‘Can you recall any of their conversation?’
‘Dr Seligmann told him how much he regretted having to be involved in politics. He spoke of his duty to Germany.’
‘And what did Mr Colin McColl say?’
‘He made some technical remarks about philology.’
‘About philology. And did you understand, Mr Schneider, what those technical remarks meant?’
‘I did, sir.’
The German secretary closed his lips in a sort of tight smirk. Box glanced across at Sergeant Knollys, who smiled and shook his head. Inspector Box leaned forward across Dr Seligmann’s desk, joined his fingers together in a delicate cradle, and treated Schneider to a rather wolfish smile.
‘Your English is excellent, Mr Schneider,’ he said. ‘So maybe you know the English expression “like getting blood out of a stone”. I’d be unwilling to think of you as a stone. So will you please tell me exactly, or as well as you can remember, what Mr Colin McColl actually said? Perhaps you think I’m too dense to understand clever matters, but in fact that isn’t the point.’
‘Sir, I stand corrected,’ said Schneider, blushing, either through embarrassment or vexation. ‘My apologies. I was not aware that you were a specialist in languages. Dr Seligmann asked the young man whether he was acquainted with his scholarly work.’
‘Did he, now? And what did Mr McColl have to say to that?’
‘Mr McColl replied: “Yes, indeed. We have all heard of Seligmann’s Law of Unaccented Syllables. And who does not still consult your honoured Specimens of Anglo-Saxon Verse?” As far as I can recollect, those were his very words.’
‘So you think he was a genuine scholar?’
‘But yes, of course. And then, later – what heroism! Such men as he are rare. At the height of the hideous blaze he rushed into the garden, seized a plank, and ran full tilt at the Belvedere door. He burst the door off its hinges – too late, alas! to save the Herr Doktor from the flames. What selflessness! What—’
‘At last!’ cried Box. ‘A little light’s showing through the gloom. A few straightforward words have emerged from the jungle of verbiage! He seized a plank, did he?’
Box stood up, and looked down on the startled German. His voice was stern, and almost comically menacing.
‘Why should he seize a plank?’
‘Why shouldn’t he?’ quavered Herr Schneider.
‘Because, Mr Schneider, in the best regulated households, one doesn’t have planks to seize. Planks – planks are thick, brutal lengths of wood, invariably caked with dried cement. They don’t form part of the decoration of a gentleman’s establishment. Why was this heroic Mr McColl able to find a plank so easily?’
The little self-satisfied smirk returned to the secretary’s face. He sat upright in his chair. He was determined that this chirpy Cockney policeman was not going to get the upper hand.
‘Mr McColl was able to find a plank, Herr Inspector, because yesterday morning two workmen arrived to point an area of brickwork over the rear dining-room window. They left the plank, and a few other implements of their trade, on the grass.’
‘Well, thank you, Mr Schneider, you’ve been a great help – a fund of information, so to speak. In a few minutes’ time I hope to have a word with Count Czerny. Perhaps you’d tell me what kind of count he is? We don’t have counts in England, you know, though I believe France is snowed under with them. He’s not a Frenchman, is he?’
‘No, sir. And he’s not a Prussian count, either. He’s an Austrian nobleman, sir – what in our language we call a count of the Roman-German Empire. I expect you are looking forward to having the honour of conversing with His Excellency.’
The secretary bowed, but could not resist giving the ghost of a smirk as he left the room. Box glanced at the playing-cards thrown down on the little baize-covered table, and smiled, almost in spite of himself. Was Mr Schneider the joker in this particular pack? Perhaps. For all his German formality, there had been an irreverent air about the secretary that Box had found appealing. The joker ….
Box picked up the wooden calendar, and turned the knobs until the correct day and date showed in the windows: Wednesday, 4 January 1893.
‘Sergeant Knollys,’ said Box, ‘when we’ve finished in here, we’ll go outside, and get one of those men working on the repairs to look at that wall. The one that Schneider says needed to be pointed. I don’t believe it. It’s a plant. It’s the same trick that Smiler Carmichael used in the Hartwell sweet-shop murder in ’86. That plank was left there for this McColl to use. He knew it was there. And so he was able to burst the door in. It’s a plant—’
The butler, Lodge, appeared at the door.
‘Sir,’ he said, ‘Miss Seligmann is here to speak to you.’
Arnold Box banished all thoughts of secretaries and planks as Miss Seligmann came into the room, and stood hesitating by the chair near the desk. How charming she looked! Surely she was no more than twenty, or perhaps twenty-two? She was wearing a very becoming black silk dress relieved by white lace at the neck and cuffs – not quite mourning attire, but certainly the next best thing.
‘Pray sit down, Miss Seligmann,’ said Box, gently. ‘There’s nothing to be afraid of.’
‘I’m sure there isn’t, Inspector. And I can assure you that I’m not afraid of you!’
Her voice was clear and firm, very pleasant in tone, and with a slight foreign intonation. Before Box could frame a reply, the German girl launched into speech.
‘My name is Ottilie Seligmann. I am the daughter of the late Ernst Seligmann of Mecklenburg – from Rostock, which is a city there. You have heard of it, no? And so I am the niece of the late Dr Otto Seligmann. I have lived with my uncle since my father died sixth months ago. I am twenty-two years old.’
Knollys stirred in his chair near the window. Glancing in his direction, Box was disconcerted to see the look of frozen hostility on his sergeant’s face. Perhaps he was one of those men who were easily offended by pertness of Miss Ottilie’s kind.
‘Thank you, Miss Seligmann. My purpose today is really to see the various members of the household. I have seen your late uncle’s secretary, Mr Schneider, and in a few moments I hope to speak to the Austrian gentleman, Count Czerny—’
‘Czerny? Bah! He is one piece of my late uncle’s baggage that can go. Out he goes! He is a mountebank, a professional diner at other men’s tables. Do you know how he speaks? Like the English milord. He was brought up in England, at a school called Stowe, and then at Cambridge. And yet this Austro-Englishman claimed to have a vast web of confidants throughout Europe, and Uncle Otto believed it all. For years and years he has had his feet under poor uncle’s dining-table. He will go. I have told him so, this very morning. And that Polish woman. She sneers at us all, and bullies the English staff. This house is mine, now. She, too, will go.’
Ottilie looked quizzically and rather tauntingly at Box. A fascinating young lady, he thought, but she can’t be allowed to have the last word.
‘Very interesting, miss, to hear your arrangements for the future. And I take it that you have been devastated by your uncle’s murder?’
It was a shrewd thrust, and it went home. The black lashes dropped to veil the bright blue eyes, and there was a little silence. Ottilie drummed the fingers of her right hand impatiently on the desk in front of her. Finally she sat up straight in her chair and fixed her glance on the inspector once again.
‘My uncle was kind and good. You must catch the men who killed him and hang them high on the gallows. They are wicked. But no; I am not devastated. Fritz is devastated – Herr Schneider, you know. He was devoted to Uncle Otto, though he is a Saxon ox, and doesn’t care to parade his sorrow. Me, I will go back to Germany. I have no part in all this politik. When my uncle’s money comes to me, I will dance, and wear fine clothes, and go to Court in Berlin. I will look for a noble youth and beckon him to me, and we will marry. There will be fine children – noble boys and beautiful girls. That, then, is Ottilie. You have se
en her and you have heard her.’
‘Thank you, miss. You’re very frank, a point which I very much appreciate. We’ll talk further, perhaps.’
Ottilie suddenly smiled at him. It was a captivating smile.
‘You are not angry with me? You will shake hands, yes?’
‘Certainly, miss. And of course I’m not angry with you. Not at all!’ Inspector Box gravely shook hands with Ottilie Seligmann. She half bowed to him, and glided out of the room. Box sat down again.
‘Phew!’ he said. ‘There’s a charmer, if you like, Sergeant Knollys. A very enchanting young lady, quite frank and fearless—’
‘Tickled your fancy, did she, sir?’ There was genuine amusement in Sergeant Knollys’ voice, though Box could hear the exasperation lurking behind it.
‘“Tickled my fancy”? Really, Sergeant, I don’t know where you get these coarse expressions from. I thought she was a charming and brave young lady. I’m sorry you’ve taken a dislike to her.’
‘And what card would you pick for her, sir? The Queen of Hearts? “I am twenty-two years old”! Thirty-two, more like it—’
There came a stir and bustle at the door, and a tall, ramrod-stiff giant of a man, blond and blue-eyed, all but erupted into the room. The somnolent air of the study seemed to be agitated, as though the man had been accompanied by a blast of wintry air. And yet, Box realized, there was a stillness about this man, an air of calm command underlying a natural volatility.
‘Detective Inspector Box? I am Count Czerny. I flatter myself that I was the late Dr Seligmann’s closest confidant. I place myself at your disposal.’
Box was startled by Count Czerny’s faultless English. It held not the slightest trace of a foreign accent. True, he sported a short, trimmed beard, and wore a rimless monocle screwed into his right eye, but unless you knew the man’s name and nationality, you’d swear he was an English gentleman. Box was surprised to see that Czerny was no more than forty years old. He had assumed that old Dr Seligmann’s confidant would have been nearer to him in age.
‘Good day, Count Czerny,’ said Box. ‘Sit down, if you will. First, sir, I’d like to get clear in my mind your standing in Dr Seligmann’s entourage.’
Count Czerny thought for a moment before replying. He removed the monocle from his eye and slipped it into his waistcoat pocket. The absence of the monocle made him look even more English.
‘I was Otto Seligmann’s secret eye on the centre of Europe, Mr Box. As an Austrian subject, I was well placed to advise him on the close machinations of the dangerous war-parties in the lands of the Austrian Empire – in Hungary, in Bosnia, and in Serbia. All these things I know about through a network of contacts in the capitals of Central Europe.’
Count Czerny glanced across towards the window, where Sergeant Knollys was busy writing in his notebook. He frowned slightly, and then continued.
‘I am the successor to Dr Seligmann in his struggle for peace, and for a lasting coincidence of interests between the German and British Empires. That work will go on. But I am faced with tiresome difficulties. You have just seen Ottilie – Miss Seligmann – I think?’
‘I have, sir. A most attractive and personable young lady.’
‘Yes, yes. Maybe so.’
Count Czerny suddenly flushed, and banged a fist on the table.
‘But she is stubborn, and a vixen, and a selfish little baggage! She thinks of nothing but fashion, and parties, and how she will spend her uncle’s hard-earned money. I have been back from Town only half an hour, and already things have happened. Yes, they have happened.’
Count Czerny scowled, and bit his lip.
‘What kind of things have happened, sir?’ asked Box.
‘This morning – minutes ago, you understand? – I attempted to convey my horror of last night’s atrocity to Miss Seligmann. And what does she do? She quells me with a glance. If looks could kill, I, too, would be a dead man, now. “Czerny”, she says, “you are a fool. It is all in the past. This crusade, this politicking, it was my uncle’s hobby. It interested him. But now it is done. Go back to Germany”.
‘I was astonished, stunned. “But what of all the books and records in the library? Surely”,’ I said, “you will not abandon those?” “You may take them with you”, she said, “as long as you go!” Then she stamped her foot and stormed off. So I will do as she commands, and return to Germany. The work can go forward from there.’
Count Czerny clasped his strong hands together, and glanced at both men briefly. He seemed to be making up his mind to reveal some intimate secret.
‘Sergeant,’ he said, ‘will you please close that notebook for a moment? I am going to tell you gentlemen some sensitive information, which is best left unwritten – for all our sakes. Our household here at Chelsea is breaking up, and I must share this knowledge with you before I go.’
Count Czerny paused for a moment. He glanced at a heavy gold signet ring that he wore, and unconsciously traced with his finger the image of an imperial eagle embossed on it.
‘There is in Germany today, gentlemen,’ he continued, ‘a growing network of brotherhoods and societies which see war as the ultimate endorsement of the validity of the German Empire. The members of these parties know – or think they know – that war with Britain will set Europe aflame, and that from that conflagration a new, cleansed Europe will be born.’
Box’s view of Count Czerny was undergoing revision. Surely Miss Ottilie had been gravely mistaken in dismissing him as a mountebank? Perhaps she was too immature – or too frivolous – to realize that he had important things to say.
‘Among those fanatics,’ Czerny continued, ‘the most dangerous organization is called Die Eidgenossenschaft. You will find its members in Germany, in Austria, in the Balkans, in France, and – yes! – here in England. I take it that you don’t understand German? No, well, that’s understandable. But a good rendering of those German words would be “The Linked Ring”. There are some folk in England who already employ that translation.’
‘The Linked Ring ….’
‘Yes, Mr Box. I believe it was members of the Linked Ring who wrote to Otto – to Dr Seligmann – from Bonn, pretending to be from the university there, and telling him of a present of books that they were sending him. I cannot prove that, but it is so. They appealed to his vanity as a scholar, you see, and he rose to their bait. As for the rest – the terrible assassination – well, it was my fault! It was as though I had done the deed myself ….’
Count Czerny held his head between his hands and groaned.
‘That accursed crate, Mr Box, was delivered to the house only yesterday afternoon. It was at my suggestion that Otto had it taken out to the Belvedere. “Let it alone until tomorrow,” I said. “You’ve visitors coming tonight. You and Schneider can open it in the morning”.’
‘Late in the afternoon I set off for my club. Schneider tells me that one of Otto’s two visitors last night brought a device with him that detonated the explosives concealed in that crate. By advising him to take it out to the Belvedere, Mr Box, I unwittingly sentenced my old friend to death!’
6
The Man in the Mist
‘Begging your pardon, sir,’ said the bashful young man in overalls, ‘but there’s nothing wrong with this wall. It don’t need pointing, and if you was to try, you’d make a right mess of it. A plank? No, you don’t need a plank for work like that. A ladder’s all you need, and there’s no ladder there, as you can see.’
Box smiled encouragingly at the young workman, who stood twisting his cap in his hands.
‘What’s your name, my boy?’ he asked.
‘George French, sir.’
‘Well done, George French, you’re a credit to your trade, and you’ve helped the police. I’ll write your name down in my report, and there you’ll stand, when the history of this case comes to be written.’
The lad looked mightily pleased with Box’s words. He smiled, shuffled a bit, and then returned to the group of men who were
busy repairing the ravages of the previous night’s outrage. Box turned to Knollys.
‘What did you think of Count Czerny?’ he asked. ‘I’m thinking of those playing-cards …. He seemed a worthwhile kind of man to me – sharp, and shrewd. I see him at the moment as the King of Diamonds.’
‘You might be right, sir. But he wasn’t here last night, and there might have been a reason for that. And he told us a lot of interesting things, but that might have been to disarm us. So maybe Count Czerny’s the Knave, after all.’
Box made no reply. He was watching a procession of dim figures, shepherded by Constable Kenwright, who were carrying boxes and buckets. They disappeared into some obscure area of the grounds behind the Belvedere. It was still bitterly cold. Box glanced briefly up at the house, and then turned to Sergeant Knollys.
‘I don’t like this, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘I suspect that there are peculiar things going on in that house. You wouldn’t think an intimate member of that family had just been foully murdered. Maybe Dr Seligmann’s murder was a political assassination. Or maybe it was a well-laid plot to do away with a man for some dark private motive, cleverly presented as an assassination. I don’t trust any of them. Not even the Queen of Hearts.’
Box looked across the misty white garden towards the stunted grove of trees, where a thin column of wood-smoke still rose from the chimney of the brick garden shed.
‘Sergeant,’ he said, ‘go back into the house, and try to get Mr Lodge, the butler, into a quiet corner somewhere. See if you can get him to tell you about these peculiar people from his point of view. When you’ve finished here, I want you to go back to town, and call on Chaplin’s, the carriers at Victoria Station. Find out about that crate, and how it got through Customs filled with dynamite. Then call on Mr Bernard Quaritch, the bookseller, in Piccadilly. Maybe he’ll tell you that there’s no such person as Colin McColl. Or maybe not. We’ll see.’
The Hansa Protocol Page 8