Goodnight Sweet Prince (36 page)

‘I told you I was sure of it. Gresham told me himself in Venice three days ago. Do you want any more confirmation than that?’

‘Dear God,’ said Suter, laying down his pen. ‘What a terrible business. A terrible business.’ He stopped and looked down at his notes again. ‘Could I ask you to
clear two little points up for us, Lord Francis?’

The Private Secretary, the bureaucrat, must ensure that all the facts are included in the report to his master.

‘I have been haunted, ever since you told us, by Lancaster’s Semper Fidelis. What does it mean?’

‘I think he saw Gresham in the room. Maybe he heard him crushing the picture of Princess May into small pieces. Maybe he saw him climbing out of the window. He knew who the murderer was.
He was being faithful to his friend. He wasn’t going to betray him. So he is faithful to him for ever. Forever Faithful. Semper fidelis.’

‘You have sinned, my son. You have sinned most grievously against God’s Holy Law and his Commandments.’ Father Menotti paused.

Lord Edward Gresham was still on his knees, tears on his face, terror in his heart. Father Menotti’s voice was very close now. This is my last judgement, Gresham thought, here in the
middle of Florence. Father Menotti has turned into Savonarola. This is Judgement Day, on the Arno.

‘
Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, miserere nobis.
Lamb of God, who takest away the sins of the world, have mercy on us.’ The youthful singers had moved on to the Agnus
Dei, innocent voices soaring into the roof.

‘The crime you have confessed is a most serious one. You are required to tell the authorities in your own country what you have done. Every day, from now until the end of your time on
earth, you must say three Hail Marys for the mother of the young man you murdered. You must pray for the brothers and the sisters every day. You must pray for the soul of the bereaved every day.
Each year on the anniversary of his death, you must say the Mass for the Bereaved. This you do in memory of him.’

‘
Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, miserere nobis.
Lamb of God, who takest away the sins of the world, have mercy on us.’

‘Do you heartily repent of your manifold sins and wickedness?’

‘I do.’

‘Do you promise to repent most truly of your crimes that you may come at last into God’s own gracious mercy and protection?’

‘I do.’

‘May Almighty God have mercy upon you, forgive you your sins, and bring you to life everlasting. Amen.
Ego absolvo te.
I absolve you. May the almighty and merciful Lord grant you
pardon,’ Father Menotti made an elaborate sign of the cross, ‘absolution and remission of your sins.’

‘
Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, miserere nobis.
’ Lamb of God, who takest away the sins of the world, have mercy on us.’

The words of the priest and the choir escorted Gresham out of the church and into the cold air of Florence. He had made his confession. The priest had forgiven him his sins. There was only one
thing left he had to do.

‘And the blackmail? The blackmail of the Prince of Wales last autumn?’ Suter was still tidying up the loose ends, composing no doubt in his mind the final
memorandum for his master.

‘I am not certain about that’, said Powerscourt. But I think what happened was this. One of the young men on the
Britannia
, name of Robinson, from Dorchester on Thames, died
of his syphilis last summer. The payments from the Prince of Wales stopped. The family were hard up suddenly. So the father tried to restart the payments on his own. I saw both
The Times
and
the
Illustrated London News
in the hall of his house. I can imagine him cutting them up with the scissors and paste. Then I think the other parents realised what was going on. The matter was
cleared up. The payments started again. The blackmail notes ceased.’

‘And where is Gresham now?’ said Shepstone.

‘He is in Italy still. He is going to Florence, maybe to Arezzo, then Perugia. His final destination is Rome. After he has confessed his sins he intends to shoot himself. That’s what
he told me. I believe him. I don’t think he will be alive for Easter.’

‘Lord Powerscourt, we are so grateful to you, so relieved that we know the truth of this sad and terrible affair.’

Sir William Suter seemed anxious to get rid of them, ushering them into the Marlborough House corridor. As they walked down the stairs, Powerscourt turned to Rosebery.

‘Damn. I’ve forgotten my little black book. I don’t want to leave it in there.’

He sped back the way they had come. As he opened the door, they looked surprised and embarrassed to see him. The efficient Major Dawnay had joined them. They were poring over a map of Italy,
laid out on the table.

‘My book. I forgot it. I’m so sorry. Good day to you, gentlemen.’

Rosebery was waiting for him outside Marlborough House.

‘Well done, Francis, well done. That seems to have brought the affair to a close.’

‘I hope you’re right, Rosebery. I do hope you’re right.’

Lord Francis Powerscourt was waiting for Lady Lucy Hamilton in a box at the Royal Albert Hall, waiting for a performance of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony.

That dreadful Prince Albert, he thought as he waited, there’s his great gold statue just over the road, brooding over Kensington Gardens. There’s his son, the Prince of Wales, whose
life had not been improved by his father’s tyrannical upbringing. There’s his late grandson, murdered for his lust, the cisterns of his lust. Maybe they’ve met already on the
other side. He didn’t think Albert would have a lot in common with the late Prince Eddy, Duke of Clarence and Avondale.

‘What good deeds did you perform in your time on earth, Grandson Eddy?’

‘I gave a lot of people syphilis, Grandfather.’

Then she was opening the door, wearing that Anna Karenina coat again.

‘Lady Lucy! How very very nice to see you!’

‘How kind of you to invite me, Lord Francis. And a box too! I have always been very fond of Beethoven.’

They settled down, two of them, in a box large enough for eight.

‘Lord Francis.’ Lady Lucy was peering down into the auditorium one floor below them. ‘The whole place is like one of those Roman amphitheatres like the one in Verona or Orange.
Is there room for bread and circuses down there, do you think?’

Powerscourt wasn’t sure about the bread. But there was plenty of room for circuses. He saw himself in the imperial box at the Colosseum. He was Augustus, maybe Nero. Down beneath two
gladiators were coming to the end of a brutal fight. Both were wounded, blood flowing fast into the hot Roman earth. One appeared to have vanquished the other, standing above his victim, sword
poised, ready to strike. The Roman mob were baying for blood. Nero Powerscourt turned to his consort to ask what fate should befall the man below. His consort was touching his arm again.

‘Look, Francis. The conductor.’ Lady Lucy was oblivious to her role as Queen of the Games.

The conductor, Herr Dr Hirsch, from Vienna, was a very tall thin man, beginning to go bald. He was picking nervously at his shirt cuffs as he took up his position. He prepared his orchestra, a
smile here, a wave of the baton there. The audience were still rustling in their seats, checking their programmes, chatting to their friends. Herr Hirsch brought Beethoven’s Ninth whispering
into action. Very softly, very gently. Then Beethoven summoned his audience with a fanfare of drums and brass. Pay attention in the back! Stop your chattering, good citizens of Berlin or Hamburg or
London! I am taking you on a journey! I, Beethoven!

For two movements marches, dances, sometimes lyrical, sometimes martial, swept across the audience. The conductor used his baton in great stroking movements, never pausing to look down at the
score in front of him. Already perspiration was forming a glistening sheen across his forehead.

But the third movement took them to a different world.

It started with what sounded like a hymn, a melancholy sound, a sound of ineffable sadness. Beethoven is lamenting the misery of this world, thought Powerscourt, sitting very still in his box.
Sunt lacrimae rerum.
That’s what it is, Virgil’s lines from the
Aeneid
translated into music by a fifty-year-old German genius. There are tears in the middle of
everything, a sadness at the heart of the universe. Tears in the midst of all things.

Then it swept off into another mode.

Love flowed out into the Albert Hall.

Love floated through the roof and hovered over London.

Then love turned and went ever higher, spinning, sweeping, soaring, into a realm beyond the planets, beyond the Milky Way.

Shards of God’s love floated back from the spheres and drifted down to earth like stardust.

The conductor was leaning forward now, his baton caressing the strings as if he was brushing at something ever so delicate, like a butterfly’s wings. Down in the arena there was a terrible
stillness as if the audience were preparing themselves for a journey to Beethoven’s universe of love. Behind them in the box the six empty chairs waited. Angels are coming, thought
Powerscourt, angels are coming down to listen to the music. They will sit here patiently, wings furled. Then they will float up and rise above the streets of Kensington to join the anthem of love
in the constellations above.

Love suffers long and is kind: love beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things. One of the angels is reading a lesson, thought Powerscourt, a lesson for
Lady Lucy and me, here in our box at the Albert Hall. Love never faileth; but where there be prophecies they shall fail, where there be tongues they shall cease, where there be knowledge, it shall
pass away. There abideth three things, faith, hope, love. And the greatest of these is love. The angel sat down again. The music soared on.

Love was now very far away, knocking at the gates of heaven, somewhere far far above the streets of London, sweeping majestically towards the infinite. Beethoven’s love. God’s
love.

When the movement ended Powerscourt turned, very quietly, to look at Lady Lucy beside him. She was smiling gently, her eyes filled with tears.
Sunt lacrimae rerum.
As the fourth movement
brought the Albert Hall back to earth, Powerscourt searched through his pockets. You couldn’t speak. Not in here. Not now. Beethoven might get cross. God might send a thunderbolt. Did he have
a pen? He must have a pen somewhere. He did. Was there anything to write on? No, only an old copy of a newspaper rolled up in his pocket. He picked it out. He found an empty space inside an
advertisement for Colman’s Mustard. He composed his message.

‘Lucy. I love you. Will you marry me? Francis.’

He tapped her lightly on the shoulder and passed her the crumpled paper, pointing shyly to his proposal.

Lady Lucy smiled at him. The tears had gone. She made writing gestures at him. What on earth was she doing, making those signs with her hand? Then he realised. Lady Lucy didn’t have a pen.
He gave her his. This is what life is going to be like from now on, he thought. Sharing things, sharing pens, sharing programmes at the Albert Hall, sharing love.

The paper came back. The reply was hidden inside another advertisement, this one for Bird’s Eye Custard. Powerscourt thought he would have preferred the mustard. He’d always hated
custard.

‘Francis. Of course I will marry you. Love. Lucy.’

She took the newspaper from him and placed it carefully in her bag. You couldn’t trust men to remember to keep things like that, she thought. Not even Francis. Well, maybe Francis.

Beethoven was now on the final movement of his symphony. The chorus were on their feet. Schiller’s ‘Ode to Joy’ bellowed out across the auditorium. The waltzes and the marches
from earlier on returned to take another bow.

Lady Lucy sent out a small hand to hold Powerscourt’s. It was all right in the dark. Nobody could see. Suddenly she didn’t care who saw. She wanted to shout, to sing
out her own hymn of love and happiness found with Beethoven and with Schiller. And with Francis. Her own Ode to Joy.

‘Francis.’ Lady Lucy Hamilton and Lord Francis Powerscourt were returning to Markham Square in a cab, rattling along the Cromwell Road. ‘I don’t need to
call you Lord Francis any more, do I? Not now, I mean. And you don’t have to call me Lady Lucy either.’ She was nestling against his shoulder. It was very cold outside.

‘Well, I always think of you as Lady Lucy. In my mind, I mean.’

‘Oh, I shan’t mind at all if you want to go on calling me Lady Lucy. It shows proper respect, don’t you think?’

Powerscourt laughed. ‘What are you going to tell Robert?’

‘Ah, Robert. Robert,’ said Lady Lucy, snuggling ever closer into Powerscourt’s shoulder. ‘Do you know, he asked me the other day if I was going to marry you. Just like
that. I think one of the boys’ mothers at the school has just remarried. That must have put it into his head.’

She remembered the conversation, Robert glad to be diverted from Latin nouns, second declension homework, she herself struggling with the latest Henry James.

‘Are you going to marry Lord Powerscourt, Mama?’

Lady Lucy composed herself. What a strange thing for Robert to say. Why, she’d only been thinking about it herself a few minutes ago. It was hard to get into, this Henry James.

‘Well, darling . . .’ She wondered what to tell him. I’d better tell him the truth, she thought, best to start early. ‘I would if he asked me. But he hasn’t asked
me yet.’