Ten Lords A-Leaping

by Ruth Dudley Edwards

I feel it right to tell you that I am contemplating remarriage to someone who is a lot younger than me—in her mid thirties, in fact. So it is possible that we may have children.

  It was always a source of great grief to me, and to Amelia, that all her pregnancies ended in miscarriage. I am selfish enough to want to seize a second chance to have what I have always desperately desired—children of my own.

  For you this would mean being disinherited, which is why I feel it important to ask if it would be very destructive of your family, or if you could take it in your stride. But since for about ten years you must have assumed you would remain the heir, I will understand if you are appalled by the notion of being supplanted. I love the lady in question, but I give you my word that if it is your wish, then I will draw back. However, if you feel able to give us your blessing, what I propose is that should I marry and should my wife produce an heir, I will settle on you a substantial sum of money to ensure that you have, within reason, all you want materially for you and your family.

  My love to Marge,

  Your affectionate cousin,

  Bertie.

  Pooley handed the letter back. ‘Nice man, isn’t he?’

  ‘A gentleman.’ Shotto handed him a photocopy.

  Dear Cousin Bertie,

  I appreciated your letter, but don’t you worry about a thing. If I end up a duke, I’ll try to be a good duke; if I don’t, that’s OK as well. Like I said to you that time when you asked me if I’d like to move the family to England and learn about the business, you can never know what the future may hold so it’s better to plod along unless the Lord calls on you to change. If you get married, you’ll have my very good wishes, and if you’d like us to be there for the wedding, we’ll come. Thanks to you, the kids have had every chance, and we’ve nothing to grumble about if we don’t end up with coronets. I don’t know as how I’d know how to wear one properly anyhow.

  Marge sends her love and best wishes,

  God bless you.

  Your affectionate cousin,

  Fred.’

  ‘And your wife was happy about this too?’

  ‘Yeah, we think the same about things mostly. When Mom was urging us to up sticks and go and live on Cousin Bertie’s estate, it was Marge said, “You can’t predict what’ll happen. After all, Bertie might get divorced or become a widower and who’s to say what might happen then.”’

  ‘Very sensible woman, your wife.’

  ‘Yep. Never had a day’s regret about marrying her.’ He pointed proudly at the photographs on the sideboard.

  Pooley studied them curiously. ‘Are these your children?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Very nice-looking.’

  ‘Yeah, as you can see, they take after Marge, fortunately not after my family. I’m no oil painting. No more than Bertie is.’

  ‘Who’s that?’ Pooley pointed at a cross-looking, thin woman.

  ‘That’s Mom. And there’s Dad. He died a long time ago.’

  ‘And that?’

  ‘Oh, that’s Will, my twin brother.’

  ‘He doesn’t look at all like you.’

  ‘Nope, one of those funny things. Took after Mom’s side, while I took after Pop’s. It was the same temperamentally.’

  Being so far away from home made Pooley forget his usual professional anonymity. ‘It’s peculiar being a twin when there’s inheritance involved, isn’t it? I’m the younger by ten minutes, and my brother’s going to inherit a lot.’

  ‘Yep. The Lord sure moves in mysterious ways. Will would have liked to be a duke much more than me, but life ain’t fair. You’ve just got to take it as it comes. Now, is there anything else I can help you with?’

  ‘No. You’ve been most kind. Thank you very much, Mr Sholto.’

  ‘Fred.’

  ‘Sorry. Fred. Now I’ll be getting back to Washington airport.’

  ‘Not going to stop and see the sights? Not that there are many here.’ He laughed.

  ‘No thanks. As you can imagine, with all this going on, we’re short-staffed back at home. Better get back as fast as I can.’

  Sholto walked Pooley out to the waiting taxi. As they shook hands he looked sombre. ‘If you see Cousin Bertie, tell him Fred was asking for him and that I’m real glad he’s safe. I promise you I’ll have our congregation pray to the Lord to help you catch that maniac before any more harm’s done.’

  ‘I’d be grateful for that. We can certainly use all the help we can get.’

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  ‘That’s really terrific.’ Amiss clutched his left temple. ‘Sholto’s a saint. There isn’t a shred of evidence to link those mad Trots in Leadbetter’s basement with the Lords murders. Jim says your antiterrorist boys are out of ideas and no one has a clue who the Avengers are. So it’s eight thousand, four hundred and sixty-seven suspects down and none to go. What are you going to do today? Announce it was mass suicide?’

  ‘Probably go through all the files all over again looking for something we’ve missed. The only bright spot in all of this is that no one’s tried to frame the Trots for what they didn’t do just because we’d like them to be guilty—which of course is why the press is baying for our blood.’

  ‘Nasty this morning, is it?’

  Pooley winced. ‘They talk about us like you shouldn’t talk about a dog. Or even an animal activist. I’ll be in touch.’

  ***

  ‘For a man who’s been to and from the States in less than twenty-four hours, you’re looking pretty good, Ellis. It must be all that healthy living. And thanks for your report. Disappointing, but very good.’

  Pooley flushed with pleasure.

  ‘Thank you, sir. Have you a minute?’

  ‘Yes. I’m just contemplating how to explain to the Commissioner that I’m completely out of ideas.’

  ‘I was just leafing through the file on Brother Francis, and I remembered what Robert had said about him and Plutarch, and I still can’t work out why he was carting a tabernacle around the place.’

  ‘A tabernacle? I didn’t hear that bit of the story—all I heard was about Plutarch and the Lord Chancellor. Is there more?’

  ‘She crashed into Brother Francis, and he dropped a suitcase which turned out to have a tabernacle in it. And I just can’t work out why.’

  Milton thought for a few moments and then shrugged. ‘Why not? Let’s go on a wild tabernacle chase. Get Brother Francis’ London address, order a car, and we’ll leave in fifteen minutes.’

  ***

  Brother Francis’ London headquarters was a modest flat in a small terraced house in Highgate. He looked so distressed when he answered the door that, as they sat down in his spartan living room on the hard chairs, Milton, to put him at his ease, said, ‘Bit far out for you, this, Brother, isn’t it?’

  ‘Ah, yes, Superintendent, but it has the incomparable blessing of being beside Highgate cemetery.’

  Milton could remember only one thing about Highgate cemetery. ‘Do I gather you are an admirer of Karl Marx?’

  Brother Francis looked shocked. ‘How could you think I could admire such an enemy of godliness? No, no. The cemetery enables me to be in touch with the eternal verities through musings on the afterlife. For instance, every morning, when I walk there, I pass a tombstone which says:

  As you pass by, so once was I,

  As I am now, so you will be,

  Therefore, prepare for eternity.

  ‘It is a beautiful piece of poetry.’ He simpered. ‘I would have been proud to have written it. And I like to reflect on how true it is. But also the cemetery is where I meet my little friends.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Animals, no doubt.’

  ‘Squirrels particularly. At this time of the year, I bring them nuts and talk to them. I call them by their names and they come. You can tell them apart, you know. You look surprised, but I assure you it’s true, for they all have their own little winning ways and funny habits and charming personalities. It is a privilege to be among them. And among the
little birdies, too.’

  Milton could not think of any answer to this, so he went straight to the point. ‘I’m sorry to break in on you with no notice, but I wanted to know why you were removing a tabernacle from the House of Lords.’

  ‘It’s mine.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not disputing that. It just seems odd, and you’ll understand that in the present climate we have to investigate anything odd.’

  ‘I thought I’d take it home with me. I no longer feel I can say Mass in a place where so many terrible things have been done.’

  ‘But surely that sad place needs the blessing of God now more than ever before?’ Milton felt proud of himself for producing such an unctuous statement without laughing.

  Brother Francis wriggled. ‘Ah yes. You may be right and I may have been hasty. But I felt the urge to bring this holy object to my little home where I could commune with God more privately.’

  ‘Where used it to be before? In the Lords, I mean.’

  ‘In my little room.’

  ‘May I see it, sir?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll bring it in.’

  ‘No, no. You don’t want to carry something as heavy as that around unnecessarily. I’ll come and look.’

  ‘I’d rather you didn’t.’

  But Milton was already on his feet and following Pooley out of the room. ‘In here, sir?’ He walked into a bedroom containing only a narrow iron bed and a clothes rail on which were hung scarlet parliamentary robes, a brown woollen habit, and a long overcoat. Behind him Brother Francis was bleating, ‘No, please.’

  ‘In here, sir,’ called Pooley. Milton joined Pooley at the door of what proved to be the religious sanctum.

  ‘Please, it’s sacred.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Brother. Nothing will be harmed.’ Milton’s glance took in the vestments, the monstrance and tabernacle on the altar and the picture of St Francis on the wall with a sparrow in his hand. ‘Would you mind opening the tabernacle, Brother?’

  Unhappily, Brother Francis walked over, genuflected before the tabernacle and opened the door to reveal a few wafers.

  ‘Very well, Brother. Thank you. Sorry to have disturbed you.’

  ‘Sir!’ Pooley called from the kitchen. ‘There’s another one here.’

  The box was lying on the draining board, front downwards, with a bottle of disinfectant beside it. ‘I’m a bit puzzled, Brother. Could you explain to me why you brought the tabernacle home when you already had one here?’

  ‘I was going to take this one back to the Sanctuary.’

  ‘Why are you disinfecting it?’

  ‘Hygiene.’

  No amount of coaxing could move him from this explanation.

  ‘I’ll have to ask you to let me take it for testing, Brother.’

  ‘You can’t do that. It’s consecrated.’

  ‘If consecration doesn’t stop it being disinfected, I’m sure it won’t stop it undergoing laboratory tests. But if you wish, you may deconsecrate it and then reconsecrate it once we have finished. On a murder enquiry, inconvenience is, I’m afraid, inevitable. Now, we’ll wait for you in your living room while you do whatever is necessary, and I’ll write you a receipt.’

  ‘That was,’ said Milton, as Pooley put the tabernacle in the boot, ‘one of the oddest things I’ve ever committed to paper. “I acknowledge receipt of one tabernacle, silver and gold.” What made you think of the kitchen? Just being thorough?’

  ‘No. But I remembered Robert had said it was metal. The one in his chapel was mainly marble.’

  ‘Back to the Yard, please, Donoghue. Well done, Ellis. I’m glad you’re thinking so clearly. I have come to feel very addled, with so many lunatics coming at me from all directions. I don’t even know why I confiscated the tabernacle, except that I couldn’t think what else to do. So what do you think he might have been transporting in it, if anything? Drugs?’

  ‘Or explosives. I think it’s big enough to be able to store twenty antipersonnel mines.’

  ‘Good God, what an interesting thought. We’ll get the lab to do a rush job and send a team of explosives people and fingerprint experts around to Brother Francis’ flat and to his room at the Lords immediately.’

  ***

  ‘Nothing, sir.’ Pooley was dejected. ‘There are no traces of anything in the tabernacle. But the lab said that since the mines were coated in plastic, they wouldn’t leave any traces anyway.’

  ‘Fingerprints?’

  ‘Well, there were quite a few, but they were probably bona fide visitors. What I was really hoping for was a breakthrough like Jerry Dolamore’s prints on the tabernacle.’

  ‘Unlike Brother Francis, I don’t believe in miracles. But it was worth a try. Now send it back to him.’

  ***

  ‘Yes, Jim. What?’

  ‘Wake up, Robert. Something’s happened and you’d better let Jack know.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Stormerod’s been shot.’

  ‘Is he dead?’

  ‘No. The first report is highly encouraging. He’s said to be slightly injured and a bit shocked but otherwise fine.’

  ‘Where was he shot?’

  ‘The doctors haven’t said.’

  ‘I mean geographically.’

  ‘He was riding from his Buttermere estate to Carlisle station to catch the six-thirty train, with his chauffeur and horsebox following behind, when he suddenly fell off his horse. By the time the chauffeur had established he was alive, though stunned, and learned that he thought he’d been shot, his priority was to rush to the house and ring for an ambulance. By the time the police came, there was no sign of a sniper. Not that one would be easy to find in an estate that size. Whoever it was could have been over the hills and far away.’

  ‘Wasn’t he guarded?’

  ‘No. Didn’t you know? All the protection teams were withdrawn a few days ago. There just weren’t the resources. I’ll press for putting at least a few back now to look after Stormerod, Deptford, and Jack.’

  ‘So you think it was activists?’

  ‘I don’t think anything. It could have been a poacher for all I know. I’ll be back to you when I do.’

  ***

  ‘Curiouser and curiouser,’ said the baroness. ‘In fact, this is, if I’m not mistaken, Bertie’s third life. He seems as resilient as one of our feline friends, I’m happy to say. Now, I’ll just ring his house and see when he’s going to turn up here. I think it’s time we had a chat.’

  ‘There’ll be quite a lot of people in the queue, you know.’

  ‘We’ll just jump it,’ she said airily.

  She was back on the phone within five minutes. ‘He’s catching the next train. Say’s he’s feeling fine. It was a bullet all right. Deflected, would you believe, by his passport, which was in his left breast pocket. So instead of going through his heart, the bullet bounced off and his only injuries were slight grazes and a few bruises that he got from falling off the horse. He says he’s in the pink, so I’ve fixed a meeting at my club for six. He should be out of the clutches of the constabulary by then, and we can get the lowdown. In the meantime, contemplate the evidence. It’s time we put an end to all this.’

  ‘Club? Which one? The University Women’s?’

  ‘Certainly not. Too respectable for me. It’s the one where you worked—ffeatherstonehaughs.’

  ‘I didn’t know you were a member of that.’

  ‘They made me an honorary member recently. Now I must be off. See you at six.’

  ‘Jack!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Please take care. If they’ve taken to attacking prohunters singly, you’re a pretty tempting target.’

  ‘Not to say large.’ She laughed. ‘Oh yes, yes, yes. I’ll keep an eye out.’

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  ‘I’ve been thinking.’

  ‘How you can think in the middle of this bizarre building is more than I can imagine,’ said Stormerod. ‘I’ve read about it but I’ve never seen it.’ His eyes were fixed on
the mosaic floor where nymphs and shepherds intertwined passionately.

  ‘Pull yourself together, my boy. This is no time to be indulging in erotic fantasies. I’ll take you round another time, or rather Robert can. He used to be a servant here.’

  ‘You seem to have packed in a great deal for one so young, Robert.’

  ‘He certainly has. Ask him to tell you his life story someday. It’s a gas. The boy’s had more jobs than you’ve got titles. Now to our muttons. What I’ve been thinking is that I just don’t believe these people have been knocked off for some vague reasons of principle. When in doubt cherchez la femme ou cherchez l’argent.’

  Her listeners looked at her in bewilderment. ‘Come again, Jack?’

  ‘Really, Bertie. What’s happened to your French? Look for the woman or look for the money.’

  Stormerod’s face cleared. ‘Oh, I’m with you. Cherchez la femme ou cherchez l’argent. I’ve haven’t heard such awful French pronunciation since Winston Churchill.’

  ‘What was good enough for Winston is good enough for me. Now, the point I’m trying to make is that you coppers’—she looked sternly at Pooley –’ have allowed yourselves to be given the old runaround. Everything’s become overcomplicated. It’s obvious all these murders are a smoke screen.

  ‘I’ve heard of mixed metaphors,’ said Amiss. ‘But describing nineteen bodies as a smoke screen is new in my experience.’

  ‘Shut up and listen. My great virtue is that I have a simple mind. Now, this is England, and the English don’t go round murdering each other in vast numbers to make a political point. The Irish, yes; the Welsh and Scots are capable of it, I grant you, and all sorts of other loonies like the American far right, or Islamic Fundamentalists. But it is not the English way.’

  As Pooley opened his mouth to interrupt, she continued, ‘And if you start talking to me about global villages and the pooling of cultures, I shall become irascible.’

  He subsided.

  ‘I walked all the way round St James’ Park twice this afternoon and had a serious think, and I’m ready to bet a thousand quid that all this was an attempt to murder Bertie. There were only two reasons why they should have gone for him this morning—antihunting or anti-Bertie.’