The embalmers took Prince Eddy’s body away to the top floor, to special attic rooms that were kept locked and whose key was in the sole possession of the Princess of Wales. These had been night nurseries years before, but were later turned into store rooms for her children’s toys.
So here among a small armada of toy boats for sailing on the lake, among dolls and teddy bears that were gifts from the crowned heads of Europe, and toy soldiers from the armies of Prussia and France, the corpse was cleaned and the embalmer’s art set to work to disguise the ravages of his murder. ‘Somebody may want to see the body,’ Sir Bartle had warned them, ‘so you’d better make it bloody good.’
‘Oh Lord, look down from heaven, behold, visit and relieve this thy servant Prince Eddy.’ The congregation were very still, almost all of them on their knees, praying for a Prince who would be their master one day, if he lived. ‘Look upon him with the eyes of thy mercy, defend him from the danger of the enemy, and keep him in perpetual peace and safety, through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.’
It’s too late, it’s too too late, Powerscourt thought. The danger of the enemy had already struck with terrible force. Eddy might have found perpetual peace, but safety had eluded him.
Was the murderer in the church, Powerscourt wondered suddenly? He gazed desperately at the backs of the congregation, at the members of the Household and the equerries kneeling with their straight backs in the royal pew. These hands clasped together so decorously in prayer, had one pair of them also wielded a knife with the skill of a butcher? Had one of these worshippers a collection of bloodied clothes, hidden away at the back of a cupboard, or thrown into a pit in the woods?
Sir George Trevelyan, Private Secretary to Queen Victoria, was waiting in Rosebery’s drawing-room in Berkeley Square. The fire had been lit, the carpet swept, the chairs and ornaments dusted. Rosebery’s houses ran like clockwork, whether he was in them or not.
‘Sir George, thank you for taking the trouble of coming all the way up from Osborne. I trust you had a pleasant journey?’
‘Indeed, I did, Lord Rosebery. There are times, as I am sure you know as well as I do, when it can be a relief to get away, especially when there are a lot of relations in the house.’
Trevelyan had been in his position for over twenty years. Contemporaries said that he knew how to manage the Queen better than any man since Disraeli – and Disraeli had used outrageous ladlefuls of flattery. Trevelyan didn’t. His management techniques were more oblique: patient campaigns by letter, subtle delaying tactics until the Queen’s wrath had subsided, reminders of how matters had been managed in the past. On at least one occasion, to Rosebery’s certain knowledge, Trevelyan had invented fictitious chapters of English constitutional history to get his way and persuade the Queen onto the proper course. This usually involved sending for Gladstone to form the next Government.
‘The relations,’ Rosebery sighed. ‘Ah, yes. I can imagine how you must feel about those relations. But, come, Sir George, I have a terrible tale to relate. When is the man from The Times coming?’
‘Barrington should be here in about half an hour. I thought we might need some time together beforehand. He is bringing one of his people with him. Barrington says his own shorthand is completely unintelligible. He can’t even read it himself.’
Briefly Rosebery related the terrible events at Sandringham. He left nothing out, the deep wounds, the blood sprayed around the room, the prostration of Alexandra and the cold fury of her husband.
‘The point is, Trevelyan, the point is this. They want to conceal the nature of the death. They propose to announce on Thursday, this coming Thursday, four days from now, that he died of influenza. My purpose is to warn The Times, to soften them up, if you like, to prepare them for the blow.’
‘Good God!’ said Trevelyan. ‘Dear God in heaven. The poor family.’ He closed his eyes for a moment and said a silent prayer. ‘Do you think they are right, Rosebery, to conceal the murder from the world?’
‘The time is past when one could speak of right or wrong. They have taken their decision. It is a perilous course. But they were prompted, as you can well imagine, by the fear of scandal and the newspapers prying into all their lives.’
‘What should we tell the Queen?’ Trevelyan’s first loyalty was always to his royal mistress, happily surrounded by other members of her family and the waters of the English Channel on the Isle of Wight.
‘What should we tell the Queen, indeed.’ Rosebery looked troubled. He paused to stare into the fire. ‘I can only relate the views of the Prince of Wales. He explained his position very clearly to me as I was leaving Sandringham.’
Prince Edward, wrapped in a dark green cape, had marched Rosebery up and down the little platform at Wolferton station, talking passionately of his fears, the lampposts, adorned with a premature crown for the Prince of Wales, shining bravely against the winter air, the engine already fired up, sending impatient clouds of smoke into the night.
‘The Prince of Wales is frightened of his mother. I think he is more frightened of her than of anybody else on earth. He doesn’t want to tell her. He fears her wrath. He fears for her health. Worst of all, he fears that she might not be able to keep such a secret to herself, that the scandal of Eddy’s murder would somehow find its way into public gossip.’
‘My God, Rosebery, you could well be right there. The Queen would be bound to tell somebody, probably her favourite daughter in Berlin. In half an hour the thing could be all around the Wihelmstrasse and the Unter den Linden. I don’t think Prime Minister Salisbury would thank for us that.’
Footsteps could be heard, echoing across one of Rosebery’s marble halls. There was a knock on the door.
‘My lord. Sir George. The gentlemen from The Times are here. Mr Barrington. His chief reporter, Mr Johnston.’
‘Barrington, how good to see you again! Thank you for coming.’ It was certainly true, thought Rosebery, that Trevelyan was on excellent terms with the man from Printing House Square.
‘Please sit down, gentlemen, please.’ Rosebery placed his visitors side by side on a great leather sofa.
‘I fear,’ Trevelyan began, ‘that we have some serious news concerning the Duke of Clarence and Avondale.’
‘I hope you will have no objections, gentlemen,’ the editor of The Times was at his most charming, ‘if my colleague here makes a shorthand record of our conversation? It helps us to get our facts straight.’
‘Of course, of course.’ Trevelyan volleyed back some courtier’s charm of his own. ‘The Duke has contracted a most severe bout of the influenza. Most severe.’
‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ said Barrington, assuming already his air of mourning, planning perhaps the black-edged columns around his leader page which would greet a royal death. ‘So many of our great men are suffering from it at present.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘The influenza is raging all across the Continent of Europe. The Bishop of Southwark is in crisis with it. They say that Cardinal Manning is at death’s door.’
So far so good, thought Rosebery. The ground here is fertile. ‘May I just fill in with a few more details, Mr Barrington? I have come this very evening from Sandringham.’
‘Please do, Lord Rosebery, please do. We are most grateful to you.’
‘The doctors believe that the illness took serious hold on Friday evening. The most serious development is that the influenza is accompanied by pneumonia. Dr Broadbent, who attended on the recent illness of Prince George, is in attendance. Dr Manby, the local man, a most capable physician, is also on call. I believe that Dr Laking may be summoned over the next twenty-four hours, if he is not already there.’