‘William, perhaps you could ask one of your people to take this one to Johnny Fitzgerald. This one is for Lady Lucy. Ah, Miss Williams, you have finished your description, I see. Thank you
so much.’
‘Miss Williams,’ Burke was organizing the despatch of Powerscourt’s mail, ‘could I make a suggestion? Perhaps our Mr Clarke here could take you home. You must be
exhausted after such a day. And thank you so much for coming to see us. Please tell Richard’s mother if you should see her that everything possible is being done to find him.’
James Clarke looked pleased with his late afternoon assignment. They heard him asking Sophie if she would like to see round the bank while she was there, if she had time, of course.
‘What about your third letter there, Francis? Where do you want that to go?’ Powerscourt looked grave. ‘This one is for you, William. If I am right, when we have the answers,
we may have solved the entire mystery. God knows where you will have to go to find the information, but we must have it by tomorrow morning.’
Burke read the letter. Then he read it again. He stared at Powerscourt as if he had just arrived from another planet.
‘Francis,’ he spluttered, ‘you can’t be serious. This is monstrous, monstrous. I’ve never heard anything so terrible in my life. It can’t be true. Here in the
City of London.’
‘I’m sure that stranger things have happened here before now, William. And it is possible, isn’t it?’
‘I suppose it’s possible,’ said Burke, reading his letter once more. ‘But it’s monstrous. Quite monstrous.’
‘Lord Powerscourt, I owe you an apology. I am so very sorry.’
The Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police had removed the four maps of London from his walls. Powerscourt wondered if crime had temporarily ceased and the righteous had finally inherited the
earth. In their place was an enormous map of the route of Queen Victoria’s procession from Buckingham Palace to St Paul’s, crosses and circles marking the disposition of his forces.
‘I’m sure you don’t owe me an apology at all, Commissioner,’ said Powerscourt politely.
‘Oh, but I do. First of all we failed to prevent the death of that man Williamson. Now this. It’s this wretched Jubilee, you see.’ He nodded at his great map.
‘We’re very hard pressed for staff. We’re bringing officers in from all over the Home Counties. If you want to commit a crime on Jubilee Day, Lord Powerscourt, don’t come to
London. Go to Weybridge or Reading or Bedford, there won’t be any police left there at all.
‘The reason for my apology is that one of my assistants took away the men watching one of your suspects, a Mr Charles Harrison. I only found out an hour ago. I am terribly
sorry.’
‘You mean,’ said Powerscourt anxiously, ‘you mean that there’s nobody watching him at all?’
‘I’m afraid so,’ said the Commissioner. ‘Is that serious?’
‘I’m afraid it is very serious. Very serious indeed.’
Powerscourt looked back at the map. He noticed that there were times of arrival marked on all the key points of the journey, very precisely, as if it were a railway timetable. The military must
have gone over the route over and over again, each detachment knowing it had exactly seven minutes to get to Piccadilly or Temple Bar.
‘How can I make amends, Lord Powerscourt?’ said the Commissioner. Powerscourt still stared at the map.
‘I cannot be sure, but I believe Mr Charles Harrison may be about to leave the country. Indeed he may have already gone, but I do not think so. He will probably try to leave four or five
days before the Jubilee Day itself. Could you keep an eye out for him and detain him if you find him?’
‘Of course we could,’ said the Commissioner. ‘Do you know where he will be travelling to? And what should we charge him with?’
Powerscourt laughed. The Commissioner wondered if he was beginning to crack under the strain.
‘Forgive me, Commissioner. I think you will find he is travelling to Germany. By rail, probably, maybe by boat. Officially you could say that the police wish to question him further about
the fire at Blackwater. Unofficially – let me ask you this, Commissioner. Do you have many officers working on possible terrorist threats during the Jubilee?’
‘We most certainly do, Lord Powerscourt.’
‘Well, if I am right,’ said Powerscourt grimly, ‘and I will only know the answer in the morning, Mr Charles Harrison has placed a time bomb under the City of London. It’s
been in preparation for a very long time. We’ve got less than a week to find it. Only it’s not a real bomb, Commissioner. It’s a bomb made of money and it could blow the City to
smithereens.’
Powerscourt and Johnny Fitzgerald were alone in their compartment as the train drew out of Paddington. The light was fading fast when they reached Wallingford station.
Powerscourt explained to Johnny on the final stages of their journey what he thought was going on.
‘It’s as if this German secret society, or Charles Harrison and the secret society, is launching two series of attacks on the Jubilee,’ he said, staring out at the colours
draining from the passing landscape. ‘They provide money and weapons for the Irish to take a shot at somebody on the day of the great parade. Maybe somebody in Dublin, maybe even the Queen
Empress herself. And then there’s the other half.’
He told Fitzgerald what he had written in his note to William Burke that afternoon.
‘Is that possible, Francis? Are you sure?’ Johnny Fitzgerald sounded doubtful.
‘We should know the answer in the morning, Johnny,’ said Powerscourt. ‘I’m glad to see you’ve brought your burglar’s kit along. You don’t need a gun.
I’ve got one.’ Powerscourt patted his coat pocket. He had borrowed the gun from the Commissioner’s people before he left the office.
Now they were walking the mile and a half from Wallingford station to Blackwater House. Powerscourt had hurried Fitzgerald out of the side entrance to the station, avoiding the couple of cabs
left on duty. Soon they were deep in the country, trees lining the little road. There were thin clouds overhead, parting from time to time to reveal a very bright moon.
‘Let me just give you the key features of the people who live in Blackwater House where we are going, Johnny. Life expectancy in the House of Harrison has not been good recently. Old Mr
Harrison, as you know, found floating by London Bridge with his head cut off. Before that, his son, Wilhelm or Willi Harrison, drowned in a boating accident. The other son, Frederick, Friedrich if
you prefer, burnt to a cinder in the blaze at Blackwater House. Man now in charge of the show, Charles Harrison, nephew of Wilhelm. Are you with me so far, Johnny?’
‘Just about keeping up, Francis,’ said Fitzgerald, ‘trying my best, you know. But what are we doing here now?’
‘I’m just coming to that.’ There was a rustling noise in the wood to their left. A couple of guilty lovers peered out at them, fumbling with their clothes, and then retreated
back to the ground.
‘Christ, that made me jump, Johnny. I’m getting old. Where was I?’
‘Why are we here, Francis?’
‘Very important philosophical question that, Johnny. I’m sure the meaning of life, the purpose of our short stay here on earth can often be discerned in the quiet of the evening when
the day’s work is done –’
Fitzgerald punched him quite hard on the shoulder.
‘Right, right,’ said Powerscourt, ‘this Charles Harrison is up to no good in his bank. A young man you saw at the cricket match called Richard Martin works for Harrison’s
Bank. On Saturday evening Harrison hears William Burke inviting Martin to come and see him on Monday morning. Martin doesn’t make it. Martin disappears, last seen by the widow Martin on
Monday morning. Martin’s friend Miss Williams raises the hue and cry. That is why we are here.’
‘I’m getting slow, Francis,’ Fitzgerald said. ‘Martin disappears in the City. I presume he lives in London somewhere with the widowed mother, as you say. I do not imagine
for one moment that the Martin household is to be found round here, is it?’ Fitzgerald waved at what could be seen of the countryside.
‘Let me try again, Johnny. Charles Harrison is up to no good in his bank. He thinks young Richard Martin may have some inkling of what is going on. When he hears Martin arranging to go and
see Burke he thinks Martin is going to spill the beans. So he makes sure Martin doesn’t get to Burke in the first place. He or his associates spirit him away. And I think they may have
spirited him away here. Not just here, but at Blackwater.’
‘So do we walk up to the front door and ask if we can see Mr Richard Martin?’ said Fitzgerald happily.
‘We do not, Johnny. I don’t think they would have taken him to the big house – the butler is still there in his basement, I expect, but at least half the house is a
ruin.’
‘So where is he?’
Powerscourt tapped Fitzgerald on the shoulder and beckoned him into a clump of trees. About one hundred yards ahead they could see Blackwater church and the row of cottages where the Parkers
lived. An owl was hooting in the distance. Shimmering in the moonlight less than a quarter of a mile away the Blackwater lake was keeping its secrets in the dark.
‘All around this lake there are temples and things, Johnny, perfect places for hiding somebody you wanted kept out of the way.’ Powerscourt was whispering now.
‘Do they have doorbells, Francis? Each one with its own High Priest to admit you to the presence?’
‘Alas, they do not,’ said Powerscourt. ‘I think we’d better knock at the windows if we can find any. What would you do if you were Charles Harrison, Johnny? I’m
sure he wants to find out what Martin knows about what’s going on in the bank. Whatever he knows, they don’t want him wandering about the place and talking to William Burke.’
Powerscourt and Fitzgerald tiptoed their way through the trees. The moon had gone behind a cloud, the only light coming from a few stars in the east.
‘Right, Johnny,’ Powerscourt murmured, ‘up this little hill is the Temple of Apollo. Our first port of call, I think.’
Johnny Fitzgerald pulled a fearsome spanner from his pocket and proceeded to tap, softly at first, then more loudly, on the walls. They listened. Nothing moved in the woods around them. No noise
came from inside. Fitzgerald tried again. There was a faint echo from the blows, the sound dying among the trees.
‘No good, Francis,’ whispered Fitzgerald. ‘Nothing doing here.’
They went carefully down a rocky path that led to the edge of the lake. On the far side they could see the outline of the Pantheon, its six columns standing to attention in the dark. Powerscourt
dislodged a small boulder which rolled down the hill and splashed into the water. The ripples made their way across the surface of the lake, fading as they went.
‘Temple of Flora next,’ muttered Powerscourt quietly, leading the way on the path by the water’s edge. Just beyond the little temple Powerscourt could see the boathouse and the
rowing boat that had carried him on his mission to the island. The island was sitting perfectly still in the water.
Fitzgerald peered carefully through the windows. He motioned Powerscourt to be still. He tapped slowly on the glass. There was no answer. Fitzgerald tapped again. Silence ruled once more over
the Blackwater lake.
‘Blank again, Francis,’ muttered Fitzgerald. ‘Do you think we are on a wild goose chase?’
‘No I do not.’ Powerscourt was defiant. ‘Two more places to try, at least.’
They walked across the little path that separated the two lakes. To their left they could hear the noise of the waterfall, cascading down its rocks into the water below. The moon had come out
from behind its clouds. The Pantheon was bathed in a ghostly light, beckoning them on across the water. Powerscourt felt for his pistol in his pocket. Johnny Fitzgerald was rubbing his spanner.
They passed under the columns and looked at the great door that guarded the statues within. Powerscourt thought he might go mad if anybody locked him in there, surrounded for the night by Hercules
and the pagan deities.
‘Do you want me to force this door open?’ Fitzgerald whispered. He was inspecting its hinges carefully. ‘If I could get some leverage on it I think it might give
way.’
‘There’s another door inside, Johnny. A bloody great thing made of iron bars.’
‘Very good,’ said Fitzgerald, and began knocking on the wooden doors. Then he walked round the temple, tapping loudly on its walls. Powerscourt saw a fox had come to join them,
standing at the water’s edge, a look of astonishment on its face at the nocturnal practices of its human neighbours. Fitzgerald climbed up a tree and scrambled on to the roof. There was a
domed rotunda at the top. He knocked once more on the roof, then slid back down to earth again.
‘No humans in there, Francis. Only those bloody statues. Gave me the creeps, all standing there in the moonlight as if they’re waiting for somebody.’
‘Just one place left, Johnny. There’s a little cottage up here that’s been converted into a summerhouse.’
Powerscourt led the way. The fox had trotted off. Two owls were sending messages to each other across the trees. The Temple of Flora was now reflected in the moonlight on the other side of the
lake, the pillars rippling in the water.
Suddenly Powerscourt realized they should have started here. He stopped suddenly, holding Johnny Fitzgerald by the arm. He pointed to the path ahead.
‘That leads up to the house, through the trees over there to the left. Can you see anybody coming?’
Once again he had the sensation of being watched, of eyes following his every move. Maybe the statues are restless, he said to himself. Maybe the Roman gods themselves come out at night,
prowling round the lake, seeking out the unpurified spirits and banishing them to the underworld.
‘Nobody coming,’ whispered Fitzgerald, who was now making his way round the back of The Cottage.
‘Look, Francis.’ He pointed to some heavy footprints in the ground by the back door. ‘It rained quite hard when we were in the train. Somebody’s been here very recently.
Very recently indeed.’
Powerscourt went back to the path to keep watch for any other visitors to The Cottage. Fitzgerald began tapping very softly on a window. He tapped again a little louder. There was a scraping
noise coming from inside now, as if a hand was scratching on the wall. Fitzgerald summoned Powerscourt from his vigil. He tapped again. Again the scraping sound came back.