Goodnight Sweet Prince Page 6
‘On the other side we have Lord Frederick Cavendish, Her Majesty’s appointed representative, Viceroy of Ireland, stabbed to death by Fenian assassins in Dublin’s Phoenix Park in 1882, just ten years ago.
‘And last of all, right here,’ Powerscourt added another artistic blob, ‘we have a bearded agitator, pamphlet in hand, fist raised in defiance, cap on head, speaking of troubles yet to come. At the far left-hand corner of the picture’ – Powerscourt’s hand almost reached the emergency cord – ‘a small black cloud threatens the blue serenity of Claude’s landscape, a thunderstorm perhaps, a stroke of lightning.’
6
They found the Duke of Clarence and Avondale shortly before seven o’clock in the morning. The front of his night-shirt was saturated with blood.
Blood red.
There was so much blood that Shepstone, veteran of many a battlefield, described the room later as smelling like a cross between a butcher’s shop and an abattoir.
Eddy’s bedroom was on the first floor of Sandringham House, looking out over the gravelled sweep of the main entrance. It was not completely flat, but sloped gently downwards to the window. Below the sash was a small lake, whose surface glistened eerily in the candlelight.
Blood scarlet.
Tributaries flowed from the end of the single bed across the floor towards the lake, matting the carpet and, where the floor was bare, seeping through the floorboards.
Blood river.
On the dressing-table was a copy of the Bible and Eddy’s diary, open on the day of his death. Hanging on the back of the door was his full dress scarlet uniform, last worn on his birthday just a few days before. Both of his wrists had been viciously slashed. From them both trickled a small but regular flow, running down into the mattress.
Blood crimson.
The main arteries in the legs had been severed too, adding to the blood river traffic towards the lake by the window. And his head was barely attached to his body. The murderer had slit his throat from ear to ear, leaving it lolling dangerously off the pillow. At the age of twenty-eight, Albert Victor Christian Edward, Duke of Clarence and Avondale, second in line of succession to Victoria’s throne, had breathed his last. Clarence was a corpse.
Blue blood.
Blood royal.
The Prince of Wales was in torment. On him, and on him alone, rested the responsibility of what to do about the murder of his son. What would happen if this death and the manner in which it occurred were made public?
There was only word that came into his mind, and it came in letters as high as the rooftops of Sandringham itself.
Scandal.
Scandal as the newspapers began to speculate about the murder of a Royal Prince asleep in his own house, in his own bed, surrounded by members of his own family. Scandal about his own private life that had threatened to erupt before Christmas with revelations about his affair with Daisy Brooke.
Scandal about his dead son.
Waves of anger at the death of Prince Eddy were sweeping through the Prince of Wales. For ten or fifteen minutes he would feel overwhelmed, drowned in anger. Then it would subside, only to reappear at a time of its own choosing.
The Prince of Wales was always restless. He marched out of his study and down to the billiard room on the far side of the house where he knew he would not be disturbed. Somebody had left the balls on the table. It was an easy shot. The Prince of Wales picked up a cue. He bent over the table, his stomach pressing against the side. He missed.
He tried another cannon on his billiard balls. Surely, he thought to himself, the red and the white will not dare to disobey their master’s will. They did. He missed again.
Scandal lay around his family like the covering of some very expensive diamond from one of those great jewellery houses in the fashionable Faubourgs of Paris. Heaven and his bankers knew, the Prince of Wales had bought enough favours with their products over the years. The gems came in boxes, wrapped in layer upon layer of the most exquisite tissue paper. As you peeled off each rustling layer, you felt sure that here, at last, was the treasure, only to be cheated of your prey.
Eddy lay at the bottom of the box. Or the bottom of the coffin. Edward remembered his conversation with Alexandra about Eddy’s future, some months before, with another wave of scandal threatening to break.
‘Send him away! Send him away, for Christ’s sake! Europe, the colonies, I don’t care. Anywhere, as long as he’s out of this country for at least two years!’
And Alix, pleading softly, ‘Oh no you don’t. Not this time. You did that years ago, and it nearly broke my heart. This time Eddy is staying here.’
Against his better judgement, he had given way. Eddy had stayed here. Now look where it had got them. Of all the scandals, the ones surrounding Prince Eddy were the most serious.
Prince Edward knew a lot of it, he thought he knew most of it, but even he did not know if there were other layers, waiting to be unpeeled in the unforgiving light of publicity and a nation’s fury. Layer upon layer of the tissue papers of scandal.
The billiard balls lay in their pools of light, the dark green baize a pitch waiting for another match. Death stopped play.
The Prince of Wales made up his mind. He summoned Sir William Suter and Sir Bartle Shepstone to a meeting in the drawing-room at the back of the house.
Another wave of anger was upon him, flooding through him like a typhoon of fury.
‘Private Secretary,’ he said. ‘Treasurer and Comptroller of my Household. I do not need to tell you gentlemen the reasons why I feel this matter should be concealed. Not the death, of course, but the murder. The scandal would be intolerable. I feel that no word of it should leak out to the outside world. But I do not know if it can be done.’
Private Secretary Suter had attended some very strange meetings on some very strange subjects with his master. He was not particularly surprised at this one. He looked at the Prince as if this was some normal question of routine, a visit of inspection to the fire brigade in Birmingham, the laying of another foundation stone in Shoreditch.
‘Get Rosebery here as fast as you can. And that investigator friend of his, Powerswood or Powersfield or whatever he’s called.’
‘Lord Rosebery and Lord Francis Powerscourt are on their way, Your Royal Highness.’
‘And when they come, gentlemen . . .’ The Prince of Wales stood up. He looked old suddenly, his hair in disarray, his eyes hurting with the force of his anger. ‘I think we want two things.’ Shepstone, ever the faithful courtier in a crisis, began taking notes in a small blue book. ‘We want to know if the thing can be concealed, covered up. And then, we want – Powerscourt? Is that what you said his name was, Suter? – we want him to find who killed my son.
‘When he does, Shepstone, you will know what to do. We may not be able to summon the laws and the courts of England to our aid, but there are older laws than those. Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord. I will repay. Even unto the third and fourth generation of them that mock me. All of those involved in this murder must pay for their knowledge. With their blood. Not my son’s.’
The Prince of Wales strode from the room. In the corner, beside the bookcase, the grandfather clock struck five. Less than twenty-four hours had passed since the discovery of the body.
Sir William Suter stared vacantly at the grandfather clock.
Sir Bartle Shepstone stared at the fire. Then he wrote some more in his little blue book. He filled three pages with his recollections of the words of his master. He thought he preferred the New Testament God of love and forgiveness to the Old Testament trumpet call of Vengeance is Mine. But he knew where his duty lay.
‘Rosebery! Powerscourt! Thank God you have come.’ Sir William Suter and Sir Bartle Shepstone were unanimous in their welcomes. Powerscourt noted with interest that neither was wearing mourning clothes.
‘Tell us the facts, man. Tell us the facts.’ Rosebery was leaning on the mantelpiece in the drawing-room at the back of Sandringham House looking out ove
r a plain of white snow and an icy lake.
‘Well, I will try,’ said Suter, grimacing with distaste at the prospect of reliving the past twenty-four hours. ‘The body of the Duke of Clarence was discovered at shortly before seven o’clock this morning. Lord Henry Lancaster, one of the equerries or gentlemen in waiting to the Duke, went in to inquire after his health – he had been suffering from a heavy cold – and to see if he wanted breakfast brought up to him. Thank God it was Lancaster, and not one of the parlourmaids gone in to clean the room.’
‘How was the body lying?’ Powerscourt asked the question quietly.
Suter looked at him carefully. Perhaps this was the world Powerscourt moved in, a world where murderers stalk the corridors by night and corpses are found in the morning. A world where the smell of blood lingers on in the nostrils long after you have left the room. ‘He was lying on his back. His throat had been cut. So had his wrists and the great blood vessels in his legs. The blood was lying all over the floor.’
‘My God!’ exclaimed Rosebery. ‘And this is England, not the Rome of Nero or the Borgias. How terrible.’
‘Quite so. Quite so.’ Suter acknowledged the outburst as one might tolerate a tantrum from a small child. But his face was as impassive as ever, a mask that concealed the workings of his mind. ‘Lancaster thought quickly. He summoned one of the other equerries, Harry Radclyffe, and put him on permanent guard outside the door, with instructions to say that the Duke was asleep and was on no account to be disturbed. I informed the Prince of Wales who told his wife and the rest of the family.
‘Dr Broadbent examined the cadaver and gave it as his opinion that the murder had taken place between eleven o’clock the previous evening when Lancaster bade him goodnight and saw him off to sleep and five o’clock in the morning. Broadbent has, naturally enough, been sworn to secrecy. The Prince wanted to have you gentlemen here before we decide how to proceed.
‘Less than a dozen people know what has transpired here. The Prince is firmly of the opinion that the murder must be covered up, that we invent some story to conceal the truth. That, rather than the particular circumstances of a person’s death,’ he said, staring balefully at Powerscourt, ‘is our immediate concern.’
‘Good God, man, this is England! This is Victoria’s grandson! This was Victoria’s grandson.’ Rosebery corrected himself. ‘How can you think of covering it up? Think of Parliament! Think of the laws of England! Think of the ancient constitution!’
‘I am not aware,’ said Suter coldly, ‘that any of your colleagues or predecessors have actually bothered to write it down. The ancient constitution, I mean. That gives us some flexibility.’
‘Come, Rosebery.’ Sir Bartle Shepstone had spent most of the discussion gazing sadly out of the window, as if time might suddenly decide to run backwards. ‘You have always been an adviser to the Royal Family on the constitution. Is there anything that says we couldn’t conceal it, cover it up, if such be the parents’ wishes?’
Rosebery looked long at a portrait of the Princess of Wales by the bookshelves. There seemed to be three or four Alexandras in the room, radiant as a bride, happy as a mother surrounded by three of her children, regal as the Princess of Wales in formal attire and a dazzling tiara.
‘There is nothing in the constitution,’ he said finally in the manner of one who has been taken to a lunatic asylum and has to address the inmates, ‘that says you could not cover it up. There are the laws of the country, conspiracy to pervert the course of justice to name but one. I would find it easier to answer the question if I knew the reason for it, if I could sense what prompts this perversion of justice.’
‘Nobody is trying to pervert the course of justice, Rosebery. That is why Powerscourt is here. We want him to find the murderer.’
Powerscourt said nothing. Inside, he felt sick. If the murder was covered up, he could ask no questions, he could make no inquiries, he could not conduct his business. It would be like playing cricket not just blind but with only one hand.
‘The reasons, I think, are simple.’ Suter was counting them off on his fingertips as the last light ebbed away from the white world outside. ‘It is a choice between two evils. Of course, if it is covered up, that is a terrible thing. But think of the alternative. We have the police tramping all over Sandringham and Marlborough House. Think of it, Rosebery. Inspector Smith who has spent his life investigating the criminal gangs of the East End of London comes to interrogate the Prince of Wales. Superintendent Peters polishes his best black boots and proceeds to talk to the Queen Empress at Windsor Castle. They do not know the world in which we live.’ As Suter thought of these outrages the colour drained slowly from his face.
‘Then there are the opposition politicians, radicals and suchlike. Every jumped-up backbencher will be on his feet in the House of Commons trying to ask the question nobody has asked before. The one designed to cause maximum embarrassment to the Royal Family. The newspapers will go mad. Initially of course we’ll have the black mastheads and the loyal and pious editorials. Grave loss to the nation and the Empire. You could write those now, Rosebery, I expect. But give them a week and they will be all over the Royal Family like vultures. Vultures over a corpse. They will start to rake up every single of scrap of gossip that has circulated in the drawing-rooms of London for the past three years. That could prove embarrassing and difficult for all concerned. Think of the foreign newspapers and what they will make of it. Think of the rejoicing in Paris and Berlin as a murder and a series of scandals in Britain’s Royal House are all over their front pages. Mourning dress won’t be worn for very long.’
And then Rosebery could see it all.
The need for secrecy, the need for silence.
Fear was the key. Fear of some unspoken scandal that had not yet been brought out into the light of day. Fear that if the stones were lifted, something so terrible would crawl out that it could endanger the whole position of the Royal Family. Fear so strong that it left the risky and hazardous course of covering up the murder as the better of two options.
Powerscourt tried to find the thread that linked his earlier investigation, the investigation that never was, with these terrible events at Sandringham. Somebody blackmailing the Prince of Wales, fears for the life of Prince Eddy. They must have thought it had all gone away, he reflected, looking at Suter and Shepstone and remembering the final letter from Marlborough House, written on the last day of the old year, that seemed to close the account. What had it said? ‘I am happy to be able to report,’ Suter had written in his best Private Secretary prose, ‘that the circumstances that led us to consider the possibility of availing ourselves of your expertise have changed for the better.’ This cold January evening, thought Powerscourt, they have certainly changed for the worse.
‘Gentlemen. Gentlemen.’ Suter was calling the meeting to order. ‘We are due to meet the Prince of Wales in one hour’s time. Rosebery, I would be grateful if you could marshal your arguments against what I have suggested. The Prince wishes to avail himself of the best possible advice before he reaches his final decision. I must go to him now. Sir Bartle here will answer some of your more specific questions.’
Suter walked slowly from the room. As he closed the door faint sounds of women weeping could be heard from the floors above.
‘Was there any sign of a murder weapon? Was the window open or closed?’ Powerscourt felt suddenly like an intruder as he began his inquiries.
‘No murder weapon was found,’ Sir Bartle Shepstone replied. ‘I do not know about the window – but obviously members of the family have been tramping in and out of the room all day. You can see it tomorrow, and Lancaster will talk to you, of course.
‘I have ordered reinforcements of a sort,’ Shepstone went on. ‘A detachment of two dozen Guardsmen, commanded by a Major Dawnay, including a doctor and a trained undertaker, should be with us soon. They are part of a special section of the Household Division and are sworn to secrecy in the event of unusual missions like this.’
‘Oh, they are very very secret, my dear Rosebery. When you are Prime Minister you will know all about them, and the special units of the Metropolitan Police Force. But they will be able to help us with the body.’
Powerscourt suddenly remembered that Shepstone had won the Victoria Cross for outstanding bravery in the Indian Mutiny. He made a mental note to tell his nephews that he had talked with an old man with a white beard who had a VC; the Indian Mutiny, he suspected, would seem as remote to those little boys as the Spanish Armada.
‘How many people are in the house just now?’ Powerscourt returned to Sandringham.
‘Well, the family are here. And the Tecks, of course – Princess May was engaged to be married to Prince Eddy, as you know. About half a dozen young men, friends or equerries of Prince Eddy.’
‘And how many servants are there about the place?’
Sir Bartle shook his head rather sadly. ‘Do you know, I have no idea about that. Some of them live in, of course, and some of them come from the neighbouring villages. Seventy? Eighty? I’ve never thought about it.’
‘Any reports of strangers in the vicinity?’ Powerscourt felt he wasn’t making much progress so far. He didn’t suppose it would get any better.
‘Odd that you should mention that, Lord Powerscourt.’ Shepstone was looking very tired suddenly. ‘There have been reports of a party of Russians and some Irishmen in the neighbourhood. The Prince of Wales is convinced one of them must be responsible.’
‘Let me ask the key question for our next round of discussions.’ For much of the conversation Rosebery had been marshalling his arguments for the Prince of Wales, lost in thought on the settee. ‘How many people know what has happened? How many people know the truth?’
‘I should think it cannot be more than a dozen, maybe fifteen at most. But all of them are either members of the family, or members of distinguished families who can be relied upon to do their duty.’