Death of a Chancellor by David Dickinson Read Free Book Online

while he was away, details that now seemed as important
to Powerscourt as the schemes and stratagems he had hatched against the Boers thousands of miles from Markham Square. The previous evening he had taken Lucy to a concert where a young German
pianist had taken their breath away with his interpretation of Beethoven’s Emperor Concerto. Afterwards there had been a romantic dinner by candlelight where Powerscourt had repeated his
private vow to her. Semper Fidelis. Forever Faithful.
    ‘Francis,’ said Lady Lucy to the figure in the armchair. It was a slightly hesitant ‘Francis,’ as if she was not quite sure about what was to come. Like all famous
commanders she was slightly nervous at the start of her operations.
    ‘Lucy,’ said Powerscourt, putting down his newspaper and smiling with pleasure at the sight of his wife, ‘something tells me you are up to something.’
    Lady Lucy was momentarily taken aback. How could he know what she was about after just one word? Then she rallied. ‘It’s just there’s something I wanted to discuss with
you.’
    Powerscourt rose to his feet and leant on the mantelpiece. ‘Can I have a guess as to what this is all about?’ he said cheerfully. ‘Let me see, perhaps the kitchen is in need of
modernization, though I don’t think it is going to be that. Change the bedrooms all around? New carpets for the hall? I don’t think it’s any of those but I could be wrong. Maybe
it has something to do with this room we’re in now?’
    Lady Lucy blushed slightly, embarrassed at the nature of her plans having been so easily rumbled. ‘It does have to do with this room, Francis, you’re quite right.’
    ‘And what were you proposing to do here, Lucy?’
    Before she could reply there came a slight apologetic cough. Rhys, the Powerscourt butler, always coughed apologetically when he entered a room. Powerscourt had often wondered if the man had
coughed slightly before proposing to his wife or stating his marriage vows in church.
    ‘Excuse me, my lord, my lady. There is somebody waiting downstairs who wishes to speak with you, my lord.’
    Powerscourt looked apprehensive all of sudden. Was his peace, so ardently desired, so long awaited, about to be disturbed? ‘Does this person have a name, Rhys?’
    ‘Of course, my lord. Sorry, my lord. She is a Mrs Cockburn, Mrs Augusta Cockburn.’
    ‘Then you’d better show her up.’ Lady Lucy looked at her husband carefully as she left the room. He was looking miserable and he hadn’t looked miserable once since his
homecoming. Just when her plans were coming to fruition too.
    Augusta Cockburn had decided to dress in mourning clothes for her visit. She thought it might make a better impression. Perched demurely on the edge of the Powerscourt sofa, she poured out her
story. Powerscourt decided not to interrupt. Her suspicions about her brother’s death. The butler whose account she did not believe. The doctor whose account she did not believe. The strange,
almost inexplicable fact that nobody could pay their last respects to the dead man because he was sealed up for all eternity in his coffin in the Compton undertaker’s. Her overpowering sense
that something was being concealed and that that something might be very terrible indeed. The fact, if it was relevant, that her brother had been one of the richest men in England.
    ‘I would like you to investigate the matter, Lord Powerscourt,’ she concluded. ‘They say you are one of the finest investigators in the country.’
    Powerscourt wondered precisely what her motives might be. Was she a humble seeker of the truth about her brother’s death? He rather doubted it. Where did the money fit in? But most of all
he wished she hadn’t come. He didn’t want to be bothered with another investigation so soon after his return.
    ‘I have to tell you, Mrs Cockburn, that it is most unlikely that I shall be able to take the case on. I have only just returned from a year and more on