Goodnight Sweet Prince (24 page)

Lord Scott poured himself another cup of coffee, a further three spoonfuls of sugar disappearing inside.

‘Where was I? Accommodation. Prince Eddy spent most of his time in my cabin. Two whole bloody years of it. All kinds of lies put about. Prince learning naval trade, ropes, navigation,
gunnery. All complete rubbish. Some kind of parson person with them. Name of Dalton. Sanctimonious old bore, like most bloody parsons. More like a guard for his precious Eddy. Never let him out of
his sight.

‘When you’ve grasped all that, you’ve got the main points. Didn’t matter where we went really. Could have sailed round and round the Isle of Wight for two years.
Wouldn’t have made any bloody difference. Always had feeling that object of the exercise was to keep Eddy as far away from England as possible.

‘One other thing. Nearly forgot.’ Lord Scott took another mouthful of his sickly brew. ‘Didn’t just have a bloody parson person on board. Doctor person as well. Not
naval. Ordinary bloody doctor. Seasick all the time. Had to be dosed round the world with his own medicine. He spent a lot of time with Prince Eddy. Special patient. Special examinations now and
then. Everybody else had to leave the cabin. Don’t care for doctors. Don’t care for parsons. Didn’t care much for my Lords of the Admiralty after all that either.

‘That’s it. Your turn now.’

He paused. Powerscourt didn’t know where to begin.

‘An admirable narrative, Lord Scott. I am much obliged to you. If I could just bowl you a couple of questions, I would be even more grateful.’

‘Fire ahead. Fire ahead.’ Scott had the air of one who would not be frightened by any broadside, however weighty and numerous the cannon balls.

‘Those sealed orders you mentioned, the ones from the Admiralty. Did they make any mention of illicit sexual relations?’

‘Good God, Powerscourt! How d’you know that? Mindreader, are you?’ He looked up at Powerscourt with fresh respect and poured out yet more coffee. The great clattering of boots
on marble had died down now, silence ruling over library and entrance hall. ‘Pages of sealed orders about that. Pages of it. Crew to be lectured on evils of illicit sexual relations at
regular intervals. Me, parson, doctor, all reading riot act. Ferocious floggings for transgressors. Waste of time. Crew could have hardly managed licit sexual relations, whatever they are.
Dried-out collection, no juice in their limbs. Know what I mean? Never seen anything like it in all my years afloat.’

‘Did you have any idea when you set out how long the voyage was going to be? Or did it get extended as it went on?’

‘Never worked that out at all. Never clear.’ Scott had abandoned the coffee and moved into the attack on the Army and Navy Club biscuits. Crumbs were spoiling the symmetry of his
beard. ‘Thought we could have come home after six months myself. God knew why we were sailing round the world in the first place. More orders kept coming. Keep sailing. Like some ancient
curse. Never get home. Endless voyage. Voyage that never stops. Voyage to the back of beyond. And back again. Ancient mariners.’

‘One last question, if I may. You said earlier that you suspected that the real purpose was to keep Prince Eddy out of England. What made you say that?’

‘Thought that for years. Never told anybody. Not until now. Not until you. Before the voyage, terrible business on board
Britannia
. All hushed up. Officers cashiered, crew
dispersed, ship’s cat itself sworn to silence. Scandal of some sort. Dreadful scandal. Never knew what it was. Nobody did. Dangerous to ask questions. But if Prince Eddy was involved, maybe a
need to get him out of the way. Families send naughty younger sons to the colonies. Keep them out of sight, out of harm’s way. Same thing here. Eddy sent to the colonies. Literally. I bloody
well took him there.’

Another of William Leith’s trains was taking Powerscourt out of London to another appointment with James Robinson, The Limes, Church Road, Dorchester on Thames, father
of one of five boys involved with Prince Eddy on the
Britannia
. Glimpses of the Thames through the windows offered the promise of a more peaceful world. Two schoolboys at the end of his
compartment in black jackets, white shirts and black ties were complaining about Caesar and Cicero.

‘We’ve only got half an hour left to finish these two passages off, or we’re for it,’ said the taller one.

Latin dictionaries lay open on their laps.

‘I think I can manage this first bit,’ said the little one, ‘look up
aedificavit
, can you? That comes at the end of the sentence. Must be the bloody verb.’

Powerscourt was trying to make sense of the recent revelations. Scandal on the
Britannia
, that was certain. But then? Did they send Eddy away because he was ill? Was the
Bacchante
really a sort of hospital ship, specially equipped with doctors and parsons? Could they only come home when he was cured? Or when they thought he was cured? Was he cured?

Or did they send him away so they had time to hush everything up? Did it take the Prince of Wales two whole years to conceal the scandal? Two years in which the mere sight of Eddy could have
blown the whole thing apart? No wonder they wanted to conceal the details of Eddy’s death, he said to himself. No wonder they wanted to hide the murder. They’ve been hiding things for
years. It must be second nature to them by now, almost a way of life.

‘Thank heavens that’s over,’ said the tall black jacket as the two boys gathered themselves to leave the train. ‘But why did Cicero have to write such long sentences?
Wouldn’t those ordinary Romans have forgotten the beginning by the time he got to the end?’

‘Think of Gladstone,’ said the little black jacket. ‘I’m not sure he can remember the start of a sentence by the time he gets to the end. If he ever does. Same thing
really.’

And why, thought Powerscourt, watching the thatched cottages on the river go by once more, why should somebody wait thirteen years to kill him? Why not try to do it before? Presumably the Prince
of Wales despatched money to keep everybody quiet, heaps and heaps of money probably. So why didn’t they all keep their mouths shut, like they were meant to? Perhaps they had.

The Limes was a compact suburban villa. It had seen better days. The windows were in need of attention. Paint was peeling in large black flakes from the front door. Captain Williams’
wallpaper came back to Powerscourt as he waited, wallpaper peeling off the walls, the bare patches where pictures had once stood.

He knocked firmly on the door.

A small fierce man of about sixty opened it. Dogs could be heard yelping in the background. Old copies of
The Times
and the
Illustrated London News
were piled up on a little table
in the hall.

‘Are you Mr Robinson? Good morning to you. My name is Powerscourt.’

‘Get out!’ said the small fierce man. ‘Get out!’

‘I wrote to tell you I was coming. I have in my pocket a letter from the Prime Minister for you.’ Long experience had taught Powerscourt to place his left foot firmly against the
jamb of the door.

‘Get out. I don’t care if you have a letter from the Prime Minister or the Archbishop of Canterbury or the Pope in Rome. Just get out!’

‘Our conversation would be entirely confidential. Nobody would know anything about it. I give you my word.’

The little man had turned quite red now. Powerscourt thought he could see tears forming in the corners of his eyes.

‘Do you understand English? I said Get out! Before I put the dogs on you.’

‘Please don’t put the dogs on me. I’m very fond of dogs,’ said Powerscourt, hoping against hope that he could charm his way into the house.

‘For the last time, Get out! Don’t come back! Don’t ever come back!’ The little man was actually crying now, tears rolling down his cheeks.

Powerscourt beat the retreat. ‘My apologies for upsetting you Mr Robinson. I’m going now. And don’t worry. I won’t come back.’

The barking of the dogs pursued him down the little drive. From somewhere inside he could hear a man weeping, and a softer woman’s voice trying to comfort him. Mrs Robinson was soothing
the little man, fierce no longer, as though he were a small child. She sounded as though she had done it before.

Two hundred yards away the churchyard nestled under its yew trees. Birds, river birds replaced the noise of the barking dogs and the agony of Mr Robinson. Fresh graves, thought Powerscourt,
that’s what I am looking for. Well, fairly fresh, not more than a year or two old. Lines of ancient memorials swept away towards the church path, names virtually eroded by time and weather.
Here and there a defiant cross or angel marked a richer passing.

On the southern side, on the far side of the church, he found the more recent graves.

Mary William Blunt, beloved wife of Thomas Blunt, of Dorchester, passed away 15 January 1890.

Andrew James Macintosh, churchwarden of this parish, beloved husband of Elizabeth, father of Tabitha, Daniel, Albert. 18 July 1891. May he rest in Peace.

Maud Muriel Smythe, beloved wife of John Smythe, of Dorchester. 25 August 1891. Gone, but not Forgotten.

Peter James Cooper, beloved husband of Louise, father of the twins, 12 September 1891. May he see God.

Simon John Robinson, passed away 25 September 1891, beloved son of John and Mary Robinson, The Limes, Dorchester. Lord forgive them, for they know not what they do.

Powerscourt sank to his knees and prayed. He prayed for the Robinsons, all three of them, he prayed for the growing community of the dead who seemed to surround him, he asked God’s
forgiveness for his morning call on the Robinson household. He prayed for his family. He prayed for Johnny Fitzgerald. He prayed for Lady Lucy.

Lord forgive them, he thought as he rose from his knees, a respectful gardener waiting to do his work, for they know not what they do. Who, for the family Robinson, was them? The Prince of Wales
and his household? The boys on the
Britannia
? Was it even, he thought fancifully, the tumours that marked the latter stages of the disease, eating away at the victim’s bones and his
brain, unwitting and unfeeling instruments of God’s purpose?

The vicar, the church noticeboard proclaimed, was The Very Rev. Matthew Adams, BA Oxon, M.Litt, London, of The Vicarage, Dorchester.

Mrs Adams opened the door. No dogs this time, Powerscourt thought, as she showed him into a cold sitting-room.

‘My husband has just popped out,’ she said brightly. ‘But he’ll be back presently. Would you like to wait in here? He won’t be long.’

Biblical scenes adorned the room, great vistas of the lake of Galilee and the Mount of Olives. Powerscourt wondered if the vicar painted in his spare time, holidays always spent with canvas and
brush. ‘I’ll just be a few moments more, dear, I’ve got to finish these angels.’

‘Good morning to you,’ said the Rev. Adams cheerfully as he strode into the room, a handsome man of about forty years, eyes wary beneath the smile.

I presume he knows I’m not bereaved or anything like that, thought Powerscourt. Probably his wife gives him a clue when unexpected visitors arrive, the weeping, the demented, the lost
souls of Dorchester.

‘Please forgive this unannounced intrusion, most impolite of me. My name is Powerscourt. I have had some rather unsatisfactory business here in Dorchester, and I would welcome your local
knowledge.’

Powerscourt handed over his card. He explained that he was engaged on an investigation which, by its nature, had to remain secret. He showed the Rev. Adams a copy of his letter from the Prime
Minister.

‘Is there anything wrong? With the Government, I mean?’ The Rev. Adams looked as though he would be reluctant to add the troubles of Westminster and Whitehall to the heavy burdens of
Dorchester upon Thames.

‘Anything wrong with the Government? No, I don’t think so, no more than usual. My concerns are with a recent parishioner of yours, recently interred in your churchyard. Simon John
Robinson.’

‘Young Robinson.’ The eyes grew warier still. The vicar edged himself further back in his chair. ‘What can I tell you about him?’

‘Do you know what he died of?’

‘Oddly enough I don’t. One usually hears, you know, what people die of. I don’t think he actually died here. I think the body was brought from somewhere else.’

‘Were the family well off?’

‘I’m not their bank manager, Lord Powerscourt, but then I don’t suppose they tell even you anything at all. Sometimes I feel it would be helpful in our parish work if the banks
could let us know who was in financial trouble and we could provide help of a different kind. But they don’t of course. Where was I? Ah, yes, the Robinsons. I think they were quite well off,
they always seemed to live well. The son, Simon, was away a lot. He had been in the Navy for a while, you know.’

‘Was he still in the Navy at the time of his death, do you know?’

‘No, he wasn’t, but they said he was in receipt of a generous naval pension which supported him in all his trips abroad.’

‘Any indication,’ Powerscourt raised his hands towards the vicar, ‘that the rest of the family are not so well off now? Presumably the naval pension had to stop with his
death.’

‘There was some talk of them selling up shortly after he died. But then that stopped. Normal financial service seems to have been resumed now.’ The vicar smiled a weak routine smile.
Maybe they teach smiles in the theological colleges, thought Powerscourt, the polite smile, the sympathetic smile, the concerned smile, smiles for all seasons.

‘Any brothers and sisters?’

‘I think they were all boys. No daughters. Poor Mrs Robinson. I’m sure she would have liked a daughter. She always says how lucky we are. We’ve got two of each.’

The smile of the happy family man this time. ‘Two of the brothers are abroad. Canada, or is it Australia? The other one works up in London and comes down from time to time.’

‘Do you know what he does in London?’ asked Powerscourt, feeling it was time to leave.

‘I do, as a matter of fact. He works in a grand shop near Piccadilly, but they’ve got branches all over London. They specialise in guns, shooting stuff, hunting knives, that sort of
thing.’