The Stuart Sapphire

by Alanna Knight

  Tam’s mind remained obstinately blank of any suitable excuse for declining this invitation, as Brummell led him out of the grounds across the Steine towards a less imposing huddle of buildings. Houses, taverns, market and shops, dwelling places of those whose daily bread and employment depended on their proximity to the royal court, as well as the now numerous petty thieves and criminals who preyed upon the advantages such a situation offered.

  As they walked, Tam was amused to see that his companion’s appearance created quite a stir in the narrow lanes. Ladies curtseyed, simpered, fluttered fans, while gentlemen bowed gravely.

  The interior of the Old Ship suggested that its roots were well established long before Prince George or even Dr Russell of Lewes, for that matter, discovered the restorative powers of the waters of the humble fishing village as a potential health spa.

  There were many dark corners which suggested secret meetings and hinted at darker days as a favourite haunt and safe haven for smugglers, bent on the lucrative and illegal exchange of taxable goods from the Continent. The royal dandy was obviously someone of great importance and, it seemed, was well liked and respected, and not only for the cut of his clothes and the snugness of his breeches. A condition, Tam decided, which must be quite a thorn in the abundant flesh of the Prince Regent who regarded this man as a serious rival and a danger to his own jealously guarded popularity, with an elegance to which he could no longer aspire, trapped forever in the gross flesh of decades of over-indulgence.

  As they took their seats Tam observed the elaboration of Brummell’s neckwear that had become de rigueur in high society. The shirt collar was worn upright, the two points projected on to the cheeks kept in place by a neckcloth, either in the form of a cravat or a stock. Some dandies were alleged to spend a whole morning in the arrangement of their cravats and in happier days the young Prince of Wales had been Brummell’s most apt and eager pupil.

  Comfort fell flat on its face and bowed to fashion, since such neckwear made it difficult, if not impossible, to turn or lower the head, which contributed to the dandy’s apparent imperturbability and hauteur.

  Tam saw that Brummell was warmly welcomed by the landlord, a popular and esteemed customer who might also be treated with some measure of informality. Without any words being spoken, a flagon and two crystal goblets of excellent French brandy wine, most probably smuggled, were placed before them. This was followed by the mouth-watering smell of a plate of steaming hot mutton pies, and Tam needed no second invitation to join in what Brummell was pleased to describe as a humble repast.

  ‘Humble fare, indeed, but a pleasant relief to one’s stomach after the rich daily fare at the royal table. As many as sixteen courses, dear fellow – such a trial sometimes,’ he sighed, and dusting aside the crumbs with an elegant lace handkerchief, he took up his quizzing-glass once more and said:

  ‘Tell me more about yourself, Mr Eildor. I am eager to hear about your destination in London. I have a house and you would be most welcome as my guest. It is even possible that we have acquaintances in common.’

  Tam’s vague nod doubted that exceedingly as the Beau continued: ‘But tell me about Scotland – and Edinburgh and what business brought you to our southern shores, if you please.’

  Tam did not please, but he did not relish trying to deceive this man who was, he suspected, considerably more intelligent than his languorous appearance suggested.

  But help was at hand. The door opened to admit an officer in the uniform of the Tenth Dragoons. Looking around he spoke earnestly to the landlord who indicated Tam and Brummell.

  He came over, bowed and said: ‘Mr Eildor. His Royal Highness requests that I am to escort you back to the Pavilion immediately.’

  Brummell gave an exasperated sigh. He looked exceedingly annoyed at this interruption but there was little he could do in the face of a royal command.

  Chapter Eight

  George Augustus Frederick, twenty-first Prince of Wales, Prince Regent and heir to the throne, was a very unhappy man. He sat in the withdrawing room of his apartments, unable to face what continued to lie in his royal bed, his most urgent need to get rid of the dead woman before someone else made the discovery.

  Tears or sentimental regrets were quite absent from his thoughts, since the marchioness had ceased to be a human being, with whom only twenty-four hours ago he had fancied that he was hopelessly infatuated and was on the most intimate terms. Death had turned her into a nuisance, an aggravation, a monstrous burden presenting diabolic and insurmountable problems quite beyond his normally rather dull imagination.

  At his side the faithful Lord Henry quietly informed him that servants were curious at being denied access to the bedroom.

  ‘Let them be curious!’ boomed the prince.

  ‘Sire, they wish to attend to daily matters regarding your ablutions, changing bed linen, lighting fires and so forth.’

  Henry had already observed that something must be done, and quickly. As the hours passed in his preoccupation, the prince was increasingly in need of a shave. Henry regarded him anxiously, toying with the bright idea of summoning the royal barber to the withdrawing room, on the pretext that His Royal Highness was in too great haste to take this matter in his accustomed leisurely fashion, surrounded by hot towels and the usual luxuries.

  Henry, it so happened, was full of bright ideas. Indeed, that had been almost the whole story of his life since the age of fourteen, when he had become aware of being yet another royal bastard. Far from despising or hating the prince for this unfortunate label, he had become obsessed with his idol.

  According to well-spread rumour, his mother was an actress and one (of many) of the prince’s first loves. Basking in the happy accident of his resemblance to the prince, there was nothing Henry would not do to stay in that blissful royal orbit, especially as Mrs Fitzherbert’s affectionate regard and attention over the years suggested that his parentage might be a more dangerous secret.

  On more than one occasion since he had grown to manhood, he had stood in as alibi for his royal father, and borne the full displeasure of some irate noble husband whose noble wife he had saved from being taken in adultery with the prince. A dead mistress in the royal bed was quite another matter, as the prince said:

  ‘You delivered our message to the stables? Exactly so – it does break our heart to miss a fine race but how can we leave at such a time? We are trapped – trapped, Henry, in our own residence. What are we to do?’ he moaned. ‘We cannot go on like this indefinitely.’

  So much was true and obviously so. Henry was sympathetic about the term indefinitely. It was a hot August day outside and the corpse would not stay fresh for much longer. Already he thought he heard the buzzing of flies beyond the door, but hoped that the prince’s hearing and sense of smell was not as sharp as his own to detect the significance.

  Returning from the stables, where he had informed the grooms that His Royal Highness most regretfully had to cancel his afternoon visit to the racecourse at Whitehawk, where he was to have seen his own horse Orbis take part in one of the most prestigious events in the racing calendar, he had encountered Charlotte. She seized upon him immediately, hoping that her father had confided some details about the young man who had occupied her thoughts since seeing him leaving the breakfast room.

  Henry was sympathetic. He and Charlotte had shared many innocent secrets through the years. In the capacity of elder brother, Henry accepted her avid interest in this newcomer good-humouredly, recognising that young girls of fifteen or so frequently imagine themselves infatuated by older men. As Tam Eildor was not destined to remain long in the Pavilion, a passing stranger, there could be no harm in indulging Charlotte in this whim, by sharing with her the little he knew of the Edinburgh lawyer.

  ‘What are we to do?’ the prince repeated.

  Henry waited a moment said respectfully: ‘Sire, I have thought of something—’

  ‘You have! Out with it then. Out with it—’

  ‘Yes, Sire. This
might just work. Percy could ride swiftly to Lewes and bring back her ladyship’s maid – with suitable attire,’ he added, aware that Lady Sarah wore only a fur cloak as she scuttled across from her nearby apartment and through the secret entrance to the royal bedroom.

  ‘Impossible, Henry. How do we know she is to be trusted?’

  ‘Sire, please hear me out. The maid Simone is on – er, intimate terms with Percy. She will do anything for him. I understand that she did not expect favours from her mistress and merely obeyed her wishes, keeping silent – since she was well paid to do so,’ he added grimly.

  ‘And—’ demanded the prince who was losing patience rapidly. Of course, Percy had seen the dead marchioness but was he to be trusted? His father had been a faithful equerry until his untimely death but Percy kept his own counsel. Unlike Henry, he was a married man with a young family and a wife to whom he was constantly unfaithful. He had never resented, or indeed expected to share, the prince’s affinity with his natural son.

  ‘Sire, it would be to your advantage to pay Simone well,’ Henry persisted.

  The prince sighed. ‘If you are sure she is to be trusted. Very well, see to it.’

  Henry withdrew and returned shortly afterwards, having been so sure that the prince would agree to this desperate plan that he had sent Percy off on the swiftest horse in the stables an hour ago.

  Without asking permission, he sat down opposite the prince who groaned and bit his lip, taking deep sobbing breaths.

  ‘The plan, Sire, is that we can smuggle her ladyship down the private staircase, into a sedan chair and across the garden—’

  ‘How – how?’ demanded the prince, vaguely aware of what might be happening through the wall and that only a warm day could have prevented rigor mortis with consequent difficulties of negotiating a corpse down a steep and narrow staircase.

  Henry smiled. ‘It could be managed with ease, Sire, simply by the use of a roll of carpet.’ So speaking Henry tapped the handsome Persian carpet beneath their feet.

  The prince followed his gaze wide-eyed. ‘You mean – roll her – in that.’ A present from a visiting high dignitary, its colours had failed to impress and it been banished to the withdrawing room.

  ‘Exactly, Sire. Transport her across the garden into a closed carriage and speed her on the way back to Creeve House where, as prearranged, she will be found in the garden by Simone during the Masque this evening, a glass of some intoxicating spirit at her side, the victim of a heart attack.’

  For the first time, the prince relaxed. The muscles of his face were so set in anxiety that a smile was something of an achievement. Leaning over, he patted Henry’s knee. ‘By Jove, Henry, you are an excellent fellow. Quite exceptional. Well done, well done, indeed.’

  The barber was admitted and, after watching the prince expertly shaved in absolute silence, Henry saw him leave and said consolingly, ‘Percy should be back soon with the maid.’

  But that was not to be. Percy had been unable to find Simone, who had taken advantage of her mistress’s absence to visit an old aunt – or so she had told the other servants. An old flame was more likely, thought Percy suspiciously, since no one knew where this aunt lived. He was very angry.

  As for the prince, he was also angry and sunk in despair once more. Beyond the simple questioning of how Percy, on even the swiftest horse possible, could have made the journey to Lewes and back in such a remarkably short time.

  The carpet had seemed a lifeline, the maid finding her mistress in the garden of her home the perfect way out. While being shaved he had composed a note of condolence to her husband, the marquis, and to her lover, his brother Frederick. Now it had all fallen through, and he was back at the beginning with a dead woman, if not exactly on his hands, still lying on his bed.

  Percy had departed at Henry’s suggestion, to sulk over Simone’s infidelity, his part in the drama ended.

  ‘What are we to do now?’ the prince wailed. ‘All is lost. All is lost, Henry!’

  ‘Not quite, Sire. We still have the carpet. I will drive the carriage, it is safer that way. The fewer people who know the plan the better.’

  ‘What about Percy? Could he not be driver?’

  Henry shook his head. ‘No, Sire. That would not be advisable. As a frequent visitor to Creeve House, he might be recognised by some of the servants. They don’t know me and I will keep a hat well down over my eyes, a scarf about my chin.’

  The prince looked at him, realised he was enjoying the excitement of such a role. He nodded approval as Henry continued:

  ‘There is one problem. We are lacking a maid and we must have someone inside the carriage with her ladyship – in case of accidents. To see her safely into the grounds and the gardens at Creeve House where she will be left for someone to find her.’

  These were desperate measures indeed and Henry avoided concerning himself or drawing the prince’s attention to natural questions regarding the marchioness found dead in the garden at the Masque, naked but for a fur cloak.

  That would take some remarkable feats of imagination by way of explanation, but hopefully might rest on the assumption that the marchioness was well known to be somewhat eccentric in her habits.

  As for the prince, once the marchioness left the Pavilion, her discovery was no longer his concern. Only when the news reached him that she had been found dead on her own territory, would he breathe freely again.

  And as both turned their thoughts towards the production of some discreet person other than Percy who knew all the facts and could be trusted, Henry said: ‘I thought perhaps Mr Eildor – might be willing.’

  ‘Excellent, quite excellent, Henry. You have hit the nail on the head. Mr Eildor is the perfect choice. A small favour – and the deed successfully accomplished, what would you say to a handsome purse to speed him on his way to London? That is the last we shall see or hear of him,’ the prince continued gleefully. ‘What a stroke of good fortune that he should have been rescued from the sea and at a time when he should be of such use to us. Capital, Henry, absolutely capital.’

  The moral issues about finding out who had murdered the marchioness no longer troubled the prince’s conscience and he was so overcome, almost tearful, at the expected happy outcome, that Henry was sent immediately to summon Mr Eildor to the royal presence.

  There was some unexpected difficulty. Mr Eildor was not in the quarters set aside for him. He had been seen talking to Princess Charlotte in the gardens and was last reported walking across the Steine with Beau Brummell.

  The prince, his good humour vanished, almost snarled with displeasure at the thought that the so-very-useful Mr Eildor had fallen into the hands of two of the people he despised. One his tiresome daughter and the other a man he actually feared.

  ‘Send for him. Immediately!’

  Chapter Nine

  Summoned to the royal presence, the delicate situation explained, the purse temptingly offered, the prince and Lord Henry eagerly awaited Tam’s response.

  He did not care for the idea in the least. What a disappointing ending. He had hoped that he would have had a chance to solve this particular crime. Instead his time-quest was to end in a carriage escorting a murdered woman back home to Lewes.

  Except that it couldn’t end there.

  Grimly he remembered that the only way he could return to his own time was from the exact spot where he had landed – on a convict ship anchored somewhere off the south-east coast near Brighton in the year 1811. How he was to find it again was a problem that would no doubt require not only his own ingenuity but also the contents of the royal purse he was being offered.

  ‘You will do it, Mr Eildor? Oh, excellent, excellent,’ said the prince happily.

  It was all arranged. His Royal Highness sent a messenger with apologies for his regrettable absence from the Masque, owing to a severe attack of gout, and Tam returned to his bedroom, where he would remain until summoned later that evening, and looked at the costumes set out for his approval.


  Nothing too memorable, but wearing masks would admit them without question to Creeve House. Nor would the anonymous closed carriage from the royal stables draw unwelcome attention.

  Lord Percy’s assistance had been invaluable according to Henry. He was familiar with a convenient path leading off the main drive, wide enough for a carriage. This led past stables and kitchen premises, towards the gardens, a place of assignation with the marchioness’s maid, Simone. There they would deposit their burden on one of the stone seats and return again by the same route to the main drive.

  Henry made it sound easy but Tam already had qualms about the success of such an enterprise, having wisely dismissed the idea of that rolled carpet as too difficult.

  Were there any windows overlooking the secret exit from the royal bedroom? he asked.

  ‘Of course not. It is secret!’ was the scornful response.

  Then was it not much simpler to carry her wrapped in the fur cloak directly to the carriage?

  This proposal was considered and met with approval but Tam was far from enthralled at the prospect of sitting inside the carriage, even masked, with the dead woman propped up beside him apparently enjoying a peaceful sleep.

  As for the prince, he was ecstatic, totally confident, beaming on them both, without entertaining a moment’s doubt on the plan’s success, satisfied that having shifted the burden on to someone else, it was no longer his responsibility. At his most genial, Tam guessed that he had already washed his hands of the whole gruesome episode.

  Thinking ahead, as a light supper was served to him by a silent footman, Tam could envisage that when the prince heard of the dramatic discovery of the dead marchioness in her garden, he would genuinely believe the story of the heart attack, and would banish from his mind entirely that she had been murdered in his bed in the Pavilion, on the night he watched the sinking of the Royal Stuart.