of claret on board. He read the codicil, the original version, in this room, in that very chair, Francis, where you’re sitting now.’
Powerscourt stared at his chair as if a scrap of historical wisdom might have been deposited on it by his distinguished predecessor. ‘What did he say?’
‘In actual fact, he read it twice. Then he said, “Mr Burke, I would not hold you to any figure, but tell me, what are the Silkworkers worth? Approximately. To the nearest million.”’
‘What answer did you give, William?’
‘I said five or six million, maybe more.’
‘What did he do then?’
‘He laughed. Then he asked if we had any decent claret about the place. “When my wits have been sharpened by a glass or two,” he said, “I shall give you my verdict.” Then he went out to stare at the view from that window behind you, the one where you can see St Paul’s.’
‘I presume the claret arrived in due course?’
‘It did, an excellent vintage it was too. When Tait had consumed two glasses, at a pretty rapid pace, it must be said, he laughed again and poured himself a refill. “It’s a fake,” he said, “that codicil. I’m almost certain it’s a fake.” And he laughed a third time.’
‘Like Saint Peter with the cock crowing perhaps. Did he explain why he thought that?’ asked Powerscourt, fascinated by the account of the claret-drinking historian, a cross between Johnny Fitzgerald and Edward Gibbon.
‘He did. Of course he did. For a start he said that people like the Silkworkers always looked after their archives very carefully. He had examined a couple of the livery companies ’ records in the course of his researches and found them extremely well annotated. He doubted if anything could have been found recently which would have been in existence for six hundred years without discovery. By this time, Francis, most of the original bottle had gone and I felt obliged to order another. The professor’s main objection was cynical. You always have to ask this question in these circumstances, he claimed. Cui bono? Who benefits? Who stands to gain from it? It was a good question for Cassius and Cicero, he said, and an even better one now, for the Silkworkers. Sir Peregrine and his colleagues could make fortunes, possibly millions for Sir Peregrine alone. He was sure the thing was a clever forgery, designed to provide an avenue through which the funds of the Silkworkers could be diverted into the pockets of their officers. Then he took another long pull of his claret and said good afternoon and left to catch his train.’
‘Was he weaving on his way out? Steering an uncertain course for the door perhaps?’
‘He was not, Francis. Selwyn Augustus Tait seemed as sober as you and I. Maybe there’s something in the air up there in the Fens with all that mist and those winds from the Urals.’
‘Do we know if there is a timetable for this vote? By God, it’ll be more exciting than a by-election. The fate of these vast sums of money in the hands of a group of people many of whom have never seen a bolt of silk in their lives. A date, William, a date?’
‘I’m not absolutely sure,’ Burke replied. ‘Something tells me it is the middle of February, end of February perhaps? I’ll check for you.’
Burke fell silent for a moment. The great seventeenth-century French clock that had once graced the hunting lodge of Rambouillet ticked away the seconds of the late afternoon on the Burke mantelpiece. ‘I wouldn’t say this to anyone but you, Francis, but I blame democracy and the popular papers for so many of our troubles, I really do.’
‘Whatever do you mean, William?’ Powerscourt had never heard his brother-in-law as political or as philosophical as this before.
‘With democracy as we know it now, with all these extra voters on the rolls, politics is governed by the whims of the uneducated and the ignorant. The popular papers, especially the Daily Mail — God, how I hate the Daily Mail — have been exaggerating or inventing the threat from the Germans for years now. You can scarcely open a newspaper but there are these ludicrous scare stories in there. If the country were run by intelligent people like men of business, we could sort out the German problem in a weekend. “You would like a bit more of Africa,” we could say. “Well, have another bit. Have this bit here and that bit over there, while you’re about it, we’ve got far too much of it already.” So the German men of business would say, “That is very kind, now what would you like in return? Would you like us to stop building our dreadnoughts up there in Kiel and Wilhelmshaven? Would you like us to halt the arms race at a point where you always have four or five big ships more than we do so you and your people don’t feel threatened? Very good. We shall do it.” I’m sure it wouldn’t even take a weekend. But can you imagine what the newspapers would say back here? “Asquith gives Empire to Germans!” “British Empire handed over to the Hun!” The mass of the population who read the Mail and not The Times or the Morning Post would be up in arms. The government would fall within weeks. They would be pariahs, excluded from polite society, maybe even banned from their clubs, who knows.’ Burke sighed. ‘It’s all too late now, Francis, far too late. People talk about currencies being devalued so they lose their purchasing power and their value. Good government has been devalued by extending the franchise in this country but nobody could stop it.’
Powerscourt thought a diversion was needed. ‘William,’ he began, ‘I think it must be sitting in this chair where that other fellow sat. Have you any decent claret in the house?’
Burke laughed. ‘I’ll order some now, Francis. We could have the same wine as the professor had.’
Burke stopped halfway across the room and stared at his brother-in-law. ‘My God, Francis, how stupid of me. I’ve forgotten to tell you one of the most important facts of all about recent events at the Silkworkers.’
‘What was that?’
‘How could I be so foolish! There was a lot of opposition to Sir Peregrine and his friends in the Silkworkers. Can you guess who the leader of the opposition was?’
‘I have no idea, William.’
‘I’ll tell you who it was,’ said Burke. ‘It was the man recently found dead at the top of the steps leading down to the river in Silkworkers Hall with the strange mark on his chest. Sir Rufus Walcott, he was the leader of the opposition.’
One hundred and twenty miles away Detective Inspector Grime of the Norfolk Constabulary was a very angry man. He had been waiting all day for one of the boys of Allison’s School to come and speak to him about the visit of the phoney postman on the day of the murder of the school bursar Roderick Gill. That morning a real postman had retraced what they thought must have been the steps of the killer. The headmaster had addressed the pupils at the end of morning assembly before lessons began.
‘Good morning, boys,’ he had said, sweeping his black gown behind him as he spoke. ‘I know that you will all be as anxious as I am to clear up the recent murder in our midst. This morning I appeal for your help. Less than an hour ago the postal authorities and the police repeated the journey through our school of the murderer who came disguised as a postman. If this second visit by a real postman sparked any memories in your minds of that earlier, fatal trip, perhaps you would be so kind as to speak to Inspector Grime on my left here. He will be in the Officers’ Training Corps office for the rest of the day. Please see him if there is anything you remember, anything at all.’
The boys filed out and headed for their classrooms. Many of them stared rather insolently at the policeman as they passed him on their way out. Inspector Grime had made few friends among the schoolboy population of Allison’s. He had spoken to them all by now. His bored manner did not impress. With one or two of them he had been downright rude. As the pupils settled into their desks to begin their day’s work, the word began to be passed round. It was started by a rather intelligent young man in the Fifth Form who proclaimed to all and sundry that he wanted to be an anarchist when he grew up. ‘Don’t speak to the policeman. Pass it on,’ he wrote and tore the page out of his notebook. He handed it to his neighbour. Inside ten minutes every boy in the room had read it. When the pupils changed classes at the end of the first lesson, those in on the secret told the colleagues they passed in the corridor. The would-be anarchist’s note was still travelling by the time of morning break at eleven. Within five minutes of that starting, every single boy in the school had received the message. The policy of non-cooperation with the civil authorities had been established in a little over two hours.
Inspector Grime sat in his temporary office surrounded by literature about the Officers’ Training Corps and a succession of military photographs on the wall. Boy soldiers from Allison’s marching past the front of the building. Boy soldiers at camp in some dreary part of Norfolk near the sea. Boy soldiers standing steady on parade beneath the Union flag. The headmaster had assured him that the witnesses would probably come during morning break. They did not. The headmaster then revised his opinion and informed Inspector Grime that the boys would come to
