‘I dare say mon chef would have been taken in by Mam’selle Orlova just the same as you were. Even I did not realise she was working for Colonel Nekrasoff until it was too late.’
‘You didn’t spend as much time with her as I did.’
‘Tiens! The more time you spent with her, the more you fell in love with her. Console yourself, my chicken… you have done well, considering. And you saw through me, did you not?’ She pouted. ‘Perhaps I am not as beautiful as Mam’selle Orlova was?’
‘I wouldn’t say that…’ He leaned across to give her a peck on the cheek, but she placed a finger against his lips.
‘Ah, no,’ she told him with a smile. ‘Have you not learned that in espionage, it is not good to fall in love?’
He grinned. ‘Who said anything about falling in love?’
‘Ah! You are starting to learn, I think. I wonder where the Third Section took Stålberg and Lindström?’
‘Conversation deftly changed,’ he acknowledged wryly. ‘Nils and I saw them being taken across the bridge to Skatudden. I suppose they must have a gaol there or something.’
‘On Skatudden? No. Third Section headquarters in Helsingfors is on Alexander Square; they must have been taking them to Sveaborg.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘The ferry for Sveaborg leaves only from the naval base at Skatudden.’ She sighed. ‘It is for the best.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘In a day or two, our fleets will bombard Sveaborg. Stålberg and Lindström will most likely be killed in the bombardment, but better that than they are tortured to death by the Third Section.’
‘For a moment there, I thought you were going to suggest we try to rescue them.’
‘If they had been at Third Section headquarters, perhaps. But while they are in Sveaborg…? Impossible!’
Killigrew nodded, shifting uncomfortably on the cold flagstones. Realising he was sitting on something, he reached under himself to pull it out: a crushed hatbox. He prised off the lid and took out the battered bonnet within. Chuckling humourlessly to himself, he turned the crumpled thing over in his hands. A thought occurred to him, and he lifted his face to stare up at the underside of the ceiling.
‘What is it?’ asked Aurélie.
‘I was just thinking…’
The trap door opened suddenly and Hjorth and Nordenskjöld climbed back down into the cellar. ‘Well, that’s that,’ said Hjorth. ‘By the time anyone finds her, the wolves will have picked her carcase clean. She’ll be unidentifiable.’
‘Hjorth!’ Scowling at him, Aurélie jerked her head at Killigrew.
But the commander had leaped to his feet, throwing down the crushed bonnet. ‘Nils, did you get that guest list for tonight’s ball?’
‘Yes, it’s right here.’ Nordenskjöld reached inside his jacket and pulled out several sheets of paper. ‘Why?’
Instead of replying, Killigrew stood next to the student as his measuring himself against him. ‘You’re about my build, aren’t you?’
‘I suppose so…’
‘I don’t suppose you have such a thing as a tailcoat I could borrow?’
‘You’re not still thinking of going to the ball tonight, are you?’ asked Hjorth. ‘I told you, every invitation will be checked against the guest list: with the security they’ll be lining up tonight, if your name doesn’t tally they’ll throw you in a cell before you can say “sparvagnsaktiebolagsskensmutsskjutarefackforeningspersonalbekladnadsmagasinsforradsforvaltaren”.’
‘That’s easily solved,’ said Killigrew. ‘I’ve been to enough of these affairs to know there’s always some goose there that no one else knows; some greasy-fingered merchant who wrangled his way on to the guest list in the hope of making some important business contacts.’
‘So?’
‘So all we’ve got to do is work out who it is.’
Nordenskjöld produced the guest list and the four of them gathered round to look at it. ‘Most of the people on this list are Russian military… a few Finnish senators and senior officers from the militia… all of these people will know one another.’ He turned to the second page.
‘How about the Lundqvists?’ asked Hjorth, reading over his shoulder.
Nordenskjöld shook his head. ‘He’s a reservist. Colonel Dahlgren will know him, and you can be sure he’ll be there tonight.’ He ran his finger down the list of names. ‘The Ögrens? How in the world did they manage to wangle an invitation?’
‘Who are the Ögrens?’ asked Hjorth.
‘Exactly!’
Nordenskjöld and Hjorth turned to stare at one another, their faces cracking into triumphant grins. ‘The Ögrens!’
Killigrew cleared his throat. ‘Who are the Ögrens?’
* * *
Even as Ambrosius Ögren stood before the mirror above the mantelpiece in his parlour, retying his cravat with his corpulent fingers, he was in two minds about attending the ball on Sveaborg. The Russians might be maintaining their sang-froid in the face of the British fleet, but Ögren made no bones about admitting to himself that there was nothing froid about his sang. The Rosenbladhs had already abandoned their town house: even as Ögren glanced out of the window and across the street, he could see their servants loading a wagon with their most prized possessions preparatory to carting it all off to their summer house in the country. Ögren could not help thinking they had the right idea.
But it would be a shame not to go after he had lobbied so long and hard to get an invitation for himself and his wife. It was true, he would not know anyone there: he expected most of the other guests to be Russian military officers and a sprinkling of senior Finnish politicians, most of whom looked down at his kind with contempt, when they bothered to regard him at all. But this was a matter of business, not pleasure. His attempts to get an import permit for the new American rifles his company dealt in having failed through the usual channels, he had hoped to buttonhole a senior Russian military officer at the ball and persuade him to use his influence to pull a few strings at the necessary government office in St Petersburg. Russia needed modern arms, didn’t it? That was why the Allies had not yet been beaten in the Crimea, despite the incompetence of the British generals. Ögren’s business was small scale: there was no Finnish army as such, and the weapons he currently imported were hunting rifles for the private market. But if he could become a contractor to the Russian army – even if only supplying modern rifles to the newly formed Finnish jäger regiments – he’d be a millionaire.
No, he corrected himself: a billionaire!
Grimacing with impatience, he emerged from the parlour to stand in the hallway and called up the stairs. ‘Are you nearly ready, Ottilia? The ball is supposed to start at eight!’
‘I won’t be long! Stop fretting! It’s unfashionable to turn up on time to these things anyhow.’ If Ottilia said that, then it had to be true, for she was an inveterate social climber who learned all the rules of aristocratic etiquette if only so she could mock the other ladies of her own circle when they failed to meet her exacting standards. She had been beside herself with glee when she had related to her husband how sick with envy her friends were when she told them she and her husband had been invited to this ball. Even if he had been able to make his mind up against attending, she would certainly not have permitted it anyway: if the entire French army had stood between her and a chance to rub shoulders with the Grand Duke Konstantin and Governor-General von Berg, she would not have let it get in her way.
The Grand Duke Konstantin, thought Ögren. There had been a rumour that some bigwig from St Petersburg would be attending, but when Ögren had acquired his ticket he had never hoped in his wildest dreams that it might be the Admiral-General of the Fleet. Fleets had marines, didn’t they? And didn’t marines need rifles? And the grand duke was supposed to be a very forward-thinking young man, not the sort to turn his nose up at the latest armaments at all.
Ögren toyed with the idea of taking a sample of his wares to the ball s
o he could demonstrate the new rifle’s effectiveness. They were bound to have some kind of firing range somewhere in Sveaborg, and he was a pretty good shot even though he did say so himself, thanks to the hunting parties he frequently took potential clients on at his lodge in the country. But he decided against it: it probably was not the done thing to turn up to a ball carrying a rifle. Besides, Sveaborg being a military installation, there might be guards who would take a dim view of a man with a firearm trying to get in to a social event at which the Grand Duke would be present.
The bell of the front door jangled. Ögren frowned: he was not expecting anyone, and it was a little late in the day for callers. Hadn’t Ottilia told everyone she knew that they would be going to the ball?
His butler appeared from below stairs. ‘See who that is, Arvidsson, and tell them we’re not at home,’ Ögren told him as he headed for the front door. ‘Once you’ve got rid of them, tell Wickmann to bring my carriage round to the front.’
‘Very good, sir.’
It occurred to Ögren that if he were not going to take a sample of his wares, it would be remiss of him in the extreme to neglect to take a good supply of calling cards. He entered his library and took half a dozen from a stack in the drawer of his bureau. As an afterthought, he took the rest of the stack, distributing them in various pockets of his tailcoat, so there was no danger of running out.
He almost forgot the most important thing of all: the invitation! He scrabbled through the papers in the drawer, but there was no sign of it. Panic set in at once. What had he done with it? Of course, the mantelpiece! He hurried into the parlour and there it was, propped up behind the carriage clock.
He tucked it in an inside pocket and checked his fob watch against the clock. It was nearly half-past seven: they were going to miss the eight o’clock ferry from Skatudden if Ottilia did not get a move on. He took out a fat cigar and snipped off the end, lighting it and sticking it in his mouth. He knew he would not have time to finish it before they set off, and Ottilia always grumbled when he smoked in the carriage, but it was her own fault for keeping him waiting like this: he needed the rich tobacco to smooth his nerves.
‘These people would like a word with you, sir,’ Arvidsson said behind him.
‘I thought I told you we weren’t receiving?’ snarled Ögren.
‘I did tell them you weren’t at home, sir, but they were most insistent.’
Ögren turned and saw that Arvidsson had his arms straight up in the air. There were three men and a woman standing behind him. The woman and one of the men looked pleasant enough – the woman was rather attractive, in fact – and both were in evening wear, the man in a chimney-pot hat, black tailcoat and white cravat and waistcoat, the woman wearing a sortie de bal over an off-the-shoulder ball gown of dark blue velvet.
It was the other two men who bothered Ögren: and Arvidsson too, to judge from the butler’s ashen expression. Hardly surprising, really, since neither of these men was dressed for a ball; unless the latest fashion accessories from Paris included scarves tied over their mouths and noses, and double-barrelled shotguns.
‘What the devil is going on?’ demanded Ögren.
‘My apologies for the inconvenience, Herre Ögren,’ the man wearing evening clothes said in excellent Swedish. He was thirty or thereabouts, dark-haired, with a saturnine complexion, carrying a black holdall in one hand. ‘Do exactly as we tell you, and there’ll be no need for anyone to get hurt.’ To emphasise his point, he reached inside his tailcoat and pulled out a revolver, levelling it at the arms merchant.
Ögren liked guns. They had made him a comfortable living over the years, and he had every hope that they would make him an exceedingly rich man in the very near future. What he did not like was strangers bursting into his house and waving them in his face. Not that his brain – paralysed as it was with fear – was able to formulate the thought in any meaningful way, but his bladder made the point quite adeptly with an involuntary loosening. He reddened in humiliation as a puddle spread and soaked into the rug at his feet.
‘I don’t think this one will give us any trouble,’ said the saturnine man. ‘You two go and round up the servants,’ he told the two masked men. They nodded and hurried from the room.
‘I’ll find Fru Ögren,’ said the woman, following them out.
Ögren took out his pocket book and held it out to the saturnine man. ‘Here: take it! My wife’s jewellery is in a box on the dresser in her boudoir. Take anything you want, just please don’t hurt me!’
The saturnine man waved the pocket book away impatiently. ‘I don’t want your money. All I’m after is your invitation to the ball in Sveaborg tonight.’
‘That’s all?’ stammered Ögren, scarcely able to believe his luck. He took the invitation from his inside pocket and held it out to chimneypot hat. ‘Here, take the damned thing!’
‘Much obliged.’ Keeping his revolver levelled at Ögren, the man put down the holdall and took the invitation in his left hand, tucking it out of sight inside his tailcoat.
The two masked men returned with Wickmann. ‘This is the only other servant we could find,’ one of them told the saturnine man. ‘He says he’s the coachman. Says the rest of the servants have been given the night off.’
‘Is this true?’ asked the saturnine man.
Ögren nodded hurriedly.
The masked man who had spoken thrust the muzzles of his shotgun in Wickmann’s chest. ‘Take off your coat!’
Wickmann removed his greatcoat, and the other masked man took it from him, putting his shotgun aside – but taking care to lay it out of anyone else’s reach – to shrug the coat over his threadbare frock-coat.
‘And the hat,’ the first masked man said, with an impatient gesture. Wickmann took off his round, black, broad-brimmed hat and handed it to the other, who put it on his head and picked up his shotgun again before glancing in the mirror to assess his appearance.
Ottilia entered with the young woman close behind her. ‘Ambrosius!’ she protested. ‘What in the world is going on? Are we being robbed?’
‘In a manner of speaking.’ Now he knew they had not come here to murder and rob him, he was regaining some of his composure. ‘Calm yourself, woman. They only want my invitation.’
‘What? Not our invitation to the Grand Duke’s ball?’ She turned to the young woman behind her. ‘No! You can’t! You’ve no idea how long I’ve been looking forward to tonight. I’ve bought a new gown specially… had my hair done… I’ve told all my friends I’m to go… I’ll be humiliated! Ruined! I’ll never be able to show my face in Helsingfors Society again!’
A revolver appeared in the young woman’s hand as if by magic, and she pressed the muzzle to Ottilia’s forehead. ‘How very fortunate for Helsingfors Society!’
Ottilia turned crimson. ‘Ambrosius! Are you going to stand there and let her speak to me that way?’
Ögren opened his mouth, but no sound came out when he felt the muzzles of one of the shotguns just behind his ear.
‘Tell her “Yes”,’ the masked man holding the shotgun advised him.
‘Yes,’ Ögren told his wife in a very small voice.
The strangers marched the Ögrens and the two servants through to the dining room, where they ordered them to sit down at the table before producing several coils of rope and tying them securely in their chairs.
‘Pardon me.’ The saturnine man took Ögren’s forgotten cigar from his unresisting fingers.
‘What do you need to tie us up for?’ Ögren demanded nervously.
‘It may turn out that this ball is so wonderful that we simply can’t tear ourselves away,’ said the young woman. ‘In which case, it would be so very disappointing if the real Ögrens turned up with a few gendarmes in tow to denounce us as impostors. So our associate there is going to stay with you for a few hours to keep you company.’ She indicated the older of the two masked men. ‘If you behave yourselves, you’ll still be alive when he leaves at first light. I’m sure your se
rvants will untie you when they arrive in the morning.’ She glanced across at the saturnine man. ‘You have the invitation?’
He patted the breast of his tailcoat. ‘Cinderella, you shall go to the ball!’
‘Barrons-nous. Don’t wait up for us,’ she added to the man staying behind. She went out, followed by the other two men.
The man who stayed behind waited until they heard the front door close behind them before sitting down facing his charges with the shotgun across his lap. Leaning back, he cast an unimpressed eye over the rococo moulding around the edges of the ceiling, and puffed out his cheeks. Then he lowered his gaze to take in his captives.
‘All right, how about a game of charades to while away the hours?’
Ögren closed his eyes as if in pain.
Chapter 20
Sveaborg
Nordenskjöld had whipped off his mask by the time they reached the front door, and he climbed on to the driving board of the Ögrens’ carriage, while Killigrew and Aurélie climbed in the back. Nordenskjöld whipped up the horses and they clattered off over the cobbles.
‘What time is it?’ asked Aurélie.
The sun was still sinking towards the horizon, so there was more than enough light for Killigrew to check his watch by. ‘Five to.’
‘We’ve missed the eight o’clock ferry, then.’
‘We might have been on time if you hadn’t spent so long deciding on that gown!’
‘But there was such a choice! It’s easy for you men, you all wear the same clothes: black tailcoat and trousers, white waistcoat and cravat…’
‘There’s still the little matters of cut and material,’ he protested defensively. ‘It doesn’t matter; there’s another ferry at nine. No one arrives at these balls on time anyhow.’ He stood up to bang on the underside of the roof with his fist. ‘Nils! Can you keep driving around for fifty minutes? It’s going to look suspicious if we turn up at the naval base on Skatudden with an hour to spare before the next ferry.’ Nordenskjöld opened the hatch. ‘In a city as small as Helsingfors, someone’s going to notice a carriage driving around in circles.’
Killigrew and the Sea Devil Page 39