The Elriggs, however, had forestalled her. Even as the Prime Minister spoke, Faro had already put together one or two ideas of where they might be found. Knowing human nature, he did not envisage any problem in solving this particular mystery, the easiest part of his assignment.
Much more serious was the Prince's possible involvement in the mysterious death of his equerry, Sir Archie Elrigg. Faro, who had total recall where documents were concerned, found himself seeing again the letter Bertie had written to his mother, a damning but oddly boyish epistle, stressing the very unfortunate coincidence that on an earlier visit to Elrigg, a fellow guest, an actor, had also met with a fatal accident while they were out riding together.
'It was not my fault, Mama.' There was a whining note of schoolboy complaint as if such communications were regular and betrayed a desperate anxiety to get in his excuses before the headmaster's report had a chance to raise the parental wrath.
Presumably Her Majesty's anxiety was capable of innocent interpretation, as a fond mother's desire to protect her firstborn and to prove to herself that the future King of England had nothing at all to do with the extraordinary coincidence of two fatal accidents during his visits to Elrigg. Her particular concern was his equerry's unfortunate end, an almost desperate anxiety to prove to all who knew him the impossibility that Bertie could be guilty of the eighth deadly sin for the English gentleman: cowardice. Bertie had left an injured comrade to face the enemy, in this case a wild bull.
Such monstrous accusations had destroyed many a noble family. Less exalted men than princes had been forced by an unforgiving society to take the 'decent way out' while loading a conveniently inefficient shotgun.
Redemption was the name of that particular game. But in a royal house, there existed an even more sinister motive: the anxiety of a ruling monarch whose reprobate son's conduct failed to live up to the high moral standards implanted on the unwholesome Georgian society at her coronation. Such standards, admirable for the nation, were totally ignored by the heir to the throne as he lusted after yet another actress or society beauty.
Nor could his mother forgive or forget that his affair with actress Nellie Clifton while at Cambridge University had contributed to the premature death of her beloved Albert and her long and bitter widowhood.
In a poignant letter announcing his visit (and carelessly abandoned in Bertie's rooms at Madingley Hall), Prince Albert had written: 'You are the cause of the greatest pain I have ever felt in my life. You must not, you dare not be lost. The consequences for the country, for the world, would be too dreadful.'
But Bertie remained unrepentant, an unwilling student who stated publicly that he 'preferred men to books and women to either'.
After her husband's death, the Queen wrote that she never could or would look at their son without a shudder. Her hopes for his marriage in 1863 to Princess Alexandra of Denmark -'one of those sweet creatures' (she wrote) 'who seem to come from the skies to help and bless poor mortals' - were doomed to disappointment as the bridegroom soon demonstrated an easy ability to accommodate a wife as well as a succession of mistresses.
Faro felt sympathetic; knowing a great deal more than would ever be made public about His Royal Highness's 'scrapes', he could understand Her Majesty's concern about the future of Britain.
'If he succeeds, he will spend his life in one whirl of amusements. There is a very strong feeling against the frivolity of society, everyone comments upon my simplicity.'
Simplicity was admirable, Faro thought, remembering her words, but cowardice never. For if coward Bertie was leaving one man - his equerry - to be gored to death by a wild bull, how in heaven's name would he deal with the future of whole regiments of soldiers and the glory that was the ever-expanding British Empire?
Faro sighed. As for understanding, he was certain of only one thing, that he was being asked, or rather commanded, to divert the course of justice if necessary on what might well turn out to be yet another royal scandal involving the future King.
It was a hopeless investigation with a trail long cold, Sir Archie dead and buried, while the Queen had taken some time to decide whether or not she should take the Prime Minister's advice regarding her son's letter.
The situation was by no means unique. In the past, Royal persons had been revealed as suspiciously close to fatal accidents. The pages of history books were littered with prime examples. But such knowledge offered little consolation to the man whose unpleasant job was to throw a bucket of whitewash over the sordid business at Elrigg. Especially a man whose instinct for justice was equally as unyielding as his sovereign's moral code.
'There'll be a knighthood in it for you,' smirked Superintendent Mcintosh, who had been eagerly awaiting the outcome of Faro's summons to the Palace of Holyroodhouse. In the unhappy position of following instructions in the form of a Royal Command that his chief detective was to be granted leave of absence to undertake a personal and confidential mission for Her Majesty, he tried with difficulty to conceal his curiosity.
Regarding Faro narrowly, he signed the paper releasing him from duty. The Inspector had done it all before many times, of course, protecting Her Majesty and the Realm, but never with such secrecy. What were things coming to when a superintendent of highest character and spotless record could not be trusted with such confidential information?
‘Thank you, sir,' said Faro. ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can.' 'Do that,' was all that Mcintosh could say in the circumstances. 'Do you need anyone - McQuinn, perhaps? I could spare him.'
'That's very good of you, sir, but that would be complicated.'
'In what
