David Dickinson - Goodnight Sweet Prince

Autumn 1891

‘Come, Powerscourt, come. I have a great secret to tell you.’

Lord Rosebery was waiting impatiently outside his front door as Powerscourt’s luggage was taken into the house. Dalmeny, near Edinburgh, was one of Rosebery’s many mansions.

‘I’ve only just arrived. Why can’t you tell me inside Dalmeny, rather than rushing me off like this?’ Lord Francis Powerscourt sounded petulant.

‘There are too many people in my house just now. I am taking you to Barnbougle, my little castle by the sea. Nobody will disturb us there.’

Rosebery led the way down the little path that led into the woods. A pair of magpies, predatory and delinquent, flew off ahead of them on some malevolent mission.

‘I will tell you the most important part now, Francis,’ said Rosebery, peering melodramatically around him as though spies or enemy agents might have been lurking in his woods. He drew his cloak tightly around him and whispered into Powerscourt’s ear. ‘Someone is blackmailing the Prince of Wales. The Princess of Wales fears for the life of her eldest son Prince Eddy.’

Rosebery stepped back with the special satisfaction of those who pass on secrets. Powerscourt was already mentally shifting through his previous cases. He had investigated murders in Simla and in Delhi, in London and in Wiltshire. Only once before had he encountered blackmail.

He had known Rosebery since Eton, and they had remained friends though they were so dissimilar. Rosebery was slightly below average height with the face of a cherub maturing slowly into a statesman. He was very rich and much of his wealth was consumed in his annual, unfulfilled quest to win the Derby. Rosebery had been Foreign Secretary and was widely spoken of as a future Prime Minister. Powerscourt was a head taller than his friend, a head crowned with unruly black curls. Beneath them a pair of blue eyes inspected the world with detachment and irony, the lines of his smiles turning imperceptibly into wrinkles by the sides of his mouth and his eyes. He had served with distinction in India and Africa as Chief Intelligence Officer for various armies of the Crown. His skills in collecting and evaluating information had given him a second career as a solver of murders and mysteries at home and abroad.

‘There it is!’ said Rosebery, pointing proudly at a small castle right on the shore. ‘Barnbougle. My ancestors were swept out to sea here, along with the bricks and mortar. I’ve had it restored.’

All around the little castle the waves were beating steadily, cascades of spray thrown against the walls. Far out in the Firth of Forth a coal packet was beating its way towards the North Sea, black smoke marking the afternoon sky.

Rosebery led the way through a large hall to his library on the first floor.

‘Now then, Rosebery, tell me more about this blackmail.’

Rosebery sat by his fireplace, the lines of his bookshelves marching symmetrically towards the windows. ‘There isn’t a great deal more to say. The blackmail letters arrive at irregular intervals. They threaten to expose the Prince of Wales for his adulterous lifestyle.’

‘Surely,’ said Powerscourt, ‘the mystery is that nobody has tried to blackmail the Prince of Wales before. His life is one long debauch. He keeps or has kept strings of mistresses rather like you keep your racehorses on Epsom Downs.’

‘I sincerely hope that he has more success with his mistresses than I do with my racehorses,’ said Rosebery ruefully. ‘I should think that of the two, mistresses, if properly bred and trained, should be the cheaper option to maintain.’

‘Do you know how the letters are written? Block capitals, disguised handwriting, that sort of thing?’

‘Oddly enough, that is one of the few details the Prince of Wales’ Private Secretary, Sir William Suter, chose to impart. They are made up of letters cut out of newspapers, believed to be The Times and the Illustrated London News , and pasted on to a sheet of plain paper.’

‘Are they delivered by hand?’

‘No, they come by post, usually on Tuesdays. They are always posted in Central London on Mondays.’

Powerscourt turned to gaze out at the sea. Faint sounds of the angry waves carried up into the library. Rosebery was looking at his rare and valuable books.

‘And the Princess of Wales, Rosebery? You said she was worried about the life of Prince Eddy.’

‘She is, she is,’ said Rosebery, picking out an ancient Bible from his shelves and blowing a small cloud of dust from the spine. ‘Sir William did not say whether this was a mother’s anxiety or if there was some other deeper reason for it.’

‘Does Prince Eddy share his father’s tastes? A life entirely devoted to pleasure with occasional breaks for opening new buildings and laying foundation stones?’

‘I don’t think the aphrodisiac of adultery has quite the same appeal for Prince Eddy as it does for the father. They say he likes men as well as women.’

‘Dear God, Rosebery, what a collection.’

‘They are all we have, Francis, God help us. They may live on the edge of scandal all the time, the Prince of Wales and his set, but they are the Royal Family and we must do what we can. But Francis, you will not be surprised to hear that they want you to investigate this blackmail. I told Suter I would send him a wire today, to say that you were on board, that you had accepted the commission.’

Powerscourt stared intently at his friend. ‘It will be very difficult, Rosebery, almost impossible. No crime has been committed, apart from pasting up a few letters and sticking them in the post. There are never any witnesses with blackmail, as you know. There is nobody to question. Any correspondence that might have a bearing on the matter will be out of bounds. Payments from banks and bankers to blackmailers with or without scissors and paste and back copies of The Times are rather hard to trace. Messrs Finch’s amp; Co., you know as well as I do, Rosebery, do not share their secrets with any passing lord.’

‘I know, Francis, I know.’ Rosebery had adopted the tone he used in the House of Lords with dim-witted and elderly peers. ‘But you must do it. There have been far too many scandals involving the Prince of Wales and his family. One more could do untold damage to the stability of the constitution and the coherence of the Empire.’

‘Those of us who have accepted the Queen’s Commission in the past cannot refuse it now,’ said Powerscourt sadly. ‘I accept. But you will help me, won’t you? You know these people far better than I do.’

‘Of course I’ll help you, Francis,’ said Rosebery, rising to his feet and clasping Powerscourt’s hand firmly in his own. ‘I will help you in any way I can as long as your investigation lasts. But come, I must send that wire.’

Darkness was falling as the two men made their way back to Dalmeny, their boots crunching through the late autumn leaves.

‘You and I have an appointment at the Prince of Wales’ London residence at Marlborough House at nine o’clock in the morning on Tuesday. Five days from now.’

Lord Johnny Fitzgerald, Powerscourt’s friend and companion in detection, was perched precariously on top of Slaughter, nearly one hundred feet above the ground. To his left were Conquest, Famine and Death, the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. To his right, more shadowy in the dusty shafts of light that fell into the bell tower, Matthew, Mark, Luke and John gave silent testimony to the gentler thoughts of the bell wrights who had cast these monsters two hundred years before.