Goodnight Sweet Prince

by David Dickinson

  He set out his own pursuit of Gresham across the streets and canals of Venice, the confession in that red room with the three mirrors, looking out over the waters of the Basin of St Mark’s, his own disclosure of the true nature of Prince Eddy’s death to Suter and Shepstone in Marlborough House. He set out the facts concerning the murder of Gresham in Perugia, the knife made in Sheffield, the corpse dumped in a fountain. He set out the facts concerning the attempted murder of Johnny Fitzgerald. Or himself.

  He made two copies. A panting William McKenzie came to see him.

  ‘I ran most of the way from the station at Oundle,’ the tracker from Scotland explained. ‘I thought things must be pretty serious from what you said in your message.’

  Powerscourt had put Most Urgent three times at the end of the cable.

  ‘Somebody tried to kill Johnny Fitzgerald three days ago. He was walking over towards Rockingham. He’s going to get better. He’s in my bed upstairs. He was wearing my cape at the time. He thinks they were trying to kill me.’

  McKenzie peered closely out of the window as if a gunman might be lurking in the long grass or hiding in the trees.

  ‘I see, my lord. I see. I presume you would like me to keep an eye on things for you. I shall begin straight away. I would be advising Your Lordship not to leave the house just now. Not until I have taken a look around, you understand.’

  McKenzie disappeared out of the window and vanished round the side of the house.

  Another visitor arrived in style in a cab at the front door. William Burke had left his counting house and his investments to pay a call at Rokesley Hall.

  ‘William! How very kind of you to come all this way.’

  ‘I felt I had no choice,’ said the financier. ‘Your life is in danger. God knows what may happen next. How can I help?’

  Burke took off his coat and gloves and sat down beside the fire. His wife’s portrait, painted by Whistler many years before, looked down on him from the walls. She was flanked by her two sisters, looking rather younger than when he had left them.

  ‘You’ve got them all here,’ he said, nodding to the pictures in their heavy gold frames, ‘all three of them.’

  ‘I can keep an eye on them here,’ said Powerscourt cheerfully. ‘It’s the only place in England where I can be sure my sisters will do what I tell them.’

  ‘Must have its advantages, that. Maybe I’d better get another one done of Mary and hang it in my study at home. I could keep an eye on her there.’

  ‘Now then, William. I think you’d better read this. I wrote it this morning.’

  Powerscourt stood by the window and looked over at his church. William Burke, spectacles fastened on his face, read through his memorandum. The organist was practising. Strains of Bach or Byrd carried across the headstones.

  ‘My God, Francis. This is terrible. Terrible. What do you want me to do?’

  ‘I want you to come with me to Marlborough House to see Suter and Shepstone. I need a witness. Rosebery is abroad and the Prime Minister is unwell.’

  ‘What are you going to tell them? Suter is the Private Secretary to the Prince of Wales, isn’t he? What’s Shepstone’s official title?’

  ‘Treasurer and Comptroller of the Household, William. Whatever that means.’

  Powerscourt turned back from his window. A posse of rooks were flying in formation from the tall trees by the bell tower to scavenge in the fields beyond.

  ‘The thing to remember is that they do their master’s bidding. They do what the Prince of Wales tells them. I do not believe they would have killed Lord Gresham, or tried to kill me, if they did not think they were carrying out his wishes. I have to convince the Prince of Wales, through these two officials of his, that it is time to stop.’

  ‘How are you going to do that, Francis?’

  Powerscourt told him. A slow smile spread across Burke’s face.

  ‘Would he do that? Rosebery, I mean?’

  ‘I’m sure he would. Absolutely sure. The whole thing started with blackmail. It’s going to end with a different sort of blackmail.’

  ‘Pressure, Francis, pressure. That’s what we say in the City about these kind of transactions. Pressure is a much nicer word than blackmail. Come to think of it, I can bring a little bit of pressure of my own to the meeting. And the Prince of Wales won’t like it at all. There are all sorts of pressures in this wicked world, Francis. But money pressure is one of the most powerful of them all.’

  Burke looked at his watch. He had left the cab waiting at the front door.

  ‘I must return to London, Francis. Do you have a date for this meeting?’

  ‘I have said that we propose to call at eleven o’clock in two days’ time. On Thursday. I shall see you on the steps outside.’

  ‘Goodbye, Francis. Take great care of yourself.’ His cab was turning to ride up the hill to Oundle. A small figure, it might have been McKenzie, was standing behind a clump of trees two hundred yards from Rokesley Hall, staring out at the bare landscape. He had a gun in his hand.

  ‘Your sister sends you a message from London, Francis. Stay indoors, she says. At all times. Very dangerous place, Northamptonshire.’

  ‘And where have you been?’ Lord Johnny Fitzgerald was propped up on a mountain of pillows in Powerscourt’s bed. The doctor had called. The dressings had been changed. Powerscourt thought he looked a little better. ‘Really, Francis, I don’t think you’re the man I’d ask to come to see me on my deathbed. You’d never get here in time.’

  ‘I would if I thought I’d hear your deathbed repentance. That would be quite something.’

  ‘I’ve got nothing to be ashamed of,’ said Fitzgerald, heaving himself up on his bolster, ‘well, not very much. The point is, Francis, as I’m sure they told you, it’s you who should be lying here in bed, not me. I’m sure they thought I was you, if you see what I mean.’

  ‘Greater love hath no man than this, that he lay down his life for his friend,’ said Powerscourt happily. ‘Seriously though, I am most grateful to you, Johnny. But come, the doctors say I must not talk to you for long. How soon will you be able to walk again, do you think?’

  ‘Here I am. Look at me. Nearly dead, for God’s sake. And all you can ask is when I can walk again. Do you want to get rid of me, Francis?’

  ‘No, I do not. Certainly not. But I was thinking of something I want you to do for me. And you would have to be able to walk.’

  ‘They say I will be up and about in four or five days’ time, definitely in a week. Where do I have to walk to, for God’s sake?’

  ‘I can’t tell you yet. I’ll tell you in a couple of days’ time when you’re stronger. I brought you this, by the way. It might help the recovery.’ Powerscourt drew out a small hip flask from his pocket and laid it on the bed.

  ‘Is there anything in it? You wouldn’t be bringing me one of those things just to torment me, would you? It’s not full of bloody water or anything like that?’

  ‘Medicinal brandy, Johnny. Purely medicinal. The doctor thought this little flask should last you three or four days.’

  ‘Three or four days? Will you look at the size of it? Three or four hours more likely. But I tell you this, Francis. You keep up regular refills of our little friend here, and I’ll be walking about in three days’ time. Just three.’

  Suter and Shepstone were at their usual positions in the office at Marlborough House. William McKenzie had brought Powerscourt to the meeting by a devious and roundabout route, travelling south by a different line, changing trains as they went. They had left McKenzie in the doorway of Berry Bros and Rudd, an occasional glance at the bottles in the window, a more regular scanning of Pall Mall. A policeman seemed to have joined him on his watch, pacing regularly up and down between the entrance to St James’s Palace and Marlborough House.

  ‘Lord Powerscourt. Mr Burke. Good morning to you both. You requested this meeting, I believe, Lord Powerscourt. Do you have something further to report? Some further intelligence you wish to imp
art?’

  ‘I do.’ Powerscourt told them about his trip to Perugia, the mutilated body of Gresham in his fountain, the attempt on the life of Lord Fitzgerald. ‘There is only one explanation that is consistent with the facts, Sir William. Only one.’

  ‘And what is that, pray?’ Shepstone was shifting nervously in his chair.

  ‘Only four people knew that Lord Gresham was the murderer of Prince Eddy. Me, Lord Rosebery, Lord Fitzgerald, the Prime Minister. And the household of the Prince of Wales.’

  Powerscourt paused. It was very quiet in the room. Burke was shuffling a pile of papers in front of him. Shepstone was stroking his beard.

  ‘None of the four went to Perugia to kill him. That leaves the Household of the Prince of Wales. Or people carrying out their orders. Orders to kill him, to kill him in exactly the same way as Prince Eddy, the same strokes of the knife, in the same places. Gresham could not be brought to trial in England of course. Once the Household decided on a cover-up, there had been no murder, there could be no inquiry, there could be no arrests, there could be no court case. There could be no judge putting on his black cap and ordering Gresham to be taken from this court to a place of execution where he would be hanged by the neck until he was dead. I believe the rope is kinder to the neck than the knife, gentlemen. Much kinder. But the Household could decide to take matters into their own hands. They could be their own judge and their own jury. Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord. I will repay.’

  Shepstone and Suter started. They stared intently at Powerscourt. Could the man hear conversations when he wasn’t even in the room? For he had, inadvertently, used exactly the same words as the Prince of Wales at Sandringham, discussing what to do once they knew the identity of Prince Eddy’s killer. Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord. I will repay.

  ‘Vengeance is mine,’ Powerscourt went on, ‘and it might embrace more than the murder of Lord Gresham. Vengeance could mean the elimination of all those who know the uncomfortable truth, uncomfortable for the Household of the Prince of Wales, that is. Vengeance could mean the elimination of those who know the full facts about the affair, the syphilis, the blackmail, the murders, the cover-up of the death of the heir presumptive. It might be much better if all those people were out of the way, all of them. Then nobody would ever know what happened in Sandringham. Or in Perugia. Or on board the HMS Britannia all those years before.’

  Powerscourt thought of Captain Williams struggling along the beach at Amble, his career broken, his health ruined. It wasn’t my fault, I tell you. It wasn’t my fault. Was this a different form of vengeance, vengeance for all those ruined lives?

  ‘An attempt was made the other day to kill Lord Fitzgerald. Maybe the killers mistook him for me. I cannot be sure. But I can tell you one thing for certain. If any further attempts are made on the life of Lord Fitzgerald or myself, or anybody else connected with this inquiry, the consequences will be severe. I suggest that you read this memorandum I have prepared. When you have both read it, you will return it to me, as you asked Lord Rosebery and me to do with an earlier memorandum of your own, Sir William.’

  Powerscourt looked at the portrait of Alexandra above the fireplace. William Burke was writing more figures in his notebook.

  ‘Interesting,’ said Shepstone, and passed the document to Suter.

  ‘Most interesting,’ said the Private Secretary, handing the memorandum back to Powerscourt. ‘And what is the point of this piece of paper, may I ask?’

  ‘You may. You may indeed. If, as I said, anything should happen to Lord Fitzgerald, or myself, or anybody associated with us in this business, one copy of this memorandum will go to Queen Victoria. She has forgiven her son many things in the past. I doubt if she would forgive him this, murdering his own subjects. The second point is this. Lord Rosebery would call for, and be granted, an emergency debate in the House of Lords on the current state of the monarchy. As an opening statement, he would read this memorandum into the record.’

  Powerscourt could imagine the sensation. Word would leak out, it always did, that some startling announcements were to be made in the Upper House. Peers, old and young, regular attenders and country backwoodsmen, peers curious, peers gossipy, peers sent by their wives to hear the news, peers in the Government, peers on the backbenches, peers would pack the House. The great red benches would be in uproar by the time Rosebery sat down. There would be special editions of the papers. Suter and Shepstone had agreed to cover up the first murder for fear of scandal. Now they would get scandal on an unimaginable scale, a whirlwind, a typhoon of scandal from which the Prince of Wales might never recover.

  Suter and Shepstone sat impassive in their chairs. Neither spoke. It was as if they were frozen, like Lot’s wife, two courtiers turned into pillars of salt in Pall Mall.

  ‘And that is not all.’ Powerscourt continued in his role of the exterminating angel. ‘Mr Burke.’

  ‘I concur wholeheartedly with everything that my brother-in-law has said. His family are very anxious that he should remain alive. In one of my official positions, gentlemen’ – Burke sounded as if he held hundreds of such positions. He probably does, thought Powerscourt, – ‘I am a senior director of Messrs Finch’s & Co., bankers to the Prince of Wales.’

  For the first time in the meeting Sir Bartle Shepstone, Treasurer and Comptroller of that Household, looked pale. He stroked his beard anxiously. What was coming next?

  ‘As of this morning,’ Burke consulted an official document in his papers, ‘the Prince of Wales owes Finch’s & Co. the princely sum of £234,578 14s. 9d. That is without the computation of today’s interest. Finch’s would demand the immediate return of all monies owed. By the end of the month at the latest. Furthermore, they would request that the account be closed. And any attempts to obtain similar facilities with other banks would not be welcomed in the City of London. Our community of bankers is a small one, gentlemen. Word gets round. In the City, word gets round very fast indeed.

  ‘But come, gentlemen.’ Burke had applied his pressure. ‘None of these things need happen. Lord Rosebery may never make his speech in the House of Lords. Finch’s & Co. may never make such a request. You have the answer in your own hands. All you have to do is to issue the necessary instructions. All you have to do is to ensure that nothing further happens to Lord Powerscourt or any of his associates. It is quite simple.’

  With that, Burke gathered his papers and strode from the room as if he had just left a rather disagreeable board meeting.

  ‘We can see ourselves out, thank you,’ had been Powerscourt’s final words to the two courtiers. ‘I’ve been here before. I don’t expect to be coming back.’

  Bells were ringing from the tower of Rokesley church. Happy bells. Joyous bells.

  They could be heard in Oundle. They could be heard as far away as Fotheringhay where the noise shrank till the peals sounded like glasses tinkling on a tray.

  Cheerful bells. Wedding bells. Bells for the wedding of Lord Francis Powerscourt and Lady Lucy Hamilton at two o’clock on a Saturday afternoon with the reception in Rokesley Hall.

  Ten days had passed since the meeting in Marlborough House. Powerscourt had gone directly to Lady Lucy’s house, McKenzie patrolling stealthily around the sedate purlieus of Markham Square.

  ‘Francis! How nice to see you! How is Lord Johnny? Is he better?’

  ‘He is fine. He is taking a little light refreshment now. Brandy to you and me. But I have serious things to speak of, Lady Lucy.’

  ‘Serious things, Francis? What serious things?’

  ‘I have to go away again, I’m afraid. The way things have turned out in this dreadful affair, I think it would be better if I were out of the country for a while until things settle down. People need a period of calm, I think.’

  ‘Well, I shan’t feel very calm if you’re not here. I shan’t feel calm at all. How long were you thinking of going away for?’

  ‘I don’t know. Six weeks? Two months? Something like that. Unless, unless . . .’ Power
scourt left his unless hanging in the air. He was trying very hard to keep a straight face.

  ‘Unless what, Francis? Tell me, my engaged one.’

  ‘Well, I just thought . . .’

  ‘Out with it, you old plotter. You’re plotting something behind that sad face, I can tell. Out with it.’

  ‘The thing is . . .’

  Powerscourt, so upright and courageous in Marlborough House that morning, was feeling less brave in Chelsea that afternoon, particularly with those bright blue eyes boring into him. Perhaps he needed some of Fitzgerald’s medicinal brandy.

  ‘Well, if something happened, then it might all be different . . .’

  ‘You’re speaking in riddles now like a conjuring person. Robert saw one the other day at a fair. Rabbits out of hats, that sort of thing. Do you have a rabbit, Francis?’

  Then she knew. She could never tell how she knew, but she did. ‘Let me try a rabbit for you, Francis. I think what you were going to say might have gone something like this. Might have gone.’

  She paused. She wasn’t going to let him off lightly, not after all this delaying. ‘Suppose we were married. Just suppose. It’s only an idea, you understand. But suppose we were married in a church with bells and rings and vicars, all that sort of thing. Then we could go away together on our honeymoon. And you wouldn’t have to leave me behind. You wouldn’t have to leave me behind ever again. How about that?’ Lady Lucy sat back in her chair and smiled a wicked smile.

  Powerscourt laughed. ‘You’re right. That was what I was thinking of, exactly that. But then I thought it would be a bit sudden, getting married in ten days’ time. There are arrangements and things.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Lady Lucy Hamilton, keen to be turned into Lady Lucy Powerscourt. ‘I’d marry you tomorrow, Francis, if you wanted. So ten days’ time is no problem at all.’

  The Rokesley church clock said five to two. Powerscourt stood nervously at the altar, a pale Fitzgerald at his side. The pews behind them were filled with Hamiltons and Powerscourts, summoned at short notice. Powerscourt’s three sisters and their husbands were all there, the little boys dressed in sailor suits. Powerscourt’s only niece was bridesmaid to Lady Lucy. His sisters’ children, William, Patrick and Alexander, had met Robert on the battlefield of Waterloo in the top of the Pembridge house in St James’s Square a few days before.