Free Goodnight Sweet Prince by David Dickinson Page B

with the body.’
    Powerscourt suddenly remembered that Shepstone had won the Victoria Cross for outstanding bravery in the Indian Mutiny. He made a mental note to tell his nephews that he had talked with an old
man with a white beard who had a VC; the Indian Mutiny, he suspected, would seem as remote to those little boys as the Spanish Armada.
    ‘How many people are in the house just now?’ Powerscourt returned to Sandringham.
    ‘Well, the family are here. And the Tecks, of course – Princess May was engaged to be married to Prince Eddy, as you know. About half a dozen young men, friends or equerries of
Prince Eddy.’
    ‘And how many servants are there about the place?’
    Sir Bartle shook his head rather sadly. ‘Do you know, I have no idea about that. Some of them live in, of course, and some of them come from the neighbouring villages. Seventy? Eighty?
I’ve never thought about it.’
    ‘Any reports of strangers in the vicinity?’ Powerscourt felt he wasn’t making much progress so far. He didn’t suppose it would get any better.
    ‘Odd that you should mention that, Lord Powerscourt.’ Shepstone was looking very tired suddenly. ‘There have been reports of a party of Russians and some Irishmen in the
neighbourhood. The Prince of Wales is convinced one of them must be responsible.’
    ‘Let me ask the key question for our next round of discussions.’ For much of the conversation Rosebery had been marshalling his arguments for the Prince of Wales, lost in thought on
the settee. ‘How many people know what has happened? How many people know the truth?’
    ‘I should think it cannot be more than a dozen, maybe fifteen at most. But all of them are either members of the family, or members of distinguished families who can be relied upon to do
their duty.’
    Powerscourt raised his eyebrows at the assumed link between birth and virtue. If all those of good birth and position had done their duty according to the honour of their class and the dictates
of their Commandments, he reflected bitterly, we probably would not have a bloodied corpse on our hands, stiffening into rigor mortis in an upstairs bedroom.
    The Prince of Wales seemed quite small that evening. He looked as though some powerful machine had emptied most of the air from his body. His eyes were red from weeping, his
face pale and drawn. And though he was wearing one of his darker uniforms, he looked as though he no longer cared for the medals and decorations that hung loosely from his tunic, as if they too
were in mourning.
    ‘My friends,’ he began, ‘thank you for coming to see us in this time of trouble. Thank you, Rosebery, thank you, Powerscourt. We shall never forget your assistance.
    ‘Rosebery, I do not think I shall make a final decision until the morning. But I want you to try to persuade me that we should tell the truth. My own inclination, as I believe Suter told
you, is to conceal it.’
    If you have led the life of Prince Edward for the past thirty years, the love affairs, the gambling, the discreet trips en gargon to the pleasure palaces of Europe, thought Powerscourt,
concealment must have become a way of life. There are only so many evenings you could pretend to be playing billiards at the Marlborough Club.
    Rosebery began with expressions of concern and sympathy for the family at the time of this terrible tragedy. He spoke of his long acquaintance with Alexandra and Edward, his frequent trips to
Sandringham and Marlborough House, the weekends at his own houses, Mentmore or Dalmeny. He referred to his long intimacy with Queen Victoria and his friendship with the members of her Household.
‘I have often said, Your Royal Highness,’ he bowed slightly to the Prince of Wales, ‘that I have only met two people in my entire life who frightened me. One was that old bully
Bismarck. The other is rather a smaller figure, your mother, the Queen.’
    The Prince of Wales smiled a wan smile, Shepstone managed the ghost of a