‘But come, enough of trains.’ Rosebery abandoned his inspection of some ancient volume on the table. ‘Trevelyan told me the other day that there had been a frightful row between the Queen and Disraeli about that boat you were interested in, the Bacchante. He said the Queen seemed to wish to vet every single person on board her. Do you have any news, Francis?’
All the way back on the train Powerscourt had wondered about who he should tell about Captain Williams’ confessions about the Britannia. Rosebery, of course. Johnny Fitzgerald, of course.
About Durham, he began thinking about telling Lady Lucy. By York he had decided against it. Then he asked himself if he would have told Lady Lucy if he was married to her. Just supposing he was married to her, that is, a purely hypothetical question. I don’t have to marry her just in order to be able to tell her, he said to himself. Do I? By Peterborough he had decided that he would tell her if it became really necessary. But what did really necessary actually mean? By King’s Cross he was back where he started. He just couldn’t decide.
But he could tell Rosebery. He did.
Rosebery walked up and down the whole length of his library. Pictures, books, curios were simply blotted from his mind as he took in the import of the revelations on the Northumberland shore.
‘My God, Francis. What a mess. Where does this leave everything? What do you make of it?’
‘It seems to me that a number of things come from it. First, we do not yet know what happened to the five boys. But if they have been ill intermittently – some of them may have died by now, for heaven’s sake – that would be an ample motive for them or for other members of their families or friends to murder Prince Eddy.
‘Second . . .’ Powerscourt held up a hand to quell a Rosebery intervention. ‘Second, this may be the secret of the blackmail charges and the Prince of Wales. They’ve been going on for a long time, you told me right at the beginning. Of course they have. These are the payments for doctors, cures, compensation, call it what you will, payments above everything else for silence. If you’re the Prince of Wales you don’t want a single word or even a syllable of this stuff leaking out. You’ve got to feel sorry for him in a way. There he is, leading a perfectly ordinary life of adultery and debauchery. Up pops his son and does something far far worse. Of course it’s blackmail in one sense. We do not know how the payments were arranged. We do not know who took the initiative. I reckon the Prince of Wales would have paid anything for silence. Don’t you?’
‘He would, he would. So you think that someone connected with these five families could be the murderer. Or the blackmailer. Or both.’
‘I do. Or I think I do. It’s possible. A long arm of revenge reaches out from Dartmouth thirteen years ago and cuts Prince Eddy’s throat.’
‘Would it explain the violence of the murder itself?’
Rosebery had turned pale. Powerscourt didn’t feel too good himself, discussing these fantastic propositions in one of London’s finest private libraries in Berkeley Square, train timetables being prepared for him down below.
‘It might. I have always thought that it could be a revenge attack, a life for a life, a death for a death. ‘But we do not yet have enough information. I am seeing Lord George Scott, captain of this Bacchante, tomorrow. Maybe he will have more information. And I have the addresses of the five boys from the Britannia.’
‘God help you, Francis. May God bless this Britannia and all who sailed in her. But I very much doubt if he did.’
Lord Johnny Fitzgerald materialized out of the night air of London and presented himself in Powerscourt’s little sitting-room in St James’s Square. The apparition was clutching a bottle with even more devotion than usual.
‘Powerscourt, just look at this one here.’ Fitzgerald unwrapped his packet with the reverence Rosebery brought to volumes of Renaissance verse. ‘Armagnac, Francis. Look at it. And this bottle is sixty years old. Will you be taking a glass of this nectar here?’
‘I will not. Not for the moment, thank you.’ Powerscourt shuddered at his memories of the last man with a bottle, the trembling hands, the bloodshot eyes, the look of ruin.
‘Have you signed the pledge now, Francis? Shall I book you in for a Temperance meeting at the Methodist Central Hall?’
‘I have seen your future, Johnny. And it is not a pleasant one.’ Powerscourt tried to remain as grave and as severe as he could. ‘I can now tell you what you will look like in about thirty years’ time, if you do not mend your ways. There is still time. It is never too late. Rejoice more for the one who is saved than for the ninety and nine who did not stray.
‘Let me tell you precisely what will happen to you, you poor addict. Believe me, I saw the signs, the portents of your future, only the other day.’ Powerscourt looked intently at Lord Johnny’s face. ‘Your hair will fall out.’ Fitzgerald checked briefly on his extravagant set of brown curls. ‘Your eyes will sink into your face. They will be red and bloodshot from over-indulgence in the golden liquids provided by the wine merchants of London. Your teeth will turn yellow and black. Your hands will shake. Your spirits will be broken by too many of the other kind. You will lose all faith in yourself and in your own future. Despair will hang over you like a great cloud, blocking out God’s own sunlight.’
‘For God’s sake, Francis. I’m definitely having a glass of this stuff now. It’s a fine preacher you would have been, if only you could have kept a straight face.’
‘I think I may partake of a very small measure of that Armagnac, Johnny. Medicinal purposes only, you understand. That’s what the man said.’
Powerscourt told the story of Northumberland for the second time that day. There’s only Lady Lucy left to tell, now, he thought to himself. If I do tell her.
Lord Johnny Fitzgerald was stunned into silence. There was no need to tell him what the implications were. He would have worked them out as fast as Powerscourt himself.
The two men sat staring at the bottle of Armagnac. J. Nismes-Delclou, said the label. Specially bottled for Berry Bros and Rudd, St James’s Street, London. High-pitched voices strayed upstairs, announcing the return home of the working women of the house.
‘Let me really cheer you up, Francis. I have come to make another report. And I fear I may have yet more suspects to put into the pot.’ He took a large gulp of his Armagnac, shivering slightly as it passed down his throat. ‘They make it a different way from the brandy, you know. That’s why it’s so fiery.
‘Anyway, Francis, I thought I would resume my investigations into that club in Chiswick, the secret one with the homosexual rich of London, gathered by the waters of the Thames. I spent three days up a tree once again. Bloody cold it was too. I expect my hair would have started to fall out if I’d stayed up there much longer. I have to confess that I did have a bottle of Armagnac in my pocket. But it was only a small one, Your Reverence. Just a little one.’ Fitzgerald’s hands cupped themselves round a very small container indeed.
Powerscourt didn’t think they made Armagnac in half or quarter bottles, but he thought he would let it pass.
‘On the third day – why do things always happen on the third day, Francis? – I saw a man I knew. I waited till he came out and I followed him home, not two hundred yards from where we are sitting now. He’s married, this character. I went to his bloody wedding. He must be able to look in two directions at once, God help him. The next day, I bumped into him just before lunch. I’d been loitering outside his offices all morning, pretending to be waiting for somebody. Lunch followed. Not Armagnac this time, Your Reverence. I have to confess to the Temperance Movement that it was Claret. Pomerol, Chateau Le Bon Pasteur, would you believe. Two whole bottles of the stuff it took. The Lord’s my Shepherd, I’ll not want, he leadeth me the quiet waters by. Waters by the Thames. Sorry, I’m getting carried away like you, Francis.