The Stuart Sapphire (8 page)

As they took their seats Tam observed the elaboration of Brummell’s neckwear that had become
de rigueur
in high society. The shirt collar was worn upright, the two points projected on to the cheeks kept in place by a neckcloth, either in the form of a cravat or a stock. Some dandies were alleged to spend a whole morning in the arrangement of their cravats and in happier days the young Prince of Wales had been Brummell’s most apt and eager pupil.

Comfort fell flat on its face and bowed to fashion, since such neckwear made it difficult, if not impossible, to turn or lower the head, which contributed to the dandy’s apparent imperturbability and hauteur.

Tam saw that Brummell was warmly welcomed by the landlord, a popular and esteemed customer who might also be treated with some measure of informality. Without any words being spoken, a flagon and two crystal goblets of excellent French brandy wine, most probably smuggled, were placed before them. This was followed by the
mouth-watering
smell of a plate of steaming hot mutton pies, and Tam needed no second invitation to join in what Brummell was pleased to describe as a humble repast.

‘Humble fare, indeed, but a pleasant relief to one’s stomach after the rich daily fare at the royal table. As many as sixteen courses, dear fellow – such a trial sometimes,’ he sighed, and dusting aside the crumbs with an elegant lace handkerchief, he took up his quizzing-glass once more and said:

‘Tell me more about yourself, Mr Eildor. I am eager to hear about your destination in London. I have a house and you would be most welcome as my guest. It is even possible that we have acquaintances in common.’

Tam’s vague nod doubted that exceedingly as the Beau continued: ‘But tell me about Scotland – and Edinburgh and what business brought you to our southern shores, if you please.’

Tam did not please, but he did not relish trying to deceive this man who was, he suspected, considerably more intelligent than his languorous appearance suggested.

But help was at hand. The door opened to admit an officer in the uniform of the Tenth Dragoons. Looking around he spoke earnestly to the landlord who indicated Tam and Brummell.

He came over, bowed and said: ‘Mr Eildor. His Royal Highness requests that I am to escort you back to the Pavilion immediately.’

Brummell gave an exasperated sigh. He looked exceedingly annoyed at this interruption but there was little he could do in the face of a royal command.

George Augustus Frederick, twenty-first Prince of Wales, Prince Regent and heir to the throne, was a very unhappy man. He sat in the withdrawing room of his apartments, unable to face what continued to lie in his royal bed, his most urgent need to get rid of the dead woman before someone else made the discovery.

Tears or sentimental regrets were quite absent from his thoughts, since the marchioness had ceased to be a human being, with whom only twenty-four hours ago he had fancied that he was hopelessly infatuated and was on the most intimate terms. Death had turned her into a nuisance, an aggravation, a monstrous burden presenting diabolic and insurmountable problems quite beyond his normally rather dull imagination.

At his side the faithful Lord Henry quietly informed him that servants were curious at being denied access to the bedroom.

‘Let them be curious!’ boomed the prince.

‘Sire, they wish to attend to daily matters regarding your ablutions, changing bed linen, lighting fires and so forth.’

Henry had already observed that something must be done, and quickly. As the hours passed in his preoccupation, the prince was increasingly in need of a shave. Henry regarded him anxiously, toying with the bright idea of summoning the royal barber to the withdrawing room, on the pretext that His Royal Highness was in too great haste to take this matter in his accustomed leisurely fashion, surrounded by hot towels and the usual luxuries.

Henry, it so happened, was full of bright ideas. Indeed, that had been almost the whole story of his life since the age of fourteen, when he had become aware of being yet another royal bastard. Far from despising or hating the prince for this unfortunate label, he had become obsessed with his idol.

According to well-spread rumour, his mother was an actress and one (of many) of the prince’s first loves. Basking in the happy accident of his resemblance to the prince, there was nothing Henry would not do to stay in that blissful royal orbit, especially as Mrs Fitzherbert’s affectionate regard and attention over the years suggested that his parentage might be a more dangerous secret.

On more than one occasion since he had grown to manhood, he had stood in as alibi for his royal father, and borne the full displeasure of some irate noble husband whose noble wife he had saved from being taken in adultery with the prince. A dead mistress in the royal bed was quite another matter, as the prince said:

‘You delivered our message to the stables? Exactly so – it does break our heart to miss a fine race but how can we leave at such a time? We are trapped – trapped, Henry, in our own residence. What are we to do?’ he moaned. ‘We cannot go on like this indefinitely.’

So much was true and obviously so. Henry was sympathetic about the term indefinitely. It was a hot August day outside and the corpse would not stay fresh for much longer. Already he thought he heard the buzzing of flies beyond the door, but hoped that the prince’s hearing and sense of smell was not as sharp as his own to detect the significance.

Returning from the stables, where he had informed the grooms that His Royal Highness most regretfully had to cancel his afternoon visit to the racecourse at Whitehawk, where he was to have seen his own horse Orbis take part in one of the most prestigious events in the racing calendar, he had encountered Charlotte. She seized upon him immediately, hoping that her father had confided some details about the young man who had occupied her thoughts since seeing him leaving the breakfast room.

Henry was sympathetic. He and Charlotte had shared many innocent secrets through the years. In the capacity of elder brother, Henry accepted her avid interest in this newcomer good-humouredly, recognising that young girls of fifteen or so frequently imagine themselves infatuated by older men. As Tam Eildor was not destined to remain long in the Pavilion, a passing stranger, there could be no harm in indulging Charlotte in this whim, by sharing with her the little he knew of the Edinburgh lawyer.

‘What are we to do?’ the prince repeated.

Henry waited a moment said respectfully: ‘Sire, I have thought of something—’

‘You have! Out with it then. Out with it—’

‘Yes, Sire. This might just work. Percy could ride swiftly to Lewes and bring back her ladyship’s maid – with suitable attire,’ he added, aware that Lady Sarah wore only a fur
cloak as she scuttled across from her nearby apartment and through the secret entrance to the royal bedroom.

‘Impossible, Henry. How do we know she is to be trusted?’

‘Sire, please hear me out. The maid Simone is on – er, intimate terms with Percy. She will do anything for him. I understand that she did not expect favours from her mistress and merely obeyed her wishes, keeping silent – since she was well paid to do so,’ he added grimly.

‘And—’ demanded the prince who was losing patience rapidly. Of course, Percy had seen the dead marchioness but was he to be trusted? His father had been a faithful equerry until his untimely death but Percy kept his own counsel. Unlike Henry, he was a married man with a young family and a wife to whom he was constantly unfaithful. He had never resented, or indeed expected to share, the prince’s affinity with his natural son.

‘Sire, it would be to your advantage to pay Simone well,’ Henry persisted.

The prince sighed. ‘If you are sure she is to be trusted. Very well, see to it.’

Henry withdrew and returned shortly afterwards, having been so sure that the prince would agree to this desperate plan that he had sent Percy off on the swiftest horse in the stables an hour ago.

Without asking permission, he sat down opposite the prince who groaned and bit his lip, taking deep sobbing breaths.

‘The plan, Sire, is that we can smuggle her ladyship down the private staircase, into a sedan chair and across the garden—’

‘How – how?’ demanded the prince, vaguely aware of what might be happening through the wall and that only a
warm day could have prevented rigor mortis with consequent difficulties of negotiating a corpse down a steep and narrow staircase.

Henry smiled. ‘It could be managed with ease, Sire, simply by the use of a roll of carpet.’ So speaking Henry tapped the handsome Persian carpet beneath their feet.

The prince followed his gaze wide-eyed. ‘You mean – roll her – in that.’ A present from a visiting high dignitary, its colours had failed to impress and it been banished to the withdrawing room.

‘Exactly, Sire. Transport her across the garden into a closed carriage and speed her on the way back to Creeve House where, as prearranged, she will be found in the garden by Simone during the Masque this evening, a glass of some intoxicating spirit at her side, the victim of a heart attack.’

For the first time, the prince relaxed. The muscles of his face were so set in anxiety that a smile was something of an achievement. Leaning over, he patted Henry’s knee. ‘By Jove, Henry, you are an excellent fellow. Quite exceptional. Well done, well done, indeed.’

The barber was admitted and, after watching the prince expertly shaved in absolute silence, Henry saw him leave and said consolingly, ‘Percy should be back soon with the maid.’

But that was not to be. Percy had been unable to find Simone, who had taken advantage of her mistress’s absence to visit an old aunt – or so she had told the other servants. An old flame was more likely, thought Percy suspiciously, since no one knew where this aunt lived. He was very angry.

As for the prince, he was also angry and sunk in despair once more. Beyond the simple questioning of how Percy,
on even the swiftest horse possible, could have made the journey to Lewes and back in such a remarkably short time.

The carpet had seemed a lifeline, the maid finding her mistress in the garden of her home the perfect way out. While being shaved he had composed a note of condolence to her husband, the marquis, and to her lover, his brother Frederick. Now it had all fallen through, and he was back at the beginning with a dead woman, if not exactly on his hands, still lying on his bed.

Percy had departed at Henry’s suggestion, to sulk over Simone’s infidelity, his part in the drama ended.

‘What are we to do now?’ the prince wailed. ‘All is lost. All is lost, Henry!’

‘Not quite, Sire. We still have the carpet. I will drive the carriage, it is safer that way. The fewer people who know the plan the better.’

‘What about Percy? Could he not be driver?’

Henry shook his head. ‘No, Sire. That would not be advisable. As a frequent visitor to Creeve House, he might be recognised by some of the servants. They don’t know me and I will keep a hat well down over my eyes, a scarf about my chin.’

The prince looked at him, realised he was enjoying the excitement of such a role. He nodded approval as Henry continued:

‘There is one problem. We are lacking a maid and we must have someone inside the carriage with her ladyship – in case of accidents. To see her safely into the grounds and the gardens at Creeve House where she will be left for someone to find her.’

These were desperate measures indeed and Henry avoided concerning himself or drawing the prince’s
attention to natural questions regarding the marchioness found dead in the garden at the Masque, naked but for a fur cloak.

That would take some remarkable feats of imagination by way of explanation, but hopefully might rest on the assumption that the marchioness was well known to be somewhat eccentric in her habits.

As for the prince, once the marchioness left the Pavilion, her discovery was no longer his concern. Only when the news reached him that she had been found dead on her own territory, would he breathe freely again.

And as both turned their thoughts towards the production of some discreet person other than Percy who knew all the facts and could be trusted, Henry said: ‘I thought perhaps Mr Eildor – might be willing.’

‘Excellent, quite excellent, Henry. You have hit the nail on the head. Mr Eildor is the perfect choice. A small favour – and the deed successfully accomplished, what would you say to a handsome purse to speed him on his way to London? That is the last we shall see or hear of him,’ the prince continued gleefully. ‘What a stroke of good fortune that he should have been rescued from the sea and at a time when he should be of such use to us. Capital, Henry, absolutely capital.’

The moral issues about finding out who had murdered the marchioness no longer troubled the prince’s conscience and he was so overcome, almost tearful, at the expected happy outcome, that Henry was sent immediately to summon Mr Eildor to the royal presence.

There was some unexpected difficulty. Mr Eildor was not in the quarters set aside for him. He had been seen talking to Princess Charlotte in the gardens and was last reported walking across the Steine with Beau Brummell.

The prince, his good humour vanished, almost snarled with displeasure at the thought that the so-very-useful Mr Eildor had fallen into the hands of two of the people he despised. One his tiresome daughter and the other a man he actually feared.

‘Send for him. Immediately!’

Summoned to the royal presence, the delicate situation explained, the purse temptingly offered, the prince and Lord Henry eagerly awaited Tam’s response.

He did not care for the idea in the least. What a disappointing ending. He had hoped that he would have had a chance to solve this particular crime. Instead his time-quest was to end in a carriage escorting a murdered woman back home to Lewes.

Except that it couldn’t end there.

Grimly he remembered that the only way he could return to his own time was from the exact spot where he had landed – on a convict ship anchored somewhere off the south-east coast near Brighton in the year 1811. How he was to find it again was a problem that would no doubt require not only his own ingenuity but also the contents of the royal purse he was being offered.

‘You will do it, Mr Eildor? Oh, excellent, excellent,’ said the prince happily.

It was all arranged. His Royal Highness sent a
messenger
with apologies for his regrettable absence from the
Masque, owing to a severe attack of gout, and Tam returned to his bedroom, where he would remain until summoned later that evening, and looked at the costumes set out for his approval.

Nothing too memorable, but wearing masks would admit them without question to Creeve House. Nor would the anonymous closed carriage from the royal stables draw unwelcome attention.

Lord Percy’s assistance had been invaluable according to Henry. He was familiar with a convenient path leading off the main drive, wide enough for a carriage. This led past stables and kitchen premises, towards the gardens, a place of assignation with the marchioness’s maid, Simone. There they would deposit their burden on one of the stone seats and return again by the same route to the main drive.

Henry made it sound easy but Tam already had qualms about the success of such an enterprise, having wisely dismissed the idea of that rolled carpet as too difficult.

Were there any windows overlooking the secret exit from the royal bedroom? he asked.

‘Of course not. It is secret!’ was the scornful response.

Then was it not much simpler to carry her wrapped in the fur cloak directly to the carriage?

This proposal was considered and met with approval but Tam was far from enthralled at the prospect of sitting inside the carriage, even masked, with the dead woman propped up beside him apparently enjoying a peaceful sleep.

As for the prince, he was ecstatic, totally confident, beaming on them both, without entertaining a moment’s doubt on the plan’s success, satisfied that having shifted the burden on to someone else, it was no longer his responsibility. At his most genial, Tam guessed that he had
already washed his hands of the whole gruesome episode.

Thinking ahead, as a light supper was served to him by a silent footman, Tam could envisage that when the prince heard of the dramatic discovery of the dead marchioness in her garden, he would genuinely believe the story of the heart attack, and would banish from his mind entirely that she had been murdered in his bed in the Pavilion, on the night he watched the sinking of the
Royal Stuart
.

Tam finally decided what to wear, a black cutaway coat and breeches, a modest outfit that might suggest a lawyer or a minister with white bands, plus a dark, enveloping cloak and, once he attached the mask to the wide-brimmed hat, a sinister stranger stared back at him from the mirror.

He shook his head sadly at his reflection. The more he thought about the plan the less he liked it. There were too many loopholes, but he saw no way of refusing to participate in such a mad exploit, fraught with unseen and unimaginable dangers.

By eight o’clock it was already growing dusk when he presented himself at the royal bedroom. The prince was not in evidence, but he was relieved to see Percy waiting for him by the concealed door and glad of their immediate exodus. There seemed to be an abundance of flies buzzing about, angry at having been deprived of a dainty morsel.

As he followed Percy down the stairs, he was informed that they had wrapped her ladyship in her fur cloak, and that she was at present propped up in a sedan chair at the gate where Henry, driving the closed carriage, was waiting for them.

Percy smiled as he talked and seemed to think of it all as rather a good jape. All thoughts of the murder that had necessitated this grim task seemed to have slipped by him too.

It was no easy task settling the dead woman into a corner of the carriage. Even with Tam seated alongside, she tended to slump sideways in his direction and he realised with a sense of horror that keeping her upright and propping her up would require his constant attention during the miles ahead.

At last Percy waved them off. The window blinds were drawn, and being in charge of a corpse in semi-darkness promised to be an even more unpleasant experience.

As they drove along the Steine, Tam raised a corner of the shade and peered out cautiously. The hilly countryside north of the Pavilion seemed deserted and it was not until they were well on to the Stanmer road that other carriages, more handsome and distinguished, were in evidence, heading for Creeve House.

Leaving Brighton behind, Henry called down that, on Percy’s instructions, they were to depart from the main route and proceed by a less-frequented faster road. It was also less comfortable inside the carriage as the twisting road narrowed alarmingly along the edge of an embankment, with a belt of trees sweeping from far above them towards the steep slope, and a rider approached out of the dusk.

Riding alongside he peered in the window at Tam. ‘Excuse me, sir,’ he panted, ‘I am for Brighton but I seem to have got on to the wrong road.’

The carriage had slowed down and Tam tapped on the roof. ‘Coachman, can you direct this gentleman, please.’

Explanations and directions were given by Henry, still heavily muffled, and repeated by the traveller who looked in at the window to thank Tam once again, and politely saluting the motionless figure beside him said: ‘Your servant, ma’am.’ Then with a sigh of relief they were
steadily on the move again and, occupied with the business of supporting his inert companion, Tam thought he heard Henry call out, something like – a warning!

The next moment the carriage jolted to a halt, with the sound of horses jingling harnesses, and Tam raised the blind to be confronted by four masked men.

Travellers for Creeve House who had also taken the fast route and lost their way, he decided. His offer to lean out and offer reassurances was cut short as the door was flung open and a pistol flourished before his face.

He sat back with a groan. Not guests but highwaymen, he realised with a sinking heart. Before he could take in the full measure of this unexpected inconvenience to their progress, let alone recognise the probable fatalities of such an encounter at night on a lonely road, with a pistol still at his chin, he heard Henry being told to dismount and unharness the horses.

Brutal laughter from the men. ‘Save the horses, we’ll have them for a start. Aye, plenty of life in fine beasts like them.’

Even as he wondered how they were to continue their journey without horses, he heard Henry yell – a thud and the sound of a body – Henry’s – hitting the ground.

If he was still alive, he must try to rescue him. But how? Unarmed, Tam could do nothing. His natural reaction was to leap from the carriage by the other door. He knew he could outrun most men, and by the time they got their pistols cocked he could have been out of sight down among the trees, but what about Henry?

The carriage swayed horribly towards the edge of the embankment as the horses were released from the shafts. He heard the men’s voices outside, realised what was about to happen and wondered why they were not interested in
the two passengers. Apart from that pistol being flourished as a warning, the highwayman must have observed that there was also a lady passenger, apparently asleep, wearing a handsome fur cloak, and a fine rope of pearls about her neck.

Now the carriage jerked and jolted nearer the edge of the slope, Tam realised almost too late what was about to happen and as he prepared to jump out a pistol smashed down towards his head.

Only the gathering momentum of the swaying carriage which hurled him to the floor saved him from what would have been a certain death blow, as the carriage trembled for an instant on the edge of the embankment. Then, gathering speed, it seemed to leap into the air, hurtling downwards, crashing into trees and shrubs which shattered in its path, stones and boulders flying.

So this is death, was Tam’s last thought. No longer able to cling on to anything substantial, as doors and windows disintegrated, he tumbled out and rolling helplessly downhill landed heavily, with his head hard against a tree trunk.

The world around him faded and was lost.

He opened his eyes painfully, groaned and wondered how long he had lain there and how great were his injuries from the steep fall. Time had passed for it was darker now, but not yet nightfall.

Struggling cautiously to his feet, at least there were no bones broken, but he suspected bruises and scratches in plenty. All around him lay the scattered remains of the carriage, reduced to unrecognisable matchwood. Wheels, doors and seats had vanished down the slope.

Scrambling up the slope, he noticed a large, furry shape,
the outline of a dead animal, lying a short distance away.

Tam shuddered as he realised without further inspection that the marchioness had found an unplanned resting place. Making his way painfully back to the road, there was as he expected no sign of highwaymen, horses – or Henry. All had vanished into the twilight dusk.

Shaken, he sat down gratefully on a boulder, rubbing his bruised knees, thankful that his injuries were no worse with the prospect of a long walk back into Brighton, and an unavoidable confrontation with the prince regarding the disastrous end of their plan. In the circumstances, he could see all prospects vanishing of the promised purse to continue his mythical journey.

As he began walking, his confused thoughts became more ordered.

Where was Henry, was he still alive? The highwaymen had taken the horses. Was Henry also a hostage, had he been their main target? Some sinister plot involving the natural son of the Prince Regent was at least a feasible explanation.

At that moment, a stifled groan reached his ears and gave him the answer to what most concerned him – having to return to the Prince and tell him the dread news concerning Lord Henry. No need now, for Henry was very much alive, trussed up and gagged and tied to a young sapling by the roadside.

Tam rushed to his assistance. Henry seemed surprised to see him. Dazed, he murmured thanks while Tam untying his bonds observed that they were neither aggressively restricting nor even very efficiently tied at all, considering the desperate nature of highwaymen. In fact, had he been their victim, he would have found it not too difficult to wriggle out and escape from their confines.

Helping Henry to his feet again, his tearful gratitude was an exact replica of the prince’s and emphasised again his remarkable resemblance to his royal father.

‘I can never thank you enough – I thought – I thought you must be dead.’ A pause as if expecting reassurance from Tam before continuing. ‘I saw the fiends push the carriage down the embankment. I heard the sound of it breaking into pieces, and I thought how terrible. Poor Mr Eildor. No one could survive such a disaster.’ And regarding Tam in amazement, ‘But you did—’

Again he paused. ‘Is – is she—’

‘Yes, down there among the wreckage.’

‘What rotten luck.’ Henry sighed and went on cheerfully. ‘Well, it does makes it a lot easier from our point of view. I expect someone will find her ladyship’s body sooner or later – an unfortunate accident – and nothing to connect her to recent events,’ he added in a whisper.

Tam gave him a hard look. Henry was taking it remarkably lightly, smoothing over inevitable questions that the discovery must raise. Where had she come from, for instance, and why had she been travelling in only a fur cloak and pearls? And had this been an accident, where were the coachman and horses?

‘Ah yes,’ Henry continued happily, ‘the highwaymen saved us a journey to Lewes and, quite candidly, between ourselves, I was not all that convinced that we would be successful in staging her ladyship’s sudden death in the garden of Creeve House. That was Percy’s idea,’ he added in a tone of self-righteousness.

‘Was it his idea that we should take the short cut?’

‘Indeed it was, just as I told you,’ said Henry somewhat huffily. ‘Not very clever, I’m afraid. But Percy is very impulsive – I could tell you many examples—’

But Tam was no longer listening. His thoughts were elsewhere. There was something not quite right about their attackers who did not behave in the characters of
highwaymen
.

Why had there been no ‘stand and deliver,’ the usual demands for jewellery and valuables from a handsomely clad sleeping lady, in valuable furs and wearing a rope of extremely valuable pearls around her neck?

Why had they shown so little interest in the occupants of the carriage? Their only intention seemed to be to destroy the carriage – and himself – not with a bullet but with a blow from a pistol that would fracture his skull and look as if he had suffered that fatal blow when the carriage was wrecked.

No longer listening to Henry, he was thinking about the original plan involving the return of the marchioness’s body to Creeve House and the more ingenious plan that had taken its place.

There was something else, of even greater significance. At the moment when the carriage lurched towards the slope, the cloak had slipped from the arm of his assailant, the highwayman wielding the pistol. And Tam had seen a flash of a red and gold uniform sleeve, which he recognised as the uniform of the four guards he had interviewed in connection with the marchioness’s death. The uniform of the Prince Regent’s own regiment, his Tenth Dragoons.

This revelation confirmed his suspicions that their attackers were not highwaymen at all and certainly had not been adequately schooled in how to perform such roles.