Death and the Jubilee by David Dickinson Read Free Book Online Page B

cause.’
    ‘I’m sure I should hear your report before passing any judgement, Johnny.’
    ‘Right,’ Fitzgerald bent down and picked up a stout branch to serve as a walking stick. ‘My story begins in Wallingford, the King’s Arms in Wallingford to be precise. I
booked myself in there for a couple of days. Fine beer they have there, Francis, very fine beer with a fruity sort of taste to it. My story was that I left England some years before to be a banker
in Boston in America.’
    ‘I don’t think bankers drink a lot of the local beer, Johnny, even if it is fruity. They’re sober, respectable sort of people,’ said Powerscourt, kicking a couple of pine
cones out of their path.
    ‘American bankers are very different from English ones. They’re more open, more hospitable sort of characters. Anyway, I said I had been to London on banking business and then to
Germany. I said I was looking for Old Mr Harrison who had taught me all I knew about banking twenty years ago when they had their offices in Bishopsgate. I checked out their old address with
William, you see.’
    ‘And what did the regulars at the King’s Arms have to say about the old gentleman?’ asked Powerscourt.
    ‘Not a lot, most of them. The House of Harrison is a couple of miles away, at least, quite close to the river. Very respectable family, very hard-working, very good people to work for.
They said I might get more news of him at the Blackwater Arms, a sort of family pub, like Mr Burke’s family church, on the edge of the estate. It makes much more sense to have a pub rather
than a church, don’t you think, Francis?’
    ‘I’m sure – no, I’m certain,’ said Powerscourt, ‘that you’re better qualified to be a landlord than a vicar, Johnny.’
    ‘They all said,’ Fitzgerald went on, ‘the natives in those parts, that Old Mr Harrison wasn’t at home, that he hadn’t been seen for a while. I was just about to go
to bed when a very wizened old man called me into a corner. He fished about in his pockets and then he pulled out a piece of newspaper. It was an account of the discovery of the headless man by
London Bridge. “See you here, young man,” he croaked at me, waving his piece of paper, “see you here. This dead body, floating in the Thames down there in London, that be Old Mr
Harrison. Mark my words. It’s Old Mr Harrison.” Then he folded the paper as if it was a ten pound note and returned it to his pocket. “What on earth makes you think that,
sir?” I said to the old scarecrow. “Jeremiah Cokestone sees things. Jeremiah Cokestone hears things. In the night or at first light before the sun has risen.” He spoke as if he
was the Delphic oracle itself, I tell you. Then he downed his beer, almost a full glass, Francis, in a single pull, and he shuffled off into the night.’
    They had reached the edge of the river now. On the far side a few boats were setting out for a Sunday trip along the Thames. Behind them a stiff breeze was rustling through the trees.
    ‘The next day,’ Johnny Fitzgerald tried skimming a couple of stones across the water, ‘I went to see the vicar. And there I had one of the most uplifting experiences of my
life. I shall always remember it.’
    ‘You were converted.’ Powerscourt looked suitably grave. ‘You saw the light. You repented of the error of your ways.’
    ‘I did not. But the vicar’s wife gave me some of her elderberry wine. ’95 she said it was, one of her better years. God knows what the bad years must taste like,
Francis.’ Fitzgerald grimaced at the memory. ‘I cannot describe the taste. It was horrible, so sweet it made you feel sick. Christ.’
    A successful skim of about ten hops began to restore his spirits.
    ‘The vicar knew the family, of course. He hadn’t seen anything of Old Mr Harrison for a while. But he recommended me to another elderly citizen, one Samuel Parker, chief man for the
horses at the Harrison house. I could just see Mrs Vicar about