business?’
‘You’ll just have to wait and find out.’
Powerscourt remembered a previous conversation with Great Aunt Theodosia in the drawing room at Stratton Hall in Yorkshire. They may have been sitting on top of thousands and thousands of tons of coal up there, but the rooms were always freezing. The old lady would raise a topic and then use her victim’s reaction to reveal the strength and depth of her prejudices.
‘What about these women going about the place smashing things up?’ she demanded after dinner. ‘Suffragettes they call themselves, I believe. They’d certainly suffer if I were in charge, I can tell you. I suppose you approve of these monsters pretending to be proper women, Lord Powerscourt? It’s the sort of thing fashionable people are said to agree with nowadays. Isn’t that so?’
‘Well,’ said Powerscourt, realizing all too well that these waters were treacherous, ‘I don’t support their methods, Great Aunt Theodosia, but I do support their objectives. I think women should have universal suffrage. Wouldn’t you like to have the vote yourself?’
‘I most certainly would not, young man. Two of my relations sat in the 1832 Parliament when the Great Reform Act was passed and let some of the rabble vote. They sat for those splendid rotten boroughs which have, unfortunately, been abolished. But they voted against the changes every time they could. A great uncle of mine was in the 1867 House of Commons and he opposed the later reforms to let even more of therabble vote. And I had three relations who voted with the Diehards last year when the House of Lords had to agree to a ridiculous Act cooked up by that wicked Asquith to rip up the constitution and limit the powers of the House of Lords. One of them wrote the closing speech for Lord Selborne: “The question is, shall we perish in the dark, slain by our hand, or in the light, killed by our enemies?”’
Great Aunt Theodosia stared at Powerscourt as if he were one of the ringleaders of this ongoing treachery over the voting system. He could still remember her final blast up there in the cold of Yorkshire.
‘And another thing. They’re not educated, most of the women in this country. I fancy some of the suffragette people may have learnt to read, but even those who can read don’t spend their time following the passage of Bills through Parliament or the twists and turns of foreign policy. They read those dreadful magazines full of foolish gossip about film stars and people in the music hall. These women won’t vote on the issues. They will vote on the looks of the candidates. Do you call that democracy?’
‘Do you want to see the body? Some people don’t.’ Dr Thomas Harrison, the doctor who had conducted the autopsy was a small, sunburned man who looked as if he spent a lot of his life outdoors. Sergeant Jenkins was to tell Powerscourt later that the doctor loved walking in the Alps in spring and summer, returning with a fine tan and further specimens for his collection of wild flowers. He was in a small office next to the Middlesex Hospital morgue.
‘Yes please.’ Sergeant Jenkins sounded confident. This, in fact, would be the first corpse he had ever seen on duty. The doctor led the way. He nodded to the attendant to pull a body out of the trays on the wall.
Alexander Taneyev looked very peaceful and absurdly young.
‘I’ve heard about you from my colleagues, Lord Powerscourt,’ said Dr Harrison. ‘They say you like complicated cases. Well, let me tell you, this is one of the most straightforward murders I have ever seen.’
‘Really?’ said Powerscourt.
‘I’ll show you the wound that killed him, if you like. Our estimated time for his death, based on the rigor mortis and so on, coincides with the timetable of the ballet. End of
Thamar
, down he leaps, the murderer is waiting, stabs him with one of those evil knives, that’s the end of poor Alexander.’
‘Have you seen the murder weapon,
‘You’ll just have to wait and find out.’
Powerscourt remembered a previous conversation with Great Aunt Theodosia in the drawing room at Stratton Hall in Yorkshire. They may have been sitting on top of thousands and thousands of tons of coal up there, but the rooms were always freezing. The old lady would raise a topic and then use her victim’s reaction to reveal the strength and depth of her prejudices.
‘What about these women going about the place smashing things up?’ she demanded after dinner. ‘Suffragettes they call themselves, I believe. They’d certainly suffer if I were in charge, I can tell you. I suppose you approve of these monsters pretending to be proper women, Lord Powerscourt? It’s the sort of thing fashionable people are said to agree with nowadays. Isn’t that so?’
‘Well,’ said Powerscourt, realizing all too well that these waters were treacherous, ‘I don’t support their methods, Great Aunt Theodosia, but I do support their objectives. I think women should have universal suffrage. Wouldn’t you like to have the vote yourself?’
‘I most certainly would not, young man. Two of my relations sat in the 1832 Parliament when the Great Reform Act was passed and let some of the rabble vote. They sat for those splendid rotten boroughs which have, unfortunately, been abolished. But they voted against the changes every time they could. A great uncle of mine was in the 1867 House of Commons and he opposed the later reforms to let even more of therabble vote. And I had three relations who voted with the Diehards last year when the House of Lords had to agree to a ridiculous Act cooked up by that wicked Asquith to rip up the constitution and limit the powers of the House of Lords. One of them wrote the closing speech for Lord Selborne: “The question is, shall we perish in the dark, slain by our hand, or in the light, killed by our enemies?”’
Great Aunt Theodosia stared at Powerscourt as if he were one of the ringleaders of this ongoing treachery over the voting system. He could still remember her final blast up there in the cold of Yorkshire.
‘And another thing. They’re not educated, most of the women in this country. I fancy some of the suffragette people may have learnt to read, but even those who can read don’t spend their time following the passage of Bills through Parliament or the twists and turns of foreign policy. They read those dreadful magazines full of foolish gossip about film stars and people in the music hall. These women won’t vote on the issues. They will vote on the looks of the candidates. Do you call that democracy?’
‘Do you want to see the body? Some people don’t.’ Dr Thomas Harrison, the doctor who had conducted the autopsy was a small, sunburned man who looked as if he spent a lot of his life outdoors. Sergeant Jenkins was to tell Powerscourt later that the doctor loved walking in the Alps in spring and summer, returning with a fine tan and further specimens for his collection of wild flowers. He was in a small office next to the Middlesex Hospital morgue.
‘Yes please.’ Sergeant Jenkins sounded confident. This, in fact, would be the first corpse he had ever seen on duty. The doctor led the way. He nodded to the attendant to pull a body out of the trays on the wall.
Alexander Taneyev looked very peaceful and absurdly young.
‘I’ve heard about you from my colleagues, Lord Powerscourt,’ said Dr Harrison. ‘They say you like complicated cases. Well, let me tell you, this is one of the most straightforward murders I have ever seen.’
‘Really?’ said Powerscourt.
‘I’ll show you the wound that killed him, if you like. Our estimated time for his death, based on the rigor mortis and so on, coincides with the timetable of the ballet. End of
Thamar
, down he leaps, the murderer is waiting, stabs him with one of those evil knives, that’s the end of poor Alexander.’
‘Have you seen the murder weapon,
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