David Dickinson: Goodnight Sweet Prince

‘But look.’ Ferrante drew Powerscourt right to the edge of the fountain. Two nuns were praying on the opposite side, their heads bowed. ‘They dump the body in the upper tier here. The doctors think the Lord Gresham was dead before they take out the knives. Then I think they cut his throat and the other parts. The blood flows over the top of this marble rim and down into the lower pool. I think they block up the passage of the water out of the fountain over there. So the fountain fills with the blood of the Gresham.

‘That is what the nuns see, on their way to the cathedral behind us. They see the marks on his hands and in his side. And because the water cannot find the way out, there is still a great deal of blood in here when the nuns come out from their service, even though the body has been taken away. Blood mixed with water is flowing over the rim of the Fontana Maggiore, down on to the street.’

A small group of pilgrims joined the nuns, kneeling on the hard stone of the square. The water flowed on, clear again now, dancing its way down into the fountain, the sound of its passage drowned out by the prayers and passing crowds.

‘Why do you think he was left here, Captain Ferrante? Did they mean to do it? Or were they surprised?’

‘I think they mean to make all these wounds. But I do not think they wanted to leave him here. I think they come into the piazza by one of these narrow streets. They mean to come out by another one, perhaps the one we walked down just now. Then they hear the noise. Maybe they hear the nuns coming. Do they sing, on their way to the church, those nuns? The killers panic. They make the quick cuts to the body. They run away. The good sisters find the corpse, the marks, the blood. They think it is a sign from God. When they come out from their praying, the body has gone. My men, they take him away. What do the nuns think? He has risen perhaps, risen from the dead. Here in Perugia, we have a second Resurrection at four o’clock in the morning. They are still praying now. They have never stopped. Always now there is a nun by the side of the fountain.’

Captain Ferrante made the sign of the cross, thinking perhaps of his brother the priest, the pious wife reminding him of his duties.

‘Let me buy you a glass of beer, Captain Ferrante. My hotel is just down here. Please, I insist.’

The two men set off down the Corso Vannucci. Stone griffins, symbols of Perugia, watched their passage. Living eyes, human eyes, spies’ eyes marked their short journey. University students were everywhere now, walking arm in arm up the street, sitting in the cafes, talking about their lectures, planning revolutions, falling in love. The sun was setting far away across the Umbrian hills in a pink sky, criss-crossed with black.

‘Accidents. Always it is the accidents that make our life difficult.’ Ferrante was sipping slowly at his beer in a quiet corner of the hotel. Powerscourt saw that he could watch the entrance without being seen from the street. There were no lemon cakes here, only a few olives.

‘I think, Lord Powerscourt, I think of what was meant to happen, probably meant to happen. The assassins kill the Lord Gresham. They mean to leave the body somewhere. Nobody knows who he is. After a time he becomes another unknown dead person, buried with the other unknowns in the graves with no name over in the camposanto. But no. There is the accident. They are surprised, the killers. They panic. They dump the body. The nuns find it. They make the great fuss about the sign from God. It appears in your Times . You come to Perugia. Now we know who he is. But maybe they wait for you too, the killers. Somehow they know you are going to come. Maybe killers read The Times like everybody else in England. They think the Lord Powerscourt too, he will come to Perugia.

‘I tell you one thing, my friend. They will not kill you here. They will not kill you in Italy. They will have to kill Domenico Ferrante first!’

Powerscourt laughed and clasped him on the shoulder. This is getting to be a habit, he thought, embracing Italians, Pannone and Ferrante both. Two in less than a month.

‘Captain Ferrante! I am most grateful to you. I am sure that the answer to my problem lies in London, not in Perugia. Tomorrow I must go home.’

‘How do we get you home, though, my friend? That is the question. I do not think you should go back the way you came.’ Captain Ferrante was lighting a large cigar. Great clouds of smoke billowed round their little sofa, as though they were at the front of a train. ‘I did not like the look of that man who came in just now,’ he said, creating yet more clouds of smoke. ‘If we are hard to see, so much the better. Tonight, Lord Powerscourt, I keep the watch on this hotel. Very discreetly, you understand. Maybe we can catch one of these watchers and get the truth out of him. Maybe.

‘Tomorrow morning I shall come for you very early. We go to Assisi. I put you on the mail train for Rome. You go with the parcels and the letters, you understand. There are no passengers. From Rome there is the train that goes to Paris, I think. Two of my men will come with you. Just in case.’

Ferrante remembered the words of his friend the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police. He may be in more danger than he realises. Please send him back safely, however difficult it may be.

‘My friend. My friend.’ Ferrante ordered two more beers and another foul cigar.

‘I remember the case we had here in Italy two years ago, I think. In the end three people were killed. The first was the victim the killer intended to murder all along. But he make the mistakes along the way. Two other people know that he is the murderer. He cannot bear that other people know his secret. They could betray him. They know too much. So he kill them too. Is that how it is with you, Lord Powerscourt?’

Powerscourt thought of Suter and Shepstone in that drawing-room in Marlborough House, poring over their map of Italy, Dawnay waiting for his orders beside them. Probably they had killed Gresham. He knew they had killed Gresham. But he, Powerscourt, knew about the blackmail, he knew about the thirteen years of payments to the boys from HMS Britannia , he knew about the young man dead from syphilis. He knew the reason behind the useless voyage round the world with Lord George Scott and the parson person on HMS Bacchante . He knew about Prince Eddy and that secret homosexual club in Chiswick. He knew who killed Prince Eddy. He knew who killed Prince Eddy’s killer.

He knew too much.

If you were Suter and Shepstone, you wouldn’t want all that knowledge wandering round London or Perugia. You wouldn’t even want it wandering round Northamptonshire. You’d want it killed off for good.

Lord Francis Powerscourt. RIP.

He turned back to Captain Ferrante. ‘I think that is how it is with me. At the beginning of this case, my friend, I think all I have to do is to find a murderer. So, I find him. Then I have to find who killed the murderer. I think I have found them too. Now I have to find a way of stopping them before they kill me. Because I am the man who knows too much.’

That night Powerscourt had a dream. It was night-time in the Cathedral Square. An opera was in progress. The sides of the cathedral and the Palazzo dei Priori were lined with singers. Trumpeters stood sentry on the roof. Flaming torches threw long shadows across the audience in the square below. A girl was singing an aria, leaning on the edge of the fountain, her hand trailing in the water. A man was rushing at great speed through the square. The man, Powerscourt, paused briefly to sing a last duet with the girl. A mob was following him. Three soldiers in splendid uniforms held the mob back. Powerscourt could see that Captain Ferrante, in medieval costume, was leading the defence. Ferrante fell. The mob surged on towards the man by the fountain. The man turned, running desperately down one of the narrow streets, his feet slipping on the slope.