The Stuart Sapphire

by Alanna Knight

  Maria’s eyes widened at that. Was he hinting that some secret society, working to undermine the present regime, had sent a spy who threatened dear George, possibly even an assassin? And she remembered uncomfortably that dear Thomas Fitzherbert, her second husband, had been head of an ancient Catholic family who were among the first Catholics to forsake the exiled Stuarts and openly declare their allegiance to the Hanoverians.

  As fearful thoughts of espionage and regicide rushed through her mind, Brummell continued: ‘An upstart, madam, worming his way into the prince’s confidence. A paid spy.’

  Was Mr Eildor blackmailing George? Did that account for the feeling she had that George was afraid of something, terrified and unable to talk to her about it? Was his pretended obsession with this new acquaintance masking some deadly threat to the very future of England?

  Suddenly she was ashamed, remembering how she had confided in Mr Eildor. Then another terrifying thought occurred to her about his strange luminous eyes. Was he also a mesmerist? And she recalled the evening she had spent in London at the Duchess of Abercorn’s supper party. The chief guest was a disciple of Franz Mesmer, the Austrian physician who had used a secret power called animal magnetism by which he could read people’s minds and make them do his will.

  Maria remembered how he had sat opposite her at the table and, holding her gaze, she had whispered certain secrets of her early life. Unable to resist those strange hypnotic eyes, she had tried to banish the memory afterwards, and had almost succeeded in doing so until now, as she realised that Mr Eilder’s eyes had held the same strange power.

  What had she done? Trembling inwardly, she decided not to share this piece of information with Mr Brummell.

  In the Pavilion it was observed by those close to the Prince Regent that he was not himself, and had not been himself, in fact, since the drama of the shipwreck two days ago. Short-tempered, inclined to be forgetful and intensely irritable, even his daily sea bathing was affected. His behaviour had not been as usual: roguish, full of fun, shrieks of merriment and boyish glee, playful splashings on bystanders. Instead it was a solemn ritual affair taken more from duty than pleasure.

  Around him heads were shaken, there were a few behind-hand whispers too. A tiff with Mrs Fitz perhaps, with whom he had spent the night after the shipwreck, then back at the Pavilion next morning, he had cast a lacklustre eye on the uniforms required for the day. Unable to make his usual prompt decision, and far from his excitement at dressing up for the day, he had stood biting his lip and frowning, his thoughts clearly elsewhere. Very irritable too, shouting angrily at the guiding suggestions of his valets, he had stamped out in a fury.

  Lord Henry, who was friendly to everyone in the condescending manner that was familiar to them, nodded vaguely. He could hardly be quizzed about the prince’s behaviour, since everyone in the Pavilion, and quite a few beyond it, knew he was yet another favoured royal bastard.

  As for the other groom, Lord Percy, he didn’t talk much to anyone, kept his own counsel. Very superior, he was. No one knew much about him except that with a wife and children conveniently stowed away in a handsome mansion in Surrey, it had got about that he had a penchant for lower-class female servants and found a maid on her knees scrubbing a floor quite irresistible.

  Now, much to his chagrin, Lord Percy was informed that only Henry was to accompany the prince into the royal bedroom.

  Closing the door, the prince looked around his once favourite room with distaste. He regarded that massive panelled French bedstead, once so comfortable with its five mattresses, white satin sheets and feather bolster, its five cloud-like pillows, its fine blankets, once the highlight of his nights, and shook his head.

  Never, never could he sleep in that bed again, its luxury destroyed forever by memories of the marchioness’s murder.

  Without a word being said, Henry understood. He did not possess a great imagination, but even crossing the threshold and remembering what he had seen made him shudder. He was not in the least surprised when the prince said:

  ‘We have been thinking, Henry, and we have decided that it would be more convenient to change our sleeping quarters. Have our bedroom downstairs, next to the dining room.’ Pausing, he managed a croaky, unconvincing chuckle. ‘Easier to fall into bed while the wine is rosy, don’t you agree?’

  Henry, who would have agreed to anything said by his royal father, nodded nervously. It was becoming increasingly difficult, a considerable effort requiring the services of several of the strongest servants, to elevate the prince’s increasingly corpulent frame up the splendid staircase, after a supper consisting of sixteen courses and several bottles of wine before the inevitable final attack on the brandy.

  His smile was genuine as the prince waved a vague hand around. ‘We will make this the guest bedroom in future.’

  Henry cleared his throat, asked somewhat timorously, ‘Sire, the stair – into the garden, I mean?’

  The prince smiled sadly and shook his head. ‘Means will be found, dear lad,’ and, tapping the side of his nose significantly, a conspiratorial return to happier days, he winked and repeated: ‘Means will be found when necessity arises.’

  ‘Sire, which room would you wish to have prepared while the alterations are being made?’ Henry asked.

  ‘Fear not, Henry, arrangements have already been made. Mrs Fitzherbert has been most accommodating. We shall sleep at Steine House – with our legal wife,’ he added primly.

  Henry withdrew and the prince stood alone, staring at the bed and reliving that dreadful moment he had discovered Sarah Creeve, her body obscenely naked in the cold light of day.

  Not only dead, that would have been bad enough – but murdered!

  Clutching the bedpost, he groaned. Dear God, would he ever be allowed to forget or would he be haunted forever, that terrible sight indelibly printed on his eyes.

  If only her body could be discovered where it lay far away from the Pavilion on the Lewes Road. But there was one last secret that would be laid to rest with her. The identity of her killer who had also stolen the Stuart Sapphire.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Walking through Steine Lane after leaving Mrs Fitzherbert, Tam resumed his investigation into possible shops where stolen goods might be exchanged. He emerged in Market Street, opposite the workhouse, whose occupants had exchanged the cheerless interior for the luxury of being allowed to sit outside in warm sunshine to mend the fishermen’s nets, and pick oakum under the watchful eyes of warders armed with stout sticks. That they were prisoners in an institution with little chance of making a bid for freedom was also evident from their brown uniforms.

  Beyond Market Street, a glimpse of a scattering of houses on the hilly slopes to the west of the city. Even at that distance they looked little more than hovels, the homes of the poor who knew a lot about pawnshops and the struggle to keep alive. To such unfortunates any comparison with the wild extravagances of life in the Marine Pavilion was an obscenity.

  As he walked into the shadowy lanes where his journey had been cut short by his encounter with Maria Fitzherbert, Tam kept a sharp lookout for Jem, rehearsing some harsh words for that young lad as, still bristling with anger and hurt pride, he wondered what excuses would be on offer when they finally met. They had better be good, he thought, diving into the nearest jeweller’s shop.

  The excuse about the trinket was thin and the shopkeeper soon lost patience when Tam declined to purchase any of the tempting and exceedingly expensive earrings on display. The goldsmith’s shop next door exuded such an air of respectability, as well as two ladies dressed in the height of fashion and heavily perfumed, that, approaching the counter, Tam lost his nerve, muttered something about the wrong shop and beat a hasty retreat.

  The response to his request regarding inexpensive earrings at two further but less intimidating shops was equally frustrating but he knew of no other way except the direct approach:

  ‘Have you by any chance been offered the Stuart Sapphire?’ He did not im
agine that would meet with much success.

  Staring in another shop window and wondering where to go next, he saw reflected in the glass a boy hurrying along the other side of the street.

  ‘Jem!’ he shouted.

  The boy turned, saw him and ran.

  ‘Jem. Wait!’

  But once again Jem took to his heels and darted down a side street and Tam was almost knocked down by a horseman as he tried to cross the road. The man cursed him, as did the occupants of the carriage he was escorting, travelling close behind.

  By the time he reached the corner, Jem was almost out of sight, rushing up the hilly street. Tam followed as swiftly as he could to the consternation of pedestrians emerging in his path. As dogs added their angry barks, snapping at his heels, he found himself in an area where the shops were fewer. Ahead lay the poorer houses he had observed earlier.

  And there was Jem staring into a solitary shop window.

  Tam rushed over, seized him by the shoulder.

  ‘Got you – at last.’

  The boy turned round. Yelling loudly he struggled to free himself from Tam’s relentless grip.

  Tam looked again and panicked. This wasn’t Jem, the only faint similarity was in the shabby clothes. The boy he had accosted was a stranger – and a terrified one.

  ‘Help, help,’ he screamed. ‘Lemme go, you brute.’

  Tam did as requested and, apologising profusely, hurried across the road, narrowly evading being seized by what looked like an indignant mob surging in his direction, urged on by the boy he had accosted.

  At last, on the very edge of the town, he found shelter in a tired-looking inn where he ordered a pint of ale, keeping a sharp eye on the door and the window as he drank. The landlord showed no interest in him, and Tam noticed on the opposite side of the road a terrace of identical cottages.

  To his question, the landlord said: ‘Them’s Crown Gardens, sir. Very handsome they are with their own little plots. Better class establishment for this area, they are, built by the prince for servants from the Pavilion and from the royal stables.’

  As Tam, refreshed, looked across, he wished he had some excuse to investigate that respectable line of cottages as the thought occurred to him: had Jem, for it was certainly Jem who ran away from him in the first place, been making his way to the Crown Gardens?

  And was it possible that there was some link between Jem and the Marine Pavilion? If that was so, then it was even more important that Tam track him down.

  True, there had been little time to find out much about Jem when they met on the convict ship – except for a strange feeling. He was missing something important that he should remember. The fact that the boy’s story did not quite ring true and that he seemed remarkably refined and well-spoken for a convicted felon. If only there had been a chance of discovering what circumstances had brought him to the dire necessity of stealing a loaf of bread.

  It was a new and interesting theory as he made his way back through the town, deciding that after the rebuffs he had received regarding his search for cheap earrings for a non-existent lady, he had better rethink the whole procedure and come up with a different approach to finding the missing sapphire.

  Lured by the warm sunshine in the Pavilion gardens, he decided to linger, certain that his powers of concentration would do better out of doors, especially without possibilities of encountering the Prince Regent and having to confess his lack of success.

  Looking for a suitable seat, he took stock of his surroundings. This elegant Promenade Grove had once been open to the public. Acclaimed as a smaller version of the Vauxhall Gardens in London, it was now part of the royal estate, to which the public had only rare access.

  Such a pity, thought Tam, this almost deserted park with its flowers, shrubs and grove of elms, the only tall trees that he had seen so far in Brighton. He found a shady seat and closed his eyes. As he was drifting into sleep a female voice said:

  ‘Ha, is it not Mr Eildor, and all alone?’

  Tam opened one eye.

  ‘Pray, may I join you, sir?’

  The newcomer was Princess Charlotte and Tam groaned inwardly although he managed to stretch a smile across his face. He stood up and, bowing, offered her the seat.

  ‘Nay, sir. I would not disturb you. The seat is large enough – for the two of us,’ she added archly.

  ‘Your governess, Highness,’ Tam protested, indicating the shadow at the princess’s side, but her hand was firm upon his arm.

  ‘Pray, be seated, Mr Eildor. Lady de Clifford is not permitted to sit in the royal presence,’ she added, settling herself down and edging close to Tam while the unfortunate governess stationed herself at a discreet distance a few feet away.

  Beaming on Tam, her bare arm resting rather too intimately against his own, she whispered, ‘We can talk freely, Mr Eildor. Lady de Clifford is rather deaf. She will not admit it and ear trumpets are so undignified and so ageing.’

  Tam was very conscious of that lady’s discomfiture, as she hovered ever nearer, trying also to keep an eye on all comers. As the princess urged him to tell her about himself, and edged even closer on the small seat, he could almost feel the quivering anxiety of the governess.

  And with good reason. Deaf she might be but her eyesight was excellent and should any report be made to the Prince Regent regarding his daughter’s outrageous conduct, she would be held responsible.

  Tam sympathised as, unable to restrain herself, she laid a warning hand on Charlotte’s shoulder and said: ‘His Royal Highness, your father, is approaching.’

  The sight of his daughter on a secluded seat talking to Tam could only convey one thing to the prince and that was the dread word: Assignation.

  Tam sprang to his feet. He had no desire to be found in any compromising situation with the heiress to the throne. Swift and highly unpleasant visions sped through his mind, the Tower of London looming exceeding large.

  Escape might still be possible as the prince, who perhaps did not have such excellent eyesight, was in deep conversation with the man at his side and had not yet observed his daughter’s indiscretion.

  Charlotte was furious, she clung to Tam’s arm. ‘Please, Mr Eildor, do remain seated. Pray tell me about yourself – we have much to talk about.’

  But Tam, bowing, remained standing and took the cowardly opportunity of distancing himself a few feet away.

  And not a moment too soon. The prince and his companion were on the other side of an ornate flower bed.

  He had been observed. The prince paused in his conversation, glanced across and gestured to Tam to join them. Tam sighed. He was saved. No longer seated at Charlotte’s side, her father would presume that Mr Eildor had just encountered the princess as he strolled through the gardens and was merely exchanging a polite greeting. At least that was what Tam most earnestly hoped and that this encounter would not be remembered and used in evidence against him.

  ‘Ah, Mr Eildor!’ And Tam wove his way over a rather tricky set piece of flowers surrounded by miniature box hedging which, maze-like, needed very careful negotiation.

  At last he reached the prince and his companion, a small rotund fellow wearing a rather shabby overcoat that reached to his ankles. On his head, perched at a jaunty angle, was a tall stovepipe hat, no doubt intended to add some impressive inches to his height.

  ‘Mr Townsend, it is our pleasure to present Mr Tam Eildor.’ The prince beamed on Tam who gave an inward sigh of relief. Presumably he had not noticed or failed to find any significance in the glimpse of his daughter almost literally throwing herself at Tam’s feet.

  ‘Mr Eildor is an Edinburgh lawyer, most accomplished in methods relating to the apprehension of criminals of all description.’

  Tam bowed a little uncomfortably at this fulsome addition to his fictional life story, while shaking hands with Townsend, from whose countenance heavily adorned by facial hair, tawny in colour and growing without restraint, a shrewd pair of eyes peered, as if from behind a hedge.

 
; Raising the tall hat revealed a lion-like mane of tawny hair and this extraordinary leonine image was confirmed by hands which, as he walked, were habitually clasped together behind his back, where they waggled expressively, for all the world like a lion’s attenuated tail.

  ‘Mr Townsend is a well known thief-taker, a Bow Street officer who has struck terror into the very hearts of London’s vilest criminals by hanging the bodies of murderers on a gibbet – a law we firmly believe should be retained.’

  And turning to Townsend, he said: ‘Pray, tell Mr Eildor how you once gave the magistrate Sir William Scott an excellent piece of advice on the subject.’

  Townsend had a moment of looking bashful before saying proudly: ‘I told Sir William there were a couple of men hanging near the Thames where the sailors went up and down and one asked: “Pray what are those poor fellows there for?” His companion said: “We will go and ask.” They did so and were told: “Those two men are hung and gibbeted for murdering His Majesty’s revenue officers,” and so that keeps the warning alive.’

  ‘Capital, capital,’ said the prince. ‘An excellent deterrent, don’t you agree, Mr Eildor?’

  Tam considered it very barbaric indeed and was saved the necessity of making any comment as the prince continued: ‘We are sure – certain sure, that the pair of you will find, without the slightest difficulty, the vile creature who stole a valuable piece of our Coronation Crown, and no doubt a like fate can be arranged for them. Good day, gentlemen.’

  And with an almost gleeful laugh, he turned on his heel and whistling under his breath, walked away with Henry and Percy who had been hovering at a discreet distance, leaving the newly introduced sleuths in an awkward silence.

  How much, if anything, Tam wondered, had Townsend been told of the events leading up to the Stuart Sapphire’s disappearance, in particular, the murder of the Marchioness of Creeve?