David Dickinson - Goodnight Sweet Prince

Powerscourt looked out at the early morning bustle of St James’s Square. It was a cold grey day. The delivery boys had thick mufflers round their necks.

Lord Johnny had brought a plateful of toast with him. ‘Do you think that’s him, Francis? The body in the fountain? Is it Lord Edward Gresham?’ He crossed himself as he spoke.

Powerscourt thought for a long time before he replied. ‘I think it might be. I think it probably is. But that’s only a hunch. Consider, though, consider what we know. We know that Gresham was going to Perugia on his way to Rome. So he could have been there. Now you have to ask yourself who might want to kill him in such strange circumstances. Even in Italy, famed for its murders and assassinations, they don’t go round cutting strangers’ throats and leaving them to bleed to death in some bloody fountain.’

‘It’s no ordinary fountain, Francis. I looked it up in a book before I came here. It’s one of the most famous fountains in Italy, like it says in the paper.’

‘Forget the fountain for now. If we don’t think it was an Italian who killed the man in Perugia, then who was it? Supposing that Gresham is the corpse. Consider who knows he was the murderer. Gresham, I mean. The murderer of Prince Eddy. You, me, Rosebery. Nobody else knows. Nobody at all.’

He looked out into the square again. It was raining now, great puddles forming on the tops of the coal carts. ‘Nobody at all. Except, that is, except Suter and Shepstone.’

He spoke the names very quietly. He fiddled with the edges of the curtains. He looked at Fitzgerald, crunching his way through the last of his toast.

‘You don’t think those two gentlemen have been taking a quick holiday to Umbria, Francis, do you?’

‘No, I don’t. But they know people who might. They could have sent people. Last Tuesday I told Suter and Shepstone the identity of the murderer. This is Friday, ten days on. They were looking at a map of Italy back there in Marlborough House when I went back for my book. They weren’t expecting to see me.’

‘Christ, Francis, Christ Almighty. You know what we’re saying, don’t you?’

‘I do, Johnny. I do. I’ve been thinking it ever since I read that story in The Times .’ Powerscourt thought of the efficient Major Dawnay, of Shepstone’s special detachments, of the very effective means employed to disguise the death of Lancaster. Certainly they could have done it. But did they?

‘Johnny, until we know whether it is Gresham or not, we’re wasting our breath. I must go to Perugia and see if I can identify the body. I must make one or two calls here before I go.’

‘Francis, don’t you think I should go to Perugia? I know what Gresham looks like. I haven’t just become engaged to be married. You don’t have to do everything yourself. And they say that some of the local wine round there is worth a tasting.’

‘That’s very noble of you, Johnny, very noble. But I feel I owe it to Gresham after our conversations in Venice. I wouldn’t be happy with anybody else going. Even you.’

‘You don’t think I should come with you? Maybe this whole thing is getting dangerous now. We don’t want you ending up head down in some Italian fountain. I wouldn’t get to make my speech at the wedding then. I’ve been thinking of one or two good stories already.’

Powerscourt laughed. ‘I’m sure I’ll be all right on my own. But I would like to know that you’re in London. I could send you a cable through William’s office if I have to.’

‘That’s fine, Francis, if you’re sure. Now then, I wonder if there’s any of that breakfast left. Those kippers looked rather good to me.’

Powerscourt wrote to William Leith, Rosebery’s butler and train expert, asking him for an immediate route to Perugia, leaving today, probably in the early afternoon.

He wrote to the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, requesting an immediate interview, later that morning if possible. He apologized for being so importunate. It was vital he see the Commissioner today.

Two cabs carried his notes away. A third took him to Mark-ham Square. He hoped that Lady Lucy would be at home.

Her elderly maid answered the door. Yes, Madam was at home. Perhaps Lord Powerscourt would like to wait in the drawing-room. Madam would be down presently.

‘Francis. Francis.’

Her fiance was pacing up and down the room.

‘You look terrible. You haven’t changed your mind, have you?’

‘Of course I haven’t, Lady Lucy. Of course I haven’t.’ He held her very tight. ‘It’s just that I have to go away again. Now. Today, I think. I know it’s awful when we’ve just got engaged and everything, but I don’t have any choice.’

‘I thought you said your last case had finished.’ She wasn’t angry. She just wanted to know.

‘I thought it had. I was sure it had. But it hasn’t. That’s why I have to go back to Italy.’

‘Francis, poor Francis. But why do you look so worried, so sad?’

‘I am worried, Lady Lucy. I am sad. I think there is another dead person waiting for me in Perugia. I left him in Venice about a week ago. Now I think he’s dead. There have been too many dead bodies in this business already. And I was thinking about the wedding only this morning.’

‘So was I. How nice that we were both thinking about it together. Have you made any decisions?’

‘Well, I think we both have to decide where it should be after I get back. But I have found my best man. He’s very excited about kissing the bride.’

‘That must be Johnny Fitzgerald,’ said Lady Lucy. ‘I shan’t mind being kissed by him. Not that it won’t be much nicer being kissed by you, Francis.’

‘I can’t stop,’ said Powerscourt rather desperately. ‘I have to catch a train.’

‘Poor Francis.’ She held him by the lapels on his jacket and kissed him on the lips. ‘I shall be here when you get back. But you will take care, won’t you? You will keep yourself safe, won’t you? Sometimes I think your work must be very dangerous.’

Powerscourt remembered as he left that Lady Lucy was used to seeing her men go off to war. The first husband must have gone away a lot. But then one day, he never came back. He was dead.

Leith’s message was as brief as ever. He read it on his way to the Commissioner’s office.

‘3 o’clock from Victoria, my lord. Dover Calais. Express connection to Paris. Suggest station hotel above Gare de Lyons for the night. 7 a.m. express to Milan. Arrive Milan 4 p.m. 4.30 connection to Florence. Arrive Florence 9.30 p.m. Reservation at Hotel Rivoli, close to station. Former Franciscan convent, my lord. Train to Perugia, 8 a.m. Arrives 12.15, my lord. Mountainous terrain. Reservation at Hotel Posta, Corso Vannucci.’

‘Lord Powerscourt. My dear Lord Powerscourt.’ The Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police was looking old and tired and rather frail. Maybe it’s been a bad week for crime in London too, reflected Powerscourt. The four large maps on his wall were still there, great blobs of criminal red marking out the East End.

‘Sir John, I shall be brief. And let me say before I begin how much I value the assistance you have already provided. It has made my life much easier.’

‘I wish we could have been more helpful.’ Sir John shrugged. ‘All our information was in the negative. As far as we know, there are no blackmailers operating in Society at present. Then there were five people checked for their whereabouts on a certain night in January this year.’ He looked closely at Powerscourt as though he suspected the true reason for the requests. ‘All of them have been lawfully accounted for. How can we help on this occasion?’

‘Two things, Sir John. Forgive me if the first sounds fanciful. How easy is it to hire a professional killer in this country? How long would it take? And would they, the professional killers, be willing to commit murder outside this country? And, following on from that, how easy would it be to hire a killer abroad? In Italy, in particular. And finally, do you by any chance have a contact in the police force in the Italian city of Perugia? Somebody you could recommend me to in pursuit of my inquiries.’