Goodnight Sweet Prince (4 page)

The road past the church was lined with late windfalls of apples, pale green and watery red in the sunshine. They were ground into a cidery pulp by the hooves of the horses and the wheels of the
carriage as they rattled past.

‘What trouble can he cause a man in your position, my Prince?’

‘You know perfectly well what he’s threatening to do, Daisy. Make a public scandal. Publicity, he keeps saying, publicity, it’s all he’s got left to him. He says
he’s going to tell the world about my private life and about our love affair. Damn publicity! And damn Beresford!’

Part of Daisy didn’t mind the world knowing about her love affair with the Prince of Wales. The greater the knowledge the greater the glory. But she knew that Society might not like it. Do
what you want to do, but don’t get caught.

As she looked across at the Prince she felt him growing ever more grumpy. Oh dear, Daisy thought, he’s going to be difficult. We’re going to have scenes before dinner and sulks after
tea. This weekend is going to be a strain with the Prince moping about the house worried about his future. It might be worse than a strain, it might even be boring.

Powerscourt handed the memorandum back to the Private Secretary. He had memorized it word for word.

‘Do you have any preliminary thoughts, Lord Powerscourt?’ Powerscourt was to say later that Suter addressed him as if he, Suter, were a nervous patient before his dentist, fearful of
some painful and bloody extractions.

‘It is obviously a difficult and delicate matter,’ Powerscourt replied, feeling himself falling against his will into the language and circumlocutions of the Private Secretary.
‘There must be a number of people who might feel that they have the information which would enable them . . .’ He paused before he dropped the word into the room. ‘. . . to
blackmail His Royal Highness.’

‘Blackmail’ dropped like a stone. Sir Bartle Shepstone looked again at his shoes, as if the polish had suddenly worn off. Suter fidgeted with his moustache. Rosebery was
impassive.

‘But is it not the case that this information has been abroad for some time now? What I mean is this – why should the blackmailer wait until now before presenting his demands? And
have those demands been met? Has the Prince, as it were, paid up?’

Shepstone looked as though he might explode at the impertinence. But Suter was made of sterner stuff.

‘As yet there have been no such transactions. No suggestions have yet been made about possible transfers of money.’

‘And would the Prince make such a transfer if the request were made?’

‘I am not in a position to answer that at present.’ Suter looked relieved that he could escape such a direct question.

‘Are you sure,’ Powerscourt went on, continuing to probe for answers, ‘that there are no other matters apart from this which could give rise to blackmail? Forgive me if I raise
such unpleasant thoughts. It goes with my occupation.’

Suter shrugged his shoulders. ’Who can say? Who can say?’

‘No true-born Englishman would ever contemplate such behaviour. It would never occur to him.’ Sir Bartle was growing red in the face again.

‘Are you sure,’ Powerscourt stuck to his last, ‘that there is nothing in the current situation of Prince Eddy that might also give rise to blackmail?’

‘Dammit, Suter, dammit.’ The General was furious now, pounding the table as he spoke. ‘Do we have to listen to these vile accusations?’

‘I fear that you do. Nay, I am certain that you do.’ The voice was very cold. Powerscourt had forgotten about Rosebery. ‘If you wish to have these matters properly looked
into,’ Rosebery went on with all the political authority at his command, ‘you will have to look at certain unpleasant facts. And that is one of them.’

Silence fell briefly over the meeting. Shepstone was restraining himself with difficulty. Suter glanced at the Princess of Wales above the fireplace. There was no reply.

‘Lord Powerscourt, what would you have us do?’

‘I can only make a few suggestions at this stage. Obviously I would like to look again at all the communications from the extortionist.’ When in Rome, he reminded himself, talk as
the Romans talk. ‘I would like to speak with those present when the letters were received. I would like you to find an excuse for dismissing some respected member of your household, the
senior footman perhaps, or somebody in such a position. I would then replace them with an equally competent servant in my sister’s employ who has worked for me before in Army Intelligence.
This would give us another source of information.

‘I would like, with your permission, to speak to the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police. Naturally I would not give him any details. But blackmailers often have a record, they have
often struck before. I know the Commissioner from previous inquiries, and I have every confidence in his abilities and his discretion. If there has been a blackmailer at large among the rich of
London, he will know of it.’

A frisson of acute distaste passed across Suter’s face at the mention of the Metropolitan Police Force.

‘I would also like to speak to the Superintendent of the Postal Services for this district to see what we could learn from watching the postboxes. And finally, I know that it is outside my
position to say so, but I would advise that the Prince of Wales limits his appearances in society for a while. Sometimes the sight of the victim spurs the blackmailer on; equally the lack of sight
may put him off.’

Sir William Suter had been making notes on a white pad in front of him. ‘I regret,’ he purred, ‘that I am unable to give any direct answers to your requests at this
stage.’ Powerscourt felt that he did not regret it for an instant. ‘I shall have to take advice from colleagues.’ Powerscourt wondered how many times those words had been spoken
in this room. He thought again of Rosebery’s Scylla and Charybdis. ‘Your proposals are interesting and ingenious,’ Suter was well into his routine delaying mechanism now,
‘but it would be impossible for me to say yea or nay at this meeting. Could I suggest that you leave it with me for a couple of days or so? Once I have an answer I shall, of course, give you
a proper response. And thank you so much for the time and trouble you both have taken.’

Suter ushered them to the front door. Sir Bartle Shepstone remained seated inside, presumably, thought Powerscourt, to give vent to the true feelings of an outraged Englishman.

‘Rosalind, I cannot tell you how angry I am.’

Lord Francis Powerscourt was cross. He was fuming in the study of his eldest sister Rosalind’s house in St James’s Square. Lady Rosalind Pembridge had removed her brother from the
drawing-room in case his temper spoiled the evening for the rest of her guests.

‘Francis, you are being unreasonable. You know you are.’

‘I am not. I am not.’

His sister felt that Francis looked exactly as he had done when he was a little boy. The angry looks, the black curly hair thrown back over his forehead, the eyes flashing with defiance at some
slight, real or imaginary.

‘I specifically ask you to invite family members to dinner. Family members only. There are certain things I wish to ask them to do, relating to my current investigation. And what do I
find? That you have chosen to ask somebody else along, without consulting me, and against my express wishes. Now I cannot talk about my investigation in front of strangers. Honestly, how could you
be so stupid!’

Lady Rosalind regarded her brother’s investigations as another of those irksome hobbies men have like hunting or fishing or shooting. She could not imagine how her brother could object to
another person being invited to dinner. It would round off the numbers nicely, as she had said to her husband the night before.

‘Do you not understand the English language?’ Powerscourt was beyond gale force now, and on the verge of the typhoon. ‘Family members only. O.N.L.Y. That’s not too difficult for you, is it?

‘Lady Hamilton is a very presentable young woman, Francis. You might like her. ’

‘Are you now so desperate that you have exhumed Nelson’s mistress from the grave, Rosalind?’

‘Not that Lady Hamilton, Francis. Don’t be silly.’

Powerscourt was sometimes amused, sometimes angered, by the efforts of his sisters to marry him off. Eligible, healthy, single women were constantly paraded before him at his sisters’
dinner tables. His younger sister Lady Mary specialized in society women just the wrong side of forty with social ambitions left to fulfil. The youngest, Lady Eleanor, married to her sea captain in
the West Country, had an armada of naval widows on manoeuvres, still talking of ships and steam and prize money. Lady Rosalind went in for more eccentric offerings; in the past year she had brought
forth a painter, then the Head of History at a leading girls’ school – ‘Think how much you like history, Francis dear,’ – and then an American who might or might not
have been the heiress to an enormous fortune.

Powerscourt looked them all over, he sampled their conversation, and he passed by resolutely on the other side. But now! After all he had said, his sisters just took no notice at all.

‘Honestly, Francis, everybody is beginning to arrive. Are you going to calm down?’

‘I think I shall go home now,’ said Powerscourt gloomily.

‘You can’t possibly do that. The family is expecting you. So is Lady Lucy. She lost her husband with Gordon at Khartoum, you know.’

‘I don’t care if she is the Queen of Sheba or Cleopatra – she kept losing husbands too, didn’t she? I want to go home.’

‘Honestly, Francis, you sound just like your nephew Patrick. And he’s only four years old.’

‘All right, all right. But don’t expect me to behave properly. You have left me in a most filthy temper.’

It wasn’t until they were well past the fish that Powerscourt had the chance to talk to Lady Lucy on his left. Two glasses of Meursault had improved his temper greatly. Lady Lucy Hamilton
was thirty-one years old. She was tall and very slim, with blonde hair, petite ears and a pretty little nose. Her eyes were a deep blue and quite disconcerting when they were wide open.

‘Lady Lucy,’ Powerscourt opened the batting and went straight on to the attack, ‘how do you know my sister?’

‘One meets your sisters all over town, Lord Francis,’ said Lady Lucy with a humorous air. ‘I met Lady Rosalind at Mrs Burke’s the other day. I’m afraid I saw that
look pass across her face and I knew I would meet you soon.’

‘That look? Tell me more.’ Powerscourt was drawn by the easy charm and the pretty looks of Lady Lucy into forgetting his previous anger.

‘The look is something I know well now. It says, Here is another eligible person to introduce to my widowed brother or sister for matchmaking purposes. I see it in my own family all the
time. Tell me, Lord Powerscourt, are your sisters always trying to marry you off to somebody or other?’

‘Well, yes, as a matter of fact they are.’ Rich helpings of roast duck were being handed round, a dark red cherry sauce dripping down the side. ‘Lady Lucy, do you also suffer
from a family trying to marry you off?’

‘I do, indeed I do. But in my case they are mostly brothers. Men are so obvious in these matters, they’ve nearly given up on me now. Sisters, I should think, are more
devious.’

‘They certainly are,’ said Powerscourt, ‘and I have three of them. Like the three witches in Macbeth, endlessly stirring at their noxious brew, eye of this and hair of that.
They stalk the streets of St James’s at night, you know, potions bubbling in their hands.’ Powerscourt drew his long fingers into the shape of a goblet and held it up to the
candles.

‘I can’t believe they are as bad as all that, Lord Francis. I do have one very tiresome aunt, though.’ Lady Lucy leaned forward to impress on her companion the gravity of her
relations’ behaviour. ‘She doesn’t invite what she considers to be suitable men one at a time, but in bundles of three or four at a single sitting. Repulsing one decent but
undesirable male is not very difficult, but three or four can be very hard. But come, Lord Powerscourt. Let us be serious if only for a moment. One of your sisters told me that your wife and son
were lost at sea some years ago?’

‘Indeed they were. And your husband, Lady Lucy?’

‘He went with General Gordon to the Sudan. He never came back. I cannot remember if they were meant to conquer the country or to give it back to the natives. It doesn’t matter now.
At least I have my little boy to remember him by.’

‘Let us not trade sorrow for sorrow over the sorbet,’ said Powerscourt as the duck was taken away .’How old is your little boy?’

‘Robert is seven now.’

Lady Lucy was suddenly aware that she had broken one of the golden rules in this sort of conversation. ‘Don’t tell them you have a child,’ her mother and her brothers had
always urged her. Well, she didn’t care if she had broken it. Lord Francis seemed a lot more pleasant than the usual run of sporting bores she met at her brothers’ houses.

The middle of the room was dominated by a full-length portrait of Lady Rosalind, painted by Whistler just before her marriage to Lord Pembridge. Against a grey background, Powerscourt’s
sister looked radiant in black, her eyes sparkling merrily out of the picture.

At the far end of the table Powerscourt’s other brother-in-law William Burke was holding forth about American railway stocks and South American bonds. At his end the conversation had
turned to the prose of Cicero.

‘That’s what I started on when I began to teach myself Latin all over again. I thought I could help Robert, you see,’ said Lady Lucy. ‘I always found it quite easy to
translate but rather boring after a while. All those orotund periods seem to strike the same sort of rhythm, don’t you think?’

Powerscourt agreed wholeheartedly. Was she moving on to Sallust or Tacitus, he inquired, and he began a long exposition of how simply untranslatable Tacitus was, just untranslatable.

‘Honestly, darling,’ Lady Rosalind said to her husband late that night after all the guests had gone. ‘Francis makes all that fuss about one extra person coming to dinner. Then
they manage to have a distinctly flirtatious conversation about some dead Roman author called Tacitus. Getting on famously, they were. But I don’t think he liked the duck. Was there anything
wrong with the duck, Pembridge?’