Peter Lovesey - Murder on the Short List

I don’t think I answered. I had much else on my mind at the end of 1890, not least the Queen’s displeasure at my involvement in what was termed the Baccarat Scandal.

“Bertie, you’re awake. I can see. It’s no use closing your eyes and wheezing like a grampus. That won’t make it go away. What are we going to do about presents for the courtiers and servants?”

I sighed and opened my eyes. “The usual. Lockets and chains for the ladies and pearl studs for the gentlemen. Books for the governesses. A framed picture of you and me for everyone else.”

“Yes, but not one of these items is ordered yet.”

“Francis Knollys can attend to it.”

“But you must tell him today. And we can’t ask Francis to write the Christmas cards. That’s a job for you and me, as well as presents for the children and decorations for the tree.” Her voice slipped up an octave, her vocal cords quavering with distress. “The tree, Bertie! We haven’t even got a tree.”

“My dear Alix,” I said, reaching for an extra pillow and sitting up in bed, “Sandringham is eight thousand acres with about a million trees. If the estate manager can’t find a decent spruce among them he’ll get his pearl stud from me in the place where he least wants it.”

“There’s no need for vulgarity, Bertie. It’s got to be a tall tree.”

“And it shall be. What happened to last year’s?”

A question I should never have asked.

Her eyes filled with tears. “It died, poor thing. It scattered needles all over the ballroom. I have my suspicion that it had no root, that some unthinking person sawed the trunk at the base and thrust it into the tub.”

“Iniquitous.”

“Poor tree. They’re living things, Bertie. Make sure such an act of cruelty is not repeated this year. Tell them they must dig up the roots as well and find a really large tub to plant it in and keep the soil moist. When Christmas is over we’ll plant the living tree outside again.”

“What a splendid idea,” I said, and added a slight evasion. “I can’t think who sanctioned the murder of last year’s tree.”

She gave me a look and said, “I’ll choose the menu for the Christmas dinner.”

“Whitstable oysters,” I said.

“Bertie, oysters aren’t traditional.”

“What do you mean? There’s an R in the month.”

“But the rest of us want roast goose.”

“So do I. Roast goose and oysters.”

“Very well. That’s your treat settled. And you must think up some treats for the children. A magic lantern show.”

“They’re children no more,” I said. “The youngest is sixteen and Eddy is twenty-six.”

“Well, I want the magic lantern,” she said, practically stamping her little foot. Christmas was definitely coming.

The magic lantern was my annual entertainment for the family and they knew the slides by heart. We would drape a large bedsheet between two sets of antlers and project the pictures onto it. They were mostly scenes of Scotland, about seventy in all, except for the last, which was the climax of the show, a star that altered shape several times as I cranked a little handle. This required me to stoop over the machine and one year my beard caught fire, causing more gaiety than any of the Scottish scenes.

After a hearty breakfast I summoned my long-serving secretary, Sir Francis Knollys, and arranged for the keepsakes to be ordered by telegraph from my usual jeweller, Mr Garrard, of the Haymarket. He’s a fortunate fellow, for we are obliged to keep a large retinue at Sandringham. As well as the pins and lockets, I thoughtfully ordered a gift for Alix of a large silver inkstand, which I knew she would adore. I believe the bill for everything was in excess of six hundred pounds. I’ve always lived beyond my means, but if the nation wants an heir presumptive, then it must allow him to be bounteous, I say. Garrard wired back promising to deliver the articles in presentation boxes by December 23rd, just time to wrap them and write labels on each one.

Next, I spoke to Hammond, my estate manager. The main tree, I said, should be at least twenty feet high and healthy.

“I’ll pick it myself, your Royal Highness,” he said. “I know exactly where to go. In fact, I’ll fell it myself as well.”

“No, no, no, no, no,” I said. “Felling won’t do at all.”

“But last year you said—”

“That was last year. The Princess has a sentimental regard for trees and she insists that we — that is to say you — dig the whole thing from the ground, roots and all, and plant it in a tub so that it will survive the experience.”

“With respect, sir, the ground’s awfully hard from the frosts.”

“With respect, Hammond, you’ll have to dig awfully hard.”

“As you wish, sir.”

“No. As I command.”

I ordered a search for the magic lantern. It always goes missing. In a house as large as Sandringham there are hundreds of cupboards. The show wouldn’t be until Christmas afternoon, but I like to have a rehearsal and make sure the slides are the right way up. You wouldn’t believe the catcalls when I get one wrong. Some of my family think they can get away with bad behaviour in the dark. I don’t know where they get it from.

That evening Alix and I started the chore of signing Christmas cards. My festive spirit is well tested in the days before Christmas and I must admit to unparliamentary language when Alix produces yet another stack for me to attend to. However I was able to report that everything else was in hand.

“Have you addressed a card to your Mama?” she asked.

“I’m summoning my strength,” I said. Because of the Baccarat business, I was not in the best odour with the Queen. I confess to some relief that we wouldn’t be required to show our faces at Balmoral over Christmas. Mama deplores gambling of any sort, even on horses, and she was incensed that I might be required to appear as a witness. I wasn’t too sanguine at the prospect myself.

A week passed. The Christmas preparations went well. The magic lantern was found and tested. Hammond did his digging and the tree was erected in the ballroom. It took six men to lift it onto a trolley and trundle it through the house. We had immense fun with the stepladder used to hang the decorations, or, rather, I did, telling Alix I could see up to her knees and beyond when she was standing above me — which was true. She almost fell off through trying to adjust her skirt. She refused to go up again, so I invited one of her ladies-in-waiting to take her place and the girl turned as red as a holly berry and Alix was not at all amused. And then we had a jolly conversation of double-entendres about the pretty sights on view. I thought it jolly, anyway. I know a few ladies who would have thought it exceedingly funny.

A card arrived from Mama thanking me for mine and wishing me the blessings of Our Lord and a New Year of duty and decorum. She never gives up. I’m told she was full of fun in her youth. It’s hard to imagine.

The one small anxiety in our arrangements was that the jewellery hadn’t arrived by the end of December 22nd. I know Mr Garrard had promised to deliver by the day following, but in previous years he had always managed to get the consignment to us a day or so early. That evening I spoke to Knollys. He, too, was getting worried.

“Just to be sure, I’ll send a telegraph,” he said.

Oh, my stars and garters, what a shock awaited us! Next morning Mr Garrard wired back the following message:

Items were despatched December 21st. Cannot understand what has happened. Am coming personally by first available train.

Notwithstanding three inches of overnight snow, he was with us by midday, and I have never seen a man so discomposed. Quivering like a debutante’s fan, he was practically in tears. “I had my people working day and night to complete the order. Your Royal Highness,” he informed me. “It was all done, every item boxed up. I checked it myself, three times.”