Death of a Chancellor (16 page)

Anne Herbert normally waited until the afternoon for her copy of the paper. Patrick would bring one round with him when he happened to drop in for a cup of tea. But on this occasion she went to
the shops and bought her own. Her initial reaction was like the Dean’s. She was pleased that she had been able to play her part. But then she too grew troubled, although not for the same
reasons as the Bishop. She wondered how much it must have hurt Patrick to leave out the gory details. Here was a man who prided himself on his paper’s ability to find things out, to tell the
truth to the citizens of Compton and the county. She had even heard Patrick talk once about how important newspapers and the free flow of information were to the proper functioning of democracy.
Now he had forced himself to leave something out, not to tell the truth. She wondered if it would prey on his mind.

They were, Powerscourt thought, the three largest briefcases he had ever seen. All three were temporarily parked on the long table in the boardroom on the first floor of Oliver
Drake’s offices in Compton while their owners rummaged inside for their papers for the meeting. The black one, Powerscourt realized, as Drake made the introductions, belonged to Mr Sebastian
Childs of Childs, Goodman and Porter of Lincoln’s Inn Fields in London. Mr Childs was representing the interests of Mrs Augusta Cockburn and had the good fortune to be seated beside her. The
dark blue one was the property of Mr Benjamin Wall of Wall and Sons of Bedford Square, London, representing the interests of the Salvation Army. Powerscourt had peered briefly into the street as if
a marching band in military uniform might have accompanied him on his mission. The dark red briefcase contained the papers of Mr Stamford Joyce of Joyce, Hicks, Joyce and Josephs of Ludgate Hill,
also from London, there to guard the interests of the Cathedral of Compton and the Church Commissioners. Stamford Joyce sat at the Dean’s right hand.

‘Gentlemen,’ said Oliver Drake, ‘the last time the will or wills were discussed I said that I had to take advice on the question of the various wills left, or purportedly left,
by the late Charles John Whitney Eustace of Fairfield Park in the county of Grafton. I have been to London to take advice from Chancery counsel. I propose to inform you of my conclusions at this
meeting. You have copies of the three wills in front of you – I’m sure you are all acquainted with these various documents.’

There was a vigorous nod from Childs, a barely perceptible inclination of the head from Joyce and no acknowledgement at all from Wall. Powerscourt thought that was rather ungracious seeing the
man was representing the Salvation Army.

‘Just to make sure there is no possible confusion,’ Drake went on, his thin and bony frame twisting slightly as he spoke, ‘I propose to name the three different wills in the
order of time of composition. Will A, the oldest, of which I am the executor, left the bulk of the estate to the Cathedral of Compton. Will B, the second most recent, left the estate to Mr
Eustace’s sister, Mrs Cockburn. Will C, the most recent, left the bulk of the estate to the Salvation Army.’

Three gold pens scribbled very fast across the notepads in front of them. The London lawyers were watching Oliver Drake very carefully. One mistake, Powerscourt thought, and they’ll eat
him alive.

‘The substance of my advice is that the first will, Will A, the one that leaves the bulk of the estate to the cathedral, should be regarded as the most appropriate record of the
deceased’s intentions. I propose to apply to the Principal Probate Registry in London for it to be proved in common form. If the supporters of Wills B and C wish to contest that, all you have
to do is to lodge a caveat at the Registry. Then the case will come before the Probate Divorce and Admiralty Division of the High Court in due course.’

‘All perfectly proper,’ said Stamford Joyce for Will A and the cathedral. Joyce was a small fat man with a perfectly round face that looked as if it had never had any facial hair at
all. He was in his late thirties, wearing a dark suit and a Magdalen College Oxford tie. ‘My clients are perfectly willing to argue in court that Wills B and C are invalid.’

‘Very well!’ said Sebastian Childs for Will B and Mrs Cockburn. Childs was an elderly solicitor with a shock of white hair and at least two chins. ‘We shall certainly be
advising Mrs Cockburn to lodge a caveat and demonstrate that Wills A and C are not proper.’

‘And so shall we,’ said Alaric Wall for Will C and the Salvation Army. Wall was the youngest man there, in his late twenties or early thirties, with a physique that said he might
have been a rugby player or a rowing blue. ‘It is a well-established precedent in English law for the most recent will to take precedence over all earlier testamentary dispositions. I note
that this has been ignored in this case. No doubt the court will bear that in mind. I shall be advising my clients that they too should lodge a caveat and contest the validity of Wills A and B.
‘

Outside the snow was back. It was settling thickly on the roofs of Compton, nestling in the trees, turning everywhere beneath its fall into a carpet of white. Powerscourt could see a couple of
snowmen standing like sentries on duty at the edge of the Cathedral Green. On the roof to his left a couple of birds had left symmetrical footprints in the snow. He was trying to remember the legal
position from an earlier case years before that had involved the will and the very stupid family of a Master of Foxhounds in Somerset. Once the caveat was lodged, there could be no probate, no
release of John Eustace’s million and a half pounds. The money would be frozen until the legal proceedings were completed and the court made its judgement.

‘My clients believe they can show,’ said Stamford Joyce for the cathedral, ‘that the two later wills were made under coercion or when the deceased was not in full possession of
his faculties. There are many in senior positions in the cathedral and the Close willing to testify that the deceased had frequently informed them how he wished to leave the money. There is indeed,
quite extensive correspondence with various members of the Chapter leaving detailed instructions on how he wished his estate to be used.’

A vision of the Dean, Bishop, Precentor and Archdeacon all filing into the witness box in quick succession crossed Powerscourt’s mind. He wondered what they would wear. Suit? Cassock?
Purple? Would the Staff and Mitre come too?

‘I’m sure that’s all perfectly possible,’ said Alaric Wall for the Salvation Army. ‘I’m sure the gentlemen of the cloth would be happy to appear in the
witness box in pursuit of a million pounds. But nothing they could say would necessarily mean that the late John Eustace couldn’t have changed his mind. Which he obviously did.’

‘I beg your pardon,’ said Sebastian Childs for Mrs Cockburn, ‘my client is able to prove that she, as the sister of the deceased man, was in a much better position to
understand his intentions than the people he happened to meet occasionally at his place of work. There is ample precedent for family considerations being given their proper place in the judgements
of the Chancery Court. Appledore versus Bailey in 1894, for instance. Or Smith versus Crooks in 1899.’

They’re bringing their weapons out now, Powerscourt felt. He wondered if it had been wise of Childs to reveal his precedents so early. Various bright young men in the offices of Wall and
Sons and Joyce, Hicks, Joyce and Josephs would be poring through the records of those cases very soon.

‘Gentlemen, please.’ Oliver Drake was on his feet this time. ‘I feel that this argument could go on for most of the day, if not most of the week.’ He paused and looked
round the combatants very slowly. ‘I have a suggestion to make, gentlemen. You are perfectly welcome to throw it out. I do not know,’ he smiled benignly at Sebastian Childs, ‘if
there are any precedents.’

The lawyers were writing in their books no longer. They stared, temporarily transfixed, at Oliver Drake.

‘My suggestion is this, gentlemen. It is based on the enormous sums of money available. I propose that we come to an informal agreement among ourselves. Let Will A go forward as I believe
it should. But let there be no objections from the other parties. When the business is completed, let the money be divided three ways. One third for the cathedral. One third for the Salvation Army.
One third for Mrs Cockburn. If my calculations are correct, each party should receive a sum slightly in excess of four hundred thousand pounds.’

Drake sat down. Neat, thought Powerscourt, very neat, the judgement if not of Solomon, then of Oliver Drake, solicitor of Compton. Everybody wins, nobody wins. Nobody loses, everybody loses.
Then, as he heard the muttered conversations between client and lawyer start up around the table, he saw the flaw. Everybody wins, except the lawyers. No contested will, no expensive visits to the
Probate Divorce and Admiralty Division of the High Court, no need for any further representation or indeed any fees at all if the Drake plan went ahead.

There was a slight cough from Alaric Wall for the Salvation Army. ‘Ingenious, very ingenious,’ he said, ‘but I could not in all conscience suggest to my clients that they
willingly forgo the sum of eight hundred thousand pounds, a sum which would make such an enormous difference to the poor and needy in our great cities.’

Powerscourt didn’t think it likely that Alaric Wall would shortly be joining the ranks of the poor and needy in our great cities in person.

‘I fear that my clients,’ it was Stamford Joyce’s turn now, speaking for the Dean, ‘would also find that such a scheme, however superficially attractive, was not in the
best interests of the Church or the cathedral or the architectural heritage of Great Britain.’

Powerscourt wondered if Drake had ever thought that his plan might work. Maybe he had a warped sense of humour.

‘And for my part,’ said Sebastian Childs for Mrs Cockburn, ‘I could not recommend to my client that she accepts such an arrangement which could deprive her and her family of
their rightful inheritance.’

At least Oliver Drake now had the chance to close the meeting. He told everybody that he was going to seek proof of Will A and the others were free to lodge their caveats if they wished. The
three briefcases and their owners and clients shuffled slowly out of the boardroom.

‘That business with Fairfield Park, Powerscourt,’ said Drake as he collected his papers, ‘it’s all absolutely fine. Thank you for the very generous down payment of the
rent.’ He looked out into the street. Two of the lawyers were having a stand-up row on the pavement outside his office. It looked as if they might come to blows.

‘What a bad-tempered meeting,’ said Drake. ‘There was only one redeeming feature, Powerscourt. Did you spot it?’

Powerscourt shook his head.

‘That bloody woman,’ said Drake. ‘That bloody woman Augusta Cockburn. She didn’t say a single word. Can you believe it?’

The Rule of St Augustine. The Rule of St Benedict. The Imitation of Christ
by Thomas à Kempis. Edmund Burke,
Reflections on the French Revolution.
Lord
Francis Powerscourt was browsing through the small library in Fairfield Park. Mrs Cockburn and her lawyer had both departed to London to plot further assaults on the will of the late John Eustace.
Mrs Cockburn informed Powerscourt that she was going to take her family abroad for a while until the legal business was settled. Her parting shot showed that she had lost little of her venom.

‘I shall be most surprised, Powerscourt, if you have solved the mystery of what happened to my brother before I return. But I shall send you an address in case you turn lucky.’

Powerscourt, now temporary master of the house, had invited Lady Lucy and the children to come and stay. He had also asked Johnny Fitzgerald.

Powerscourt was now browsing through a large box with the words ‘History of Fairfield’ on the cover. He learnt that there had been a house here in Tudor times, that most of the
present building had been constructed at the end of the seventeenth century by a man called Crosthwaite, Secretary of State for War and paymaster of the armies of William the Third. There were
several references to the French style of architecture fashionable at the time, the enclosed courtyard in the front, the low wings containing nurseries, and the covered passage. Covered passage?
What covered passage? Powerscourt said to himself, suddenly wide awake despite the late hour. Where did it go to? Where did it start?

Further researches revealed that the passage was concealed behind a door beside the fireplace in the drawing room. But the drawing room in the sketches of the time did not correspond with where
the drawing room was now. Some later Crosthwaite must have moved it. Powerscourt found an earlier map of the house, which contained no reference to this mysterious passage, but did show the
previous layout of the ground floor. What had been the drawing room, he decided, must have been turned into the library, where he was now. And, sure enough, there was a door to the left of the
fireplace, less than fifteen feet from where he was standing.

Powerscourt pulled hard at the door. It refused to move. He wondered if it was locked. He tried one more time. This time it creaked open very slowly, as if it had not been in use recently.
Behind it Powerscourt saw another black metal door with a small knob halfway down. Powerscourt turned it and peered inside. He could see nothing apart from a set of steps leading downwards. The
sensible thing to do would be to wait for the morning and descend the steps, lantern in hand. But Powerscourt wasn’t feeling particularly sensible. He fetched two enormous volumes, bound in
red leather,
The History of Dorset
they claimed to be, and wedged them as firmly as he could in the jamb of the door. He checked carefully to make sure they could not move. Then he set
off.

It was easy at the beginning. There was enough light filtering through to make the descent of the first dozen steps fairly straightforward. Then the passageway turned sharply to the left. The
steps gave way to a narrow path, leading, Powerscourt thought, away from the house. The walls, he noticed, were a dark and slimy green and rather damp. He could hear water further up, dripping onto
the rocky passageway below. He wondered if there were mice or rats or bats down here. Powerscourt didn’t mind mice or rats very much but he had an abiding terror of bats from his days in
India. The light behind him had almost gone. He was groping his way forward now, his right hand feeling the surface of the wall, one boot brought forward so the heel rested on the toe of the one in
front. His earlier calm had been replaced by a growing unease. What if the passage was three or four hundred yards long? What if the gate or the trap door at the far end was locked? If he looked
back he could just see a sliver of light falling on the passageway. Soon that too would disappear.