Goodnight Sweet Prince (37 page)

‘Is he going to ask you?’

‘I expect so. I expect he’ll get round to it one day. Probably.’

‘And then you’ll say yes?’

‘Yes,’ his mother laughed. ‘Yes, I’ll say yes.’

Somehow Robert knew that Lord Powerscourt would ask the question. After all, his mother was so pretty. All the boys at school said so.

‘What will you think about that, Robert? If we do get married.’

‘Well, he’s not very good at knots and things like that for my boat,’ said Robert, practically.

‘I expect he’s thinking about other things. He usually is.’

Lady Lucy told Robert that Powerscourt was an investigator, that he solved mysteries, sometimes murders. Sometimes he did secret work for the Government, like when he went to Venice. The little
boy’s eyes grew bigger and bigger.

‘Was he doing secret work when he went to Venice? Was he thinking about the mystery when we were at the Round Pond? Wow! Wow!’ There was a pause while this intelligence sank in.
‘Mama?’

‘Yes, my darling?’

‘Can I tell the boys at school? If you decide to get married. About what he does. Lord Francis, I mean. The Investigator.’

‘Just a little, darling. Just a little.’

The cab was on the final stretch now, progress slow along the King’s Road in Chelsea. There was a full moon, occasionally visible above the roofs of Sloane Square.

‘So, you see, Francis, I don’t think there will be any trouble from Robert.’

‘I see. Will I have to turn up in disguise sometimes? To give a good impression to Robert, I mean. False beard? Dressed as a washerwoman?’

The cab had drawn up at 25 Markham Square.

‘Francis, won’t you come in for a while? Would you like a cup of tea?’

‘That would be delightful, Lady Lucy,’ said Powerscourt, paying off the driver. ‘Quite delightful.’

It was late when he let himself into his sister’s house in St James’s Square. Lady Rosalind was still up.

‘Francis,’ she said, pretending to rearrange the cushions on one of her settees. ‘You’re back very late. How was the Beethoven? How is Lady Lucy? Any news?’

Powerscourt knew as surely as if she had written it on the windows that she suspected he might have proposed to Lady Lucy. She’d been dropping hints for days.

‘The concert was excellent. Lady Lucy is very well.’

‘Anything to report? Anything new?’

‘No, I don’t think so.’

‘No news then?’ said Lady Rosalind sadly. But she was looking at her brother very closely indeed as if he was hiding something.

Powerscourt smiled an enormous smile. I can’t help looking happy, dammit, he said to himself. But I’m not going to satisfy her curiosity at a quarter to one in the morning. ‘I
think I shall go to bed now, Rosalind.’ He kissed his sister on the cheek.

‘Pembridge! Pembridge! Are you asleep?’

Lady Rosalind shook her husband vigorously. He gave the impression of being asleep, but it was best to make sure.

‘Pembridge! Listen to me!’

Pembridge struggled back to life. ‘For God’s sake, woman. Look at the time.’

‘That’s precisely what I mean. The time. Francis has just come in. Just this minute. At a quarter to one in the morning. That concert will have finished by 10.30 at the latest. And
he’s grinning from ear to ear. I think he may have done it.’

‘Done what?’ said the sleeping Pembridge.

‘Proposed to her, you fool! To Lady Lucy!’

‘Did you ask him?’ said Pembridge sensibly.

‘I did. Of course I did,’ replied his wife testily. ‘He said there was no news to report. He said that twice. But he was smiling all the time. I do wonder, though. I just
wonder.’

Early the following morning Lady Lucy Hamilton was lying in bed in Markham Square, wondering where she should be married to Lord Francis Powerscourt. Should they go to her
family home in Scotland, a chieftain’s castle full of the relics of war and long cold corridors? Should they go to Francis’ place in Northamptonshire? Or should they have the service in
London, in St James’s Piccadilly or St George’s Hanover Square? She wasn’t quite sure what you should wear for a second wedding. Whatever it was, she was sure she hadn’t got
it. She began thinking seriously about a new outfit, and, most definitely, a new hat.

Lord Francis Powerscourt was lying in bed in St James’s Square, wondering where he should be married to Lady Lucy Hamilton. Could they have it in Rokesley, he wondered, in his own little
church, the service conducted by his own vicar with the beautiful voice, with the local choir singing out of tune? Maybe Lady Lucy would want to be married in Scotland where her people came from.
No doubt, he sighed, his sisters would have their own views.

There was a great noise coming up the stairs. Someone was pounding up them very fast.

‘Francis! For God’s sake! It’s still in bed you are! Will you look at the time, man. Look at the time.’

‘Lord Johnny Fitzgerald, good morning. You’re in my bedroom at a quarter to eight in the morning. Has there been a revolution or something? Is the nation in danger?’

‘Get dressed, Francis. And then you can read this.’

Fitzgerald was clutching a copy of
The Times
.

‘I can read the paper before I get out of bed, if I have to. I do believe I may have done it before. Which section of
The Times
do you wish to draw to my attention? Births,
Marriages and Deaths? The financial pages? The football scores?’

‘I don’t understand how people can be flippant before they have even got out of bed, Francis, I really don’t. Look, it’s here. Page four, small piece down near the
bottom.’

Unrest in Ireland. Train Derailed near Crewe. No, not those. Presidential Election News from Washington. No. This must be it.

‘Is there any breakfast in this house, Francis? Any hope of breakfast? Why don’t I go downstairs and get something to eat. You can catch me up, if you can manage to get yourself out
of bed.’

Powerscourt could see Lord Edward Gresham, his eyes staring into mirrors with messages, running up and down the alleys of Venice, describing the great love affair of his life. My Louisa. So
beautiful. Had he gone to join her like this, his throat cut by some unknown assassin, comforted by nuns at the last? He read on:

Powerscourt read it again. He felt very cold. Then he read it a third time, fixing the report in his memory. He went downstairs.

‘Powerscourt, good morning to you. Wife believes you’ve got engaged to that nice Lady Lucy.’ Lord Pembridge greeted him through a mouthful of buttered toast.

‘What’s that?’ said Powerscourt, pacing round and round the fountain by the side of Perugia’s cathedral.

‘Engaged. You. To Lady Lucy. That’s what the wife says.’ Lord Pembridge launched into a plate of kippers.

‘Oh, yes. That’s quite right. I have.’ Powerscourt admitted it before he knew what he was saying. He was still in Perugia, thinking of train timetables and another long journey
across Europe. He found himself submerged by congratulations. Fitzgerald embraced him. Pembridge shook his hand. His sister materialised and kissed him warmly on both cheeks.

‘You old devil!’ said Fitzgerald.

‘Congratulations. I hope you’ll be very happy,’ said Pembridge.

‘Better late than never,’ said his sister.

It’s like receiving a whole batch of simultaneous telegrams, thought Powerscourt. He wondered how he could stop the flow.

‘Please! Please!’ He banged a fork very loudly on the table. A piece of toast fell out of its rack and rolled to the floor. Reproving crumbs lay at Powerscourt’s feet.
‘Please! I know it’s very important, getting engaged and all that sort of thing. But Johnny has just brought me some terrible news.

‘You see, I thought my last investigation was over. But now I don’t think it is. I think there is another chapter waiting for me, as terrible as the first. I’ve got to go back
to Italy, I think. I’ve got to go back today.’

Suddenly he looked forlorn like a child whose toys had been taken away.

‘I need to confer with my best man here.’ He managed a sad smile at Fitzgerald. His sister noticed that his eyes were far away, as if he had already left them. Pembridge had always
thought his brother-in-law a bit eccentric, a good man of course, but a bit odd every now and again. Now was definitely one of those now and agains. He went back to his kippers.

‘Do I get to make a speech, Francis? Do I get to tell lots of stories about you? Do I get to kiss the bride?’

‘You do, Johnny, you do. But we must make a plan first. Why don’t we go into the drawing-room and pay homage to Rosalind’s curtains? It’ll be quieter in there.’

Powerscourt looked out at the early morning bustle of St James’s Square. It was a cold grey day. The delivery boys had thick mufflers round their necks.

Lord Johnny had brought a plateful of toast with him. ‘Do you think that’s him, Francis? The body in the fountain? Is it Lord Edward Gresham?’ He crossed himself as he
spoke.

Powerscourt thought for a long time before he replied. ‘I think it might be. I think it probably is. But that’s only a hunch. Consider, though, consider what we know. We know that
Gresham was going to Perugia on his way to Rome. So he could have been there. Now you have to ask yourself who might want to kill him in such strange circumstances. Even in Italy, famed for its
murders and assassinations, they don’t go round cutting strangers’ throats and leaving them to bleed to death in some bloody fountain.’

‘It’s no ordinary fountain, Francis. I looked it up in a book before I came here. It’s one of the most famous fountains in Italy, like it says in the paper.’

‘Forget the fountain for now. If we don’t think it was an Italian who killed the man in Perugia, then who was it? Supposing that Gresham is the corpse. Consider who knows he was the
murderer. Gresham, I mean. The murderer of Prince Eddy. You, me, Rosebery. Nobody else knows. Nobody at all.’

He looked out into the square again. It was raining now, great puddles forming on the tops of the coal carts. ‘Nobody at all. Except, that is, except Suter and Shepstone.’

He spoke the names very quietly. He fiddled with the edges of the curtains. He looked at Fitzgerald, crunching his way through the last of his toast.

‘You don’t think those two gentlemen have been taking a quick holiday to Umbria, Francis, do you?’

‘No, I don’t. But they know people who might. They could have sent people. Last Tuesday I told Suter and Shepstone the identity of the murderer. This is Friday, ten days on. They
were looking at a map of Italy back there in Marlborough House when I went back for my book. They weren’t expecting to see me.’

‘Christ, Francis, Christ Almighty. You know what we’re saying, don’t you?’

‘I do, Johnny. I do. I’ve been thinking it ever since I read that story in
The Times
.’ Powerscourt thought of the efficient Major Dawnay, of Shepstone’s special
detachments, of the very effective means employed to disguise the death of Lancaster. Certainly they could have done it. But did they?

‘Johnny, until we know whether it is Gresham or not, we’re wasting our breath. I must go to Perugia and see if I can identify the body. I must make one or two calls here before I
go.’

‘Francis, don’t you think I should go to Perugia? I know what Gresham looks like. I haven’t just become engaged to be married. You don’t have to do everything yourself.
And they say that some of the local wine round there is worth a tasting.’

‘That’s very noble of you, Johnny, very noble. But I feel I owe it to Gresham after our conversations in Venice. I wouldn’t be happy with anybody else going. Even
you.’

‘You don’t think I should come with you? Maybe this whole thing is getting dangerous now. We don’t want you ending up head down in some Italian fountain. I wouldn’t get
to make my speech at the wedding then. I’ve been thinking of one or two good stories already.’

Powerscourt laughed. ‘I’m sure I’ll be all right on my own. But I would like to know that you’re in London. I could send you a cable through William’s office if I
have to.’

‘That’s fine, Francis, if you’re sure. Now then, I wonder if there’s any of that breakfast left. Those kippers looked rather good to me.’

Powerscourt wrote to William Leith, Rosebery’s butler and train expert, asking him for an immediate route to Perugia, leaving today, probably in the early afternoon.

He wrote to the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, requesting an immediate interview, later that morning if possible. He apologized for being so importunate. It was vital he see the
Commissioner today.

Two cabs carried his notes away. A third took him to Mark-ham Square. He hoped that Lady Lucy would be at home.

Her elderly maid answered the door. Yes, Madam was at home. Perhaps Lord Powerscourt would like to wait in the drawing-room. Madam would be down presently.