Death of a Chancellor (40 page)

‘William’s been having trouble with the food in Rome, Johnny,’ said Powerscourt.

‘I’m not surprised,’ said Johnny. ‘He’s a lost hermit, that William McKenzie, he’d be perfectly happy with bread and water for the rest of his
life.’

There was another letter waiting for Powerscourt. ‘Here we go, Johnny,’ he said, ‘I think this is a reply from the Lord Lieutenant. I don’t hold out much hope
here.’

‘Read it out, Francis, why don’t you. I’ve reached the Births Marriages and Deaths section of our friend Patrick’s paper. I think I might get through another few hours of
life without any more of that.’

‘“Dear Powerscourt,”’ the recipient read, walking up and down the room, ‘“thank you for your letter. I am most grateful to you for bringing your views to my
attention.”’

‘Frosty start, Francis,’ said Johnny. ‘Don’t think you’re about to receive an open invitation to Lord Lieutenant Castle or wherever the bugger lives.’

‘Here we go, Johnny, second paragraph. “I have played cricket with the Bishop of Compton. I have hunted with the Dean. Both of them and their senior colleagues have been frequent
guests at my table. I have had the honour of receiving Communion from their hands and instruction and enlightenment from their sermons. Five out of my six daughters were baptized in their font and
three of them were married at their altar.”’

‘Five out of six daughters, Francis? Is this the case of the son that got away?’

Powerscourt continued. ‘‘’I do not intend to insult the probity or the intelligence of either of these elders of the Church by laying your preposterous charges before them. I
regard them as beneath contempt.”’

‘That sounds pretty clear to me, Francis,’ said Johnny Fitzgerald, staring cheerfully at his friend. ‘Don’t think his Lord Lieutenancy agrees with you. Would that be a
fair interpretation of the letter so far?’

‘There’s more, Johnny,’ said Powerscourt, holding the top left-hand corner of the letter in his right hand as if it smelt. ‘Third paragraph coming.’

‘I reckon this is where he says you’re out of your mind, Francis. Terribly sad really.’

‘“Permit me to say –”’

‘People always say that when they’re about to be really unpleasant.’

‘Really Johnny,’ said Powerscourt, ‘I’m not at all happy with all these interruptions. You may have to go to the back of the class. “Permit me to say how perturbed
I was to discover that such a distinguished public servant, with such an exemplary record of achievement and success, had come to a point where he was unable to distinguish between the wilder
fantasies of his own imagination and the realities of the true facts of the situation. Believe me, Powerscourt, I have seen this kind of thing before. During my long service in India I saw how the
great heat in Oudh or the Punjab could rot men’s minds and rob them of their sanity. It is most unfortunate. I have known a good many promising officers afflicted in this
fashion.”’

‘Pompous old bugger,’ said Johnny Fitzgerald. ‘Do they select these people because they’re stupid?’

‘The Lord Lieutenant, as I’m sure you know, Johnny,’ said Powerscourt sternly, ‘is the local representative in Compton of the King Emperor himself. So there.’

‘Does the Lieutenant – he sounds much better like that, Francis, don’t you think, – have any more words of wisdom? I suspect he’s going to recommend you to some
dreadful spa in Germany.’

‘Last paragraph, Johnny, here we go. “I feel I would be derelict in the execution of my duties if I did not offer you some advice.”’

‘Here comes the bloody spa, Francis,’ said Johnny Fitzgerald triumphantly.

‘“The seaside resorts,”’ Powerscourt wagged his finger at his friend, ‘“to the south of Compton are highly regarded as places of recovery and recuperation for
those afflicted in mind and body. The sea air can help disperse the malevolent humours that infect the brain. Others speak of the beneficent influence of twenty-mile walks. I can recommend most
highly the services of a near neighbour, Dr Blackstaff, while you are away from the care of your own man in London.”’

‘At least you’ve missed out on the cold baths, Francis. It could have been worse. And you’ve escaped the spa with the Germans in lederhosen.’

Powerscourt held up his hand again. ‘Here comes the parting shot, Johnny. You’ll like this bit.’ Powerscourt turned his letter over. ‘“Finally, Powerscourt, let me
say how saddened I was by the contents of your letter and the revelations within it about your state of mind. I wish you a speedy recovery. Yours et cetera et cetera et cetera.”’

‘Tremendous, Francis, tremendous!’ Johnny Fitzgerald was laughing heartily by the window into the garden. ‘Do you think the other two will be as good as that? I haven’t
given up hope of the spa yet, you know, Francis. There’s still a chance.’

Powerscourt folded the letter up and put it back in its envelope. ‘This will always be one of my dearest possessions, Johnny,’ he said. ‘I may have to make special dispensation
for it in my will. The British Museum? The library of my old college in Cambridge? We shall see. You ask about the other two. I don’t think they will be as bad as this one. The
Archbishop’s man may be slightly more polite. I suspect he’s the only chance of a recommendation of Bad Godesberg or Marienbad as a place of recovery and recuperation, to quote the Lord
Lieutenant’s very own words. Schomberg McDonnell will be the most respectful, I’m sure.’

‘So do we just wait and let this mass defection take place, Francis? There must be something we can do.’

‘There is, Johnny. Tomorrow I have to go to London to meet William. Perhaps I could buy him a square meal. Or perhaps not. I’ll be back on Tuesday night. In the meantime could you do
a couple of things for me?’

‘Just as long as I don’t have to talk to that bloody Lieutenant Lord person, Francis. Otherwise I’m at your disposal.’

‘Could you ask Patrick Butler to find out from his future father-in-law the stationmaster if there are any special trains coming down to Compton for the celebrations? And if so when they
are due to arrive and so on.’

‘No problem,’ said Johnny Fitzgerald cheerfully. ‘And the other thing?’

‘The other thing,’ said Powerscourt, staring out into the garden, ‘is more difficult. I want you to get hold of some explosives.’

London seemed very noisy to Powerscourt. In Compton ten or fifteen people almost constituted a crowd. Carriages rushing through the streets were rare. The inhabitants never
seemed to be in a great hurry. But here the streets were packed with people, hordes of them rushing in and out of the underground railway stations, the carriages stretching back along the
King’s Road towards Sloane Square, moving at a snail’s pace, the passengers inside seething with fury at the long delays in reaching their destinations. Even the birds seemed to be in a
hurry.

Powerscourt dined alone at home. He expected William McKenzie to be late. He knew he would track his Italian visitors to their final destination before his rendezvous in Chelsea. It was
half-past eleven when a weary Scotsman presented himself in the drawing room on the first floor of 25 Markham Square.

‘William,’ said Powerscourt, ‘how very good to see you. And thank you very much for your mission.’

‘I wish I could say it had been more successful, my lord,’ said McKenzie, perching on the edge of a chair and pulling a small black notebook out of his pocket. ‘Let me give you
the main points of my report.’

He checked through a couple of pages of notes, all written, Powerscourt observed, in McKenzie’s microscopic but always readable script.

‘Subject travelled to Rome. Journey uneventful. I made my rendezvous with the translator and guide. Very talkative gentleman, my lord. Following the subject difficult because the guide
would not hang back and follow me at a distance. Always wished to be by my side. Two much more visible than one. Subject stayed in the building belonging to the Congregation of Propaganda, close to
the Piazza di Spagna, a body composed of cardinals and others which manages the affairs of the Roman Catholic Church in Great Britain and Ireland. Subject only came out once, my lord. Dined in
fashionable restaurant with a bishop and another prince of the Church, so my guide told me.’

‘William, you poor man,’ said Powerscourt, ‘are you telling me that you kept watch on this building for two days and the man only came out once?’

‘That is correct, my lord. I did learn a lot about the building, mind you. The College, attached to Propaganda,’ McKenzie peered closely at his notes at this point, ‘I wrote
this bit down out of the guidebook, my lord, because I thought it would interest you, “was founded in 1627 by Urban VIII for the purpose of educating as missionaries, entirely free of charge,
young foreigners from infidel or heretical countries, who might afterwards return and spread the Roman Catholic faith among their countrymen.”’

‘And the bloody place is nearly three hundred years old,’ said Powerscourt, wondering if Propaganda had tried to pull off a coup like the one in Compton in the past. Rarely could
they have been so close to triumph as they were now.

‘Subject now returned to London, my lord, accompanied by bishop person and the other fellow, a rather fat gentleman, my lord, in the mould of Friar Tuck perhaps. All received great
attention and tribute from the railway staff en route through Italy and France. Rather less on the passage between Dover and London. All three gone to Jesuits’ house in Farm Street. Believe
they intend to go to Compton tomorrow, my lord. I overheard conversation about purchase of tickets.’

‘Are you telling me, William, that you spent all your time waiting around these Propaganda buildings? That you had no time to see any of the sights of Rome?’

‘That is correct, my lord. I had hoped to visit the Colosseum where they killed the Christians all those years ago. I would have liked to be able to tell my aged mother about that. But it
was not to be. Should I follow the gentlemen back to Compton, my lord?’

Powerscourt was imagining the Compton murderer at large in the Colosseum, despatching Protestants reluctant to convert with sword, spear or trident, rejoicing as his victims met their deaths,
their blood pouring out into the sand.

‘Sorry William,’ said Powerscourt. ‘My mind had wandered off. I think you should go back to Compton with the religious gentlemen, just to make sure we don’t lose sight of
them.’ He suddenly thought of them as Father, Son and Holy Ghost, though which was which he didn’t know. He explained to McKenzie the plan to rededicate the cathedral to the Catholic
faith on Easter Sunday, the secret attendances at Mass, the fact that the murder victims had almost certainly been part of the enterprise and then changed their minds. When Powerscourt finished
McKenzie looked at him closely and said very softly, ‘Forgive them, Lord, for they know not what they do.’

Powerscourt spent most of the journey back to Compton staring out of the window, his mind debating with itself. When was it legal to break the law? Under what circumstances
would a man be justified in causing damage to property, and possibly to other human lives, in a higher cause? Was it his duty to infringe the laws of England so that other English laws might not be
violated, or not violated in front of so many people? As the train curved round the tracks towards the south-west he found himself measuring angles, possible explosion points on the line where the
damage could not be repaired for days. Heaven knew Johnny Fitzgerald and he had done enough of this in India. When Powerscourt reached the inevitable philosophical question of did the ends justify
the means he gave up and thought of other things.

He thought of a place to take Lucy when all this was over. St Petersburg, he decided, a city built on the water, a city built facing Europe to change the culture of the Russian nobility, a city
built as a titanic social experiment to see if architecture and geographical position could alter the mindset of a nation. The Winter Palace, he remembered, all those other vast palaces, some with
so many rooms that their owners never visited them all during their entire lives, humble servants squatting in squalor in the attics while their masters dined on eight courses of French cuisine
down below.

Johnny Fitzgerald was poring over a huge map of Compton and its railway lines laid out on the floor of the Fairfield Park drawing room when he reached home. Lady Lucy was sitting by the fire,
still looking pale but happier than she had been when he left. Powerscourt hugged her cheerfully and looked down at Johnny’s map.

‘There’s two letters for you on the mantelpiece, Francis,’ Johnny said. ‘They’re both from London.’

‘I see you’ve been busy with the railway lines, Johnny.’

‘Well,’ said Johnny, ‘when you asked me to find out about the extra trains coming to Compton and so on and then you asked me to get some explosives, I could see the way your
mind was working. If we could blow up the tracks and stop some of these extra people coming, maybe the damage wouldn’t be so bad. Not all of the wine would have got out of the bottle, if you
see what I mean. I’ve got some explosives, I’ve got the maps of the railway lines and I know that there are a lot of extra trains booked to come here. Most of them are going to arrive
on Saturday afternoon. Every hotel, every lodging house for miles around is full, Francis. It may not be the right season, but in Compton this Easter, there’s no room in the inn.’

‘I don’t think we can do it, Johnny,’ said Powerscourt rather sadly. ‘I don’t mean that we couldn’t blow up the railway, we’ve done plenty of that in
our time. But I’ve been thinking a lot about this in the train on the way down.’

He went and stood by Lady Lucy’s chair, his hand absent-mindedly stroking her hair as he spoke. ‘Even if we did blow up the lines, we couldn’t stop the news getting out.
I’m sure the Catholic faction in the cathedral have laid their plans already for broadcasting the news. Maybe they’re going to have special announcements of their triumph in every
church and cathedral in the country. Maybe even in Rome itself the College of Propaganda will announce the downfall of a citadel of the heretic English. And, even if we gave warnings, some of them
might not get through, or be misunderstood. I couldn’t bear it if we were responsible for the deaths of innocent people whose only crime was setting out to attend Mass on Easter Sunday. I
don’t want to sound pompous, but I don’t think we can set ourselves up as the solvers of crimes and mysteries and then rush out in the middle of the night and commit some crimes of our
own.’