“His Royal Highness is on the lower terrace, Chief Superintendent,” said Ross. “If you’d be so good as to follow me…”
As we entered the winter drawing-room, the French doors onto the lower terrace opened, and two men entered, engrossed in private conversation. I knew them; I knew all of the Prince’s hangers-on. The slight, languid fellow was Lord Peter Eden, and the taller, strutting one was his sycophant, Lord Geoffrey Diamond. Both were dressed in the latest courtly fashions, aping the Prince of Wales: narrow lapels, shirt-collars turned down, waistcoats unbuttoned at the bottom. Diamond was muttering something under his breath to Eden, who burst out in his habitual girlish giggle, only to stifle it when he saw that he and Diamond were not alone. Diamond too tensed, until he took in that we were merely commoners. Instantly we ceased to exist, and the two noblemen moved off without acknowledging either of us.
It was just as well, for if either man had spoken to me, I would have found it hard to assume a proper tone of deference. In the house of the dying a little levity was understandable, even necessary, but I strongly suspected the joke their two Lordships found so amusing had been at Prince Albert’s expense. Once a playboy, Albert was a boy no longer, but time had not tempered his appetites for fine food and female company, and that made him a figure of fun to some. I had always found the Prince straightforward, and even charming, but as heir to an empire his social circle was by necessity constrained—a shallow pool, with some right toads in it, like those two Lordships. For one fleeting moment I wished I still carried a truncheon, but it was not my place to teach the Prince’s so-called friends some manners, however much I would have relished the task.
Ross opened the door leading onto the terrace and stood back to let me go first.
This part of the gardens faced out across the Solent, where pleasure boats, sailing ships and fishing smacks slid and jostled along the gleaming grey water. A little way offshore a flock of seagulls flickered over a fisherman’s rowing boat as he pulled in his lobster pots; the stiff breeze from the sea carried the birds’ ragged cries to us, with the sharp tang of salt and seaweed. As ever I was reminded of the shores of Kerry, but I felt no nostalgia; I’d seen enough rocks and seaweed growing up to last me ten lifetimes.
Farther along the terrace the Prince of Wales sat hunched on a bench, swathed in a heavy black woollen overcoat, a grey cashmere scarf wrapped tightly around his neck. As I approached he drew deeply on a cigarette and blew out a stream of smoke that was quickly whipped away by the breeze. I made my bow; Albert looked up, and a smile flickered briefly across his round, bearded face.
“Melville, old man. Good to see you.”
He always called me “old man,” though at sixty he was nearly ten years my senior. Indeed, it was very late in life to become a king. The Prince nodded at a seat nearby—a bench elaborately carved from jet by his father, years ago—then turned away and stared out to sea. I sat down and waited.
“You’ll have heard the news.”
“I have, sir.”
“Reid says it was a stroke. Won’t be long now. Today, perhaps tomorrow. She’s hanging on.”
“I’d expect no less of Her Majesty. I’m sorry, sir, it must be a painful time.”
“Oh, she’s being well looked after.” For a moment Albert seemed about to say more, but he merely shook his head, as if surprised by the intensity of his own feelings, and, staring down at the glowing end of his cigarette, blinked a few times. Then he flicked the stub into the bushes.
“Alexandra is with her now. She’ll be pleased to see you.”
“And I her, Your Highness.” Alexandra, the Princess of Wales, was vivacious, cheerful, loyal and patient, and she needed to be, married to Albert. Famously approachable, he was famously approached by ladies of every social class and did little to discourage them. Today however there was little sign of the libertine. Perhaps he was seeing clearly for the first time the enormity of the role that would soon be thrust upon him; after a lifetime of playing Falstaff he had found himself cast as Prince Hal.
“You’re going to have your work cut out, rather,” said the Prince at last.
“It’s all in hand, sir.”
Albert pulled a silver cigarette case out of his inside pocket, snapped it open and began again his comforting ritual of tapping and lighting and drawing. I’m not one of these cranks who object to smoking, but it has never held any attraction for me; what I really dislike is the smell it leaves on your clothes. In my line of work it sometimes helps to be inconspicuous, and the whiff of stale tobacco can be a liability.
“His Imperial Majesty the Kaiser will be arriving this afternoon,” the Prince said at last. “Within the hour, in fact. I’d be obliged if you would remain in attendance.” Albert’s casual tone, as he fiddled with his cigarette case, failed to conceal the tension in his voice.
“I am at Your Highness’s command, as always,” I said.
He dug out his pocket watch and squinted at it through a haze of smoke.
“Best get yourself something to eat, old man. While there’s still time.”
* * *
—
Belowstairs at Osborne House was a scene of barely controlled chaos. Not only Albert and Alexandra but almost all the Queen’s offspring had taken up residence in the last few days, each with spouse and retinue. Prim battalions of butlers and valets and maids were jostling for space and precedence, and tempers were running short, but thanks to Ross I was quickly served a lunch of game pie and vegetable soup, and just as quickly I demolished it. I’d barely wiped my moustache clean when shouts in the stable yard, the clatter of hooves and the rumble of carriage wheels announced that the Kaiser was arriving.
I made it upstairs just in time to take up my customary position behind Albert, on his left and two steps back, as he and his retinue assembled in the Durbar Room. The high ceiling echoed with the creaking and scuffling of leather boots, the jangling of medals and the frantic muffled whispers of courtiers finding their place. When at last two lines of noblemen had formed, one on each side of the Prince, an imperceptible signal was passed to the valets at the far end of the room, who stepped forwards and threw open the massive gilded doors.
And here in all his pomp strode Kaiser Wilhelm, Emperor of Germany, head held high and back ramrod straight, and in his wake a gaggle of Junkers, princes and generals, all mirroring his strut. The unkind thought struck me, as it often did, that the Emperor’s swagger was designed to compensate for his lack of physical stature. His spectacular uniform too, with its medals and buckles and braid, served to distract attention from the withered left arm hanging limply in his sleeve, its gloved hand artfully arranged to look as if it was grasping his belt. Wilhelm was known to blame the doctor that delivered him for that defect—an English doctor, as it happened.
Ten paces from his uncle and aunt, Wilhelm paused, brought his heels together with a sharp crack and made a stiff, deep bow. Albert returned the salute, and the Princess of Wales curtsied, both with a certain lack of conviction. Prince Albert did not always make much effort to hide his opinion of his nephew, and already a slight chill seemed to be seeping into the room, in spite of the logs that blazed in the fireplace. But then Albert strolled forwards and offered his nephew his outstretched hand, and Wilhelm took it, his own right hand still gloved, since he could not remove the glove without using his teeth. When Albert spoke, his tone was formal, but warm.
“Your Imperial Highness, welcome to Osborne House. How was your journey?”
As the two exchanged courtesies, and Wilhelm embraced his aunt, I sensed that I was being watched. I learned long ago never to ignore my instincts, so now I searched among the glittering finery of the German court for my observer. It took me a while to spot him: a slim man in a sombre civilian suit, slight as a shadow, ten feet behind the Kaiser to his left. When I met his gaze, he silently drew his heels together and gave the tiniest nod of sa
lute, as if we were old acquaintances. A head shorter than me, he was in his early thirties and clean-shaven, which among all those bushy beards and handlebar moustaches gave him an incongruously boyish air. He seemed utterly at ease, despite the rigid formality of the occasion. In fact it seemed that while he regarded the ceremony with all the solemnity it deserved, he was observing it as an outsider. I was sure at first that I knew him from somewhere; then I realised the man he reminded me of was myself, twenty years ago.
Interesting, I thought. Best keep an eye on this one.
“And how is my beloved grandmother?” the Kaiser was saying. He could speak English as fluently as his uncle, I knew; but here and now he spoke with a clipped German accent as mannered as his military strut.
“I understand she is feeling a little better today,” said Albert. “Indeed, I’m sure your presence will hasten her recovery.” A lie, but a courtly one.
“Let us hope so, Uncle. I look forward to paying her my respects.”
“I’ll take you to see her right away, if you’d like.” An almost imperceptible pause.
“That would give me great pleasure. Thank you.”
From the twinge of panic that rippled across the household staff in the room I guessed this had not been planned; Albert had changed all the arrangements on a whim. His mother would never have done such a thing, and the way the Prince had dispensed with protocol, as if he were already King, made it clearer than ever how close we all were to the end.
For his part Wilhelm bowed and stepped aside, and his uncle led the way towards the Royal Pavilion, Alexandra in their wake, while ushers and footmen and ladies-in-waiting scrambled discreetly ahead of them. As those doors closed behind the two princes, their courtiers breathed quiet sighs of relief, and the formal ranks dissolved. Old acquaintances mingled and greeted one another, crystallising into groups.
In the normal course of events I would have insinuated myself into one of these knots, to glean some gossip on the Imperial Court; with a little cajoling, old generals can be surprisingly indiscreet. But for now I held back, guessing that curious young German I had spotted would want to make himself known. And sure enough, there he was, weaving like a dancer through the throng, headed straight for me. He bowed again, then stretched out his hand.
“Chief Superintendent Melville, I believe? Honoured to make your acquaintance. My name is Gustav Steinhauer.” I waited a moment for him to elaborate on his rank or role, but he did neither.
“Delighted,” I said. His handshake was firm and strong and brief.
“The pleasure is all mine,” said Steinhauer. “I confess I am a little intimidated, meeting you. Every policeman in Europe knows you by reputation.”
“You’re in the same line of work, I take it?”
Steinhauer shrugged and smiled. “I am part of His Imperial Majesty’s bodyguard.” Not a copper, then, I thought. His English was so polished it was hard to place; like the Kaiser, his accent had a hint of Prussian, and like the Kaiser’s, I suspected, it was not entirely genuine. His smile was warm and his manner open, but I noticed how deftly he’d dodged my question.
“My counterpart, so?” I said. “We should have dinner sometime. Compare notes.”
“That would be an honour. But I think I would be the one taking notes.”
“You speak excellent English, Herr Steinhauer.”
“Why, thank you. I travelled widely before I joined His Imperial Majesty’s service. I have even visited Kerry, in the south of Ireland—don’t you come from that part of the world?”
“A long time ago.”
“Such a wild and beautiful place. No artist could do justice to the landscape. Do you often revisit the old country?”
I’ve trained many officers to work undercover, and the very first lesson is talk freely and be utterly boring. With a little practice one can chatter all day and say absolutely nothing. Be neither funny nor observant nor original; avoid intrigue and mystery and, if asked a probing question, deflect and ask one in return—every man’s favourite subject is himself. Steinhauer, if he had ever taken such a course, must have passed with flying colours.
Thankfully neither of us had to deploy our skills of empty conversation for long; it transpired that the Queen had been so weak she barely recognised her grandson. Wilhelm had insisted she be disturbed no further and had retired to his quarters. On hearing this, the Imperial retinue had followed suit, and Steinhauer, with a respectful bow, had evaporated like a will-o’-the-wisp. The Prince of Wales having no immediate need of me, I returned to my preparations for the funeral, and in the below-stairs cubby-hole that served as my office I worked late into the night, eating dinner at my desk.
It was nearly midnight when I received a summons to the billiard-room, a summons I’d been half expecting. Slipping my papers into a folder, I locked them away in the safe, testing the handle twice. I never took security for granted, even in Her Majesty’s official residence—especially there, and especially then, with the household routine gone to pot and the staff quarters teeming with unfamiliar faces.
The Prince was sitting in a winged leather armchair by the fireplace, while the Kaiser had planted himself on the hearthrug, holding court. Both men were red in the face, and I guessed it had little to do with the fire that roared in the massive hearth—the air was thick with cigar smoke and brandy fumes. Princess Alexandra and her attendants had long since retired, leaving the men to their own devices. Ross and several other servants stood in silent attendance all around; Her Majesty’s Pomeranian, Turi, dozed under the Prince’s chair.
“Chief Superintendent Melville! Join us, please!”
I had heard Wilhelm use that loud, hearty tone before—he’d cribbed it from Albert. The Kaiser fancied he shared his uncle’s common touch, and nobody dared to disillusion him. It took me a moment to notice a shape in the shadows behind the Kaiser’s armchair—slight and motionless, barely there at all. Steinhauer.
“Your master and I”—the Kaiser stifled a hiccough—“were discussing the qualities of the ideal bodyguard. And we thought, who better to consult than his own man, Herr Melville of Scotland Yard?” I bowed; from the corner of my eye I could see Albert, who seemed to be finding the exchange less amusing than his nephew. With Victoria on her deathbed it seemed an odd time to be over-indulging in brandy and cigars, but royalty makes its own rules.
“You flatter me, Your Imperial Majesty,” I said. “I’ve often wondered that myself.”
“Do not be so modest. You have served in this post for more than ten years.”
“Yes, sir, but for all that I’d never claim to be the ideal bodyguard. I’m merely the best available.”
Prince Albert chuckled and drew on his cigar. Hearing him, the Kaiser chuckled too, as if enjoying our banter. But I sensed he wasn’t. There’s a fine line between informality and insolence, and I usually manage to judge it well enough, but Wilhelm was the sort of man to move it on a whim. Then again, what did he expect? That I’d bow and scrape and simper?
“Modesty is certainly desirable, wouldn’t you say?” Wilhelm carried on. “Intelligence. And discretion, of course.” This with a sly glance sideways to his uncle. “And cunning, as you have, Chief Superintendent.”
“Less cunning, sir, than experience.”
“Experience, yes, that is certainly valuable. But youth and ingenuity can outweigh experience, don’t you think?” I nodded as if I was paying his remarks serious thought. I could see where this was headed; the dog under Albert’s chair could. “Speaking of which,” Wilhelm continued, “I believe you have met my own bodyguard, Herr Gustav Steinhauer?”
“I have, Your Majesty. Earlier today,” I said.
Steinhauer stepped forwards into the firelight and nodded a bow. His expression was studiously neutral, but I could tell he had been happier in the shadows.
“Gustav is very modest about his achievement
s. He would never be so vain as to boast that he speaks six languages fluently. I daresay he speaks better English than you”—Wilhelm smirked—“since you are Irish.”
“Interpreters are two a penny,” interjected Albert, without looking up. “And Melville speaks all the languages he needs to.” It was as if the two men were discussing our pedigrees; at any moment, I thought, the Kaiser would pull back Steinhauer’s lips to show off his teeth. Was that why Steinhauer and I were here? So the Kaiser could compare his prancing young stallion to his uncle’s aging warhorse? How condescending and pathetic, I thought, though I kept my demeanour studiously neutral. If Steinhauer, like me, was bristling inwardly, he was doing a damned fine job of hiding it.
“Alas, Uncle,” said Wilhelm. “The madmen, the terrorists who wish to murder you and me in our beds, they are not plotting only in English.” He waved his brandy glass at the empty air, and a servant stepped forwards to refill it. Wilhelm quite ignored him, as if the glass had refilled itself. “Gustav speaks fluent French, Russian, Italian, English…”
“My German, however, is lamentable,” Steinhauer interjected quietly. I stifled a grin at that, but the Kaiser, fortunately, missed the quip.
“And he has also a most exceptional insight into human nature. Tell them about Lieutenant Rolf.” This to Steinhauer, who smiled but said nothing. The Kaiser did not take the hint but, frowning, insisted, “Gustav. Tell them.”
“There is little to tell.” Now the young man’s smile was becoming strained.
“Rolf?” I prompted, mischievously.
“A wretched spy,” spat Wilhelm in disgust. “An officer of the German army who sold our secrets to the French, just to pay off gambling debts. A drunk”—he slung his glass about so the brandy slopped over the brim—“a fornicator, a traitor to his fatherland.” He raised his glass to Steinhauer in a toast. “A dozen men tried to bring him back to face justice, and all of them failed. All except Gustav here.”
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