Goodnight Sweet Prince

by David Dickinson

  ‘Could you imagine, Johnny, in your wildest dreams that any of these gentlemen from the Institute of Science and Technology could be a secret agent, a revolutionary? Looking at printing machines by day, devouring anarchists’ manuals by night?’

  ‘No. Absolutely not. I got very drunk with these Russians the other evening. That is to say, they got very drunk, I got a little bit drunk. And I think they are as innocent as our own printers over there in Peterborough.

  ‘There are also some Irish in the neighbourhood.’ Lord Johnny continued his report. ‘And I don’t mean you and I, Francis. There are five Irish in a party of workmen extending the telegraph lines north and west of Sandringham.’

  Telegraph lines, thought Powerscourt. In his lifetime he had seen the steady advance of these wooden posts across the length and breadth of Britain, like some enormous army being dressed across the parade ground of a nation, linked not by arm to shoulder, but by roll upon roll of wire. ‘Be not afraid,’ he thought with Prospero, ‘the isle is full of noises’. Messages of joy and despair were whispered along the uncomprehending cables. Births, marriages, deaths. He wondered if his brother-in-law the canny Mr William Burke had investments in telegraph pole companies or wire manufactories. Almost certainly he had. There were other inventions, stranger still. Voices, human voices, being carried down the lines. New vehicles that relied not on horses but on engines for power. Some brave new world – he went back to Miranda in The Tempest – is being born at the end of our century. No more the Age of Reason. No more the Age of Enlightenment. Welcome to the Age of the Machines.

  ‘Francis, hello-oh, hello-oh. Are you there?’ Lord Johnny had known Powerscourt for so long he had grown accustomed to these temporary leaves of absence. Compassionate leave, he always thought. The poor bugger’s brain has run away with him again.

  ‘Of course, of course.’ Powerscourt wondered if he shouldn’t join William McKenzie in a pot of tea. ‘The Irish, you were saying.’

  ‘I have talked to them too, of course. And I’ve got their names. They all play for the same cricket team in Skibereen. Can cricketers be revolutionaries, do you think?’

  ‘Charles Stewart Parnell,’ said Powerscourt, ‘God rest his soul, was the captain of the County Wicklow cricket team. But I don’t suppose he’d be classed as a revolutionary, do you think?’

  ‘Not quite, not quite.’ Fitzgerald started on his second tankard of beer. ‘Anyway, I don’t think any of these characters is our man. They work so bloody hard on those poles, drive them into the ground, make them straight, up you go to fix the wire on top, next one, please, hurry up there, – those foremen are slave drivers, I tell you – that they wouldn’t have the energy left to wander round the countryside in the middle of the night with a butcher’s knife in their pocket.’

  ‘That’s a clean bill of health for the Russians and the Irish, then.’ Powerscourt didn’t sound surprised. ‘You have done well, Johnny, you must have been working very hard. I am very grateful to you, as always.’

  ‘I have to tell you that I shall always be a welcome guest at the Institute of Science and Technology in St Petersburg.’ Johnny Fitzgerald was laughing now. ‘And at the humble home of the good Professor what’s his name. They promised to take me on a tour of the Russian vodka factories when I come to call. Anyone care to join me?’

  McKenzie shuddered at the thought.

  ‘William.’ Powerscourt turned to his Calvinist tea drinker. ‘Have you been able to find anything out in the dreadful snow?’

  ‘Yes and no, Lord Francis. Yes, in this sense. I have been all around the grounds of Sandringham House. The snow makes it very difficult to come to firm conclusions. I do not think anybody has been trying to get in or out, by unorthodox means, if you see what I mean. They could have always used the front door. That’s a bit of a yes. The no is that I cannot be sure, sir. I would like to have a day or two more to work on it. I have an appointment with some poachers later this evening. They may have more intelligence.’

  ‘I would like you to join me tomorrow morning at the big house, William. I will meet you at the main entrance by the Norwich Gates at, shall we say, ten o’clock? I have asked one of the military gentlemen to see if it is possible to climb over the roof at Sandringham and gain entrance to the death chamber on the other side. This man is an experienced mountaineer, they tell me, but I would welcome a second opinion.’

  ‘Ropes, naval ropes,’ said McKenzie, ‘they used to have things that could catch on to anything, other ships, fortifications, battlements, that sort of stuff. And they keep inventing more equipment on the Continent for those daft people who go climbing in the Alps.’

  10

  The Times, Wednesday, 13th January 1892

  The Illness of the Duke of Clarence and Avondale

  Expressions of sympathy with the Prince and Princess of Wales and hopes for the speedy recovery of their son continued to pour in to Sandringham yesterday from all parts of the country in the shape of letters and telegrams, while at the gates and lodges of Sandringham Park the number of personal calls from people residing in the neighbourhood was also very great indeed. The first bulletin, posted at the gates of Sandringham House, was as follows.

  Sandringham, Norfolk, Jan 12. 10.30 a.m.

  With regard to the illness of the Duke of Clarence and Avondale, the inflammation of the lungs is pursuing its course, and the strength is well maintained, but no improvement can yet be reported in His Royal Highness’ condition.

  W. H. Broadbent MD

  F. H. Laking MD

  Powerscourt always remembered questioning the five other equerries as an exercise in futility. He met with a brick wall of good manners, perfectly plastered with the soft easy charm of the upper classes. One by one, walking in the grounds, or in the drawing-room of Suter’s meetings, he talked to them as they came off their roll call of sentry duty on the upper floor.

  His questions were always the same. So were the answers.

  Had they seen anything unusual on the night of the murder?

  No, they had not. Harry Radclyffe, Charles Peveril, William Brockham, Lord Edward Gresham and the Hon. Frederick Mortimer were unanimous.

  Had they had noticed anything unusual in the room where Eddy died if they had seen it?

  ‘Only a great deal of blood,’ the Old Etonian chorus replied.

  Had they heard any strange noises in the night, either inside or outside the house?

  No, they had not. Except for Lord Edward Gresham who thought he had heard a horse riding away from the house towards the woods sometime in the night. No, he was afraid he could not be more specific about the time.

  Could they think of any reason why somebody might want to take Prince Eddy’s life?

  No, they could not. It was an outrage. It was a scandal. When the murderer was caught they would all be quite happy to wring his neck.

  Did they know of anything in Prince Eddy’s life which might have made him enemies?

  ‘Absolutely not,’ the equerry chorus replied. Eddy had been a jolly fine fellow. Not too quick on the uptake at times, but there was nothing wrong with that. Never too good at grasping the rules of the military, but nothing wrong with that either.

  Had any of them ever heard Eddy talk of somebody who wished him harm, who wanted to injure him in some way?

  No, they had not.

  ‘If you remember anything, anything at all, that you think might help unmask his killer, will you please get in touch with me at once. At once, wherever you may be.’

  All solemnly assured Powerscourt that of course they would do that. Absolutely. No question of it. Jolly important to find out the truth.

  And as he reviewed his interviews Powerscourt thought he had gained one tiny scrap of information, the horse in the night. That was all. For the rest he had been wasting his time. Whether they had all agreed on a common line beforehand he did not know. But they had certainly come across with one. And of one thing Powerscourt was virtually certain. One of them was lying. Ma
ybe, he thought in his darker moments, maybe all of them were lying.

  Powerscourt stopped counting when he reached fifty-two. He ran his eyes over the rest of the crowd assembled outside the Norwich Gates at five to ten on a cold January morning. Seventy, maybe eighty souls, he said to himself, have gathered here, the snow still falling lightly, dusting the elaborate filigree of the metalwork on top of the gates. For what? A glimpse of some royal personage on the far side of the great wrought-iron structure? A sight of Sir Bartle Shepstone, or one of his auxiliaries, pinning the latest bulletin about the health of Prince Eddy to the railings? Or were they really ghouls, hoping to be the first to see the announcement of a royal death?

  ‘Good morning, Lord Francis.’

  William McKenzie had appeared suddenly by his side. He had not, as far as Powerscourt could tell, come through the gates themselves.

  ‘Good morning William. Where on earth did you come from?’

  ‘Oh, I have my own ways in and out of here by now, Lord Francis. I always feel it’s best to remain inconspicuous.’

  ‘Indeed, indeed. Come, we must make our meeting with Major Dawnay and his climbing friend. I think he is called Bateman.’

  ‘Lord Fitzgerald asked me to bring you these.’ William McKenzie fished in one of his many and voluminous pockets, and produced Lord Johnny’s Prussian glasses. ‘He says you could read the maker’s name on the slates on the roof with them.’

  Three soldiers on horseback trotted slowly past them as they made their way up the drive, the horses’ breath hanging long and slow in the cold Norfolk air.

  ‘Lord Powerscourt! You, sir, must be William McKenzie. Good morning to you both!’ Major Dawnay had the cheerfulness and good temper of a man who has just escaped from the overheated interior of Sandringham House. ‘And this is Corporal Bateman, gentlemen. He tells me he passed a most interesting night!’

  Dawnay led the way round the path, scarcely visible in the snow, to a position some two hundred yards from the back of Sandringham House. Powerscourt raised his glasses and passed them over to Dawnay.

  ‘I should not think these came from this country,’ said Dawnay appreciatively, as if British manufactures were of inferior stock. ‘These are German, I fancy.’

  ‘Sir, sirs,’ Corporal Bateman seemed unsure as to whether he should address his superior officers in the singular or plural, ‘my brief was to see if it was possible to climb from one side of the house to the other in the snow. The particular windows to which I was referred’ – he’s beginning to sound like a policeman making his report, thought Powerscourt – ‘were those six just to the right of the flagpole, if you would like to cast your glasses there. Access to those windows being denied, I was then asked to see if I could effect the passage from a standing start, as it were, on the ground by those flowerbeds to the right.’

  How Bateman could tell there were flowerbeds there at all, Powerscourt never knew. The snow wrapped up every living thing.

  ‘Well, gentlemen, I have to tell you that I had some special equipment sent up here when I heard of this mission. But it is all equipment that can be readily purchased at reputable stores in London and the big cities, special ropes with these little grappling hooks at the end.’ He took a coiled piece of rope from his pocket.

  ‘It’s like a cross between a grappling hook and a rope ladder, is it not?’ McKenzie had come to the aid of his fellow mountaineer.

  ‘It is exactly that, Mr McKenzie. Exactly. You throw it up, it catches on a roof or a chimney, and up the rope ladder you go. I have to tell you, gentlemen,’ Bateman suddenly looked around him in case the wrong ears might be listening, ‘that it is a simple matter to cross from one side of the house to the other. I made my ascent upwards from the flowerbeds you have noted. In various places on the roof – you can’t see them with this snow’, Dawnay was fiddling with the range controls on the Prussian glasses – ‘there are little ladders. Quite new, they are. I imagine they were installed after the recent fire to enable people to escape.

  ‘Some five minutes after my departure’ – the man is sounding like a train timetable now, thought Powerscourt – ‘I was outside the window of the late Prince Eddy. I could have walked in and murdered him, gentlemen. If he had been there, that is.’

  Corporal Bateman paused. This was becoming one of the longest speeches of his life. And to two superior officers, one of them a lord.

  ‘It only took me another five minutes to return to the flowerbeds where I started. Half an hour after that, there was not a trace of my activities on either side the roof. I looked most carefully, then and in the morning. The snow covered everything like a blanket.’

  ‘Well done, Corporal! Well done, indeed.’ Major Edwin Dawnay was proud of his man.

  ‘Tell me,’ said Powerscourt, ‘did you find anything while you were up there? Anything unusual?’

  ‘Funny you should mention that, Your Lordship. I don’t know how long it had been there, or if it means anything to you gentlemen. But I found this.’ He paused to rummage in his pockets, which were, Powerscourt noted with interest, even more capacious than those of William McKenzie. He drew out a small piece of rope ladder with one of the grappling hooks at the top missing. It was only two inches long, but its purpose was very clear.

  Bateman and McKenzie disappeared into a private conversation of their own about makes of rope ladder, strength of line, chances of fracture.

  ‘Do you think the murderer left this up there, Powerscourt?’ Dawnay sounded alarmed, as if the murderer had suddenly taken shape and was liable to emerge at any moment from Sandringham Woods or peer down at them from the rooftops above.

  ‘It’s perfectly possible,’ said Powerscourt. ‘Then again, the fire brigade might have used those things when they were putting in the ladders.’

  My God, he plays it very close to his chest, thought Dawnay. Pound to a penny Powerscourt or one of his friends will be round to the local fire brigade within the next twenty-four hours asking about bits of rope ladder left on the roof.

  But Powerscourt hadn’t finished yet. Not by any means. He was coming to what was, for him, the most important question of all.

  ‘Tell me, Dawnay,’ he said nonchalantly, as though it were a mere trifle, ‘did anybody in the house hear anything? Anything at all?’

  ‘Of our friend Bateman’s activities, do you mean? That’s the curious thing, Powerscourt. Nobody heard a thing. Not even the dogs barked during the night.’

  ‘Nobody heard a thing?’ Powerscourt looked very thoughtful indeed. ‘How very interesting.’

  Powerscourt was sleeping heavily. There was the light touch of a hand on his shoulder. He turned. There was an urgent whisper in his ear.

  ‘Lord Francis. Lord Francis.’

  Powerscourt wondered if some strange new dream had come to haunt him, the hand on his shoulder shaking, shaking, shaking.

  ‘Lord Francis. Please wake up. Please wake up. Please.’

  With a groan, Powerscourt suddenly shot up in his bed. ‘William, what on earth are you doing here? What time is it, for God’s sake?’

  ‘I will tell you all outside,’ whispered William McKenzie. ‘You must get dressed at once and come with me. Don’t put your boots on till we get away from the house.’

  With his boots in his left hand, Powerscourt tiptoed out of his room, down a corridor he had never seen and down stairs he had never climbed. How had William McKenzie, his trusty tracker, found him in the dark? What was going on now? Where was he taking him?

  They passed out of a small door at the side of the house. Powerscourt put his boots on and followed McKenzie out into the night. Their feet crunched heavily on the snow. The sound was magnified as they passed between a clump of trees. Surely somebody in the house must have heard them, thought Powerscourt, looking back in alarm. They sounded like the Blues and Royals changing the guard.

  ‘William, please tell me what’s going on.’ Even a whisper sounded like a sergeant major on the parade ground.

  �
��There’s another body, my lord. I found it an hour ago when I was having a wee patrol round the grounds. I met one of Major Dawnay’s men doing the same thing. The Major is there now. It’s about a mile from here.’

  Admirably succinct, thought Powerscourt. Another body. God in heaven. When would it stop?

  The cold seemed to start at the ears. Then it made an orderly progression downwards, tip of nose, lips, hands, fingers, toes. Those were the first bits that fell off the Athenians in the great plague in Thucydides, Powerscourt suddenly remembered, wishing he could keep his memories in better order. A different sort of plague seemed to have struck the coast of Norfolk. Two bodies in four days were enough for a tennis match in hell or heaven.

  They were deep in the forest now. McKenzie moved so silently that at times Powerscourt thought he had lost him. Perhaps, he thought, this is the darkest hour before the dawn. And there really is a dawn chorus, he realised, as a ragged burst of birdsong broke through above the trees.

  ‘Nearly there.’ McKenzie was still whispering even though Sandringham House was over a mile behind.

  In a small clearing ahead, Major Dawnay had a torch of sorts that cast fantastic shadows on the trees.

  ‘Powerscourt, my dear Lord Powerscourt. Thank God you have come.’

  He turned his guttering candle to his left. The body of a man was lying on the ground. He was wearing the full dress uniform of the Coldstream Guards. He looked as though he had fallen over unexpectedly. The ground was covered with blood, and with bits of light grey and brown matter that Powerscourt presumed must have been his brains. The porridge-like material had also fallen all over his shoulder and made terrible stains on his epaulettes. Lord Henry Lancaster, the equerry who had found the body of Prince Eddy, had joined his master in death.