by H. B. Lyle
‘Gentlemen,’ Ewart had boomed, ‘we have conclusive proof of espionage—’
Kell tried to interrupt. ‘Er—’
‘Of German intervention, spying, on a huge level.’
‘I wouldn’t quite say—’
‘The proof,’ Ewart went on, regardless, ‘that will convince you all of the need to properly fund the department. Captain Kell, over to you.’
Kell stood up with all the enthusiasm of a condemned man climbing the scaffold. ‘Yes, well. We think that a spy infiltrated Woolwich and sold the results to Germany. A Frenchman, we suspect, named LeQuin.’
‘French? I thought you said Germany.’
‘Doesn’t sound like proof to me.’
‘By God, if we had to set up a Secret Service Bureau to investigate every suspicious Frenchman, we wouldn’t have a penny left for the King.’
The room erupted in laughter. Even the grim-faced Haldane’s upper lip twitched. He collected himself. ‘Major General, there is nothing conclusive here. It’s all a little thin.’
‘Thin,’ Churchill boomed. ‘We’re about to go to war, and you say it’s thin.’
Haldane stared at him, all levity gone. ‘We are not about to go to war, Winston, however much you may wish to.’
‘The streets are crawling with enemy agents,’ Churchill went on.
‘There is no proof.’
‘We must be ready.’
‘No proof. I see the Captain’s reports. Ewart petitions me weekly. But it’s the stuff of fiction. We rule the waves – as President of the Board of Trade you must know this – and there is no appetite for war across the Channel. This obsession with Germany, with war, is folly.’
Kell watched as the committee members nodded their agreement. Even Soapy.
‘Now,’ Haldane went on. ‘I take it all necessary preparations are in place for the Tsar’s state visit?’
Ewart left without saying a word. Humiliated. The meeting closed soon after. When Kell got back to his office, there was a telephone call holding for him. It was Churchill.
‘We must act. If we don’t, we’re doomed to be behind the game when war breaks out. It could cost us everything. Do your utmost to sink this man LeQuin.’
‘What do you suggest? There is not enough evidence.’
‘Open his damned letters,’ he lisped. ‘That’ll get you proof.’
‘Is that strictly fair, sir? Is it even legal?’
‘Nonsense. Why do you think Charles the Second set up the post office in the first place? We must use every weapon at our disposal so that we – the government – can do everything necessary to protect the common weal, to unearth the traitorous, to vanquish our enemies.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘If I were Germany, I’d be listening to this call – if that can be done. Can it be done? Find out. Presumably we can insert agents at the exchange.’
Kell coughed. ‘There is a certain threshold of legal proof. Might I ask, does your request come under the auspices of the Board of Trade?’ Kell knew it didn’t.
‘I won’t be President of the Board of Trade for ever, Captain. Mark my words.’
Kell took another glass of champagne, and scanned the party for LeQuin. It was true, Churchill would soon move into another government post and would at some point likely become his boss, if Kell lasted that long. He sighed. What annoyed him most about the committee and Churchill and the whole of Whitehall, all those pompous men, was that they didn’t care about Leyton and Sixsmith: who killed them and why. The bigwigs cared only about appearances and hierarchies and departmental segmentation; about votes and prestige and honour. They cared not one whit for two good men dead and a spy ring unchallenged. It was down to him and Wiggins to bring LeQuin and the murderous Rijkard to justice.
He gripped his glass and edged into the next room, a huge affair decked with flowers and looked down upon by a portrait of the King’s nephew, the Kaiser. At the far end, a small string orchestra tuned up. Fussing around them, prominently moustached as Wiggins had described, was LeQuin. Kell started. The steam baths in Marshall Street, the man who had shown an unnatural interest in him. He knew he had recognised the name. René LeQuin. Kell had been too busy keeping an eye on Charles Tinsley to bother, but now it made sense.
LeQuin must have been on to him all along.
Kell lingered by the doorway, nursing his glass. He tried to apply Wiggins’s methods. LeQuin wore a Savile Row suit – a clear indicator of money and good taste. He was of average height, despite a raised heel in his shoe – thus self-conscious about his lack of inches. Build, slight to medium, although Kell noted with satisfaction that he appeared rather heavy around the lower chest, suggesting gluttony and lack of exercise. And the musicians feared him. He could see the violinist quake as LeQuin put a hand on his shoulder and the cellist visibly blanched when spoken to.
Otherwise, Kell could glean very little. The moustache was too long to be fashionable, and too oiled to be anything other than deeply vulgar. He looked in his thirties, though it was hard to tell because his hair was raven-black – it must have been dyed. Kell sniffed.
He felt a tap on his shoulder. ‘Hello again.’ Charles Tinsley stood before him, holding two glasses of champagne. ‘Enjoying the view?’
‘Erm, I’m sorry, you have the advantage of me,’ Kell fumbled for an excuse.
‘Charles Tinsley.’ He gestured at LeQuin. ‘I do love watching men at work. It’s so stimulating, so vital. Am I right in thinking we met at Marshall Street?’
‘Really, I can’t recall ever being there. Vernon Kell.’ Kell thrust out his hand, only to find Tinsley placing one of the two glasses into it.
‘Yes, I think we move in similar circles.’
‘I don’t think—’
‘Are you a member of the Drones? No, that can’t be right. Wellington’s steam and rub?’ Kell shook his head. ‘The Savile?’ Tinsley raised an eyebrow and smiled at him.
‘Yes – oh, here’s my wife.’
Constance landed on Kell’s arm. ‘Charles Tinsley, may I introduce my wife. Constance, Charles Tinsley.’
‘Charmed.’ Tinsley brushed dry lips across her hand.
‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Tinsley. I know your wife, Eunice. Is she here tonight?’
‘Indisposed, I’m afraid. I shall pass on your best.’ He finished off his drink. ‘Now, will you excuse me, I’m parched.’
‘Dreadful man,’ Kell muttered. ‘He shouldn’t be anywhere near Woolwich.’
Constance readjusted her butterfly brooch. ‘He is rather well connected.’ Kell grunted, but she ignored him. ‘Anyway, Rudi was a most charming host, thank you for asking.’
‘Rudi?’
‘The Count Effenberg. He’s from Hanover.’
‘He looks like a stuffed bear in that ridiculous uniform. Click.’ Kell clicked his heels together. ‘Danke.’
Constance laughed. ‘You’re jealous. He looked splendid.’
‘Ha. You won’t allow me to wear my uniform.’
‘That’s because it’s green. Now, can that really be the Kaiser? What a truly monstrous portrait. Don’t tell me you’re going to stand here and listen to the music all night.’
The orchestra had struck up and Kell fixed his eyes on LeQuin, who’d drifted away from the musicians.
‘This is incidental music, Vernon, we’re not meant to be an audience. Why don’t you get us another drink?’
Kell craned his neck, ignoring his wife.
‘Oh wait, is that him?’ she hissed in his ear. Kell nodded slightly. ‘So this is work.’
‘Indeed.’
Constance turned away. ‘He’s a handsome man, in that very French way. An Alphonse perhaps.’
‘That’s not a particularly helpful observation,’ Kell said as he glanced at her. ‘How can you see?’
She nodded into the large mirror above one of the buffets. ‘You’re so obvious,’ she whispered. ‘My, he does have a cruel mouth, though, doesn’t he? Is he a sadist, do you think?
’
Kell kept his eye on LeQuin as he merged into the partygoers. He edged towards the double-fronted glass doors that opened onto the garden. Kell strained for a better look. ‘Sir, sir, I say, Captain Kell.’
He swivelled round. ‘Oh God, it’s you.’
Lieutenant Russell, uniformed, gangly and keen, stumbled up to them. ‘Jolly good party, wouldn’t you say, sir? I fancied I saw you earlier but I wanted to make sure.’
‘Of course you did.’ Kell looked over his shoulder but, as he suspected, LeQuin had disappeared. ‘Lieutenant Russell, my wife. Constance, Lieutenant Russell – a member of my staff.’
Constance twinkled at the young officer. ‘You must be the invaluable Lieutenant Russell. Vernon talks of you often.’ She held out her hand and he shook it vigorously.
‘Gosh,’ Russell stuttered, staring at her.
‘Would you be terribly gallant, Lieutenant, and find me a fan. It’s so awfully hot and I forgot my own. I believe they may have some spare in the cloakroom.’
Russell bounded off.
‘Is he gone?’ Constance asked.
‘Yes, I lost him over by those French windows.’
‘Who is he?’
‘I believe he may have been responsible for the death of at least one man, possibly more. I need to find him, but he knows who I am already, I fear.’
‘Be careful.’
‘You too – Russell might trample on you by mistake.’
Kell went out into the garden and quickly realised that LeQuin could be anywhere – he might even have left – and the embassy was too big to cover on his own. And even if he did find him, he couldn’t approach him. LeQuin knew him by sight. It was down to Wiggins.
Motor cars lined the mews at the back of the embassy gardens. Wiggins followed the directions of one of the flunkeys and jerked the car into a space. A gaggle of drivers stood and smoked at the servants’ entrance.
‘Steady there, mate, it’s not no nag,’ a driver called out and they laughed. ‘Looks like it’s alive.’
A few horses and traps nestled between the gleaming motor cars. By the back entrance – a small door to the embassy garden – the staff had set up a trestle table with refreshments.
The older driver was holding forth. ‘They’re Krauts, mate, what do you expect? Believe you me, there’ll be war within the year.’
‘But they left out a crate of beer – can’t be all bad.’
The first driver spat out a mouthful. ‘They call this shit lager. Give me a pint of ale any day. Rank so it is, never catch on.’
‘I don’t mind it.’ The younger driver pulled on his fag. ‘And hospitable, like. Lady Argyll don’t give the staff nothing at her dos.’
‘It’s to stop you stealing.’
Wiggins grabbed a bottle for himself and joined the circle. ‘So you think war?’
‘Who you with?’ a younger driver asked.
‘Kell. I’m a ringer.’
‘Course. These Krauts are warmongering swine, so they are.’ He spat again and glanced at one of the embassy staff, who heaved another crate of beer onto the table. ‘Swine,’ he repeated loudly.
Wiggins stepped towards the man with the beer crate. ‘Guten Tag,’ he said. ‘Danke.’
The young man nodded. ‘Bitte.’
‘Have you got an opener? Sorry, my German don’t go much above pleasantries.’ He gestured opening the bottle with his hand.
‘Yes. Here.’
‘Anyone famous in tonight?’ Wiggins went on. ‘Anyone special?’
‘The guests are you speaking of? I don’t know who they are. I work in the kitchens,’ the boy replied. ‘I know only the German ones. My English very bad.’
‘It’s top-drawer, mate. Pisses on my Deutcher. Here, take a swig of this – you look all heated up.’
‘I cannot.’ The boy glanced back down the garden and then to the beer bottle.
‘Go on, no one’s looking.’
The boy grasped the bottle and took a huge gulp. ‘Danke.’
‘Bitte.’ Wiggins grinned. ‘Who are the Germans there, then – any bigwigs?’
The boy flushed a little with the booze, and leant in to Wiggins. ‘There is a new man here from Germany, very special.’
‘Hans!’ A stream of harsh German followed, too quickly for Wiggins to understand anything but the tone.
The boy leapt to attention and hastily forced the bottle back into Wiggins’s hand. He hurried away towards the embassy. A tall major-domo type came striding into view through the garden and cuffed the boy around the head as he walked past. The major-domo came out into the mews.
‘Lady Argyll’s driver?’ he called. ‘Lady Argyll? She wishes to leave.’
One of the men flung his half-smoked cigarette to the ground. ‘That’s me, lads. The old bird’s probably had a turn.’ He fixed his cap on. ‘Either that or she needs a shit.’ He left, pursued by laughter.
Wiggins went back to the car and made sure he had a good view. A single electric light illuminated the small doorway into the garden. Most of the drinking drivers gradually moved away from the trestle table and settled in their cars or fussed over their horses.
He kept an ear out for announcements but it wasn’t until much later that people started to leave in numbers. The mews became busy as first one butler and then another came to the door and called out names. Traps bounced past and drivers barked farewells, crunching gears or cursing lazy nags.
‘LeQuin. Monsieur René LeQuin.’
Wiggins tensed.
At the far end of the mews, the green Daimler gently pulled out. Wiggins ducked his head down. The car slipped past and as it did so, Wiggins caught sight of the driver. He wouldn’t have mistaken that Adam’s apple anywhere, it almost cast its own shadow: Rijkard, Milton’s killer.
Wiggins turned back to the embassy doorway, expecting his own call at any minute – Kell wouldn’t stay much longer once LeQuin had left, he guessed. He watched as a young woman stepped from behind the German butler. She nudged the man sideways to get past. As she did so, her upturned face caught in the light for an instant.
Bela.
17
She stepped out into an ocean-cool night. The wind tugged at her hair. She squinted against the darkness until she finally picked out Vincas, lolling by a lifeboat.
‘Over here,’ he hissed. ‘We have ten minutes. Hurry, each minute cost me a fucking rouble. And don’t cry this time.’ He fumbled at his trousers as she came close. ‘Lie down.’
‘Take your belt off,’ she said as she settled. ‘It digs.’
He grinned as the belt slithered through the loops. The odour of cheap rum and rotten teeth washed over her as he knelt. They were by the railing that edged the deck, hidden from view by the bulk of the lifeboat. The wind whistled and screeched, the ship groaned. Bela shifted her hips to the side.
‘Want it, do you?’ Vincas gasped
She bucked against him, to the side once more, and moaned. ‘It has been weeks,’ she mewled into his ear, her hips swaying from side to side under him.
He grunted harder, faster. The ship tipped and rolled, but he kept on, rum dribbling down on her as she shifted. His pace increased, she felt his stomach muscles stiffen and in that moment of release, she used all her strength to pitch him sideways. Surprised, disorientated, drunk, he tumbled over the edge towards the black sea.
At the last, his hand clung to the upright railing. His back bounced against the hull. ‘Bela, help me,’ he screamed.
She leant over the side, steadying herself against the rail. With her free hand, she pulled the long belt towards her.
‘I have the money,’ Vincas cried. ‘Pull me up, please.’
The ship pitched forward. Vincas’s body swung against the hull again. One hand gripped the railing. His arm shuddered with the strain. Bela threw the belt buckle towards him.
‘Here,’ she whispered. ‘Your belt.’ In one swift move, she looped it around his neck and buckled it to the metal upright.
‘Hey …’ His shout faded to a gurgle as the leather caught his windpipe. She prised his hand free from the railing. His feet kicked at the hull, his hands scrabbled at the belt biting into his neck. ‘The money,’ he gurgled again. ‘You’ll die without money.’
She unbuckled the belt.
Vincas disappeared into the void. His body slithered against the hull as it went, gone in an instant.
Bela held the buckle in her hand, felt its sharp points, its heft. Then she tossed it into the rumbling sea below and turned back to steerage, a widow.
* * *
The party was a total bust. Kell spent his time bored rigid by a succession of guests complaining about the mooted imposition of an income tax. As if he had any power to alter the Budget, or to rearrange the visit of the Tsar. He hadn’t seen Constance since Lieutenant Russell went for her fan, and LeQuin had disappeared. In the end, he lounged by the front door and drank champagne. He even treated himself to a German sausage.
Constance batted him on the arm with her fan. He started and dropped the last of his bratwurst. ‘Some lookout you are,’ she said.
‘Where have you been? I’ve been looking everywhere,’ Kell said.
‘Do you know, I think women would make much better secret agents than men.’
‘Shush!’ He glanced around.
‘No one knows what secret agents are, darling.’
‘Haven’t you read the papers? The Daily Mail speaks of nothing else.’
‘As if anyone here reads the Daily Mail.’ Constance smiled. ‘This is a very upper-class soirée.’
‘And what about Conrad, The Secret Agent? Eh?’
‘That’s a book, my dear. This class of people doesn’t read books at all. I think I just saw Monsieur LeQuin skulk off. Does that mean we can leave?’
Kell asked a servant to call for his car. As they waited, Constance threaded her arm through his.
‘I know you think women are the equal of men in every regard, but why did you say they’d make better agents?’ he asked.
‘We are much better at looking. We’re brought up to observe. You men can run around with your swords and your guns and your goodness knows what else, but we see everything, and we’re not threatening. Women, I find, also make much better confidantes than men.’