Goodnight Sweet Prince

by David Dickinson

  Lord Francis Powerscourt was lying in bed in St James’s Square, wondering where he should be married to Lady Lucy Hamilton. Could they have it in Rokesley, he wondered, in his own little church, the service conducted by his own vicar with the beautiful voice, with the local choir singing out of tune? Maybe Lady Lucy would want to be married in Scotland where her people came from. No doubt, he sighed, his sisters would have their own views.

  There was a great noise coming up the stairs. Someone was pounding up them very fast.

  ‘Francis! For God’s sake! It’s still in bed you are! Will you look at the time, man. Look at the time.’

  ‘Lord Johnny Fitzgerald, good morning. You’re in my bedroom at a quarter to eight in the morning. Has there been a revolution or something? Is the nation in danger?’

  ‘Get dressed, Francis. And then you can read this.’

  Fitzgerald was clutching a copy of The Times.

  ‘I can read the paper before I get out of bed, if I have to. I do believe I may have done it before. Which section of The Times do you wish to draw to my attention? Births, Marriages and Deaths? The financial pages? The football scores?’

  ‘I don’t understand how people can be flippant before they have even got out of bed, Francis, I really don’t. Look, it’s here. Page four, small piece down near the bottom.’

  Unrest in Ireland. Train Derailed near Crewe. No, not those. Presidential Election News from Washington. No. This must be it.

  Mysterious Death in Perugia

  From our correspondent

  The body of a man was found early this morning in one of Italy’s most distinguished pieces of sculpture. His throat had been cut from ear to ear. The major arteries in the rest of his person had also been cut. There were marks on the hands and feet, said to be similar to those of Christ crucified.

  The corpse was discovered in the Fontana Maggiore in the centre of Perugia. The Fontana was designed by Nicola and Giovanni Pisano in 1275 to be the symbol of medieval Perugia. Artistic experts believe it to be one of the finest examples of thirteenth-century sculpture in Europe.

  ‘Is there any breakfast in this house, Francis? Any hope of breakfast? Why don’t I go downstairs and get something to eat. You can catch me up, if you can manage to get yourself out of bed.’

  The body was discovered by a group of nuns on their way to an early morning service in the Cathedral. They described the fountain as running with blood. They also reported that the water was still red when they left the Cathedral, even though the body had been removed.

  Powerscourt could see Lord Edward Gresham, his eyes staring into mirrors with messages, running up and down the alleys of Venice, describing the great love affair of his life. My Louisa. So beautiful. Had he gone to join her like this, his throat cut by some unknown assassin, comforted by nuns at the last? He read on:

  Superstitious elements believe that the blood was a sign from the Almighty. Groups of the faithful have gathered to pray beside the fountain.

  The Italian authorities have not been able to identify the body. They believe that the dead man, described as being in his late twenties or early thirties, was not of Italian extraction.

  Powerscourt read it again. He felt very cold. Then he read it a third time, fixing the report in his memory. He went downstairs.

  ‘Powerscourt, good morning to you. Wife believes you’ve got engaged to that nice Lady Lucy.’ Lord Pembridge greeted him through a mouthful of buttered toast.

  ‘What’s that?’ said Powerscourt, pacing round and round the fountain by the side of Perugia’s cathedral.

  ‘Engaged. You. To Lady Lucy. That’s what the wife says.’ Lord Pembridge launched into a plate of kippers.

  ‘Oh, yes. That’s quite right. I have.’ Powerscourt admitted it before he knew what he was saying. He was still in Perugia, thinking of train timetables and another long journey across Europe. He found himself submerged by congratulations. Fitzgerald embraced him. Pembridge shook his hand. His sister materialised and kissed him warmly on both cheeks.

  ‘You old devil!’ said Fitzgerald.

  ‘Congratulations. I hope you’ll be very happy,’ said Pembridge.

  ‘Better late than never,’ said his sister.

  It’s like receiving a whole batch of simultaneous telegrams, thought Powerscourt. He wondered how he could stop the flow.

  ‘Please! Please!’ He banged a fork very loudly on the table. A piece of toast fell out of its rack and rolled to the floor. Reproving crumbs lay at Powerscourt’s feet. ‘Please! I know it’s very important, getting engaged and all that sort of thing. But Johnny has just brought me some terrible news.

  ‘You see, I thought my last investigation was over. But now I don’t think it is. I think there is another chapter waiting for me, as terrible as the first. I’ve got to go back to Italy, I think. I’ve got to go back today.’

  Suddenly he looked forlorn like a child whose toys had been taken away.

  ‘I need to confer with my best man here.’ He managed a sad smile at Fitzgerald. His sister noticed that his eyes were far away, as if he had already left them. Pembridge had always thought his brother-in-law a bit eccentric, a good man of course, but a bit odd every now and again. Now was definitely one of those now and agains. He went back to his kippers.

  ‘Do I get to make a speech, Francis? Do I get to tell lots of stories about you? Do I get to kiss the bride?’

  ‘You do, Johnny, you do. But we must make a plan first. Why don’t we go into the drawing-room and pay homage to Rosalind’s curtains? It’ll be quieter in there.’

  Powerscourt looked out at the early morning bustle of St James’s Square. It was a cold grey day. The delivery boys had thick mufflers round their necks.

  Lord Johnny had brought a plateful of toast with him. ‘Do you think that’s him, Francis? The body in the fountain? Is it Lord Edward Gresham?’ He crossed himself as he spoke.

  Powerscourt thought for a long time before he replied. ‘I think it might be. I think it probably is. But that’s only a hunch. Consider, though, consider what we know. We know that Gresham was going to Perugia on his way to Rome. So he could have been there. Now you have to ask yourself who might want to kill him in such strange circumstances. Even in Italy, famed for its murders and assassinations, they don’t go round cutting strangers’ throats and leaving them to bleed to death in some bloody fountain.’

  ‘It’s no ordinary fountain, Francis. I looked it up in a book before I came here. It’s one of the most famous fountains in Italy, like it says in the paper.’

  ‘Forget the fountain for now. If we don’t think it was an Italian who killed the man in Perugia, then who was it? Supposing that Gresham is the corpse. Consider who knows he was the murderer. Gresham, I mean. The murderer of Prince Eddy. You, me, Rosebery. Nobody else knows. Nobody at all.’

  He looked out into the square again. It was raining now, great puddles forming on the tops of the coal carts. ‘Nobody at all. Except, that is, except Suter and Shepstone.’

  He spoke the names very quietly. He fiddled with the edges of the curtains. He looked at Fitzgerald, crunching his way through the last of his toast.

  ‘You don’t think those two gentlemen have been taking a quick holiday to Umbria, Francis, do you?’

  ‘No, I don’t. But they know people who might. They could have sent people. Last Tuesday I told Suter and Shepstone the identity of the murderer. This is Friday, ten days on. They were looking at a map of Italy back there in Marlborough House when I went back for my book. They weren’t expecting to see me.’

  ‘Christ, Francis, Christ Almighty. You know what we’re saying, don’t you?’

  ‘I do, Johnny. I do. I’ve been thinking it ever since I read that story in The Times.’ Powerscourt thought of the efficient Major Dawnay, of Shepstone’s special detachments, of the very effective means employed to disguise the death of Lancaster. Certainly they could have done it. But did they?

  ‘Johnny, until we know whether it is Gresham or not,
we’re wasting our breath. I must go to Perugia and see if I can identify the body. I must make one or two calls here before I go.’

  ‘Francis, don’t you think I should go to Perugia? I know what Gresham looks like. I haven’t just become engaged to be married. You don’t have to do everything yourself. And they say that some of the local wine round there is worth a tasting.’

  ‘That’s very noble of you, Johnny, very noble. But I feel I owe it to Gresham after our conversations in Venice. I wouldn’t be happy with anybody else going. Even you.’

  ‘You don’t think I should come with you? Maybe this whole thing is getting dangerous now. We don’t want you ending up head down in some Italian fountain. I wouldn’t get to make my speech at the wedding then. I’ve been thinking of one or two good stories already.’

  Powerscourt laughed. ‘I’m sure I’ll be all right on my own. But I would like to know that you’re in London. I could send you a cable through William’s office if I have to.’

  ‘That’s fine, Francis, if you’re sure. Now then, I wonder if there’s any of that breakfast left. Those kippers looked rather good to me.’

  Powerscourt wrote to William Leith, Rosebery’s butler and train expert, asking him for an immediate route to Perugia, leaving today, probably in the early afternoon.

  He wrote to the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, requesting an immediate interview, later that morning if possible. He apologized for being so importunate. It was vital he see the Commissioner today.

  Two cabs carried his notes away. A third took him to Mark-ham Square. He hoped that Lady Lucy would be at home.

  Her elderly maid answered the door. Yes, Madam was at home. Perhaps Lord Powerscourt would like to wait in the drawing-room. Madam would be down presently.

  ‘Francis. Francis.’

  Her fiancé was pacing up and down the room.

  ‘You look terrible. You haven’t changed your mind, have you?’

  ‘Of course I haven’t, Lady Lucy. Of course I haven’t.’ He held her very tight. ‘It’s just that I have to go away again. Now. Today, I think. I know it’s awful when we’ve just got engaged and everything, but I don’t have any choice.’

  ‘I thought you said your last case had finished.’ She wasn’t angry. She just wanted to know.

  ‘I thought it had. I was sure it had. But it hasn’t. That’s why I have to go back to Italy.’

  ‘Francis, poor Francis. But why do you look so worried, so sad?’

  ‘I am worried, Lady Lucy. I am sad. I think there is another dead person waiting for me in Perugia. I left him in Venice about a week ago. Now I think he’s dead. There have been too many dead bodies in this business already. And I was thinking about the wedding only this morning.’

  ‘So was I. How nice that we were both thinking about it together. Have you made any decisions?’

  ‘Well, I think we both have to decide where it should be after I get back. But I have found my best man. He’s very excited about kissing the bride.’

  ‘That must be Johnny Fitzgerald,’ said Lady Lucy. ‘I shan’t mind being kissed by him. Not that it won’t be much nicer being kissed by you, Francis.’

  ‘I can’t stop,’ said Powerscourt rather desperately. ‘I have to catch a train.’

  ‘Poor Francis.’ She held him by the lapels on his jacket and kissed him on the lips. ‘I shall be here when you get back. But you will take care, won’t you? You will keep yourself safe, won’t you? Sometimes I think your work must be very dangerous.’

  Powerscourt remembered as he left that Lady Lucy was used to seeing her men go off to war. The first husband must have gone away a lot. But then one day, he never came back. He was dead.

  Leith’s message was as brief as ever. He read it on his way to the Commissioner’s office.

  ‘3 o’clock from Victoria, my lord. Dover Calais. Express connection to Paris. Suggest station hotel above Gare de Lyons for the night. 7 a.m. express to Milan. Arrive Milan 4 p.m. 4.30 connection to Florence. Arrive Florence 9.30 p.m. Reservation at Hotel Rivoli, close to station. Former Franciscan convent, my lord. Train to Perugia, 8 a.m. Arrives 12.15, my lord. Mountainous terrain. Reservation at Hotel Posta, Corso Vannucci.’

  ‘Lord Powerscourt. My dear Lord Powerscourt.’ The Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police was looking old and tired and rather frail. Maybe it’s been a bad week for crime in London too, reflected Powerscourt. The four large maps on his wall were still there, great blobs of criminal red marking out the East End.

  ‘Sir John, I shall be brief. And let me say before I begin how much I value the assistance you have already provided. It has made my life much easier.’

  ‘I wish we could have been more helpful.’ Sir John shrugged. ‘All our information was in the negative. As far as we know, there are no blackmailers operating in Society at present. Then there were five people checked for their whereabouts on a certain night in January this year.’ He looked closely at Powerscourt as though he suspected the true reason for the requests. ‘All of them have been lawfully accounted for. How can we help on this occasion?’

  ‘Two things, Sir John. Forgive me if the first sounds fanciful. How easy is it to hire a professional killer in this country? How long would it take? And would they, the professional killers, be willing to commit murder outside this country? And, following on from that, how easy would it be to hire a killer abroad? In Italy, in particular. And finally, do you by any chance have a contact in the police force in the Italian city of Perugia? Somebody you could recommend me to in pursuit of my inquiries.’

  ‘The last part is the easiest.’ The Commissioner rose from his desk and selected a thick file from his shelves. ‘You’d be surprised how often we have contact with other police forces. Runaway children, stolen jewels, thieves believed to have fled their country of origin. We keep records of all the policemen we have to deal with. And I am sure they keep records of our own officers.

  ‘Padua, Palermo, Parma, Pavia, Perugia. Here we are. Perugia. The man you want is called Ferrante, Captain Domenico Ferrante. He speaks very good English. I shall cable him that you are coming and that we request him to assist you in your inquiries.

  ‘You ask about hiring killers like you would hire a cab. It is very easy, far too easy. But I don’t think British assassins would happily operate outside these shores. Maybe Captain Ferrante could help you with the Italian end of your business. And I presume you would like us to listen at the doorways and find out if any of these killers have been approached in the last few weeks? Weeks or months, would you say?’

  ‘Weeks,’ said Powerscourt firmly. ‘Definitely weeks. In the last ten days to be precise.’

  26

  Mountainous terrain, my lord. Leith’s phrase came back to Powerscourt as his express toiled its way through the tunnels towards Perugia. Down there on his right he saw a great expanse of water, Lake Trasimene with its three islands and the olive slopes above. Hannibal, over a thousand miles from home, his elephants trampling across the Apennines, had waited there for the Roman army in the mist and fog of an early morning. Fifteen thousand Roman soldiers were slaughtered between the hills and the lake, the carnage going on for hours. The little river flowing into Lake Trasimene was named the Sanguinetto in memory of the blood it carried two thousand years before.

  A very young Italian policeman greeted Powerscourt at Perugia station. He drew himself up to his full height and gave his best salute. His jacket was at least two sizes too big for him, only the tips of his fingers visible at the bottom of the sleeves. The trousers, freshly pressed, drooped over his shoes. His mother thinks he’s not finished growing yet, Powerscourt suspected. No point in wasting good money on a uniform that’ll only last a year. Even a policeman’s uniform.

  ‘Lord Powerscourt? Welcome to Perugia, sir. I am to send your bags to the hotel. I take you to Capitano Ferrante, sir.’

  The Capitano was in a little cafe, drinking coffee and staring moodily at a long report on his table. More coffee, strong and
black, arrived as Powerscourt sat down.

  ‘Lord Powerscourt, how very nice to meet you. I have the long message from the Commissioner about your visit. How is the Commissioner?’

  ‘He is well. He looked tired the last time I saw him in London.’

  ‘Everywhere the policemen are tired, I think. There is too much crime, there are too many of the criminals. Not enough time to catch them all.’

  Captain Ferrante was a well-built man in his early forties. His hair was greying at the temples. He looked cheerful, in spite of the prevalence of crime.

  ‘This Commissioner and I, we work together, three or four years ago. The English milord, a very stupid young man, he steal a painting from one of the churches in the city. Maybe he think he hang it on the walls of his palazzo back in England. I have to go and bring the painting back to Perugia. The Commissioner, he is very helpful. He is fond of paintings, I think, the Commissioner. Yes?’

  ‘He is. He is.’ Powerscourt remembered the reports of gruesome watercolours of the Thames, painted in his spare time.

  ‘We bring back the painting. The Commissioner says that if it was painted to hang on the walls of San Pietro in Perugia, that is where it belongs, that is where it must live. But come, Lord Powerscourt. I believe you think you may be able to identify the body in the fountain? Bodies without names, they are so difficult. Our procedures for the dead people, they are very proper, very respectful, but they all assume that we know who they are.

  ‘We have our coffee here, because the body is in that building over there.’ Ferrante pointed to a large imposing building across the street. ‘That is the hospital. The morgue is at the far corner of the hospital. That is where the body is. The nuns, you know, the nuns who found him by the fountain, they insisted on washing the body, cleaning it up, all that sort of thing. The Mother Superior, she insists.’