David Dickinson - Goodnight Sweet Prince

Powerscourt knew as surely as if she had written it on the windows that she suspected he might have proposed to Lady Lucy. She’d been dropping hints for days.

‘The concert was excellent. Lady Lucy is very well.’

‘Anything to report? Anything new?’

‘No, I don’t think so.’

‘No news then?’ said Lady Rosalind sadly. But she was looking at her brother very closely indeed as if he was hiding something.

Powerscourt smiled an enormous smile. I can’t help looking happy, dammit, he said to himself. But I’m not going to satisfy her curiosity at a quarter to one in the morning. ‘I think I shall go to bed now, Rosalind.’ He kissed his sister on the cheek.

‘Pembridge! Pembridge! Are you asleep?’

Lady Rosalind shook her husband vigorously. He gave the impression of being asleep, but it was best to make sure.

‘Pembridge! Listen to me!’

Pembridge struggled back to life. ‘For God’s sake, woman. Look at the time.’

‘That’s precisely what I mean. The time. Francis has just come in. Just this minute. At a quarter to one in the morning. That concert will have finished by 10.30 at the latest. And he’s grinning from ear to ear. I think he may have done it.’

‘Done what?’ said the sleeping Pembridge.

‘Proposed to her, you fool! To Lady Lucy!’

‘Did you ask him?’ said Pembridge sensibly.

‘I did. Of course I did,’ replied his wife testily. ‘He said there was no news to report. He said that twice. But he was smiling all the time. I do wonder, though. I just wonder.’

Early the following morning Lady Lucy Hamilton was lying in bed in Markham Square, wondering where she should be married to Lord Francis Powerscourt. Should they go to her family home in Scotland, a chieftain’s castle full of the relics of war and long cold corridors? Should they go to Francis’ place in Northamptonshire? Or should they have the service in London, in St James’s Piccadilly or St George’s Hanover Square? She wasn’t quite sure what you should wear for a second wedding. Whatever it was, she was sure she hadn’t got it. She began thinking seriously about a new outfit, and, most definitely, a new hat.

Lord Francis Powerscourt was lying in bed in St James’s Square, wondering where he should be married to Lady Lucy Hamilton. Could they have it in Rokesley, he wondered, in his own little church, the service conducted by his own vicar with the beautiful voice, with the local choir singing out of tune? Maybe Lady Lucy would want to be married in Scotland where her people came from. No doubt, he sighed, his sisters would have their own views.

There was a great noise coming up the stairs. Someone was pounding up them very fast.

‘Francis! For God’s sake! It’s still in bed you are! Will you look at the time, man. Look at the time.’

‘Lord Johnny Fitzgerald, good morning. You’re in my bedroom at a quarter to eight in the morning. Has there been a revolution or something? Is the nation in danger?’

‘Get dressed, Francis. And then you can read this.’

Fitzgerald was clutching a copy of The Times .

‘I can read the paper before I get out of bed, if I have to. I do believe I may have done it before. Which section of The Times do you wish to draw to my attention? Births, Marriages and Deaths? The financial pages? The football scores?’

‘I don’t understand how people can be flippant before they have even got out of bed, Francis, I really don’t. Look, it’s here. Page four, small piece down near the bottom.’

Unrest in Ireland. Train Derailed near Crewe. No, not those. Presidential Election News from Washington. No. This must be it.

Mysterious Death in Perugia

From our correspondent

The body of a man was found early this morning in one of Italy’s most distinguished pieces of sculpture. His throat had been cut from ear to ear. The major arteries in the rest of his person had also been cut. There were marks on the hands and feet, said to be similar to those of Christ crucified.

The corpse was discovered in the Fontana Maggiore in the centre of Perugia. The Fontana was designed by Nicola and Giovanni Pisano in 1275 to be the symbol of medieval Perugia. Artistic experts believe it to be one of the finest examples of thirteenth-century sculpture in Europe.

‘Is there any breakfast in this house, Francis? Any hope of breakfast? Why don’t I go downstairs and get something to eat. You can catch me up, if you can manage to get yourself out of bed.’

The body was discovered by a group of nuns on their way to an early morning service in the Cathedral. They described the fountain as running with blood. They also reported that the water was still red when they left the Cathedral, even though the body had been removed.

Powerscourt could see Lord Edward Gresham, his eyes staring into mirrors with messages, running up and down the alleys of Venice, describing the great love affair of his life. My Louisa. So beautiful. Had he gone to join her like this, his throat cut by some unknown assassin, comforted by nuns at the last? He read on:

Superstitious elements believe that the blood was a sign from the Almighty. Groups of the faithful have gathered to pray beside the fountain.

The Italian authorities have not been able to identify the body. They believe that the dead man, described as being in his late twenties or early thirties, was not of Italian extraction.

Powerscourt read it again. He felt very cold. Then he read it a third time, fixing the report in his memory. He went downstairs.

‘Powerscourt, good morning to you. Wife believes you’ve got engaged to that nice Lady Lucy.’ Lord Pembridge greeted him through a mouthful of buttered toast.

‘What’s that?’ said Powerscourt, pacing round and round the fountain by the side of Perugia’s cathedral.

‘Engaged. You. To Lady Lucy. That’s what the wife says.’ Lord Pembridge launched into a plate of kippers.

‘Oh, yes. That’s quite right. I have.’ Powerscourt admitted it before he knew what he was saying. He was still in Perugia, thinking of train timetables and another long journey across Europe. He found himself submerged by congratulations. Fitzgerald embraced him. Pembridge shook his hand. His sister materialised and kissed him warmly on both cheeks.

‘You old devil!’ said Fitzgerald.

‘Congratulations. I hope you’ll be very happy,’ said Pembridge.

‘Better late than never,’ said his sister.

It’s like receiving a whole batch of simultaneous telegrams, thought Powerscourt. He wondered how he could stop the flow.

‘Please! Please!’ He banged a fork very loudly on the table. A piece of toast fell out of its rack and rolled to the floor. Reproving crumbs lay at Powerscourt’s feet. ‘Please! I know it’s very important, getting engaged and all that sort of thing. But Johnny has just brought me some terrible news.

‘You see, I thought my last investigation was over. But now I don’t think it is. I think there is another chapter waiting for me, as terrible as the first. I’ve got to go back to Italy, I think. I’ve got to go back today.’

Suddenly he looked forlorn like a child whose toys had been taken away.

‘I need to confer with my best man here.’ He managed a sad smile at Fitzgerald. His sister noticed that his eyes were far away, as if he had already left them. Pembridge had always thought his brother-in-law a bit eccentric, a good man of course, but a bit odd every now and again. Now was definitely one of those now and agains. He went back to his kippers.

‘Do I get to make a speech, Francis? Do I get to tell lots of stories about you? Do I get to kiss the bride?’

‘You do, Johnny, you do. But we must make a plan first. Why don’t we go into the drawing-room and pay homage to Rosalind’s curtains? It’ll be quieter in there.’