‘And the blackmail? The blackmail of the Prince of Wales last autumn?’ Suter was still tidying up the loose ends, composing no doubt in his mind the final memorandum for his master.
‘I am not certain about that’, said Powerscourt. But I think what happened was this. One of the young men on the Britannia, name of Robinson, from Dorchester on Thames, died of his syphilis last summer. The payments from the Prince of Wales stopped. The family were hard up suddenly. So the father tried to restart the payments on his own. I saw both The Times and the Illustrated London News in the hall of his house. I can imagine him cutting them up with the scissors and paste. Then I think the other parents realised what was going on. The matter was cleared up. The payments started again. The blackmail notes ceased.’
‘And where is Gresham now?’ said Shepstone.
‘He is in Italy still. He is going to Florence, maybe to Arezzo, then Perugia. His final destination is Rome. After he has confessed his sins he intends to shoot himself. That’s what he told me. I believe him. I don’t think he will be alive for Easter.’
‘Lord Powerscourt, we are so grateful to you, so relieved that we know the truth of this sad and terrible affair.’
Sir William Suter seemed anxious to get rid of them, ushering them into the Marlborough House corridor. As they walked down the stairs, Powerscourt turned to Rosebery.
‘Damn. I’ve forgotten my little black book. I don’t want to leave it in there.’
He sped back the way they had come. As he opened the door, they looked surprised and embarrassed to see him. The efficient Major Dawnay had joined them. They were poring over a map of Italy, laid out on the table.
‘My book. I forgot it. I’m so sorry. Good day to you, gentlemen.’
Rosebery was waiting for him outside Marlborough House.
‘Well done, Francis, well done. That seems to have brought the affair to a close.’
‘I hope you’re right, Rosebery. I do hope you’re right.’
25
Lord Francis Powerscourt was waiting for Lady Lucy Hamilton in a box at the Royal Albert Hall, waiting for a performance of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony.
That dreadful Prince Albert, he thought as he waited, there’s his great gold statue just over the road, brooding over Kensington Gardens. There’s his son, the Prince of Wales, whose life had not been improved by his father’s tyrannical upbringing. There’s his late grandson, murdered for his lust, the cisterns of his lust. Maybe they’ve met already on the other side. He didn’t think Albert would have a lot in common with the late Prince Eddy, Duke of Clarence and Avondale.
‘What good deeds did you perform in your time on earth, Grandson Eddy?’
‘I gave a lot of people syphilis, Grandfather.’
Then she was opening the door, wearing that Anna Karenina coat again.
‘Lady Lucy! How very very nice to see you!’
‘How kind of you to invite me, Lord Francis. And a box too! I have always been very fond of Beethoven.’
They settled down, two of them, in a box large enough for eight.
‘Lord Francis.’ Lady Lucy was peering down into the auditorium one floor below them. ‘The whole place is like one of those Roman amphitheatres like the one in Verona or Orange. Is there room for bread and circuses down there, do you think?’
Powerscourt wasn’t sure about the bread. But there was plenty of room for circuses. He saw himself in the imperial box at the Colosseum. He was Augustus, maybe Nero. Down beneath two gladiators were coming to the end of a brutal fight. Both were wounded, blood flowing fast into the hot Roman earth. One appeared to have vanquished the other, standing above his victim, sword poised, ready to strike. The Roman mob were baying for blood. Nero Powerscourt turned to his consort to ask what fate should befall the man below. His consort was touching his arm again.
‘Look, Francis. The conductor.’ Lady Lucy was oblivious to her role as Queen of the Games.
The conductor, Herr Dr Hirsch, from Vienna, was a very tall thin man, beginning to go bald. He was picking nervously at his shirt cuffs as he took up his position. He prepared his orchestra, a smile here, a wave of the baton there. The audience were still rustling in their seats, checking their programmes, chatting to their friends. Herr Hirsch brought Beethoven’s Ninth whispering into action. Very softly, very gently. Then Beethoven summoned his audience with a fanfare of drums and brass. Pay attention in the back! Stop your chattering, good citizens of Berlin or Hamburg or London! I am taking you on a journey! I, Beethoven!
For two movements marches, dances, sometimes lyrical, sometimes martial, swept across the audience. The conductor used his baton in great stroking movements, never pausing to look down at the score in front of him. Already perspiration was forming a glistening sheen across his forehead.
But the third movement took them to a different world.
It started with what sounded like a hymn, a melancholy sound, a sound of ineffable sadness. Beethoven is lamenting the misery of this world, thought Powerscourt, sitting very still in his box. Sunt lacrimae rerum. That’s what it is, Virgil’s lines from the Aeneid translated into music by a fifty-year-old German genius. There are tears in the middle of everything, a sadness at the heart of the universe. Tears in the midst of all things.
Then it swept off into another mode.
Love flowed out into the Albert Hall.
Love floated through the roof and hovered over London.
Then love turned and went ever higher, spinning, sweeping, soaring, into a realm beyond the planets, beyond the Milky Way.
Shards of God’s love floated back from the spheres and drifted down to earth like stardust.
The conductor was leaning forward now, his baton caressing the strings as if he was brushing at something ever so delicate, like a butterfly’s wings. Down in the arena there was a terrible stillness as if the audience were preparing themselves for a journey to Beethoven’s universe of love. Behind them in the box the six empty chairs waited. Angels are coming, thought Powerscourt, angels are coming down to listen to the music. They will sit here patiently, wings furled. Then they will float up and rise above the streets of Kensington to join the anthem of love in the constellations above.
Love suffers long and is kind: love beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things. One of the angels is reading a lesson, thought Powerscourt, a lesson for Lady Lucy and me, here in our box at the Albert Hall. Love never faileth; but where there be prophecies they shall fail, where there be tongues they shall cease, where there be knowledge, it shall pass away. There abideth three things, faith, hope, love. And the greatest of these is love. The angel sat down again. The music soared on.
Love was now very far away, knocking at the gates of heaven, somewhere far far above the streets of London, sweeping majestically towards the infinite. Beethoven’s love. God’s love.
When the movement ended Powerscourt turned, very quietly, to look at Lady Lucy beside him. She was smiling gently, her eyes filled with tears. Sunt lacrimae rerum. As the fourth movement brought the Albert Hall back to earth, Powerscourt searched through his pockets. You couldn’t speak. Not in here. Not now. Beethoven might get cross. God might send a thunderbolt. Did he have a pen? He must have a pen somewhere. He did. Was there anything to write on? No, only an old copy of a newspaper rolled up in his pocket. He picked it out. He found an empty space inside an advertisement for Colman’s Mustard. He composed his message.
‘Lucy. I love you. Will you marry me? Francis.’
He tapped her lightly on the shoulder and passed her the crumpled paper, pointing shyly to his proposal.
Lady Lucy smiled at him. The tears had gone. She made writing gestures at him. What on earth was she doing, making those signs with her hand? Then he realised. Lady Lucy didn’t have a pen. He gave her his. This is what life is going to be like from now on, he thought. Sharing things, sharing pens, sharing programmes at the Albert Hall, sharing love.
The paper came back. T
he reply was hidden inside another advertisement, this one for Bird’s Eye Custard. Powerscourt thought he would have preferred the mustard. He’d always hated custard.
‘Francis. Of course I will marry you. Love. Lucy.’
She took the newspaper from him and placed it carefully in her bag. You couldn’t trust men to remember to keep things like that, she thought. Not even Francis. Well, maybe Francis.
Beethoven was now on the final movement of his symphony. The chorus were on their feet. Schiller’s ‘Ode to Joy’ bellowed out across the auditorium. The waltzes and the marches from earlier on returned to take another bow.
‘May he who has had the fortune
To gain a true friend
And he who has won a noble wife
Join in our jubilation!’
Lady Lucy sent out a small hand to hold Powerscourt’s. It was all right in the dark. Nobody could see. Suddenly she didn’t care who saw. She wanted to shout, to sing out her own hymn of love and happiness found with Beethoven and with Schiller. And with Francis. Her own Ode to Joy.
‘Be embraced, Millions
Take this kiss for all the world!
Brothers, surely a loving Father
Dwells above the canopy of stars.
Do you sink before him, Millions?
World, do you sense your Creator?
Seek him then beyond the stars!
He must dwell beyond the stars.’
‘Francis.’ Lady Lucy Hamilton and Lord Francis Powerscourt were returning to Markham Square in a cab, rattling along the Cromwell Road. ‘I don’t need to call you Lord Francis any more, do I? Not now, I mean. And you don’t have to call me Lady Lucy either.’ She was nestling against his shoulder. It was very cold outside.
‘Well, I always think of you as Lady Lucy. In my mind, I mean.’
‘Oh, I shan’t mind at all if you want to go on calling me Lady Lucy. It shows proper respect, don’t you think?’
Powerscourt laughed. ‘What are you going to tell Robert?’
‘Ah, Robert. Robert,’ said Lady Lucy, snuggling ever closer into Powerscourt’s shoulder. ‘Do you know, he asked me the other day if I was going to marry you. Just like that. I think one of the boys’ mothers at the school has just remarried. That must have put it into his head.’
She remembered the conversation, Robert glad to be diverted from Latin nouns, second declension homework, she herself struggling with the latest Henry James.
‘Are you going to marry Lord Powerscourt, Mama?’
Lady Lucy composed herself. What a strange thing for Robert to say. Why, she’d only been thinking about it herself a few minutes ago. It was hard to get into, this Henry James.
‘Well, darling . . .’ She wondered what to tell him. I’d better tell him the truth, she thought, best to start early. ‘I would if he asked me. But he hasn’t asked me yet.’
‘Is he going to ask you?’
‘I expect so. I expect he’ll get round to it one day. Probably.’
‘And then you’ll say yes?’
‘Yes,’ his mother laughed. ‘Yes, I’ll say yes.’
Somehow Robert knew that Lord Powerscourt would ask the question. After all, his mother was so pretty. All the boys at school said so.
‘What will you think about that, Robert? If we do get married.’
‘Well, he’s not very good at knots and things like that for my boat,’ said Robert, practically.
‘I expect he’s thinking about other things. He usually is.’
Lady Lucy told Robert that Powerscourt was an investigator, that he solved mysteries, sometimes murders. Sometimes he did secret work for the Government, like when he went to Venice. The little boy’s eyes grew bigger and bigger.
‘Was he doing secret work when he went to Venice? Was he thinking about the mystery when we were at the Round Pond? Wow! Wow!’ There was a pause while this intelligence sank in. ‘Mama?’
‘Yes, my darling?’
‘Can I tell the boys at school? If you decide to get married. About what he does. Lord Francis, I mean. The Investigator.’
‘Just a little, darling. Just a little.’
The cab was on the final stretch now, progress slow along the King’s Road in Chelsea. There was a full moon, occasionally visible above the roofs of Sloane Square.
‘So, you see, Francis, I don’t think there will be any trouble from Robert.’
‘I see. Will I have to turn up in disguise sometimes? To give a good impression to Robert, I mean. False beard? Dressed as a washerwoman?’
The cab had drawn up at 25 Markham Square.
‘Francis, won’t you come in for a while? Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘That would be delightful, Lady Lucy,’ said Powerscourt, paying off the driver. ‘Quite delightful.’
It was late when he let himself into his sister’s house in St James’s Square. Lady Rosalind was still up.
‘Francis,’ she said, pretending to rearrange the cushions on one of her settees. ‘You’re back very late. How was the Beethoven? How is Lady Lucy? Any news?’
Powerscourt knew as surely as if she had written it on the windows that she suspected he might have proposed to Lady Lucy. She’d been dropping hints for days.
‘The concert was excellent. Lady Lucy is very well.’
‘Anything to report? Anything new?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘No news then?’ said Lady Rosalind sadly. But she was looking at her brother very closely indeed as if he was hiding something.
Powerscourt smiled an enormous smile. I can’t help looking happy, dammit, he said to himself. But I’m not going to satisfy her curiosity at a quarter to one in the morning. ‘I think I shall go to bed now, Rosalind.’ He kissed his sister on the cheek.
‘Pembridge! Pembridge! Are you asleep?’
Lady Rosalind shook her husband vigorously. He gave the impression of being asleep, but it was best to make sure.
‘Pembridge! Listen to me!’
Pembridge struggled back to life. ‘For God’s sake, woman. Look at the time.’
‘That’s precisely what I mean. The time. Francis has just come in. Just this minute. At a quarter to one in the morning. That concert will have finished by 10.30 at the latest. And he’s grinning from ear to ear. I think he may have done it.’
‘Done what?’ said the sleeping Pembridge.
‘Proposed to her, you fool! To Lady Lucy!’
‘Did you ask him?’ said Pembridge sensibly.
‘I did. Of course I did,’ replied his wife testily. ‘He said there was no news to report. He said that twice. But he was smiling all the time. I do wonder, though. I just wonder.’
Early the following morning Lady Lucy Hamilton was lying in bed in Markham Square, wondering where she should be married to Lord Francis Powerscourt. Should they go to her family home in Scotland, a chieftain’s castle full of the relics of war and long cold corridors? Should they go to Francis’ place in Northamptonshire? Or should they have the service in London, in St James’s Piccadilly or St George’s Hanover Square? She wasn’t quite sure what you should wear for a second wedding. Whatever it was, she was sure she hadn’t got it. She began thinking seriously about a new outfit, and, most definitely, a new hat.
Lord Francis Powerscourt was lying in bed in St James’s Square, wondering where he should be married to Lady Lucy Hamilton. Could they have it in Rokesley, he wondered, in his own little church, the service conducted by his own vicar with the beautiful voice, with the local choir singing out of tune? Maybe Lady Lucy would want to be married in Scotland where her people came from. No doubt, he sighed, his sisters would have their own views.
There was a great noise coming up the stairs. Someone was pounding up them very fast.
‘Francis! For God’s sake! It’s still in bed you are! Will you look at the time, man. Look at the time.’
‘Lord Johnny Fitzgerald, good morning. You’re in my bedroom at a quarter to eight in the morning. Has there b
een a revolution or something? Is the nation in danger?’
‘Get dressed, Francis. And then you can read this.’
Fitzgerald was clutching a copy of The Times.
‘I can read the paper before I get out of bed, if I have to. I do believe I may have done it before. Which section of The Times do you wish to draw to my attention? Births, Marriages and Deaths? The financial pages? The football scores?’
‘I don’t understand how people can be flippant before they have even got out of bed, Francis, I really don’t. Look, it’s here. Page four, small piece down near the bottom.’
Unrest in Ireland. Train Derailed near Crewe. No, not those. Presidential Election News from Washington. No. This must be it.
Mysterious Death in Perugia
From our correspondent
The body of a man was found early this morning in one of Italy’s most distinguished pieces of sculpture. His throat had been cut from ear to ear. The major arteries in the rest of his person had also been cut. There were marks on the hands and feet, said to be similar to those of Christ crucified.
The corpse was discovered in the Fontana Maggiore in the centre of Perugia. The Fontana was designed by Nicola and Giovanni Pisano in 1275 to be the symbol of medieval Perugia. Artistic experts believe it to be one of the finest examples of thirteenth-century sculpture in Europe.
‘Is there any breakfast in this house, Francis? Any hope of breakfast? Why don’t I go downstairs and get something to eat. You can catch me up, if you can manage to get yourself out of bed.’
The body was discovered by a group of nuns on their way to an early morning service in the Cathedral. They described the fountain as running with blood. They also reported that the water was still red when they left the Cathedral, even though the body had been removed.
Powerscourt could see Lord Edward Gresham, his eyes staring into mirrors with messages, running up and down the alleys of Venice, describing the great love affair of his life. My Louisa. So beautiful. Had he gone to join her like this, his throat cut by some unknown assassin, comforted by nuns at the last? He read on:
Goodnight Sweet Prince lfp-1 Page 28
