Goodnight Sweet Prince lfp-1

by David Dickinson

‘Thank you, Dr Broadbent.’ Rosebery interrupted him neatly at the end of the sentence. Powerscourt felt Broadbent had been good for another three or four minutes of intervening conditions and unfortunate side effects.

  ‘Let me try to sum up our position with a concrete example.’ Rosebery smiled a thin smile at the medical gentlemen. ‘Let us say the Prince contracted the beginnings of influenza at the end of last week. We already know that he was suffering from a cold. On Friday, two days ago, he is taken seriously ill. Pneumonia symptoms appear quickly. The patient comes and goes in the manner described by Dr Manby over the weekend and through the first three days of next week. By Thursday, he could be dead.’

  ‘I am afraid that that is all too plausible,’ Dr Manby said. ‘Wouldn’t you agree, Broadbent?’

  Surprisingly, Broadbent did. Even more surprising was what Rosebery did next.

  ‘Suter, do you have some pens and paper in here?’

  Sir William produced some from the drawers on the table.

  ‘Gentlemen, I am going to give you some rather gruesome homework. And I am afraid it must be done now. It’s the express wish of the Prince of Wales.’

  Rosebery’s making that up, thought Powerscourt. He’s making it up to make sure they don’t wriggle out of what he wants them to do.

  Rosebery wrote rapidly on five separate sheets of paper. Sunday. Monday. Tuesday. Wednesday. Thursday.

  ‘I would ask you to remember that what you write for the Prince’s condition on Sunday will be the first news to appear in the papers. One bulletin should suffice. It will appear in the Monday editions, Monday’s bulletins appearing on Tuesday and so on. For each day from Monday to Thursday, gentlemen, we require two medical bulletins. They will be signed in your names. They will be pinned up on the railings of Sandringham House and at Marlborough House.

  ‘They can be brief, the bulletins, but they must be plausible. Just a couple of sentences at a time will do. Bring in the pneumonia as you feel appropriate. I think you might write a third bulletin for broadcast late on Wednesday. And I think you should also write one holding version which could be used if we find that we need another one in a hurry. No change in the patient’s condition, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Do you know when you want him to die, Lord Rosebery?’ Manby was looking practical, pen poised over his Sunday hymn sheet.

  ‘I do indeed, Dr Manby. I was just coming to that. Prince Eddy, Duke of Clarence and Avondale, is to die at 9 a.m. on Thursday morning, in time for the papers to prepare special editions for the Friday.

  ‘Now, I suggest that we leave you to this distasteful task. These other gentlemen and I are going to prepare the background material that will be distributed to the newspapers at the same time as the bulletins.’

  Rosebery was now in complete control of the situation. ‘Successful generals,’ he said to the two doctors as he prepared to lead the rest of his small army from the room, ‘leave nothing to chance. Everything is planned. Everything is prepared. If we want our version to be believed, we are asking people to believe in one huge lie. They are much more likely to do so if we can support the big lie with a host of smaller ones.

  ‘We are going,’ he looked at Suter and Shepstone, ‘to invent the host of smaller lies to buttress the bulletins, when he first felt ill, when the first doctor was called, any trips he might have made outdoors, shooting or that sort of thing, which could have brought on or aggravated his condition.’

  ‘Lord Rosebery.’ Broadbent sounded plaintive. ‘Haven’t you forgotten something?’

  ‘I’m sure I have, my dear Broadbent. Please enlighten me. At times like this we need all the help we can get.’

  ‘This is Sunday,’ said Dr Broadbent. ‘Do you mean to say that you intend to get the first bulletin into the papers tomorrow?’

  ‘Indeed I do. That is why you gentlemen must make haste. The Prince of Wales’ special train is waiting to take me at full speed to London. There I shall meet the Queen’s Private Secretary. Together we have an appointment with the editor of The Times early this evening. ‘That is when, for our purposes, the history of this affair will begin to be written. The Official History, I mean. For that other history, the secret history, the history of secrets, could I paraphrase from the Danish play, the rest must be silence.’

  8

  Suter had posted notices of the Service of Prayer for the Sick all round the house and grounds by 10.30 in the morning. It was to start at three o’clock.

  The staff filed into the little church two by two. Butler, footmen, housekeepers, parlourmaids, nursery maids, grooms, gardeners, blacksmiths, carpenters, coachmen, all arrived to insult their separate gods by praying that one already dead might live.

  Powerscourt thought that the prospects of a Resurrection in East Anglia were rather remote. He had planned to spend the time talking to Lancaster, but received a message from Shepstone that his presence was specially requested by the Princess of Wales.

  ‘My soul he doth restore again,’ the congregation sang, slowly at first, and then with more conviction as the tune took hold.

  ‘And me to walk doth make

  Within the paths of righteousness,

  E’en for his own name’s sake.’

  The singing was quite loud now, floating out from the little church across the white landscape and the frozen lakes.

  ‘Yea, though I walk in death’s dark vale,

  Yet will I fear none ill:

  For thou art with me, and thy rod

  And staff me comfort still.’

  On the upper floor of Sandringham House Shepstone’s special forces moved with extraordinary speed. Prince Eddy’s bed and all the bedclothes were rushed out of his room and buried in the woods. The carpet was removed, the floor scrubbed, and a new bed with clean sheets installed. Mats that were almost indistinguishable from the previous carpet were laid upon the floor. His bloody clothes were taken away and a new series of pictures of his family, borrowed from his mother’s quarters, placed on the dressing-table. His old dress uniform which had been splattered with blood was replaced with a cleaner, freshly pressed model.

  ‘O most merciful God, open thine eye of mercy upon this thy servant, Prince Eddy, who most earnestly desireth pardon and forgiveness. Renew in him, most loving Father, whatsoever hath been decayed by the fraud and malice of the devil, or by his own carnal will and frailness . . .’

  Canon Hervey hurried over the words carnal will and frailness. He had been chosen as Rector of Sandringham for the quality of his voice, which appealed to Princess Alexandra, and the brevity of his sermons which appealed to her husband. His beautiful speaking voice filled the little church as the thin afternoon sun lit the stained glass windows of the Last Judgement.

  The embalmers took Prince Eddy’s body away to the top floor, to special attic rooms that were kept locked and whose key was in the sole possession of the Princess of Wales. These had been night nurseries years before, but were later turned into store rooms for her children’s toys.

  So here among a small armada of toy boats for sailing on the lake, among dolls and teddy bears that were gifts from the crowned heads of Europe, and toy soldiers from the armies of Prussia and France, the corpse was cleaned and the embalmer’s art set to work to disguise the ravages of his murder. ‘Somebody may want to see the body,’ Sir Bartle had warned them, ‘so you’d better make it bloody good.’

  ‘Oh Lord, look down from heaven, behold, visit and relieve this thy servant Prince Eddy.’ The congregation were very still, almost all of them on their knees, praying for a Prince who would be their master one day, if he lived. ‘Look upon him with the eyes of thy mercy, defend him from the danger of the enemy, and keep him in perpetual peace and safety, through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.’

  It’s too late, it’s too too late, Powerscourt thought. The danger of the enemy had already struck with terrible force. Eddy might have found perpetual peace, but safety had eluded him.

  Was the murderer in the church, Powerscourt wondere
d suddenly? He gazed desperately at the backs of the congregation, at the members of the Household and the equerries kneeling with their straight backs in the royal pew. These hands clasped together so decorously in prayer, had one pair of them also wielded a knife with the skill of a butcher? Had one of these worshippers a collection of bloodied clothes, hidden away at the back of a cupboard, or thrown into a pit in the woods?

  Sir George Trevelyan, Private Secretary to Queen Victoria, was waiting in Rosebery’s drawing-room in Berkeley Square. The fire had been lit, the carpet swept, the chairs and ornaments dusted. Rosebery’s houses ran like clockwork, whether he was in them or not.

  ‘Sir George, thank you for taking the trouble of coming all the way up from Osborne. I trust you had a pleasant journey?’

  ‘Indeed, I did, Lord Rosebery. There are times, as I am sure you know as well as I do, when it can be a relief to get away, especially when there are a lot of relations in the house.’

  Trevelyan had been in his position for over twenty years. Contemporaries said that he knew how to manage the Queen better than any man since Disraeli – and Disraeli had used outrageous ladlefuls of flattery. Trevelyan didn’t. His management techniques were more oblique: patient campaigns by letter, subtle delaying tactics until the Queen’s wrath had subsided, reminders of how matters had been managed in the past. On at least one occasion, to Rosebery’s certain knowledge, Trevelyan had invented fictitious chapters of English constitutional history to get his way and persuade the Queen onto the proper course. This usually involved sending for Gladstone to form the next Government.

  ‘The relations,’ Rosebery sighed. ‘Ah, yes. I can imagine how you must feel about those relations. But, come, Sir George, I have a terrible tale to relate. When is the man from The Times coming?’

  ‘Barrington should be here in about half an hour. I thought we might need some time together beforehand. He is bringing one of his people with him. Barrington says his own shorthand is completely unintelligible. He can’t even read it himself.’

  Briefly Rosebery related the terrible events at Sandringham. He left nothing out, the deep wounds, the blood sprayed around the room, the prostration of Alexandra and the cold fury of her husband.

  ‘The point is, Trevelyan, the point is this. They want to conceal the nature of the death. They propose to announce on Thursday, this coming Thursday, four days from now, that he died of influenza. My purpose is to warn The Times, to soften them up, if you like, to prepare them for the blow.’

  ‘Good God!’ said Trevelyan. ‘Dear God in heaven. The poor family.’ He closed his eyes for a moment and said a silent prayer. ‘Do you think they are right, Rosebery, to conceal the murder from the world?’

  ‘The time is past when one could speak of right or wrong. They have taken their decision. It is a perilous course. But they were prompted, as you can well imagine, by the fear of scandal and the newspapers prying into all their lives.’

  ‘What should we tell the Queen?’ Trevelyan’s first loyalty was always to his royal mistress, happily surrounded by other members of her family and the waters of the English Channel on the Isle of Wight.

  ‘What should we tell the Queen, indeed.’ Rosebery looked troubled. He paused to stare into the fire. ‘I can only relate the views of the Prince of Wales. He explained his position very clearly to me as I was leaving Sandringham.’

  Prince Edward, wrapped in a dark green cape, had marched Rosebery up and down the little platform at Wolferton station, talking passionately of his fears, the lampposts, adorned with a premature crown for the Prince of Wales, shining bravely against the winter air, the engine already fired up, sending impatient clouds of smoke into the night.

  ‘The Prince of Wales is frightened of his mother. I think he is more frightened of her than of anybody else on earth. He doesn’t want to tell her. He fears her wrath. He fears for her health. Worst of all, he fears that she might not be able to keep such a secret to herself, that the scandal of Eddy’s murder would somehow find its way into public gossip.’

  ‘My God, Rosebery, you could well be right there. The Queen would be bound to tell somebody, probably her favourite daughter in Berlin. In half an hour the thing could be all around the Wihelmstrasse and the Unter den Linden. I don’t think Prime Minister Salisbury would thank for us that.’

  Footsteps could be heard, echoing across one of Rosebery’s marble halls. There was a knock on the door.

  ‘My lord. Sir George. The gentlemen from The Times are here. Mr Barrington. His chief reporter, Mr Johnston.’

  ‘Barrington, how good to see you again! Thank you for coming.’ It was certainly true, thought Rosebery, that Trevelyan was on excellent terms with the man from Printing House Square.

  ‘Please sit down, gentlemen, please.’ Rosebery placed his visitors side by side on a great leather sofa.

  ‘I fear,’ Trevelyan began, ‘that we have some serious news concerning the Duke of Clarence and Avondale.’

  ‘I hope you will have no objections, gentlemen,’ the editor of The Times was at his most charming, ‘if my colleague here makes a shorthand record of our conversation? It helps us to get our facts straight.’

  ‘Of course, of course.’ Trevelyan volleyed back some courtier’s charm of his own. ‘The Duke has contracted a most severe bout of the influenza. Most severe.’

  ‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ said Barrington, assuming already his air of mourning, planning perhaps the black-edged columns around his leader page which would greet a royal death. ‘So many of our great men are suffering from it at present.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘The influenza is raging all across the Continent of Europe. The Bishop of Southwark is in crisis with it. They say that Cardinal Manning is at death’s door.’

  So far so good, thought Rosebery. The ground here is fertile. ‘May I just fill in with a few more details, Mr Barrington? I have come this very evening from Sandringham.’

  ‘Please do, Lord Rosebery, please do. We are most grateful to you.’

  ‘The doctors believe that the illness took serious hold on Friday evening. The most serious development is that the influenza is accompanied by pneumonia. Dr Broadbent, who attended on the recent illness of Prince George, is in attendance. Dr Manby, the local man, a most capable physician, is also on call. I believe that Dr Laking may be summoned over the next twenty-four hours, if he is not already there.’

  Doctors’ names, Rosebery had always felt, would give the lie some serious substance. One man might not be telling the truth, but a trinity of doctors?

  ‘Let me tell you what the proposals are for the dissemination of further information. From tomorrow, regular bulletins about his progress will be posted on the Norwich Gates at Sandringham and at Marlborough House.’

  ‘Who else is in residence at Sandringham House at the moment?’ Barrington leaned forward. Rosebery kept thinking of him as a bloodhound hot on the scent of death. His colleague took shorthand at a prodigious speed, his pen coming to rest a few seconds after the speaker had finished.

  ‘Duke and Duchess of Fife, Duke and Duchess of Teck and their children, Prince and Princess of Wales obviously, Prince George, Princess Maud, Princess Victoria, a number of friends and equerries who had come to celebrate the Prince’s birthday on Friday.’ Rosebery took great care, on Powerscourt’s instructions, not to give the names of any of the equerries. The shorthand pen hurtled across the page, the scratching of the nib filling in the silences as Rosebery spoke.

  ‘We feel,’ Rosebery nodded gravely at Sir George Trevelyan, ‘that the first announcement in the newspapers should confine itself to a bald announcement of the illness, accompanied, if you feel appropriate, by a list of those in residence at Sandringham.’

  ‘Of course, of course.’ Barrington nodded gravely in his turn. If the newspapers were as tame and as docile as this all the time, Rosebery felt, we would not be in such difficulties.

  ‘However, there is some background information about the possible origins of the disease which could, perhap
s, be included on the following day, should the illness persist, of course.’

  ‘The Times would be most grateful to you, Lord Rosebery, Sir George.’ Trevelyan thought that Barrington sounded like the Ambassador from a major power proposing the terms of a treaty at the Foreign Office.

  ‘On Monday of last week the Duke felt unwell as he attended the funeral of Prince Victor of Hohenhoe. On Tuesday he remained at Sandringham. On Wednesday he went shooting – and that, as I am sure you will remember, even in the warmth of London, was a very cold day. On Thursday he felt unwell again and on Friday he felt ill again on his birthday.’

  Suddenly Rosebery felt completely blank. He had forgotten something. Like an actor, he had lost his lines. But there was no prompter, only Trevelyan, and he hadn’t yet read the whole script. Had Eddy attended his birthday dinner party or not? Had he stayed in his room, according to the legend he and Suter and Shepstone had concocted earlier that day? Or had he attended and had to leave early? He simply could not remember.

  He pressed on regardless. ‘And that, gentlemen, is about as much as we can tell you at present.’

  Silence fell on the room, the shorthand nib quiet at last. Barrington looked at his watch.

  ‘Lord Rosebery, Sir George, please forgive me. Time waits for no man, not even The Times.’

  Trevelyan wondered how often he had used that quip in the past twenty years. ‘I must return to my offices. We must include this story in the first editions. We should be on our way. We are most grateful to you. I shall despatch a reporter to Sandringham at once.’

  Times present turned into Times past as the two men were ushered from the room.

  ‘I think that went as well as might have been expected, Lord Rosebery. We need to co-ordinate further plans.’

  ‘Indeed, indeed.’ Rosebery was staring at his empty sofa.

  ‘Do you think Barrington brings that other chap with him everywhere he goes? A silent amanuensis? I don’t believe he spoke a single word all the time he was here.’