Vanessa Drake burst into tears, covering her face in her hands. Baroness Felssen stroked her blonde hair, and made some attempt at soothing noises.
‘Come, now, my dear, somehow I don’t see you as the tearful type. Let’s go to luncheon. The moral of our story is this: always obey orders. It’s much the best way.’
After luncheon, the housekeeper Helga brought their coffee on a tray upstairs to Baroness Felssen’s spacious and sunny bedroom on the first floor. She moved the two Japanese screens, placed the tray on a small carved table near the fireplace, and then withdrew.
The baroness poured coffee for them both, and then glanced at the two ebony-framed memorial photographs on the mantelpiece. She took up the picture of the pretty young woman in court dress, and handed it to Vanessa.
‘Countess Czerny – Adelheid von Braun before her marriage – was my niece, the only daughter of the youngest of my three sisters. The von Brauns are fanatical Pan-Germanists, and my sister’s child inherited her father’s passions. You will remember her by a different name, a name that she borrowed from a dead friend. You know how she set out to secure the death of Dr Otto Seligmann, and how her mission proved successful. But she paid for her success with her life.’
They listened to the marble clock ticking on the mantelpiece. Vanessa looked down at the photograph, and at the frank and fearless eyes of Adelheid von Braun. This woman had belonged to a criminal conspiracy that had come close to plunging Europe into war.
‘But you have never shared Countless Czerny’s beliefs, Baroness Felssen. So why do you keep her photograph here, in your private room?’
‘Because she was my niece, Miss Drake. I played with her, when she was a tiny little thing. She is part of my family. You can see, can’t you, how complex loyalties can be? One can’t always simply be “on someone’s side”.’
She took the photograph from Vanessa, placed it back on the mantelpiece, next to that of Count Czerny, and sat down again at the coffee table.
‘Adelheid’s husband, Count Czerny, was an unfailingly courteous and cultured man, a man who showed me many kindnesses at difficult times in my life. He was very popular in England, having been educated at a private school near Stowe, and many English people still speak of him with affection. And there he stands, beside my niece. I loathed his politics, but I loved the man. Loyalties again, you see! He was a true aristocrat, a nobleman of the Roman-German Empire. You know what happened to him. He lies in an obscure grave on a lonely Scottish island. The body of my niece was never found.’
They finished their coffee, and Baroness Felssen stood up. She smiled, and offered a hand to her young companion.
‘Enough of the past, Miss Drake. You are my guest here for a week, and there is work to be done in the chapel. This really is my home, you know, and my desire to see the chapel refurbished is quite genuine! So come, my dear, let us leave the past alone, and get on with our lives.’
As they left the quiet, sunlit bedroom in which she had almost met her death at the hands of the frantic Hans Bleibner, Vanessa glanced once more at the photographs, and saw the frank and fearless eyes of Countess Czerny following her.
The grey Atlantic waves hurled themselves angrily against the rocks of Spanish Beach, but Andrew Sedden, sitting in the back room of The Cormorant, was used to the noise that they made, and scarcely heard it. He was giving all his attention to the corpse-pale man on the chair opposite him. Sedden had made some attempt to shave that morning, but he still looked unkempt and slovenly.
Hans Bleibner opened a chamois leather bag gathered at the neck with a leather thong, and unleashed a shower of gold sovereigns on to the table. Sedden licked his lips, but said nothing. It was always better to wait for Herr Bleibner to speak.
‘Here is a hundred pounds, Mr Sedden,’ said Bleibner, ‘in payment for past favours. You were my gateway to England, and my fortress in times of trouble. Well, my star in Europe is set, and the time has come for me to start a new life elsewhere.’
The surly landlord began to gather up his golden hoard, carefully counting the coins as he slipped them back in the chamois leather bag. Yes, he’d made it his business to usher this man in and out of England, hiding him when that was necessary, and denying all knowledge of him when snoopers began to ask questions.
Damn them all! This German outcast and he were brothers under the skin. They cared for nobody but themselves, and they both knew the freedom that money could bring. Bleibner had traded in ideas, with a profitable sideline in murder. He, Andrew Sedden, was too craven at heart to risk his neck, but if he could have got away with murder, he would have done it – if money was to be had. As it was, he was content to trade not in ideas but identities.
‘You say you’ll start a new life, Mr Bleibner. What kind of a life do you have in mind?’
‘I’m thinking very seriously of making my way to America, Mr Sedden. I’ve already salted away a good bit of money in Chicago, and that’s where I intend to settle. A man of my talents could very soon be in demand over there.’
Andrew Sedden indulged in a throaty laugh. He reached for an open bottle of gin, and poured them each a measure in small, bleared glasses.
‘America…. Do you want me to get you the necessary papers? I can get you all that, Mr Bleibner, and I can book you a passage on any of the Atlantic liners in any name you choose— No! I don’t want any more money, you’ve just given me a fortune. But if I was to turn up myself over there in Chicago, would you give me a billet?’
‘A billet? Ah! You mean employment. Yes, assuredly. In fact, Mr Sedden, I find the idea very appealing. The days of ideology are over for me, alas! and I must make do with enterprise. Yes, I would very soon find work for you.’
Both men finished their gin, and Sedden began to make a few cryptic notes in pencil on a greasy scrap of paper.
‘It’s the fourth of May, Mr Bleibner, and I’ll need about ten days to get all that you need together…. How about the sixteenth? I’ll have all your papers ready by then, and a berth booked on a decent liner. It’s folk in London and Liverpool who make these arrangements for me, the folk who brought you here in the first place. So let’s meet down here again on Tuesday, the sixteenth.’
Sedden returned to his notes, and Bleibner sat back in his chair, looking at him. Really, this nondescript, overweight man had been a blessing ever since the venture of the substitute cables had begun. His obscure alehouse at the foot of a dangerous cliff had proved to be an infallible means of entering England unseen and unsuspected.
Immediately after the débâcle at the Rundstedt Channel he had set out by certain devious routes through Germany and northern France to England, slipping unseen into Harwich early on the morning of the 25 April. At one time, he’d fancied that someone was stalking him, but it must have been nerves. A man working on the quay at the Hook of Holland had looked rather like the British Naval Intelligence agent Captain Adams, but he had remained there, working stolidly among the crates and bales, as the ferry had pulled away from the land…. What was Sedden telling him?
‘You’ll be stuck up there at St Columb’s Manor for a fortnight or more, Mr Bleibner. Keep a cool eye on Squire Trevannion. He’s been seeing visions, and hearing voices, and the doctors sent him to the asylum at Helston for a while. He’s released, now, and staying with a cousin in Penzance. But he’ll be back, I’ve no doubt.’
Sedden caught Bleibner’s eye for a moment, and the German saw the unspoken warning in the Cornishman’s glance.
‘Men like that – turned in their wits – are likely to blab, Mr Bleibner. So watch him, if he comes back. I’ve victualled the Manor for you, so you’ll be snug up there until such time as friends of mine take you up to Liverpool to catch the Atlantic boat.’
Hans Bleibner shook hands with his accomplice, and left The Cormorant. It was a chill, blustery day for May, but the weather exhilarated him. A new life was beckoning. He made his way up the steep path to the headland, walking carefully through the stunted shrubs and the we
athered rocky outcrops. Soon, he would be back in the shelter of St Columb’s Manor.
So Squire Trevannion had frightened himself out of his wits? Well, such men could certainly not be trusted to keep their own counsel. Trevannion was a little difficulty asking to be surmounted.
In the back room of The Cormorant, Andrew Sedden tied the leather thong of the chamois leather bag tightly, and got up from the table. As he did so, the door opened.
‘Hello, Mr Sedden,’ said Detective Inspector Box. ‘Remember me?’
As he spoke, three uniformed policemen came into the room.
In the long, low parlour of St Columb’s Manor, Hans Bleibner sat beside the fireplace, lost in thought. Yes, Europe, its powers and its passions, would become – must become – dim memories. There were many possibilities in the New World for two enterprising gentlemen from Cornwall.
But Squire Trevannion was a danger, and he would have to be silenced. He’d already been confined to an asylum. What had he said to the doctors there? He knew too much. It would be as well to be prepared.
Leaving the parlour, Bleibner climbed the old twisted staircase which led to the second storey. The house seemed to be full of alarming creaks and imagined footsteps, and it was easy to understand why Trevannion, his mind turning, fancied that he had heard the voice of his dead sister.
Here he was at his bedroom, a room that had once been occupied by Margaret Trevannion. Today it was full of quiet sunlight, which glanced off the mirror above the vanity-table. It was from this room that he had seen the interfering William Pascoe walking on the cliff top, and had gone out to send him to his death. Curiosity killed the cat…. It was time to make preparations for the demise of Squire Trevannion. There, on Meg’s vanity-table, was the little box of hatpins, all of them long and thin, like needles, and capped with a charming little diamanté globe. He opened the box.
It was empty.
‘I’m sorry, Herr Bleibner,’ said Detective Inspector Box, ‘but I’ve got your precious hatpins here. I thought it’d be better if I took charge of them. You know Sergeant Knollys, I think? This other officer is Inspector Tregennis, of the Cornwall Constabulary.’
‘Hans Bleibner,’ said Tregennis, ‘I arrest you for the wilful and felonious murder of William Pascoe, at Porthcurno, in this county, on the fourteenth of March in this current year….’
As Tregennis read out the charge, Sergeant Knollys secured Hans Bleibner, alias Dr N.I. Karenin, at the wrists and ankles. The prisoner said nothing, and his glazed eyes showed that he had withdrawn into himself as a kind of desperate defence against reality. His corpse-white face had mutated to a sickly shade of oatmeal grey.
16
New Beginnings
‘I’m not given to bestowing lavish praise on my officers, Box,’ said Superintendent Mackharness. ‘Too much commendation goes to a man’s head, and while he basks in his new-found self-satisfaction, his work suffers.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Box had been thankful that the new week had not brought the dreaded Assignments, and when he heard the familiar sound of the limping tread filtering through the stained ceiling of his office, he had been waiting in the vestibule for the ritual summons upstairs.
‘Nevertheless, Box,’ Mackharness continued, ‘in this particular instance, I feel that some kind of recognition would be – er – fitting. Requisite. So, well done, Box! You’ll be aware, I expect, that Colonel Sir Adrian Kershaw KB approached the Commissioner, asking particularly for your services. The Commissioner came across here in person, and asked me whether I would release you. Naturally enough, I agreed.’
‘It was very kind of you, sir. I’m sure the Commissioner was very grateful.’
Inspector Box had contrived to glance at the mantelpiece. The Crimea Medal was still there, and beside it a slim, morocco-bound book with gilt edges. That was new….
Superintendent Mackharness smiled. It was something he rarely did, and the gesture wiped away at least ten years from his appearance.
‘I don’t know about that, Box, but it was gratifying to be consulted in the matter. And so you experienced the rigours and dangers of military conflict, and acquitted yourself well. And then, on your return, you arrested the villain Karenin, or rather Bleibner. Well done, again! I see he’s to stand trial for the murder of William Pascoe, and that the trial will be held at Exeter. Much the best way. We’ve had enough of Bleibner in London.’
The superintendent paused for a moment, and seemed to be gazing into space. Box was content to wait. All this praise pouring from Old Growler’s lips was like balm to an injured man.
‘You know, Box,’ said Mackharness, ‘your passing near Sir John Courteline’s house just after he’d been murdered – that was almost providential, don’t you think? A most unusual concatenation of circumstances.’
‘Concatenation—’
‘Yes, Box. It means a chain of circumstances.’
Mackharness rose from his chair, and took the slim leather-bound volume off the mantelpiece. He blushed as he handed the book to Box.
‘I want you to have this little token of my – er – approbation for all that you’ve done in this case to confound the Queen’s enemies. You’re like me, now, Box: a veteran of the battlefield. Read it. You may find it not only interesting but – er – profitable.’
Box opened the book, and read the title page.
Leaves from an Officer’s Diary
Some Recollections of Life in the Crimea.
By Lieutenant P.A. Mackharness of the Royal Irish Rangers
London: Privately Printed. 1868
‘A book? By you? Well, thank you, sir. I consider that very handsome—’
‘Not at all, Not at all.’
Superintendent Mackharness waved the matter away, cleared his throat, and rummaged round on his desk for a few moments.
‘Now, on the twelfth of this month, Box, there is to be a grand celebratory dinner at Goldsmiths’ Hall. It’s to be called the Rapprochement Banquet, and it will be graced by the presence of His Royal Highness the Duke of Connaught, accompanied by Princess Louise. It will be a glittering occasion, attended by all the Heads of Mission.’
‘Oh! And have I been invited, sir?’
‘Invited? Well, hardly that, I think. But I expect you meant that as a joke. Ha! Ha! Now, obviously, the City Police will be there, but the Commissioner thinks that the presence of a Scotland Yard man would convey the right impression to the distinguished company. It will give them reassurance, you know. Who better than yourself? Go there, will you, Box? It’s this coming Friday.’
‘Guard duty, then, sir?’
‘What? Yes, I suppose you could call it that. But then, one can’t always hobnob with the captains and the kings. Duty calls. I think that’s all. Good morning. And once again, Box, well done!’
As Inspector Box walked through St Paul’s Churchyard early on Friday evening, he was suddenly overcome with a feeling of profound gratefulness that he was once again back in London, walking in the shadow of Sir Christopher Wren’s great cathedral, which represented for him the centre of the Empire. Throngs of people were hurrying through the narrow thoroughfare, intent on their own concerns. Had he really known a wise old German sergeant major called Schmidt? Had he really ducked to avoid the murderous shells of the Lermontov?
‘Hello, Mr Box. How are you, today? I don’t suppose you remember me.’
Box looked at the boy in the Norfolk jacket, knickerbockers, and stiff Eton collar, who had just given him this perky greeting. He was carrying a brown-paper parcel under his arm.
‘Of course I remember you: Thomas Slater, aged fourteen, Number 7, Beaufort Lane, Monument. I’m very well, Tom. How are you? Fixed up with a billet, yet?’
‘Yes, thank you, sir. Mr Palmer, the photographer, he’s taken me on for a month’s trial. He’s a very nice man, and I think he and I will get on very well. I must be off now. I’ve got to deliver this box of lenses to a man in Warwick Square. Goodbye, Mr Box. Oh, and well done for
nabbing the man who murdered my old guvnor. Nice to have met you.’
The boy disappeared in the crowds streaming up towards Ludgate Hill. Box smiled to himself. ‘Well done’, indeed! Cheeky young sprig. Still, he’d played a vital part in the whole business. He’d do well with old Palmer.
The approach to Goldsmiths’ Hall in Foster Lane was crowded with people and vehicles, but the City Police were there in force. Box made his way to a stone-flagged tradesmen’s entrance at the side of the building, and established himself on a tall stool near the door. There was nothing much for him to do, and he’d be stuck there for at least three hours, twiddling his thumbs. Well, never mind. As Old Growler said, duty calls.
The glittering panoply of titled guests arrived, and were ushered into the splendours of the banqueting room. After half an hour or so, various officers of the City Police joined Box in the tradesmen’s vestibule. While the great ones dined and listened to speeches, the assembled policemen chatted about the various trials and tribulations of the City and Metropolitan forces. Crumpled newspapers were produced, and there was talk of someone making a brew of tea.
Towards half past nine, a uniformed porter came into the room, carrying a massive ring of keys.
‘Which of you gents is Inspector Box?’ he asked. ‘You’re to come with me, if you please, sir. There’s someone wants to see you in the assay office.’
Box followed the porter, who conducted him along a narrow corridor, which was filled with the aromas of recently cooked food. The man selected a key from the ring, and unlocked a glazed door set in a tall arch. He and Box entered a long, white-painted room lit by electricity. It was filled with benches, arrays of tools, and tall anvils, upon which reposed sets of stamping-dies in wooden trays.
‘This is the assay office, Inspector Box. If you’ll wait in here, the gentleman will come to you presently.’
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