Goodnight Sweet Prince

by David Dickinson

  Powerscourt raised his eyebrows at the assumed link between birth and virtue. If all those of good birth and position had done their duty according to the honour of their class and the dictates of their Commandments, he reflected bitterly, we probably would not have a bloodied corpse on our hands, stiffening into rigor mortis in an upstairs bedroom.

  The Prince of Wales seemed quite small that evening. He looked as though some powerful machine had emptied most of the air from his body. His eyes were red from weeping, his face pale and drawn. And though he was wearing one of his darker uniforms, he looked as though he no longer cared for the medals and decorations that hung loosely from his tunic, as if they too were in mourning.

  ‘My friends,’ he began, ‘thank you for coming to see us in this time of trouble. Thank you, Rosebery, thank you, Powerscourt. We shall never forget your assistance.

  ‘Rosebery, I do not think I shall make a final decision until the morning. But I want you to try to persuade me that we should tell the truth. My own inclination, as I believe Suter told you, is to conceal it.’

  If you have led the life of Prince Edward for the past thirty years, the love affairs, the gambling, the discreet trips en gargon to the pleasure palaces of Europe, thought Powerscourt, concealment must have become a way of life. There are only so many evenings you could pretend to be playing billiards at the Marlborough Club.

  Rosebery began with expressions of concern and sympathy for the family at the time of this terrible tragedy. He spoke of his long acquaintance with Alexandra and Edward, his frequent trips to Sandringham and Marlborough House, the weekends at his own houses, Mentmore or Dalmeny. He referred to his long intimacy with Queen Victoria and his friendship with the members of her Household. ‘I have often said, Your Royal Highness,’ he bowed slightly to the Prince of Wales, ‘that I have only met two people in my entire life who frightened me. One was that old bully Bismarck. The other is rather a smaller figure, your mother, the Queen.’

  The Prince of Wales smiled a wan smile, Shepstone managed the ghost of a laugh. Powerscourt had never heard Rosebery speak in the House of Lords. He had heard him once on a platform with Gladstone in London where his elegant eloquence made the Grand Old Man sound long-winded and lugubrious. He had never heard him as forceful as he was this evening.

  ‘Of course I understand the reservations you might have about bringing this sorry affair into the cold light of day. Of course I can see that concealment has its attractions, and that the opiate of secrecy is a powerful and addictive potion. Of course I can sense your fears of what might lie on the other side of those locked doors, of what dark phantoms might emerge to trouble yourself and your family.

  ‘But, Your Royal Highness,’ Rosebery was speaking very quietly, looking now at the Prince of Wales, now at the silent figure of Suter by the fireside, ‘I think there are other higher considerations, other flags to which we should pay allegiance. I would ask you to think about truth. Truth first of all in relation to my own profession of politics. Of course it can be a filthy business, despoiled by bribery and corruption, debased by fraudulent appeals to the electorate and the sordid traffic of faction. But some six hundred members of the House of Commons and a thousand members of my own chamber the Lords swear a solemn oath of loyalty to the Queen. It is a matter of high seriousness when you do it. Think of their feelings and their reactions when they learn that their own Prince of Wales has concealed things from them, that he has lied about such an important matter as the death of one who is second in line to the throne. There is no uglier sight in politics than the House of Commons when it knows it has been deceived. They will count up the sums of money voted each year to maintain the standard of living of the Royal Family, and their instinct will be to take revenge in whatever fashion they can find.

  ‘Think of the truth and the Church of England. It is not the force it once was, weakened by Darwin and by defections to Rome, but it remains the national Church of this country. People died at the stake to bring it into existence. Its bishops are appointed in the name of the Queen, who is Head of that Church, as you will be one day. Can you stand there at your Coronation, surrounded by the Princes of the Church as well of the State, and say that you will keep God’s holy laws and uphold his Commandments?’

  There was no noise in the room save for the soft cadences of Rosebery’s voice. Outside snow was falling steadily, wrapping those inside with further layers of white.

  ‘Think too about something more intangible but more valuable even than truth. Think of the relationship between the Royal Family and the ordinary citizens of this country. For some of them, who have attended our great public schools or served in the military, loyalty and patriotism are centred on the person or persons of the Queen and her family. You can be loyal to a flag or to a regimental colour or to your house at Eton, but the supreme loyalty which inspires people to die for this country is channelled through the Queen and the Princes of the Blood. The middle classes absorb this as they are brought up; go into the homes of the ordinary people of this country, working hard to better their lot and that of their families who will come after them, and you will see that loyalty burning bright by fireside and hearth. On the walls there are portraits of the Queen or pictures from the distant parts of her Empire. These people are the ones who turn out to wave the penny rattles when a Royal passes by, or will queue for hours to line the Jubilee parades. They trust you – will you betray that trust? Break that trust and you break the link that unites the people with their sovereign. Break it – and get found out – and all the King’s horses and all the King’s men will not put that trust together again.

  ‘If you do not take the side of truth in this matter, think of the other trusts and the other duties you are betraying. Think of the duty of honesty, the requirement to tell the truth, however unpalatable it may be. The fabric of the country, its moral centre, its legal system, is held together by the assumption that people will tell the truth. If you do not, why should your subjects? In the name of honesty, in the name of your responsibilities to the Parliament and Church of this land, your land, our land, I appeal to you to do what you must know to be the right thing to do. Tell the truth. Face the consequences. Honour your obligations to your country.’

  Even as he finished, Rosebery knew that it wouldn’t work. He had the sense as he spoke that he was swimming against the tide.

  ‘My dear Rosebery,’ said the Prince of Wales. ‘I am so grateful to you. I always suspected that your eloquence would make you Prime Minister one day. Now I am sure of it. But on this occasion, just for once, I am going to follow a maxim of my father’s.’

  Powerscourt groaned inwardly at the thought of some heavy German apothegm from Prince Albert.

  ‘He always said you should sleep on things before taking a decision. That is what I propose to do. But could I ask you gentlemen, particularly you, Lord Powerscourt, to give thought to how the matter could be concealed, were that the decision. And could I ask you to put your thoughts down on paper for me – rest assured that it won’t fall into the wrong hands.’

  ‘No more than one side of a sheet of paper,’ Suter advised as the Prince went off to his own quarters. ‘Otherwise there may be a scene. Shall we say nine o’clock in the morning, gentlemen? Thank you so much for your assistance.’

  With that Suter and Shepstone glided off into the night, leaving Rosebery and Powerscourt in possession of the drawing-room.

  ‘Nine o’clock,’ said Rosebery ruefully. ‘I shouldn’t think he’s been up at nine in the morning since he was nine years old. What do you think the old hypocrite is going to decide, Francis?’

  ‘I have absolutely no doubt,’ said Powerscourt, ‘that he is going to want to cover it up. What do you say to Death by Influenza?’

  7

  Few people slept well at Sandringham that night. Outside further falls of snow drifted down, covering the great slate roofs and the gravel driveway and lying in weird patterns on the tall trees.

  The Rosebery Power
scourt Memorandum, written in Rose-bery’s best copperplate, was waiting in the little drawing-room of Sandringham House for the nine o’clock meeting.

  Subject: The Days Ahead.

  If the murder is to be covered up, there has to be another cause of death. Death by Influenza is the best solution. Prince Eddy was already suffering from a cold. There have been a number of tragic deaths from this disease in recent weeks. Another would not be surprising.

  For Death by Influenza to work as a cover story, the Prince must, as it were, be kept alive for a couple more days. This afternoon or tomorrow a notice should be pinned to the Norwich Gates here and outside Marlborough House reporting that there is grave cause for concern and that additional medical staff have been sent for from London. This will appear in the newspapers the following day.

  Tomorrow two further bulletins should be posted. Each one should be more sombre than the last. They will appear in the papers on Tuesday.

  On the appropriate day, a last bulletin should be posted in the usual places, reporting that the Prince has passed away. If that happens early in the morning, say eleven o’clock, it will give the papers ample time to prepare special editions.

  Sir George Trevelyan, Private Secretary to HM The Queen, is an expert at dealing with all the newspapers. He is particularly close to the editor of The Times. He should be let into the secret of the illness and entrusted with the task of liaison with the Press.

  Returning to today, it is essential that the military gentlemen have access to the body and that the room be cleaned up. A Service of Prayer for the sick Prince should be held in the church this afternoon. Attendance should be recommended if not compulsory for all the domestic staff. While that is in progress, the body could be seen to. A brief inspection could be made of the roof to see if there has been any unexpected traffic up there.

  Only two other people should be told the true nature of Prince Eddy’s death. One is the Prime Minister, whose authority may need to be invoked to expedite future inquiries. The other is the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, who has files on all known Irish subversives, and may be able to assist with possible foreign suspects.

  The Prince of Wales read slowly, pausing occasionally to polish his glasses. Suter and Shepstone were busy making notes on the pads in front of them.

  ‘I think this is an excellent plan,’ said the Prince of Wales, rising from his seat to gaze out of the tall windows at the white wilderness beyond. ‘Now I must make up my mind. I did not feel I could do so until I saw what the alternative plan might be. Suter, Shepstone, do you think it could work?’

  The faithful courtiers gave it as their opinion that if everything was properly managed, and if there were no unforeseen circumstances like a leak of the truth along the way, then indeed it could be successfully implemented.

  ‘Never say yes and never say no,’ Powerscourt said to himself, remembering Rosebery’s words from the past. ‘Your backs are well covered, gentlemen. Nobody will be able to blame either of you if things go wrong. No doubt you’ve written your reservations down on those little bits of paper, just to be on the safe side. If the plan fails, all the blame is going to attach to Rosebery and me.’

  All his life Rosebery had been fascinated by the way people made their decisions. He had watched politicians take great decisions in haste or on a whim, or because they couldn’t think of anything else to do, or because they felt they had to be seen to do something, in one case because the minister was going to be late for the opera. As he watched the Prince of Wales, standing by his Norfolk window, he knew that this was the most bizarre decision he would watch in his life.

  ‘All right. All right,’ said the Prince of Wales. ‘I want my son’s murder to be concealed. That is my final decision. Will you gentlemen see to the details?’

  Sir William Suter was the first to break the silence that dropped on the room after the Prince of Wales’ departure.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he announced with the satisfied air of one who is back in control of the meeting, ‘we are most grateful to you both. Let me try to divide up the tasks that yet remain if this plan is to succeed. We have a few days left in which to maintain the necessary deception. After that we must bolt the lie into the history books.’

  That, thought Powerscourt, realising that he might have underestimated Suter, was rather good. Cheating history. Deceiving the future.

  ‘Lord Rosebery, could the Royal Family impose on your kindness and your generosity one more time? Your suggestion about Trevelyan is excellent. Could we ask you to make all speed to London and communicate with him in person? I dare not trust these tidings to a letter, nor yet to the telegraph machine. It is vital that he knows what we know as soon as possible. The Prince of Wales’ train is at Wolferton station now, waiting for whatever passengers it may have to bear. If you were to set out at once we could have Trevelyan on board by early afternoon.’

  ‘Hold on a moment.’ Rosebery spoke very softly. His head was in his hands and he sounded as though he was speaking from somewhere very far away. ‘Hold on a moment, gentlemen, I beg you.’

  Suter, Shepstone, and Powerscourt stared intently at Rosebery, his delicate features contorted by some inner strain. He looked up.

  ‘Of course I should go and talk to Trevelyan in London or Osborne or wherever he is to be found at present. But consider, pray. We are about to embark on one of the great deceptions in the history of the monarchy in this nation. I do not doubt the sincerity of those who wished it thus, or the power of the reasons for that choice. But we must have a plan. If we are to cheat history, as you, Sir William, implied earlier, we must make sure that the cards, as it were, are properly sharpened, the form book doctored, the dice weighted in our favour.

  ‘We have one enormous advantage. Nobody would ever suspect that such a deception was being practised. History is always written by the conquerors. They get their version in first. The vanquished may rot in some prison cell or die upon the battlefield. They never tell their story, and if they do, it is usually too late.

  ‘But, gentlemen, we must prepare our ground. First we must fix the date of death. Then I suggest we work backwards from that date to this Sunday morning, deciding in advance what information we give out. It is as if we were writing a play backwards. We know the last act, the death of the Prince, just as Shakespeare must have known that Hamlet had to end with the death of his Prince. Hamlet was Danish too – appropriate for this household. But we have to write Acts One to Five of this drama, if the thing is to work.’

  ‘Are you suggesting, Rosebery,’ Suter sounded like a man going into uncharted waters, ‘that we should write everything down as if it were a play?’

  ‘I am not sure yet. I think we need to think about it calmly. Can anyone think of the single most important fact that we do not possess? But a fact vital to our success?’

  ‘Oddly enough, I can. I thought about it this morning, Rose-bery.’ Powerscourt was staring at the snow-covered lake outside.

  ‘And what do you think it is, Francis?’

  ‘Quite simply, it is this.’ Powerscourt glanced around the room, Suter looking disturbed by the fire, Sir Bartle looking vacant as if hoping the murder and the cover-up would melt away, Rosebery pacing up and down the room like a cat. ‘We know it is possible that Prince Eddy could die from influenza. People are dying from it all the time. But we can’t just tell the world he’s died from it, just like that. There has to be a history, announcements of the illness in the papers and so on. But we don’t know how long it might take. It could take two days. It could take ten, or twenty. Until we know how long that is, we cannot fix the date for the end of Rosebery’s Act Five. And, don’t you see, until we know the date of the end of Act Five, we don’t know what to put in the four acts in between. Until we know that, we are, quite simply, in the dark.’

  ‘Are there any doctors in this house?’ Rosebery was obviously anxious to push things forward. ‘Doctors who know, I mean?’

  ‘Dr Broadbent is still here.
Dr Manby cannot be very far away. I could summon him now.’ Suter looked reassured at the prospect of action in the world of Private Secretaries rather than playwrights.

  ‘I suggest you summon them both at once. Perhaps we could reassemble here in one hour’s time.’

  Rosebery left the room, beckoning Powerscourt to accompany him. They went out of the front of the house in the unforgiving cold, snow dribbling occasionally on to their thick coats. Soldiers were everywhere, patrolling discreetly out of sight, making circuits of the lakes and shrubberies. Where did Shepstone’s Major Dawnay get them all from, Powerscourt wondered? He started with fourteen. Now he must have at least fifty. If it went on like this, Dawnay would have a whole regiment by the end of the week.

  The two doctors were a study in contrasts. Manby, tall, slim, looked to be in his early thirties. He had the air of the countryman about him, in his healthy cheeks and his casual tweeds. Broadbent was a creature of the town or the city, portly, his hair receding, his suit the most respectable black, his bag large and formidable.

  A circular table and six dining-room chairs had been appropriated from another room and sat by the corner, waiting for meetings.

  ‘Dr Manby, Dr Broadbent.’ Suter was at his most unctuous. ‘Thank you for interrupting your business to give us of your wisdom. You both know the circumstances in which we are placed, and the solution that has been advocated to our difficulties. We just need a little practical advice. Rosebery?’

  Courtier to the last, thought Powerscourt. Pass the parcel, pass the body, pass the corpse. Let Rosebery ask what might be called the fatal question, and no blame could attach to Suter in the future.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ said Rosebery in his best House of Lords voice. ‘Our question is a simple one. How long does it take for somebody to die of influenza? We are talking of a young male, some twenty-eight years old, to all intents and purposes in good health.’