Death at Dawn

by Caro Peacock

‘Your father turned to me, pulling a long face. “Daniel,” he said, “you are in very serious trouble. In fact, you will be lucky to escape with your head. Have you any notion of the identity of our spluttering young friend whom you so grossly insulted?” Well, by then we were near the bottom of the punch bowl and we all began imitating the young ass’s bray, “Do you know who you’re speaking to, sir?” Your father sat watching us, grinning over his pipe, until we became tired of it and silence fell. “Well, Daniel,” he said, “my Parisian friends here tell me it is an open secret. He goes by the nom de guerre of Mr Brighton, but his identity is well known to every pawn shop and gambling hell in this fair city. Young Mr Brighton is none other than …” Then he couldn’t go on for laughing. I played the farce out, pretending to tremble, knees knocking. “Don’t keep me in suspense, old friend,” I said. “Who is this gentleman to whom my humble head is forfeit?” And your father, just managing to get the words out between gusts of laughter, replied: “Only the rightful heir to the throne of England, that’s all.”’

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  ‘You’d guessed, hadn’t you?’ Daniel said. ‘Only I’ve no notion how you did.’ His voice was sad at all that laughter gone sour.

  ‘Sir Herbert’s desperate to marry him into the family,’ I said. ‘His daughter’s too young, so his stepdaughter has to do, poor thing. She came very near to telling me. Then there was the portrait. As soon as I saw Brighton, he reminded me of somebody. But why should it be poor Princess Charlotte?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about that. Do you remember when the princess died?’

  ‘Of course not. I was only two years old.’

  He sighed. ‘I’d forgotten how young you are, or perhaps how old I am. I do remember. I was in my last year at school.’ Another sigh.

  ‘You were sorry?’

  ‘I had no more strong feelings about the deaths of princesses than I have now. But she’d been popular and people mourned her. Then later there were some ugly rumours going round, so ugly that I’m sorry to have to repeat them. You’re cold?’

  I must have shivered.

  ‘The child Henrietta said she was poisoned.’

  He took his jacket off and draped it round my shoulders, in spite of my protests. It smelled comfortingly of violin resin and candlewax.

  ‘Yes, that was part of it. Charlotte was a healthy young woman, you see, with the very best of medical attention. She and the baby should not have died.’

  ‘But women do die in childbirth, even healthy ones,’ I said.

  ‘So they do. But some years later rumours started that she and her baby had both been poisoned just after the birth.’

  ‘Why would anybody do such a terrible thing?’

  ‘She was Queen Caroline’s daughter. In some people’s opinion, Caroline was well nigh a lunatic, certainly an adulteress. Certain distinguished persons at court were said to be determined that neither her daughter nor her grandson should ever come to the throne.’

  ‘But to kill a baby! It’s like something from the Middle Ages.’

  ‘Royalty is something from the Middle Ages.’

  ‘Did many people believe it?’

  ‘It was a persistent rumour, helped by another unfortunate fact.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A few months after Charlotte and her baby son died, the gentleman who’d had charge of the birth, her accoucheur, shot himself.’

  ‘In remorse for killing her?’

  ‘No, there was no suggestion of that, even in the rumours. But he was an honourable man and, so it’s said, blamed himself for not foreseeing the plot and preventing their deaths.’

  ‘Daniel, do you believe this?’

  ‘No. I believe their deaths were sheer misfortune. But it seems some people, including Sir Herbert Mandeville, are determined to revive the rumour – with one essential difference.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Child, you’ve come so far. Can you not see it for yourself?’

  I didn’t want to think. I’d thought enough and every time it seemed to have made things worse. We sat for a long while in silence. The day’s warmth had faded from the brick wall behind us and Daniel must have been cold in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat, but he gave no sign of it.

  ‘Well, Liberty?’

  ‘The baby didn’t die after all. Charlotte died, but her baby didn’t.’

  ‘And was spirited away by Charlotte’s friends and brought up safely on the Continent, until the time came to claim what was rightfully his. Yes?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘I agree with you. It’s a fairy tale, a horrible, warped fairy tale. And yet it’s what Sir Herbert and Trumper and all the other greedy fools think they can get the country to believe. I’m sorry, Liberty. I’m ranting. But their idiocy has killed your father and could do so much other damage.’

  He was trembling now, from anger not cold.

  ‘But why are they doing it?’ I said.

  ‘Why do men do most things? Money and power. Sir Herbert and his like have been running the country since the Conqueror. Now they’re beginning to see some of their power stripped away, and it maddens them. When they knew the poor buffoon William was dying and there’d be a mere child on the throne – a girl child at that – they decided to take their chance. Put in another king, one beholden to them, and no more nonsense about reform.’

  ‘But even if he were Princess Charlotte’s son, why should they suppose people would support him rather than little Vicky? He is hardly Bonnie Prince Charlie, is he?’

  Daniel laughed bitterly.

  ‘So-called Bonnie Prince Charlie was a fat, red-faced, drink-sodden wreck, yet men died for him fewer than a hundred years ago.’

  ‘And my father died because of Mr Brighton?’

  ‘Yes. I can’t see any other explanation. He must have threatened their plans in some way.’

  ‘But how could he? You said it was an open secret in Paris in any case.’

  ‘As a joke, yes.’

  ‘But he thought it was all a joke too. He said so in his letter. And my father wasn’t important, not in that way. He couldn’t have made any difference.’

  ‘It puzzles me, I admit. But he must have known something, otherwise why should they have tried to kidnap you?’

  ‘It was a woman they wanted to know about. Daniel, do please think. There must have been a woman somewhere, those last days in Paris.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘I can’t remember him speaking to a woman at all, except the maids at the hotel. And …’

  He hesitated.

  ‘There’s still something you’re not telling me, isn’t there?’ I said.

  ‘No. Nothing that matters.’

  ‘How do you know? Anything might matter.’

  ‘Very well. There was a wine shop on the corner of the street near our hotel. I happened to be walking past and I’m nearly sure he was sitting with a woman.’

  ‘You didn’t go in and join him?’

  ‘No. There was no reason. Besides …’

  ‘Besides what?’

  ‘The wine shop was used quite a lot by the local dames de la nuit. Now, don’t rush to conclusions. As you know, your father would talk to anybody and …’

  His voice trailed away.

  ‘It might explain something,’ I said. ‘Supposing there’d been an English girl there, fallen on hard times. He might have promised to bring her home to her family.’

  ‘Yes, he might.’ Daniel sounded embarrassed and unhappy.

  ‘But there’s a lot it wouldn’t explain, isn’t there? Why should Kilkeel be so interested in some poor Englishwoman? Why should anybody kill my father over her?’

  ‘I don’t know, Libby. Maybe the woman in the wine shop has nothing to do with it at all. But you asked about women, and I can’t remember any other.’

  ‘And he said nothing to you about a woman needing help?’

  ‘No, and that’s a puzzle in itself. As you know, your father was the most open
man in the world. If he had decided to help some poor dove out of the gutter, I’m sure he’d have discussed it with us that evening when we were all together.’

  ‘The evening that Amos Legge came to make arrangements for Esperance?’

  ‘Who? Oh, the amiable horse-transporter. Yes. Your father said goodbye next morning in the best of health and spirits. That was the last I saw of him. If I’d the slightest idea of all this at the time, I’d never have let him go alone.’

  I was crying and sensed he might be near tears too. I felt for his hand on the edge of the water trough.

  ‘Do you think it was Mr Brighton or Trumper who shot him?’ I said.

  ‘I simply don’t know. It’s difficult to think of Brighton even doing up his own shoe-laces. Trumper may be a different matter. You said your father died on Saturday?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I could see he was thinking back.

  ‘That’s the morning I left for Lyon. I saw both Brighton and Trumper in the street the evening before. In fact, I spoke to Trumper, or rather he spoke to me.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He came striding up to me like a man wanting a quarrel and said, “Where’s your friend gone?” I guessed he meant your father and supposed he might have got wind of how we’d been making fun of them. So I said my friend would be back home in England by now. That didn’t seem to please him.’

  ‘Did he say anything else?’

  ‘I didn’t give him the chance, just said good-day and walked off.’

  ‘They must have known by then that he’d gone away with the woman.’

  ‘Yes, but Trumper couldn’t possibly have got to Calais in time to kill him, however fast he rode.’

  He sounded both regretful and relieved. I understood. I wanted more than anything in the world to know who killed my father and yet the prospect of it scared me.

  ‘What about the fat man – Lord Kilkeel?’ I said.

  ‘To the best of my knowledge, I never saw him in Paris.’

  ‘So he might have been in Calais on the Saturday. He was certainly there three days later.’

  We lapsed into silence again. Bats darted overhead and a hedgehog snuffled. My brain was tired and wanted to curl up and sleep like a hedgehog.

  ‘If you think Charlotte’s baby died twenty years ago?’ I said.

  ‘I do, yes.’

  ‘Then who is Mr Brighton?’

  ‘Take your pick from twenty or more. You understand what I mean?’

  ‘There is certainly no shortage of Hanoverian bastards,’ I said.

  That was common knowledge. George III had fifteen children, seven of them sons who grew to manhood, and since he refused to let any of them marry until suitable princesses were available, the natural consequence was many Georgian grandsons on the wrong side of the blanket. The Duke of Clarence, for one, was responsible for at least five such.

  ‘From his looks and his manners, I’ve no doubt he’s one of that stock,’ Daniel said.

  ‘And tomorrow, Sir Herbert intends to introduce him to all his friends and supporters as their rightful king.’

  ‘You think that’s what will happen?’

  ‘I’m sure of it. Why else all the preparations? Why else that ridiculous Welcome Home piece you’re rehearsing?’

  ‘It is indeed an offence in itself. I think you’re mostly right, Libby, only it probably won’t happen in quite so blatant a way. I don’t suppose they’ll get straight up from the dinner table and march off to storm Windsor Castle.’

  ‘How, then?’

  ‘These days, the banner would be raised by gossip and hints and whispers. They’ll have their dinner party and ball. Mr Brighton is affable, the likeness unmistakeable. Gossip gets back to London, around the salons, the newspapers pick it up … So it all starts.’

  ‘I can’t imagine how anybody who’d met him could possibly want him for king.’

  ‘If the British public tolerated the Prince Regent, they’ll stand for anything. Our standards are not high.’

  ‘Even so …’

  ‘And remember, most of the people shouting for him will never set eyes on him. A few nicely placed stories, a flattering engraving or two in the newspapers, and he’s England’s hope and the people’s friend.’

  ‘He’s not the people’s friend,’ I said. ‘None of them is.’

  ‘Of course not. But this country’s not as safe as some people like to think. There are hungry and desperate people out there, prepared to clutch at anything.’

  ‘But why should anybody just take their word that he’s Princess Charlotte’s son?’

  ‘A good question. Do you suppose that’s what this whole occasion is about – that they intend to produce something that might be regarded as proof?’

  ‘But how can they, if it’s not true?’

  ‘Believable by people who want to believe.’

  ‘Then what should we do?’ I said.

  ‘Tell somebody in authority?’

  ‘Do you know anybody in authority?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘If I were to go straight up to London and bang on the door of the Home Secretary, would he believe me? Besides …’

  I waited.

  ‘Besides what?’

  ‘There is the question of what Blackstone is doing,’ he said.

  There was a change in his voice, more guarded. It struck me too that he’d said very little during the part of my story where I’d told him about Mr Blackstone.

  ‘You know him well?’ I said.

  ‘Quite well, yes.’

  I took my hand away from his.

  ‘Is Blackstone another nom de guerre?’

  ‘I believe not. We’ve always known him as Alexander Blackstone.’

  ‘“We”?’

  ‘Your father and the rest of us.’ He hesitated, then, ‘Liberty, that ring of your father’s – did you understand anything by it?’

  ‘Only that it was a favourite of his. He often wore it.’

  ‘He was a freemason, Liberty, that’s what it signifies. So am I, and so is Blackstone. I should not be telling you this, but I think you are owed it.’

  ‘But where’s the harm in that? Weren’t Haydn and Mozart masons?’

  ‘Yes, and you’re right, there’s no harm in it at all. Mostly we’re no more than companionable people with a liking for intelligent company who wish to do good rather than harm. That, I’m sure, is how your father saw it. But some people will tell you otherwise.’

  ‘That you wish to do harm?’

  ‘That we are revolutionaries. They may not be entirely wrong. Some of the leaders of the Revolution in France and the War of Independence in America were masons. We believe in equality among men and have no exaggerated respect for kings or princes.’

  ‘A man’s a man for a’ that.’

  ‘Who taught you that?’

  ‘My father, of course. I am not in the least shocked that you and my father should believe in equality, but I’m at a loss to see what it has to do with Mr Blackstone and Mr Brighton.’

  ‘Because Alexander Blackstone is a revolutionary. As a young man he was put in prison for writing a pamphlet supporting the French Revolution. He came from a good family and had a considerable income, but he’s given all his life and fortune to the cause, and I believe now there’s precious little of either left. What did you make of him?’

  ‘He’s like a black rock with ice on it.’

  ‘You didn’t know him in his prime. Neither did I, come to that, but people who did tell me he could have marched ten thousand men on Whitehall by the power of his oratory alone. He was a dangerous man, Libby.’

  ‘I think he still is.’

  ‘Perhaps. But he’s a sick man now, and the younger generation don’t listen to him like their fathers did. He’s never wavered in his belief that there’ll be no end to poverty or injustice here until England has a revolution and we become a republic like the Americans. I think whatever he’s doing now is his final desperate attempt, before he ru
ns out of money and strength.’

  ‘But why is he so concerned with Mr Brighton? Why did he make me spy for him?’

  ‘I’m angry with him for that, and if I meet him I shall tell him so.’

  ‘But why is he interested?

  ‘I don’t know. But, believe me, it certainly isn’t for any devotion to the House of Hanover.’

  ‘He knows who killed my father, I’m sure of that. He almost promised to tell me if I did what he wanted.’

  ‘Almost?’

  ‘You think he won’t?’

  ‘I don’t know. He’s a close and secret man,’ he said.

  ‘But you admire him?’

  ‘I respect him. He’s suffered a lot for what he believes.’ He sighed. ‘Liberty, I’ll ask you again. Please leave this and let me take you away.’

  ‘No. Not before Saturday night.’

  ‘Why?’

  I wanted to tell him about Celia’s elopement. I knew I could trust him, but I’d implied a promise to her.

  ‘There’s the question of the horse,’ I said.

  ‘What is this about a horse?’

  ‘The one my father won. Esperance. She’s in a livery stables near here with Amos Legge. There’s a cat as well. I can’t just go and leave them.’

  He laughed and his arm came round me.

  ‘Oh child, you haven’t changed.’

  But I knew I’d changed very much.

  ‘I don’t know what to do about them,’ I said.

  He sighed.

  ‘Then I suppose the horse must come too. Are you able to communicate with this man Legge?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, tell him to bring the horse here on Saturday night. I’ll stay for the ball and we’ll play this execrable Welcome for them, and if Sir Herbert wants to raise the banner for the untrue heir, then it’s his pantomime. We’ll go straight back to London the moment it’s over, even if I have to steal somebody’s carriage.’

  What I’d do in London with a horse, a cat and Amos Legge’s expenses to pay, nowhere to live and not a shilling in my purse, was something so far distant that it hardly seemed worth worrying about.

  ‘Very well, I’ll tell him,’ I said.

  Daniel insisted on escorting me all the way back to the kitchen door, although I was afraid one of the other servants might see us together. He had no excuse to be anywhere near the house; because there was no room for the musicians in the Hall, they’d been billeted in a building in the park known as the Greek Pavilion.