Goodnight Sweet Prince (41 page)

Men went from my house to fight at Agincourt and Crécy, he reminded himself. Perhaps we can summon their ghosts to stand sentry on the roof, deadly arrows waiting to defend their master,
crossbows to the rescue.

Fitzgerald was asleep when he reached home, a troubled sleep, turning over and over in Powerscourt’s bed.

‘He keeps asking for you,’ said Mrs Warry, his housekeeper, who kept watch over the invalid. ‘He wants to know when you’ll be here.’

‘Well, I’m here now, Mrs Warry. You go and rest. What did the doctor say?’

‘The doctor came this evening, my lord. And he’ll be back again in the morning. He says he’ll be fine but that he has to rest. He gives him some medicine each time he calls. He
says Lord Fitzgerald mustn’t have anything alcoholic to drink. Not for a while anyway.’

‘I shouldn’t think that went down too well, Mrs Warry. Not well at all.’

Mrs Warry laughed. ‘Only this evening he was asking for a drop of brandy. Just a drop, he said. For the pain.’

‘If he’s asking for brandy, then he’s definitely getting better. He’s on the mend.’

Powerscourt rose early the following morning. He went to the desk in his little sitting-room looking out over the garden and the churchyard. Early snowdrops were peeping
through the grass. Soon, he remembered, the lawns all around the house would be ablaze with daffodils, blowing and bending in the wind. It was his favourite time of year.

He began composing a letter to his sisters in case the assassins found him. He thought of Johnny Fitzgerald, sleeping the sleep of the drugged and wounded upstairs, his shoulder still stained
with blood. He thought of Lady Lucy, giving Robert his breakfast no doubt, making sure the homework had been completed. He thought of the message of the dead Lord Lancaster. In time I am sure you
will come to understand that I could do no other. Semper Fidelis.

Powerscourt took out his pen and composed the last memorandum on the Strange Death of Prince Eddy. He set out the facts from beginning to end: the blackmail attempt on the Prince of Wales, the
fears for the life of Prince Eddy, the terrible murder, the suicide in Sandringham Woods, the quest for motive which led him back to the
Britannia
and the voyage of the
Bacchante
all
those years before. He set out the facts about Gresham: the death of his wife, Louisa, so beautiful; Gresham’s discovery of the true circumstances of Louisa’s death; Gresham’s
expedition across the roofs of Sandringham to kill Prince Eddy.

He set out his own pursuit of Gresham across the streets and canals of Venice, the confession in that red room with the three mirrors, looking out over the waters of the Basin of St
Mark’s, his own disclosure of the true nature of Prince Eddy’s death to Suter and Shepstone in Marlborough House. He set out the facts concerning the murder of Gresham in Perugia, the
knife made in Sheffield, the corpse dumped in a fountain. He set out the facts concerning the attempted murder of Johnny Fitzgerald. Or himself.

He made two copies. A panting William McKenzie came to see him.

‘I ran most of the way from the station at Oundle,’ the tracker from Scotland explained. ‘I thought things must be pretty serious from what you said in your message.’

Powerscourt had put Most Urgent three times at the end of the cable.

‘Somebody tried to kill Johnny Fitzgerald three days ago. He was walking over towards Rockingham. He’s going to get better. He’s in my bed upstairs. He was wearing my cape at
the time. He thinks they were trying to kill me.’

McKenzie peered closely out of the window as if a gunman might be lurking in the long grass or hiding in the trees.

‘I see, my lord. I see. I presume you would like me to keep an eye on things for you. I shall begin straight away. I would be advising Your Lordship not to leave the house just now. Not
until I have taken a look around, you understand.’

McKenzie disappeared out of the window and vanished round the side of the house.

Another visitor arrived in style in a cab at the front door. William Burke had left his counting house and his investments to pay a call at Rokesley Hall.

‘William! How very kind of you to come all this way.’

‘I felt I had no choice,’ said the financier. ‘Your life is in danger. God knows what may happen next. How can I help?’

Burke took off his coat and gloves and sat down beside the fire. His wife’s portrait, painted by Whistler many years before, looked down on him from the walls. She was flanked by her two
sisters, looking rather younger than when he had left them.

‘You’ve got them all here,’ he said, nodding to the pictures in their heavy gold frames, ‘all three of them.’

‘I can keep an eye on them here,’ said Powerscourt cheerfully. ‘It’s the only place in England where I can be sure my sisters will do what I tell them.’

‘Must have its advantages, that. Maybe I’d better get another one done of Mary and hang it in my study at home. I could keep an eye on her there.’

‘Now then, William. I think you’d better read this. I wrote it this morning.’

Powerscourt stood by the window and looked over at his church. William Burke, spectacles fastened on his face, read through his memorandum. The organist was practising. Strains of Bach or Byrd
carried across the headstones.

‘My God, Francis. This is terrible. Terrible. What do you want me to do?’

‘I want you to come with me to Marlborough House to see Suter and Shepstone. I need a witness. Rosebery is abroad and the Prime Minister is unwell.’

‘What are you going to tell them? Suter is the Private Secretary to the Prince of Wales, isn’t he? What’s Shepstone’s official title?’

‘Treasurer and Comptroller of the Household, William. Whatever that means.’

Powerscourt turned back from his window. A posse of rooks were flying in formation from the tall trees by the bell tower to scavenge in the fields beyond.

‘The thing to remember is that they do their master’s bidding. They do what the Prince of Wales tells them. I do not believe they would have killed Lord Gresham, or tried to kill me,
if they did not think they were carrying out his wishes. I have to convince the Prince of Wales, through these two officials of his, that it is time to stop.’

‘How are you going to do that, Francis?’

Powerscourt told him. A slow smile spread across Burke’s face.

‘Would he do that? Rosebery, I mean?’

‘I’m sure he would. Absolutely sure. The whole thing started with blackmail. It’s going to end with a different sort of blackmail.’

‘Pressure, Francis, pressure. That’s what we say in the City about these kind of transactions. Pressure is a much nicer word than blackmail. Come to think of it, I can bring a little
bit of pressure of my own to the meeting. And the Prince of Wales won’t like it at all. There are all sorts of pressures in this wicked world, Francis. But money pressure is one of the most
powerful of them all.’

Burke looked at his watch. He had left the cab waiting at the front door.

‘I must return to London, Francis. Do you have a date for this meeting?’

‘I have said that we propose to call at eleven o’clock in two days’ time. On Thursday. I shall see you on the steps outside.’

‘Goodbye, Francis. Take great care of yourself.’ His cab was turning to ride up the hill to Oundle. A small figure, it might have been McKenzie, was standing behind a clump of trees
two hundred yards from Rokesley Hall, staring out at the bare landscape. He had a gun in his hand.

‘Your sister sends you a message from London, Francis. Stay indoors, she says. At all times. Very dangerous place, Northamptonshire.’

‘And where have you been?’ Lord Johnny Fitzgerald was propped up on a mountain of pillows in Powerscourt’s bed. The doctor had called. The dressings had been
changed. Powerscourt thought he looked a little better. ‘Really, Francis, I don’t think you’re the man I’d ask to come to see me on my deathbed. You’d never get here
in time.’

‘I would if I thought I’d hear your deathbed repentance. That would be quite something.’

‘I’ve got nothing to be ashamed of,’ said Fitzgerald, heaving himself up on his bolster, ‘well, not very much. The point is, Francis, as I’m sure they told you,
it’s you who should be lying here in bed, not me. I’m sure they thought I was you, if you see what I mean.’

‘Greater love hath no man than this, that he lay down his life for his friend,’ said Powerscourt happily. ‘Seriously though, I am most grateful to you, Johnny. But come, the
doctors say I must not talk to you for long. How soon will you be able to walk again, do you think?’

‘Here I am. Look at me. Nearly dead, for God’s sake. And all you can ask is when I can walk again. Do you want to get rid of me, Francis?’

‘No, I do not. Certainly not. But I was thinking of something I want you to do for me. And you would have to be able to walk.’

‘They say I will be up and about in four or five days’ time, definitely in a week. Where do I have to walk to, for God’s sake?’

‘I can’t tell you yet. I’ll tell you in a couple of days’ time when you’re stronger. I brought you this, by the way. It might help the recovery.’ Powerscourt
drew out a small hip flask from his pocket and laid it on the bed.

‘Is there anything in it? You wouldn’t be bringing me one of those things just to torment me, would you? It’s not full of bloody water or anything like that?’

‘Medicinal brandy, Johnny. Purely medicinal. The doctor thought this little flask should last you three or four days.’

‘Three or four days? Will you look at the size of it? Three or four hours more likely. But I tell you this, Francis. You keep up regular refills of our little friend here, and I’ll
be walking about in three days’ time. Just three.’

Suter and Shepstone were at their usual positions in the office at Marlborough House. William McKenzie had brought Powerscourt to the meeting by a devious and roundabout
route, travelling south by a different line, changing trains as they went. They had left McKenzie in the doorway of Berry Bros and Rudd, an occasional glance at the bottles in the window, a more
regular scanning of Pall Mall. A policeman seemed to have joined him on his watch, pacing regularly up and down between the entrance to St James’s Palace and Marlborough House.

‘Lord Powerscourt. Mr Burke. Good morning to you both. You requested this meeting, I believe, Lord Powerscourt. Do you have something further to report? Some further intelligence you wish
to impart?’

‘I do.’ Powerscourt told them about his trip to Perugia, the mutilated body of Gresham in his fountain, the attempt on the life of Lord Fitzgerald. ‘There is only one
explanation that is consistent with the facts, Sir William. Only one.’

‘And what is that, pray?’ Shepstone was shifting nervously in his chair.

‘Only four people knew that Lord Gresham was the murderer of Prince Eddy. Me, Lord Rosebery, Lord Fitzgerald, the Prime Minister. And the household of the Prince of Wales.’

Powerscourt paused. It was very quiet in the room. Burke was shuffling a pile of papers in front of him. Shepstone was stroking his beard.

‘None of the four went to Perugia to kill him. That leaves the Household of the Prince of Wales. Or people carrying out their orders. Orders to kill him, to kill him in exactly the same
way as Prince Eddy, the same strokes of the knife, in the same places. Gresham could not be brought to trial in England of course. Once the Household decided on a cover-up, there had been no
murder, there could be no inquiry, there could be no arrests, there could be no court case. There could be no judge putting on his black cap and ordering Gresham to be taken from this court to a
place of execution where he would be hanged by the neck until he was dead. I believe the rope is kinder to the neck than the knife, gentlemen. Much kinder. But the Household could decide to take
matters into their own hands. They could be their own judge and their own jury. Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord. I will repay.’

Shepstone and Suter started. They stared intently at Powerscourt. Could the man hear conversations when he wasn’t even in the room? For he had, inadvertently, used exactly the same words
as the Prince of Wales at Sandringham, discussing what to do once they knew the identity of Prince Eddy’s killer. Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord. I will repay.

‘Vengeance is mine,’ Powerscourt went on, ‘and it might embrace more than the murder of Lord Gresham. Vengeance could mean the elimination of all those who know the
uncomfortable truth, uncomfortable for the Household of the Prince of Wales, that is. Vengeance could mean the elimination of those who know the full facts about the affair, the syphilis, the
blackmail, the murders, the cover-up of the death of the heir presumptive. It might be much better if all those people were out of the way, all of them. Then nobody would ever know what happened in
Sandringham. Or in Perugia. Or on board the HMS
Britannia
all those years before.’

Powerscourt thought of Captain Williams struggling along the beach at Amble, his career broken, his health ruined. It wasn’t my fault, I tell you. It wasn’t my fault. Was this a
different form of vengeance, vengeance for all those ruined lives?

‘An attempt was made the other day to kill Lord Fitzgerald. Maybe the killers mistook him for me. I cannot be sure. But I can tell you one thing for certain. If any further attempts are
made on the life of Lord Fitzgerald or myself, or anybody else connected with this inquiry, the consequences will be severe. I suggest that you read this memorandum I have prepared. When you have
both read it, you will return it to me, as you asked Lord Rosebery and me to do with an earlier memorandum of your own, Sir William.’

Powerscourt looked at the portrait of Alexandra above the fireplace. William Burke was writing more figures in his notebook.

‘Interesting,’ said Shepstone, and passed the document to Suter.

‘Most interesting,’ said the Private Secretary, handing the memorandum back to Powerscourt. ‘And what is the point of this piece of paper, may I ask?’

‘You may. You may indeed. If, as I said, anything should happen to Lord Fitzgerald, or myself, or anybody associated with us in this business, one copy of this memorandum will go to Queen
Victoria. She has forgiven her son many things in the past. I doubt if she would forgive him this, murdering his own subjects. The second point is this. Lord Rosebery would call for, and be
granted, an emergency debate in the House of Lords on the current state of the monarchy. As an opening statement, he would read this memorandum into the record.’