Newbury finally decided that he was there already and had little choice but to continue. He took the bell pull in his right hand and gave it a sharp tug. The resultant clanging from deep inside the house caused his stomach to turn as the gravity of what he was doing dawned on him.
He had, of course, been granted innumerable audiences with the monarch herself over the course of his career as an agent of the Crown, but the rules of engagement had always been clearly delineated. When he visited the palace, it was at the Queen’s behest. While he could never say he had grown comfortable in her presence, a certain familiarity with her means and methods had perhaps taken the edge off. On the rare occasions when he had needed to initiate a communication with the Queen, he had arranged it via Sandford, the agent’s butler, who had ensured everything was properly sanctioned, approved, and in order.
This, however, was entirely different. He had only met the Prince of Wales on a handful of occasions, and they had always been at the Prince’s instigation. Now, he was there on the steps of Marlborough House, calling without an invitation to beg a favour of the future king. Bainbridge would have said he was mad. For once, Newbury could find no logical way to disagree.
The Prince’s butler did not keep Newbury waiting for long. The massive oak door swung inwards with a perceptible sigh, and a finely dressed man-wearing a black suit, starched collar, and white gloves, and with a face as stern as chiselled ice-offered Newbury an appraising look, raised a single eyebrow, and drawled “Yes?” as if it were a word of ten syllables and not one.
Newbury drew himself up. “My name is Sir Maurice Newbury. I’m here to see the Prince of Wales.”
The butler was somewhat taken aback. “And do you have an appointment, sir?” he asked, his voice whistling nasally.
“Not as such,” said Newbury.
“Ah,” came the response. The butler moved as if to close the door.
“I do, however, have an invitation from the Prince himself,” interjected Newbury hurriedly, in an effort to prevent himself from being rejected forthwith. “He asked me to call.”
The butler offered him a speculative look. “Indeed?” he said, clearly unconvinced. “Sir Maurice Newbury, you say?”
“That’s correct,” responded Newbury, with as much gravitas as he could muster. He was not about to be intimidated by a servant with a trumped up opinion of his own role.
“Very well,” said the butler, inclining his head fractionally and opening the door a little wider. “You may wait here, in the hallway, while I enquire with His Royal Highness.”
Newbury glowered at the man as he crossed the threshold and stepped into the grandiose foyer. It was as impressive as any royal residence he had seen. The floor was a chequerboard of black and white marble tiles, polished until they gleamed like the mirrored surface of a lake. Huge fronds erupted from pots as tall as Newbury himself, and a sparkling glass chandelier hung low and magnificent, refracting the thin light that slanted in from the upper windows.
The staircase was impressive, too, seeming to flow up and around to a wide upper gallery. But what drew Newbury’s attention most of all was the scattering of small birds that fluttered, ducked, and wove above his head, darting around the furnishings, twittering noisily, wheeling and dancing in the lofty space. There must have been ten or twenty different varieties in a multitude of vibrant colours: pink, azure, jade, saffron. He watched them for a while as they fluttered from one perch to another, be it the chandelier, the banister, the potted leaves, the picture rail. He wondered why the Prince would keep such a bizarre and impressive collection there in the hallway, free to affect an escape any time the main door to the house was opened. He imagined the birds would turn up in unexpected places all over the house-the kitchens, the bedrooms, the dining room-perhaps even the grounds; sometimes lost and trilling loudly as they begged to be shepherded back to where they belonged, other times discovered only once they had already perished from hunger, exhaustion, or fright, or else the claws of a malign cat.
It was hardly a conventional way to keep animals. This shouldn’t, in itself, have surprised Newbury-after all, nothing about the Royal family appeared conventional, not in any sense that he could understand it. Certainly, the matriarch at the heart of the family was as far from decorous as one could imagine, and the relationships between her and her children appeared equally idiosyncratic. Even Albert Edward, publically a staunch supporter of his mother, had suggested to Newbury in private that relations between he and the Queen were somewhat strained. It hadn’t surprised Newbury, who was keenly aware of the Queen’s selfishness and conniving nature. If this extended to her relations with her children, then it was only to be expected that some of them might bear something of a grudge.
Newbury was still watching the birds a short while later when the butler returned. Newbury dragged his eyes away from the avian display to regard the man. The butler’s expression had not softened, although he did have about him the air of someone a little more contrite, yet still obstinate and unyielding.
“His Royal Highness is only too pleased to grant you an audience, Sir Maurice,” said the butler, hastily. “He extends his apologies”-he pursed his lips as he said this, as though the very thought of the Prince of Wales apologising to such a lowly subject as Newbury was utterly distasteful to the man-“but asks if you would kindly wait in the drawing room for a short while. He is currently engaged in the library with another visitor.”
Newbury grinned, enjoying the man’s discomfort despite himself. “Of course,” he said, genially. “I’d be happy to.”
He followed the butler as the man led him down a long passageway to the left of the stairs. Portraits loomed down at him from the walls, faces staring out blankly across the ages, unsmilingly offering their judgements to posterity.
The butler’s shoes creaked as they followed the passageway into the bowels of the great house, passing various unoccupied rooms. After a few moments, the butler came to a stop, beckoning Newbury towards an open door.
Newbury could hear the murmur of nearby voices-the deep baritone of Albert Edward, accompanied by the husky tones of a woman. He could not make out what they were saying, but as he paused before the entrance to the drawing room, he glanced over his shoulder at another door, which stood slightly ajar.
Inside he could see row upon row of dark mahogany bookcases, each of them lined with leather-bound tomes, and the back of a woman’s head. She was sitting in an armchair about halfway into the room, her back to him. Her dark hair was cut in a shabby, uncompromising style that fell loose around the base of her neck, the flesh of which was pale and stark. She was thin, and appeared to be dressed in black, although he could see only the tops of her shoulders and one sleeve, which rested upon the arm of her chair. She was talking in hushed, whispered tones, and the Prince was silent, perhaps intent on listening to her softly spoken words.
“In here, sir,” said the butler insistently, stepping forward to block the other room from view. Newbury nodded and proceeded into the drawing room as directed. He couldn’t help but wonder about the identity of the mysterious woman and the Prince’s business with her. It wouldn’t do to ask, of course-that really would be viewed as impertinence-but it intrigued him.
“Would you care for a drink, Sir Maurice?” said the butler in a manner that made it clear he did not wish to go to the trouble of preparing one.
Newbury didn’t want one, but for a moment he considered asking for one regardless, just to teach the fellow a lesson. In the end, however, reason won out and he decided against entering into such childish games. “No, thank you,” he said, levelly.
“Very good, sir,” said the butler, with a contumacious smile. “The Prince knows you are here and will be with you in a short while. Please make yourself comfortable in the meantime.” He turned on his heel and left, pulling the door shut behind him.