Goodnight Sweet Prince

by David Dickinson

  The little man laughed.

  Powerscourt was looking closely at his meagre wardrobe. He should have thought of something suitable before he left London, something mild and reassuring. Not that dark suit, he’d look like a policeman. Not that grey, even if it was well cut, he’d look like a policeman off duty. The brown suit, that was all there was left. That didn’t look too threatening. A blue shirt. Anybody could wear a blue shirt. Now then, had he brought it with him? He had. Here was an Old Etonian tie, a currency still valid, even in Italy. Especially in St Mark’s Square where you hoped to meet another former pupil. Maybe the headmaster would feel proud of these old boys’ reunions happening all over the place.

  Six thirty. Soon it would be time to go. He didn’t have a plan. But he did have what he hoped would be the least threatening order of conversation. Your mother, Lady Blanche Gresham. I met her recently. She was looking well. Always good for a minute or two, people exchanging horror stories about their mothers. Religion. The road to Rome. I’ve often thought of it myself as a matter of fact. Louisa. My condolences to another who had lost a wife. God forgive me, Caroline.

  Six forty. There was a knock at the door.

  ‘He has not left the hotel yet, the Lord Gresham. He is still at the Pellegrini.’ Pannone was looking nearly as anxious as Powerscourt. ‘The waiters are taking up their positions. The night is clear. So they will be able to see everything. Sometimes it is so gloomy the Lord Gresham could walk past and you would never know he had been there. I have inspected the room at Florian’s for the dinner. It is not as good as the one we have here, but it would do. You will try to persuade him to come here, Lord Powerscourt? I would feel that things were under the control then, you know?’

  Powerscourt assured the hotel manager that every effort would be made to return to the Danieli.

  Five to seven.

  ‘Is it time to go yet, Mr Pannone? What do you think?’

  ‘It is only two or three minutes to your position, Lord Powerscourt. But we don’t want to be late. Not tonight, I think.’

  Seven o’clock. The bells were very loud. Powerscourt jumped. Of course, he remembered. They’re only a hundred feet away, those bells, on the far side of the Basilica of St Mark.

  Behind him lay the Doges’ Palace, the Piazzetta linking St Mark’s Square with the waterfront, and the dark waters of the lagoon. To his left, the great square of San Marco was deserted now, save for a few visitors waiting for their evening meal. There was a cold breeze from the sea. Above, to his right, there was another lion, one of the studious lions, with the gospel between its paws. Pax Tibi Marce. Peace be with you, Mark. Amen to that, thought Powerscourt, shivering slightly with the wind and his nerves.

  Ten past seven. Mr Pannone appeared suddenly without warning. He must have come along the front of the church where the light was poorest.

  ‘Everything is ready. He do not leave the Hotel Pellegrini yet. Perhaps he is the fast walker. You see my man over there by the Campanile? With the gondolier’s hat? The hat is the key, my lord. When he knows the Lord Gresham is just about to enter the piazza, Sandro over there, he wave the hat. To the right means he is coming down the Mercerie. To the centre, the Lord Gresham come down the Calle dei Fabbri in the middle. To the left, and he come out at the bottom of the square. Good?’

  ‘Good. Very good,’ said Powerscourt.

  Idling over the little bridges, poised expectantly by shop fronts at the bottom of streets, reading the menus in the lighted windows of the restaurants, the waiters loitered for their prey. A wave to the end of the street, a lifted hat, sometimes a whistle, and the word would be passed on down those tortuous Venetian alleyways. Lord Edward Gresham is coming. He’s coming this way.

  Twenty past seven. St Mark’s Square was virtually deserted. The pigeons had taken over, ruthless scavengers of the detritus of the day. It’s a stage, thought Powerscourt. What had Napoleon called it, St Mark’s Square? The finest drawing-room in Europe, that was it. But it was not a drawing-room tonight. Tonight it was the grandest stage in Venice, waiting for a two-man show. The actors are coming. The audience are waiting, peering through the windows in the grimy buildings, box seats available in Florian’s and in Quadri’s on the other side of the square, standing room only on top of the Basilica, up there with the four lions. Good view. Rather cold. Low prices.

  Pannone had disappeared. Sandro the gondolier’s hat was standing impassively under his bell tower. Only very close up could you see that his eyes were patrolling the far side of the square in regular arcs, like the beam of a lighthouse, only quicker. And that his eyes never stopped moving. They hardly blinked at all.

  Seven thirty. Maybe he’s not coming, thought Powerscourt. Maybe he’s got cold feet. He’s too tired. He smells a rat. He’s going to eat at the Trattoria alla Madonna, or the Ai Gondolieri. He’s going to eat at his hotel.

  The management regrets. All those holding tickets for this performance will receive a refund in the foyer. Our sincere apologies, ladies and gentlemen, this performance is cancelled.

  Mr Pannone waited at the desk in his office. He took a large pinch of snuff. He was a general waiting for reports from the battlefield. But there was no news. The reports had dried up. He walked to his window and looked out across the waters, his mind scurrying up and down the streets and the byways of San Marco. Where was the Lord Gresham? Was the Lord Powerscourt going to be all right? He looked tense, almost frail, waiting there under his lion. What had Rosebery said? His work is very difficult. Please look after him.

  Twenty to eight. Powerscourt wondered if he ought to pray. After all, the church was only a few feet away, full of its pirate booty. He decided God wouldn’t approve. A group of elderly nuns, bent into the wind, were crossing the centre of the square very slowly, as if the sins of the world were extra heavy this evening. The pigeons scattered as they passed. Their wrinkled hands moved slowly round the rosaries, late evening prayers in the heart of Venice.

  The gondolier’s hat! It was moving at last! Sandro’s hat, under the Campanile, was pointing to the right. Gresham must be coming down the Mercerie after all. At last. Powerscourt found that his legs were shaking. Steady, he said to himself, steady. He walked out towards the middle of the Piazza San Marco to make his rendezvous with Lord Edward Gresham, sometime equerry to the murdered Prince Eddy, late Duke of Clarence and Avondale.

  Behind him he heard running footsteps. Sandro, Sandro the hat was racing at full speed towards the Hotel Danieli. For Mr Pannone, the reports of the evening were beginning. Only fifteen minutes late.

  22

  The curtain has gone up, thought Powerscourt. The audience are settling down. The prompter is waiting in the wings. If he walked a fraction more to his right he should be in speaking range of Gresham in less than a minute. Grand view the audience must be having, the two principals right in the centre of the square. All the world’s a stage, all the men and women merely players.

  ‘Lord Gresham?’ said Powerscourt, as if not sure that he recognized the figure in the long black coat.

  The young man stared desperately round the square. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Sandro the hat, disappearing round the corner of the Doges’ Palace.

  ‘Lord Gresham! It is you! How very nice to see you. What a pleasant surprise.’

  Was that a flicker of fear in Gresham’s eyes? He looked round again as if thinking of running for it. The square was so big there was no place to hide.

  Greshams don’t cry. Greshams don’t run away.

  ‘Lord Powerscourt! My goodness me! Here in the middle of Venice. How nice to see you again.’

  I’m not quite sure you mean that, Powerscourt said to himself, not sure at all. Uncle, he thought, I’m an uncle, I’m an old friend of the family. That’s what the script says for now.

  ‘Lord Gresham, you must be here on holiday, like me. Venice is always at its best in the winter.’

  I’m on holiday, thought Powerscourt, I’m not here on business, definitely not bu
siness. And certainly I’m not investigating, I’m not looking for a killer, not here in St Mark’s Square.

  ‘But come, my dear Gresham, I was not looking forward to having dinner on my own. You can feel a bit lonely. Will you join me? I am staying in the Danieli just round the corner.’

  ‘Lord Powerscourt, that is very kind. But I have booked a table at Florian’s over there. I made it for one, but I’m sure they can manage two.’

  ‘Are you sure? The Danieli is very pleasant, the food is good there . . .’

  ‘Well, they were very nice to me in Florian’s this lunchtime. I wouldn’t want to let them down.’

  They were inside Florian’s in a couple of minutes, Gresham turning abruptly on his heel as they went in, staring, staring once more at the empty square.

  So far so good, thought Powerscourt.

  Another messenger was running round the corner to the seafront. Mr Pannone’s report service was swinging into action.

  ‘Lord Gresham.’ Signor Lippi himself met them at the doorway, his silver rings looking extra bright this evening. The gondolier. ‘At lunch you were one. Now you are two!’ He laughed. ‘Tonight we have the big family party in here. We were going to squeeze you in round at the back, if you were one. But now, you are two, why, we give you the little upstairs room. It will be more peaceful without the great noise of the family Morosini down here. And you can look out at the view over the piazza.’

  The room was lined in a dark blue material flecked with gold. There were pictures of Venetian churches on the walls. The curtains were left open, the great square stretching away from them into the night. Perhaps they’re letting more spectators in now, thought Powerscourt, these are the best seats in the house.

  He looked carefully at the young man, now the candles shone on his face. This was not the Gresham he had met and talked to at Sandringham. The Venetian Gresham looked as if he might be falling apart. His collar was not properly adjusted. He hadn’t shaved very carefully, a tuft of stubble on his neck. The eyes were wild.

  ‘Have you been to Venice before, Lord Gresham?’ said Powerscourt, man of the world.

  ‘I have. I’ve only been once before. But I loved it so much I’ve always wanted to come back.’

  That would have been with his mother, Powerscourt said to himself, when Gresham was sixteen years old.

  ‘Have you been here a lot, Lord Powerscourt? Do you know the city well?’

  ‘Are you two gentlemen ready to order?’

  Gresham started as the waiter offered the menu.

  ‘Please, do take more time if you wish.’ There were echoes of Manhattan as the head waiter hovered round their little table. This must be the man who went to America, Powerscourt remembered, even if Mr Pannone thought it wasn’t as good as London and Paris.

  ‘Giovanni!’ Lord Gresham smiled. ‘How nice to see you again. This is Lord Powerscourt. Also from England.’

  The waiter bowed. He took the orders.

  Antipasto di Frutti di Mare, read Pannone in his office a few moments later, the seafood salad for the starter. His mind automatically translated all Italian menus into English. Then Brodo di Pesce, the soup of fish, Risi e Bisi, the risotto flavoured with the peas and bacon, two Faraona con la Peverada, the guinea fowl with the special sauce. The bottle of Chablis to start with. Then the Lord Powerscourt ordered the two bottles of Châteauneuf du Pape. That should be good with the guinea fowl. Pannone remembered his conversation with Signor Lippi earlier that afternoon.

  ‘These English, they all drink far more than we do, I think. I have watched them. You must have watched them too, Signor Lippi. So I think we pour plenty of wine at the young man early on. Plenty of it. Maybe he talk more freely after that. Maybe he tell the Lord Powerscourt what he wish to know.’

  ‘You were asking if I knew Venice well, Lord Gresham. I have been here a number of times. But I wouldn’t say I know it well. I keep getting lost, even now. I don’t think you can ever know Venice well. There are too many surprises.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ said Gresham, inspecting a large lobster claw from the seafood salad. ‘But I don’t think you could ever get tired of it. Oh, thank you very much.’

  Giovanni, the American waiter, was refilling Gresham’s glass, for the second time. The Chablis went well with the fish.

  ‘Have you been to all of these churches? The ones on the walls, I mean.’ Powerscourt moved his religious pawn slowly up the board.

  ‘I’ve been to Mass in San Marco. That was fantastic. And I went to the Frari this afternoon.’ Gresham was looking closely at a mirror above Powerscourt’s head.

  ‘Forgive me,’ said Powerscourt, dismembering a bright red spider crab, ‘are you a believer? In the Catholic faith, I mean. I always think those services must mean so much more if you belong to that faith.’

  ‘They do, they do,’ said Gresham, polishing off the last of the prawns. ‘And I am, I am a Catholic, I mean. I converted a couple of years ago. It means a lot to me.’

  ‘I have often thought about it,’ said Powerscourt. ‘So many people make the journey to Rome these days. Is it difficult? The converting, that is.’

  ‘The whole thing is quite difficult,’ said the young man, with the air of a religious veteran. The plates were being cleared away. Fresh cutlery was being laid. The Chablis was nearly finished. ‘But then, you wouldn’t expect a proper religion to be easy, would you? I had terrible trouble with my mother. She couldn’t see why I was doing it. She refused to come to the service where I was accepted into the faith. The priest said that she would understand in the end. I think the end may be a long time coming.’

  Gresham laughed grimly. The last of the Chablis was poured into his glass. Risotto and fish soup replaced the skeletons of the seafood. Still he stared intently at the mirror.

  ‘It was after my wife died. That was when I thought of converting to Catholicism.’ Powerscourt was moving a knight, or was it a bishop, up the board. ‘It was so terrible. I really wanted what they call the consolation of religion. I kept going to church services, different ones, all over the place. In so many of the Anglican ones I felt they were just speaking the words. Oh, the words are beautiful, very beautiful. But I didn’t think they meant anything very much to the people saying them. How is that soup, by the way?’

  Keep the proprieties going. Good manners to the end. We’re British, aren’t we? Old Etonians all?

  ‘The soup is excellent. Your risotto looks very good too. But tell me, Lord Powerscourt, how long ago did your wife die?’

  A flock of pigeons shot past the window, heading for calmer quarters. The wind had risen and was blowing the day’s rubbish across the square.

  ‘Caroline?’ said Powerscourt, chasing his risotto’s last few peas across his plate. ‘Caroline died seven years, three months and five days ago.’

  Silence fell across the table.

  ‘She died in a shipping accident. She was drowned. Our little boy was with her. He was only two years old.’

  Briefly Powerscourt hated himself. He hated himself for using these devices on the young man, unaware that the confidences were rehearsed, the intimacy merely a ploy. He looked out into the square, empty now. I wrote most of this script, he said to himself. He’s making it up as he goes along.

  ‘You can still remember the day after all these years,’ said Gresham, leaning back in his chair as the table was cleared once more.

  ‘Lord Gresham. Lord Powerscourt. Now we have the guinea fowl, and the vegetables, and the little salad. And we leave you for a while. Please, help yourselves to the red wine. It is far too good to waste.’ Giovanni bowed deeply and closed the doors.

  Another message sped round to the Danieli. First two courses gone. Serious talk. Not much laughter. Young man drinking too fast. Pannone added it to his pile and stared moodily out to sea.

  ‘I can indeed remember the day,’ Powerscourt carried on sadly. ‘I don’t think you ever forget it. I don’t think you ever can.’

  ‘My wif
e died too, Lord Powerscourt. Last year. It was 14th June. I shall always remember it.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, so sorry,’ said Powerscourt gently, refilling Gresham’s glass with the red wine.

  ‘Louisa and I were so happy.’ Gresham chewed reflectively at his guinea fowl. ‘She was a Catholic too. That’s why I converted. She said her parents wouldn’t approve of our getting married unless she was marrying another Catholic. She was so beautiful, Lord Powerscourt, so beautiful. I knew the minute I saw her that I had to marry her. I knew we would be so happy together.’ Gresham drank absent-mindedly from his glass, eyes staring inward now into some private memories of his own.

  ‘How did you lose her? If you don’t mind my asking?’ Powerscourt spoke in his softest voice. It could all go wrong here, he thought. Terribly wrong.

  ‘It’s a long story. Do you mind if it’s a long story?’

  Powerscourt waved his arm at the room and the view outside. Welcome to the confessional, he thought. May the Lord have mercy on your sins.

  ‘My dear Lord Gresham, the night is young. Time does not matter much, here in Venice. They’ve had so much of it already. Please go on.’

  The young man refilled his glass.

  ‘Shortly before we were married, Louisa and I met Prince Eddy. I can’t remember where. It doesn’t matter now. It doesn’t matter at all. But, anyway, he used to come and see us a lot after we were married. He’d just turn up out of the blue. Sometimes he would stay. Sometimes he would stay for days. I think he too was a little in love with Louisa. I mean, anybody would have been in love with Louisa. She was so beautiful.’

  Powerscourt poured himself a glass of Châteauneuf du Pape. Did they use this wine in their services, those Popes from Avignon all those years ago? The body and blood of Christ, grown on the Pope’s own vineyards. Drink this in remembrance of me.

  ‘Sometimes he would call when I was away with the regiment. You know, manoeuvres, training camps, that sort of thing.’ Gresham shivered slightly. He continued his demolition work on the guinea fowl’s leg, now staring intently at the wallpaper. ‘He came to stay again last year when I was away. It took me four months to find out what happened, what really happened, I mean. You see there was only one other person in the house at the time. When it happened. The maid. And she ran away. She disappeared. She vanished right off the face of the earth as if she had never existed. I looked for her everywhere. I looked for her at her parents’ house in the little village she came from in Yorkshire. The funny thing is, she was called Louisa too. Louisa Powell. From Yorkshire.’