Free Death of an Old Master by David Dickinson

married to a sea captain in the West Country.
    ‘Francis? He said he’d be here in a moment,’ said Lady Lucy, knowing all too well there was nothing Powerscourt’s sisters enjoyed more than complaining about him.
    ‘He’s disappeared again. Honestly!’ said Rosalind.
    ‘I thought he’d grown out of all that by now,’ said Mary, looking at Lady Lucy as if she should have taught him better manners after seven years of marriage.
    ‘How very inconsiderate. Typical Francis, spoiling a nice luncheon party,’ said Eleanor.
    ‘He must have a new case,’ said William Burke who knew rather better than the three sisters how difficult Powerscourt’s job could be. ‘Is that so, Lucy?’
    ‘It is,’ said Lady Lucy, smiling gratefully at her brother-in-law. ‘He does have a new case. And at the moment, he’s completely in the dark.’
    ‘Luncheon won’t wait,’ said Rosalind imperiously. ‘The soup might keep but the lamb will not. Will Francis be here for the soup, do you think, Lucy?’
    ‘I’m sure he will,’ said Lucy bravely. Privately she rather doubted it.
    Her husband had reached the inquiry desk that ran round half the entrance hall of the London Library. Portraits of Carlyle and Dickens, founder members, lined the walls. In
the centre of the room a flotilla of index cards, housed in great wooden containers, filed away the secrets of the library’s contents. Was the librarian available to speak to him, he
inquired? He assured the young man that he, Lord Francis Powerscourt, had been a member for many years. He wished to consult the librarian on a matter of the utmost delicacy. Michael Stock, the
librarian, he was told, could speak to him in a few minutes. Powerscourt glanced anxiously at his watch. The first course was only minutes away.
    ‘How can we help you, Lord Powerscourt?’ Stock was a slim man of middle years with a worried expression and very strong glasses. He pulled from time to time at the corners of his
large moustache.
    ‘I am an investigator, Mr Stock,’ he began. ‘At present I am looking into the death of a young man called Christopher Montague who was a member here. He was murdered. You may
have read about it in the papers. I know he was a regular visitor here. One of his friends told me the reading room upstairs was his favourite place in London.’
    ‘I was truly sorry to hear of his death,’ said Stock. ‘The library sent a wreath, you know. He was very popular here with all the staff.’
    ‘The reason for my visit is this,’ Powerscourt went on, casting a surreptitious look at his watch. Damn! They must be on the first course by now. ‘I wonder if it would be a
simple matter for you to discover which books he had recently borrowed from the library. Some of his books and all his papers were removed from his rooms when he was murdered. If I knew what he had
been working on at the time of his death, then it might advance my cause. At present,’ he smiled a deprecating smile, ‘I am operating rather in the dark.’
    ‘I do hope’, said Stock, rather fiercely, ‘that none of our books were among those removed from his quarters. Members are only permitted to keep them for a month.’
    Powerscourt wondered if the London Library had a system of fining deceased members for the books they had not returned.
    ‘It is not the normal library practice to disclose what volumes have been borrowed by individual members.’ Powerscourt suddenly wondered if there were secret stacks of erotica hidden
away in the bowels of the building. ‘However,’ Stock hurried on, suspecting that his earlier comments might not have been altogether appropriate, ‘I am sure we can make an
exception in this case. If you can give us a few minutes, I am sure we can help you.’
    Stock hurried out into his entrance hall. Powerscourt could hear him giving instructions to his staff.
    Across the square the soup plates had been cleared away. ‘Lucy,’ asked Rosalind Pembridge, ‘one course down,