James turned quickly, without even bidding farewell to the wife of his Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, the Duke of Tyrconnell. The King seemed to have forgotten her presence and those of her companions as he scuttled towards the doors. Then a thought seemed to strike him. He paused and crashed one pale fist into the palm of his hand.
“Pox take me! Have I no one to remind me?”
The Lord Grand Prior looked in bewilderment as his father turned and almost ran towards the room where he had spent the last few hours. It was a small study in which he had previously been engaged in writing his final orders to the Comte de Lauzun, commander of his army. The King hurried to the desk. Ah, thank God he had remembered. A small metal box stood on the desk where he had left it. He picked up the heavy object, unlocked and pushed back the lid. It was filled with jewellery. On top of the diamonds and emeralds and assorted jewels lay a glittering blue stone about one and a half inches in length by an inch wide. The Stuart Sapphire was the pride of his collection. His brother, Charles II, had saved it from falling into Cromwellian hands after his defeat at Worcester. It was worth a king’s fortune; it was the fortune of this King, anyway. These were all that were left of the Crown Jewels of the Stuart Dynasty. He snapped the lid shut and turned the key again.
“This casket is to stay with me at all times. It is the guarantee of the survival of the House of Stuart,” he grunted at his bewildered son, the Lord Grand Prior. “Now, let us ride for Waterford with all speed.”
Without another word, he swept by Lady Tyrconnell, who performed a courtly curtsey; her every movement was filled with irony. Her companions merely inclined their heads.
Lady Tyrconnell waited a few moments until she heard the clattering of horses leaving the castle yard and then her features twisted in disdain.
“I wonder if His Majesty knows what his good subjects of Ireland are already calling him?” She smiled grimly at the troubled faces of the Lord Mayor MacDermott and Father Taafe. “I learnt the Irish from my maid. Seamus an Chaca – James the Shit! Methinks my sister, Sarah, the Lady Marlborough, is right when she agreed with her husband that these realms will be better off without such a petty, devious and faint-hearted man as James Stuart on the throne.”
Conte Salvatore Volpe of the Ordo Equester Nobile de Nostro Signore, the Papal bodyguard, paused for a moment outside the tall ornate doors with their gilt covered carvings and brass fixtures. He adjusted his sword and raised a hand to ensure his cravat was in place. Then he nodded to the nervous looking sacredotti who stood ready. The young trainee priest smote the door twice and then opened it and announced in a whispering tone to the occupant:
“Count Volpe, prefect commander of the Order of the Noble Knights of Our Lord.”
Volpe strode into an antechamber and then halted in momentary surprise. He had been expecting to be greeted by the elderly Cardinal York of Frascati but a ruddy-faced man with dark hair and clothes that bespoke more of a man of fashion and elegance greeted him. He was fair of skin and his features seemed to identify him as a foreigner but he greeted Volpe in fluent courtly Italian as one born to the language.
“I have surprised you, count,” the man observed. “I am sorry but it is necessary to have a word with you before you are received by my master. I am . . .”
“The Marchese Glenbuchat.” Volpe had difficulty pronouncing the Scottish name.
“You are well informed, Conte.”
“It is my duty to be so, Marchese, for I am placed in charge of the safety of all the Cardinal princes of Holy Mother Church who are gathering here.”
“Then you may also know, who my master is? I want to tell you, before you speak with him, that I have met with great reluctance from him in allowing you privy to a matter, which is of the greatest gravity to him and his cause. He does not want this matter to be voiced abroad. So I must hear from you that you are willing to treat it in utmost secrecy.”
“Without knowing the nature of the matter, I cannot take such an oath,” replied Volpe. “But if it does not offend the holy office that I hold sacred, I will treat the matter with discretion. Perhaps I can be told the nature of this problem that your master wishes to consult me about?”
Lord Glenbuchat hesitated.
“I will leave that to him.”
He crossed to a door and knocked on it discreetly, opened it and announced Volpe’s presence.
Count Volpe crossed the marble tiled floor to the chair by an ornate fire carved in the same stone. The slight figure of the elderly man in the robes of a Cardinal was seated to receive him. Volpe came to a halt and bent to kiss the ring of the frail hand that the Cardinal had reached out towards him.
He wondered how he should address someone whom many recognized as the rightful King of England, Scotland and Ireland, but who was Bishop of Frascati and known to his fellow prelates as Cardinal York.
“Eminence,” he managed to mutter as he bent over the bishop’s ring. He paused a moment and then straightened looking into the pale face and dark haunted eyes of Henry Benedict Maria Clement Stuart, grandson and only surviving legitimate heir of James II who had fled his kingdoms to a life of exile over a century before. Since the death of his elder brother, Prince Charles Edward in 1788, the Cardinal had been hailed as Henry IX of England and I of Scotland. The last of the Stuart claimants to the throne.
“How may I serve your Eminence?” Volpe said, taking the regulatory step backwards from the Cardinal’s chair. He was aware that Lord Glenbuchat was standing anxiously behind him.
The old man sighed deeply, raising his tired eyes to gaze on the commander of the Pontifical Guard.
“You are acquainted with my family’s sad history?” he asked.
“Eminence.” Volpe made the word an affirmation, feeling sorry for this apparently exhausted old man. However, these were times of hardship for everyone. The armies of revolutionary France were scouring the Italian countryside, looting and plundering, and with Pius VI recently dead in Valence, after a mere six months in office, and the godless French agents suspected of complicity in his death, the Cardinals had been unable to find a sanctuary to meet to elect a new Holy Father. They had even been driven from Rome by the French invasion. Volpe was uncomfortably reminded that the old man before him had also had to flee from his villa at Frascati, when it had been attacked and sacked by the French army. Now the Cardinals were gathering on this little island in Venice, in the old Benedictine Monastery of San Giorgio Maggiore, to enter into the conclave in the hope of electing a new Holy Father.
Count Volpe had only recently been appointed to command the old aristocratic bodyguard of the Papal successors. He was a young man and conscious of his office.
Cardinal York spoke in a tired tone.
“A thief has broken into these apartments and made off with jewellery worth a great fortune.”
Volpe’s eyes widened but he said nothing. After a moment, the Cardinal continued.
“The jewellery was my personal property, family property, bequeathed to me by my brother, Charles.”
Volpe knew well of the dissolute and drunken Prince Charles Edward, pretender to the English throne who had died of apoplexy in Rome some ten years before.
“Eminence, what manner of jewellery has gone missing?”
“The wealth of over three centuries of my family’s history as Kings of Scotland and then of England and Ireland,” replied the old Cardinal. “Among them, the great Stuart Sapphire. I brought them safely from Frascati, as my grandfather had also brought them safely when he was forced to flee into exile. Before that my great-uncle had hidden them safely when his father was executed by his subjects.”
Volpe tried to restrain a grim smile.
“Eminence, your family have borne many misfortunes,” he remarked with what he hoped was sympathy.
“The Stuart Crown Jewels are beyond mere commercial wealth,” intervened Lord Glenbuchat. “They are the symbols of His Majesty’s rightful claims to the throne that has been usurped by the family of the Duke of
Brunswick-Lúneberg-Celle, the so-called House of Hanover. The jewels must be found and the culprit punished.”
“Eminence, I shall do my utmost to bring this matter to a satisfactory and immediate conclusion,” Volpe assured the old Cardinal, addressing him rather than turning to Lord Glenbuchat.
The old man sighed and waved his hand to the Marquess.
“I have had my chamberlain, Lord Glenbuchat, make out a list of the items that are missing.”
“You say that these apartments were broken into?” Volpe queried. “May I see where the entrance was forced?”
Cardinal York coughed nervously.
“I did not mean to be taken literally,” he said as if in bad temper. “There was no sign of anyone actually breaking into these chambers, was there, Glenbuchat?”
The Marchese shook his head.
“No doors nor windows bore signs of forced entry nor even the secret cabinet in which the jewels were kept for safety.”
Volpe frowned.
“I presume that the doors to these apartments are locked when there is no one present?”
“Of course, though there is usually myself or my chamberlain here. If we are not, there is my bodyguard, Colonel O’Sullivan, and my manservant, Iain.”
“These have access to the chamber where the jewels were kept?”
The Cardinal nodded.
“No one else?”
“None that have free access to these rooms.”
“If someone will be so good as to show me where these jewels were kept . . . ?” asked Volpe after a moment’s reflection.
Cardinal York glanced to his chamberlain.
Lord Glenbuchat took Volpe by the arm and led him to another door.
“This is His Majesty’s bedchamber,” he confided. Volpe could not get used to the form of address. He supposed that, to his followers, the Cardinal was totally accepted as the rightful king. Glenbuchat had opened the door and pointed to the key in the lock.
“This key is always in the possession of His Majesty or myself when His Majesty was not in this room. The room was always kept locked because of the presence of the jewels.”
“There is only one key?”
“So I am told by the abbot of this monastery.”
“And where were the jewels kept?”
Lord Glenbuchat led the way into the chamber, which was covered with frescoes from the time of Palladio who had built the church of San Giorgio Maggiore. Most of them were framed either in the ornate cornices of the ceiling or with raised plasterwork on the walls. There were copies of Tintoretto paintings such as the“Gathering of Manna” which had been executed by his students. The room was also sumptuously furnished. Volpe saw that there was one window, a small one that he knew only gave access of view to an inner courtyard, some ten metres below.
The Marchese went to the head of the bed, by the right hand side and leaned forward, pressing a panel, which slid aside and reveal a small iron door. He reached for a key on the table and unlocked the door, swinging it open to reveal a tiny metal safe beyond. Apart from some papers, it was empty.
“This is where the jewels were kept,” he said, standing aside.
Count Volpe glanced quickly at the safe. It would tell him nothing, except that the lock had not been forced.
“Where was the key kept?” he asked.
“So far as we knew, it was with His Majesty the entire time.”
“There being no other key?”
“Again I was assured by the abbot that there was none.”
Volpe moved to the window and noticed the latches were secured. He opened it and peered out. It was only a tiny window, no bigger than to allow one’s head to be put through. Certainly no one could exit nor gain access through this aperture, even if they had a ladder long enough to reach up from the courtyard.
“Who knew of this secret panel and the safe?”
“Apart from His Majesty and myself as chancellor, only Colonel O’Sullivan and the manservant.”
“I presume the previous occupants of this chamber and, of course, the abbot, would know of the safe,” Volpe dryly pointed out.
“But they would not have known of the valuables that had been placed there,” replied Lord Glenbuchat.
Volpe conceded that it was a point.
“Who knew about these jewels? I do not mean their exact location but of their existence?”
“Of the existence of the Stuart Crown Jewels? I would say, countless people. Now and then emissaries from the usurper Hanoverian court came to make offers to His Late Majesty, when I served him.”
“His Late Majesty?” frowned Volpe.
“Charles the Third,” replied Glenbuchat irritably. “And, when his brother succeeded, twice they came with offers. The House of Hanover would like possession of the jewels in order to boost the legitimacy of their claims. But the exact whereabouts was only known to we of the household. Indeed, Colonel O’Sullivan deemed it best, when we fled from Frascati, to put it abroad that the French had taken the jewels when they sacked the villa at Frascati.”
Volpe was thoughtful.
“Are you saying that no one outside the four of you knew that these jewels were here in the monastery?”
“That I am.”
“Then this makes my work either very easy or very hard.”
Lord Glenbuchat turned with a quizzical gaze.
“Let us return to His . . . His Eminence,” Volpe suggested. “I would like to hear when the jewels were last seen and when and how they were discovered to be missing.”
The elderly Cardinal was still sitting before the fire but now there was a young man in attendance to him, serving a pewter goblet whose contents proved to be with mulled wine. Volpe presumed, with accuracy, that this was the Cardinal’s servant, Iain, and sought confirmation after he had withdrawn from the room.
“Now, Eminence, would you recall for me the last time you saw the jewels secured in your room?”
Cardinal York pursed his lips.
“I think I ascertained their safety late yesterday.”
“It was in the evening, Majesty,” added Glenbuchat quickly. “You will recall the evening Angelus was sounding but you had felt a distemper, deciding to retire early for the night.”
“Ah, so I did, so I did.”
“And why were the jewels inspected?” queried Volpe.
“Some papers had arrived, which I felt that His Majesty should lock away for safekeeping until we were able to deal with them.”
“Papers?”
“A report from our chief agent in London which was not for eyes other than myself and His Majesty,” replied Glenbuchat.
“And did they also disappear?”
“They did not. Only the jewels.”
“So, Eminence, you retired to bed early last night . . . and then what?”
“My servant Iain had brought me some hot brandy and, having partaken of it, I fell asleep and was not roused until this morning.”
Volpe unconsciously stroked his chin in thought.
“So you were not disturbed during the night?”
“I slept soundly.”
“And, Marchese, you told me it was the custom for His Eminence’s bedchamber to be secured?”
Glenbuchat nodded.
“There have been, from time to time, agents of the Hanoverians who might believe assassination was a solution to the claims of His Majesty to the throne of England. This is the first time in years that we have been in a more public place than in the confines of the villa at Frascati. We have to be vigilant. Indeed, you must know that there are some representatives of the clergy attending this conclave who declare their allegiance to the Hanoverian usurpers. Even the Irish bishops have had their allegiance bought by promises of seminaries and an easing of the Penal Laws against the Catholic population in Ireland.
“The Archbishop of Dublin, for example, Troy, is bending over backwards claiming that only those expressing loyalty to the Hanoverian Kings in London should be promoted as Irish bis
hops. He has condemned the uprising of the Irish last year and is even preaching legislative union of Ireland with England and Scotland. If such is the position of Irish Catholics, then the Stuart cause is lost forever. Such supporters of Archbishop Troy have the effrontery to come here to Venice to support the election of the new Holy Father.”
It was clear that Lord Glenbuchat was impassioned with his cause.
“So the bedchamber was secured?”
“We ensure that His Majesty secures his bedchamber door from the inside. And when he retires for the night O’Sullivan or Iain take it in turn to stay outside the door.”
“And this was faithfully carried out last night?”
“It was.”
“So when were the jewels discovered missing?”
“About mid-morning,” replied Glenbuchat.
“In what circumstances?”
It was the Cardinal who answered.
“I arose early and Iain helped me to dress so that I could go to the church to attend the early morning Angelus and mass. As I left my chamber, I locked the door behind me, as was my custom. When I returned I opened the chamber door so that Iain could clean my bedchamber and prepare the bed.”
“You were in the chamber when this was being done?”
The Cardinal shook his head.
“I was sitting here with Lord Glenbuchat on matters of business. I dictated some letters, for his lordship acts in the position of my secretary as well as chancellor.” The old man smiled wanly. “Thus have the Kings of England and Scotland in exile fallen on hard times.”
“It was the secret report from our agent which prompted me to open the safe,” added Glenbuchat. “I saw the jewellery box was gone. We questioned the household first. His Majesty was reluctant to send for outside assistance in case the news was spread abroad. But I hope we have your assurance of discretion.”
If it was an implied question, Volpe chose to ignore it.
“So, what you are saying is that the theft must have occurred in the hours when His Eminence left the bedchamber and went to attend early morning mass and the time when he returned to this apartment, there being no other opportunity for anyone to enter the chamber and remove the jewels?”
The Mammoth Book of Perfect Crimes & Impossible Mysteries Page 51
