‘It was wet, my lord. If there had been two people up here the rain would have washed away any traces of their feet, if you see what I mean. Do you wish to stop up here a little longer, my lord? Or shall we go down and I’ll see if I can persuade the constable to make us some tea?’
Powerscourt took another look at the view from the little tower. He felt sure he would be up here again. ‘Some of Constable Watchett’s tea would be excellent, Inspector. There are a number of points I would like to raise with you back in that splendid library, if I may,’ he said, making his way down the stairs and back the way they came. Once again the water in the moat, its shifting elusive surfaces, the way it shimmered one minute and was absolutely still the next, fascinated him. Maybe the Powerscourt family could go and live in a house with a moat. He could sit by a window and pretend to read a book while watching the changing behaviour of the surface of the water. He checked himself when he realized that somebody would have to be on call twenty-four hours a day to pull the twins out after they fell in, which they surely would, several times a day.
Inspector Clayton removed the rope that had guarded Mrs Martin’s bay in the library and pulled up a couple of chairs. Constable Watchett had found some tasty fruit cake to accompany the tea.
‘Will?’ said Powerscourt, the word muffled by the cake.
‘Will who?’ said Clayton, wondering if Powerscourt had discovered another suspect.
‘Sorry,’ said Powerscourt, washing his mouthful down with some of the constable’s excellent tea, ‘do we know if Mrs Martin left a will? Or,’ he said after a pause, ‘come to that, Mr Martin?’
The Inspector sighed. Powerscourt seemed to have touched a sensitive point. ‘I have to confess, my lord,’ he began, ‘that I feel bad about this will business, very bad. The family solicitors are Evans Watkinson and Ragg over at Tonbridge. When I started this case, I’ll be honest with you, my lord, I had a mass of work to finish off from two other cases. So I asked Constable Watchett to write to them on my behalf.’ Powerscourt wondered if the letter had been laced with home-spun wisdom better suited to the local pub than to a solicitor’s office. ‘Anyway, my lord, a letter came back, addressed to me, suggesting I remember my duties, which include liaising with the deceased’s solicitors, before asking ill-qualified members of the constabulary to address their betters. I have written a letter of apology, but they have still not replied. It was not well done, my lord, and now my Chief Constable asks about the wills every other day.’
Powerscourt smiled at the Inspector. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I remember similar problems of bureaucracy and administration in South Africa. Give me the address for Evans Watkinson and Ragg before I go this evening, and I will call on them tomorrow.’
‘Thank you, my lord, thank you very much. I may say that I found no sign of any wills in the desks of either Martin, but they could have decided to keep them with the lawyers for safety.’
‘Let me ask you something else, Inspector, something that I think might have led to Mrs Martin’s death. Is there any sign that she received any letters or cables from her husband while he was in Russia?’
‘Cables? Not that I have seen so far, my lord.’
‘This is going to sound preposterous, Inspector, so please make allowances for a tired investigator whose wits may have been sapped by prolonged exposure to the Russian temperament and the Russian climate.’ Powerscourt took another draught of the Watchett tea and promised himself a further piece of cake if he could make his proposal believable.
‘It goes something like this. Martin, you will remember, saw the Tsar in his country palace about fifteen miles from St Petersburg. Furthermore, Martin saw the Tsar on his own. That means the questions under discussion must have been of the utmost importance, questions of the highest national policy, questions so sensitive that Tsar Nicholas didn’t want anybody else to hear about them. Let us suppose, however, that somebody else in the entourage gets an inkling of what they talked about. They pursue Martin back to St Petersburg. Before they find him he sends a message to his wife, telling her what he knows. When the somebody else and his colleagues catch up with Martin, they torture him until he tells what he knows, including the fact that he has passed the information on to his wife. They kill him, and dump the body on the frozen river. A few weeks later, they come here and kill his wife, leaving the body in the moat. By the time the Kennedys find Mrs Martin, the killer or killers have reached Hamburg or Berlin on their journey back to St Petersburg.’
Inspector Clayton peered outside at the fading of the light. Soon it would be dark and he always found the place oppressive then.
‘There’s only one query I have with that premise, my lord,’ said Inspector Clayton, eyeing Powerscourt carefully as he tucked in to another slice of fruit cake. ‘If you are being tortured, not that I am an expert, mind you, but suppose you have told your enemies what you know. Why do you need to tell them you have sent a message to somebody else as well?’
‘That’s a very fair observation, Inspector,’ Powerscourt replied. ‘Let me try to answer it. The answer, I believe, lies in the psychology of torturer and tortured, if you follow me. The torturer believes that there is always one further piece of information to be extracted from his victim, no matter how much he has dragged out of him already. And the tortured man thinks he would have attained relief by disclosing the most important thing he knows. But he hasn’t. Why can’t they leave him in peace? So he throws them one more titbit, in the hope that the pain will finally stop. By this stage, that is probably all he can think of.’
‘Thank God we live in a civilized society where these things don’t happen,’ said the Inspector. ‘There are a couple of things you need to be aware of, my lord. I’ve just heard your cab coming down the hill, so I’ll be brief. The first I have no direct knowledge of, merely station gossip. There is or there was some feud about the ownership of this house, Lord Powerscourt. There was a long court case between different branches of the Martin family before Roderick and Letitia took up residence.’
‘And the second?’ asked Powerscourt, hoping for a sympathetic lawyer under the age of seventy-five on the morrow.
‘Johnny Fitzgerald told me about it this morning, my lord,’ said Inspector Clayton, ‘and no doubt he will have more details for you this evening – he told me he was dining at your house. It seems that Mr Martin may not have been the only one to have strayed from the holding the betrothed from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part. Mrs Martin was very friendly with a Colonel Fitzmaurice, a retired military man from over Ashford way. They went away together, my lord, though nothing else has ever been proved.’
‘And what of the gallant Colonel, Inspector? What does he have to say for himself?’
‘That’s the problem,’ said the Inspector, raising a hand to ask the cabbie by the door to wait a moment longer. ‘Unless Johnny Fitzgerald has had some luck today, the Colonel has disappeared, vanished off the face of the earth. My Chief Constable believes he may have gone to join the Martins on the other side.’
11
The last dishes had been cleared away. The candles had burnt halfway down. A great-great-grandfather of Lady Lucy’s, resplendent in a scarlet coat with enormous moustaches and a chest covered with medals, painted by Lawrence, was standing to attention over the fireplace, surveying his descendants. A bottle of claret and a bottle of port awaited the gentlemen’s attention. Lady Lucy was sitting at the head of the table with Francis on her right and Johnny on her left. She felt so proud to have Francis home. Olivia had confided to her at bedtime that they were now a proper family once again, and while Lady Lucy might have questioned the assumption that she couldn’t cope on her own, she was largely in agreement.
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?’
‘I don’t know. The housekeeper doesn’t know. I’ve nearly finished,’ said Johnny, eyeing his still half-full glass of port. ‘We know she was popular with the locals. We know she was hard up, sometimes very hard up. I don’t think she was mean. We know she was having a relationship of some sort with the Colonel, dead or alive. And . . .’ Johnny paused melodramatically, like the conjurer finally about to produce a hatful of rabbits or the Queen of Sheba, ‘we know that a week or t
en days before her death she received a visit from a foreigner. A rather unusual foreigner.’ And Johnny tapped the side of the nose in the manner of the Tibenham residents he had described a few moments ago.
‘Stop teasing, Johnny,’ said Lady Lucy. ‘Who was it, Hottentot or Zulu, Afghan or Bedouin?’
‘Russian,’ said Johnny. ‘The lad in the fly brought him to and from the station to Tibenham Grange. When he asked the stranger where he came from – the man was wearing an astrakhan coat, for God’s sake – he said Russia. And then he smiled, apparently.’
‘Pretty big place, Russia,’ said Powerscourt. ‘Any city, by any chance? Kiev? Archangel? Moscow? Minsk? St Petersburg?’
‘I’m afraid he didn’t say and the lad didn’t ask. Pretty remiss of him, but there you are.’
Powerscourt started walking up and down the dining room, running his hand along the backs of the chairs. ‘Damn! Damn! Damn! I hate to say it but the really infuriating thing about this case is that so many people are dead. Both Martins for a start. We can’t ask them a thing.’
‘You know what happens in those circumstances, Francis,’ said Johnny flippantly, ‘there’s one lot of dead people and another lot of live people who want to find out what happened. The live lot send for some investigators to find the answers. That’s why we’re here, Francis, to find out why the other buggers are dead, isn’t it?’
‘Of course, Johnny, you’re right. I’m being stupid,’ said Powerscourt with a smile. ‘But there are so many things a Martin could answer if only they were here. Who was this Russian? What was he doing here? Had he come from the Embassy to offer his condolences? Had he come from the Okhrana with a final message? Or had he come to find out if Mrs Martin had received a message from her husband in St Petersburg? Or was he the spy Martin’s handler in London, come to see Mrs Martin with messages of sympathy and large bundles of cash? I know I’m supposed to be offering suggestions as to what has been going on. I don’t discount the spy theory at all. Maybe the Okhrana asked Martin once he was in St Petersburg to perform some final, unbelievably dangerous act of treachery. He refuses. They kill him and create this smokescreen which has baffled me ever since.’
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