Goodnight Sweet Prince Page 18

  ‘Let me really cheer you up, Francis. I have come to make another report. And I fear I may have yet more suspects to put into the pot.’ He took a large gulp of his Armagnac, shivering slightly as it passed down his throat. ‘They make it a different way from the brandy, you know. That’s why it’s so fiery.

  ‘Anyway, Francis, I thought I would resume my investigations into that club in Chiswick, the secret one with the homosexual rich of London, gathered by the waters of the Thames. I spent three days up a tree once again. Bloody cold it was too. I expect my hair would have started to fall out if I’d stayed up there much longer. I have to confess that I did have a bottle of Armagnac in my pocket. But it was only a small one, Your Reverence. Just a little one.’ Fitzgerald’s hands cupped themselves round a very small container indeed.

  Powerscourt didn’t think they made Armagnac in half or quarter bottles, but he thought he would let it pass.

  ‘On the third day – why do things always happen on the third day, Francis? – I saw a man I knew. I waited till he came out and I followed him home, not two hundred yards from where we are sitting now. He’s married, this character. I went to his bloody wedding. He must be able to look in two directions at once, God help him. The next day, I bumped into him just before lunch. I’d been loitering outside his offices all morning, pretending to be waiting for somebody. Lunch followed. Not Armagnac this time, Your Reverence. I have to confess to the Temperance Movement that it was Claret. Pomerol, Château Le Bon Pasteur, would you believe. Two whole bottles of the stuff it took. The Lord’s my Shepherd, I’ll not want, he leadeth me the quiet waters by. Waters by the Thames. Sorry, I’m getting carried away like you, Francis.

  ‘I said, may the Good Lord forgive me, that I was interested in men. Or boys. But only if it was safe, no danger, no threat of arrest from the peelers. Half-way down the second bottle, he opened up. He told me about the place by the river, about the entry fees and the precautions and all the other things we knew before. But, Francis, this is the thing. This is the thing.’

  Powerscourt leant down and poured a generous measure into Lord Johnny’s glass. It seemed very quiet, up there at the top of the house.

  ‘There is a crisis in the affairs of the club in Chiswick. Members keep getting ill. One or two of them have died in recent years. The symptoms are all the same. Spots, fever, lesions, pustules.’

  Syphilis again, thought Powerscourt bitterly. Most people could go through their whole lives without hearing mention of the word. Now he had encountered it twice in the space of a week. ‘Do they know where it is coming from, Johnny. This disease, I mean.’

  ‘No, they don’t. But they are worried, very worried. Petrified, in fact. They are thinking of closing the whole operation down. Don’t you see, Francis, don’t you see? I’m sure you do.’ Powerscourt stared intently at his friend, a dark shadow of fear passing over his face, ‘We could have another boatload of suspects. Somebody may be infecting these homosexual characters down there. We know a member who has syphilis, he may never have been cured, the heir presumptive to the throne. God knows how many more people he may have infected down there. God knows how many more lives have been ruined, husbands and brothers who may have to face telling their wives and families how they got ill, devoted fathers trying to summon the courage to break it to their own children that they may be dead in a few years, sores and rotting bits all over their bodies.

  ‘Let’s just suppose one of these unfortunates thinks he may have caught the disease from one of the members, our Duke of Clarence. Precious Prince Eddy. What would you want to do to him? I tell you what I’d do. I’d cut his bloody throat. I’d cut every single artery in his body and hope the blood spilt all over the floor. It wouldn’t matter if you are caught and hung. Think of it. You may as well die from the hangman’s noose as from the horrors of tertiary syphilis.’

  Powerscourt felt very tired. Here was another collection of suspects, even less likely to tell the truth than the ones before.

  ‘Johnny, Johnny. I thought there were about ten possible suspects, or ten suspect families before tonight. I say families because brothers, even fathers might want to take revenge for ruined lives. How many more of them do you think there might be down by the riverside?’

  ‘I don’t know. I could only guess. Maybe six. Maybe a dozen. Maybe fifteen at the outside. Not more.’

  ‘Every time I think we have moved a step forwards, we go backwards. I felt quite cheerful the other day, looking up at the Northumberland County Lunatic Asylum. Maybe I should go in and join them.’

  ‘Never give up. That’s what you’ve always said, Francis. Never give up. Even at the bottom of that bloody great mountain in India.’

  Powerscourt smiled at the memory. That was it. Never give up. He watched without complaint as Lord Johnny Fitzgerald poured out two glasses of Armagnac. Bloody great big ones, as Lord Johnny himself would have said.

  16

  I wonder how much he knows? I wonder how much they told him? I wonder how much he’ll tell me. Lord Francis Powerscourt was walking to the Army and Navy Club, thinking about his forthcoming interview with Lord George Scott, one time captain of the Bacchante.

  A bright January sun had come out, casting great shadows from the bare trees of St James’s Square. Powerscourt paused at the junction with Pall Mall, lost in thought. A slim figure, wrapped up to the chin in splendid furs, was dancing through the traffic to talk to him. If they chose Scott because he could keep his mouth shut, Powerscourt reflected, then maybe he’ll go on doing it. I’ll get nothing out of him at all.

  The slim figure came to a halt beside him and looked up at him brightly.

  ‘Lord Francis! Lord Francis! Hello. Hello. Anybody at home?’

  It was Lady Lucy.

  ‘Lady Lucy, why, how delightful to see you. How very delightful indeed.’ Powerscourt looked her up and down as if he had not seen her for years. ‘What are you doing here at this time of the morning? It’s only a quarter to nine. I thought young ladies of fashion never went out before eleven o’clock at the earliest.’

  ‘I am not one of those young ladies of fashion, Lord Francis. Later this morning I do have an appointment with a young lady of fashion. She is said to have been romantically involved with one of your equerry persons. I rise to go about your business, Lord Francis. And anyway,’ she smiled at him, their eyes already carrying on a private conversation of their own in the midst of London’s early traffic, ‘I have to buy one or two things in Fortnum and Mason, just up the road.’

  ‘You look like Anna Karenina in that coat, Lady Lucy. Why do I think you look like Anna Karenina? I have never met the woman.’

  ‘You’re thinking of that illustration on the first edition that came out in English, the one they put on the cover. That showed a young woman wrapped up to the throat in furs.’ Lady Lucy did not mention that the young lady, or the model on whom she had been based, was outrageously beautiful. ‘But if I am Anna Karenina, who are you, Lord Francis?’ Here came that teasing look again. ‘I think you must be Vronsky. Are we going to an illicit assignation? I have to say that I don’t particularly want to throw myself under a train. Not at the moment anyway.’

  ‘I’m not sure I would care to be Vronsky. Not today. I am going to be late for my appointment.’

  Lady Lucy could not bear to let him go. Surely Anna had held on to her Vronsky through thick and thin?

  ‘Lord Francis, I have some news for you. About those matters we spoke of at dinner before you went away. How was away? Was it satisfactory?’

  ‘Since you ask, away was terrible. But I did get to see a nice lunatic asylum. I’m thinking of retiring there. Would you care to join me?’

  Lady Lucy’s eyes danced. ‘I would think of joining you wherever you were, Lord Francis. But only as long as I knew you were sane in wanting to be with me.’ Had she gone too far, she wondered. Should she have said that? It was only what she felt.

  The object of her affections was looking at his watch. ‘Woul
d you by any chance be free in a couple of hours’ time, Lady Lucy? We could have coffee and biscuits in Fortnum and Mason. But I don’t suppose you’ll be in there all that time.’

  ‘You’d be amazed at how long I could spend in there. I shall see you then. But there’s one thing, Lord Francis. I’m so terribly sorry.’

  ‘Why are you sorry?’

  ‘The information I have found out for you. About your equerries.’

  ‘Yes, what is it?’ Powerscourt was growing anxious. Not more bad tidings at this time of day. He had had enough to last him a month.

  ‘I’m afraid I haven’t written it down. Not yet anyway. But I will. Write it down, I mean.’

  With that, she was gone, gliding through the throng to the shops of Piccadilly, the high collar still visible against the crowd. Maybe I should turn into Vronsky after all, thought Powerscourt, watching her disappearing figure. It might be quite nice. He corrected himself. It might be very nice indeed. After all, Lady Lucy’s husband was dead, wasn’t he?

  Polish. There was polish everywhere, polish on the boots coming down the steps as he walked up the steps, polish on the sword handles, glittering in the winter sun, polish on the scabbards, clanking beneath them, polish on the belts round the waists of the military, some small and tight, some tight but expansive. Polish, even on the hair, was the order of the day at the Army and Navy Club.

  Polish, and noise, thought Powerscourt as he presented his credentials at the desk. Army boots, Navy boots, maybe even the odd civilian boot like his own, echoed across the marble floor and up the great ornate staircase to the rooms above. The noise was deafening. He had to shout.

  ‘Lord George Scott. I believe he is expecting me.’

  A uniformed porter, boots so polished that you could see reflections of the club’s ceilings as he walked, led Powerscourt to a small room at the back of the library.

  Lord Scott was a tall slim seafarer with a clipped beard and a neat clipped moustache. He had a clipped way of speaking too. Maybe it was all those naval signals he had to send, telegraphic messages despatched from distant parts.

  ‘How d’ye do. How d’ye do. Please sit down. Ordered coffee. Lots of it. We won’t be disturbed.’

  Powerscourt presented his credentials, another of his letters from Lord Salisbury. I may have to go and get some more of these soon, if they keep going at this rate, he said to himself.

  ‘Met this Salisbury fellow, have you?’

  ‘Only once,’ Powerscourt replied.

  ‘Don’t know much about him. Good man, do you think?’

  ‘My friend Lord Rosebery thinks very highly of him. But he says Salisbury’s as devious as they come.’

  ‘Have to be. Have to be. In that position, I mean.’ Lord George Scott poured two cups of coffee and decanted three spoonfuls of sugar into his own. ‘Need sugar. Don’t know why. Bloody doctors told me. Now then. The Bacchante. You’re here to talk to me about all that. Been combing my memory. Looked up a few records. Checked the odd time and place. Why don’t I run that lot up the yardarm first and then you ask questions.’

  Powerscourt said that that sounded an excellent plan.

  ‘Damn strange business, whole thing. 1879, that’s when it started. Met the Prince of Wales a few times by then. Shooting party in Yorkshire, one or two rubbers of whist. Always had to lose to the Prince of Wales at whist. Don’t suppose you knew that.

  ‘Had no intention of ever taking two bloody Princes on some bloody jaunt round the world. Not given any choice. Hauled up before those First Sea Lords and given no option. Old fools said it would be good for my career.

  ‘Normal thing, Powerscourt, when you run a ship, you get to choose your officers. Not this time. Not the men either. Officers picked by one lot of admirals. Crew picked by another lot of admirals. Officers all old, rather decrepit. No dashing young flames there. Crew old, ugly, past their peak. Think they must have emptied one or two workhouses to provide me with that lot.’ Lord George Scott shook his head sadly at the memory of his decrepit crew.

  ‘Whole lot of nonsense before leaving about whether boat would sink or not. Had to take the old hulk out into North Atlantic and into the middle of a big storm. See if she would survive or not. Nobody seemed to have thought of what happened if she did sink. End of Bacchante, end of Captain Scott, end of crew. Naval disaster. British can’t sail any more. British ships can’t float any more. Bloody papers making mincemeat of Royal Navy.’

  Powerscourt could see that whatever his reservations about the First Lords of the Admiralty, Lord Scott’s loyalty to the Navy was as strong as ever.

  ‘Great row about accommodation. Somebody somewhere obsessed with it. That other boat they thought of using, Newcastle, had sort of sealed compartments, isolated accommodation. That was the appeal of it. Keep one lot of people away from the other.

  ‘Where should Prince Eddy sleep? Where indeed. Many a time I would have pushed him overboard myself. Had to put him in my cabin. Build a sort of extra bit of space. Not allowed to mingle with rest of crew at all, only with his brother and the officers. Very strict instructions on that from my Lords of the Admiralty. Sealed packets, all that kind of stuff.’

  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?