was sent to one of the victims shortly before his death.’
Powerscourt handed over the letter found in Roderick Gill’s memorandum to the headmaster of Allison’s School. General Smith Dorrien put on a pair of tortoiseshell spectacles and read it quickly. ‘Not sure I’d like to get one of these myself. So what’s your question?’
‘It’s this, General. If you’ve thought of revenge every day of your life for thirty-one years, why wait this long? Why not try to take your vengeance earlier?’
The general looked out at his parade ground for a moment. A small detachment of horse in bright red jackets was cantering across the square. ‘I don’t think that’s very difficult, actually. We don’t know where the chap who wrote the letter is, do we? I mean, he could have stayed in South Africa or he could have gone to Australia or Canada, virtually anywhere. Expensive business travelling back from there to here and maybe he had to support a family before he could go away on revenge business. And then there’s the question of priorities, Powerscourt. Your man may have had his work cut out earning a living, supporting a wife and children perhaps. People are always saying that one day they’ll climb Mont Blanc or write a novel or see the pyramids, that sort of thing. I’ve talked for years about going to Rome. I don’t know if I’ll ever get round to it now.’
Powerscourt had a sudden vision of the general ranting at Michelangelo’s paintings on the roof of the Sistine Chapel.
‘Maybe the man’s circumstances changed so he could fulfil his dream,’ the general went on. ‘Whatever prevented him taking his revenge before has suddenly gone away. It could have been like that, don’t you think?
‘I think that’s very possible, General. I’m grateful to you.’
‘There’s just one other thing, Powerscourt. Didn’t you say there is a livery company mixed up in all this? Mercers? Grocers? Some outfit like that?’
‘There certainly is, General,’ said Powerscourt. ‘It is the Silkworkers actually. Victim number one was resident in one of their almshouses. Victim number two was the bursar in a school run by the Silkworkers. Victim number three was killed after a very grand dinner in the Silkworkers Hall. Why do you ask?’
‘Do you suppose the Silkworkers might be another clue in some way? Some of those livery companies do have links with the military, with particular regiments, you know. I’m not quite sure what they do, but it wouldn’t be difficult to ask them. They might even have some records. And I suspect they’re more accurate than the ones you found at Brecon.’
‘I didn’t know that, about their links with the army, General. I’m much obliged to you.’
‘Much more interesting detecting things,’ said the general cheerfully, ‘than ploughing through the army’s paperwork. The bureaucrats seem to think they can win battles on a sheet of paper, or rather sheets of paper. You must come and see me again with your latest news, Powerscourt. It cheers me up.’
Powerscourt thanked him and moved off. As he left the room he could see a very nervous young captain being ushered in. It looked as though he was expecting a telling-off. A couple of minutes later Powerscourt realized that the medical man had given his advice in vain. The rant had reached the far edge of the parade ground. You could probably hear it, he said to himself sadly, on the far side of the town, but he doubted it would reach Krakatoa.
Number Four, Smithy, the man who had a row with Number Twenty the day before he was murdered, was sitting on a hard chair in a room inside the Maidenhead police station. It was now three o’clock in the afternoon. The police came for him just after breakfast. He had now been under questioning for five hours. He had managed to bring with him, as friend and representative on earth, Edward Cooper, Number Seven. Number Seven, a small wiry man with a crafty look about him, had spent eighteen months some years before as a guest of Her Majesty in Wormwood Scrubs, and was widely believed in the hospital to be an expert in the workings of the law. It wasn’t his fault, Cooper said, if some fool of a footman had left the door of the big house open. Nor, he would continue, was it his fault that the valuable silver was on display in the first room he had come to. He was, his apologia went on, just picking up some of the pieces and admiring them when the butler reappeared with two sturdy footmen. The fact that two of the pieces had found their way into his pockets was pure coincidence. His friend Smithy, Number Four, acting on Number Seven’s counsel, had proved totally and absolutely obdurate in his dealings with Inspector Fletcher and Sergeant Donaldson, saying nothing at all wherever possible. ‘You’ve got a right to silence, my friend. Once you tell the police anything at all you’ll find they twist it round to what they want you to say. That’s why it’s good to have me here as another witness.’
‘I repeat my question, gentlemen,’ said Inspector Fletcher. ‘Will you please tell us about the row you had with Abel Meredith, commonly known as Number Twenty, the day before he died.’
‘Like I said, mate,’ said Number Seven, ‘you don’t have to say nothing.’
The Inspector was furious. His sergeant had asked all the old men if any of them had heard the row between Number Four and Number Twenty. It had happened, after all, right in the middle of the quad. Anybody who opened a window would have heard every word. But nobody had heard a thing. Even Freddy Butcher, Number Two, who had told Johnny about the feud over lunch at the Elysian Fields, had now recanted and claimed he had so much drink poured down him that he could not remember anything. The Jesus Hospital had closed ranks on one of its own.
The Inspector and the sergeant were taking a break, leaving the silkmen under the watchful eye of a young constable.
‘What are we going to do, Inspector?’ asked the sergeant. ‘We can’t go on like this.’
‘We can’t charge Number Four with anything,’ said Inspector Fletcher after a long pause. ‘He hasn’t said anything at all, apart from his bloody name and number.’
‘What about locking them up indefinitely? Refusing to assist the police with their inquiries. A couple of days in the cells might make them more amenable.’
‘Maidenhead Inspector locks up old men from almshouse?’ said Fletcher. ‘Days in solitary for not talking to the police? You know how angry the Chief Constable gets if there’s bad publicity in the newspapers. Bad for his chances of a knighthood probably.’
‘Well,’ said the sergeant, ‘maybe we can’t lock them up overnight. But we could give them three or four hours in solitary. Each man to his own cell. Then we could question them again about seven. They might be more prepared to talk then. Particularly if we don’t tell them we’re going to let them go later on.’
‘Do it,’ said Inspector Fletcher. ‘I don’t like it, mind you. I wonder what Powerscourt would recommend in these situations, if he wasn’t preoccupied with his ludicrous theories.’
Powerscourt had written to the Secretary of the Silkworkers and had received a speedy and courteous reply indicating that if he cared to call the following morning at eleven o’clock they would hope to have the relevant information for him. So, as Inspector Devereux was talking to the superior private detectives on the fringes of the West End, Powerscourt was in the Court Room of the Silkworkers, drinking coffee with the Secretary under the watchful eye of a couple of Lawrences and a Zoffany.
‘You are, I think, temporarily one of us,’ said the Secretary, ‘by which I mean that we employed you to look into these distasteful murders and your task is not yet accomplished.’
Powerscourt was sure the Secretary, Colonel Horrocks, with his enormous moustache and efficient manner, was an effective administrator. Maybe he had been an adjutant in the army. So many former officers found employment in gentlemen’s clubs or livery companies or major charities. A former colleague of his, once the fiercest and most bloodthirsty man he had ever seen on a battlefield, was now in quieter quarters working in a charity for orphans. The Secretary had clear brown eyes and wore his regulation City suit as if he was still in uniform.
‘How right you are,’ said Powerscourt with a smile. ‘I’m sorry it has taken so long. I have a new ally in my military researches, at least, General Smith Dorrien, General Officer Commanding at Aldershot.’
‘Horace. How is dear Horace? I served under him for three years some time ago.’
Powerscourt wasn’t sure ‘dear’ was the first word he would have chosen to describe the irascible officer in Aldershot.
‘He is well, or he was well yesterday when I saw him. Little trouble with his temper, I’m afraid.’
‘It was ever thus,’ said the Secretary. ‘He was always very calm in battle, oddly enough, no yelling there.’
‘What news do you have from your records, Colonel? I have to confess that until the general told me, I had no idea livery companies were involved with the military.’
‘Well,’ said the Secretary, ‘if you look at their long history, it’s a fairly recent development, by which I mean
