Death at the Jesus Hospital (23 page)

‘Well put, Inspector,’ said Powerscourt. ‘That is a
compelling
argument. Well done indeed.’

‘I know there has been one unfortunate encounter,’ Miles
Devereux went on, ‘the meeting with tea for one, but I think we should pick him up again, Sir Peregrine, I mean. Leave him to rot in the cells for a couple of hours this time. Hold up his solicitor when he arrives. I don’t think he’d ever confess, Sir Peregrine, but he might incriminate himself.’

‘I think we should investigate that chauffeur of his,’ said Inspector Fletcher. ‘The man goes everywhere with him. What happens if he has a dual role for Sir Peregrine? Driver by day, murderer by night? I’ll put one of my men on it when I get back to the station.’

‘Good idea,’ said Powerscourt. ‘There are a number of lines of inquiry still proceeding in all three cases. I do think the most important thing we have to decide this afternoon is what to do with Sir Peregrine. What about you, Inspector Grime? What are your views on the Prime Warden of the Silkworkers? Do you think we should bring him into the police station for questioning?’

‘I’m honestly not sure,’ said Inspector Grime. ‘There is a great deal of circumstantial evidence against him – as my colleague said, the bloody man was on the scene of all three murders. But he had a reason for being there on all three occasions. We don’t have anything that links him
specifically
to the dead. The motive, of course, is very strong, but I wonder if we shouldn’t wait for something more concrete. As things stand we might just have a fruitless conversation with the lawyers, causing confusion all round.’

It was Inspector Devereux who brought up the most
difficult
point. ‘I recall, my lord, that you used to believe that the strange marks on the bodies were the key to the whole affair. Could I ask if you still believe that?’

‘Well,’ said Powerscourt, ‘I realize I may be in a
minority
of one here, but yes, I still do believe that. However unpopular that makes me in present company. I have always thought that the murderer, undoubtedly an arrogant murderer, was sending some kind of message with those marks that only the recipients would understand. So far, of
course, nobody has been able to identify the stigmata at all. But I haven’t given up hope.’

‘I believe I have mentioned it to you before, my lord,’ Miles Devereux had raised himself from a recumbent to a sitting position, ‘but do you not think it possible that Sir Peregrine, or some other possible murderer, has merely used this device to throw us off the scent?’

‘I think it’s possible, but not likely.’

‘I think we should let Sir Peregrine stew in his own juice for a few days longer,’ said Inspector Fletcher. ‘Our
investigations
into the chauffeur may come up with something. I might speak to that masseuse Frankie again and see if she has anything more to tell us.’

‘Very well,’ said Powerscourt. ‘I think we agree that we should leave Sir Peregrine a little longer.’

‘I’m with you there. Now, if you’ll excuse me, my lord,’ Inspector Grime was checking the ornate clock on the mantelpiece, ‘I have to go and interview one of the Lewis sons. I’m going to call unannounced at six o’clock. My sergeant will be knocking on the door of his brother at exactly the same time so they can’t concoct some more lies about chess matches.’

The meeting broke up with Inspector Devereux
offering
the use of a couple of cells to Inspector Grime for the incarceration of his suspects. ‘We’ve got one cell in
particular
where you can listen in to what they’re saying to each other from next door. The carpenters have made the wall in between completely hollow to let the sound pass through without the suspects knowing. It’s a low trick but we are dealing with murder here.’

The Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost swept silently across the streets of Mayfair. Rhys, the Powerscourt chauffeur, was wearing his best blue uniform with his cap sitting plumb centre in the middle of his head. Lady Lucy was sitting in the back seat in a new dress from Worth that swept down
to the floor in a single graceful line. Powerscourt was in full evening dress, even down to his medals.

‘Do I have to?’ he had asked, as they were preparing for the ball.

‘I think you do, Francis. You always look so handsome in evening dress and you’ll look even better with your medals. Besides, lots of men will be wearing their decorations on a night like this. It’s what people do.’

Reluctantly Powerscourt had complied.

‘I don’t think we’ve been to the Queen Charlotte’s Ball for years, Francis. I’m really looking forward to it.’

Powerscourt grunted and fiddled with his tie. He had to go through with it. He knew how much Lady Lucy loved dancing.

There was a great throng waiting outside the main entrance of Grosvenor House. Rhys had to wait five minutes before he was able to draw up at the right spot. Powerscourt and Lady Lucy stepped over the threshold into the vast reception hall which was festooned with flowers. Lady Lucy was to learn later that a special train had brought them over from Paris, roses and lilies and tulips and every sort of ornamental flower that money could buy. There was a reception line snaking out across the hall and into the drawing room on the left. One room beyond that on the left-hand side of the house was the ballroom. Strains of a polka drifted out into the great hall. Supper was laid out in the salon to their right. The room was awash with colour, the blues and reds and the white sashes of the military, the dashing colours of the ladies’ dresses, the tiaras and necklaces that sparkled with diamonds and rubies. Powerscourt was surprised to see so many
military
men there. He wondered fancifully if they had returned to the Duchess of Richmond’s ball on the eve of Waterloo.

They made their way slowly up the reception line. There was a sprinkling of Knights of the Bath and one or two Victoria Crosses on display. The man immediately in front of them said that the King and Queen had been expected to attend. The King always liked going to balls where he could wear his field marshal’s uniform and his vast collection of decorations from all over Europe, but his doctors had recommended he go to Biarritz for his health.

‘Not much chance of the Prince of Wales showing up,’ the man said gloomily. ‘Probably spending a happy evening at home sticking more stamps into his albums.’

The Duke of Westminster told Lady Lucy that he had first met her at a dance in Scotland some years ago when she had been accompanied by her grandfather. The Duchess told Powerscourt that she had followed one of his recent cases, the death of a wine merchant, with great interest. Then they were through. Powerscourt thought that it had been rather like going through some obscure border crossing in a distant part of Empire where you were never safely on the far side until the leading official had given his blessing.

Lord Rosebery, one of Powerscourt’s oldest friends, former Foreign Secretary, former Prime Minister, was leaning against a pillar, glass of champagne in hand.

‘Francis, Lady Lucy, how good to see you. I wondered if you would be here. May I introduce Sir Charles Holroyd, Director of the National Gallery, and Lady Holroyd?’

Polite bows were exchanged. Sir Charles was a tall, slim gentleman of about fifty years with piercing blue eyes. ‘I
believe you’re an investigator, Lord Powerscourt. May I ask if you are investigating anything at present?’

‘By all means,’ said Rosebery, ‘you may listen to my friend’s account of his latest case, but think how dull that would be for Lady Lucy here, who has heard all about it many times by now. Will you do me the honour of this dance, Lady Lucy?’

‘Of course,’ said Lady Lucy and was led away to the mazurka. Great swathes of coloured sashes were
passing
Powerscourt and the Holroyds. It was as if an entire regiment was on the march towards the dance floor. Powerscourt explained the nature of his latest case. The Holroyds had heard of Sir Peregrine Fishborne and
obviously
thought little of him. But it was on the mention of the strange marks on the bodies that the National Gallery director grew really interested.

‘Nobody can tell you what they are?’ he said. ‘Who have you been trying?’

‘Medical men, policemen, all kinds of inquiries have been made but nobody has got a clue.’

‘How very odd,’ said Sir Charles.

‘You don’t suppose it’s the emblem of some secret
society
?’ said his wife, who was known to be a tireless worker in the cause of improving native conditions in India.

‘Like the Freemason’s handshake, you mean?’ said Powerscourt doubtfully. ‘But even if it is secret, somebody must know about it. Somebody must have inside
knowledge
of the thing, almost certainly including the victims. Except nobody does.’

‘I tell you what, Powerscourt. I’ll place a bet with you. You say you have some drawings showing what these marks look like. You let me have them on Monday morning. When my experts have finished with them, if we don’t have any answer, I’ll drop them round to my friend and colleague Sir Frederic Kenyon at the British Museum. Between us we’ve got a lot of expertise at our disposal. If we can’t solve the
mystery, we buy you and your wife lunch at the Savoy Grill. If we can, you pay for the lunch. What do you say?’

Powerscourt laughed. ‘I say thank you very much, Sir Charles. I’m delighted to accept your offer. I only wish I’d thought of it sooner. I’m obliged to you, sir, and I shall see you on Monday.’

Powerscourt escorted Lady Holroyd to the dance floor. It was filling up well now, with a beautiful couple the centre of attention, dancing as if they had danced this dance for the last fifteen years, eyes only for each other, the girl
sinking
into her partner’s arms in a sort of swoon from time to time. Against the walls the old ladies watched from their chairs and smiled and remembered being swept off their feet by some dashing young man when they were eighteen years of age. For one or two of them the memories were so vivid it might have been yesterday. Lord Rosebery was guiding Lady Lucy with great elegance combined with a sort of weary resignation, as if dancing, like so many other things in his life, had lost its appeal. Lady Lucy always said Rosebery had never been the same since his wife Hannah Rothschild died and left him so much money and so many houses.

Shortly after eleven o’clock Powerscourt was tapped lightly on the shoulder. Inspector Miles Devereux had come to the ball in fashionable clothes and with a very beautiful young woman on his arm.

‘May I introduce Hermione Granville, Lord Powerscourt.’ After a moment or two of pleasantries, they glided off. Powerscourt remembered that the young Inspector might not have any family money but he had family connections that branched out all the way down Park Lane. He looked as much at home here as any of the dowagers chatting
merrily
in the drawing room. And the girl on his arm was one of the prettiest at the ball. Powerscourt wondered how she felt about being escorted round London society by a man who spent his days in pursuit of criminals and murderers.
Perhaps she rather liked it. She was chatting with one of the dowagers now. Her consort was sweeping Lady Lucy round the floor.

The supper room was packed with hungry dancers. It was, Powerscourt remarked to Lady Lucy, a tribute to the world’s growing ability to overcome the limits of time and space. Two vast tureens exuded a delicate perfume from the soup they held. There was caviar from the Black Sea, piled up carelessly in great bowls as if it were rice or mashed potato. There was a flotilla of lobsters boiled alive, pink and red under the great chandeliers, delicate Dover sole lined up round the edges of a giant serving dish, great sides of beef, dripping with blood and marbled fat, each with its attendant server, knife and carving fork at the ready. There were hams from Italy and Spain, waxy dishes of veal, plump chickens from Bresse in France, ducks from Aylesbury, woodcock that might have come from the Grosvenor estates, felled by Grosvenor staff with Grosvenor guns.

M. Escoffier’s assistant had excelled himself with the
puddings
, cakes sprinkled with almonds or chocolate or ground coffee, ice creams and sorbets of every flavour known to man, and one or two new ones, invented for the occasion, zabagliones invented in Sicily, rum babas and Mont Blancs dripping with whipped cream, delicate pastries with a hidden promise of cream or sorbet inside, a pair of trifles half the length of a cricket pitch, small delicate cakes with pineapple and pistachio and pine nuts. The room was full of people praising the food or returning for seconds or even thirds. Dancing made people hungry. The champagne still circulated round the diners, accompanied now by the offer of iced homemade lemonade fresh from the kitchens which, it was thought, might deal better with the thirst than champagne.

‘Do you think the guests will eat all this lot, Lucy?’ asked Powerscourt, staring at the mountains of food.

‘I should think they’ll have a good try,’ said Lady Lucy.
‘The supper room’s going to be open for hours yet. Come too late and the lobsters will have all gone.’

‘But what will they do with the remains?’

‘I heard Sybil Grosvenor say they’re going to give it to the local hospital.’

‘God help them, Lucy, the patients I mean. There you are, lying on your hospital bed, wondering if your end is nigh, feeling like death warmed up, and a nice nurse comes along waving a great lobster claw at you. I think they’d probably throw up, or die on the spot.’

‘Never mind,’ said Lady Lucy. ‘Come along now, Francis, you’ve only danced with me once all evening. And you look so handsome too.’