember too that one particular answer to this question will make me very happy, are the dates given in years only, or do they include the month of the year as well?’

  Edward thought for a moment. ‘You’re in luck, Lord Powerscourt. They must have been very concerned with accuracy. Very proper, I suppose, for the legal profession. You do get the month. And in most cases you get the day of the month as well.’

  One hour later Powerscourt was staring at his list of names. There were, he had counted, just over a hundred benchers who had served Queen’s Inn since its foundation. Now he was in a basement room in Somerset House where details of all the wills up to 1858 were recorded in enormous dark brown ledgers. Clerks of the Court of Canterbury had entered the main points of each will as they reached them. Historians, necrophiliacs, any of the deranged who wanted this material had to copy the wills they wanted out of the big books. The room was in the shape of a rectangle with a long oak table in the centre. There were enough chairs for about twenty ghouls, Powerscourt saw, though only five were occupied this morning. A little light filtered through from glass skylights set into the ceiling that was the floor of the courtyard outside. The electric lights on the walls gave off a slightly yellowish tinge as if they weren’t connected properly to the supply. There was a strange smell, a compound of sweat and dirt and the musty odour that came from so many opened ledgers. Ferocious notices were pinned up everywhere, warning of the dangers of misbehaviour. Writing in the ledgers guaranteed life expulsion from the premises. Spilt ink was almost as serious with a ban of five years. Marking the covers of the ledgers with a penknife or sharp nib would bring a fine of twenty pounds. And, sitting at a high desk at the far end of the room, underneath a fading picture of Queen Victoria on her Jubilee, were the guardians of this Valley of Lost Things, two enormous curators with identical handlebar moustaches, wear
ing a Prussian-looking uniform of dark blue. They stared relentlessly at their customers with an expression of the deepest suspicion. Powerscourt thought they must be former sergeant majors, ferocious drill at the double in the Somerset House courtyard an extra punishment, perhaps, for the miscreants and defaulters among the ledgers.

  Truly, Powerscourt thought, this room with its great brown books and their baleful contents and those dreadful guardians, this is the kingdom of the dead. We, the living who pass through here, are mere wraiths, doomed to wander in the world of shadows outside from the Strand to Aldwych to Holborn trying to forget that our own futures too will one day end up down here or in the sister chamber that holds the wills of later years. Did these rich men – for on the whole, he thought, you would have to be rich to qualify for a place in these ledgers – know that one day, hundreds of years after they were gone, complete strangers would come and inspect their wills, in an act that amounted to posthumous financial rape? Would the same fate happen to Powerscourt in his turn?

  The names of former benchers fascinated him. James Herbert Pomeroy, passed away in the 1770s, left twenty pounds to his wife and a house in Lincoln’s Inn Fields to Queen’s Inn. Edward Madingley Chawleigh, died 1780, left fifty pounds for the maintenance and education of poor students ‘that the poor might be afforded the advantages vouchsafed to us by birth’. Was Josiah Sterndale Tarleton, passed away 1785, the father of the Colonel Banastre Tarleton, painted with such verve and panache by Sir Joshua Reynolds? Tarleton had been engaged in the American War of Independence. Powerscourt could see the painting now, the young man in skin-tight white breeches and a green jacket studded with gold buttons, the smoke of a great explosion behind him and gathered around his person the varied accoutrements of war, a pair of horses, for the Colonel was of horse rather than foot, a mobile cannon and what may have been the colours of his company in deep red. Old Mr Tarleton had at least passed on before the disappointment of the loss of the American colonies his son had fought to keep. And then, Powerscourt remembered, this Colonel Banastre Tarleton had been the lover over many years of Perdita, one-time mistress of the Prince of Wales, still hanging on the walls of the Wallace Collection, painted by Gainsborough. Was Robert Fitzpaine Wilberforce, died 1792, the father or the uncle of the man who campaigned so effectively for the abolition of slavery?