position, senior clerks or whoever they might be, they don’t go to the pub any more, they take on airs, they’re off to some little villa in north London and Mrs Senior Clerk and maybe Master Senior Clerk and Miss Senior Clerk. The odd thing about these youngsters I talked to, Francis, is they’re all frightened. I think, but I don’t know, that some terrible financial catastrophe is about to hit them. One over-imaginative young man told me he was sure the Colvilles were being buffeted by those winds you get before a hurricane strikes. And it’s not the murder. It’s as if there’s something rotten that is about to come to light and maybeblow them all away. Sorry if that sounds melodramatic, I’m just the messenger for the moment. There are two or three lads I’m seeing tonight who may be able to tell me more.’
‘Well, that’s all fascinating, Johnny,’ said Lady Lucy. ‘Did you get the impression they were frightened of a person or persons, or some financial calamity?’
‘The calamity, Lady Lucy, definitely the calamity.’
As Johnny Fitzgerald made his way off for an early evening’s drinking session with the young men of Colvilles, Powerscourt decided to open another line of attack. He had Johnny Fitzgerald at the lower end of the enterprise, Sir Pericles with his tastings of the Colville product in the middle. Now it was time to try for the top. He made his way downstairs to the telephone in his little study on the ground floor. The telephone had only recently been installed. Powerscourt had expected to be the principal user of the instrument, but found that this was not so. Lady Lucy had fallen in love with the possibilities of morning chat, afternoon chat, evening chat with her friends and relations. These, in her turn, she persuaded to subscribe to the new service as soon as possible. Lady Lucy assured them that they didn’t want to be behind the times, to be out of step with fashion. Powerscourt thought his wife should be given some large reward by the telephone companies for swelling their lists of subscribers.
He sat down at his desk and asked the operator for the number of his brother-in-law William Burke. Burke was a great power in the City of London, director of a number of banks and mighty insurance companies, a man widely respected across the City for good advice and sound judgement. At first Powerscourt thought the Burkes must be out, but just when he was on the point of putting down the instrument there was a huge bellow down the line: ‘Burke!’
Powerscourt remembered that William Burke did not believe that his words would be transmitted if he spoke in his normal tone of voice. The magic concealed in those littlewires would not work. So he shouted. He yelled. He spoke at the top of his voice. His brother-in-law had often wondered what happened in the Burke offices in Bishopsgate. Had his people built him some special soundproof box where he could holler away to his heart’s content? If not, Powerscourt thought his conversations would have been audible all the way from London Wall to the Bank of England.
‘Powerscourt!’ said Powerscourt, holding the great black receiver a foot or so away from his ear. ‘I need some advice, William.’
‘Fire ahead,’ boomed Burke.
‘I’m investigating the death of that Colville, the man shot at the wedding. You remember?’
‘I do indeed,’ bawled Burke, ‘terrible business, terrible. And the brother locked up in Pentonville. Some fellow told me the other day that you were trying to get him off.’
‘I am, William,’ said Powerscourt, resisting the temptation to hold the instrument even further away. ‘This is where I hope you can help. There is something terribly wrong at Colvilles and I can’t find out what it is. There’s very little time. The clerks think some financial disaster is about to overcome them. I’ve got Johnny Fitzgerald talking to the porters and the junior staff and a chap called Freme trying to find out if
‘Well, that’s all fascinating, Johnny,’ said Lady Lucy. ‘Did you get the impression they were frightened of a person or persons, or some financial calamity?’
‘The calamity, Lady Lucy, definitely the calamity.’
As Johnny Fitzgerald made his way off for an early evening’s drinking session with the young men of Colvilles, Powerscourt decided to open another line of attack. He had Johnny Fitzgerald at the lower end of the enterprise, Sir Pericles with his tastings of the Colville product in the middle. Now it was time to try for the top. He made his way downstairs to the telephone in his little study on the ground floor. The telephone had only recently been installed. Powerscourt had expected to be the principal user of the instrument, but found that this was not so. Lady Lucy had fallen in love with the possibilities of morning chat, afternoon chat, evening chat with her friends and relations. These, in her turn, she persuaded to subscribe to the new service as soon as possible. Lady Lucy assured them that they didn’t want to be behind the times, to be out of step with fashion. Powerscourt thought his wife should be given some large reward by the telephone companies for swelling their lists of subscribers.
He sat down at his desk and asked the operator for the number of his brother-in-law William Burke. Burke was a great power in the City of London, director of a number of banks and mighty insurance companies, a man widely respected across the City for good advice and sound judgement. At first Powerscourt thought the Burkes must be out, but just when he was on the point of putting down the instrument there was a huge bellow down the line: ‘Burke!’
Powerscourt remembered that William Burke did not believe that his words would be transmitted if he spoke in his normal tone of voice. The magic concealed in those littlewires would not work. So he shouted. He yelled. He spoke at the top of his voice. His brother-in-law had often wondered what happened in the Burke offices in Bishopsgate. Had his people built him some special soundproof box where he could holler away to his heart’s content? If not, Powerscourt thought his conversations would have been audible all the way from London Wall to the Bank of England.
‘Powerscourt!’ said Powerscourt, holding the great black receiver a foot or so away from his ear. ‘I need some advice, William.’
‘Fire ahead,’ boomed Burke.
‘I’m investigating the death of that Colville, the man shot at the wedding. You remember?’
‘I do indeed,’ bawled Burke, ‘terrible business, terrible. And the brother locked up in Pentonville. Some fellow told me the other day that you were trying to get him off.’
‘I am, William,’ said Powerscourt, resisting the temptation to hold the instrument even further away. ‘This is where I hope you can help. There is something terribly wrong at Colvilles and I can’t find out what it is. There’s very little time. The clerks think some financial disaster is about to overcome them. I’ve got Johnny Fitzgerald talking to the porters and the junior staff and a chap called Freme trying to find out if
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