David Dickinson: Goodnight Sweet Prince

‘I fear that you do. Nay, I am certain that you do.’ The voice was very cold. Powerscourt had forgotten about Rosebery. ‘If you wish to have these matters properly looked into,’ Rosebery went on with all the political authority at his command, ‘you will have to look at certain unpleasant facts. And that is one of them.’

Silence fell briefly over the meeting. Shepstone was restraining himself with difficulty. Suter glanced at the Princess of Wales above the fireplace. There was no reply.

‘Lord Powerscourt, what would you have us do?’

‘I can only make a few suggestions at this stage. Obviously I would like to look again at all the communications from the extortionist.’ When in Rome, he reminded himself, talk as the Romans talk. ‘I would like to speak with those present when the letters were received. I would like you to find an excuse for dismissing some respected member of your household, the senior footman perhaps, or somebody in such a position. I would then replace them with an equally competent servant in my sister’s employ who has worked for me before in Army Intelligence. This would give us another source of information.

‘I would like, with your permission, to speak to the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police. Naturally I would not give him any details. But blackmailers often have a record, they have often struck before. I know the Commissioner from previous inquiries, and I have every confidence in his abilities and his discretion. If there has been a blackmailer at large among the rich of London, he will know of it.’

A frisson of acute distaste passed across Suter’s face at the mention of the Metropolitan Police Force.

‘I would also like to speak to the Superintendent of the Postal Services for this district to see what we could learn from watching the postboxes. And finally, I know that it is outside my position to say so, but I would advise that the Prince of Wales limits his appearances in society for a while. Sometimes the sight of the victim spurs the blackmailer on; equally the lack of sight may put him off.’

Sir William Suter had been making notes on a white pad in front of him. ‘I regret,’ he purred, ‘that I am unable to give any direct answers to your requests at this stage.’ Powerscourt felt that he did not regret it for an instant. ‘I shall have to take advice from colleagues.’ Powerscourt wondered how many times those words had been spoken in this room. He thought again of Rosebery’s Scylla and Charybdis. ‘Your proposals are interesting and ingenious,’ Suter was well into his routine delaying mechanism now, ‘but it would be impossible for me to say yea or nay at this meeting. Could I suggest that you leave it with me for a couple of days or so? Once I have an answer I shall, of course, give you a proper response. And thank you so much for the time and trouble you both have taken.’

Suter ushered them to the front door. Sir Bartle Shepstone remained seated inside, presumably, thought Powerscourt, to give vent to the true feelings of an outraged Englishman.

‘Rosalind, I cannot tell you how angry I am.’

Lord Francis Powerscourt was cross. He was fuming in the study of his eldest sister Rosalind’s house in St James’s Square. Lady Rosalind Pembridge had removed her brother from the drawing-room in case his temper spoiled the evening for the rest of her guests.

‘Francis, you are being unreasonable. You know you are.’

‘I am not. I am not.’

His sister felt that Francis looked exactly as he had done when he was a little boy. The angry looks, the black curly hair thrown back over his forehead, the eyes flashing with defiance at some slight, real or imaginary.

‘I specifically ask you to invite family members to dinner. Family members only. There are certain things I wish to ask them to do, relating to my current investigation. And what do I find? That you have chosen to ask somebody else along, without consulting me, and against my express wishes. Now I cannot talk about my investigation in front of strangers. Honestly, how could you be so stupid!’

Lady Rosalind regarded her brother’s investigations as another of those irksome hobbies men have like hunting or fishing or shooting. She could not imagine how her brother could object to another person being invited to dinner. It would round off the numbers nicely, as she had said to her husband the night before.

‘Do you not understand the English language?’ Powerscourt was beyond gale force now, and on the verge of the typhoon. ‘Family members only. O.N.L.Y. That’s not too difficult for you, is it?

‘Lady Hamilton is a very presentable young woman, Francis. You might like her. ’

‘Are you now so desperate that you have exhumed Nelson’s mistress from the grave, Rosalind?’

‘Not that Lady Hamilton, Francis. Don’t be silly.’

Powerscourt was sometimes amused, sometimes angered, by the efforts of his sisters to marry him off. Eligible, healthy, single women were constantly paraded before him at his sisters’ dinner tables. His younger sister Lady Mary specialized in society women just the wrong side of forty with social ambitions left to fulfil. The youngest, Lady Eleanor, married to her sea captain in the West Country, had an armada of naval widows on manoeuvres, still talking of ships and steam and prize money. Lady Rosalind went in for more eccentric offerings; in the past year she had brought forth a painter, then the Head of History at a leading girls’ school – ‘Think how much you like history, Francis dear,’ – and then an American who might or might not have been the heiress to an enormous fortune.

Powerscourt looked them all over, he sampled their conversation, and he passed by resolutely on the other side. But now! After all he had said, his sisters just took no notice at all.

‘Honestly, Francis, everybody is beginning to arrive. Are you going to calm down?’

‘I think I shall go home now,’ said Powerscourt gloomily.

‘You can’t possibly do that. The family is expecting you. So is Lady Lucy. She lost her husband with Gordon at Khartoum, you know.’

‘I don’t care if she is the Queen of Sheba or Cleopatra – she kept losing husbands too, didn’t she? I want to go home.’

‘Honestly, Francis, you sound just like your nephew Patrick. And he’s only four years old.’

‘All right, all right. But don’t expect me to behave properly. You have left me in a most filthy temper.’

It wasn’t until they were well past the fish that Powerscourt had the chance to talk to Lady Lucy on his left. Two glasses of Meursault had improved his temper greatly. Lady Lucy Hamilton was thirty-one years old. She was tall and very slim, with blonde hair, petite ears and a pretty little nose. Her eyes were a deep blue and quite disconcerting when they were wide open.

‘Lady Lucy,’ Powerscourt opened the batting and went straight on to the attack, ‘how do you know my sister?’

‘One meets your sisters all over town, Lord Francis,’ said Lady Lucy with a humorous air. ‘I met Lady Rosalind at Mrs Burke’s the other day. I’m afraid I saw that look pass across her face and I knew I would meet you soon.’

‘That look? Tell me more.’ Powerscourt was drawn by the easy charm and the pretty looks of Lady Lucy into forgetting his previous anger.

‘The look is something I know well now. It says, Here is another eligible person to introduce to my widowed brother or sister for matchmaking purposes. I see it in my own family all the time. Tell me, Lord Powerscourt, are your sisters always trying to marry you off to somebody or other?’

‘Well, yes, as a matter of fact they are.’ Rich helpings of roast duck were being handed round, a dark red cherry sauce dripping down the side. ‘Lady Lucy, do you also suffer from a family trying to marry you off?’