The Stuart Sapphire (12 page)

Henry cleared his throat, asked somewhat timorously, ‘Sire, the stair – into the garden, I mean?’

The prince smiled sadly and shook his head. ‘Means will be found, dear lad,’ and, tapping the side of his nose significantly, a conspiratorial return to happier days, he winked and repeated: ‘Means will be found when necessity arises.’

‘Sire, which room would you wish to have prepared while the alterations are being made?’ Henry asked.

‘Fear not, Henry, arrangements have already been made. Mrs Fitzherbert has been most accommodating. We shall sleep at Steine House – with our legal wife,’ he added primly.

Henry withdrew and the prince stood alone, staring at the bed and reliving that dreadful moment he had discovered Sarah Creeve, her body obscenely naked in the cold light of day.

Not only dead, that would have been bad enough – but murdered!

Clutching the bedpost, he groaned. Dear God, would he ever be allowed to forget or would he be haunted forever, that terrible sight indelibly printed on his eyes.

If only her body could be discovered where it lay far away from the Pavilion on the Lewes Road. But there was one last secret that would be laid to rest with her. The identity of her killer who had also stolen the Stuart Sapphire.

Walking through Steine Lane after leaving Mrs Fitzherbert, Tam resumed his investigation into possible shops where stolen goods might be exchanged. He emerged in Market Street, opposite the workhouse, whose occupants had exchanged the cheerless interior for the luxury of being allowed to sit outside in warm sunshine to mend the fishermen’s nets, and pick oakum under the watchful eyes of warders armed with stout sticks. That they were prisoners in an institution with little chance of making a bid for freedom was also evident from their brown uniforms.

Beyond Market Street, a glimpse of a scattering of houses on the hilly slopes to the west of the city. Even at that distance they looked little more than hovels, the homes of the poor who knew a lot about pawnshops and the struggle to keep alive. To such unfortunates any comparison with the wild extravagances of life in the Marine Pavilion was an obscenity.

As he walked into the shadowy lanes where his journey had been cut short by his encounter with Maria 
Fitzherbert, Tam kept a sharp lookout for Jem, rehearsing some harsh words for that young lad as, still bristling with anger and hurt pride, he wondered what excuses would be on offer when they finally met. They had better be good, he thought, diving into the nearest jeweller’s shop.

The excuse about the trinket was thin and the shopkeeper soon lost patience when Tam declined to purchase any of the tempting and exceedingly expensive earrings on display. The goldsmith’s shop next door exuded such an air of respectability, as well as two ladies dressed in the height of fashion and heavily perfumed, that, approaching the counter, Tam lost his nerve, muttered something about the wrong shop and beat a hasty retreat.

The response to his request regarding inexpensive earrings at two further but less intimidating shops was equally frustrating but he knew of no other way except the direct approach:

‘Have you by any chance been offered the Stuart Sapphire?’ He did not imagine that would meet with much success.

Staring in another shop window and wondering where to go next, he saw reflected in the glass a boy hurrying along the other side of the street.

‘Jem!’ he shouted.

The boy turned, saw him and ran.

‘Jem. Wait!’

But once again Jem took to his heels and darted down a side street and Tam was almost knocked down by a horseman as he tried to cross the road. The man cursed him, as did the occupants of the carriage he was escorting, travelling close behind.

By the time he reached the corner, Jem was almost out of sight, rushing up the hilly street. Tam followed as swiftly
as he could to the consternation of pedestrians emerging in his path. As dogs added their angry barks, snapping at his heels, he found himself in an area where the shops were fewer. Ahead lay the poorer houses he had observed earlier.

And there was Jem staring into a solitary shop window.

Tam rushed over, seized him by the shoulder.

‘Got you – at last.’

The boy turned round. Yelling loudly he struggled to free himself from Tam’s relentless grip.

Tam looked again and panicked. This wasn’t Jem, the only faint similarity was in the shabby clothes. The boy he had accosted was a stranger – and a terrified one.

‘Help, help,’ he screamed. ‘Lemme go, you brute.’

Tam did as requested and, apologising profusely, hurried across the road, narrowly evading being seized by what looked like an indignant mob surging in his direction, urged on by the boy he had accosted.

At last, on the very edge of the town, he found shelter in a tired-looking inn where he ordered a pint of ale, keeping a sharp eye on the door and the window as he drank. The landlord showed no interest in him, and Tam noticed on the opposite side of the road a terrace of identical cottages.

To his question, the landlord said: ‘Them’s Crown Gardens, sir. Very handsome they are with their own little plots. Better class establishment for this area, they are, built by the prince for servants from the Pavilion and from the royal stables.’

As Tam, refreshed, looked across, he wished he had some excuse to investigate that respectable line of cottages as the thought occurred to him: had Jem, for it was certainly Jem who ran away from him in the first place, been making his way to the Crown Gardens?

And was it possible that there was some link between Jem and the Marine Pavilion? If that was so, then it was even more important that Tam track him down.

True, there had been little time to find out much about Jem when they met on the convict ship – except for a strange feeling. He was missing something important that he should remember. The fact that the boy’s story did not quite ring true and that he seemed remarkably refined and well-spoken for a convicted felon. If only there had been a chance of discovering what
circumstances
had brought him to the dire necessity of stealing a loaf of bread.

It was a new and interesting theory as he made his way back through the town, deciding that after the rebuffs he had received regarding his search for cheap earrings for a non-existent lady, he had better rethink the whole procedure and come up with a different approach to finding the missing sapphire.

Lured by the warm sunshine in the Pavilion gardens, he decided to linger, certain that his powers of concentration would do better out of doors, especially without possibilities of encountering the Prince Regent and having to confess his lack of success.

Looking for a suitable seat, he took stock of his surroundings. This elegant Promenade Grove had once been open to the public. Acclaimed as a smaller version of the Vauxhall Gardens in London, it was now part of the royal estate, to which the public had only rare access.

Such a pity, thought Tam, this almost deserted park with its flowers, shrubs and grove of elms, the only tall trees that he had seen so far in Brighton. He found a shady seat and closed his eyes. As he was drifting into sleep a female voice said:

‘Ha, is it not Mr Eildor, and all alone?’

Tam opened one eye.

‘Pray, may I join you, sir?’

The newcomer was Princess Charlotte and Tam groaned inwardly although he managed to stretch a smile across his face. He stood up and, bowing, offered her the seat.

‘Nay, sir. I would not disturb you. The seat is large enough – for the two of us,’ she added archly.

‘Your governess, Highness,’ Tam protested, indicating the shadow at the princess’s side, but her hand was firm upon his arm.

‘Pray, be seated, Mr Eildor. Lady de Clifford is not permitted to sit in the royal presence,’ she added, settling herself down and edging close to Tam while the unfortunate governess stationed herself at a discreet distance a few feet away.

Beaming on Tam, her bare arm resting rather too intimately against his own, she whispered, ‘We can talk freely, Mr Eildor. Lady de Clifford is rather deaf. She will not admit it and ear trumpets are so undignified and so ageing.’

Tam was very conscious of that lady’s discomfiture, as she hovered ever nearer, trying also to keep an eye on all comers. As the princess urged him to tell her about himself, and edged even closer on the small seat, he could almost feel the quivering anxiety of the governess.

And with good reason. Deaf she might be but her eyesight was excellent and should any report be made to the Prince Regent regarding his daughter’s outrageous conduct, she would be held responsible.

Tam sympathised as, unable to restrain herself, she laid a warning hand on Charlotte’s shoulder and said: ‘His Royal Highness, your father, is approaching.’

The sight of his daughter on a secluded seat talking to Tam could only convey one thing to the prince and that was the dread word: Assignation.

Tam sprang to his feet. He had no desire to be found in any compromising situation with the heiress to the throne. Swift and highly unpleasant visions sped through his mind, the Tower of London looming exceeding large.

Escape might still be possible as the prince, who perhaps did not have such excellent eyesight, was in deep conversation with the man at his side and had not yet observed his daughter’s indiscretion.

Charlotte was furious, she clung to Tam’s arm. ‘Please, Mr Eildor, do remain seated. Pray tell me about yourself – we have much to talk about.’

But Tam, bowing, remained standing and took the cowardly opportunity of distancing himself a few feet away.

And not a moment too soon. The prince and his companion were on the other side of an ornate flower bed.

He had been observed. The prince paused in his conversation, glanced across and gestured to Tam to join them. Tam sighed. He was saved. No longer seated at Charlotte’s side, her father would presume that Mr Eildor had just encountered the princess as he strolled through the gardens and was merely exchanging a polite greeting. At least that was what Tam most earnestly hoped and that this encounter would not be remembered and used in evidence against him.

‘Ah, Mr Eildor!’ And Tam wove his way over a rather tricky set piece of flowers surrounded by miniature box hedging which, maze-like, needed very careful negotiation.

At last he reached the prince and his companion, a small rotund fellow wearing a rather shabby overcoat that
reached to his ankles. On his head, perched at a jaunty angle, was a tall stovepipe hat, no doubt intended to add some impressive inches to his height.

‘Mr Townsend, it is our pleasure to present Mr Tam Eildor.’ The prince beamed on Tam who gave an inward sigh of relief. Presumably he had not noticed or failed to find any significance in the glimpse of his daughter almost literally throwing herself at Tam’s feet.

‘Mr Eildor is an Edinburgh lawyer, most accomplished in methods relating to the apprehension of criminals of all description.’

Tam bowed a little uncomfortably at this fulsome addition to his fictional life story, while shaking hands with Townsend, from whose countenance heavily adorned by facial hair, tawny in colour and growing without restraint, a shrewd pair of eyes peered, as if from behind a hedge.

Raising the tall hat revealed a lion-like mane of tawny hair and this extraordinary leonine image was confirmed by hands which, as he walked, were habitually clasped together behind his back, where they waggled expressively, for all the world like a lion’s attenuated tail.

‘Mr Townsend is a well known thief-taker, a Bow Street officer who has struck terror into the very hearts of London’s vilest criminals by hanging the bodies of murderers on a gibbet – a law we firmly believe should be retained.’

And turning to Townsend, he said: ‘Pray, tell Mr Eildor how you once gave the magistrate Sir William Scott an excellent piece of advice on the subject.’

Townsend had a moment of looking bashful before saying proudly: ‘I told Sir William there were a couple of men hanging near the Thames where the sailors went up and down and one asked: “Pray what are those poor
fellows there for?” His companion said: “We will go and ask.” They did so and were told: “Those two men are hung and gibbeted for murdering His Majesty’s revenue officers,” and so that keeps the warning alive.’

‘Capital, capital,’ said the prince. ‘An excellent deterrent, don’t you agree, Mr Eildor?’

Tam considered it very barbaric indeed and was saved the necessity of making any comment as the prince continued: ‘We are sure – certain sure, that the pair of you will find, without the slightest difficulty, the vile creature who stole a valuable piece of our Coronation Crown, and no doubt a like fate can be arranged for them. Good day, gentlemen.’

And with an almost gleeful laugh, he turned on his heel and whistling under his breath, walked away with Henry and Percy who had been hovering at a discreet distance, leaving the newly introduced sleuths in an awkward silence.

How much, if anything, Tam wondered, had Townsend been told of the events leading up to the Stuart Sapphire’s disappearance, in particular, the murder of the Marchioness of Creeve?

As they walked towards the gate of the gardens leading to the Promenade, Townsend was considering this young Edinburgh lawyer, his shrewd gaze born of many years of experience where his judgement of a person had tipped the delicate balance between life and death.

It was Townsend’s proud boast to his colleagues that he could sum up a man’s character within ten minutes of his company. He would never claim, however, even to himself, that his assessments of a man’s standing in society were always accurate. Sometimes, regretfully, they fell far short of the mark and on such occasions the innocent went down with the guilty.

He continued to smile warily at Tam. Now, this young cove was unlikely to fit into the bracket of bawd or pickpocket. Indeed, there were several categories of criminal he could cross without hesitation off his mental list but what about a confidence trickster? Had he lured HRH, who alas was no fine judge of character, into trusting him? That remained a possibility.

A very presentable young man but deuced difficult to
slot into any category. In all his years in London, where he had encountered every sort and condition of men and women in every stratum of society, Townsend had never met a person like this one before. Quite extraordinary eyes. Some ancient Highland strain perhaps?

He sighed. HRH had taken to him, right from that first meeting. However, HRH was always one for the novelty of an interesting newcomer. But they were mostly female, Townsend decided wryly.

As the conversation rattled innocently back and forth between them about weather and the splendid gardens, Townsend was reminded that HRH was particularly partial to Scotland, well aware of his hero worship of the former Stuart kings that the Hanoverians had ousted.

In truth, he found this character quirk quite remarkable. Especially with regard to the bosom friendship of the prince’s early years with his uncle, the notorious Duke of Cumberland, better known and despised as ‘Butcher’ Cumberland, even in France where many Highlanders and their families had sought refuge after the rout of Prince Charles Edward Stuart at Culloden in 1746. Cumberland, not content with the slaughter of the Clans on the battlefield and the English victory, had shown no mercy to any survivors. His policy was to annihilate the Highlands, wreaking vengeance on any who had supported the Jacobite cause.

The Stuarts had not been lucky, and one of the prince’s favourite jewels, proudly displayed each day on his many uniforms, was the saltire worn by Charles I at his execution. Even for a man from whom extremes of sentiment had long been extinguished, this did seem not only like poor taste, but also suggested tempting fate.

Townsend was aware that the rather formal
conversation had drifted into silence. ‘Ah, Mr Eildor,’ he said in a lion-like roar that was in keeping with his physical appearance. ‘Now tell me about yourself. How came you to be so far from home?’

This was the second such command Tam had had within the last half-hour, the moment of untruth he dreaded. A blackbird scuttled across his path with a warning cry. Was it a signal to be heeded? In his experience lies, however white, innocent or face-saving, still had an unhappy habit of weaving themselves into a web, a positive maze in which both entrance and exit are hopelessly confused, and from which only Ariadne’s thread might offer release.

‘Did I say so-and-so or was it this-and-that?’ To be an accomplished liar required an excellent memory.

And while keeping to his sole-survivor story was going to be hard enough, without furnishing any details of being a passenger on the
Royal Stuart
, a true explanation of how he reached Brighton in 1811 from planet Earth in 2250 would probably immediately get him clapped into Bedlam. A raving lunatic in that human circus to be viewed as entertainment, something the whole family could enjoy on Sunday afternoon outings.

Realising he must tread warily indeed, he gave the usual response, which he was almost beginning to believe himself, but vague enough to allow for frequent changes. Legal business in Plymouth and then to London to sort out a family claim for a certain rich Scottish laird.

‘Indeed!’ Townsend interrupted, the gleam in his eye demanding more details.

But Tam shook his head, indicating that his rich client must remain nameless. ‘Discretion, sir, a matter of discretion. You understand?’

‘I do. I do indeed,’ was the reply as Townsend, dragged
away by royal command from a particularly gruesome multiple murder investigation in London, remembered a recent stunning tale of indiscretion in high society that in lesser mortals would have made their hair stand on end and put a friseur out of business for a fortnight.

Townsend’s questions regarding Edinburgh were acute and knowledgeable, considering that he had never been there; as an avid reader, his information came entirely from books. Even in their short acquaintance, Tam realised that it would be a serious mistake to underestimate John Townsend as the brain inside that leonine head was continually in operation, observing and assimilating information, then carefully pigeonholing even the smallest detail for future use.

Tam was correct in his assessment, for behind the bluff geniality there were shrewd questions and calculations from which Townsend hoped to learn a lot more about Tam than Tam was anxious to reveal. True, he accepted the prosperous Edinburgh lawyer travelling to England on behalf of a rich Scottish laird but his curiosity about the
Royal Stuart
was more dangerous, especially as Tam had never been to sea.

However, the tale of seasickness and being confined to his cabin was received with sympathetic groans, but Tam was alarmed to discover that among his many youthful experiences, Townsend had served for a short while on a man o’war.

And then, of course, there was that invented business with the privateer pressing all the crew on to their ship. That was a mistake. As a law officer this was of considerable interest to Townsend who wanted all the details so that he could investigate further and put their apprehension into immediate operation.

A privateer! He had not heard of any such working so close to the south-east coast. Quite extraordinary. As a law officer it was his duty to be always vigilant for any criminal activities.

‘One must always be on the sharp lookout!’ This remark left Tam feeling sardonically that if Townsend were any sharper, he might be in danger of cutting himself with lethal effect, and he was quick to take advantage of a change of subject as a runaway carriage alerted a sudden rush of onlookers.

He sighed with relief as the
Royal Stuart
hazard was safely put aside for the moment. Long before John Townsend’s investigations regarding privateers revealed some glaring inaccuracies in Tam Eildor’s dramatic story, and aware that such matters might take several weeks or months, he hoped that this particular mission, which was proving very tricky indeed, would soon be over and he would be safely back in his own time.

As they reached the Promenade, more dangerous waters loomed ahead for Tam than the innocent waves of the afternoon tide.

‘This piece of royal jewellery that has been stolen. Very impressive and very important.’ He rested an earnest gaze on Tam. ‘You being from Scotland will be fully aware of its history, of course, regarding HRH’s forthcoming coronation.’ A pause and a shake of that leonine head. ‘Bearing in mind – and we all must bear in mind – the condition of His Majesty’s health, and the daily reports are grim indeed, I imagine that event will be sooner rather than later.’

Giving Tam a moment to digest these solemn details, he got to the main point of discussion. ‘I take it that you are in HRH’s confidence and that you are fully informed of
the circumstances surrounding its disappearance.’

Tam nodded, hoping for something between suitably vague yet at the same time knowledgeable, while Townsend stopped, frowning at the sea as if it might leap up and also reveal some dark secrets, and then turned again to Tam.

‘Interesting that the thief chose the time when HRH was absent watching the shipwreck to steal into his apartments. Very astute indeed, considering that others would also be suitably diverted by such a drama.’

A pause for comment; there was none.

Townsend seemed disappointed. ‘We would seem to be dealing with a carefully planned operation. My suspicions are that the thief has long been awaiting such an opportunity, and is well aware of HRH’s daily routine in intimate detail. What think you of that?’

Tam shrugged. ‘He could hardly have anticipated the shipwreck.’

‘We see that, we see that. There must have been several occasions each day most carefully mapped when HRH was to be absent, but this was the perfect opportunity. Couldn’t be better. Very convenient, very convenient indeed. Shrewd minds at work, Mr Eildor. Has all the marks of a political intrigue – I imagine that has already occurred to you. The Princess of Wales is well-known as a dangerous intriguer.’

Tam wondered anxiously how much Townsend knew and how much, if anything, the prince had confided in him regarding the marchioness’s presence in his bed at the time of the robbery. His heart beat a little faster when, in what might have been a singular piece of mind-reading, Townsend continued:

‘I have another reason for this visit. My nephew Peter is in the employ of the Marquis of Creeve at Lewes and I am
always delighted at the opportunity of seeing the lad. Especially since His Grace and I have become quite acquainted over the years. We have shared many a glass of port over a game of chess together and I have been privileged to be invited to the annual shoot over at the estate.’

He could not keep this boastful allusion out of his lion’s roar. ‘I have been helpful in tracking down malefactors in His Grace’s household. Even saw justice done and made an example of a couple of them by a hanging,’ he said with considerable satisfaction. ‘A splendid gentleman. Friend of HRH, of course, who introduced us. Lovely young second wife. Bit of a scamp, just between us,’ he added with a suggestive wink, which Tam ignored with a change of subject by asking politely where Townsend was taking him.

‘The first place to look for HRH’s missing jewel, Mr Eildor, is in the very dregs of this fine city.’ And pausing to gesture towards the Pavilion, ‘Twenty-five years since its establishment and already a thriving den of iniquity clings to those splendid walls.

‘Mark my words, Mr Eildor, it’s a thing of nature, wherever there is royalty, you get a thriving underworld, royal palaces attract them like a dog attracts fleas. They are the Devil’s answer to every criminal and wrong-doer in the vicinity. News of their spoils and success spreads like wildfire and lures their fellow rogues down from London who have failed in their evil ways and are looking for a more hopeful and lucrative future.’

Turning from the refreshing sea breeze of the promenade, he looked back towards the town. ‘And so let us set forth. We will begin with the obvious places, inns and fence houses and then the flash houses.’

Pausing, he winked at Tam, giving his arm a friendly
squeeze. ‘Flash houses, Mr Eildor, for your information, are also brothels. Brothels, sir,’ he added with a note of gleeful relish, and as they walked briskly across North Street, with Townsend whistling under his breath, hands behind his back, the gleam in his eye suggested to Tam a more lascivious side of his character.

In the lanes where Tam had been so frustrated earlier, the Bow Street officer was obviously a well-known figure, but one whose presence, Tam decided, must have ensured the rapid disappearance behind closed doors of many of the criminal fraternity.

He was amazed by Townsend’s methods of enquiring after lost or stolen property. His interrogation of shopkeepers involved no subtlety of any kind. He did not beat about the bush with overtures of politeness but leaned across the counters in a threatening manner, roaring out a question about their recent acquisitions of stolen jewellery.

Needless to say this approach had no success and Tam realised that Townsend’s manner would reap no more than a brisk denial, whether innocent or guilty. Something else he found blatantly intimidating was that the unpleasant interrogation was quite specific regarding fine pearls and, in lesser establishments, fur cloaks.

How did Townsend know such details? It suggested that he must be in the prince’s confidence regarding the murder.

Tam had a sixth sense of being in danger and, with the promised purse containing only a few coins which doomed any hope of travel, he realised that being almost penniless ensured that he was trapped.

His unease increased as on more than one occasion he saw, out of the corner of his eye, a shadowy figure walking on the other side of the road. Tam had an instinct that he
or both he and Townsend were being followed.

Their stalker was not a very good actor, nor did he dive swiftly enough back into the shadows to stop Tam’s quick glimpse of a tall, heavily built man, not very fast on his feet, who had the look of a prize-fighter.

When he mentioned this, Townsend’s eyes widened. Turning slowly, he stared blankly across the road and with one of his rare hearty laughs, murmured that Tam must be imagining things. Tam was not consoled; he wondered if Townsend was speaking the truth. As each day passed he became increasingly uneasy about the reason why he was being included in these expeditions where he had no voice and merely remained a background figure during Townsend’s haranguing.

As his presence seemed quite unnecessary to Townsend’s investigations, he realised there be must be some other reason for it, since the prince and the Bow Street officer were a formidable team. The sinister fact for Tam was that, according to the prince, he was only required until Townsend arrived to take over the investigation and then he would be free to leave Brighton.

It suggested that the stalker, whose presence he supposedly imagined, might have instructions to keep a sharp eye on the mythical Edinburgh lawyer. Townsend liked frequent stops for refreshment, for a pot of ale and a pie, and in the area of Ship Street, chose the inn where Tam had earlier seen the convict lad Jem and where the landlord had misunderstood Tam’s urgency in arranging a meeting.