Goodnight Sweet Prince (10 page)

‘Are you suggesting, Rosebery,’ Suter sounded like a man going into uncharted waters, ‘that we should write everything down as if it were a play?’

‘I am not sure yet. I think we need to think about it calmly. Can anyone think of the single most important fact that we do not possess? But a fact vital to our success?’

‘Oddly enough, I can. I thought about it this morning, Rose-bery.’ Powerscourt was staring at the snow-covered lake outside.

‘And what do you think it is, Francis?’

‘Quite simply, it is this.’ Powerscourt glanced around the room, Suter looking disturbed by the fire, Sir Bartle looking vacant as if hoping the murder and the cover-up would melt
away, Rosebery pacing up and down the room like a cat. ‘We know it is possible that Prince Eddy could die from influenza. People are dying from it all the time. But we can’t just tell
the world he’s died from it, just like that. There has to be a history, announcements of the illness in the papers and so on. But we don’t know how long it might take. It could take two
days. It could take ten, or twenty. Until we know how long that is, we cannot fix the date for the end of Rosebery’s Act Five. And, don’t you see, until we know the date of the end of
Act Five, we don’t know what to put in the four acts in between. Until we know that, we are, quite simply, in the dark.’

‘Are there any doctors in this house?’ Rosebery was obviously anxious to push things forward. ‘Doctors who know, I mean?’

‘Dr Broadbent is still here. Dr Manby cannot be very far away. I could summon him now.’ Suter looked reassured at the prospect of action in the world of Private Secretaries rather
than playwrights.

‘I suggest you summon them both at once. Perhaps we could reassemble here in one hour’s time.’

Rosebery left the room, beckoning Powerscourt to accompany him. They went out of the front of the house in the unforgiving cold, snow dribbling occasionally on to their thick coats. Soldiers
were everywhere, patrolling discreetly out of sight, making circuits of the lakes and shrubberies. Where did Shepstone’s Major Dawnay get them all from, Powerscourt wondered? He started with
fourteen. Now he must have at least fifty. If it went on like this, Dawnay would have a whole regiment by the end of the week.

The two doctors were a study in contrasts. Manby, tall, slim, looked to be in his early thirties. He had the air of the countryman about him, in his healthy cheeks and his
casual tweeds. Broadbent was a creature of the town or the city, portly, his hair receding, his suit the most respectable black, his bag large and formidable.

A circular table and six dining-room chairs had been appropriated from another room and sat by the corner, waiting for meetings.

‘Dr Manby, Dr Broadbent.’ Suter was at his most unctuous. ‘Thank you for interrupting your business to give us of your wisdom. You both know the circumstances in which we are
placed, and the solution that has been advocated to our difficulties. We just need a little practical advice. Rosebery?’

Courtier to the last, thought Powerscourt. Pass the parcel, pass the body, pass the corpse. Let Rosebery ask what might be called the fatal question, and no blame could attach to Suter in the
future.

‘Gentlemen,’ said Rosebery in his best House of Lords voice. ‘Our question is a simple one. How long does it take for somebody to die of influenza? We are talking of a young
male, some twenty-eight years old, to all intents and purposes in good health.’

‘That is not as easy a question as it sounds.’ Broadbent looked down at his bag, as if medical secrets or influenza victims were contained inside. ‘It depends on so many other
factors.’

We could be here all day at this rate, thought Powerscourt, as the man in the black suit tried to wriggle out of committing himself.

‘One sees so many different varieties of symptoms, you understand. Age is only one factor, maybe not even the most important one. There have been cases where the illness has dragged on for
three or four weeks and the patient has recovered, others where the disease has worked itself through much more rapidly.’

Powerscourt glanced at Rosebery to see his reaction to the delays. Would the former Foreign Secretary lose his temper?

A flicker of irritation shot across Rosebery’s face. ‘I think we are talking at cross purposes here. Both you gentlemen know what we are talking about. There are reasons I cannot
divulge why the manner of Eddy’s death has to be concealed. All I can say is that those reasons are to do with state security.’

Rosebery had just thought of state security. He paused to let its full impact sink in. It was, Powerscourt reflected, the perfect justification for the cover-up. It covered everything, like the
snow outside.

‘We intend to tell the world,’ Rosebery continued, ‘that Prince Eddy died from influenza, not from murder. We need to announce his illness. We need to invent medical bulletins
for every day before his second death, if you follow me. We would like that process to be short, so that the normal routines of mourning can be properly observed. At present the situation is
intolerable for members of the family. But we do not want it be so short that it looks implausible or improbable. Dr Manby, you are the local man here. What do you feel would be a reasonable period
of time? For the thing to be plausible, I mean.’

‘Of course, I share my colleague’s reservations,’ Manby began.

Good God, thought Powerscourt. Another one. More bloody qualifications. They’ll start talking about the Hippocratic Oath soon. But he was wrong.

‘The key factor, I think, is whether it is influenza alone or if there is some accompanying illness which might speed up the process. Pneumonia comes often with influenza – two of my
patients have recently died, not from the influenza, but from its terrible twin disease. If the pneumonia came quickly, you would expect the patient to go through a period of fluctuating
conditions, apparently recovering one day, very high temperatures and a relapse the next. In those circumstances, the patient might die after four or five days, though that might be too abrupt.
Anything between six and nine days would fit the prevailing trends of such a condition in Norfolk at the present time.’

‘Would that analysis meet with your approval, Dr Broadbent?’ Rosebery was anxious to carry the meeting with him, before further medical complications set in.

‘Of course, I do not know the particular circumstances in these rural areas.’

Here we go again, thought Powerscourt, casting a surreptitious glance at his watch.

‘But in general, that is a very fair description of the progress, the possible progress of the disease.’

‘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.’

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.

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

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.’