Free Goodnight Sweet Prince by David Dickinson Page A

outrages the colour drained slowly from his face.
    ‘Then there are the opposition politicians, radicals and suchlike. Every jumped-up backbencher will be on his feet in the House of Commons trying to ask the question nobody has asked
before. The one designed to cause maximum embarrassment to the Royal Family. The newspapers will go mad. Initially of course we’ll have the black mastheads and the loyal and pious editorials.
Grave loss to the nation and the Empire. You could write those now, Rosebery, I expect. But give them a week and they will be all over the Royal Family like vultures. Vultures over a corpse. They
will start to rake up every single of scrap of gossip that has circulated in the drawing-rooms of London for the past three years. That could prove embarrassing and difficult for all concerned.
Think of the foreign newspapers and what they will make of it. Think of the rejoicing in Paris and Berlin as a murder and a series of scandals in Britain’s Royal House are all over their
front pages. Mourning dress won’t be worn for very long.’
    And then Rosebery could see it all.
    The need for secrecy, the need for silence.
    Fear was the key. Fear of some unspoken scandal that had not yet been brought out into the light of day. Fear that if the stones were lifted, something so terrible would crawl out that it could
endanger the whole position of the Royal Family. Fear so strong that it left the risky and hazardous course of covering up the murder as the better of two options.
    Powerscourt tried to find the thread that linked his earlier investigation, the investigation that never was, with these terrible events at Sandringham. Somebody blackmailing the Prince of
Wales, fears for the life of Prince Eddy. They must have thought it had all gone away, he reflected, looking at Suter and Shepstone and remembering the final letter from Marlborough House, written
on the last day of the old year, that seemed to close the account. What had it said? ‘I am happy to be able to report,’ Suter had written in his best Private Secretary prose,
‘that the circumstances that led us to consider the possibility of availing ourselves of your expertise have changed for the better.’ This cold January evening, thought Powerscourt,
they have certainly changed for the worse.
    ‘Gentlemen. Gentlemen.’ Suter was calling the meeting to order. ‘We are due to meet the Prince of Wales in one hour’s time. Rosebery, I would be grateful if you could
marshal your arguments against what I have suggested. The Prince wishes to avail himself of the best possible advice before he reaches his final decision. I must go to him now. Sir Bartle here will
answer some of your more specific questions.’
    Suter walked slowly from the room. As he closed the door faint sounds of women weeping could be heard from the floors above.
    ‘Was there any sign of a murder weapon? Was the window open or closed?’ Powerscourt felt suddenly like an intruder as he began his inquiries.
    ‘No murder weapon was found,’ Sir Bartle Shepstone replied. ‘I do not know about the window – but obviously members of the family have been tramping in and out of the
room all day. You can see it tomorrow, and Lancaster will talk to you, of course.
    ‘I have ordered reinforcements of a sort,’ Shepstone went on. ‘A detachment of two dozen Guardsmen, commanded by a Major Dawnay, including a doctor and a trained undertaker,
should be with us soon. They are part of a special section of the Household Division and are sworn to secrecy in the event of unusual missions like this.’
    ‘I never knew of such a special detachment,’ said Rosebery, with the air of a man who found it difficult to believe that such things could exist without his knowledge or
approval.
    ‘Oh, they are very very secret, my dear Rosebery. When you are Prime Minister you will know all about them, and the special units of the Metropolitan Police Force. But they will be able to
help us