It wasn’t really blackmail at all, thought Powerscourt. It might be self-defence. Was it twenty thousand a year above his income that the Prince of Wales had been spending for years and years? He was sure that William Burke, ever reliable with the arithmetic, had told him that early on in his inquiry. It wasn’t really blackmail, just regular payments, treatments, maybe abroad, expensive doctors, young men with their futures ruined but still financially afloat, courtesy of Marlborough House and Messrs Finch’s amp; Co., Bankers. Years and years of payments, probably still going on. No wonder they didn’t want to talk to him. No wonder they hadn’t been surprised when Eddy was murdered in his bed.
‘Come, we had better get back now. I’m sorry that was so difficult for you. I’m very grateful to you. Do you have the names of the other boys?’
‘I do, oh yes, I do. Oh yes. Sometimes I take out that list and I wish they had never been born.’
The Captain’s first act on returning home was to disappear into a scullery behind the kitchen. Powerscourt could hear liquid being poured into a glass. There was a pause, followed by what might have been a gulp, then the sound of more liquid being poured. Williams came through the door, looking rather better.
‘I got so cold, Lord Powerscourt. Medicinal whisky helps restore the circulation. Can I get you a glass?’
‘Just a very small one,’ said Powerscourt. He wondered how much you would get if you asked for a large one.
‘The addresses, if you could be so kind.’ Powerscourt cradled the glass in his hands, amazed at the improvement in Williams’ demeanour.
Another piece of paper disappeared into his pocketbook. He left Amble in the same carriage that had brought him there.
Captain Williams stood at his door and watched him go. For the rest of his life he would remember his visitor on this day, the walk on the beach, the seagulls flying backwards, his visitor straining to catch his words as the wind blew them away. Another ghastly memory to add to his collection.
Powerscourt read the addresses on his way back to the hotel. At least this lot aren’t scattered all around the four nations of Great Britain, he thought to himself. But when he thought of his next round of conversations, once more exhuming the past, once more distressing the old, he almost wished they were.
I shall actually be quite glad, he said to himself as his carriage rattled along the windswept lanes, to see that lunatic asylum once again.
A note from Rosebery, asking him to call at his earliest convenience, was waiting for Powerscourt on his return to his sister’s house in St James’s Square. There was a note from Lord George Scott, former captain of the Bacchante, saying that he would be honoured to meet with Lord Powerscourt at the Army and Navy Club the following morning. There was a report from James Phillips, his footman spy in Marlborough House, saying that there was no gossip about Prince Eddy’s death in the servants’ hall and that the Prince of Wales had gone to stay with Lady Brooke at Easton Lodge. And a note from Lady Lucy, a delicate whiff of her perfume still lingering about the notepaper, asking him to lunch at her house in Markham Square the following Sunday.
We are going to have a christening party for Robert’s boat. I think it should take place after lunch at the Round Pond in Kensington Gardens. I shall, of course, provide the necessary champagne.
Robert has decided to call the boat Britannia. Don’t you think that is very patriotic for one so young?
Yours ever,
Lucy.
Powerscourt’s heart sank. Not even the single word Lucy at the bottom of the page could cheer him up. Not Lady Lucy, not Lady Lucy Hamilton, not Lady Hamilton. Just Lucy. Please don’t call it Britannia, he thought, dear God, please not Britannia. He would never be able to look at the little craft without thinking of illicit sexual practices and a naval inquest which despatched its victims to the four corners of the kingdom, a broken man whispering his terrible confidences into the teeth of the wind as the great breakers rolled in from the sea.
‘Francis.’ His sister appeared, apparently rushing from one appointment to another. ‘We have all been so busy working on your behalf.’
‘The curtains are looking particularly fine this afternoon, Rosalind. It’s as if they were chosen specially for this late afternoon light.’
‘No gratitude,’ said his sister, ‘no gratitude. Flippancy is my only reward.’ She dashed off to her next appointment, thinking that it was nice of brother Francis to mention her new curtains, even if he didn’t afford them the respect they deserved.
William Leith, Rosebery’s inscrutable butler, opened the door. ‘My lord. His Lordship is in the library. Your coat, my lord.’
Coat, hat and gloves departed to the Rosebery vestibule.
Leith coughed. ‘Might I make so bold, my lord, as to inquire if Your Lordship has yet availed himself of the travel arrangements we discussed?’ A flicker of a smile crossed his impassive face.
‘Leith, my good man.’ Powerscourt wondered suddenly if he could try his luck again. It’s like having your very own travel agent, he thought to himself. ‘I have indeed. Your arrangements worked like clockwork. Now, I wonder if I could take advantage of your good offices and your expertise once more.’ He handed over another list of places, scribbled out on the train home from the North. ‘I am sorry that the writing is a trifle uncertain. I wrote it on your train coming back from Morpeth.’
‘Did Your Lordship catch the 8.15 or the nine o’clock? My Lordship speaks highly of the speed of the 8.15.’
‘The 8.15 it was, Leith. And the train was very fast.’
Leith glanced down at the list of places. ‘My lord. These places. I shall prepare a memorandum for you to take away.’ My God, thought Powerscourt, a memorandum, the man even sounds like Rosebery in one of his pompous moods.
‘Could I suggest once again, if I might,’ here came the deprecating cough, the note of pleading, almost of supplication, ‘that if Your Lordship wishes to make the rounds of these localities, a special might prove the most expeditious method for attaining your objectives?’
Specials once again. The man is obsessed with specials. What on earth is so special about specials? Powerscourt resolved to ask Rosebery.
‘Please include the details in your memorandum. That would be most kind.’
‘Thank you, my lord. If Your Lordship would like to step this way. Lord Powerscourt, my lord.’
Leith glided away back to his lair half-way down the stairs, to enjoy moments of communion with the domestic timetables of Britain, Surrey, Gloucestershire and Hampshire in particular.
‘Rosebery, how good to see you.’
‘Powerscourt, how kind of you to call. Come and sit down.’
‘I have a confession to make to you, Rosebery. I have been using the expertise of your butler for information about train times.’
Rosebery laughed. ‘You have certainly come to the right place. I keep increasing his wages in case he defects to Thomas Cook or the Travel Department at Harrods.’
‘But why the obsession with specials? Every time I ask, he recommends a special.’
‘Ah, specials,’ said Rosebery thoughtfully. ‘I have a certain weakness for specials myself. For Leith, I think,’ Rosebery looked into his fire, ‘specials simply represent the highest form of travel. They’re almost metaphysical. Your own train, your own driver, your own route, no other passengers cluttering up the place with luggage and children and the other impedimenta of mass movement. If Leith ever went to Plato’s Cave and was asked about a Form or an Ideal, he wouldn’t talk about Love or Truth or Beauty. He’d talk about a special train, chugging slowly out from the darkness of the cavern to join the Great North Eastern line at Peterborough.