David Dickinson: Goodnight Sweet Prince

‘I’ve been looking forward to that for ages,’ he beamed.

‘I hope you enjoyed it, Lord Johnny. It’ll help you get better, I’m sure. Don’t you have to make a speech now, or something like that?’

Fitzgerald’s speech was short. He was looking very ill. He read telegrams from Rosebery – ‘May all your mysteries be little ones’ – from Signor Pannone in Venice – ‘Everyone in the Danieli sends their congratulations, especially the waiters’ – from Capitano Ferrante – ‘Congratulations. Tonight I sing the aria for you both. The Marriage of Figaro perhaps. Or would you prefer Cosi Fan Tutti?’

The following afternoon Lord and Lady Powerscourt were leaning on the rails of their liner in the docks at Southampton. They were sailing to America for their honeymoon, to New York and Boston, to Charleston and Savannah. Powerscourt was excited about the architecture in Savannah, huge ante-bellum houses laid out in grids across the town.

‘Have you seen our cabin, Francis? It’s enormous. There are great windows or whatever they call them looking out to sea, and all sorts of cupboards and things to put our luggage in. I’ve made it very cosy down there.’

Her husband patted her arm. A crowd had gathered beneath them, come to wave the great ship off.

In the telegraph room one of the officers of the Metropolitan Police was making his report to the Commissioner. ‘Subjects safely aboard,’ it said. ‘No disturbances on the way. Will send further reports en route to New York. Handing over to the American authorities in the harbour. Johnstone.’

Ever since Powerscourt’s return, he had been watched by the officers of the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, concerned for his safety. Ferrante had recommended it to his friend the Commissioner. ‘You asked me to keep him safe,’ his telegram read. ‘I have. But he is not safe in England, I think. These people are very dangerous. Watch him if you can, Commissioner. Perugia grew very fond of Lord Francis.’

The great cables that held the ship to the shore had been cast off. An insistent hooter sounded above them. The dots left behind on the quay were still waving, waving at loved ones they might never see again, waving at friends departing, waving to the new world that would greet the boat at journey’s end. England was growing smaller as they gathered speed. On the deck above, the band struck up the overture to Mascagni’s Cavalleria Rusticana , the great hit in London the winter before.

‘Lucy,’ said her husband, putting his arm around her shoulder. ‘I am so glad you are here.’

He wanted to say something to bind her to his last investigation, something that would join them both together in his mind. There had been too many deaths. He had almost lost count by the end. Prince Eddy, he didn’t care about, one way or the other, he decided. Gresham has gone to meet Louisa. So beautiful, my Louisa. He must be happier now. He thought of Lord Lancaster, lying in the cold ground of Sandringham Woods, his life lost for wasted honour. He thought of Simon John Robinson at rest in the graveyard at Dorchester on Thames. Lord forgive them, for they know not what they do.

‘Lucy. I give you a motto. May it see us across the Atlantic. May it see us across the future. I love you very much, Lucy. Forever Faithful. Semper Fidelis.’

‘Oh, Francis, what a beautiful thought. Let me give it back to you. For our future. You and I. Francis and Lucy. Lucy and Francis. That sounds nice, doesn’t it? Forever Faithful. Semper Fidelis.’