Goodnight Sweet Prince

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. ‘Would 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?

Or did they send him away so they had time to hush everything up? Did it take the Prince of Wales two whole years to conceal the scandal? Two years in which the mere sight of Eddy could have blown the whole thing apart? No wonder they wanted to conceal the details of Eddy’s death, he said to himself. No wonder they wanted to hide the murder. They’ve been hiding things for years. It must be second nature to them by now, almost a way of life.

‘Thank heavens that’s over,’ said the tall black jacket as the two boys gathered themselves to leave the train. ‘But why did Cicero have to write such long sentences? Wouldn’t those ordinary Romans have forgotten the beginning by the time he got to the end?’

‘Think of Gladstone,’ said the little black jacket. ‘I’m not sure he can remember the start of a sentence by the time he gets to the end. If he ever does. Same thing really.’

And why, thought Powerscourt, watching the thatched cottages on the river go by once more, why should somebody wait thirteen years to kill him? Why not try to do it before? Presumably the Prince of Wales despatched money to keep everybody quiet, heaps and heaps of money probably. So why didn’t they all keep their mouths shut, like they were meant to? Perhaps they had.

The Limes was a compact suburban villa. It had seen better days. The windows were in need of attention. Paint was peeling in large black flakes from the front door. Captain Williams’ wallpaper came back to Powerscourt as he waited, wallpaper peeling off the walls, the bare patches where pictures had once stood.

He knocked firmly on the door.

A small fierce man of about sixty opened it. Dogs could be heard yelping in the background. Old copies of The Times and the Illustrated London News were piled up on a little table in the hall.

‘Are you Mr Robinson? Good morning to you. My name is Powerscourt.’

‘Get out!’ said the small fierce man. ‘Get out!’

‘I wrote to tell you I was coming. I have in my pocket a letter from the Prime Minister for you.’ Long experience had taught Powerscourt to place his left foot firmly against the jamb of the door.

‘Get out. I don’t care if you have a letter from the Prime Minister or the Archbishop of Canterbury or the Pope in Rome. Just get out!’

‘Our conversation would be entirely confidential. Nobody would know anything about it. I give you my word.’

The little man had turned quite red now. Powerscourt thought he could see tears forming in the corners of his eyes.

‘Do you understand English? I said Get out! Before I put the dogs on you.’

‘Please don’t put the dogs on me. I’m very fond of dogs,’ said Powerscourt, hoping against hope that he could charm his way into the house.

‘For the last time, Get out! Don’t come back! Don’t ever come back!’ The little man was actually crying now, tears rolling down his cheeks.

Powerscourt beat the retreat. ‘My apologies for upsetting you Mr Robinson. I’m going now. And don’t worry. I won’t come back.’

The barking of the dogs pursued him down the little drive. From somewhere inside he could hear a man weeping, and a softer woman’s voice trying to comfort him. Mrs Robinson was soothing the little man, fierce no longer, as though he were a small child. She sounded as though she had done it before.

Two hundred yards away the churchyard nestled under its yew trees. Birds, river birds replaced the noise of the barking dogs and the agony of Mr Robinson. Fresh graves, thought Powerscourt, that’s what I am looking for. Well, fairly fresh, not more than a year or two old. Lines of ancient memorials swept away towards the church path, names virtually eroded by time and weather. Here and there a defiant cross or angel marked a richer passing.

On the southern side, on the far side of the church, he found the more recent graves.

Mary William Blunt, beloved wife of Thomas Blunt, of Dorchester, passed away 15 January 1890.

Andrew James Macintosh, churchwarden of this parish, beloved husband of Elizabeth, father of Tabitha, Daniel, Albert. 18 July 1891. May he rest in Peace.

Maud Muriel Smythe, beloved wife of John Smythe, of Dorchester. 25 August 1891. Gone, but not Forgotten.

Peter James Cooper, beloved husband of Louise, father of the twins, 12 September 1891. May he see God.

Simon John Robinson, passed away 25 September 1891, beloved son of John and Mary Robinson, The Limes, Dorchester. Lord forgive them, for they know not what they do.

Powerscourt sank to his knees and prayed. He prayed for the Robinsons, all three of them, he prayed for the growing community of the dead who seemed to surround him, he asked God’s forgiveness for his morning call on the Robinson household. He prayed for his family. He prayed for Johnny Fitzgerald. He prayed for Lady Lucy.

Lord forgive them, he thought as he rose from his knees, a respectful gardener waiting to do his work, for they know not what they do. Who, for the family Robinson, was them? The Prince of Wales and his household? The boys on the Britannia? Was it even, he thought fancifully, the tumours that marked the latter stages of the disease, eating away at the victim’s bones and his brain, unwitting and unfeeling instruments of God’s purpose?

The vicar, the church noticeboard proclaimed, was The Very Rev. Matthew Adams, BA Oxon, M.Litt, London, of The Vicarage, Dorchester.

Mrs Adams opened the door. No dogs this time, Powerscourt thought, as she showed him into a cold sitting-room.

‘My husband has just popped out,’ she said brightly. ‘But he’ll be back presently. Would you like to wait in here? He won’t be long.’

Biblical scenes adorned the room, great vistas of the lake of Galilee and the Mount of Olives. Powerscourt wondered if the vicar painted in his spare time, holidays always spent with canvas and brush. ‘I’ll just be a few moments more, dear, I’ve got to finish these angels.’

‘Good morning to you,’ said the Rev. Adams cheerfully as he strode into the room, a handsome man of about forty years, eyes wary beneath the smile.

I presume he knows I’m not bereaved or anything like that, thought Powerscourt. Probably his wife gives him a clue when unexpected visitors arrive, the weeping, the demented, the lost souls of Dorchester.

‘Please forgive this unannounced intrusion, most impolite of me. My name is Powerscourt. I have had some rather unsatisfactory business here in Dorchester, and I would welcome your local knowledge.’

Powerscourt handed over his card. He explained that he was engaged on an investigation which, by its nature, had to remain secret. He showed the Rev. Adams a copy of his letter from the Prime Minister.

‘Is there anything wrong? With the Government, I mean?’ The Rev. Adams looked as though he would be reluctant to add the troubles of Westminster and Whitehall to the heavy burdens of Dorchester upon Thames.

‘Anything wrong with the Government? No, I don’t think so, no more than usual. My concerns are with a recent parishioner of yours, recently interred in your churchyard. Simon John Robinson.’

‘Young Robinson.’ The eyes grew warier still. The vicar edged himself further back in his chair. ‘What can I tell you about him?’

‘Do you know what he died of?’

‘Oddly enough I don’t. One usually hears, you know, what people die of. I don’t think he actually died here. I think the body was brought from somewhere else.’

‘Were the family well off?’

‘I’m not their bank manager, Lord Powerscourt, but then I don’t suppose they tell even you anything at all. Sometimes I feel it would be helpful in our parish work if the banks could let us know who was in financial trouble and we could provide help of a different kind. But they don’t of course. Where was I? Ah, yes, the Robinsons. I think they were quite well off, they always seemed to live well. The son, Simon, was away a lot. He had been in the Navy for a while, you know.’

‘Was he still in the Navy at the time of his death, do you know?’

‘No, he wasn’t, but they said he was in receipt of a generous naval pension which supported him in all his trips abroad.’

‘Any indication,’ Powerscourt raised his hands towards the vicar, ‘that the rest of the family are not so well off now? Presumably the naval pension had to stop with his death.’

‘There was some talk of them selling up shortly after he died. But then that stopped. Normal financial service seems to have been resumed now.’ The vicar smiled a weak routine smile. Maybe they teach smiles in the theological colleges, thought Powerscourt, the polite smile, the sympathetic smile, the concerned smile, smiles for all seasons.

‘Any brothers and sisters?’

‘I think they were all boys. No daughters. Poor Mrs Robinson. I’m sure she would have liked a daughter. She always says how lucky we are. We’ve got two of each.’

The smile of the happy family man this time. ‘Two of the brothers are abroad. Canada, or is it Australia? The other one works up in London and comes down from time to time.’

‘Do you know what he does in London?’ asked Powerscourt, feeling it was time to leave.

‘I do, as a matter of fact. He works in a grand shop near Piccadilly, but they’ve got branches all over London. They specialise in guns, shooting stuff, hunting knives, that sort of thing.’

Hunting knives. Powerscourt could feel the colour drain from his face. Sharp hunting knives. Sharp enough to slit your throat. Sharp enough to sever your arteries.

‘Are you unwell, Lord Powerscourt? You look as though you had seen a ghost.’

‘I’m fine, I’m fine. I have these little turns every now and then.’ He smiled back one of the vicar’s weaker smiles.

Ghosts. Ghosts of boys on the Britannia. Lord forgive them for they know not what they do. Ghosts that lay under trees in Sandringham Woods, messages left for the living. Forever Faithful. Semper Fidelis. Ghosts dancing in the rigging of the Bacchante, sailing on a journey to nowhere. The living ghost on the beach at Amble with the red eyes and the sunken spirit. It wasn’t my fault I tell you. It wasn’t my fault.

‘Would you like a cup of tea? Something to eat?’

‘No, I’m fine. The walk to the station will do me good, I promise you.’

The vicar walked him down to the town and escorted him right on to the platform itself. He’s making sure I’ve gone, thought Powerscourt. Dorchester doesn’t want to see me any more. Or they’ll put the dogs on me. Or sons from gunshops in Piccadilly, armed with hunting knives.