Death at Daisy's Folly (35 page)

“I
was not involved, as you well know, Sheridan.” Sir Friedrich's voice was brittle. “I was in Lillian Forsythe's bed.”

“That was very clever, too,” Charles said. “I don't suppose she suspected that she was merely your alibi.”

“But Knightly had an alibi, too, did he not?” asked the Prince.

“If we were to question his wife closely,” Charles said, “I imagine we would learn that he left her shortly after they retired and was gone for a half hour or so.”

The Prince still looked puzzled. “If the footman was a threat, why
wasn't
he killed on Friday night? And why wasn't the gun left beside Reggie?”

“The gun was not left there because it was needed to kill Marsh,” Sir Friedrich said patiently. “After he had written the note accusing Lady Warwick, of course. But Marsh did not appear at Friday night's appointed meeting. It was only the expectation of a large reward that induced him to meet us last night.”

The Prince frowned. “And he proved more reluctant than expected to write his own suicide note. So you shot him first and wrote it for him.”

“I did no killing,” Sir Friedrich insisted. “It was all Knightly's work.”

The Prince snorted. “Well, my fine friend, we shall see what he says about
you.”

Sir Friedrich lifted his shoulders in an almost insolent shrug. “As you say, Bertie.”

“You make very bold, sir!” the Prince exclaimed, narrowing his eyes. “You dare to—”

“And what if I do?” Sir Friedrich's eyes blazed with a sudden cold scorn. “I tell you, Bertie, I love this kingdom and the Queen. I will not stand idly by while the man who would succeed her makes a laughingstock of all whom the country must reverence, respect, yes, even fear! Your blessed mother herself asked—no,
begged
—me to curb your excesses. She knows that, should you continue unrestrained, allowing your ‘darling Daisy' to drag you through one filthy scandal after another, permitting her to turn you toward Socialism, you will be the ruin of the monarchy and the undoing of England as we know it!”

So that was the motive behind the scheme, Charles thought. He had not been far off the mark.

The Prince snorted contemptuously. “My mama is known for her meddling, but I doubt she would countenance murder.
Three
murders, sir, including that of a lad of barely fifteen. You cannot possibly fancy that the Queen would look kindly on such an enterprise. And you cannot escape by blaming Knightly. You are his accomplice.”

“Well, then, what of it?” Sir Friedrich demanded. “You cannot try Knightly or me in any court in the land. Weak and profligate as you are in the mind of the people, the public scrutiny of this sordid affair would be your total undoing. Why do you think I have told you all this? The Queen will never let it out.”

“You might have hid behind Mama's skirts before you bloodied your hands, Temple,” the Prince growled, “but she is no protection to you now that you have connived at murder.”

Temple's smile was mocking. “Then try me, Bertie.”

“You have had your trial, sir,” the Prince said magisterially. “All that remains is the pronouncement of your sentence.”

There was a commotion in the courtyard outside, and all three men turned toward the window. A single rider had reined up and dismounted. Through the open draperies, Charles saw that the rider was Kirk-Smythe. A few moments later, he was at the door, breathing hard.

“I am sorry to report, Your Highness, that my mission was a failure.”

“Gave you the slip, eh?” the Prince grunted. “Well, Paradox is a fast horse. You're not to be faulted. But we shall have that rascal yet.”

Kirk-Smythe shook his head. “I am afraid not, sir. Your hunter refused the wall at the far end of the south meadow, and Knightly was thrown. His head struck a stone. He's dead, sir.”

There was a silence. “Poetic justice,” said the Prince at last. “That horse has a greater intelligence than most men I know.”

Sir Friedrich let out his breath. “It is all over, then.”

“No,” the Prince said. “It has just begun. For some time, we have needed a commissioner to manage the border issues on the northwest frontier of India. A sticky business, that, Temple. It may require five, perhaps even ten years for you to settle affairs there.”

“India!” Sir Friedrich gasped. “But I don't want—”

The Prince pulled himself up to his full height. “What you want is of very little concern to me, my man. Duty calls, and India beckons.”

The end is what the means have made it.

—JOHM MORLEY
Critical Miscellanies

 

 

M
onday morning was chill and moist, and the fog was draped in the trees like tulle around a lady's shoulders. Subdued, the guests took their departure in small groups or one by one, until only a few were left. When the Prince was prepared to leave, Kate, Charles, and the Warwicks gathered on the stone steps to say good-bye and wish him a safe journey to Sandringham, whence he was returning.

“And there,” he said expansively, “I shall gather Alix and her retinue, and we shall make our way to Scotland for some fine grouse shooting.” He raised an imaginary gun to his shoulder, sighted it, and said, “Blam.” Kate, who had not seen this unprincely gesture before, hid a smile of amusement.

Lord Warwick bowed from the waist. “We have been deeply honored to have you with us, Your Highness,” he said formally. “We hope you will return very soon.”

The Prince patted his stout midriff. “I certainly shall, if your chef continues to prepare those quails stuffed with foie gras and garnished with oysters. Birds fit for a king!” He turned to Daisy. “My deepest thanks for your hospitality, Lady Warwick. It has certainly been a most memorable weekend.”

Daisy dropped a deep curtsy. “I fear it is one we are not likely to forget, Sire—though I am certain we should all wish to.”

“Ah, yes,” the Prince said reflectively. “I think we can count ourselves fortunate to have avoided a scandal.” He raised his eyebrows at Lord Warwick. “You know what you are to do, Brookie?”

“I am to inform the coroner—who, by good chance, sir, is close to the family—that Mr. Knightly ran amok and murdered Lord Wallace and a footman, then stole your horse. He died in his attempted escape.”

“Excellent. Kirk-Smythe will testify on my behalf, if required. He left early this morning to escort Temple to Ports-mouth, where the man will be handed over to the captain of one of the Queen's warships, bound for Bombay. And I shall personally inform Mama of the events of the weekend.”

The Prince, Kate thought, seemed well pleased with the way in which the matter had been disposed. He turned to Charles with a vast smile. “Ah, Charles. Once again, I must thank you for your first-rate investigation. If it had not been for you, the scheme would have escaped detection; indeed, it might even have succeeded. All of us are in your debt.”

Charles bowed slightly. “It was mostly luck, sir, and Kate's skillful questioning of the laundry maid. If she hadn't persuaded the girl to name Temple, I might still be trying to discover recognizable fingerprints on the whiskey bottle and pistol. And it was great good luck that the laundress was able to identify the brand of Knightly's cigar.”

The Prince shook his head. “I always told Milford those cheap cigars. of his were abominable,” he said. “I never understood why the deuce he fancied the filthy things.”

Kate turned to Daisy. “What's to become of Meg?” she asked. “What she did was very wrong, but she is a good girl who was led astray by her love for Marsh. I hope she won't be turned out.”

“I think not,” Daisy said. “She could have had no idea of the damage her actions might cause. And she has already paid dearly.”

“Ah, yes,” the Prince said. “Love can make people behave quite foolishly.” He became lost in thought for a moment, then roused himself. Turning to Charles, he said, “Speaking of love, when is the great day? I am sure Alix will join me in wishing to attend.”

“Lord Warwick and I would like to come, too, of course,” Daisy said.

Kate felt a rush of alarm. If Royalty and aristocracy were to attend the wedding, they would be followed by the press and crowds of the curious, and the ceremony would be turned into a circus. But she need not have been concerned. Charles spoke firmly.

“We plan, sir, to marry very quietly, on account of my brother's situation, you see. As to the date, we have not yet set it.” He took Kate's hand and pulled her close to him. “When we leave here, we are going to Somersworth to tell my family the news. Kate refuses to fix a date until Mother has been consulted.”

“Commendable, my dear,” said the Prince approvingly, “quite commendable. I am sure that the Dowager Baroness will be delighted by her son's choice of a bride. And she will be relieved by the prospect of a continuance of the Somersworth line.”

Kate felt a small shiver of cold apprehension. She was not at all sure that Charles's mother would be pleased, and as for the continuance of the Somersworth line, it was something she and Charles had not yet discussed. She supposed there would be children, of course, although Beryl Bardwell was not overjoyed by the thought.

“Now, Charles,” the Prince went on, “you must not forget our talk about the national crime laboratory. I am convinced that you are just the man to administer such an undertaking. I realize that it will be some time before your family responsibilities permit it, but we shall speak of the matter again.”

“Yes, sir,” Charles said, resigned.

The Prince straightened his waistcoat and hung his walking stick over his arm. “Well, I suppose it is time to be off. No need to confound schedules all up and down the line.”

Lord Warwick bowed. “Lady Warwick insists on having the honor of driving you to the station, sir. The pony cart is ready in front of the stable.”

“Then we shall be off,” the Prince said.

As Kate and Charles stood alone together on the steps, waving good-bye to the Prince and Daisy as they trotted down the lane in the pony cart, Kate said, “What do you suppose will happen to their relationship, Charles?”

Charles put his arm around Kate's shoulders. “I should think HRH will shortly convince himself that it is time to find another mistress,” he said. “Daisy is a fascinating woman, but she will continue to invite controversy—something he can no longer afford.”

The door opened behind them and Bradford stepped out. “Oh, there you are,” he said. “I have been looking for you. Poor Ellie is feeling beastly, I am afraid, and has asked me to escort her back to London: I wonder, Charles, old man—would you be so kind as to drive the motorcar back to Marsden Manor? I can send Lawrence along to help out.”

“But I am returning with Kate,” Charles said. “We were planning to stop at Somersworth to tell Mother about our engagement.”

“That's all right, Charles,” Kate said eagerly. “I would love to have a ride in the motorcar. Perhaps you can even teach me to drive it!”

Bradford shook his head in mock horror. “I fancied the Dowager Baroness would look askance at your riding a bicycle, Kate. What will she think if you arrive at the tiller of an automobile?”

“I am afraid Mother must make certain concessions,” Charles said with a laugh. “The future Lady Somersworth is likely to be quite irrepressible.”

The “darling Daisy affair” was the most notorious Royal affair of its day. The Prince of Wales had enjoyed many women before he took Daisy to his bed, and his profligate habits (“this corpulent voluptuary,” Rudyard Kipling called him) were well-known throughout the kingdom. Victoria's conviction that his recklessness would incite the poor to destroy the Crown was fed by diatribes against him in the press and in Parliament. “The Prince of Wales must never dishonour the country by becoming King,” said one antimonarchist.

The affair began in 1889, when Daisy Brooke, Countess of Warwick, went to Marlborough House to beg the Prince of Wales to intercede with the angry wife of Charles Beresford, Daisy's former lover, who had threatened her with public humiliation over a foolish letter she had written. “Suddenly I saw him looking at me in a way all women understand,” Daisy said, and they became lovers. Their relationship continued until sometime in 1896 or 1897. Daisy was a complex woman whose very real desires to do good were constantly overwhelmed by her poor judgment, abominable business sense, and enormous extravagances. It is entirely plausible to imagine, as we have done in this fiction, that the Royal relationship ended because the impulsive Daisy, who was deeply interested in radical political causes, posed too many dangers to the monarchy, and that her efforts to convert the Prince to her ideas were viewed by many at Buckingham Palace as profoundly threatening. Daisy was replaced in 1898 by Alice Keppel, a much more tractable, docile woman who did as she was told. Bertie became king in 1901. The Keppel liaison continued until his death in 1910.

The story of Daisy's affair with Bertie does not end with their sexual liaison, however. In 1914, on the eve of the Great War, Daisy threatened to sell Bertie's letters (including the “adored little, Daisy wife” letter we quote in the head-note to Chapter Twenty-One) to an American publisher unless Buckingham Palace paid her a hundred thousand pounds. A year later, her scheme paid off, and she was given sixty-four thousand pounds to hand over the letters. A few, however, made their way to Switzerland, where they came to light in the 1960s, and with them the story of Daisy's blackmail.