The Prince and the Whitechapel Murders

by Saul David Ltd

Genres: Historical Fiction; Suspense

Synopsis

'A rattling good yarn... A compelling, sexy hero who could give Cornwell's Sharpe a run for his money' The Times on ZULU HART

London 1888: George 'Zulu' Hart is the mixed-race illegitimate son of a Dublin actress and (he suspects) the Duke of Cambridge, commander-in-chief of the army. George has fought his way through wars in Africa and Afghanistan, won the VC and married his sweetheart, but he's also a gambler, short of money and in no position to turn down the job of 'minder' to Prince Albert Victor, second in line to the throne.
George is to befriend the charming young cavalry officer and keep him out of trouble - no easy task, given that the Prince is a known target for Irish nationalist assassins, while his secret sexual orientation leaves him open to blackmail and scandal.
To make matters worse, the Prince is also in the habit of heading out late at night to sample the dubious pleasures of the East End.
Both outsiders in their different ways, perhaps the two men have more in common than they know, but when a series of horrible murders begins in Whitechapel, on just the nights the Prince has been there, George is drawn into an investigation which forces him to confront the unthinkable...
A brilliant standalone adventure based on detailed research, this is a thrilling novel of suspense and a fascinating new twist on the Jack the Ripper story.

Release date: February 22, 2018

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 352

Sample

Chapter 1

SS Britannia, The Solent, off southern England, summer 1888

George leant on the guardrail and watched the familiar shoreline of the Isle of Wight slide by the port side of the comfortable P & O steamship he had boarded two days earlier in Gibraltar. He had not set foot in England since departing on a covert mission to Afghanistan nine years earlier, and was both nervous and excited at the prospect of meeting the man he strongly suspected of being his long-lost father: Field Marshal HRH the Duke of Cambridge, cousin of the Queen and Commander-in-Chief of the British Army.

The duke had never acknowledged his fatherhood, but there were enough clues: George’s actress mother telling him, on his eighteenth birthday, that his father was a man of considerable influence, already married but with a penchant for thespians, who had given George financial incentives to do well as a soldier because his other sons in the military had disappointed him (the duke’s acknowledged sons had done just this); an undercover officer who, shortly after saving George’s life in British India, admitted that he had been sent to keep an eye on him by the duke; and, finally, one of the duke’s sons telling George that his father had had an affair with a young actress in 1859, the year that George was born.

It was not as though George wanted this possible royal connection publicly acknowledged. That would turn his life upside down, and he had no desire to be known as the royal bastard whose career was dependent upon his father’s patronage. Moreover, he still resented the fact that his father had chosen not to be a part of his and his mother’s life, yet at the same time had tried to bribe him to make a success of his career by offering large cash incentives to win a Victoria Cross, reach the rank of lieutenant colonel and marry respectably by his twenty-eighth birthday. Now at that age, he had only fulfilled one of his father’s conditions, and it still irked him that a man who had played no part in his upbringing had felt the right to interfere. But George still wanted to know the answer to the question that any fatherless child was bound to ask: who am I and where do I come from? It was simply a matter of identity, of belonging, and he hoped the duke could bring himself to admit privately they were related – if indeed they were.

There was also the perennial issue of money. In short, his suspected father had plenty and he had none. He had long ago spent the VC bonus of £10,000, partly on his mother’s IOUs, but also because he and Lucy had run up debts of their own. She was a profligate spender; he was addicted to gambling, particularly card games like baccarat and chemin de fer. Bored by garrison life in Gibraltar, he had spent even more time at the tables than usual, and his debts were now a crippling £1,500, give or take a few pounds. Hitherto he had regarded active service – with its generous pay and opportunity for booty – as his only hope of avoiding bankruptcy. But it was just possible that this summons from the duke might offer an alternative. Only time would tell.

With the Isle of Wight now behind it, the steamship entered the narrow channel that led to Southampton Docks, a gaggle of seagulls following close behind. Eager to be on land, George put on his spiked helmet and smoothed the creases in his bottle-green patrol jacket. As he turned from the rail he almost collided with a colonel from the Devonshire Regiment. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ said George, saluting.

‘Not your fault, Major,’ said the colonel. ‘I didn’t look where I was going.’

He glanced down at George’s chest and spotted, alongside the campaign ribbons for South Africa, Afghanistan, the Transvaal, Egypt and the Sudan, the distinctive crimson flash of the Victoria Cross. ‘Heavens!’ uttered the colonel, ‘it is I who should be saluting you, not the other way around. Forgive me. You’ve certainly seen a bit of action. Your name?’

‘Hart, sir. Major George Hart.’

‘Rings a bell. Of course! You were at the defence of Rorke’s Drift and won the VC at Kabul, didn’t you?’

‘I did, sir.’

‘Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m sure your family must be very proud.’

‘They are, sir. Or at least some of them are. I’m not sure about the others.’

The colonel raised his eyebrows, but chose not to inquire further. ‘I see you’re a rifleman. Are you stationed in Gibraltar?’

‘Yes, sir. We moved from Egypt in eighty-seven.’

‘A good posting if you want a quiet life. But a fire-eater like you must be bored to distraction.’

‘I am, sir, but my wife likes it.’

‘I bet she does: plenty of sun and no danger. Is she with you?’

‘No, she’s still in Gib with our son. I’ve been summoned back by the commander-in-chief.’

The colonel looked impressed. ‘Have you, indeed? Sounds very conspiratorial. Well, if the duke himself has asked for you, it must be important. Any clues as to what it might be?’

‘Not a thing, sir. I know there’s trouble at Sikkim in northeast India, and that sooner or later there’ll be a reckoning with the killers of General Gordon in the Sudan. But I doubt either is the reason for my recall.’

‘Well let’s hope so, for your wife’s sake if not your own.’

*

The anteroom at Schomberg House, the handsome red-brick building in Pall Mall that had served as the headquarters of the British Army since 1871, was much as George remembered: packed with officers from most branches of the service, all hoping for a private audience with the duke that might further their career. As before, George had barely arrived before his name was announced and he was escorted up to the commander-in-chief’s office on the third floor.

George could feel his heart racing with nerves as he mounted the stairs. He knew the duke would greet him like any other officer, as he had at their previous meeting. Yet, for George, this time was different, because he now had good reason to think the duke was his father.

The aide knocked on the door, giving George a brief moment to compose himself. ‘Enter!’ came a voice from within.

George found the duke writing at his beautiful oval walnut desk, once the possession of the great Duke of Wellington. He was informally dressed in a dark blue patrol jacket, but with four orders of knighthood sparkling on his left breast and, a little higher, his Crimea medal with clasps for the battles of ‘Alma’, ‘Sebastopol’ and ‘Inkerman’ that resembled the metal labels on a port decanter. He was a little thicker of waist than George remembered, but with the same bald pate, white moustache and mutton-chop whiskers. He looked up and smiled. ‘Thank you for coming at such short notice, Major Hart. Do take a seat.’

George sat down.

‘It’s very good to see you again,’ said the duke.

‘It’s . . . uh . . . good to be back, Your Royal Highness,’ said George, slightly taken aback by the duke’s familiarity.

‘How long has it been?’

‘Nine years, sir, since you introduced me to Lords Beaconsfield and Salisbury in your house in Mayfair.’

‘Ah yes, I remember. That dreadful Afghan business. You did well, very well, under the circumstances. The VC was the least you deserved. I’d like to have pinned it on you myself.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘And now you’re a major and . . .?’

‘And married, sir.’

‘Do I know her people?’

‘I doubt it, sir. Her father is a farrier.’

‘A farrier?’ The blood drained from the duke’s face. ‘Am I hearing you right? Are you telling me your father-in-law is a carer of horses’ hooves?’

‘Yes, sir. From Devonshire.’

‘My god, a bloody farrier,’ said the duke, shaking his head. ‘You do realize, Major Hart, that the choice of a wife can make or break an officer’s career? The daughter of a farrier is hardly a suitable companion for an officer and a gentleman.’

George frowned. ‘Forgive me, sir, but I don’t agree. Farrier’s daughter or no, my wife is worth two of any of her finely bred contemporaries. She’s a remarkable woman: intelligent, brave and, well, we’ve been through a lot together.’

The duke looked unconvinced. ‘I’m sure you have, but that still doesn’t . . .’ He paused for a moment. ‘How old are you, Major Hart?’

‘Twenty-eight, sir.’

‘That all? I just don’t understand men of your generation. There doesn’t seem to be quite the same sense of duty, of doing the right thing. If you want something, you take it and damn the consequences.’

Aware as he was of the duke’s unorthodox domestic life – married to an actress and with two, possibly three, children born out of wedlock – George could detect more than a whiff of hypocrisy. But he also knew that the duke had been driven to distraction by the profligate ways of his errant acknowledged sons, and so understood what he was getting at: he didn’t want George to go the same way, but feared that he might. His choice of a wife was obviously not a good sign.

The duke seemed to be waiting for a response. When he didn’t get one, he said: ‘Well, let’s hope you don’t regret it. Anyway, down to business. The reason I’ve called you back from Gibraltar is that I have an extremely unusual and delicate task that I think you might be perfect for. You served, for a short time, did you not, with my young cousin Prince Albert Victor of Wales when he was posted to your battalion in Gibraltar last year?’

‘I did.’

‘What did you make of him?’

‘He seemed a very nice, down-to-earth young officer, Your Royal Highness. I found him kind, modest and unassuming.’

‘Yes, yes, Major Hart. I know the prince is an engaging fellow with great personal charm. But is he a good officer?’

George hesitated.

‘Speak your mind, Hart. This will go no further.’

‘Well, sir, he was not always punctual and occasionally neglected his duties. Once, when duty officer, he overslept after a night carousing.’

‘Yes, that sounds like Eddy,’ said the duke, using the royal family’s pet name for the prince. After a pause, he continued, ‘What I’m about to tell you is highly confidential and must not be repeated outside these walls. Is that clear?’

‘Of course, sir.’

‘Good. The prince is a charming and likeable fellow, as you know, but he’s never shown much interest in his studies. Nor at a young age did his father, the Prince of Wales, it’s true, but Eddy’s difficulties seem more profound. He finds it hard to concentrate and has struggled academically. Imagine my horror,’ said the duke, throwing his hands in the air, ‘when I spoke to him at Sandringham of the Crimean War. He knew nothing about it! Nothing about the Battle of Alma! It is past all conceiving!’

After a pause the duke continued: ‘Even now, as an officer, his knowledge of his profession is not what it should be. On a recent inspection of his cavalry regiment, I wanted Eddy to demonstrate an elementary piece of drill. But his commanding officer begged me to desist, as Eddy had no idea how to do it! Of course, not wanting to expose him, I let it alone. Yet I was determined to see an improvement, and under Major Miles’s instruction, he has made great strides. I know that he is not unteachable, and that much of his ignorance is down to the inadequacies of his former tutors, Dalton and Stephen. He has his father’s dislike for a book, and never looks into one, but learns all from conversation, and retains what he has learnt.’

The duke rose from his seat and, hands behind his back, stared out of the bay window behind his desk towards St James’s Park. ‘I’ve always loved this view. But as dusk falls, the park fills up with some very disagreeable characters.’

‘I’m sorry, sir, I don’t get your meaning.’

Turning, the duke said: ‘I’ll explain. It’s not just Eddy’s indolence that is troubling his father and the Queen. It’s also the fact that he forms close and potentially compromising relationships with young men of questionable morals. At Cambridge, for example, he spent all his time with his tutor Jim Stephen and a small circle of students who were members of a secret society known as the Apostles. It extols the virtues of the philosophy known as “Greek love”, claiming that one man’s affection for another is the highest form of love, pure and disinterested, and unsullied by sex. In truth the practice is rarely innocent, any more than love between men in Ancient Greece was. What is worrying is that these same young men – all now barristers – are Eddy’s closest friends.’

‘Are you suggesting, sir, that the prince might be homosexual?’

‘I don’t know. What I do know is that he’s young and impressionable, and eminently capable of being led astray. Now I fully appreciate that young men can be infatuated with each other. I myself experienced something similar as a junior officer. But an infatuation is one thing, sodomy quite another.’

George was only half convinced by the duke’s reasoning. His own love for his best friend Jake had been both intense and innocent. Yet he was prepared to concede that other young men of his acquaintance – particularly at Harrow – had experimented sexually. Did that make them homosexual? Probably not, and the prince might be similar: able to form strong attachments to young men, possibly even to have sex with them, but also to marry and have children.

‘I can see from your expression,’ said the duke, ‘that you’re wondering why any of this matters. Why can’t Eddy have his youthful flings before reverting to heterosexual type? I’ll tell you why. He’s not some minor royal, but the eldest son of the Prince of Wales and destined one day to be king; and since the recent change of law, it isn’t just sodomy but all types of homosexual practice that are illegal. So even a minor indiscretion – say kissing another man – would put Eddy at the mercy of criminal or even political blackmailers. We can’t allow that to happen, which is why I need a resourceful fellow like you – one used to undercover work – to “shadow” Eddy and make sure that he stays out of trouble, at least until we can marry him off to a suitable German princess. Of course you’ll need to exchange into the prince’s regiment, the Tenth Hussars. That way you can get to know him socially and pick up any hints about his sexual proclivities. You’ve been a cavalryman so you know the ropes.’

After a pause, the duke continued: ‘Now, I appreciate that the role of prince’s nursemaid may not fill a hero like you with enthusiasm. But there is another far more dangerous element to this assignment that should be more suitable for a man of your martial abilities. I’ll let the man outside explain.’

The duke rang a bell on his desk and an aide appeared. ‘Show him in, would you, Reynolds?’

Moments later the door reopened and in stepped a tall, impressive-looking man with a thick moustache and dark thinning hair swept back from a side parting. He was wearing a dark blue double-breasted jacket and white shirt with a wing collar, and an expression of quiet confidence. ‘Do take a seat,’ said the duke, ‘and explain to Major Hart what you do and why you’re here.’

‘Certainly, Your Royal Highness.’ He turned to George. ‘My name is Detective Inspector John Littlechild. I’m the head of the Metropolitan Police’s Special Irish Branch that was formed a few years ago to deal with the terrorist threat from the Irish Republican Brotherhood, or Fenians, as they’re more popularly known. Their most infamous outrage was the murder of Lord Frederick Cavendish, the chief secretary to Ireland, in Phoenix Park in eighty-two. You have heard of the Fenians?’

‘Yes of course. I was born and brought up in Dublin. Their aim is an independent Ireland, and they’re prepared to use any and every means to achieve that.’

‘Exactly so, and these methods include the detonation of dynamite in public places. They even targeted our headquarters in Old Scotland Yard, blowing off a corner of the building and destroying my office. Fortunately I had tickets for the opera that night or I wouldn’t be talking to you now. In recent years, thanks to the use of surveillance and informers, we’ve managed to arrest most of their bomb-makers. That still leaves, however, the threat of assassination, and we have reason to believe – from intelligence supplied to us by an American informer – that His Royal Highness Prince Albert Victor is on their list of targets. We’ve offered to provide the prince with personal protection but he refuses to take the threat seriously and has declined—’

‘Which,’ interjected the duke, ‘is where you come in, Major Hart. If the prince won’t agree to a Special Irish Branch bodyguard, we need to have someone near him that we can trust to keep an eye on him. You’re a few years older than him, and senior in rank, but there’s no reason why, once you’re in the same regiment, you can’t become friends. Just encourage him to like and trust you. It shouldn’t be difficult: he knows you slightly from Gibraltar and he’s already demonstrated with his Cambridge tutor a willingness to be mentored. What do you say? Will you act as the prince’s unofficial bodyguard?’

‘I . . . I’m flattered, of course, Your Royal Highness,’ said George. ‘But I’m a soldier, not a bodyguard, and feel my talents are better suited to active service.’

The duke scowled. ‘This is active service. The threat to the prince is serious and we need a bodyguard in place as soon as possible. But I can promise you this: if you agree to take this on, and carry out your duties successfully, you’ll receive another step in rank and a posting of your choice.’

‘Anywhere I choose?’

‘Anywhere.’

‘And how long will this assignment take, sir? You didn’t say.’

The duke turned to Littlechild. ‘What do you think, Inspector? Would a year be enough?’

‘That would more than suffice, Your Royal Highness, as we’d hope to have the Fenian threat neutralized long before then.’

‘A year it is, then,’ said the duke. ‘After that, Major, you’ll be free to resume your former career. Will you do it?’

George leant back in his seat to mull over the duke’s proposal. He’d been hoping to see more action, possibly back in southern Africa where Zululand was still unsettled and there was unfinished business with the Boers. But as a war with either seemed unlikely in the near future, he could think of worse jobs than protecting a royal prince for the next twelve months, and it would make a welcome change from the monotony of garrison life in Gibraltar. Then there was his family. Lucy would be delighted at the thought of returning with little Jake to Britain. She hadn’t been back since their hurried departure in ’78, after George had killed in self-defence a private detective who was trying to stop her from leaving. The detective was acting for her former employer, and George’s former CO and nemesis, Sir Jocelyn Harris. Harris was long gone – killed at the Battle of Majuba in 1881 – and, though there was no longer any reason for Lucy to stay away, she had preferred to follow George from one posting to another. Her one regret was that her parents had never seen their grandson Jake; this would give them the opportunity. There was also the prospect of promotion and more war service. He knew he’d be a fool to turn the offer down.

But still he hesitated because none of these benefits would solve his most pressing concern: an acute lack of cash. It was time, he decided, to test the duke’s determination for him to take the job. ‘I don’t mean to sound too mercenary,’ said George at last, ‘but is there any extra pay on offer? I only ask because I’m a bit strapped for cash at the moment. That, if I’m honest, is why I was hoping for a foreign posting: the pay is better and the cost of living cheaper.’

‘I thought you’d get around to money,’ said the duke, frowning. ‘You youngsters can never have enough, can you? What happened to old-fashioned notions like duty to your sovereign? Does it exist any more?’

George shifted uneasily in his seat and tried to avoid eye contact.

‘Obviously not. But to answer your question: yes, there is an incentive. You’ll receive a lieutenant colonel’s pay, a signing on bounty of three hundred pounds and a final lump sum of a thousand pounds, if you keep the prince safe and out of trouble for a year. Is that enough to tempt you?’

George nodded imperceptibly. Not only was the extra money almost enough to cover his debts, it bore an uncanny resemblance to the financial incentives his father had offered him in a letter when he was eighteen years old. Was the duke trying to tell him something? He couldn’t decide. But either way the potential cash had removed his last reason for refusing the duke’s offer. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said at last. ‘More than enough. To whom will I report?’

‘To the detective inspector.’

‘Your cover will be as a cavalry officer,’ said Littlechild, ‘but you’ll actually be working for the Special Irish Branch with the right to carry a firearm at all times and make arrests. I’ll see you’re issued with a Derringer pistol. It’s small enough to fit in a pocket or hidden holster. You may need it.’

After Littlechild had been shown out, the duke poured two glasses of brandy and handed one to George. ‘Your good health,’ he said, clinking glasses.

George took a gulp and nodded appreciatively as the smooth, fiery liquid warmed the back of his throat.

‘I wanted to thank you,’ said the duke, ‘for not mentioning the other matter we discussed. I trust Littlechild, of course, but the fewer people that know about Eddy’s foibles the better. Best to keep it in the family, so to speak.’

George glanced at the duke. Had he confessed at last to being his father? he wondered. Or was that simply a figure of speech? He couldn’t be sure.

The duke raised his eyebrows. ‘Anything the matter, Major Hart?’

‘No, Your Royal Highness,’ said George, draining his glass. ‘Far from it.’

Chapter 2

Knightsbridge Barracks, Central London

‘I would like to introduce you all to Major George Hart VC,’ said Colonel Anson, gesturing to the officer beside him, ‘your new squadron commander.’

George gazed at the 160 officers and men standing to attention on the parade ground before him. All were wearing, like him, the undress uniform of the 10th (Prince of Wales’s Own) Hussars: a peakless gold and blue cap, dark blue stable jacket, blue trousers edged with two gold stripes, and shiny black riding boots with spurs. The main distinction for officers was a chained-pattern pouch belt that they wore over their left shoulder.

Anson continued: ‘Major Hart has considerable combat experience and we are lucky to have him. His most recent service was as a rifleman, but he started out with the First King’s Dragoon Guards and later joined the Natal Carbineers, so he knows one end of a horse from another. I’ll leave you in his capable hands.’

Having spoken to the men, George called a meeting of the officers in the squadron office. The last of the seven to shake his hand was Captain HRH Prince Albert Victor of Wales, the commander of E Troop. A couple of inches shorter than George, the prince had inherited the good looks of his mother, Princess Alexandra, and was strikingly handsome: a thin oval face, light complexion, full lips, aquiline nose and widely spaced piercing blue eyes. He was also immaculately turned out, with dark, side-parted hair, a waxed moustache turned up at the ends and a closely fitting tailored uniform. His one physical flaw, George remembered, was a long neck that was cleverly hidden by an oversized collar.

‘I’m very glad to make your acquaintance again, Your Royal Highness,’ said George. ‘How’re you enjoying your time in the cavalry?’

‘Very much, sir,’ said the prince, smiling. ‘I get to play polo twice a week, but I find the incessant drill a bit of a bore.’

‘A necessary bore, I’m afraid, and vital training for war. I hope you’ll give it your full attention.’ George turned to the other officers. ‘That goes for all of you. I have high standards and I trust you do too. Carry out your duties diligently and efficiently, and you’ll find me an easy officer to work under. Neglect them and there’ll be hell to pay. Do we understand each other?’

‘Yes, sir,’ they said in unison.

Once the meeting was over, George asked the prince to stay behind. ‘Whisky?’ he . . .