‘I have been haunted, ever since you told us, by Lancaster’s Semper Fidelis. What does it mean?’
‘I think he saw Gresham in the room. Maybe he heard him crushing the picture of Princess May into small pieces. Maybe he saw him climbing out of the window. He knew who the murderer was. He was being faithful to his friend. He wasn’t going to betray him. So he is faithful to him for ever. Forever Faithful. Semper fidelis.’
‘You have sinned, my son. You have sinned most grievously against God’s Holy Law and his Commandments.’ Father Menotti paused.
Lord Edward Gresham was still on his knees, tears on his face, terror in his heart. Father Menotti’s voice was very close now. This is my last judgement, Gresham thought, here in the middle of Florence. Father Menotti has turned into Savonarola. This is Judgement Day, on the Arno.
‘Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, miserere nobis. Lamb of God, who takest away the sins of the world, have mercy on us.’ The youthful singers had moved on to the Agnus Dei, innocent voices soaring into the roof.
‘The crime you have confessed is a most serious one. You are required to tell the authorities in your own country what you have done. Every day, from now until the end of your time on earth, you must say three Hail Marys for the mother of the young man you murdered. You must pray for the brothers and the sisters every day. You must pray for the soul of the bereaved every day. Each year on the anniversary of his death, you must say the Mass for the Bereaved. This you do in memory of him.’
‘Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, miserere nobis. Lamb of God, who takest away the sins of the world, have mercy on us.’
‘Do you heartily repent of your manifold sins and wickedness?’
‘I do.’
‘Do you promise to repent most truly of your crimes that you may come at last into God’s own gracious mercy and protection?’
‘I do.’
‘May Almighty God have mercy upon you, forgive you your sins, and bring you to life everlasting. Amen. Ego absolvo te. I absolve you. May the almighty and merciful Lord grant you pardon,’ Father Menotti made an elaborate sign of the cross, ‘absolution and remission of your sins.’
‘Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, miserere nobis.’ Lamb of God, who takest away the sins of the world, have mercy on us.’
The words of the priest and the choir escorted Gresham out of the church and into the cold air of Florence. He had made his confession. The priest had forgiven him his sins. There was only one thing left he had to do.
‘And the blackmail? The blackmail of the Prince of Wales last autumn?’ Suter was still tidying up the loose ends, composing no doubt in his mind the final memorandum for his master.
‘I am not certain about that’, said Powerscourt. But I think what happened was this. One of the young men on the Britannia, name of Robinson, from Dorchester on Thames, died of his syphilis last summer. The payments from the Prince of Wales stopped. The family were hard up suddenly. So the father tried to restart the payments on his own. I saw both The Times and the Illustrated London News in the hall of his house. I can imagine him cutting them up with the scissors and paste. Then I think the other parents realised what was going on. The matter was cleared up. The payments started again. The blackmail notes ceased.’
‘And where is Gresham now?’ said Shepstone.
‘He is in Italy still. He is going to Florence, maybe to Arezzo, then Perugia. His final destination is Rome. After he has confessed his sins he intends to shoot himself. That’s what he told me. I believe him. I don’t think he will be alive for Easter.’
‘Lord Powerscourt, we are so grateful to you, so relieved that we know the truth of this sad and terrible affair.’
Sir William Suter seemed anxious to get rid of them, ushering them into the Marlborough House corridor. As they walked down the stairs, Powerscourt turned to Rosebery.
‘Damn. I’ve forgotten my little black book. I don’t want to leave it in there.’
He sped back the way they had come. As he opened the door, they looked surprised and embarrassed to see him. The efficient Major Dawnay had joined them. They were poring over a map of Italy, laid out on the table.
‘My book. I forgot it. I’m so sorry. Good day to you, gentlemen.’
Rosebery was waiting for him outside Marlborough House.
‘Well done, Francis, well done. That seems to have brought the affair to a close.’
‘I hope you’re right, Rosebery. I do hope you’re right.’
25
Lord Francis Powerscourt was waiting for Lady Lucy Hamilton in a box at the Royal Albert Hall, waiting for a performance of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony.
That dreadful Prince Albert, he thought as he waited, there’s his great gold statue just over the road, brooding over Kensington Gardens. There’s his son, the Prince of Wales, whose life had not been improved by his father’s tyrannical upbringing. There’s his late grandson, murdered for his lust, the cisterns of his lust. Maybe they’ve met already on the other side. He didn’t think Albert would have a lot in common with the late Prince Eddy, Duke of Clarence and Avondale.
‘What good deeds did you perform in your time on earth, Grandson Eddy?’
‘I gave a lot of people syphilis, Grandfather.’
Then she was opening the door, wearing that Anna Karenina coat again.
‘Lady Lucy! How very very nice to see you!’
‘How kind of you to invite me, Lord Francis. And a box too! I have always been very fond of Beethoven.’
They settled down, two of them, in a box large enough for eight.
‘Lord Francis.’ Lady Lucy was peering down into the auditorium one floor below them. ‘The whole place is like one of those Roman amphitheatres like the one in Verona or Orange. Is there room for bread and circuses down there, do you think?’
Powerscourt wasn’t sure about the bread. But there was plenty of room for circuses. He saw himself in the imperial box at the Colosseum. He was Augustus, maybe Nero. Down beneath two gladiators were coming to the end of a brutal fight. Both were wounded, blood flowing fast into the hot Roman earth. One appeared to have vanquished the other, standing above his victim, sword poised, ready to strike. The Roman mob were baying for blood. Nero Powerscourt turned to his consort to ask what fate should befall the man below. His consort was touching his arm again.
‘Look, Francis. The conductor.’ Lady Lucy was oblivious to her role as Queen of the Games.
The conductor, Herr Dr Hirsch, from Vienna, was a very tall thin man, beginning to go bald. He was picking nervously at his shirt cuffs as he took up his position. He prepared his orchestra, a smile here, a wave of the baton there. The audience were still rustling in their seats, checking their programmes, chatting to their friends. Herr Hirsch brought Beethoven’s Ninth whispering into action. Very softly, very gently. Then Beethoven summoned his audience with a fanfare of drums and brass. Pay attention in the back! Stop your chattering, good citizens of Berlin or Hamburg or London! I am taking you on a journey! I, Beethoven!
For two movements marches, dances, sometimes lyrical, sometimes martial, swept across the audience. The conductor used his baton in great stroking movements, never pausing to look down at the score in front of him. Already perspiration was forming a glistening sheen across his forehead.
But the third movement took them to a different world.
It started with what sounded like a hymn, a melancholy sound, a sound of ineffable sadness. Beethoven is lamenting the misery of this world, thought Powerscourt, sitting very still in his box. Sunt lacrimae rerum. That’s what it is, Virgil’s lines from the Aeneid translated into music by a fifty-year-old German genius. There are tears in the middle of everything, a sadness at the heart of the universe. Tears in the midst of all things.