At that hour, on Christmas Eve, the cemetery was emptying of those souls who had come to place an occasional memorial wreath or flower to lost ones. The lights and roar of traffic along the Old
Brompton
Road were dimmed behind us by the high entrance wall as we progressed farther toward the colonnaded mausoleum at the center. The
Brompton
Cemetery has not suffered quite the neglect and vandalism that
Highgate
has endured but, beyond the well-kept central avenue, I could discern areas of uncultivated growth in which the tombstones fought to maintain their dark, formal dominance among the trees. Here and there a memorial had fallen, toppled by weather or time or, perhaps, the sacrilegious antagonism of youth. It is sad that such attacks should occur, especially in so distinguished a cemetery, with so many notables among its residents, recumbent amid some two hundred years of history.
We had just passed, for instance, the marble tomb of one Colonel Byrne, a doubtless courageous officer whose inscription recorded his gallantry whilst serving with Garibaldi in Italy, the Sixty-fourth Regiment of Foot in the American Civil War, and our own Yeomanry in the Boer War. A man, I mused, who showed an enthusiasm for the cannon’s mouth which might not be approved of in our own, less military times. There is a fascination about the inscriptions on tombstones which has always held me; it was instructive, in the fast-gathering, chilly gloom, to read those letters close at hand, still visible on the vertical planes where the thinly falling flakes of snow had not yet settled.
“Here we are.”
Cranbrook
stopped and produced a flashlight. “I think you will agree that it will have been well worth it.” He stepped off the gravel path and bade me to follow him into the second row of tombs lining the route. He did not hesitate but I followed a little more gingerly; the gap between the rows of stone in the first line was narrow and my shoes, leather-soled, would not keep out much of the half-inch surface covering of snow.
He pointed to a pair of vertical monuments set on a gravel panel with a molded stone surround. Separating them was another memorial, almost lying flat, in the shape of a small stone cross.
Cranbrook
gesticulated at the brown stone of the left-hand monument with an air of triumph and flashed his torch upon it, standing back so that I could see.
“Joseph Ballard Carter,” I read aloud, feeling that it was expected of me. “Of Brimfield, Massachusetts. Born August 21st 1813. Died May 22nd 1889. Also his wife, Mary Chamberlain Carter.”
“No, no,”
Cranbrook
interrupted. “Not them. They’re the parents.
Here.
”
He concentrated his torch upon a scrap of white stone, a scroll added like an afterthought to the base of the memorial. It was in the shape of a piece of paper or curled sheet, held at an angle against the heavy,
pedimented
base. The inscription was becoming faint and I had to concentrate to read it as the occasional snowflake drifted across my vision.
“Mary Frances
Ronalds
,” I read aloud. “Nee Carter. Born August 29th 1839. Died July 28th 1916. ‘Ever Near.’“ Beneath the faded inscription there were some other engravings and faint straight lines almost like hieroglyphs which, on peering closer, I could just faintly discern. “Good heavens,” I said. “I do believe that’s a bar of music.”
“Correct. Sullivan’s music.”
Cranbrook’s
voice was eager, full of satisfaction. “That is the grave of Fanny
Ronalds
.”
“Fanny
Ronalds
?”
“Mrs. Fanny
Ronalds
. The Belle of New York. The woman who captivated the two finance kings, Augustus Belmont and Leonard Jerome, simultaneously. She sang, of course. Not professionally, that would not do for one of New York’s top four hundred. But very well. That’s why Jerome was after her; he had a thing about opera singers. Jenny Lind—he named his daughter after her.”
“Jennie Jerome?”
“The same. Winston Churchill’s mother. She knew Fanny
Ronalds
well, of course.”
“Good heavens.”
Cranbrook’s
voice thickened. “Fanny
Ronalds
was a celebrated beauty. Her husband is said to have left her after they had three children.” He gesticulated vaguely at the other memorials. “Two of them here. But Belmont and Jerome vied for her affections. She gave a huge ball in New York—this was in the 1860s—at which she wore an extraordinary harp-shaped crown lit by gas jets. She tricked both Jerome and Belmont each into paying for the ball.”
“Tut, tut.” The idea of a harp-shaped crown lit by gas jets stirred a memory in my head, but I was becoming uncomfortable. The snow seemed to be settling a little more. It was incredible to think of a white Christmas in London, but the chance was becoming very strong. I had not brought my gloves, and my overcoat could have been thicker. “The music?” I let the question hang.
“Ah, yes! The music!”
Cranbrook
waved his torch excitedly. “Mrs.
Ronalds
went to Paris, like the
Jeromes
, to star at the court of Louis Napoleon. She improved her lungs as the guest of the
Bey
of Algeria. But the Franco-Prussian War brought them all over to London where, as a musical enthusiast, she soon met Arthur Sullivan. She was the love of his life. His diary records his meetings with her, almost daily, over thirty years. They give no doubt as to the nature of their relationship; Sullivan always noted the number of times he had engaged with her sexually on his visits. He was, like many creative artists, very active in that direction.”
“Oh, dear.” My hands were becoming numb. To keep a diary is a dubious enough pastime; to record such events in it is not only ungallant but certainly not the action of a gentleman.
“They were treated virtually as man and wife in the upper London crust.” There was, now, a feverish quality to
Cranbrook’s
voice. “They could not marry, of course, because a divorced woman was excluded from society. But everyone knew. Everyone. She sang, accompanied by Sir Arthur at the piano, divinely. Everyone celebrated her performances of his ‘Lost Chord.’ Royalty particularly. Sullivan was not always faithful to her, but he maintained her and her family— parents included—in a separate house at 7
Cadogan
Place. He was certainly deeply attached to her. And she to him. She outlived him by sixteen years.” He flashed his torch at the small stone scroll. “She left no doubt of that The bar of music engraved thereon is said to provide the clue for music lovers. I believe it is from ‘The Lost Chord/ The particular association signifies the words ‘Forever
Thine
.’ As I say, she left no doubt as to whom her heart belonged.”
“That’s extraordinarily romantic.” I peered at the faint lines. “This was a very kind thought of yours, Quentin. What a splendid idea, especially after last night. London is a city with many fascinating sights, but I would never have come across anything like this.” I looked up at him. “How on earth did you come across it?”
He paused a moment before answering. In the gloom his big figure loomed back behind the torch, which he still pointed downward at the tomb. As I straightened from my crouch upon the gravel I became aware of how isolated we were. The center of
Brompton
Cemetery is cut off from the surrounding city like a great walled park, and the street lighting glowed only faintly in the distance. The sound of a jet airplane passing overhead was muffled by the falling snow which, if anything, seemed to be increasing.
“The Duke of Edinburgh,”
Cranbrook
replied cryptically. “Not the present one, of course. Alfred, the younger brother of Edward the Seventh, who would have been Prince of Wales when Fanny
Ronalds
came to London. Edinburgh was a rather gruff, reserved man. Married off to a Russian grand duchess. Was elected King of Greece but had to decline. Naval officer. Eventually became Prince of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha, poor fellow, and had to lose his English title, home, and succession. Typical of Victoria’s younger children, really. Rough deal. There’s never been a biography of him. I’m working on one.”
I wondered when the cemetery would officially be closed. We were far from the entrance gates. Surely, oil Christmas Eve, the guardians would push off early? A glance back toward the tree-lined avenue told me nothing; the flakes were thickening and darkness was now becoming intense. Behind
Cranbrook
only a jumble of tombstones, crosses, bending angels and sarcophagus shapes could darkly be discerned. It really was time for us to leave. What a strange fellow he was, his mind occupied with these late-nineteenth-century biographical details, culled from dusty tomes, memoirs, and letters in dry libraries. How unlike my own life, with its commerce abroad, travel, and business contracts. And yet, and yet; the story of Fanny
Ronalds
was surely an unexpectedly romantic bonus from so moribund a quarter. What days those must have been; what a glittering, lavish life the fortunate few had led before the Great War ended all that. I glanced down at the now dim scrap of stone upon the monument; what little residue
it was for so passionate and sought-after a beauty, one who had mingled with and loved the cream.
“A biography?” I queried, moving away slightly in hope of drawing
Cranbrook
away too, of breaking his concentration. “Of the Duke of Edinburgh? I can’t say I know anything about him.”
Obstinately, his bulk did not shift. “He was musical as well. A violinist; quite good, apparently. A great patron of music, too. He and Sullivan played together frequently.”
“Really? Where?” Surely, I thought, this could be discussed in the warm?
“At Sullivan’s house, sometimes. I had theory that Sullivan might have met Fanny
Ronalds
through him originally. You see, when she first came to London she was undoubtedly Edinburgh’s protégée. She headed for royalty like a homing pigeon. Anita Leslie implies that she obliged Edinburgh with more than just piano and vocal accompaniment to his violin.”
“Tut, tut.”
“It’s quite possible. My idea was that they might have met—Sullivan and Fanny, I mean—at one of Edinburgh’s musical weekends at his country estate,
Eastwell
Park.”
“I beg your pardon?” It was now intensely cold. Suddenly my coat seemed insubstantial, papery. A chill took hold of my ribs and spine. The idea of returning to the
Cranbrooks
’ flat in
Wetherby
Mansions was becoming desperately attractive. I was going to catch my death of cold here.
“
Eastwell
Park, in Kent. It was Edinburgh’s country estate. Sullivan went there often in the 1870s.”
“
Eastwell
?” My throat had become very dry. An icy dampness was seeping through my leather shoes.
Cranbrook’s
little cultural outing had gone on far too long in this paralyzing weather.
“Yes.
Eastwell
. It’s now an expensive country hotel.
Eastwell
Manor, near Ashford. You know it, don’t you, my dear, Jones?”
The emphasis he gave my surname made his question vaguely menacing. I stared at him. “Know it?”
“Yes, know it. You know it. I know it, too. I went there to do my research two weeks ago. I couldn’t afford to stay there myself, of course. I put up at a bed-and-breakfast place in Ashford. But you, you could afford it, as a businessman. And you were there. I saw you. I even checked the register. What a common name Jones is. How very easy for you.”
“Easy?” My throat was arid. The word came out as a croak.
“Easy! To register. As Mr. and Mrs. Jones. You and my wife! Jill! You thought I was away doing my research. Ironic, wasn’t it? The research was on the very place you chose to take my wife for your luxurious, debauched weekend!”
“Oh, no. No, no. It wasn’t—look, Quentin—I—”
“Don’t deny it!” he shouted. “Don’t dare to deny it!” The torch flashed in a wave as he tugged at his clothes. “I saw you! And Jill! Faithless bitch!” A dreadful gleam caught the torchlight.
“Jesus! That’s the turkey knife!”
“It is! It is! I shall have the pleasure, when I carve the bird tomorrow, of knowing what it will have done to you!”
“Quentin! For heaven’s sake!”
^
“Submit to Fate!” he shouted. “Submit to Fate without unseemly wrangle!” Then he lunged.
I had a second’s lead on him and leapt backward before turning to plunge across the farther path into the deeper jungle of tombs and vegetation. A single apposite inscription caught my eye.
Nearer, My God, to Thee.
The man was mad. Raving mad.
“‘Death,’“ he shouted, jumping after me, “‘is the only true unraveller!’ I’ll unravel you!”
Never had a line from
The Gondoliers
been so sinister. Gilbert had a nasty sense of humor. If only Jill had listened to my plea to go to Paris for the weekend! But she was too cautious; she feared we would bump into someone who knew us at the airport. A quiet drive off somewhere in the country, with a fire and oak beams, would be more discreet God, how I’d wanted her! The hotel had been superb. And her enthusiasm—she had clung to me so passionately. How could this situation be resolved?