‘There was a row about the funeral, about where the body was buried. The boy’s mother wanted the girl and her grandchild buried in the family vault in the family chapel in the family seat, even though she had refused to attend the wedding. The girl’s parents refused. They said it was their grandchild too. I don’t know where they were buried in the end.
‘But the point of the story, Lord Francis, is this.’ Lady Lucy leaned forward and fixed her blue eyes on Powerscourt’s face. She looked at him intently. ‘The young man told very few people about his wedding. I suspect he thought of the pain it would cause his mother, all those county women inquiring about the church service and making pointed remarks about the price of groceries. I don’t think he told any of the other officers in his regiment. I don’t think he told any of his other friends.
‘But Prince Eddy knew. Prince Eddy knew the girl. When the husband was away, they say that Prince Eddy was never away from the house. They say that he was forcing his attentions on her. Maybe he thought married women were fair game, just like his father. Well, I don’t think this girl was. Fair game, I mean.
‘On the day she died, they say that Prince Eddy was at the house, that he was seen running away after a scream, a horrible scream that went on and on and on. They say that he didn’t go back, Prince Eddy. He just kept on running, running away.
‘I don’t think I know any more. It’s a terrible story.’
Powerscourt rose from his seat and walked over to the fire, as if to break the spell. ‘Who told you the story Lucy? Where does it come from?’
‘Two people, Francis. I had to invent some terrible pack of lies to get the story out of the second one. One of them was a cousin of the dead wife. The other was the uncle of the boy. You see, he’s my uncle too, in a roundabout sort of way. He’s my late husband’s father’s brother, uncle-in-law, if you see what I mean. I think he heard it from the boy’s mother.’
The truth was lying about on your own doorstep, thought Powerscourt. While he had been charging round England in a variety of trains, Lady Lucy merely talked to her relations round the corner.
‘And what is the name of the young man?’
Lady Lucy paused. She suspected that everything would be different after she told him. Then her courage came back.
‘The young man is called Lord Edward Gresham.’
Powerscourt had wondered about that for some time. Had there been something not quite right about his demeanour at Sandringham? Nothing tangible, maybe the kind of thing that would come over you if you had murdered the heir presumptive to the throne and smashed the picture of his fiancee into small pieces on the floor.
‘Lord Edward Gresham. Lord Edward Gresham, equerry to His Royal Highness the Duke of Clarence and Avondale. The late Duke of Clarence and Avondale, Prince Eddy.’ Powerscourt was already thinking about more journeys. ‘And his mother is Lady Gresham, Lady Blanche Gresham, of Thorpe Hall in Warwickshire. And the great city must be Birmingham. Am I right?’
‘You are, Lord Francis. You are. ‘The young man in the fairy story, the young man with the dead wife at the bottom of the stone steps, is Lord Edward Gresham.’
19
It really was the most improbable ceiling. High above were putti in angelic plaster frozen into the corners, plaster maidens draped in scanty wraps, plaster maidens carrying trumpets or spears or sheaves of corn. Wrapping them all together in a filigreed embrace, the elaborate plasterwork itself danced round the four walls and the over-elaborate corners. In the centre, in an oval shape, was an allegorical painting in pinks and vivid reds. Apollo in his chariot, on a hunting mission, was surrounded by yet more female forms with plaster thighs and plaster breasts.
‘Most people stop here, my lord,’ said Lyons, the butler of Thorpe Hall in the county of Warwickshire. ‘To look up. The ceiling was built in 1750, my lord, by a man called Gibbs, James Gibbs, my lord.’
While Powerscourt gazed up at the baroque ceiling and the delicate outlines of the chariot above, Lyons deposited his hat and coat in some distant corner of the great entrance hall. Powerscourt wondered what the decoration was like in there. Hatstands made of plaster perhaps, contorted putti disguised as coat hooks preparing to bear the weight of the visitors’ cloaks.
‘This way, my lord.’ The hall was very long, a number of ornate doors closed on either side.
‘Lord Powerscourt, my lady.’
He was shown into a great salon with large windows at either end, paintings lining the walls. Lady Blanche Gresham advanced from her chair at the far end of the room to greet him. There was ample time to take in her stiff elegance, pride and dignity in each aristocratic step on her slow walk across the carpet.
‘Lord Powerscourt. I am delighted to make your acquaintance. Please sit down.’
An imperious nod indicated that he was to retrace his steps with her to the seat by the window, the journey long, the stiff frozen lawn outside beckoning them on.
‘Lord Rosebery wrote to me about you. Do you know Rosebery well?’ The question was almost a command.
‘He is one of my greatest friends, Lady Gresham. I have known him for many years. And I have a letter for you from the Prime Minister as well. I did not like to entrust it to the postal services.’
Lady Blanche was tall and slim. Powerscourt thought she must have been in her early sixties, probably born in the reign of William IV. She was wearing a long black skirt and a silk shirt of deep red. Round her neck was a string of pearls which she fingered from time to time as if checking they were still there.
‘Rosebery I knew as a young man. This Salisbury I don’t know at all.’ The Prime Minister was dismissed as though he came from poor stock or had made his money in trade. ‘Rosebery was quite charming. He came here to a house party many years ago. I think Disraeli was here that weekend.’
Powerscourt wondered how Disraeli had gained admittance if Salisbury was persona non grata. Charm and flattery, he supposed, the usual Disraeli tricks.
‘He was most amusing, Rosebery I mean. He kept us all quite entertained for the days he was here. Such elegant manners.’ Her voice was high. It cracked from time to time, like glass in a mirror. ‘But you haven’t come here to reminisce about Thorpe Hall in the days of its glory, Lord Powerscourt. How can I be of assistance to you in your business?’
There was something very special about the way she said Thorpe Hall, as if it were sacred, something to be kept safe from strangers.
‘I wanted to ask you a few questions about your son, Lady Gresham.’
‘My son? My son?’ Lady Blanche Gresham sat ever straighter in her chair, her back stiff, her eyes haughty.
‘The first thing you have to remember about my son, Lord Powerscourt, is that he is a Gresham. A Gresham.’
That emphasis again. Earlier Greshams, Greshams in uniform, Greshams in repose, seemed to nod their approval, staring down from their family seats on the walls of the long long room.
‘Greshams have played their part in the history of England for over six hundred years, Lord Powerscourt. They may have come over with William the Conqueror. We cannot be sure. One of my ancestors was burnt at the stake in the reign of that dreadful Queen Mary, burnt to death for his beliefs. They say that the other Protestants who perished with him cried out as the flames took hold. They repented. They said they were sorry, they hadn’t meant it. The Gresham spoke not a word, Lord Powerscourt. Greshams don’t cry.
‘I have looked at the records of the time, our family records somewhere in the attics of this house where we sit. The priests were corrupt, Lord Powerscourt. The abbots were greedy. They took from the rich. They took from the poor. The friars were more interested in the sins of the flesh than the redemption of souls. Those indulgences! Sold to indulge the whims of a Pope in Rome who wanted to glorify his city with the buildings of this world, not with the blessings of the next.’