Free Goodnight Sweet Prince by David Dickinson

had his wrists and the great blood vessels in his legs. The blood
was lying all over the floor.’
    ‘My God!’ exclaimed Rosebery. ‘And this is England, not the Rome of Nero or the Borgias. How terrible.’
    ‘Quite so. Quite so.’ Suter acknowledged the outburst as one might tolerate a tantrum from a small child. But his face was as impassive as ever, a mask that concealed the workings of
his mind. ‘Lancaster thought quickly. He summoned one of the other equerries, Harry Radclyffe, and put him on permanent guard outside the door, with instructions to say that the Duke was
asleep and was on no account to be disturbed. I informed the Prince of Wales who told his wife and the rest of the family.
    ‘Dr Broadbent examined the cadaver and gave it as his opinion that the murder had taken place between eleven o’clock the previous evening when Lancaster bade him goodnight and saw
him off to sleep and five o’clock in the morning. Broadbent has, naturally enough, been sworn to secrecy. The Prince wanted to have you gentlemen here before we decide how to proceed.
    ‘Less than a dozen people know what has transpired here. The Prince is firmly of the opinion that the murder must be covered up, that we invent some story to conceal the truth. That,
rather than the particular circumstances of a person’s death,’ he said, staring balefully at Powerscourt, ‘is our immediate concern.’
    ‘Good God, man, this is England! This is Victoria’s grandson! This was Victoria’s grandson.’ Rosebery corrected himself. ‘How can you think of covering it up? Think
of Parliament! Think of the laws of England! Think of the ancient constitution!’
    ‘I am not aware,’ said Suter coldly, ‘that any of your colleagues or predecessors have actually bothered to write it down. The ancient constitution, I mean. That gives us some
flexibility.’
    ‘Come, Rosebery.’ Sir Bartle Shepstone had spent most of the discussion gazing sadly out of the window, as if time might suddenly decide to run backwards. ‘You have always been
an adviser to the Royal Family on the constitution. Is there anything that says we couldn’t conceal it, cover it up, if such be the parents’ wishes?’
    Rosebery looked long at a portrait of the Princess of Wales by the bookshelves. There seemed to be three or four Alexandras in the room, radiant as a bride, happy as a mother surrounded by three
of her children, regal as the Princess of Wales in formal attire and a dazzling tiara.
    ‘There is nothing in the constitution,’ he said finally in the manner of one who has been taken to a lunatic asylum and has to address the inmates, ‘that says you could not
cover it up. There are the laws of the country, conspiracy to pervert the course of justice to name but one. I would find it easier to answer the question if I knew the reason for it, if I could
sense what prompts this perversion of justice.’
    ‘Nobody is trying to pervert the course of justice, Rosebery. That is why Powerscourt is here. We want him to find the murderer.’
    Powerscourt said nothing. Inside, he felt sick. If the murder was covered up, he could ask no questions, he could make no inquiries, he could not conduct his business. It would be like playing
cricket not just blind but with only one hand.
    ‘The reasons, I think, are simple.’ Suter was counting them off on his fingertips as the last light ebbed away from the white world outside. ‘It is a choice between two evils.
Of course, if it is covered up, that is a terrible thing. But think of the alternative. We have the police tramping all over Sandringham and Marlborough House. Think of it, Rosebery. Inspector
Smith who has spent his life investigating the criminal gangs of the East End of London comes to interrogate the Prince of Wales. Superintendent Peters polishes his best black boots and proceeds to
talk to the Queen Empress at Windsor Castle. They do not know the world in which we live.’ As Suter thought of these