David Dickinson - Goodnight Sweet Prince

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 over 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.