Goodnight Sweet Prince

11

Suter called them to attention in Sandringham House two hours later, Sir Bartle Shepstone looking completely unperturbed by the strange invasion of his house earlier that day, Dawnay looking elegant in a discreet tweed suit. Rosebery had reappeared from London in a dark blue pinstripe. A footman brought an envelope for Powerscourt, who stuffed it absent-mindedly into his pocket.

Powerscourt was peering idly out of the great windows where rain, sometimes sleet, was washing away the snow of previous days. Occasional parcels of snow and ice from the roof were tumbling on to the Sandringham lawns. Some of the evidence might be washed away on the roof. The rest would melt on the grass.

‘I think we should begin with a short moment of silence for Lord Lancaster,’ said Suter at his most sanctimonious. ‘If he had not come to this house, from friendship and from duty, maybe death would not have called him away.’

Suter bowed his head. Shepstone crossed himself slowly and mouthed what looked to Powerscourt like the Lord’s Prayer. Dawnay looked resolutely at the carpet, eyes open, lips not moving. Maybe he’s lost his faith, thought Powerscourt, fresh interest developing in the efficient Major. Rosebery looked impassive. Powerscourt himself scurried through the Nunc Dimittis.

‘I turn now to the arrangements for this morning.’ Suter returned to Private Secretary mode. ‘At 8.30 I propose to bring the members of the family into Prince Eddy’s room. This will be for what could be described as the last vigil. Those present will be described in their positions in tomorrow morning’s newspapers. All those involved have given their consent.’

‘I’m afraid that was my idea.’ Dawnay, the unbeliever, spoke apologetically. ‘For the lie to stick, I felt we had to conform as closely as possible to the events that would have occurred if the lie were true, if you see what I mean.’

Sir Bartle came to his rescue, his white beard looking more than ever like that of some Old Testament prophet.

‘I am sure you are right, Dawnay.’ The prophet shall speak to the unbeliever, thought Powerscourt. ‘If Prince Eddy were really dying, all the members of the family would gather round his bed for his last hours. For the final vigil. I am not sure myself that I should wish to be surrounded by all the members of my family as I passed away, but there it is. That is undoubtedly what this family would do.’

Private Secretary, Comptroller of the Household and the ubiquitous Major Dawnay departed to the chamber of death on the upper floor.

‘Charades, my dear Francis.’ Rosebery sounded weary. ‘They’re going to play charades upstairs over that poor boy’s last moments. This family are very good at them. They’re just going to have another round.’ Rosebery had taken up his favourite position, leaning on the mantelpiece, his legs crossed in front of the fire. ‘Charades are their life after all. Their whole existence is one long protracted game of charades. They spend their time dressing up, quite literally in the case of the Prince of Wales with his scores and scores of uniforms. Dressing up defines who you are. When you have on that uniform, be it Colonel of the Guards or the weeping widow in black, everybody knows what you are. Everybody knows who you are. So do you. As long as you enter the part with vigour, as they will, no doubt, this morning, all will be well. Royalty’s on parade, it’s time for charades – play up and play the game.

‘But come, Francis,’ Rosebery tore himself away from Royal Charades, ‘what does our postman friend bring you this morning? Is the death toll about to rise yet again?’

Powerscourt suddenly remembered the letter in his pocket. It was simply addressed. Lord Francis Powerscourt, Sandringham House. Powerscourt opened the envelope carefully. The letter was written on Sandringham House notepaper.

Dear Lord Powerscourt,

By the time you read this, I shall be dead. I am sorry for all the trouble I am causing to my family and friends and to yourself.

I am sure you will come to understand that I had no choice. I could do no other.

Semper Fidelis.

Lancaster

Powerscourt read the letter twice and handed it to Rosebery. He could see in his mind the tall young man, hair blowing in the wind, walking alongside him on that blustery beach at Hunstanton two days before. He heard the cries of the gulls. He saw again the look of supplication in Lancaster’s eyes as he told him about the smashed picture on the floor. He imagined a solemn younger version of Lancaster – twelve years old, had he said? – reciting a section of Byron’s Childe Harold to his school. Lancaster himself had joined the ranks of those who would not come back:

‘the unreturning brave, – alas!

Ere evening to be trodden like the grass.’

‘How tragic, how tragic,’ said Rosebery, handing the letter back to his friend.

Upstairs, Sir Bartle Shepstone smoothed out his paper and began to read, in a firm steady voice.

‘“The Times, 15th January 1892. We have received from General Sir Bartle Shepstone, Comptroller and Treasurer of the Household, the following description of the Duke’s last hours and death:

‘“‘Sandringham, Norfolk, Thursday, 14th January 1892. After the issue of the evening report of the 13th relating to His Royal Highness the Duke of Clarence and Avondale there was a decided improvement in his condition, which continued up to 2 a.m. on the 14th, and a reassuring message was sent to the Queen at midnight. At 2 a.m.,”’ Shepstone paused in his reading to let the time sink in, ‘“serious collapse came on which threatened to be immediately fatal; and the members of the Royal Family were summoned to his bedside.”’

‘Semper Fidelis, Powerscourt, Semper Fidelis,’ repeated Rosebery. ‘Is that the motto of his family or of his regiment?’

‘It could be either,’ said Powerscourt, ‘but I don’t think he means it in quite that sense.’ He glanced again at the letter as if it might have more to say. ‘I suspect it means what it says. Forever Faithful, Always True, Always Loyal. But it could mean loyalty or faith to almost anybody, don’t you see? Did he mean faithful to Prince Eddy because he knew why he was killed and could not say? Did he know that dark secret in Eddy’s past which led to his bloody demise? Quite possibly he did. Then again, did it mean that he knew the dark secret and dared not speak of it through loyalty? Was he being faithful to the good name of the Royal Family? Was he being faithful to the nation, loyal to his country?

‘Or, look at it another way, Rosebery, did he know who the murderer was? Or what motive the murderer had for killing Eddy? Was he shielding his friend, the murderer? Semper Fidelis, Forever Faithful, always loyal to his friend?’

‘“‘The Reverend F. A. J. Hervey, domestic chaplain to the Prince of Wales, was therefore sent for, and read the prayers for the dying in the presence of the assembled family. His Royal Highness gradually sank, and expired peacefully about 9.10 a.m.’”’

Outside the small window there were noises of manoeuvre on the gravel. A group of horsemen were practising with an empty gun carriage, the last bier for the dead man on his final journey from Sandringham, through the Norwich Gates, down to the royal station at Wolferton, on to Datchet station and the Chapel of St George at Windsor. At nine o’clock the royal party in Prince Eddy’s bedroom began their last separate prayers for the dead.

‘At present,’ Powerscourt looked both defiant and very determined to Rosebery, like one who has taken up a great challenge and will not let it go, ‘I do not know what Semper Fidelis meant when Lancaster wrote it. The minds of those about to commit suicide are seldom at their clearest. But I knew him slightly, I know his family slightly. Before this sorry affair is over, I am going to find out the answer. To his death and to his memory, I too shall be Semper Fidelis.’

In the nation’s capital the first news of the death of the heir presumptive reached the Mansion House.

‘Our beloved son passed away this morning. Albert Edward’

The Great Bell of St Paul’s tolled its sad message across the city. As the Royal Family began to shuffle from the bedroom, other messages followed down the telegraph lines to London.

‘Sandringham, 9.08 a.m. A change for the worse has taken place, and fear not much hope. Shepstone.’

‘Sandringham, 9.35 a.m. His Royal Highness passed away at about 9.10 this morning. Shepstone.’