‘Is there anything in it? You wouldn’t be bringing me one of those things just to torment me, would you? It’s not full of bloody water or anything like that?’
‘Medicinal brandy, Johnny. Purely medicinal. The doctor thought this little flask should last you three or four days.’
‘Three or four days? Will you look at the size of it? Three or four hours more likely. But I tell you this, Francis. You keep up regular refills of our little friend here, and I’ll be walking about in three days’ time. Just three.’
Suter and Shepstone were at their usual positions in the office at Marlborough House. William McKenzie had brought Powerscourt to the meeting by a devious and roundabout route, travelling south by a different line, changing trains as they went. They had left McKenzie in the doorway of Berry Bros and Rudd, an occasional glance at the bottles in the window, a more regular scanning of Pall Mall. A policeman seemed to have joined him on his watch, pacing regularly up and down between the entrance to St James’s Palace and Marlborough House.
‘Lord Powerscourt. Mr Burke. Good morning to you both. You requested this meeting, I believe, Lord Powerscourt. Do you have something further to report? Some further intelligence you wish to impart?’
‘I do.’ Powerscourt told them about his trip to Perugia, the mutilated body of Gresham in his fountain, the attempt on the life of Lord Fitzgerald. ‘There is only one explanation that is consistent with the facts, Sir William. Only one.’
‘And what is that, pray?’ Shepstone was shifting nervously in his chair.
‘Only four people knew that Lord Gresham was the murderer of Prince Eddy. Me, Lord Rosebery, Lord Fitzgerald, the Prime Minister. And the household of the Prince of Wales.’
Powerscourt paused. It was very quiet in the room. Burke was shuffling a pile of papers in front of him. Shepstone was stroking his beard.
‘None of the four went to Perugia to kill him. That leaves the Household of the Prince of Wales. Or people carrying out their orders. Orders to kill him, to kill him in exactly the same way as Prince Eddy, the same strokes of the knife, in the same places. Gresham could not be brought to trial in England of course. Once the Household decided on a cover-up, there had been no murder, there could be no inquiry, there could be no arrests, there could be no court case. There could be no judge putting on his black cap and ordering Gresham to be taken from this court to a place of execution where he would be hanged by the neck until he was dead. I believe the rope is kinder to the neck than the knife, gentlemen. Much kinder. But the Household could decide to take matters into their own hands. They could be their own judge and their own jury. Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord. I will repay.’
Shepstone and Suter started. They stared intently at Powerscourt. Could the man hear conversations when he wasn’t even in the room? For he had, inadvertently, used exactly the same words as the Prince of Wales at Sandringham, discussing what to do once they knew the identity of Prince Eddy’s killer. Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord. I will repay.
‘Vengeance is mine,’ Powerscourt went on, ‘and it might embrace more than the murder of Lord Gresham. Vengeance could mean the elimination of all those who know the uncomfortable truth, uncomfortable for the Household of the Prince of Wales, that is. Vengeance could mean the elimination of those who know the full facts about the affair, the syphilis, the blackmail, the murders, the cover-up of the death of the heir presumptive. It might be much better if all those people were out of the way, all of them. Then nobody would ever know what happened in Sandringham. Or in Perugia. Or on board the HMS Britannia all those years before.’
Powerscourt thought of Captain Williams struggling along the beach at Amble, his career broken, his health ruined. It wasn’t my fault, I tell you. It wasn’t my fault. Was this a different form of vengeance, vengeance for all those ruined lives?
‘An attempt was made the other day to kill Lord Fitzgerald. Maybe the killers mistook him for me. I cannot be sure. But I can tell you one thing for certain. If any further attempts are made on the life of Lord Fitzgerald or myself, or anybody else connected with this inquiry, the consequences will be severe. I suggest that you read this memorandum I have prepared. When you have both read it, you will return it to me, as you asked Lord Rosebery and me to do with an earlier memorandum of your own, Sir William.’
Powerscourt looked at the portrait of Alexandra above the fireplace. William Burke was writing more figures in his notebook.
‘Interesting,’ said Shepstone, and passed the document to Suter.
‘Most interesting,’ said the Private Secretary, handing the memorandum back to Powerscourt. ‘And what is the point of this piece of paper, may I ask?’
‘You may. You may indeed. If, as I said, anything should happen to Lord Fitzgerald, or myself, or anybody associated with us in this business, one copy of this memorandum will go to Queen Victoria. She has forgiven her son many things in the past. I doubt if she would forgive him this, murdering his own subjects. The second point is this. Lord Rosebery would call for, and be granted, an emergency debate in the House of Lords on the current state of the monarchy. As an opening statement, he would read this memorandum into the record.’
Powerscourt could imagine the sensation. Word would leak out, it always did, that some startling announcements were to be made in the Upper House. Peers, old and young, regular attenders and country backwoodsmen, peers curious, peers gossipy, peers sent by their wives to hear the news, peers in the Government, peers on the backbenches, peers would pack the House. The great red benches would be in uproar by the time Rosebery sat down. There would be special editions of the papers. Suter and Shepstone had agreed to cover up the first murder for fear of scandal. Now they would get scandal on an unimaginable scale, a whirlwind, a typhoon of scandal from which the Prince of Wales might never recover.
Suter and Shepstone sat impassive in their chairs. Neither spoke. It was as if they were frozen, like Lot’s wife, two courtiers turned into pillars of salt in Pall Mall.
‘And that is not all.’ Powerscourt continued in his role of the exterminating angel. ‘Mr Burke.’
‘I concur wholeheartedly with everything that my brother-in-law has said. His family are very anxious that he should remain alive. In one of my official positions, gentlemen’ – Burke sounded as if he held hundreds of such positions. He probably does, thought Powerscourt, – ‘I am a senior director of Messrs Finch’s amp; Co., bankers to the Prince of Wales.’
For the first time in the meeting Sir Bartle Shepstone, Treasurer and Comptroller of that Household, looked pale. He stroked his beard anxiously. What was coming next?
‘As of this morning,’ Burke consulted an official document in his papers, ‘the Prince of Wales owes Finch’s amp; Co. the princely sum of ?234,578 14s. 9d. That is without the computation of today’s interest. Finch’s would demand the immediate return of all monies owed. By the end of the month at the latest. Furthermore, they would request that the account be closed. And any attempts to obtain similar facilities with other banks would not be welcomed in the City of London. Our community of bankers is a small one, gentlemen. Word gets round. In the City, word gets round very fast indeed.
‘But come, gentlemen.’ Burke had applied his pressure. ‘None of these things need happen. Lord Rosebery may never make his speech in the House of Lords. Finch’s amp; Co. may never make such a request. You have the answer in your own hands. All you have to do is to issue the necessary instructions. All you have to do is to ensure that nothing further happens to Lord Powerscourt or any of his associates. It is quite simple.’
With that, Burke gathered his papers and strode from the room as if he had just left a rather disagreeable board meeting.