Web of Discord

by Norman Russell

  ‘You were escorted here in style, Thalberg. A whole company of mounted soldiers!’

  ‘Oh, that? A purely fortuitous circumstance. The authorities in Berlin received your cable, and decided to flood this area with units of the regular army. The 4th Brandenburg Lancers are the first on the scene, and they agreed to let me travel with them. Their quartermaster had been ordered to bring your things across to Petershalle from the militia barracks.’

  Arnold Box walked through the apple orchard, savouring the peace and beauty of Count von und zu Thalberg’s remote country estate. He had met the intensely Anglophile Prussian aristocrat earlier in the year, when he had been involved in the affair of the Hansa Protocol, but had never imagined that he would stay as a guest in his house.

  Petershalle had proved to be a high, five-storey mansion, painted a gleaming white, but with bright green woodwork. To Arnold Box it was luxurious, fascinating, and irredeemably foreign. Its lawns looked as though they had been closely shaven, its surrounding beech trees were carefully clipped and pruned. And here he was, having benefited from a good night’s sleep in a proper bed, and an English breakfast into the bargain, walking in the orchard, while Colonel Kershaw and the others withdrew for a private conference.

  Some yards ahead of him Box saw a man in a rusty old frock coat sitting with his back to him on a camp stool drawn up to a card table set out on the grass. He seemed to be absorbed in a pile of documents spread out in front of him, which he was consulting with the aid of little round gold-wire spectacles. As Box approached, the man turned round, and smiled a greeting.

  ‘Inspector Box,’ said Sergeant Major Schmidt, ‘come and join me. Draw up one of those stools. I’ve something I want to tell you.’

  Box sat down on a stool, and studied the man sitting opposite him. Schmidt was wearing civilian clothes, which made him look rather like a weather-beaten old farmer.

  ‘Mr Schmidt,’ said Box, ‘I thought we’d left you behind at the militia barracks. I’m glad to have found you again. What are you doing here?’

  ‘I’m here, Mr Box, because His Excellency is here. True, I know Major Kerner, and he knows me, but I work only for Count von und zu Thalberg. You know he is head of Prussian Military Intelligence? Well, I arrange things for him. Like that exercise yesterday. I served him once, years ago, when he was in the army, and I stayed with him when he moved on to other things. He and I are both good Prussians. Yes, I arrange things.’

  ‘Will you be going back to Berlin?’

  ‘I will. The plan is for us to return as soon as is convenient. His Excellency is needed urgently in the capital, and I believe there is a plan to send you English folk back to London by regular express train from Königsberg. You will all return in style – no more military trains, with their wooden seats!’

  Sergeant Major Schmidt leaned across the little table and lowered his voice.

  ‘Now, Inspector, let me talk to you about Bleibner. You know he was there, yesterday, at the Rundstedt Channel? He murdered one of the two gunners in the midst of battle, and once again made good his escape. But he’s a creature of habit, and he’ll act according to pattern. Captain Adams knows that, and has gone after him. When he comes to the end of the trail, Herr Box, make sure that you are there as well.’

  ‘You mean—’

  ‘I mean that he will retreat as far as he dares, and that will be to England. Watch where Captain Adams goes, and be sure that you don’t lose sight of him. Bah! You don’t need a poor soldier-man to tell you your business. What is the name of that rocky, rainy county of yours, lashed by the Atlantic at the end of the civilized world? Cornwall. That is where Bleibner will seek refuge. Go there, my friend, when the time is ripe, and arrest the ravening beast. When he is under lock and key, this whole dangerous and devilish business will be at an end.’

  15

  Revelations

  Sir Charles Napier glanced briefly at the front page of the previous Saturday’s Sketch, and then turned to a short column on page 3, entitled ‘Impressions of the Week. By “The Limner”.’

  Last week (he read), the whole world rang with the news of the great battle in the Prussian wilderness, and of the miraculous appearance in the sky of the fearsome aerial craft which will put an end to war. The Russians, it seems, were not, after all, as black as they had been painted. And the Prussians? Well, they had employed more rant than rancour.

  And so all Europe rang with the news. Peace had been assured not just for now, but into the next century. In St Petersburg and Moscow, the bells rang as though for a great victory, and sublime services were sung in Church Slavonic by robed and bearded hierarchs in the many cathedrals. The Tsar contrived to think kindly of his tetchy royal cousin Wilhelm in Berlin, then turned his mind once more to the lure of China, and the problem of Japan.

  In Berlin, crowds milled around the royal palace, singing and cheering. In the Friedrichstrasse fresh wreaths were laid at the foot of the Column of Peace. A large portrait of the Tsar was displayed in the foyer of the Reichstag.

  In Paris, the boulevards were crowded with fashionable ladies and gentlemen, offering themselves to view as part of a celebration which did not directly concern them, while on the Left Bank, earnest intellectuals debated the merits of peace and war, the theory of monarchy, and the ideal of a republic.

  Napier laughed, and threw the paper down. He glanced across to the window, where Colonel Kershaw was standing thoughtfully with a coffee cup and saucer in his hands, looking out on to the spring glories of St James’s Park.

  ‘Fiske of the Graphic,’ Napier observed, ‘having wielded the big stick in the direction of St Petersburg, has now taken refuge in what he imagines to be satire. “The Limner”, he calls himself, when he wants to hide from public scrutiny.’

  ‘Fiske’s a good fellow in his own way,’ said Kershaw. ‘There’s more than a grain of truth in what he’s written there. But “all Europe”, as he calls the interested public in the various capitals, seems to have forgotten that the evil genius behind this whole business is still at large. Perhaps they don’t care.’

  ‘You mean Hans Bleibner,’ said Sir Charles Napier. ‘Well, from my point of view, it would be convenient if Bleibner could be forgotten. He’s a subject for the civil authority – by which I mean your friend Detective Inspector Box – and if he’s brought to justice, then there’ll be a trial.’

  Napier drained his own coffee cup, and placed it on the desk. Kershaw said nothing.

  ‘A trial here, Kershaw, in London, probably at the Old Bailey. All the old wounds will be opened, all the old recriminations remembered. Yes, I hope devoutly that Bleibner disappears from public memory.’

  ‘There speaks the born diplomat.’

  ‘Diplomacy is my business.’

  ‘Speaking of diplomats,’ said Kershaw, still holding his cup and saucer and gazing thoughtfully across the park, ‘that fellow Andropov, the Russian military attaché who took liberties with your shirt front, was returned to his regiment and sent out to Karkhov. He’d been there no more than a week when he was severely beaten by unidentified thugs. Foreigners of some sort. I thought you’d like to know.’

  Napier looked across at the quietly spoken man in the sober frock coat, and thought: He must have arranged for that to happen. He’s done things like that before. Perhaps he’s hinting at a similar fate for Bleibner, when he’s found.

  ‘Very unpleasant for Andropov, I’ve no doubt,’ Napier replied. ‘But he’s another fellow who can be quietly forgotten, Kershaw. In thinking of the present, we can make some attempt to ensure a peaceful future.’

  A certain portentousness crept into the Permanent Under-Secretary’s voice that Kershaw recognized. Whenever he spoke like that, Napier the man disappeared beneath the mask of Napier the Civil Servant.

  ‘The Foreign Secretary has decided that the new understanding between the Powers should be known as the Grand Rapprochement. On Friday, the twelfth of May, there is to be a Grand Rapprochement Banquet, held at the Gol
dsmiths’ Hall, when every opportunity will be seized to bring home to the public the renewed stability of existing relations between the Powers.’

  In St James’s Park a phalanx of nannies, wheeling basinets, had appeared in the neighbourhood of the great lake. Kershaw turned away from the window, and put his empty cup and saucer down on the edge of Napier’s desk. Napier the Civil Servant was still talking.

  ‘The banquet will be graced by the presence of Their Royal Highnesses the Duke and Duchess of Connaught. Mr Gladstone will be there, and, of course, Lord Salisbury. The banquet is essentially being given for the Diplomatic Corps, and I should think there will be several hundred guests. I’ve not yet seen the guest lists, but I expect you’ll be there.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I’ll be there. I’ll have to go now, Napier. I’m due to see Admiral Holland at eleven o’clock. So you don’t want Bleibner to steal your thunder?’

  ‘What? Really, Kershaw, you dart about like a gnat, sometimes. I’d be happy if Bleibner disappeared from the public consciousness completely. This rapprochement is real enough, and I can see how it could be consolidated by a conference at Vienna in the autumn—’

  Colonel Kershaw laughed. He had struggled into his long astrakhan overcoat, and had picked up his tall silk hat.

  ‘I wondered whether you’d get your conference, Napier. I wish you joy of it. Meanwhile, Bleibner is retreating as discreetly as he can from Europe, closely pursued by Captain Edgar Adams RN. Both Adams and I know where he’s going, and when he gets there, he’ll find someone waiting for him – someone whom he won’t like one bit.’

  ‘That’s very reassuring, Kershaw. But it will mean a trial—’

  ‘It will, indeed, mean a trial, but not necessarily at the Old Bailey. There is a way round your difficulty, Napier, and if you’ll leave the matter with me, I’ll see what I can do.’

  Stonewick Hall seemed to have mounted a festal display to welcome Vanessa Drake as she walked through the ornamental gates from the Berwick road. Two gardeners were at work on the crisp green lawns, and the well-tilled flower beds were a riot of colour. Could this be the house where she had been within seconds of a violent death? And how was it possible for Baroness Felssen to be still living there?

  She glanced at the reassuringly nondescript man walking beside her. She remembered Major Hotchkiss as one of the guests at the house parry in March. He and his wife had left on the Monday morning, returning to their home nearby. It was Major Hotchkiss who had called upon her at her lodgings in Westminster, to announce that the time had come for her to finish her work at Stonewick Hall. She knew then that the major was another of Colonel Kershaw’s people.

  The door was opened to them by a young woman in a grey dress with the keys of a housekeeper at her waist. Vanessa had not seen her before, but evidently she was well known to Major Hotchkiss.

  ‘Helga,’ he said, ‘I’ve brought Miss Drake up from the station. Her luggage will be arriving in a few minutes’ time. Goodbye, Miss Drake. Nice to have met you again.’

  He was gone before Vanessa could recover from her surprise. The woman called Helga curtsied slightly, and beckoned Vanessa to follow her. She threw open the door of the music-room, where Hans Bleibner had played Beethoven, the tears running down his awful blanched face.

  ‘Miss Drake, Frau Batonin,’ said Helga, and when Vanessa had entered the room, she closed the door behind her.

  Poised and elegant as ever, Baroness Felssen was standing in the wide bow window. Vanessa looked at her in awe, at the same time admiring her emerald-green silk morning dress, enlivened at the throat by a scintillating diamond brooch. Baroness Felssen smiled, and held out her hands.

  ‘My dear! I’m so glad you’ve come back to Stonewick. Very soon, we’ll have luncheon, and I’ll discuss what else needs to be done in the chapel. All your beautiful work is still there, waiting for you.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Vanessa stammered. ‘You harboured that terrible man here. You were plotting a raid on Whitby with him! I thought you’d be in gaol—’

  Baroness Felssen gave vent to a peal of laughter. She sat down on a sofa near the fireplace, and patted the cushion beside her.

  ‘Come and sit here, Miss Drake, while I tell you why I’m not in gaol. That’s it. For goodness’ sake, girl, relax! Compose yourself like a sensible young woman, and listen. Since late January of this year, Stonewick Hall has been a trap, waiting for Hans Bleibner. It was a baited trap, and the bait was security. My late husband had been at Heidelberg with Bleibner, and I knew him quite well. He was a dangerous, unstable man, with a love of music as his only redeeming feature. He was fluent in English, a persuasive speaker, and an effortless liar.’

  Baroness Felssen sighed, and unconsciously patted the girl’s hand.

  ‘My part in all this was to play the accomplice. It was not a role that I relished, my dear, but it had to be done. And all the time, the trap was being refined, and the right moment chosen to remove Bleibner from the scene. Someone was sent to suggest to him that Sir David Blaine, the Scottish dermatologist, might be able to cure his skin disease. I invited Sir David here, and watched while Bleibner worked his spell upon him.’

  ‘His spell? What do you mean, Baroness?’

  ‘Bleibner used all his rhetorical tricks to send Sir David Blaine away from here a total convert to his way of thinking. The great specialist was like putty in his hands! Russia was the bogey, Germany was all innocence – you heard him yourself! That, of course, had been part of his mission all along.’

  ‘You say this house was a trap. If so, who set it up? I don’t understand—’

  ‘It was set up by my good friend and neighbour in East Prussia, Count von und zu Thalberg, in co-operation with Colonel Sir Adrian Kershaw. It was their joint venture from the start. I was the femme fatale – the wicked lady of the plot!’

  Baroness Felssen laughed.

  ‘Colonel Kershaw – then you were on our side, all the time!’

  ‘No, Miss Drake, I wasn’t on “your side”. That’s all very well in stories, but real life is more subtle than that. I played my part in the affair out of patriotism. I have no time for criminal gangs masquerading as political saviours. I believe only in legitimate government, as you do. My loyalties lie with the Kaiser, and the German Fatherland. In this matter, though, Germany’s interests, and those of England, coincided.’

  ‘I think I understand, Baroness,’ said Vanessa. ‘But surely Bleibner was doing Germany a service by turning the other countries against Russia?’

  ‘He was doing nothing of the sort!’ cried Baroness Felssen, sharply. ‘He sowed only lies about Russia, lies compounded by murder and treachery. The German military attaché here in Britain was misled, but when he knew the truth, he proclaimed it immediately. Germany and its rulers have no place for liars and perjurers.’

  Vanessa Drake had grown very quiet while the baroness spoke. She was recalling Colonel Kershaw’s gently chilling words to her when he had visited her at Westminster. ‘I told you to look and listen. You were not to pry. You chose to disobey me.’

  ‘It was my fault, wasn’t it, Baroness, that the trap didn’t work?’

  ‘Yes, my dear, it was. You see, Bleibner suddenly wanted one of Colonel Kershaw’s agents to be present in the house when he posed as the innocent German liberal surrounded by Russian monsters. I think he had some idea of distancing the “honest” Bleibner from the murderous Karenin. I told him I could help, and travelled down to London to see Colonel Kershaw. He told me about you, and about your great skills in embroidery. He also told me where I could see samples of your work – Colonel Kershaw is nothing if not thorough. I went to Durham, accompanied by my neighbour, Major Hotchkiss. I saw the dean, who showed me your work in the cathedral, and then Major Hotchkiss used the electric telephone to let the colonel know that you were to be engaged.’

  ‘That’s why he kept warning me not to exceed my orders,’ said Vanessa mournfully. ‘I was a fly in the ointment. He knew I wouldn’t be conte
nt without taking some kind of initiative myself. All I had to do was ply my needle and be quiet.’

  ‘Instead of which, Miss Drake, you chose to exceed your orders, and you did so at the very moment that the trap was to be sprung! Bleibner and I were interviewing a wretched English traitor, a man called Cathcart—’

  ‘I heard that bit. You sounded really wicked, talking about shells and things.’

  ‘Yes, and all the time, Miss Drake, there was a platoon of soldiers silently infiltrating the grounds, ready to storm the house. Only they didn’t get the chance, did they? Because you gave yourself away, and Bleibner threw caution to the winds, and turned into a murderous lunatic. If Colonel Kershaw hadn’t sent your young man after you as a shadow, you would have been killed.

  ‘And now, perhaps, you’ll appreciate what your actions forced me to do? Sergeant Knollys was unconscious, and you had fainted. The soldiers would have handed the whole business over to the civil authorities, because they would have no truck with covering up attempted murder. So I was obliged to hide Bleibner and myself in a secret chamber we had had constructed in the attics in case of any possible difficulties. And then, after all the excitement had died down, I personally supervised Bleibner’s escape to the Continent – I did it, young lady, because I dared not communicate with any of our people.’

  ‘You helped him to escape?’ asked Vanessa faintly.

  ‘Yes, I took him, disguised, to Newcastle, and he crossed incognito to Holland. I’ve since learned that when that glorious battle was fought at the Rundstedt Channel, he murdered one of our soldiers, by the simple expedient of thrusting a hatpin into the base of his skull.’