Taking a deep breath he opened the bedroom door. The bed curtains were partly closed but the jewellery hastily piled on the small table indicated that Sarah had tactfully withdrawn. On closer inspection it was with considerable annoyance he saw she had not removed herself after all. She lay there much as he had left her at the conclusion of their rumbustious and exhausting lovemaking.
He looked down on her with distaste, lying in a very indecorous position, naked except for the long string of pearls, which were her own, around her neck.
How extremely disagreeable of her. The agreed arrangement was to tug the bellrope connected to the stables, summoning a carriage which would be waiting in readiness to tactfully remove her before his return.
With the bed curtains still only partially open, he coughed loudly.
Sarah did not move. He approached the bed and reaching out a hand to stroke that fleshy wrist, the next instant he realised why there had been no response to his touch.
Sarah would no longer tempt him again, or his brother, or any other man.
Sarah, Marchioness of Creeve, was dead. Dead in his royal bed.
With a shout of terror, he rushed out, having the presence of mind to slam the door shut behind him as a thousand terrible images went through his mind in rapid succession of the appalling inconvenience of such a frightful discovery.
In the withdrawing room Henry had been joined by Lord Percy Wellsby, the second groom. They sprang to their feet.
‘There’s – there’s been an accident—’ The prince threw open the bedroom door, pointed to the bed. ‘She is – dead!’ he shrieked.
The two grooms followed him warily. Lord Percy, who was squeamish, retired hastily to be sick. Lord Henry who was made of sterner stuff merely averted his eyes and stood firmly by the prince’s side. Percy returned and together they awaited instructions while their royal master, moaning and sweating profusely, stumbled to a chair. He sat down, his eyes rolling wildly.
What to do next? God only knew! He had never in his life, never in his wildest dreams, encountered such a situation as this.
A dead woman in his bed. A corpse who was the wife of the Marquis of Creeve and – perhaps even worse – the current mistress of his younger brother. What a scandal. He was shivering, he had not the slightest idea what to do in such circumstances. How fortunate that his father, mad King George, would never hear of it. As for his mother – he shuddered, returned to the state of very naughty, misguided and wilful child, his unchanging image in her eyes for almost fifty years.
Lord Henry took the initiative, came forward. Eyes that were identical in colour to the prince’s own stared down at him.
‘Are you ill, Sire, shall we summon Dr Bliss?’ he asked gently.
The prince stared at him. ‘How can he help me? Are you mad?’ How could a physician help?
Except to whisper to all the world the dreadful secret that lay behind his bedroom door. Stumbling to his feet again, he opened the door into the corridor and hastily closed it again on the group of guards who, perhaps aware of a disturbance within, lingered alert and at the ready on the threshold.
‘Get rid of them,’ he said. ‘Tell them – everything is well. Anything, but get rid of them. No one must know,’ he babbled. ‘No one – it must go no further than this room. Do you understand?’
Henry, bewildered, exchanged a glance with Percy and did as he was told. The prince leaned his head against the slightly opened door and moaned, listening to murmurs about a slight accident. His Royal Highness, it appeared, had fallen and hurt his leg. There were shakes of the head, sympathetic nods, knowing that the prince was a martyr already to gout, deuced painful too.
‘What are we to do?’
The grooms, not surprisingly, frowned and tried to look as if they were giving the matter intelligent thought, nervously averting their eyes from the royal bedroom from which the prince had emerged like a bat out of hell.
Suddenly the prince lost all control, threw up his hands and sobbing, burst out of the royal apartments to the astonishment of the guards, accustomed as they were to the unexplained tantrums and shrieks of their royal master.
At that moment, Brummell chose to make his appearance, his high heels clattering along the polished floor, his attire a little awry. He was in an ill humour, controlling with difficulty his extreme displeasure at this untimely summons from a very satisfying night in one of the flash houses, those brothels disguised as gaming houses in Brighton’s less salubrious areas.
Simultaneously, like a scene from a very bad play by Mr Sheridan, Tam Eildor also appeared from his room at the other end of the corridor to see what the disturbance was all about.
There the curtain rightly should have fallen on this particularly dramatic moment, but alas the curtain was about to rise on Act II: Confusion.
With considerable difficulty the prince took control of the situation.
‘Ah, Brummell, there you are,’ he snapped, taking refuge in the obvious.
‘Sire,’ said Brummell, bowing stiffly.
As the prince took Tam’s arm, ushered him forward, Tam realised that he was shaking, his terror communicated itself as he said:
‘This is Mr Eildor, sole survivor of the Royal Stuart which sank last night. As you will no doubt recall, now that you see the living evidence before you, we will be pleased to accept the 200 guineas that you now owe us. You have our permission to withdraw.’
But Brummell was in no hurry. Taking up his quizzing-glass in leisurely fashion, he examined Tam closely, while Tam realised there was something more to do with the prince’s white-faced anguish than winning or losing a bet.
Curious by nature, eager to find some new topic of gossip, Brummell also was aware of something amiss as he gave this survivor of the shipwreck his full attention. He did not look in the least like a shipwrecked mariner and, suspicious by nature, Brummell’s reaction was that he was being tricked by the prince into parting with 200 guineas.
He bowed to Tam. ‘My congratulations, sir. Perhaps you would be so good as to honour me with your company, in order that I might hear more of your ordeal, over a glass of claret—’
‘We cannot allow that,’ the prince interrupted. And showing remarkable sensitivity, ‘To relive such – such moments.’ And seizing Tam’s arm. ‘Can you not observe how shaken this gentleman is by his experience?’ he demanded.
Tam regarded this outburst with faint amusement seeing that he was by far the calmer of the two and it was the prince himself who might have emerged, sweating and pale, from the ordeal of shipwreck. At the same time he was understanding the reasons for his regal treatment, a splendid repast and a handsome room. He was merely the object of a royal bet.
It was also obvious, since the two men displayed such signs of disagreement, that there were cracks in the once boon companionship, that chilly royal stare the eventual bottom line for those who briefly enjoyed their hour of glory.
And Brummell had lasted longer than most. He had seen numerous men with more claims to nobility than his humble origins, rise and slide back into oblivion, while he eyed their dismay with slight contempt, secure in the certainty that such would never be his own fate.
But Brummell’s popularity spelt his own downfall. Adored by men and women alike, venerated as a royal dandy, he was viewed by Prince George with increasing jealousy, soured by an incident at Belvoir Castle in which Brummell, out riding in a fur pelisse, was mistaken by the great number of people who had assembled and saluted – this arrogant son of a clerk – as the future King of England.
It was intolerable and worse was to follow. His antipathy towards Mrs Fitzherbert – the feeling was mutual – and his constantly disparaging remarks concerning her dress sense and her ample figure soon found their way back to the prince’s ears, his fate sealed by the public declaration (presumably relating to sartorial matters): ‘I made the Prince of Wales what he is and I can unmake him.’
There were obviously more scores to settle than a gambling debt, Tam dec
ided, as Brummell’s quizzing-glass remained fixed upon him. Regarding him narrowly, and in direct disobedience to the royal command, Brummell said: ‘Perhaps you will join me for a glass of claret, before you resume your journey to – where was it?’
Tam pretended not to hear and bowed. ‘I will be delighted to accept your kind invitation, sir,’ he said, realising that he would be hustled away from the Pavilion at the earliest and have no chance of further encounters with Beau Brummell who, receiving a dismissive wave of the royal hand, glared angrily at his former dearest friend and, turning on his heels, clattered back the way he had come.
‘Thank you for your kindness, Your Royal Highness, but as I am now quite restored to health and strength, have I your permission to leave,’ asked Tam, ‘to resume my journey?’
Even as he said the words, he wondered where on earth he was supposed to be going.
The prince’s eyes rolled heavenward as he remembered the scene he had just left. He glanced wildly at the three men before him. Who could he trust to dispose of Sarah’s corpse? His son, Henry – Percy perhaps. Then he turned his gaze to Tam. But who better than Mr Eildor?
Mr Eildor was an Edinburgh lawyer, after all. He was also, more importantly, a stranger.
The prince’s mind worked rapidly. A stranger sent by some miracle to relieve him of a dreadful situation. And since he had been presumed lost on the Royal Stuart, his purpose served, he was also conveniently disposable.
He made up his mind.
‘Follow me, Mr Eildor.’ To Henry and Percy he said, ‘Remain here, within call. We are not to be disturbed.’ And with a stifled sob, he threw open the door of his bedroom.
Chapter Five
Although the curtains were still drawn Prince George was heartily glad that he had thrown a sheet over Sarah’s corpse. Even then he had to admit that a naked female body wearing nothing but a string of pearls was a sordid sight.
Again he thought how extremely disagreeable it was of her to die in his bed, especially with the Masque Ball at Creeve House that evening. Frederick would be there. Suddenly he felt very cold indeed as he motioned Tam toward the bed.
Tam who wasn’t squeamish in the least regarded the body with distaste.
‘Dead, ain’t she. That’s for sure,’ said the prince in a hollow voice.
‘She is indeed, Your Royal Highness, no doubt about that. And not only dead, I’m afraid she has been murdered.’
‘Murdered! That cannot be! There must be some mistake. Who would dare?’
‘Someone dared.’ And Tam pointed to the rope of pearls which had been wound very tightly around her neck.
‘Could it have been an accident?’ asked the prince clutching at straws. Tam moved the body so that he could see that the pearls had been twisted to form a garrotte.
The prince leaned against the bedpost. Dead was bad enough, getting rid of a corpse, but a murdered corpse!
He sat down heavily on one of the gilt chairs which gave a creak of protest. He had never experienced anything like this – this lèse majesté – a murdered woman in his bed, the wife of the Marquis of Creeve and, even worse, the mistress of his brother. Now all would be revealed.
He shook his head from side to side, groaning like a wounded beast.
‘Dear God, dear God. What are things coming to? Is no one safe? Murders like this don’t happen in royal residences in the nineteenth century. They call this the age of enlightenment. This sort of thing belongs to less civilised countries, to those vile Italians – the Borgias.’
Tam glanced at him. The future King would be well advised to pay close attention to books recording English history, where it would soon become abundantly clear that palaces and castles were extremely popular settings for getting rid of kings and their royal offspring.
The prince looked up at Tam. ‘But who could have done this to us? We have never harmed anyone.’
A somewhat sweeping and naïve statement since Tam guessed that a litany of the prince’s misdemeanours, of young women ruined and men’s lives destroyed, might have quite comfortably filled several volumes of rather boring reading.
‘Who has had the audacity to incriminate us in such a fearful act?’
Tam gave the prince a searching stare. It was noteworthy, he thought, that none of this chronicle of self-pity included any sorrow or regret for the untimely death of the woman who had shared his bed last night. She had become an embarrassment in her life and worse than that, death had turned her into a terrifying liability, a dreadful source of guilt.
The prince waved a dismissive hand towards the two grooms lingering by the doorway, their faces pale, their expressions shocked and anxious.
Tam would have given much to read their minds, certain they were familiar with the morals or, more correctly, lack of them in the Pavilion. But the naked corpse of a woman was not something they encountered with any regularity in their royal master’s bed. In this instance, not only dead but murdered, she must present a new experience.
He presumed that the prince could rely on their discretion as the door closed and, turning to Tam, he cleared his throat and said: ‘As an Edinburgh lawyer, Mr Eildor, I expect you have dealt with crimes of this nature.’
Hardly, thought Tam, and took refuge in a vague smile.
The prince leaned towards him earnestly. ‘Will you help me in this matter, sir? I would be most grateful for your assistance.’
And through this somewhat bewildering appeal a light began to emerge, as suddenly the whole reason why Tam had been invited to partake of this sordid sight became evident. Who better than a lawyer, a stranger passing through Brighton with no friends? There was something vaguely sinister in all this and Tam did not care for it at all. He scented danger.
Sensing hesitation, the prince said: ‘You will of course be paid. Handsomely, sir, one hundred guineas to assist you on your journey.’
Tam did some rapid calculations. Half of the bet the prince had won from Brummell for producing him as the sole survivor of the shipwreck of the Royal Stuart.
‘Very well, Your Royal Highness.’
Grunting an acknowledgement, the prince turning quickly cannoned into the small table. Tam helped him steady it and looked down on the huddle of coloured stones from which all the magic of rare and exquisite gems had been also removed. Historic and ancient, Tam did not doubt, and worth a king’s ransom. Now they looked worthless and tawdry beside an extinguished human life.
The prince, his hand shaking, pointed to the pearls around the Marchioness’s throat. ‘They – they are her own.’
‘May I know the lady’s identity, Your Royal Highness?’ Tam asked delicately.
The prince gave him a suspicious glance as if this was an intrusion of the royal privacy. ‘Sarah, Marchioness of Creeve, of Creeve House, Lewes.’ An embarrassed throat clearing. ‘A recent acquaintance.’ With a sharp look to see how Tam was taking this audacious statement with all its implications, he went on hurriedly:
‘Do you wish to inspect the room, see how the murderer gained access?’
‘Indeed, yes, and I should like to make some notes.’
Handsome notepaper and pens were produced as Tam walked round looking for means of entrance rather than exit.
‘Would Your Royal Highness care to give me an exact account of the events of last night, so that we can properly reconstruct the scene?’
The prince closed his eyes, cleared his throat and leaned back as if such remembrance threatened to be painful. ‘We left the marchioness at eight o’clock. We know the time exactly since that was when your sinking ship was spotted on the horizon.’
‘The marchioness did not wish to accompany Your Royal Highness.’
‘Not in the least.’ An embarrassment she had spared him, he thought bitterly, and stayed here in the warm luxury of his bed instead to get herself killed.
‘And when Your Royal Highness returned again?’
‘We did not. Instead we stayed with our wife—’ a lowering of brows, rather threat
ening this time – ‘Mrs Fitzherbert at Steine House. We left her at five o’clock when our carriage called as usual to take us for our morning bathe.’
‘Your Royal Highness and Mrs Fitzherbert?’
‘No.’
And Tam realised there was to be some further confusion added to the case by the use of the royal “we” as the prince continued: ‘We then returned to the Pavilion where you, the sole survivor of the shipwreck, were brought to us. After breaking our fast together, we came upstairs immediately – and found this—’ he said with a disgusted shudder.
Tam thought. So the murder could have taken place any time during the last twelve hours.
‘These are our usual morning arrangements before beginning our toilette for the day. We were taken aback to find the marchioness here since, er, any invited guest usually takes her leave of us around seven o’clock. We were horrified – yes, horrified to find her still here – and—’
The prince paused, gulped, cast his eyes heavenward, whispered: ‘And – dead! There is a bell pull,’ he pointed towards the bedhead. ‘It connects with the stables and should have summoned a carriage to return her ladyship to her home in Lewes.’ He did not feel it necessary to mention her convenient apartment nearby, or that she was only returning to Creeve for the Masque that evening.
‘What about her maid, surely she does not travel alone?’
‘In this instance, yes,’ was the stiff reply.
‘This is the usual procedure?’ asked Tam.
How could the prince explain that the delicacy of the situation concerning his brother, York, required the utmost secrecy and discretion. Mere paid servants, however devoted, were subject to bribes, and quite out of the question.
Closing his eyes, he groaned. And now it would all come out. How on earth could it be avoided?
‘Yes.’ He closed his mouth, firmly aware of Tam’s searching glance.
The Stuart Sapphire Page 4