The Stuart Sapphire

by Alanna Knight

It was important, but Tam, feeling that he was on the road to nowhere, thanked them and took his departure.

  The interview had been something of a revelation and had yielded the first clue. This genial guardsman who had forgotten to salute his superior officers was most probably also the murderer. In a borrowed uniform, causing a diversion about the lights, he had managed to distract the guards’ attention. Knowing that Henry and Percy were absent he had taken the opportunity to slip into the royal bedroom and murder the marchioness.

  A more daring and brazen approach, carefully planned and timed with the possibility of an accomplice, cancelled out Tam’s original theory regarding the secret entrance to the royal bedroom.

  For a moment it all sounded plausible enough, but closer thought revealed a multitude of holes that needed filling in, a host of improbabilities. And the greatest of them looming heavily upon the horizon was the missing key to the solution of any crime. Who had most to gain; find that and with it you unlock the answer.

  Tam shook his head wearily. With someone as enigmatic and dissolute as the marchioness, there might be in the Pavilion itself quite a queue lining up of gentlemen, or ladies for that matter, who had their own reasons for wishing to see the back of her permanently. Her husband the marquis, at home in Lewes, with a carefully prepared alibi, might well head the list.

  The trouble was, how did this person or persons unknown manage to fit it all so neatly into the time when the grooms were watching the shipwreck? Surely a stroke of luck, a heaven-sent opportunity.

  Tam shook his head and returned again to the most plausible solution of the crime. The secret door and the possibility that the marchioness might not have been murdered during the grooms’ absence but at any time before the prince’s expected return.

  As he prepared to return through the withdrawing room, Warren said sternly:

  ‘We have instructions from Lord Henry and Lord Percy that the royal apartments are to be left untouched and unentered awaiting further orders from His Royal Highness.’

  Tam nodded. ‘I believe I am an exception, gentlemen, as I am in charge of this enquiry.’

  ‘Can you tell us more, sir, is it serious?’ asked Toby.

  Tam shook his head gravely. ‘I am afraid you must obey royal orders and I must also request your silence and your discretion. Doubtless you will be fully informed in due course.’

  Leaving them, he hurried towards the bedroom, averting his eyes from the sheeted corpse. How much longer could the prince keep the presence of the dead woman in his bed a secret? Had he already activated some plans for her discreet disposal? And what of her family?

  None of these delicate matters, he was thankful, were any of his business, he thought as, repeating the prince’s action, he touched the decorated dado and the secret door slid open, revealing the narrow staircase, lit by narrow slits in the outer fabric of the wall which, if noticed at all, would be taken for some sort of ventilation.

  Had this been the entrance for the marchioness’s unknown visitor or had the genial guardsman attending to the lights been her killer, Tam wondered, as a steep descent ended at a closed door.

  Turning the lock, a moment later he emerged into the brightness of summer sunlight and an unmistakable smell of horses, indicating, along with the cobbled road, the presence of the royal stables, their exit on to the Steine marked by double gates in a solid wall. Letting himself out by a tiny door for pedestrians within the gates, he was in the vast grounds which enclosed the Pavilion.

  He smiled delightedly. Until he had a clearer indication where this particular time-quest was leading, he intended to enjoy the less sinister aspects of nature as characterised by the ornate gardens surrounding him. Flowers, shrubs and a handsome grove of elms framed arbours with secluded seats, all dominated by a circular glass dome, an outdoor salon used for musical evenings, for masques and social gatherings.

  It was all extremely elegant, music to his ears to hear in the middle distance the refreshing sounds of a normal world. Raised voices of street vendors, children playing, a baby crying, a couple quarrelling, the rumble of coaches and horses trotting nearby, the raucous cries of seabirds wheeling above his head and the salt-pure smell of the sea. The everyday sounds of lives that existed side by side with the claustrophobic Pavilion and its extraordinary inmates from which he had temporarily escaped.

  He inhaled deeply, and the air was good. Good to be alone without having to measure each sentence, each word, knowing that a false step could leave him floundering in that slough of deception and corruption.

  But he was not alone. Someone else was of like mind. Was he never to escape, not even for a few minutes? He groaned as he saw approaching rapidly in his direction the now familiar figure of Lord Henry. He was accompanied by the buxom girl he had glimpsed earlier who had beamed upon him so coquettishly as he was leaving the prince’s breakfast room.

  A maid or lady-in-waiting, now again smiling broadly in his direction, waving her hand. How very tiresome. He bowed.

  A moment later they were face-to-face and he saw that Henry bore a remarkable resemblance to the girl on closer inspection. They could have been siblings – which indeed they almost were.

  Henry was making the introductions and Tam found himself in the embarrassing situation of being presented to the unprepossessing young female as Her Royal Highness, Princess Charlotte, England’s future queen.

  Chapter Seven

  Tam would have found this disclosure even more embarrassing had he realised that Princess Charlotte had been eagerly tracking him down since their first – almost – encounter in what had appeared to him as a brazen attempt by a serving wench to strike up an acquaintance.

  As for the princess, her immediate demand was to find out who he was and what such a divine young man, so unconventionally attired in the habitually overdressed court, was doing at breakfast with her father.

  For answers she turned as usual to Lord Henry. He had always been her friend, her natural half-brother, and as he was also close to her father, as she had never been, she managed to waylay him and lure him into conversation about the mysterious stranger.

  When she learned that he was the sole survivor of the Royal Stuart, her eyes closed in ecstasy. What a cloudburst of romance! How could any girl fail to lose her heart to such a gallant godlike creature?

  What were his intentions, how long would he remain in Brighton? Henry could give her no answers to that. A pity that she had also to endure the presence of her governess, Lady de Clifford, tenacious as an extra limb.

  Determined not to lose sight of her royal protégée, Lady de Clifford managed this task admirably with an ability, when necessary, to melt into the background and make herself invisible. As she was growing rather deaf, Charlotte being out of earshot was not a formidable problem, but as the possessor of an excellent memory, no incident was too small to be dismissed as insignificant.

  She had been around the court long enough to recognise that Charlotte was at a dangerous age, already exceedingly vulnerable to possible romantic encounters. Most regretfully it was becoming strikingly obvious that she had not only inherited her father’s looks and physique, but also his amorous propensities, an unfortunate tendency that would require her governess to have the vigilance of a hawk, since the princess was already exhibiting alarming signs of indifference to convention and royal protocol.

  Sometimes Lady de Clifford awoke in the middle of the night with bad dreams. What if the princess, while under her care, slipped the leash for an hour or two and became – (she gulped) – enceinte?

  She had not missed the predatory gleam in the princess’s eye as she had raced down the path with Lord Henry to force an encounter with this very presentable young man. Watching him bow deeply, she shuddered. There could be no trail of royal bastards for the future Queen of England to legitimise in the traditional manner of past English kings.

  ‘Ah, Mr Eildor,’ said Charlotte, breathless with eager anticipation. ‘A pleasant day for a stroll, is it not?’


  Tam, smiling politely, thought regretfully that it had indeed been a very pleasant day, full of promise until that moment, as the dark-clad middle-aged woman trailing at a respectful distance behind the princess and Lord Henry, moved forward protectively.

  ‘My governess Lady de Clifford,’ said Charlotte. ‘You may leave us now, Henry.’ Her hand raised in a dismissive gesture was an exact copy that could only have been inherited from her royal father.

  Henry bowed and with a look of relief turned on his heel, heading back along the path to the Pavilion.

  The governess acknowledged Tam with a frigid curtsey while the princess wagged a teasing finger at him.

  ‘Mr Eildor is a lawyer from Edinburgh.’ She smiled, showing excellent teeth, and rather a lot of them. ‘We – we have – have heard all – all about you, Mr Eildor. Henry has informed us that you were – were a – a passenger on – on the ship that went down – sank last night. The sole survivor – how very fortunate.’ All this speech was delivered in a shrill voice hampered by a stammer while nervous glances in Lady de Clifford’s direction invited encouraging comment. The governess regarded Tam sternly.

  ‘Fortunate indeed. Ship sank – all hands lost, we understood,’ she added in a sepulchral voice exactly matching her gloomy appearance.

  Tam bowed politely, hoping that this was also the end of the conversation, that escape was imminent and that the tiresome encounter would also be allowed to sink forgetfully into the ground.

  But that was not Charlotte’s intention. Under that royal stare, Tam felt uncomfortably that his appearance was being assimilated inch by inch. It was all quite unnerving, as she continued to regard him, bright-eyed and eager, occasionally licking rather her rather thick, red lips – a disconcerting habit, like someone watching a particularly strange and exotic insect through a microscope.

  Suddenly she shivered. ‘Be so good as to recover our shawl and our book. We laid them down – somewhere – while we were looking at the latest art acquisitions – our royal father’s weakness.’

  Although she addressed her governess, she did so without yielding her gaze from Tam’s countenance as if he might choose that moment to escape from her.

  With a sigh, she watched Lady de Clifford hurry back across the gardens. Unable to conceal a gleam of satisfaction, another broad smile awaited Tam’s approval. This was followed by a convincing shiver, rubbing her bare arms, a gesture which brought an unfortunate reminder to the observer that the fashion for white muslin gowns reaching down to the ankles, but extreme décolleté even in daytime, was less than flattering to ladies, however young, with overample bosoms. The flowing empire line had its origins in France and it struck Tam as curious that all female attire seemed to have been designed for a tropical climate of eternal summers, despite the fact that the climate of England was totally unreliable, with snowy winters exceedingly harsh and long-lasting. True, shawls were an essential accessory, the mark of the lady of fashion, to wear with grace.

  ‘Are you to stay in Brighton for some time, Mr Eildor?’ she asked.

  As Tam did not know the answer to that one himself, he smiled and said: ‘Until my plans are made, Your Royal Highness.’

  Charlotte giggled, and let a plump hand linger on his arm. He felt its warmth through his borrowed shirt.

  ‘Please – please – you may call me – Charlotte, if you wish.’

  Tam did not so wish and she saw too late that he was no doubt embarrassed by the thought of such intimacy with a royal person.

  Aware that she was moving too fast, she removed her hand, her gaze becoming more intent as she did so, a myopic staring deeply into his eyes. Her breath touching his face, she laughed.

  A deep, throaty and rather coarse laugh in one so young. Fourteen, fifteen – Tam wondered, perhaps girls grew up quickly in royal residences where loose morals were constantly in evidence, and his thoughts flew momentarily to the sight he had left in the royal bedroom, as with a suppressed groan, he heard her say:

  ‘When we know each other better—’ she hesitated. ‘What do your friends call you, Mr Eildor?’

  ‘My name is Tam.’ He bowed.

  ‘Tam? Why, what an interesting name. Scottish, is it not? From your accent—’

  Tam agreed. They had at least found something safe to agree upon.

  ‘Where were you journeying – when the ship – went – went down?’

  ‘To London, Your Royal Highness.’

  ‘Please – please – Highness will do adequately, if you must – for the moment,’ she added with a flutter of pale eyelashes.

  ‘Very well, Highness,’ was the reluctant reply.

  A pause. ‘I know London well. It is – my home – my – my mother lives at Carlton House. This is a brief – brief – visit only – to my father. We rarely see each other.’

  Tam was quick to detect sadness, a certain loneliness and resentment too, as she said: ‘You have – have friends in London? We might meet—’

  ‘I have legal business – that is all,’ said Tam, dousing that hopeful suggestion.

  Charlotte smiled, waiting patiently for more information. As there was none forthcoming, she eyed him coyly, head to one side, and said: ‘Your wife – in Edinburgh – she will miss you.’

  And while Tam was considering a suitable comment, she continued: ‘Your wife and family will be heartily rejoicing that you have been spared from the shipwreck.’

  Tam’s mouth twitched at this further probe into his private life from this royal minx. He shook his head.

  Exact recollections of his life in the year 2250 already had a dreamlike quality, part of the condition of a time-quest, but he did remember that matrimony, as former centuries recognised it, had now become almost extinct.

  Partners were chosen, male and female, male and male, female and female, for as long or as short a time as the couple desired. It was not completely unknown for a relationship to last for life, with children if one wished, and ultimately grandchildren, from the union. There were no hard and fast rules, only the human heart and its inclinations existed for each individual.

  ‘I have no wife,’ Tam said, and instantly regretted that automatic response, since he could not at this moment honestly recall any details of his own category.

  How the princess’s eyes gleamed.

  Damn, thought Tam. That was a mistake. He had thrown away a refuge – or would the off-stage presence of a wife have made any difference? Perhaps only to make him more desirable, a challenge, seeing that matrimonial vows seemed of equally minor importance to royal houses as those of the world he had temporarily left. Here, where marriage existed purely for territorial or dynastic purposes: “An heir and a spare” was the rule.

  ‘Tell me about Scotland,’ said Charlotte. ‘We intend to visit Edinburgh immediately after our coronation.’

  Tam gave her a sharp glance. Anticipating that her grandfather, mad King George III, would die imminently, she obviously did not think, or hope, that her father would long occupy the throne.

  ‘Loyal subjects will wish to see their new queen and we will wish to reward them for their devotion. We are told that Edinburgh Castle is rather chilly and that the Palace of Holyroodhouse is even worse. We understand,’ she added in a horrified whisper, ‘that one of our ancestors, Queen Mary, murdered her husband there.’

  Before Tam could correct this popular misrepresentation of Scottish history, no doubt taught in English schools, the governess hastened along the path towards them, clutching a shawl and two moderately large books, while from the opposite direction Beau Brummell made a leisurely approach.

  Tam observed that he was more immaculately clad than at their first meeting, having given due attention to his toilette. Bowing to the princess, who received this polite gesture with what could only be regarded as a look of annoyance, he turned to Tam:

  ‘Ah, Mr Eildor, what a pleasure to see you again – I was hoping we might meet and continue our most interesting conversation.’

  Tam
bowed, aware that Lady de Clifford’s firm hold on Charlotte’s arm was indicating that they should leave. But ignoring both her governess and the newcomer, Charlotte addressed Tam:

  ‘We are heading to the circulating library – over there, Mr Eildor,’ she pointed across the park towards the promenade. ‘Please join us there, when you are free.’

  She managed a smile but looked mutinous, cutting Brummell dead, angry that her encounter with Tam had been interrupted and not quite sure whether she should vent her displeasure on her governess, Mr Brummell, or both.

  As was clearly evident from Brummell’s audible sigh of relief and a certain measure of ice in his polite greeting, a state of mutual dislike existed between the two.

  As for Tam, he watched them go, feeling trapped as well as wondering why on earth the princess should need to borrow books, and if he might be in more danger from Brummell’s curiosity than the princess’s flirtation.

  ‘The library, did I hear aright?’

  At his side Brummell laughed. ‘The library, did she say? Allow me to interpret your thoughts, dear fellow. Why should Her Highness consider a circulating library, says you, when there are enough books in the royal library to furnish most of London with reading matter?’

  A pause. ‘Shall we walk?’

  This was Tam’s first chance to view from the Steine the exterior of the dramatic and somewhat bizarre Marine Pavilion with its two oval-shaped wings, an addition to the original and more conventional dwelling that had replaced the prince’s rented farmhouse.

  Alas, the search for a suitable excuse for escape was no longer possible, as Brummell continued: ‘Our circulating library has other attractions than books. There are gaming tables and it is the haunt of fashionable society during the daytime. Having one’s name in the subscription book is a passport into Brighton society. Indeed the Master of Ceremonies visitors’ book is the first port of call for new arrivals wishing to find out who else is in town.

  ‘Allow me to escort you there, dear fellow, a little later perhaps. Meanwhile I have a humble lodging at North House but I am sorely in need of refreshment, as I imagine you are too. So let us adjourn to the Old Ship Inn.’