Goodnight Sweet Prince (42 page)

Powerscourt could imagine the sensation. Word would leak out, it always did, that some startling announcements were to be made in the Upper House. Peers, old and young, regular attenders and
country backwoodsmen, peers curious, peers gossipy, peers sent by their wives to hear the news, peers in the Government, peers on the backbenches, peers would pack the House. The great red benches
would be in uproar by the time Rosebery sat down. There would be special editions of the papers. Suter and Shepstone had agreed to cover up the first murder for fear of scandal. Now they would get
scandal on an unimaginable scale, a whirlwind, a typhoon of scandal from which the Prince of Wales might never recover.

Suter and Shepstone sat impassive in their chairs. Neither spoke. It was as if they were frozen, like Lot’s wife, two courtiers turned into pillars of salt in Pall Mall.

‘And that is not all.’ Powerscourt continued in his role of the exterminating angel. ‘Mr Burke.’

‘I concur wholeheartedly with everything that my brother-in-law has said. His family are very anxious that he should remain alive. In one of my official positions, gentlemen’ –
Burke sounded as if he held hundreds of such positions. He probably does, thought Powerscourt, – ‘I am a senior director of Messrs Finch’s & Co., bankers to the Prince of
Wales.’

For the first time in the meeting Sir Bartle Shepstone, Treasurer and Comptroller of that Household, looked pale. He stroked his beard anxiously. What was coming next?

‘As of this morning,’ Burke consulted an official document in his papers, ‘the Prince of Wales owes Finch’s & Co. the princely sum of £234,578 14s. 9d. That is
without the computation of today’s interest. Finch’s would demand the immediate return of all monies owed. By the end of the month at the latest. Furthermore, they would request that
the account be closed. And any attempts to obtain similar facilities with other banks would not be welcomed in the City of London. Our community of bankers is a small one, gentlemen. Word gets
round. In the City, word gets round very fast indeed.

‘But come, gentlemen.’ Burke had applied his pressure. ‘None of these things need happen. Lord Rosebery may never make his speech in the House of Lords. Finch’s & Co.
may never make such a request. You have the answer in your own hands. All you have to do is to issue the necessary instructions. All you have to do is to ensure that nothing further happens to Lord
Powerscourt or any of his associates. It is quite simple.’

With that, Burke gathered his papers and strode from the room as if he had just left a rather disagreeable board meeting.

‘We can see ourselves out, thank you,’ had been Powerscourt’s final words to the two courtiers. ‘I’ve been here before. I don’t expect to be coming
back.’

Bells were ringing from the tower of Rokesley church. Happy bells. Joyous bells.

They could be heard in Oundle. They could be heard as far away as Fotheringhay where the noise shrank till the peals sounded like glasses tinkling on a tray.

Cheerful bells. Wedding bells. Bells for the wedding of Lord Francis Powerscourt and Lady Lucy Hamilton at two o’clock on a Saturday afternoon with the reception in Rokesley Hall.

Ten days had passed since the meeting in Marlborough House. Powerscourt had gone directly to Lady Lucy’s house, McKenzie patrolling stealthily around the sedate purlieus of Markham
Square.

‘Francis! How nice to see you! How is Lord Johnny? Is he better?’

‘He is fine. He is taking a little light refreshment now. Brandy to you and me. But I have serious things to speak of, Lady Lucy.’

‘Serious things, Francis? What serious things?’

‘I have to go away again, I’m afraid. The way things have turned out in this dreadful affair, I think it would be better if I were out of the country for a while until things settle
down. People need a period of calm, I think.’

‘Well, I shan’t feel very calm if you’re not here. I shan’t feel calm at all. How long were you thinking of going away for?’

‘I don’t know. Six weeks? Two months? Something like that. Unless, unless . . .’ Powerscourt left his unless hanging in the air. He was trying very hard to keep a straight
face.

‘Unless what, Francis? Tell me, my engaged one.’

‘Well, I just thought . . .’

‘Out with it, you old plotter. You’re plotting something behind that sad face, I can tell. Out with it.’

‘The thing is . . .’

Powerscourt, so upright and courageous in Marlborough House that morning, was feeling less brave in Chelsea that afternoon, particularly with those bright blue eyes boring into him. Perhaps he
needed some of Fitzgerald’s medicinal brandy.

‘Well, if something happened, then it might all be different . . .’

‘You’re speaking in riddles now like a conjuring person. Robert saw one the other day at a fair. Rabbits out of hats, that sort of thing. Do you have a rabbit, Francis?’

Then she knew. She could never tell how she knew, but she did. ‘Let me try a rabbit for you, Francis. I think what you were going to say might have gone something like this. Might have
gone.’

She paused. She wasn’t going to let him off lightly, not after all this delaying. ‘Suppose we were married. Just suppose. It’s only an idea, you understand. But suppose we were
married in a church with bells and rings and vicars, all that sort of thing. Then we could go away together on our honeymoon. And you wouldn’t have to leave me behind. You wouldn’t have
to leave me behind ever again. How about that?’ Lady Lucy sat back in her chair and smiled a wicked smile.

Powerscourt laughed. ‘You’re right. That was what I was thinking of, exactly that. But then I thought it would be a bit sudden, getting married in ten days’ time. There are
arrangements and things.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Lady Lucy Hamilton, keen to be turned into Lady Lucy Powerscourt. ‘I’d marry you tomorrow, Francis, if you wanted. So ten days’ time is no problem
at all.’

The Rokesley church clock said five to two. Powerscourt stood nervously at the altar, a pale Fitzgerald at his side. The pews behind them were filled with Hamiltons and
Powerscourts, summoned at short notice. Powerscourt’s three sisters and their husbands were all there, the little boys dressed in sailor suits. Powerscourt’s only niece was bridesmaid
to Lady Lucy. His sisters’ children, William, Patrick and Alexander, had met Robert on the battlefield of Waterloo in the top of the Pembridge house in St James’s Square a few days
before.

‘You could be Marshal Ney who led the last great charge of the Imperial Guard, if you like,’ William had offered generously. ‘Or Napoleon.’

Somehow Robert had not been very keen on becoming Napoleon. He didn’t like the thought of being sent away to that island in the middle of the ocean. Its name temporarily eluded him.

‘I think I’ll be one of the British generals defending the line, if that’s all right,’ he said, looking with amazement at all the uniforms spread out before him.

‘You’ll probably get killed,’ said Patrick cheerfully. ‘Most of them were.’

Robert felt that a British death would be better than defeat and a French exile.

The organ was playing Bach. The choir looked at the music in their stands. The vicar had the happy smile that vicars wear to weddings. Powerscourt hoped Lady Lucy wasn’t going to be
late.

‘Francis. Francis. For God’s sake.’

‘What is it, Johnny?’

‘You know I said I’d be fine for this wedding business. Well, I’m not. I’m feeling rather ill.’

There was a rustle at the back of the church. Lady Lucy, escorted by her brother and a trembling bridesmaid, was advancing up the aisle.

‘Hold on to this pew very tight, Johnny. If that’s no good, hold on me.’

Powerscourt saw himself suddenly supporting his bride on his left, trying desperately to keep his best man upright on his right.

Lady Lucy was passing the little boys in their sailor suits, penned in together under the stern eye of William Burke. She smiled at them, aunt-like. Well, nearly aunt-like. Robert was waiting in
the bride’s pew, looking very solemn in a new suit.

Fitzgerald was swaying slightly now.

‘Hang on, Johnny. Hang on. The parson’s got to do his bit now.’

‘Wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love honour and keep him,
in sickness and in health?’

‘I will,’ said Lady Lucy, very firmly, smiling across at Powerscourt.

‘I, Francis, take thee, Lucy, to my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward . . .’

There was a sudden commotion three pews back. Two of Powerscourt’s nephews were having a fight. William Burke was administering a terrible telling off. The way he frightens the Household
of the Prince of Wales, thought Powerscourt, I’m surprised his children dare to breathe when he’s around.

The organ played the Wedding March. A couple of local policemen, watching the proceedings benevolently from the roadway, saluted as they came out. A line of sailor-suited nephews, joined now by
Robert, formed a miniature guard of honour. Johnny Fitzgerald limped slowly forward and gave Lady Lucy a huge kiss on the lips.

‘I’ve been looking forward to that for ages,’ he beamed.

‘I hope you enjoyed it, Lord Johnny. It’ll help you get better, I’m sure. Don’t you have to make a speech now, or something like that?’

Fitzgerald’s speech was short. He was looking very ill. He read telegrams from Rosebery – ‘May all your mysteries be little ones’ – from Signor Pannone in Venice
– ‘Everyone in the Danieli sends their congratulations, especially the waiters’ – from Capitano Ferrante – ‘Congratulations. Tonight I sing the aria for you
both. The Marriage of Figaro perhaps. Or would you prefer Cosi Fan Tutti?’

The following afternoon Lord and Lady Powerscourt were leaning on the rails of their liner in the docks at Southampton. They were sailing to America for their honeymoon, to
New York and Boston, to Charleston and Savannah. Powerscourt was excited about the architecture in Savannah, huge ante-bellum houses laid out in grids across the town.

‘Have you seen our cabin, Francis? It’s enormous. There are great windows or whatever they call them looking out to sea, and all sorts of cupboards and things to put our luggage in.
I’ve made it very cosy down there.’

Her husband patted her arm. A crowd had gathered beneath them, come to wave the great ship off.

In the telegraph room one of the officers of the Metropolitan Police was making his report to the Commissioner. ‘Subjects safely aboard,’ it said. ‘No disturbances on the way.
Will send further reports en route to New York. Handing over to the American authorities in the harbour. Johnstone.’

Ever since Powerscourt’s return, he had been watched by the officers of the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, concerned for his safety. Ferrante had recommended it to his friend the
Commissioner. ‘You asked me to keep him safe,’ his telegram read. ‘I have. But he is not safe in England, I think. These people are very dangerous. Watch him if you can,
Commissioner. Perugia grew very fond of Lord Francis.’

The great cables that held the ship to the shore had been cast off. An insistent hooter sounded above them. The dots left behind on the quay were still waving, waving at loved ones they might
never see again, waving at friends departing, waving to the new world that would greet the boat at journey’s end. England was growing smaller as they gathered speed. On the deck above, the
band struck up the overture to Mascagni’s
Cavalleria Rusticana
, the great hit in London the winter before.

‘Lucy,’ said her husband, putting his arm around her shoulder. ‘I am so glad you are here.’

He wanted to say something to bind her to his last investigation, something that would join them both together in his mind. There had been too many deaths. He had almost lost count by the end.
Prince Eddy, he didn’t care about, one way or the other, he decided. Gresham has gone to meet Louisa. So beautiful, my Louisa. He must be happier now. He thought of Lord Lancaster, lying in
the cold ground of Sandringham Woods, his life lost for wasted honour. He thought of Simon John Robinson at rest in the graveyard at Dorchester on Thames. Lord forgive them, for they know not what
they do.

‘Lucy. I give you a motto. May it see us across the Atlantic. May it see us across the future. I love you very much, Lucy. Forever Faithful. Semper Fidelis.’

‘Oh, Francis, what a beautiful thought. Let me give it back to you. For our future. You and I. Francis and Lucy. Lucy and Francis. That sounds nice, doesn’t it? Forever Faithful.
Semper Fidelis.’