The sumptuous reception salon of Sir Abraham Goldsmith’s residence was filled with a glittering throng of ladies and gentlemen, invited ostensibly for a pleasant evening’s fraternization beneath the glowing chandeliers, which held clusters of elegant white candles, and the white and gilt stucco ceilings. The candle-light, reflected from many prisms and brilliants, caught the jewelled necklaces of the ladies, and filled the great room with the deeply rich scintilla of many diamonds.
In a pillared gallery high above the salon, Sir Charles Napier looked down on the chattering crowd of guests. Liveried footmen wove expertly through them, offering glasses of claret. The Germans, he noted, had made a conscious effort to mingle with the other nationalities. The French cultural attaché had been buttonholed by that old bore von Metz, and the German Ambassador himself was evidently being very pleastant to Mr Austen Chamberlain.
And the Russians? They were gathered around their ambassador, Prince Orloff, like sheep around their shepherd. Orloff seemed to be on the defensive. He looked, as always, very stiff and proud in evening dress. He was wearing the sash and star of the Order of St Stanislaus. Beside him was Count Kropotkin, Head of Mission, with his beautiful countess, and a number of junior attachés, all duly deferential. The ambassador’s wife, Princess Orlova, had attracted a minor coterie of ladies from the other nationalities, and had retired with them to a side room.
And where, thought Napier, was his particular bête noir? Ah! There he was. Slightly behind the main Russian group, and frowning like a spoilt brat, was the Russian military attaché, Captain Igor Andropov.
A voice behind Napier, a voice belonging to a man half-hidden by an archway framed by tall palms, suddenly spoke. Napier continued to look down on the brilliant throng.
‘Did you send young Andropov a Note this morning?’ asked the voice. ‘If you did, then that would explain his brow of thunder. That, and the fact that he’s clearly drunk. He looks more like an apoplectic pig than ever.’
‘I don’t recollect your name appearing on the guest list, Colonel Kershaw,’ said Napier. ‘But of course I knew you’d get in some way or other. Yes, I sent him a formal Note. It was Salisbury’s idea in the first place. I think he contemplated something like a mild complaint, but I had a word with the Foreign Secretary before he left for Scotland this afternoon, and he thought a Note would be more to the point. But come out from behind those palms, Kershaw, and sit down here. I received bad news from Brian Fitzgerald this afternoon. I want to tell you about it.’
Kershaw did as he was bid. Fitzgerald, he knew, was the supervisor of Foreign Office correspondents in Northern Europe. A genial cloth-merchant by trade, he had been based in Riga for many years.
‘I heard from Fitzgerald today that two of my people, Abu Daria and Piotr Casimir, were found murdered, tied back to back and shot through the head. Their bodies were in a timber-store at Petrovosk. And my agent Jacob Kroll – you remember Kroll? – was pulled dead from the river at Riga. He’d evidently been attacked by thugs, and his body flung into the Dvina. Those three men have been murdered for revealing what they knew about Russia’s aggressive intentions towards India, and their secret machinations in the forests of Lithuania.’
‘Perhaps. Or maybe they were murdered in case they revealed what they didn’t know. Dead men tell no tales either way.’
In the salon below, a pianist seated himself at a great rosewood piano, and began to play. His music was designed to complement the conversation – tuneful, and sweetly harmonic. The noise of conversation began to rise, and the footmen appeared with further supplies of claret.
‘I received no response from Andropov to that Note I sent this morning,’ said Napier. ‘I think this is the right time for me to go down there and pay my respects to Prince Orloff. Then I’ll steer young Andropov into a corner to hear what he has to say.’
‘I wish you well,’ said Colonel Kershaw. ‘Do you want me to come with you?’
Sir Charles Napier laughed, and moved towards the staircase.
‘Certainly not! You stay up here, out of the way. After all, I’m hardly venturing into the lion’s den – merely the pig’s sty.’
Kershaw watched Napier as he descended the staircase into the salon. He had known Charles Napier since boyhood, They had had their differences, but since the affair of the Hansa Protocol earlier that year, each had revised his estimate of the other. Elegant and beautifully spoken, Napier was a born diplomat, a fluent linguist, and a skilful weaver of the many subtle threads of politics. He wore his clothes well, and tonight his white shirt front was adorned with the insignia of a Knight Bachelor.
Colonel Kershaw thought of the bloodstained card that Box had given him earlier that day. He had shown it to M. Scriabin, head of security at the Russian Embassy. Scriabin had pulled a wry face, and told him that this Karenin had been gaoled for a breach of state security in the ’70s, and that he had been released from prison the previous year. He had told him, too, the name of a man living in London who could tell him all about Dr Karenin and his history. He would contrive to let Box know that.
There was Napier now, weaving his way through the throng. Now he was bowing to Prince Orloff, who was returning the compliment with a vengeance. His attendant suite bowed their heads briefly. And now he was talking to young Captain Andropov….
What was this? A sudden, violent movement from the Russian attaché, and he had flung the contents of his claret glass in Napier’s face. Several women screamed, the pianist stopped in mid-phrase, and conversation froze. In moments, a number of angry men had closed in on the attaché, pinioned his arms, and dragged him away. He was shouting something in Russian, his face contorted with drunken rage.
Napier was wiping his face with a scarf that someone had passed to him. Even from where he stood in the balcony, Kershaw could see the ugly red claret stain splashed across Napier’s dress shirt. He suddenly felt a surge of cold anger, but he did not let that prevent him from noticing that one of the footmen had hastily deposited his tray on a window sill and hurried out into the hall passage. So that was it!
Napier was speaking to the assembled company in French. ‘Please, my friends, it is nothing. A young man’s foolish misunderstanding. Please continue the soirée. In a few minutes’ time the grand buffet will be served.’ Napier glanced at the pianist, who immediately continued his quiet recital. The conversations were renewed.
Prince Orloff’s face was white with shock. He looked beside himself with shame.
‘My dear Sir Charles,’ he stammered in English, ‘you will believe me when I say that I had no notice of this terrible insult. I apologize unreservedly and publicly, on my own behalf, and that of the Imperial Government. That man will be withdrawn to Russia immediately, and disciplined. I am devastated, dishonoured….’ The ambassador was wringing his hands in anguish.
‘Come up into the gallery, Your Excellency,’ said Napier. ‘We can talk privately there. Meanwhile, let me assure you that I regard Andropov’s action as a mental aberration. The matter is of no consequence.’
Sir Charles Napier and Prince Orloff made their way through the guests towards the stairs. Napier acknowledged the many murmured expressions of sympathy that were offered to him in several languages. The Russian Ambassador maintained a stiff posture and determined silence until they had reached the seclusion of the gallery, where they sat down at a table.
‘This afternoon, Sir Charles,’ said Prince Orloff, ‘Andropov came to me and showed me the Note that you had sent him. It suggested that the Russian Imperial Government had authorized incursions into Afghanistan, perhaps with a view to attacking India. I am happy to assure you that these suggestions are unfounded.’
‘I am delighted to hear it, Your Excellency. Your assurance is, of course, entirely sufficient. Thank you for clarifying the situation for me.’
‘Your Note to Andropov further suggested that Russian engineers were working on unspecified projects in the vicinity of Meshed. Again, I am happy to assure you that this is
not the case. Your informants were mistaken.’
‘Again, Prince Orloff, I must thank you for your kindness in making things clear. They were simply enquiries, as I’m sure you’ll understand. Captain Andropov evidently misread my intentions. Having those points clarified assures me, not for the first time, that relations between our government and yours are conducted on a basis of frankness and mutual regard.’
Prince Orloff smiled, and inclined his head. Then his eyes rested on Napier’s stained shirt front. Once again, the old aristocrat blushed with shame and anger.
‘Do you believe me when I say that I was not privy to that fellow’s outrageous assault? I can’t fathom the reason for it. He is supposed to be a diplomat – but he will be one no longer. He will be returned to his regiment, if they will have him – but who is this? Ah! Colonel Sir Adrian Kershaw. Please join us, Colonel. I have been apologizing to Napier here for that man’s conduct.’
Colonel Kershaw glanced briefly at Napier, and then sat down beside the ambassador.
‘My dear Prince Orloff,’ said Kershaw, ‘as you know, I am the kind of person who finds out things. Now here is something about Captain Igor Andropov that you may not know. Young as he is, that man has been heavily in debt for years – ruinously in debt. Very soon, he may lose the small estate that has given him the necessary entrée into Russian public life.’
‘You astound me! Are you sure of this, Colonel Kershaw?’
‘I am, Your Excellency. Andropov was bribed by a certain faction to create a diplomatic incident here, tonight. That faction had previously ensured that there would be sufficient bad blood between Britain and Russia for something like this to occur. Andropov is no Russian patriot. He is a hired turncoat. So, as I’m sure Sir Charles Napier has told you, there is no diplomatic breach between you and us. Russia’s honour has never been in question.’
The ambassador stood up, and shook both men vigorously by the hand.
‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘the matter is closed. I will go down to join my suite. And then, perhaps, we can all assemble for the grand buffet!’
The two Englishmen watched the old Russian aristocrat as he descended the stairs. Sir Charles Napier looked at Kershaw with a mixture of awe and amused vexation.
‘You monstrous creature, Kershaw! So you knew all the time that this incident was going to take place. You knew Andropov would be here, and you didn’t think it necessary to warn me. Really!’
‘Well, you see, I didn’t know what exact form the incident was going to take. Trust a fellow like Andropov to waste a very decent Médoc! Incidentally, I think Mrs Beeton has a recipe somewhere, called, “To Remove Claret Stains from a Boiled Shirt”. I’ll look it out for you. By the way, did you notice one of the footmen rushing out as soon as the wine-throwing took place? He’s gone to alert the Press, who are lurking in the alley beside this house. Somebody tipped them off about all this, and paid that footman to relay the news. It’ll be in all the papers tomorrow, and no matter what you and old Orloff say to each other, the papers will blow the matter up out of all proportion. The so-called “incident” was contrived solely for that purpose.’
Napier stood in thought for a moment, looking down on the crowd of guests.
‘You may well be right, though my intelligence seems to confirm that Russia really is making these incursions in Afghanistan and beyond. Prince Orloff is secretly furious beneath that veneer of diplomatic sweet reasonableness. He’s convinced that we’re seeking an opportunity to quarrel. He didn’t believe my reassurances just now, and, of course, I didn’t believe his protestations of innocence.’
‘Well, Charles,’ said Kershaw, ‘perhaps we’ll speak further about all this. Incidentally, it’s not only the gentlemen of the Press who are shivering out there in the cold; Detective Inspector Box is there, as well. I rather think that our friend the footman will have met his match in that alley.’
Box waited in the shadows of the cold alley until the footman, incongruous in his blue and silver livery and powdered wig, had poured out his excited account of the incident to the waiting reporters. Fiske of the Graphic, and Carter of the Sketch, grinning broadly, had beaten a hasty retreat. Both men, Box knew, needed only the bare bones of a story: their great journalistic skills would provide the necessary meat.
As soon as the gleeful reporters had gone, Box emerged from the shadows, and seized the startled footman by the collar.
‘I just want a little verbal statement from you, my friend,’ said Box, showing the man his warrant card. ‘So let’s have no bluster, and no clever tales. Who tipped you off about this little game?’
The footman, a young fellow of twenty or so, licked his lips nervously, and glanced at the entrance to the alley, which the taciturn coffee seller had carefully blocked by pulling his stall across the entrance.
‘So help me God, guvnor, I don’t know who the man was. He approached me yesterday, as I was exercising Lady Goldsmith’s dogs in the park. He gave me five pounds in sovereigns, and said that if anything peculiar happened in our house tonight, I was to come out here and tell a man called Fiske what had happened. I didn’t mean no harm, guvnor—’
‘I never said you did. What was he like, this man? I don’t suppose he gave you his name and address, did he, and a nice little photograph of himself in a leather-covered frame?’
‘No, sir. He didn’t do anything like that. He was a tall man, with very black hair. Pale as a ghost – corpse pale, he was. He spoke English, but with a foreign accent, like a lot of the gentlemen do who come to our house. I won’t lose my place, will I, guvnor?’
‘No, you won’t. You’ve not broken the law, but you might take a few lessons in loyalty to your employer, my lad. You might have compromised him, and damaged his reputation as a banker, and all for five pounds. Go on, hop it.’
When the footman had scuttled away, Box turned to the stall-holder.
‘I suppose you’re another of the colonel’s private regiment?’ he asked. ‘He thinks of everything, doesn’t he?’
The man smiled. He had cleared the stall of its urn and pile of cups, which he had stowed in a cupboard beneath the counter, and had begun to drag the whole thing out into Arlington Street.
‘He thinks of most things, Inspector Box,’ he said. ‘You’ll usually find me working in a little lane off Leicester Square, but I came here tonight to oblige the Colonel. If the gentlemen of the Press were turning up, they’d need somewhere to plant themselves comfortably. Thinks of everything, the colonel does.’
5
Voices from the Sea
The cable ship Lermontov had lain at anchor for most of the dark hours of Friday night, half a mile off the Cornish coast. As Saturday dawned, and the sun rose, its light was quickly smothered in the drifting mists of grey rain falling widely across the sea. It was just possible for a sharp ear to detect the sound of the engines that worked the cable-lifting gear. A pall of black smoke hung over the vessel.
In a sheltered fissure high on the cliff top William Pascoe, chief cipher clerk, well wrapped up against the rigours of the cold morning, stared out to sea through powerful binoculars. Yes, it was as he thought. The mysterious vessel had returned to its haunt, and this time he was able to make out its name and provenance, painted on the stern in Latin characters: Lermontov, Odessa. They were busy splicing into one of the cables. Soon, no doubt, they’d send a message for him and his colleagues at Porthcurno to pick up and relay to London.
The rain began to clear, and the low banks of cloud glowed with a diffuse sunlight. Far off, near the horizon, a smudge of smoke appeared. That, thought Pascoe wryly, will be the naval frigate that someone in London had decided to send across from Plymouth, to keep an eye on things. Activity on the Lermontov ceased, and Pascoe heard the rasping of its anchor-chain. The ship remained stationary, but Pascoe knew that before the frigate had come fully into view, the Russian ship would begin to move away, probably in the general direction of the French coast.
In the snug inner office
leading off the main transmission room at Porthcurno cable station, a comfortable, fair-haired man in his forties puffed away at his morning pipe, and scanned the early editions of the newspapers. They were full of the drunken Russian attaché’s attack on Sir Charles Napier – and making heavy weather of it, by the look of things.
‘A grave assault on the dignity of the English race,’ the Morning Post declared. ‘Russia may be quite certain,’ it went on to say, ‘that Her Majesty’s Government will demand full reparation.’ Well, maybe.
What did The Times have to say? ‘It may be time for Britain to reappraise her alliances. For too long, it seems, we have made Prussia the bogey-man with which to affright ourselves. Has the time come to believe the Kaiser’s protestations of friendship? Has the time come to understand the deep concerns of the Berlin government, and to see that fear of Russia is a legitimate cause for concern?’ Strong stuff!
The fair-haired man put the paper down, and walked out into the transmission room. William Pascoe had come hurrying in from his early-morning jaunt. Thank goodness he’d left his bicycle outside! Here he was, making no attempt to remove his damp pea jacket, looking as though he was bursting with news. It was only seven o’clock, and the six night operators were still on duty, sitting at their busy machines.
‘Ah! So you’re back from your jaunt at last, William!’ said the fair-haired man. ‘It’s been frantic here for the last hour. Very heavy traffic from Alexandria, which seems to be carrying a lot of the Malta stuff this morning. Heavy going, for a Saturday! But it’s all commercial, and we’re slackening off, now, thank goodness. The day men will be down in half an hour.’
‘Has there been anything from nearer home in the last twenty minutes or so, Bob? I saw that ship down there again this morning. It was splicing into one or other of the cables—’
‘You and your mystery ships! As a matter of fact, a message had started to come in as you arrived. It’s coming through now, on Number 5, over there, the old Kelvin-Muirhead machine. Perhaps it’s the message you’re hoping for.’
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