Goodnight Sweet Prince lfp-1

by David Dickinson

  There was a whispered dialogue between Powerscourt and Dawnay. McKenzie and his colleague had raised the temporary stretcher. As they marched slowly through the wood Powerscourt could hear the Dead March from Saul booming in his head. As the pall bearers passed over fallen branches their boots sounded like pistol shots in the dark.

  ‘Do you think he was murdered, Lord Francis?’ said Dawnay, walking through a dark glade.

  ‘There are a number of possibilities.’ Powerscourt was always amazed to find his analytical powers still operating, however bizarre the circumstances. ‘Possibility Number One,’ he groped for a frozen finger in the gloom, ‘is that the murderer of Prince Eddy decided to kill Lancaster too. For reasons unknown. Perhaps relating to the conversations the equerries must have had among each other after the death. Perhaps relating to the conversations they had with me. But I doubt it. William McKenzie was the best tracker of man or animal the British Army ever possessed. He tells me only one set of footsteps went to Lancaster’s last resting place. I believe him absolutely. So it may be suicide.

  ‘Possibility Number Two,’ he continued, noting with alarm that the stretcher ahead had nearly lost its load, ‘is that Lancaster was the murderer. He was, you will recall, the man on guard for most of the night Prince Eddy was killed. He had the time. He had ample opportunity. Overcome with remorse, he takes his own life. Our job is over. We know the murderer. We can all go home.’

  ‘Do you really believe that, Lord Francis?’ Dawnay sounded highly dubious about Possibility Number Two.

  ‘Possibility Number Three is that he killed himself because he knew too much. Maybe he knew who the murderer was. Maybe he couldn’t bear to tell us. Maybe he couldn’t bear to betray a friend.’

  The light was getting brighter now. Shepstone’s house suddenly loomed out of the faint morning mist.

  ‘How do you think we should get in? Ring the front door? Good morning, we’ve brought a corpse for breakfast. Have you got any porridge?’ Powerscourt felt flippancy spreading over him, like a disease.

  ‘I fancy we may have to rely on the talents of your friend McKenzie,’ said Dawnay, smiling despite himself at the thought of porridge. ‘If he can bring you out of the main house with only the vaguest idea of how to get in or out, a Shepstone burglary should be easy enough.’

  An hour and a half later, Sir Bartle Shepstone came downstairs in his best Paisley dressing-gown, a Christmas present from his sister some years before, to meet the most unusual collection of guests. One was obviously dead and was lying on the kitchen table, the blood on his face and jacket drying into strange patterns. Working round the body was Dr Spencer, talking to himself occasionally and writing frequent notes in a small black pocketbook. Powerscourt and Dawnay were drinking tea from his best china cups. There was a smell of burning toast in the air.

  ‘Sir Bartle,’ Powerscourt began after one moment of shock and silence, perhaps in tribute to the dead man, ‘may I apologise for our early arrival. Major Dawnay, you know. This is Dr Spencer whom I presume you also know. This was Lord Lancaster.’ He pointed to the kitchen table. ‘We found him in the forest a few hours ago. Dr Spencer is carrying out the normal medical inquiries at a time like this. We think he may have committed suicide.’

  Sir Bartle Shepstone gathered his dressing-gown around him and surveyed the field of battle.

  ‘Quite so, Lord Powerscourt, quite so. Good morning, gentlemen. I presume you have brought Lord Lancaster here because you felt the main house was out of bounds.’

  ‘On this of all days, we did,’ Powerscourt replied, wondering precisely how Shepstone had won his Victoria Cross. ‘Major Dawnay and I felt the house with all its sorrow was not the place for another cadaver.’

  ‘Quite so. Quite so,’ said Sir Bartle. ‘I think I shall get dressed now. Any chance of a cup of tea?’

  11

  Suter called them to attention in Sandringham House two hours later, Sir Bartle Shepstone looking completely unperturbed by the strange invasion of his house earlier that day, Dawnay looking elegant in a discreet tweed suit. Rosebery had reappeared from London in a dark blue pinstripe. A footman brought an envelope for Powerscourt, who stuffed it absent-mindedly into his pocket.

  Powerscourt was peering idly out of the great windows where rain, sometimes sleet, was washing away the snow of previous days. Occasional parcels of snow and ice from the roof were tumbling on to the Sandringham lawns. Some of the evidence might be washed away on the roof. The rest would melt on the grass.

  ‘I think we should begin with a short moment of silence for Lord Lancaster,’ said Suter at his most sanctimonious. ‘If he had not come to this house, from friendship and from duty, maybe death would not have called him away.’

  Suter bowed his head. Shepstone crossed himself slowly and mouthed what looked to Powerscourt like the Lord’s Prayer. Dawnay looked resolutely at the carpet, eyes open, lips not moving. Maybe he’s lost his faith, thought Powerscourt, fresh interest developing in the efficient Major. Rosebery looked impassive. Powerscourt himself scurried through the Nunc Dimittis.

  ‘I turn now to the arrangements for this morning.’ Suter returned to Private Secretary mode. ‘At 8.30 I propose to bring the members of the family into Prince Eddy’s room. This will be for what could be described as the last vigil. Those present will be described in their positions in tomorrow morning’s newspapers. All those involved have given their consent.’

  ‘I’m afraid that was my idea.’ Dawnay, the unbeliever, spoke apologetically. ‘For the lie to stick, I felt we had to conform as closely as possible to the events that would have occurred if the lie were true, if you see what I mean.’

  Sir Bartle came to his rescue, his white beard looking more than ever like that of some Old Testament prophet.

  ‘I am sure you are right, Dawnay.’ The prophet shall speak to the unbeliever, thought Powerscourt. ‘If Prince Eddy were really dying, all the members of the family would gather round his bed for his last hours. For the final vigil. I am not sure myself that I should wish to be surrounded by all the members of my family as I passed away, but there it is. That is undoubtedly what this family would do.’

  Private Secretary, Comptroller of the Household and the ubiquitous Major Dawnay departed to the chamber of death on the upper floor.

  ‘Charades, my dear Francis.’ Rosebery sounded weary. ‘They’re going to play charades upstairs over that poor boy’s last moments. This family are very good at them. They’re just going to have another round.’ Rosebery had taken up his favourite position, leaning on the mantelpiece, his legs crossed in front of the fire. ‘Charades are their life after all. Their whole existence is one long protracted game of charades. They spend their time dressing up, quite literally in the case of the Prince of Wales with his scores and scores of uniforms. Dressing up defines who you are. When you have on that uniform, be it Colonel of the Guards or the weeping widow in black, everybody knows what you are. Everybody knows who you are. So do you. As long as you enter the part with vigour, as they will, no doubt, this morning, all will be well. Royalty’s on parade, it’s time for charades – play up and play the game.

  ‘But come, Francis,’ Rosebery tore himself away from Royal Charades, ‘what does our postman friend bring you this morning? Is the death toll about to rise yet again?’

  Powerscourt suddenly remembered the letter in his pocket. It was simply addressed. Lord Francis Powerscourt, Sandringham House. Powerscourt opened the envelope carefully. The letter was written on Sandringham House notepaper.

  Dear Lord Powerscourt,

  By the time you read this, I shall be dead. I am sorry for all the trouble I am causing to my family and friends and to yourself.

  I am sure you will come to understand that I had no choice. I could do no other.

  Semper Fidelis.

  Lancaster

  Powerscourt read the letter twice and handed it to Rosebery. He could see in his mind the tall young man, hair blowing in the wind, walking alongside him on
that blustery beach at Hunstanton two days before. He heard the cries of the gulls. He saw again the look of supplication in Lancaster’s eyes as he told him about the smashed picture on the floor. He imagined a solemn younger version of Lancaster – twelve years old, had he said? – reciting a section of Byron’s Childe Harold to his school. Lancaster himself had joined the ranks of those who would not come back:

  ‘the unreturning brave, – alas!

  Ere evening to be trodden like the grass.’

  ‘How tragic, how tragic,’ said Rosebery, handing the letter back to his friend.

  Upstairs, Sir Bartle Shepstone smoothed out his paper and began to read, in a firm steady voice.

  ‘“The Times, 15th January 1892. We have received from General Sir Bartle Shepstone, Comptroller and Treasurer of the Household, the following description of the Duke’s last hours and death:

  ‘“‘Sandringham, Norfolk, Thursday, 14th January 1892. After the issue of the evening report of the 13th relating to His Royal Highness the Duke of Clarence and Avondale there was a decided improvement in his condition, which continued up to 2 a.m. on the 14th, and a reassuring message was sent to the Queen at midnight. At 2 a.m.,”’ Shepstone paused in his reading to let the time sink in, ‘“serious collapse came on which threatened to be immediately fatal; and the members of the Royal Family were summoned to his bedside.”’

  ‘Semper Fidelis, Powerscourt, Semper Fidelis,’ repeated Rosebery. ‘Is that the motto of his family or of his regiment?’

  ‘It could be either,’ said Powerscourt, ‘but I don’t think he means it in quite that sense.’ He glanced again at the letter as if it might have more to say. ‘I suspect it means what it says. Forever Faithful, Always True, Always Loyal. But it could mean loyalty or faith to almost anybody, don’t you see? Did he mean faithful to Prince Eddy because he knew why he was killed and could not say? Did he know that dark secret in Eddy’s past which led to his bloody demise? Quite possibly he did. Then again, did it mean that he knew the dark secret and dared not speak of it through loyalty? Was he being faithful to the good name of the Royal Family? Was he being faithful to the nation, loyal to his country?

  ‘Or, look at it another way, Rosebery, did he know who the murderer was? Or what motive the murderer had for killing Eddy? Was he shielding his friend, the murderer? Semper Fidelis, Forever Faithful, always loyal to his friend?’

  ‘“‘The Reverend F. A. J. Hervey, domestic chaplain to the Prince of Wales, was therefore sent for, and read the prayers for the dying in the presence of the assembled family. His Royal Highness gradually sank, and expired peacefully about 9.10 a.m.’”’

  Outside the small window there were noises of manoeuvre on the gravel. A group of horsemen were practising with an empty gun carriage, the last bier for the dead man on his final journey from Sandringham, through the Norwich Gates, down to the royal station at Wolferton, on to Datchet station and the Chapel of St George at Windsor. At nine o’clock the royal party in Prince Eddy’s bedroom began their last separate prayers for the dead.

  ‘At present,’ Powerscourt looked both defiant and very determined to Rosebery, like one who has taken up a great challenge and will not let it go, ‘I do not know what Semper Fidelis meant when Lancaster wrote it. The minds of those about to commit suicide are seldom at their clearest. But I knew him slightly, I know his family slightly. Before this sorry affair is over, I am going to find out the answer. To his death and to his memory, I too shall be Semper Fidelis.’

  In the nation’s capital the first news of the death of the heir presumptive reached the Mansion House.

  ‘Our beloved son passed away this morning. Albert Edward’

  The Great Bell of St Paul’s tolled its sad message across the city. As the Royal Family began to shuffle from the bedroom, other messages followed down the telegraph lines to London.

  ‘Sandringham, 9.08 a.m. A change for the worse has taken place, and fear not much hope. Shepstone.’

  ‘Sandringham, 9.35 a.m. His Royal Highness passed away at about 9.10 this morning. Shepstone.’

  Part Three

  The Journey to Venice

  12

  Lord Francis Powerscourt was staring intently at the Basin of St Mark, crowded with the shipping of Venice. One whole wall of the great drawing-room of his house at Rokesley Hall was covered with reproductions of Venetian canvases, limpid panoramas of the Serenissima by Canaletto, the solemn oligarchy of fifteenth-century Venice, painted by Gentile Bellini, clad in their most resplendent robes, parading round St Mark’s Square in honour of a new Doge.

  Here Powerscourt found comfort. Here he could relax. Eight days in Sandringham had left him drained, as if he had been living in a hothouse. A Hothouse of Death where the inmates came to worship, feeding off the rituals and the details of doom. He had walked for one whole day since his return to Northamptonshire, through the great Rockingham forest and across his fields to Fotheringhay. Now at last he could talk to Lord Johnny Fitzgerald in peace.

  Lord Johnny had replaced the beer of King’s Lynn with two bottles of Nuits St Georges. Fine burgundy, he assured Powerscourt, is a powerful stimulant to thought.

  ‘Johnny . . .’ Powerscourt tore himself away from his Venetian daydream, wondering if the nobles processing around Piazza San Marco were as difficult to deal with as the British Royal Family. ‘It’s time to take stock.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about this murder too, Francis. I don’t feel we have very much to go on. Did those old miseries ever let you talk to members of the family about what happened on the night he was killed?’

  ‘There are many old miseries up there, Johnny. The particular old misery you are referring to on this occasion is Sir William Suter, Housemaster of Sandringham.’

  Powerscourt remembered bitterly his entreaties to the Private Secretary. If he was meant to investigate, then surely he must be allowed to ask a few questions. Did they want him to attempt to solve this terrible crime or not? Did they have any idea of how difficult his task was when he had no information to go on?

  It was a waste of time. Sir William assured him that nobody had heard anything at all unusual, that he need not bother himself with inquiries that would lead him nowhere and cause needless offence to members of a family under severe strain.

  ‘Do you think they had anything to hide? Could they have been protecting one of their own? Was that why they wouldn’t talk?’ Lord Johnny had finished his business with the corkscrew and was eyeing a rich ruby glass of Nuits St Georges.

  ‘They may have. They may well have. But I don’t think we should start there. Now then, Johnny, let’s go right back to the beginning. Who might want to kill Prince Eddy, Duke of Clarence and Avondale?’

  ‘All right, all right, let’s think about motives.’ Fitzgerald took a sip of wine to aid his mental processes. ‘Suppose you’re the Government. I don’t mean any particular minister, just the Government in general. There’s Victoria, entombed in black in Windsor or Osborne or Balmoral or wherever it is in perpetual mourning for Albert and John Brown. She’s not going to last much longer. Then they get Edward on the throne. King Tum Tum himself.’

  Powerscourt wondered if the burgundy had the power to turn its consumers into republicans, the tricolour exported not by force of arms but by dusty bottles and Premier Crus.

  ‘Edward VII, he’ll be, won’t he?’ Lord Johnny went on. ‘I think they could probably cope with him all right. The Government, I mean. They’ll just invent lots of ceremonial stuff so he can dress up all the time. But look what they get then on the throne of England. They get that listless homosexual half-wit. Or they would have got him. You’re not going to be very happy as Prime Minister or Foreign Secretary going in to bat for Britain with that clown at the top of the order. So why not get rid of him now? How’s that?’ Johnny Fitzgerald looked pleased with himself, as if he had just clean bowled an opening batsman facing his first ball.

  ‘Perhaps they did, Johnny. That’s not bad at all. One of those equerri
es, in the pay of one of those secret departments Shepstone told me about, sets off to Sandringham to save the nation. I think it’s entirely possible. Only one thing makes me wonder about it.’

  ‘What’s that, Francis, you’re not going to tell me that Governments suffer from fits of morality?’

  ‘Certainly not,’ Powerscourt laughed. ‘But I just wonder about time scales. Different people have different time scales, I think. If you’re the Royals, Rosebery tells me, you have a very long time scale indeed, even longer than aristocrats. You think of the survival of your house, the crown on each succeeding head, twenty, fifty years into the future.

  ‘But if you’re the Government, you have a very short time scale. You don’t think much beyond the next election. Eddy wasn’t going to be a real problem until he came to the throne, and that would have been some time away, way beyond the next time the country goes to the polls. That’s why I don’t think it very likely the Government did it. But it’s not impossible.’

  ‘Government as twenty to one outsiders in the Prince Eddy Memorial Stakes, then.’ Lord Johnny drew his fingers into a pinnacle and eyed them carefully. ‘Family Time now,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Happy Families. Royal Families. Family Life. Family Death. Which of his relations might want to get rid of him? Let’s begin with Victoria.’

  Lord Johnny moved the pinnacle of his fingertips to a crown above his head. ‘You’re the Queen. You’re the Empress, first emperor in Britain since the Romans. You’re Victoria, waterfalls, whole swathes of Australia, railway stations named after you. You want your family to remain on the throne for ever. You have grave doubts about our earlier friend Edward King Tum Tum on the throne, your throne. But think of the doubts you must have about his eldest son.