“You’ll report nothing, Gustav. And take no comfort from the presence of Sergeant Dubois. He won’t witness anything, even if he has to shoot you. Which he will, if you make one sudden move.”
Steinhauer’s mouth worked. He was trying to figure out if I was bluffing, and decided that I was not, which was shrewd of him, because two of my friends had been murdered and I was full of cold fury. When he finally spoke, his usual air of detached amusement had evaporated. He raised one hand slowly and started to peel off his fake beard.
“I have no idea what you are hoping to accomplish with this—”
“How long have you been working with Akushku?”
“Working with him?” Steinhauer almost stammered. “I do not—I have never met the man, never communicated with him, even indirectly—”
“There’s an informer in our ranks, Gustav, and it’s not one of my men.”
“You think I have been feeding information to a terrorist—?”
“They were waiting for us that night, at Minetti’s lodgings. They knew we were coming. That’s why they had a lookout at the front of the house. You were the one who told me they’d escaped in a cab, then told me you’d lost him. When all the while he’d doubled back to rescue Bozidar.”
“This is absurd—” Steinhauer glanced nervously at the muzzle of the gun.
“Two colleagues of ours are dead, Gustav, and the only one who knew they were watching that house was you.”
“Akushku must have spotted them, then—”
“Lovegrove had done that job a hundred times,” I said, “and never once given himself away. He and Bishop were murdered, butchered in cold blood, by a man who knew just where they were and how many.” I glanced at Dubois, who cocked the hammer of his gun.
“Then I am not the only one who knew!” insisted Steinhauer, raising a hand to shield himself, as if his fingers could stop a bullet.
“One last time, Gustav, who is Akushku?”
Steinhauer opened his mouth, and closed it again, and exhaled, long and deep. When he spoke his voice was full of disappointment and resignation. “William…your man may as well shoot me, because I cannot help you. I am sorry, but I think the strain of this affair has broken you—you have lost your mind.”
“It’s you who will lose your mind, Gustav. It will be all over that wall.” Dubois raised the muzzle a little higher.
“What will you tell my master?”
“Whatever I damned well please,” I said.
Steinhauer sighed. “I am not working with Akushku. I am trying to stop him, like you. I stood by your side in that hallway, have you forgotten? You think he was shooting only at you? He nearly blew my arm off. You know this is true.”
“You haven’t told me the truth since the day we met,” I said. “You never sold cigars in America, or you’d know that Newman cigars are made in Cleveland. And you’re not just the Kaiser’s bodyguard, or you wouldn’t have been hanging around at a meeting of Latvian anarchists in London a few weeks back, wearing a disguise, just like the one we caught you in tonight. Or am I mistaken about that as well?”
Steinhauer hesitated, clearly taken aback by how much I knew of his activities. I left out everything I’d learned from Walther’s letter—I couldn’t mention that without compromising Walther. But I didn’t need to; tonight I’d caught Steinhauer red-handed, and he knew it.
“Yes, I was spying on you tonight,” he blurted. I could see sweat beading on his brow. “But if our positions were reversed, you would have done the very same. I did this because for some reason you do not trust me, William, and I have to know what you know. I want to catch these men as badly as you do. If we fail, you may be embarrassed, forced to retire with a gold watch and a pension, but all I will be offered is a blindfold and a cigarette.”
“Not if I shoot you first.”
Steinhauer paused a moment, then actually smiled.
“You will not,” he said softly. “Or you would have done it by now.”
He was right. But only a few moments earlier I would gladly have given Dubois the nod. In those moments at least Gustav had believed he might die, which was one reason I now believed his protests.
The other reason had just occurred to me.
There were two others besides Steinhauer who had known of my plans, and had known that Lovegrove and Bishop had staked out Remington’s lodgings. I had told both of those people myself.
I turned to Dubois. “Put that away, Sergeant. Tell John to head back to the nick.” Dubois uncocked the hammer of his pistol, slipped it back into its holster and clambered out of the rear door. We heard him bark an order to the driver.
“Your man Quinn,” said Steinhauer, “he dropped that memorandum deliberately?”
“I’m surprised you fell for that one, Gustav.”
“I am embarrassed, I confess.”
The Black Maria jolted into motion, and the circles of yellow light cast by streetlights shining through the portholes started to flick across our faces. Steinhauer leaned his head back against the metal wall.
“It is ironic, is it not?” he said. “We talked about using agents provocateurs to sow mistrust among our enemies. And here we are, fighting among ourselves.” He sighed. “I shall rejoin the Emperor tomorrow, and report to him all that has happened.”
“By all means do,” I said. That took the wind from his sails, and he looked at me in disbelief. I wasn’t scared of his Kaiser’s wrath, but that wasn’t why I’d called Steinhauer’s bluff. “His life will be in grave danger at the funeral. He needs to be aware of it, and take appropriate measures,” I said.
“But your own King forbade you to tell him that,” said Steinhauer.
“He did,” I replied. “But he also said I should take you with me on that raid, instead of a squad of men, and look how that turned out. Tell your Emperor everything and let him decide what he wants to do. You don’t answer to my King, and I don’t answer to yours.”
“William, you must believe me. In this business, we are on the same side.”
In this business. I couldn’t help noticing that. “I do believe you, Gustav. Mind, if you actually got yourself shot by Akushku, I would have believed you sooner.”
Steinhauer took his hat off and tried again to push the crown back out.
“I don’t believe you would have ordered your man Dubois to shoot me.”
“Don’t you?”
“You are too good a man,” said Steinhauer. “Too honourable. Not ruthless enough, I fear. Not for this new century.”
The cheeky young whelp, I thought. Did he mistake me for a gentleman? But I merely grinned politely. “I suppose we’ll never know,” I said. “Now, should I drop you at your hotel? Or take you to the German consulate at Prussia House?”
“Wouldn’t you rather I was somewhere where you could keep an eye on me?”
“What makes you think we don’t keep an eye on Prussia House?”
“Our mission is not accomplished, William. I would still like to help.”
“What I have to do next, you can’t help with.”
“Then send me out with your men. I have some ability, I think you will allow me that. Even after tonight.”
I pretended to ponder for a while, though we both knew what my answer would be. “I’ll drop you at your hotel. Get some sleep, and report to Patrick Quinn in the morning.”
“What about you? Are you going home?”
“No point, at this time of night. I’ll probably bed down in a cell. God knows I might have to get used to it.”
* * *
—
But I had no intention of bedding down, either in a cell or the couch in my office. I found Patrick Quinn at his desk, wading through a flood of paperwork as he waited to hear what our trap had snared.
“It’s not Steinhauer,” I said.
; “Then it’s Anderson,” he said. “No one else knew in advance about the raid on Akushku.”
“It’s not Anderson either. One other man knew,” I said. “I’ve written a report to him every day since this started.”
“You don’t mean…” Quinn could not bring himself to say it.
“His Majesty the King has known every detail of our every operation. And he’s not very discerning about the company he keeps.”
“But, sir—how can you be sure it’s not Anderson?”
“I have my own sources, Patrick. Better you don’t ask.”
“So what’s to be done? Will you tell His Majesty that someone in his circle is passing information?”
“I can’t. The King’s no actor—he can’t bluff. If he knows, his whole circle will know, and the jig will be up. No, we have to keep His Majesty in the dark if we’re to catch our man in the act.”
“It’s only three days until the funeral.”
“Yes, so we must set up the surveillance and the postal intercepts straightaway. Before first collection this morning. I’ll plant some misinformation in my next report, see where it reappears.”
Quinn cleared his throat. “Sir…some of the King’s circle are Privy Counsellors. If it ever gets out that we opened their letters…”
“We’ll all be fired. Disgraced. Thrown in jail. I don’t give a damn. If we don’t catch Akushku in the next three days we’ll face a lot worse.”
17
“Lord Diamond left his house this morning at nine-oh-seven, sir, on horseback, and headed for Hyde Park, arriving there at nine twenty-six. He exercised his mount on Rotten Row until ten thirty-five, when he fell into conversation with a lady out walking with her maid, whom we later identified as Lady Florence Randall.”
Johnson read from his notebook in his usual quiet, droning voice. I fought back the urge to tell him to hurry up and get to the point.
“At one point Lady Randall had words with her maid, who thereafter kept a distance of about ten paces behind the couple.”
“I see,” I said. “And did you manage to overhear what Diamond and Lady Randall were saying?”
“Connolly managed to get quite close, sir. He tells me they appeared to be discussing a new exhibition at the Marlborough Gallery. Nude portraits, sir, supposedly of quite a shocking nature.” Johnson’s drone made even these salacious details vaguely soporific. “Lord Diamond mentioned similar exhibits he’d seen in Paris.”
“I see. Frankly this sounds more like a flirtation than anything sinister.”
“That was our impression, sir. And indeed, although the subject and Lady Randall parted at eleven-oh-five, fifteen minutes later Lord Diamond left the park and went directly to Lady Randall’s house.”
I guessed where this was headed. To London’s aristocracy Rotten Row was more than just a venue to exercise their horses.
“Lord Randall is in India at the moment, isn’t he?”
“Yes, sir.” The respectable Johnson seemed unwilling to meet my eye. “Bangalore.”
“Was Lord Diamond admitted to the residence?”
“He was, sir. And the bedroom curtains on the second floor were closed a few minutes later. For over an hour, sir.”
“I see.”
Johnson looked back to his notebook. “At twelve forty-five p.m. Lord Diamond emerged and rode to the Liberal Club where he joined the Lord Eden for lunch. At two o’clock they were still there, and had started on their third bottle of wine. Shortly after two p.m. Masterson and Jones took over the surveillance.”
“I suppose there’s no point in my asking, but any sign of Akushku?”
“No, sir. And we didn’t see him post any letters or make any written communication, sir.” Johnson flipped his notebook shut, and hesitated. “Might I make an observation, sir?”
“By all means, Inspector.”
“Lord Diamond is well known to be, pardon me, somewhat louche. He drinks, he gambles, he’s unreliable, indiscreet. Frankly, he’s a man with no moral fibre of any sort.”
“That sounds like a fair assessment.”
“Which would make him a target for blackmail.”
“It might,” I said, “if he made any effort to keep his vices secret.” I remembered Lady Diamond, and the pantomime of marital affection she put on for me and Steinhauer. She seemed to have few illusions about her husband.
“If he had gambling debts, sir? That would also make him vulnerable.”
“Look into it.”
* * *
—
In normal circumstances, opening other people’s letters carried draconian penalties, and deservedly so. However, in 1890 or thereabouts I had stumbled across a loophole: thanks to the ancient Liberties of that part of the City of London—quirks in the by-laws—letters routed through the Mount Pleasant sorting office were not protected. They could be intercepted and opened by anyone, quite legally. My first action back then had been to make damned sure no Special Branch letters ever went near the place, and my second was to arrange a secure room in Mount Pleasant office where we could if necessary open everyone else’s letters. I was well aware of the irony, but were I not a hypocrite I could not do my job.
* * *
—
That same morning Kingsbury, Dubois and myself took up residence there, ignoring curious stares from the few members of Royal Mail staff who were unaware of the protocol—which was that we did not exist, and were not there.
The fourth member of our team that day was Malkovich, lugging his customary Gladstone bag clinking with equipment. Short, swarthy and taciturn, Malkovich was a chemist by training, but an artist in his chosen field. Quickly and precisely he laid the tools of his trade out on his workbench before turning to the letters, thirty-four in number, that had been intercepted at sorting offices all over London. As my colleagues and I watched, he set to work, with steam, solvents and exquisite delicacy, easing open each envelope in turn. Most were of heavy laid paper, like the letters within, which Malkovich withdrew with padded tongs and passed over to us. Following his example we wore cotton gloves to avoid leaving any marks on the paper and prised the leaves apart gently, taking care not to soften the creases.
It took some time to scan the letters; we were less interested in what they appeared to say than what they might conceal. In my most recent report to the King I had described an informant who had promised to deliver us Akushku for a colossal sum of money. It was an utter fiction, designed to trap the informant who tried to pass it on. I did not expect to see it plainly stated; rather we looked for those odd grammatical constructions and convoluted sentences that indicate a passage written in code or, failing that, some hint that any of the writers were under stress or in fear of discovery.
The stakes could not have been higher: the letters we were reading had been written by the King’s personal friends, his senior ministers and his confidential advisers. If my actions were discovered, I could quote the ancient Liberties of the City and my special licence to open letters until I was blue in the face, but I’d be dismissed in disgrace all the same—unless we found solid evidence of conspiracy and treason.
Where affairs of state were discussed, I tried to forget those passages as soon as I had read them, and had instructed Kingsbury and Dubois to do the same. It was a mere fig-leaf of propriety that would not shorten the hangman’s rope one inch. But for the most part the letters were utterly trivial stuff; one Lord’s billet-doux to his catamite was vulgar and indiscreet in the extreme, but blackmail was unlikely, since the man’s proclivities were pretty much an open secret at the time.
Lord Diamond, of course, was the correspondent in whom I took the keenest interest. There were no letters addressed to him, and he had sent out only two: one to an old school friend, brusquely refusing him a loan to pay a gambling debt, and the other to the editor of a provincial newspaper complaining
about farmers who dared to ban steeplechasers from their fields. On the evidence of these letters Diamond was very much how he appeared on the surface: pompous, shallow, vain and obsessed with his own entertainment—another numbskull British aristocrat. Nothing suggested he was a traitor. And the behaviour my men had observed—drinking, gambling and fornicating the way he always had—was hardly that of a man engaged in a secret conspiracy to assassinate a head of state. If Diamond was concealing a connection to Akushku, he was a superb actor with nerves of steel, and from what I knew of Diamond, neither was true.
And what evidence had I anyway of Diamond’s supposed connection to Akushku? An expensive fan that Lady Diamond had lost at the opera, when two score of the damn’ things had been sold in the last few months. The case was so tenuous a jury would laugh it out of court.
By the time we had finished perusing the last letter my heart was in my boots. None of that was Malkovich’s concern; he refolded the letters and replaced them in their respective envelopes with the same exquisite lightness of touch he had used to extract them. I watched him do it, enthralled as ever by his skill. Seeing him renew the seals, so they looked as fresh as when they had left the sender’s hand, was like watching time running backwards—a conjuring trick that made the observer vanish.
And soon I might well wish I could vanish, I thought, as Kingsbury and Dubois took the letters away and Malkovich cleaned up his workbench. I was a poor conjuror; I had searched thirty-four aristocratic hats and produced no rabbit. The funeral was on Saturday, and it was now Wednesday afternoon, and I had still no clue who the informant was, or even if there was an informant. I had gambled most of a day—staked my job and my future and my reputation—and I had precisely nothing to show for it.
* * *
—
Every newspaper in the country, it seemed, and many from the Continent had reported the murders of William Lovegrove and Harry Bishop. Scotland Yard, like all of London, had ten mail deliveries a day, and what had started as a trickle of tip-offs in the morning had by the afternoon become an unquenchable flood. According to these informants, Akushku and Bozidar had been sighted all over London and the Home Counties, and as far away as Manchester and Edinburgh. Quinn had been forced to reassign officers to plough through the correspondence. One or two were feasible, most were hearsay, and some were downright nonsensical, but we still had to spend time sorting the wheat from the chaff. Where there was a credible lead, detectives had been sent to investigate; it was now nearly five, and half of those men had still not returned. To cap it all, on my return from Mount Pleasant I had encountered two scandal-mongering journalists in the very foyer of Scotland Yard, seeking more details on the brutal deaths of our “noble brothers in arms—so we can pay proper tribute to their work, Chief Superintendent.” But I knew these hacks of old and the stories in which they specialized: lurid tales of true crime lovingly illustrated with every gory detail they could fit in.
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