Lethal Pursuit

by Will Thomas

  “Ah,” he said. “Pierce’s list.”

  “You really intend to investigate Drummond’s death, then?” I asked.

  “I would have no need for the list otherwise.”

  “Do you intend to give the satchel to the Home Office, then?”

  “Let us say I have considered it. Let me look at this list.”

  I rose to come round, but he raised a hand. He drew out a small black leather-bound notebook and copied them down in his unreadable scrawl and then handed the latter to me. My eyebrows rose at the first on the list.

  “The German government?” I asked. “What, all of it?”

  “Let us hope it is not that one, Thomas. I fear we don’t have the resources to handle it. However, I would imagine they would send agents more experienced than youths in blue coats. If that is the best they possess we have little to worry over.”

  “There is nothing but a question mark afterward.”

  “We shall see if we can change this into facts. Next?”

  “Count Valentine von Arnstein, broker of antiquities. Austrian citizen of Graz, Styria.”

  Barker rose and studied a map of Europe that was framed by the bow window.

  “Styria is in the southernmost part of Austria. Graz is the capital.”

  “It doesn’t sound like a spot rich in antiquities.”

  “True, lad, but it isn’t very far from Trieste. One could take a steamer to Palestine.”

  “The manuscript certainly qualifies as an antiquity of great value.”

  “How valuable, I wonder,” the Guv said. “I dislike the word ‘priceless,’ but it is possible that wars could be waged over it. Germany is not feeling amiable toward England at the moment. It’s possible, the manuscript was stolen by a German nationalist and given to Drummond to foment a war.”

  “What kind of nationalist?” I asked.

  He pointed to Germany on the map with a thick index finger.

  “In your lifetime, these were seperate countries: Bavaria, Prussia, Hesse, Hanover, and a dozen others. Bismarck unified them twenty years ago. The unification was not popular for all. Now that he is dead, some may want to have their independence.”

  I stood and stepped behind him, looking at the image of unified Germany. “Now his successor, Kaiser Wilhelm, is a nationalist of another sort. He wants Germany to be a colonial power to rival England.”

  “Wouldn’t a holy manuscript be a fine prize for either party?” my employer asked. “Who is next on the list, Thomas?”

  “Karl Heinlich. It says he is an American speaker, a proponent of atheism.”

  “Atheism,” the Guv murmured.

  I expected some critical remark, but he made no comment.

  “What would an atheist want with a biblical manuscript, the oldest gospel known to man?”

  “To ridicule it, perhaps,” Barker replied, returning to his desk. He settled his encased limb on the corner of the desk with a wince. “Or to burn it.”

  “Is there a chance that is political, as well? He could be a spy. America wants colonies as much as Germany.”

  “You’ve been reading The Times,” he said, with some degree of approval. “However, that doesn’t make Heinlich a spy. Not yet, anyway. Who is next?”

  “Daniel Cochran, another American. Some sort of evangelist it says. Obviously, having a holy manuscript would win him thousands of followers. Not to mention funding.”

  Cyrus Barker wagged his head and tsked. “Such a cynic, and at your age.”

  “Yes, well, eight months in prison will do that to a fellow.”

  “Nevertheless, you are correct. Cochran belongs on this list. Is there another candidate?”

  “One more. A collector of antiquities named Lord Grayle. He lives in Hampshire, but has a pied-à-terre in London. Ha! Pierce calls him a fanatic. He must have plenty of money to have that sort of hobby.”

  “Aye, no doubt.”

  “Five names,” I said. “And all are in London. We’d better hurry if we’re going to question all of them and still make the late express to Dover.”

  “There is plenty of time.”

  “My word. Why do I even bother?”

  Barker rose from his seat and donned his heavy overcoat. He took a blackthorn from the rack. I suspected this cold weather was settling in his injured knee. Without a word, I gave him way.

  “Let us stop and see if the German ambassador will see us. He’s probably busy, but it is worth the attempt.”

  The German embassy was near Belgrave Square. Even in winter, it was neat, precise, well tended, and somehow alien to the British way of life. It isn’t that we’re lazy, we simply like things to be comfortable. As we stepped inside, every chair was arranged precisely on the tiles beneath and the books in their shelves were neatly aligned. Even the fronds in their pots were a uniform length.

  We met a receptionist who led us to a clerk, who led us to a secretary, who informed us the ambassador was able to see us. Before I fully grasped that fact, we were seated in front of a large desk, staring at the representative of Kaiser Wilhelm’s government in the British Isles. He was smoking some kind of strong cigarette in a green holder, with one hand, and holding our card in the other.

  “Gentlemen, come in,” he said, waving us to seats.

  “Thank you for seeing us without notice,” Barker said.

  Paul von Hatzfeldt had a bulbous head and very little chin. He was thin, fastidiously dressed, and in his long tails he reminded me of a stork. He had a small mustache and I suspect his thinning hair was dyed. He was relaxed in the presence of two enquiry agents and did not consider it below his station to speak to us. He was the first German I had spoken to who had no trace of an accent.

  “How may I be of service to you?” he asked.

  How indeed? I wondered. I didn’t expect the Guv to spout that we had the satchel for which his countrymen were searching all over London. But then, he was not the sort to announce his intentions.

  “Sir,” my employer said. “Mr. Llewelyn and I have been hired by the family of the late Mr. Hillary Drummond to look into the manner of his death. His body was found in Whitehall Street. At the time of his death he had just arrived from Germany. I say just; it was no more than a quarter hour since his arrival.”

  “I see,” von Hatzfeldt said, nodding. “Pray continue.”

  “I spoke to a government official at Charing Cross Station who said there was a bag of some sort that was recovered. He would not say more than that. He was vague about his facts, was he not, Mr. Llewelyn?”

  “He was,” I said. “Very vague.”

  I tried not to raise a brow at the Guv’s remarks. We had no idea if Drummond even had living parents, much less hiring us to work on their behalf.

  Barker leaned forward in his seat. “We wondered if perhaps you might help us discover what was in the satchel and why he brought it from Germany.”

  The ambassador crossed his long limbs after smashing the end of his cigarette in a tray. “This is the first I’ve heard of this. As far as I’m concerned, the family should have the right to look inside a man’s satchel. If it contains something that does not belong to the German government or an individual of my country, they are welcome to it. I feel that countries, mine included, should not take what does not belong to them. It makes for bad relations.”

  “I agree,” Barker said. “I merely wish to be able to give Drummond’s effects to his mother.”

  “What was Mr. Drummond’s occupation?” the ambassador asked.

  “His parents could not say. He had worked in various fields while here in England and the only information his mother received in his letters was that he had retained a situation. I suspect he was the adventurous type, floating around Europe.”

  Leisurely, Hatzfeldt picked up a pencil and began to set down notes. He was almost the antithesis of the grunting, irritable Salisbury.

  “What was Mr. Drummond’s given name?”

  “Hillary.”

  “I haven’t he
ard of this before now, but that is not rare. If he died two days ago, it would take one more day for news to arrive from Berlin. If it were important we would have received a telegram by now. I cannot think what Mr. Drummond carried in his bag, but if his family hopes it is full of marks, I fear they shall be disappointed. They seem to have little to go on. I do not envy you your assignment.”

  “This is typical of the work we do, sir,” the Guv said.

  “Then you are brave fellows. I have not had the pleasure of meeting an enquiry agent before. It seems to be an unusual occupation.”

  “It has its moments,” I said.

  “This appears to warrant a telegram to Berlin, I think. How did Drummond die again?”

  “He was stabbed in the back with a sword and then run over by a cab.”

  “For such a phlegmatic society, you do have more than your share of murder and intrigue.”

  “If we did not, Mr. Llewelyn and I would be selling vegetables at a stall in Tottenham Court Road.”

  “Sir, I doubt very much that you would sell vegetables.”

  “Tell me, Ambassador, have you heard of academic fencing or Mensur? Oh, but of course you have. I see the scar upon your chin.”

  “I am the Count of Düsseldorf, where I attended university. Of course I know academic fencing. My chief memory of Mensur is being afraid during my first bout. I assumed I would be disfigured for life. I was not very good, you see. When I was cut, they packed salt in the wound to make the scar more prominent.”

  “Why do it, then?” I asked.

  “One must play the game. A man is nobody and nothing in Germany without the scar. Mensurites get the best positions, the prettiest girls, and the most aristocratic friends.”

  “I see,” Barker said, although I’m sure von Hatzfeldt had not said anything the Guv didn’t know already.

  “I would like to talk about this further, but I have an appointment. Should you discover anything, please come and see me again. I am as interested in Drummond’s time in Germany as you.”

  Barker stood. “We thank you. Perhaps we shall solve this case quickly with your help.”

  “I hope so.”

  Both of them nodded and we left the embassy. We found an omnibus and climbed aboard. Inside, it was marginally warmer than out. Barker looked pleased with his efforts.

  “What have we accomplished?” I asked. “Besides alerting the Germans we are connected to the satchel, that is.”

  “They already know, Thomas, or they would not have stolen your linens last night.”

  “They were not linens. It was a fencing uniform. A good one that I now have to replace.”

  “We needed to make a show of strength to prove to Berlin that we are not afraid to step into the lion’s den.”

  “And?”

  “The ambassador is an old warhorse. He’s been here for a decade or two and he will not leave until he is carried out. He’s not above diplomacy and even espionage from time to time. That is an essential part of an ambassador’s training, receiving word that something has occurred, concealing any knowledge of it, and awaiting a response from their government.”

  “Do you believe he knows something, then?”

  Cyrus Barker looked out the window at people passing by, hunched into their scarves and collars. “Not necessarily, but he should by end of day.”

  “Sir,” I asked him straight-out. “Are we going to Calais today or not?”

  “Let us allow the day to play out, shall we?”

  I suspected Barker was formulating a plan for going forward but was not yet ready to tell me. As an assistant, it had been irritating, but as a partner, it was maddening. Cyrus Barker and I were involving ourselves in the highest levels of government intrigue and the reputation of our agency hung in the balance.

  We arrived in our chambers. I was about to throw some coal on the fire and make a remark about Bob Cratchit, but it would have been unintelligible to my employer. He rarely reads anything from our century on the assertion that civilization is falling about our ears. However, I was stopped in my plans by the expression on Jeremy Jenkins’s face, and by a pile of folded papers and small envelopes on the silver salver on his desk. Unwinding the scarf from my neck, I tried to puzzle out what they were and the answer came immediately to my lips.

  “You’ve accepted Pollock’s request to lead the Templars.”

  “I have, lad,” he said. “We have not discussed the details, but I think we can accommodate his wishes.”

  “Can we? How many messages have come in during the last hour?”

  “Twelve,” Jenkins supplied, no more overjoyed at the news than I.

  “They will have to be transcribed, and some answered,” I said. “After that, they must be destroyed. This is important information and the notebook must be kept secret. It cannot fall into anyone’s hands, even the government’s.”

  “Agreed,” Barker rumbled.

  “Who shall undertake the work?” I asked. “I can’t do it. I’m with you most of the time, unless you intend to start investigating without me. We would receive over a hundred per day if we had this same number every hour. I cannot do it.”

  “Nor can I,” Jenkins stated. “I’ve got so much to do here, my other duties would suffer!”

  We all knew that Jeremy had few other duties. The first half of the day he sits and glares at the Police News, his back teeth aching from the amount of alcohol he’d consumed the night before. Fortified by a strong cup of tea and a light meal, he generally came to life in the afternoon. By two o’clock he was fully functional, for him, at least. He dusted, swept, kept files, and conveyed visitors’ cards to Barker’s desk. At five thirty, he was set free like a schoolboy on the final day of term, to go to the Rising Sun public house.

  From time to time he helped us actively on a case, and his skills as a forger were unrivaled, as the night before would attest, but that was not often. What reason would an employer have for a clerk who did little or nothing? I assumed it had to do with how he was first hired. I know that the Guv greatly respected Jeremy’s father, whose exploits were legendary. There were forgeries of his in private collections whose owners knew were painted by Jenkins père. There were also countless copies in museums all over the world whose curators were unaware of the deception. He was equally skilled in art and lettering. Jenkins was nearly as good as his father. Obviously, Barker kept him around for his skill with a pen, even though his clerking skills were minimal at best, but I doubted Barker expected him to handle the Templar correspondence. One might as well give a quill to Voltaire and ask him to write a shopping list.

  For once the Guv looked stumped, glaring first at me and then Jenkins to solve the problem. One can imagine how surprised I was when I found the solution.

  “Sir, last year, you agreed we would need Mac here in the future. He’s helped with enquiries on several occasions and is highly competent. He’s also very precise. I believe he would enjoy the challenge.”

  “Thomas, we need him at home! Who will cook the meals?”

  “We don’t need him the entire day, sir. He can work a few hours here or help as needed. The rest of the day he can be at home, polishing silver to his heart’s content.”

  Barker crossed his arms and sat back in his chair. “You sound as though you have considered this.”

  “You know he’s always wanted to be an enquiry agent.”

  “I prefer him at home. Everything runs smoothly when he is there.”

  “Consider this: offer him the position, allow him to set the proper number of hours, and ask him to hire his own replacement at his convenience.”

  “Which would be never,” he said.

  I smiled. “Precisely.”

  He mulled over the proposition. “Do you believe him willing to become a Templar?”

  “Is it necessary to be a Templar to do the work?”

  “I would prefer it, since some of the missives will be about the society itself. Others are copies of notes meant for other agencies. Ye
t more are notes by Templars informing me—or rather Pollock—since my acceptance is not yet known, of something they believe I need to know.”

  “Such as?” I asked. “Could you be more specific?”

  “Unrest in the north of India, perhaps. The British Army buying rifles from a particular company. Russia eyeing the Crimea, that sort of thing.”

  “But all of that is in The Times.”

  “Most of it. Two days later. A good deal can change in two days.”

  “I hope Mac will be up to the challenge,” I said.

  “Should he wish, I suppose he could go back to his own duties.”

  I shook my head. “I wonder if the agency is up to the challenge.”

  As we spoke, a boy hurried in, dropped a letter on top of the stack, and took a tuppence for his trouble.

  “Thomas, go round to Cox and Co. and procure a sack of sixpences. I suspect we shall need them.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  “What are your thoughts, lad?” Cyrus Barker asked a short while after lunch. He was looking out our bow window at the occasional snowflake.

  “About the case,” I answered. “I must admit that I cannot fathom why you do not take the satchel to Calais and have done with it. It was an honor to be chosen for the assignment. I should think you’d wish to impress the Prime Minister with your abilities.”

  “I doubt the Marquess of Salisbury would be impressed by anything or anyone.”

  “Why do you think Pollock Forbes recommended us for the work?”

  “Wheels within wheels,” he rumbled. “Sometimes I doubt that moving into Craig’s Court was a wise decision, being so close to the seat of government.”

  “Oh, surely you don’t mean that. You love these old rooms as much as I or you would not have had them rebuilt and repaired as you have.”

  “I am being manipulated, and I refuse to be manipulated,” he said, ignoring my last remark.

  “The Prime Minister waves the flag at us and claims that England is ill-used, but I think otherwise. Drummond would not have been free to wander about Europe as his mood took him, sending occasional letters back home. He was one of England’s prime agents. No, he was sent into Germany for one purpose: to get the satchel and bring it here. He stole it, plain and simple. Spying is dirty work. Oh, perhaps Drummond told himself that he was serving his country, but why? England had nothing to gain from the theft, other than to humiliate Germany. If that is the objective, it is a foolish one. The Kaiser is a scoundrel who wants to own an imperial power exceeding our own.”