‘Powerscourt,’ the Prime Minister rose from his sofa at last, ‘we’re obliged to you for the loan of your house. I’d be even more grateful if you could manage some
champagne. Governor, Mr Burke, could you attend to the financial paperwork and so on with Mr Messel? Soon to be Lord Messel, God help us all. Bring the fellow up here, McDonnell. We must drink a
toast! To the salvation of the City!’
Welcome, Mr Messel, thought Powerscourt bitterly, welcome to the higher hypocrisies. Welcome to the insider’s world. Welcome to the club. Welcome to the Jubilee. Welcome to Britain as it
is in the year of Our Lord 1897.
‘Could I just have a private word, Prime Minister?’ Powerscourt closed the door on the departing financiers. He told the Prime Minister what had happened. He showed
him the letter from the kidnappers, already slightly crumpled from being taken out and read so many times. He wondered what the Prime Minister would do. He knew that men said he was one of the most
ruthless political operators of the century, that the corridors and the committee rooms of the Palace of Westminster were littered with the corpses of his political opponents. His first response
was not what Powerscourt expected at all.
‘My God, Powerscourt,’ the Prime Minister said, ‘the last hour and a half must have been torture for you, listening to these negotiations and McDonnell running up and down the
stairs. It must have been hell. Why didn’t you tell me before?’
‘I didn’t think it was fair,’ said Powerscourt sadly. ‘You can see that if these negotiations had failed, then Harrison’s Bank would have fallen and Lady Lucy could
have been back in this house this evening.’
He looked quickly round the room as if his wife might just float in through the window.
‘By God, you must find her, Powerscourt!’ The Prime Minister paused, stroking his beard. The Powerscourt cat had made an unexpected entrance. It curled up happily on the Prime
Minister’s lap, purring loudly that it had found a new friend.
‘Let me tell you what I can do,’ he went on, scratching the cat’s chin as he spoke. ‘I can put the resources of the State at your disposal. If you want a regiment or two,
you can have them. If you want a couple of destroyers moored off the coast of Brighton you can have them. If you want Brighton sealed off by the authorities, we can do it.’
He paused. A look of distaste passed across his features. This was going to be the bit Powerscourt dreaded. He knew what was coming.
‘Let me also tell you what I cannot do, my friend.’ The cat seemed to sense that its new friend was false. It leapt off the Prime Minister’s lap and settled at
Powerscourt’s feet. ‘I have had the honour to serve Her Majesty as her Prime Minister for seven years now. In that time I have done whatever I thought necessary to preserve liberty and
the constitution at home and the power and reputation of this country abroad. But one thing I cannot do, however much personal circumstances might work on my heart.’
He looked rather sadly at Powerscourt.
‘I cannot give in to blackmail, wherever it comes from. Government would become impossible. Thanks to your skill, this wicked plot has been uncovered and repulsed. I cannot have that
victory thrown away. They say, Lord Powerscourt, that you are the most accomplished investigator in the land. I have no doubt that you will succeed in rescuing Lady Powerscourt from this
contemptible gang of sordid blackmailers. Let us know if there is anything you need.’
‘All I need,’ said Powerscourt bitterly, ‘is the one thing I haven’t got. Time. I’ve got less than four days to find her now.’
‘With all my heart I wish you Godspeed,’ said the Prime Minister, rising to extricate himself from a difficult situation. ‘We shall all pray for your success.’
The train was full of families going down to Brighton for the day. Powerscourt noticed that his uniform acted as a magnet for the small children. They stared at him shyly,
peering out from behind their hands, hiding round the backs of the adults. He was sharing his compartment with a family of six, accompanied by their parents.
‘Can I have a ride on the donkeys, Papa?’ asked a small girl of about seven.
‘Can we go on the pier, Papa?’ – this from a boy of about ten.
‘Can we go out in a boat?’ said a future sailor, then about eight years old.
‘Yes, yes and yes!’ laughed their father, gathering three of his brood onto his lap. ‘We’re going to have such a good day!’
Powerscourt smiled the complicit smile of parenthood. It was, he realized, the first time he had smiled in the last eighteen hours. He hoped that he too would have a good day, but he rather
doubted it. Hold on, Lucy, he said to himself as the train roared through the great tunnel a few miles from Brighton and the sea. Hold on Lucy, I’m coming.
He found Johnny Fitzgerald eating a steak pie and drinking lemonade in the hotel by Brighton station.
‘Are you feeling all right, Johnny?’ asked Powerscourt.
‘I’m fine,’ said Fitzgerald, ‘but I’ve had a terrible morning.’
‘The lemonade, Johnny.’ Powerscourt pressed on. ‘I’ve never seen you drink lemonade before in all my life. And I’ve known you over twenty years.’
‘I tell you what, Francis.’ Fitzgerald had turned serious now. ‘I went for a walk along the sea front late last night when most of the citizens had gone to bed. And I said to
myself that I’m not going to take another drop until we have found Lucy. Not another drop.’
A tall man of about forty, wearing cricket whites, approached their table.
‘Forgive me,’ said the cricketer, ‘would you gentlemen be Lord Francis Powerscourt and Lord Johnny Fitzgerald?’
Powerscourt froze. His hand went automatically into the right-hand jacket pocket of his uniform. Surely they could not have been identified so soon? Johnny Fitzgerald’s hand tightened on
his lemonade glass as if he would turn it into a weapon. You could cut somebody’s face open with a broken glass of lemonade.
‘We are,’ Powerscourt said quietly. The man in the flannels, he saw, had watched them both very carefully.
‘Chief Inspector Robin Tait of the Sussex Constabulary,’ said the man. He showed them a piece of paper with his credentials. ‘We have been warned about your problems. I have a
team of six men at your disposal, sir.’ He bowed slightly to Powerscourt. ‘Most of them, like me, are in cricket clothes to look as unlike policemen as possible. More officers, the
entire resources of the Sussex Constabulary, are on standby for your call, if we need them. I understand we are looking for a party of three or four people, one of them a woman. Do you by any
chance have a photograph of the lady so we know who we are looking for?’
Powerscourt produced a recent photograph of Lady Lucy and handed it over reluctantly. He always carried it with him. He felt that in some irrational way he was losing Lucy yet again, giving her
over to the care of the Brighton police force. Still, at least they wouldn’t kidnap her.
‘Let me sum up our thoughts, Chief Inspector.’ Powerscourt managed another smile in the direction of the white-flannelled Chief Inspector. ‘We know that the party boarded a
train from London to Brighton last night, two men and a woman. My first instinct was that they would stay in a hotel as I did not think they would have had the time to make earlier plans which
could have involved renting houses or other accornmodation. We have three days to find them. If we do not, Lady Lucy will be killed. If either Johnny Fitzgerald or myself or any police officers in
uniform or plain clothes are seen looking for them, they will start to mistreat my wife. I think you should read this.’
Powerscourt took out the kidnap note and handed it to Tait. He swore softly as he read it.
‘There’s a problem with these hotels, Francis.’ Fitzgerald had finished his steak pie. ‘I found a porter who had seen them arrive at Brighton station. He said Lucy looked
unwell. But I haven’t been able to find anybody who drove them to wherever they were going. And these hotels aren’t very co-operative at all. I’ve tried six of them so far. But
they have people checking in and out all the time. They don’t remember anybody very well.’
‘Lord Powerscourt,’ said the Chief Inspector, handing him back the message, ‘I have the manpower to check out all these hotels by the end of the day. I should be able to do so
with the men under my command, and these are all hand-picked for tact and discretion, and, if you will allow me to say so, for not looking at all like police officers. Now we have a description of
the lady, it should be easier. I think you gentlemen should keep out of sight for the hours of daylight at least.’
‘It breaks my heart, Chief Inspector,’ said Powerscourt sadly, ‘that I should not be able to take part in this search. But if I were spotted, and anything were to happen to
Lucy, I could never forgive myself. And I think that applies to you too, Johnny.’
The Chief Inspector rose to his feet. ‘I propose to begin the search immediately. There is a quiet hotel not two minutes from here called the Prince Regent. We have already checked that
the people we are looking for are not there. Could I suggest that we meet there in a few hours’ time. If we have any luck before then I shall let you know.’
Lady Lucy knew they were drugging her. She thought they put something in the tea. She felt very dazed all the time. She thought at first that she was in a private house until
something impersonal about the furniture and the pictures suggested she was in a hotel. The curtains were kept half drawn. Her captors spoke very little, sometimes in German and sometimes in
English. One was always on duty, watching by the windows, scanning the passers-by, inspecting the pavements. Lady Lucy thought she could smell the sea. As she drifted in and out of sleep she
wondered where Francis was. She saw him pacing up and down the drawing room in Markham Square, she saw him just a few days ago at the cricket match, marching back to the pavilion after his long
spell at the crease, his bat tucked under his arm.
Francis will find me, she whispered to herself. Francis will find me.
From the window of his room in the Prince Regent, Powerscourt could just see the sea. Johnny Fitzgerald had gone to buy himself some really disreputable clothes.
‘My own mother won’t recognize me when I’ve finished with myself,’ he assured his friend.
Over to the right the West Pier was thronged with visitors. Sailing boats were taking parties of visitors for trips around the coast. Overhead the seagulls made their patterns and their
arabesques against a blue sky flecked with small white clouds. Powerscourt had always thought Brighton was a rather raffish place, a magnet for confidence tricksters and hucksters of every
description. He thought of Lydia Bennet in
Pride and Prejudice
for whom a visit to Brighton comprised every possibility of earthly happiness, rows and rows of tents stretching forth filled
with young and handsome officers and Lydia herself tenderly flirting with at least six of them at once. But Powerscourt was not thinking of young and handsome officers. He was racking his brains
for memories of a siege or a sudden assault where the defenders held captives who had to be taken alive or the war was lost. For he knew that his problems were by no means over if and when they
found Lady Lucy. How did they get her out? They could storm the building with the Prime Minister’s regiments or the massed ranks of the Sussex Constabulary but one of the ruffians could cut
Lady Lucy’s throat before they surrendered. Powerscourt and his forces could try to climb in through the windows, if the windows were big enough, but there would still be time for Lady Lucy
to suffer. Shortly before six o’clock he thought he had found the answer. He tried to find flaws in his scheme. He was sure it wasn’t perfect, but it was the best he could do. He
hastened to the telegraph office and sent two messages to London, asking for a special kind of reinforcements.
At seven o’clock the Chief Inspector returned. ‘No luck so far, my lord,’ he said to Powerscourt, who was sprawled across one of the Prince Regent’s better sofas.
‘We have worked our way along the sea front and have nearly reached the end. Then we are going to begin working back into the town.’
‘Damn, damn, damn,’ said Powerscourt. Suddenly he had an idea. ‘Can you get me a boat, Inspector? I would like to take a sail along the sea front and look at the
hotels.’
‘A boat? Of course we can get you a boat. We make occasional use of one or two of the fishermen’s vessels. But I would not recommend you boarding one right on the main sea front,
there are too many people about. If you walk out past Kemptown towards Rottingdean over there,’ Tait pointed out Powerscourt’s route from the hotel window, ‘we shall pick you up
there. I’ll get you a fisherman’s jersey, my lord, you’ll look less conspicuous.’
One hour later Powerscourt was sitting beside Tait as they made their way out into the English Channel.
‘How far out do you want to go, sir?’ asked the fisherman, a bronzed young man with tattoos down his arms.
‘Hold on a minute and I’ll tell you,’ said Powerscourt, pulling a pair of binoculars from his pocket. ‘I want to be so far out that I can see everything but nobody on
shore could see me.’ He fiddled with the lenses. ‘About one hundred yards further and that should be fine.’
‘Very good, sir,’ said the fisherman. Powerscourt noticed that many of the tattoos showed warships of Her Majesty’s Navy.
What an extraordinary sight it was, Powerscourt thought, as the boat made its way slowly along the Brighton shore. There were elegant Regency squares, some rotting now with the wind and the
spray, others gleaming happily in the light. There were military rows like Brunswick Terrace over towards Hove where the houses were lined up in orderly precision, standing shoulder to shoulder
like privates on parade. There were other grander buildings, hotels in the Second Empire style, that looked like architectural equivalents of Lydia Bennet, dressed up in frills and furbelows to the
height of fashion to capture the hearts of the military buildings nearby. And in the centre of it all, set back from the sea, one of Europe’s most improbable constructions, the Brighton
Pavilion with its domes and echoes of the Orient improbably transplanted into the mundane earth of Sussex.