Goodnight Sweet Prince (14 page)

‘How come they were spotted in Sandringham, Johnny?’

‘I’m coming to that. Will you let me finish my report now?’ In protest at the interruption, Lord Johnny took another giant’s mouthful of his beer.

‘They are all loyal subjects of the Czar, this lot. They planned their journey so they could have a look at Sandringham on their travels. Isn’t the Czar’s wife, Mrs Czar or
whatever they call her, isn’t she related to Alexandra up at the big house? Once they heard there was a royal palace, as they thought, in the neighbourhood, they had to go and see it. I think
these Russians expected some enormous structure like those huge palaces and things they have in St Petersburg. Summer Palaces. Winter Palaces. Do they have Spring and Autumn Palaces too? Maybe
Sandringham was the British Winter Palace. If you’re a Russian, that is.

‘I have to tell you, Francis,’ Johnny laughed as he remembered his Russians, ‘they were very disappointed when they saw Sandringham. That isn’t a palace, they said as
their carriage brought them up to the main gates to have a look. It’s far too small. It’s more like a big dacha, a sort of summer house in the country. I don’t suppose you’d
better include that in your report to the Private Secretary and the Comptroller General of the Household, Francis. Not a palace at all. Far too small.’

‘Could you imagine, Johnny, in your wildest dreams that any of these gentlemen from the Institute of Science and Technology could be a secret agent, a revolutionary? Looking at printing
machines by day, devouring anarchists’ manuals by night?’

‘No. Absolutely not. I got very drunk with these Russians the other evening. That is to say, they got very drunk, I got a little bit drunk. And I think they are as innocent as our own
printers over there in Peterborough.

‘There are also some Irish in the neighbourhood.’ Lord Johnny continued his report. ‘And I don’t mean you and I, Francis. There are five Irish in a party of workmen
extending the telegraph lines north and west of Sandringham.’

Telegraph lines, thought Powerscourt. In his lifetime he had seen the steady advance of these wooden posts across the length and breadth of Britain, like some enormous army being dressed across
the parade ground of a nation, linked not by arm to shoulder, but by roll upon roll of wire. ‘Be not afraid,’ he thought with Prospero, ‘the isle is full of noises’.
Messages of joy and despair were whispered along the uncomprehending cables. Births, marriages, deaths. He wondered if his brother-in-law the canny Mr William Burke had investments in telegraph
pole companies or wire manufactories. Almost certainly he had. There were other inventions, stranger still. Voices, human voices, being carried down the lines. New vehicles that relied not on
horses but on engines for power. Some brave new world – he went back to Miranda in
The Tempest
– is being born at the end of our century. No more the Age of Reason. No more the
Age of Enlightenment. Welcome to the Age of the Machines.

‘Francis, hello-oh, hello-oh. Are you there?’ Lord Johnny had known Powerscourt for so long he had grown accustomed to these temporary leaves of absence. Compassionate leave, he
always thought. The poor bugger’s brain has run away with him again.

‘Of course, of course.’ Powerscourt wondered if he shouldn’t join William McKenzie in a pot of tea. ‘The Irish, you were saying.’

‘I have talked to them too, of course. And I’ve got their names. They all play for the same cricket team in Skibereen. Can cricketers be revolutionaries, do you think?’

‘Charles Stewart Parnell,’ said Powerscourt, ‘God rest his soul, was the captain of the County Wicklow cricket team. But I don’t suppose he’d be classed as a
revolutionary, do you think?’

‘Not quite, not quite.’ Fitzgerald started on his second tankard of beer. ‘Anyway, I don’t think any of these characters is our man. They work so bloody hard on those
poles, drive them into the ground, make them straight, up you go to fix the wire on top, next one, please, hurry up there, – those foremen are slave drivers, I tell you – that they
wouldn’t have the energy left to wander round the countryside in the middle of the night with a butcher’s knife in their pocket.’

‘That’s a clean bill of health for the Russians and the Irish, then.’ Powerscourt didn’t sound surprised. ‘You have done well, Johnny, you must have been working
very hard. I am very grateful to you, as always.’

‘I have to tell you that I shall always be a welcome guest at the Institute of Science and Technology in St Petersburg.’ Johnny Fitzgerald was laughing now. ‘And at the humble
home of the good Professor what’s his name. They promised to take me on a tour of the Russian vodka factories when I come to call. Anyone care to join me?’

McKenzie shuddered at the thought.

‘William.’ Powerscourt turned to his Calvinist tea drinker. ‘Have you been able to find anything out in the dreadful snow?’

‘Yes and no, Lord Francis. Yes, in this sense. I have been all around the grounds of Sandringham House. The snow makes it very difficult to come to firm conclusions. I do not think anybody
has been trying to get in or out, by unorthodox means, if you see what I mean. They could have always used the front door. That’s a bit of a yes. The no is that I cannot be sure, sir. I would
like to have a day or two more to work on it. I have an appointment with some poachers later this evening. They may have more intelligence.’

‘I would like you to join me tomorrow morning at the big house, William. I will meet you at the main entrance by the Norwich Gates at, shall we say, ten o’clock? I have asked one of
the military gentlemen to see if it is possible to climb over the roof at Sandringham and gain entrance to the death chamber on the other side. This man is an experienced mountaineer, they tell me,
but I would welcome a second opinion.’

‘Ropes, naval ropes,’ said McKenzie, ‘they used to have things that could catch on to anything, other ships, fortifications, battlements, that sort of stuff. And they keep
inventing more equipment on the Continent for those daft people who go climbing in the Alps.’

Powerscourt always remembered questioning the five other equerries as an exercise in futility. He met with a brick wall of good manners, perfectly plastered with the soft easy
charm of the upper classes. One by one, walking in the grounds, or in the drawing-room of Suter’s meetings, he talked to them as they came off their roll call of sentry duty on the upper
floor.

His questions were always the same. So were the answers.

Had they seen anything unusual on the night of the murder?

No, they had not. Harry Radclyffe, Charles Peveril, William Brockham, Lord Edward Gresham and the Hon. Frederick Mortimer were unanimous.

Had they had noticed anything unusual in the room where Eddy died if they had seen it?

‘Only a great deal of blood,’ the Old Etonian chorus replied.

Had they heard any strange noises in the night, either inside or outside the house?

No, they had not. Except for Lord Edward Gresham who thought he had heard a horse riding away from the house towards the woods sometime in the night. No, he was afraid he could not be more
specific about the time.

Could they think of any reason why somebody might want to take Prince Eddy’s life?

No, they could not. It was an outrage. It was a scandal. When the murderer was caught they would all be quite happy to wring his neck.

Did they know of anything in Prince Eddy’s life which might have made him enemies?

‘Absolutely not,’ the equerry chorus replied. Eddy had been a jolly fine fellow. Not too quick on the uptake at times, but there was nothing wrong with that. Never too good at
grasping the rules of the military, but nothing wrong with that either.

Had any of them ever heard Eddy talk of somebody who wished him harm, who wanted to injure him in some way?

No, they had not.

‘If you remember anything, anything at all, that you think might help unmask his killer, will you please get in touch with me at once. At once, wherever you may be.’

All solemnly assured Powerscourt that of course they would do that. Absolutely. No question of it. Jolly important to find out the truth.

And as he reviewed his interviews Powerscourt thought he had gained one tiny scrap of information, the horse in the night. That was all. For the rest he had been wasting his time. Whether they
had all agreed on a common line beforehand he did not know. But they had certainly come across with one. And of one thing Powerscourt was virtually certain. One of them was lying. Maybe, he thought
in his darker moments, maybe all of them were lying.

Powerscourt stopped counting when he reached fifty-two. He ran his eyes over the rest of the crowd assembled outside the Norwich Gates at five to ten on a cold January
morning. Seventy, maybe eighty souls, he said to himself, have gathered here, the snow still falling lightly, dusting the elaborate filigree of the metalwork on top of the gates. For what? A
glimpse of some royal personage on the far side of the great wrought-iron structure? A sight of Sir Bartle Shepstone, or one of his auxiliaries, pinning the latest bulletin about the health of
Prince Eddy to the railings? Or were they really ghouls, hoping to be the first to see the announcement of a royal death?

‘Good morning, Lord Francis.’

William McKenzie had appeared suddenly by his side. He had not, as far as Powerscourt could tell, come through the gates themselves.

‘Good morning William. Where on earth did you come from?’

‘Oh, I have my own ways in and out of here by now, Lord Francis. I always feel it’s best to remain inconspicuous.’

‘Indeed, indeed. Come, we must make our meeting with Major Dawnay and his climbing friend. I think he is called Bateman.’

‘Lord Fitzgerald asked me to bring you these.’ William McKenzie fished in one of his many and voluminous pockets, and produced Lord Johnny’s Prussian glasses. ‘He says
you could read the maker’s name on the slates on the roof with them.’

Three soldiers on horseback trotted slowly past them as they made their way up the drive, the horses’ breath hanging long and slow in the cold Norfolk air.

‘Lord Powerscourt! You, sir, must be William McKenzie. Good morning to you both!’ Major Dawnay had the cheerfulness and good temper of a man who has just escaped from the overheated
interior of Sandringham House. ‘And this is Corporal Bateman, gentlemen. He tells me he passed a most interesting night!’

Dawnay led the way round the path, scarcely visible in the snow, to a position some two hundred yards from the back of Sandringham House. Powerscourt raised his glasses and passed them over to
Dawnay.

‘I should not think these came from this country,’ said Dawnay appreciatively, as if British manufactures were of inferior stock. ‘These are German, I fancy.’

‘Sir, sirs,’ Corporal Bateman seemed unsure as to whether he should address his superior officers in the singular or plural, ‘my brief was to see if it was possible to climb
from one side of the house to the other in the snow. The particular windows to which I was referred’ – he’s beginning to sound like a policeman making his report, thought
Powerscourt – ‘were those six just to the right of the flagpole, if you would like to cast your glasses there. Access to those windows being denied, I was then asked to see if I could
effect the passage from a standing start, as it were, on the ground by those flowerbeds to the right.’

How Bateman could tell there were flowerbeds there at all, Powerscourt never knew. The snow wrapped up every living thing.

‘Well, gentlemen, I have to tell you that I had some special equipment sent up here when I heard of this mission. But it is all equipment that can be readily purchased at reputable stores
in London and the big cities, special ropes with these little grappling hooks at the end.’ He took a coiled piece of rope from his pocket.

‘It’s like a cross between a grappling hook and a rope ladder, is it not?’ McKenzie had come to the aid of his fellow mountaineer.

‘It is exactly that, Mr McKenzie. Exactly. You throw it up, it catches on a roof or a chimney, and up the rope ladder you go. I have to tell you, gentlemen,’ Bateman suddenly looked
around him in case the wrong ears might be listening, ‘that it is a simple matter to cross from one side of the house to the other. I made my ascent upwards from the flowerbeds you have
noted. In various places on the roof – you can’t see them with this snow’, Dawnay was fiddling with the range controls on the Prussian glasses – ‘there are little
ladders. Quite new, they are. I imagine they were installed after the recent fire to enable people to escape.

‘Some five minutes after my departure’ – the man is sounding like a train timetable now, thought Powerscourt – ‘I was outside the window of the late Prince Eddy. I
could have walked in and murdered him, gentlemen. If he had been there, that is.’

Corporal Bateman paused. This was becoming one of the longest speeches of his life. And to two superior officers, one of them a lord.

‘It only took me another five minutes to return to the flowerbeds where I started. Half an hour after that, there was not a trace of my activities on either side the roof. I looked most
carefully, then and in the morning. The snow covered everything like a blanket.’