‘What will you do, sir?’
‘I’ll stay here for a while, and see how PC Kenwright’s getting on. Then I’ll hare it back to Victoria Street, to spin a decent yarn to those reporters in the Clarence Vaults. After that, I’ll come back to the Rents.’
Knollys went back into the house through the now-repaired kitchen door. Box walked thoughtfully across the scanty grass, his boots crunching the rapidly freezing snow. Suddenly, he saw something that made him draw in his breath sharply, A cloaked figure was standing motionless just far away enough not to be seen clearly. For a moment he felt a little shudder as though faced with the uncanny. Then the figure moved into focus, as it trod soberly and warily across the frozen flags.
‘Oh,’ Box muttered, ‘so it’s you, is it? I was right. It’s going to be one of those sort of cases.’
Box opened the door of the shed, and stepped into the grateful warmth. The stranger followed him, stooping below the lintel of the door, and sitting down beside the still glowing stove. He smiled almost apologetically at Inspector Box, deposited his tall silk hat on the floor beside him, and pulled the skirts of his cloak around his knees.
‘Good morning, Detective Inspector Box,’ he said.
‘Good morning, Colonel Kershaw. So it’s like that, is it?’
‘Yes, Box, it’s like that.’
Inspector Box had worked with Colonel Kershaw before. This slight, sandy-haired man with the mild face and the weary, sardonic voice, was one of the powers behind the Throne. He was feared by his enemies; but it was perhaps more significant that he was feared, too, by his friends.
‘Will you smoke a cigar with me, Mr Box?’
‘I will, sir.’
Colonel Kershaw withdrew a stout cigar case from an inside pocket, opened it, and offered it to Box. Three slim cigars reposed in the case, and beside them a rolled-up spill of paper secured with twine. Colonel Kershaw’s pale-blue eyes looked speculatively at Box for a moment. Box took a cigar, and also the spill of paper, which he placed without comment in the pocket of his overcoat. The two men lit their cigars and smoked in silence for a minute or two. Then Colonel Kershaw spoke.
‘Listen carefully, Inspector Box. I came in here through the gate in the garden wall leading to an alley. That’s why nobody saw me, and that’s why nobody will see me leave. There are deep waters here, and you are not dealing with a private murder, so I’m going to help you by telling you some things of interest.
‘First, Lieutenant Fenlake, the young man who came here last night, is a bona fide Foreign Office courier. I expect you were going to check whether that was so? I thought so. Question him by all means. He has already reported to Sir Charles Napier, the Under-Secretary. It might be a good idea to mention at this point, Mr Box, that I am keeping a benevolent eye on Sir Charles Napier and his couriers. They don’t know that, of course. I’m very interested, you see, in what they’re doing at the moment.’
So that was it. Sir Charles Napier ran the Foreign Office’s semi-secret courier service, and was accountable to the Prime Minister. Colonel Kershaw was the head of Secret Intelligence. It was generally thought that he was accountable to no one.
‘I have a kind of indirect connection with Lieutenant Fenlake, sir,’ said Box. ‘I know a young lady friend of his.’
‘Do you indeed? What’s her name? What kind of young lady is she?’
Box raised his eyebrows, but made no comment. When talking to Colonel Kershaw, it was well to answer his questions without demur.
‘Her name’s Vanessa Drake, and she’s an embroideress with Watts & Company of Westminster. She and this Fenlake are supposed to be sweet on each other.’
Kershaw absorbed this information without comment, though Box saw a speculative gleam briefly light up his eyes. He asked Kershaw a question.
‘Is it in order for me to ask why Lieutenant Fenlake came here? Why did he want to see Dr Seligmann?’
‘He came to collect a memorandum that Seligmann had written. It was to be delivered to a man in Berlin, a man called Baron von Dessau. A rehearsal of that collection had been attempted on the previous day, but had met with no success. Well, you know that, of course. And you’ve seen the body of the Foreign Office courier who made that unsuccessful attempt.’
‘I have, sir. And I’ve been told his name.’
‘Yes, I know you have. A villainous-looking fellow calling himself Stefan Oliver. He was one of Sir Charles Napier’s more picturesque couriers. He was half Polish, you know’ Kershaw added cryptically, ‘It’s a dangerous thing to be Polish in this particular part of the world.’
Box briefly conjured up the image of the overweight, unshaven man lying dead on the trestle table in the pier-master’s office, his body probed and manhandled by a police doctor who had become inured to violent death. Stefan Oliver, one of England’s unsung and unrewarded heroes.
‘Where is that memorandum now, sir?’
‘It was successfully collected by Lieutenant Fenlake last night. By now, it will be locked safely in the strongroom at the Foreign Office, where it will stay, presumably, until it sets out on its journey to Berlin.
‘But now, Box, I’ll tell you about Colin McColl, the other man who called upon Dr Seligmann last night. Colin McColl is a dangerous social and political pirate, who attaches himself to the disaffected, and offers them his services. He deals only with the disaffected of high rank. He expects – and receives – rich rewards. He traffics in secrets on his own account, and has been known to slaughter other rivals in the same field of activity.’
‘Not a very nice person, then?’
‘No, Box. He’s not a very nice person. He’s been active now for just over two years. Or perhaps I should say that he has come to my notice during the course of the last two years. He’s extremely dangerous, because he always carries conviction. No doubt you’ll check at Quaritch’s bookshop? Yes, well, you’ll find that McColl was, indeed, a part-time consultant to them. He’s carried out a number of minor but successful assignments for them. But Quaritch’s won’t see him again. And between you and me, I don’t think you’ll catch him, Box. He’s a decidedly slippery customer, with a positive genius for hiding himself away from prying eyes like mine.
‘Now, I think, you can see why I have interested myself in this business of Seligmann’s memorandum. Colin McColl is a dangerous man to spar with. In the nature of things, Sir Charles Napier at the Foreign Office will not even have heard of him.’
‘I’ve just been talking to Dr Seligmann’s friend Count Czerny,’ said Box. ‘He told me about a dangerous conspiracy of war-mongers called The Linked Ring—’
‘Did he? Did he really? The Eidgenossenschaft. Yes, they’re on the loose again.’
Colonel Kershaw drew thoughtfully on his cigar before adding, ‘They could well be the people behind this assassination. Sir Charles Napier thinks so. He said that Seligmann told him as much at that meeting of his last Saturday. They’re shrewd enough, you see, to realize that Colin McColl is the obvious choice of assassin. He’s a very intelligent man. He has a degree in English from one of the northern universities. He’s a pleasant enough young man to speak to, so I’ve been told, but he enjoys the anonymity of ordinariness. Sometimes people remember him, but for the most part they do not.’
‘And Colin McColl is working for this Linked Ring?’
‘Oh, no, Box; not he! Oh, dear me, no! Colin McColl is … how can I put it, without sounding melodramatic? McColl attaches himself to causes, and to subversive groups like the Eidgenossenschaft, and lets them think that he is their paid servant. But all the time, Box, he is using them, for his own dark ends.’
‘What are those ends?’
‘To my way of thinking, Box, McColl is something more than a mere man. He’s the vehicle for a dark, manipulative force – a terrific force of evil. You ask me what are his ends. There’s somebody in Macbeth whose ambition it was to “pour the sweet milk of concord into hell”. That’s what McColl wants to do. And the danger at the moment,
Box, is that his sentiments accord with those of the German war groups. Each sustains the other. They follow fanatics and cranks, who crave for a new world, founded on all the old cliches about freedom, fraternity, and all the rest of it.’
Colonel Kershaw drew thoughtfully on his cigar for a moment, and then continued.
‘On the 13th of this month, Box, which is a Friday, there is to be a grand meeting in Berlin of the Pan-German League, to be addressed by Baron von Dessau. I have people there, and in Jena, who tell me that new resentments against French policy in Alsace could lead to rogue units of the German Army violating the borders. I need hardly remind you what the consequences of that would be! What happens will depend on what Baron von Dessau does. And this is where the memorandum comes in. Sir Charles Napier tells me that its contents will make Baron von Dessau persuade the hotheads to rein in their ardour – at least, for a time.’
‘Sir Charles has read the memorandum?’
‘No – at least, he says he hasn’t. Seligmann told him what the result would be, but not what the memorandum contained. So we must ensure that the fiery Baron von Dessau receives the memorandum. There are quite a few parties on both sides of the Channel who’d like to get their hands on that document. It’s part of our task to see that they don’t succeed. The thirteenth is the day of destiny.’
‘Then we’ve only ten days left, sir! Sir Charles and his folk will have to guard that memorandum well. I wonder what would happen if it was never delivered?’
‘Well, Box, I think that von Dessau would unleash the dogs of war. That, I know, is his intention. Without the secret constraint contained in Seligmann’s memorandum, I think that certain elements of the German Army will violate the French borders. There’ll be war of some kind, and we shall be dragged right into it.’
The two men were silent for a while, listening to the coal settling in the stove, and to the distant murmur of voices in the ruined garden. Then Box spoke.
‘Did this Colin McColl murder Stefan Oliver?’
‘I’m almost certain of it. McColl has a vindictive, vicious streak in his nature, which is why he had the temerity to dump poor Oliver’s body practically at Sir Charles Napier’s feet. Not a nice person, Box, as you say.’
‘Why didn’t he try to murder Lieutenant Fenlake? If he was after this memorandum—’
‘Ah, but was he? Or was he bent purely upon the political assassination? I can’t answer these questions, Mr Box, because my mind is trained to consider the broader canvas. I need to stand back from the minutiae. McColl’s concocting some grand scheme, I’m sure of that. But I’ve no idea what it is.’
‘Mr Fenlake’s not one of your people, is he, sir?’
‘No. Like me, he’s an Artillery officer, but he’s not one of my secret intelligence crowd. Fenlake’s the wrong type of character to be one of my people. He’s a Foreign Office courier – quite a different kind of animal, Mr Box.’
Box drew thoughtfully on his cigar for a while, silently eyeing the quiet and imperturbable man sitting by the stove. Joe Peabody was one of Kershaw’s crowd – the ‘nobodies’, as he liked to call them. Joe had known that he would be at the St Swithin’s Hall last Saturday night. He had come up specifically from the river to find him. Whatever was going on, Colonel Kershaw was pulling the strings.
‘You’re drawing me into something, aren’t you, Colonel Kershaw? You’re poaching on the Commissioner’s preserves.’
Colonel Kershaw suddenly looked grave. When he spoke, he made no attempt to respond in kind to Box’s reserved banter.
‘So far, Mr Box, I’ve simply told you things. I’ve told you the name of a double murderer, and all your policeman’s instincts will impel you to go after him. I’ve told you about the memorandum, and the approach of a dangerous European crisis. There’s a conflict of duties for you there, Mr Box, and if you throw in your lot with me over this business, it’s a conflict that you’ll have to resolve without my help. So what do you say? You’ve got a mind that works differently from mine, and it’s your special qualities of mind that I want near me during this business. Will you consent to work with me?’
‘I will, sir.’
Colonel Kershaw smiled, retrieved his silk hat, and stood up. He dropped the butt of his cigar into the stove.
‘It’s a pity that you are so well known, Mr Box,’ he said. ‘If you were reasonably obscure, I’d try to recruit you permanently into my crowd. But to be one of my nobodies, you’ve got to be rather in the shade. Like Joe Peabody. You were an excellent help to me last time, when we unmasked the murderous Dorset subalterns, and I’d like to feel you were around me when this business blows up. I’ll go now.’
Colonel Kershaw opened the door of the shed and walked quietly out into the thickening mist.
7
The Fragments Assembled
Sergeant Knollys surveyed himself critically in the big, fly-blown mirror rising above the office fireplace. At one time, he thought ruefully, he’d been considered a handsome kind of man, but since the Philpotts Gang had rearranged his features with a sharpened length of iron railing, he felt that any little child who saw him in the street would run away screaming with fright.
Inspector Box, in his chirpy fashion, had assured him that he was too sensitive.
‘We can’t all be beautiful in this life, Sergeant Knollys,’ he’d said, ‘and from some angles you look quite presentable. Just keep away from strong gaslight.’
Knollys smiled, and let his image go out of focus. He read some of the cards and scraps of paper pasted round the edges of the mirror, many of them stained and faded. ‘Mr Shale did not call on Wednesday’, ‘Tell Mr Box that there’s nobody of that name in Harpenden’. What name? One of these days he’d clear away all these remains of long-dead cases, and give the mirror a polish. If he didn’t do it, nobody else would.
The swing doors of the office flew open, and Inspector Box bustled in. Knollys’ reverie faded. Whenever the guvnor burst in like that, eager for the fray, the present began to move back firmly to centre stage.
‘Sergeant Knollys! I’m back at last. How did you get on at Victoria? I just made it to the Clarence Vaults. They were all there, in the cellar bar, the gentlemen of the Press – but never mind them. How did you get on?’
Inspector Box pulled off his leather gloves, and struggled out of his overcoat. He sat down at the cluttered table, and looked gratefully at the blazing fire.
‘I went down to Chaplin’s office at Victoria, sir,’ Knollys replied, ‘and spoke to a Mr Lloyd. Sure enough, he remembered the crate and had the original manifests. It came ostensibly from Bonn, and was despatched to England through Hamburg. It didn’t come into the Port of London—’
‘Which is decidedly odd, Sergeant, when you consider that its destination was Chelsea.’
‘Yes, sir. It was sent on a German cargo steamer to Dover. It was opened by the customs there, and found to contain books. They resealed it, marked it “Contents without value”, and let it go on by rail to Victoria.’
‘“Contents without value” – evidently they’re not great readers in the Customs, Sergeant. But you can see what must have happened. Someone engineered a substitution between Dover and here. It could be done. Or they switched labels on two different consignments. They packed their dynamite into the crate, and sent it on the final leg of its journey. Very interesting, Sergeant. And very sinister.’
‘Yes, sir. I’ve also been to Quaritch’s bookshop, in Piccadilly. They knew all about this Colin McColl. He’d carried out a number of tasks for them – things to do with old books and the like. They’d no doubt that he was a genuine scholar. They said it would be quite impossible to pose as such a man. But they’d never commissioned him to show manuscripts to Dr Seligmann. They don’t deal in manuscripts.’
Box said nothing. Knollys watched him as he lit a thin cigar, and sat smoking in silence, gazing at the office fire.
‘Sir,’ said Knollys, ‘While I remember it, I must tell you something I noti
ced about Miss Ottilie. I’ve already mentioned that I think she’s older than she lets on. But I also noticed a pale indentation around the finger where you’d expect to see a German woman’s wedding ring. I think she’s married, sir.’
Box stirred in his chair, looked at Knollys, and smiled.
‘Yes, Sergeant,’ he said, ‘I saw that little pale band of skin on the ring finger myself, and came to the same conclusion. As for Miss Ottilie’s true age – well, she can’t be much more than thirty-five, if that. So she’s not trying to look younger out of vanity, Sergeant. I think she’s doing it for disguise. She’s passing herself off as a certain young woman of twenty-two.’
‘Strewth! Do you mean she’s not Dr Seligmann’s niece?’
‘It’s just a thought, Sergeant Knollys. Something to ponder in a quiet moment. And I wish you’d try to acquire a choicer range of exclamations. “Strewth” is all very well for a Billingsgate porter, but hardly suitable for a detective sergeant.’
‘An imposter, sir? That could explain why she wasn’t entirely overcome with grief. It could explain—’
‘Save it for a quiet moment, Sergeant. And don’t even hint it to anybody outside this room. Now, I’m going to tell you something else that you’re to keep under your hat. I can’t see how I can possibly continue with this investigation without telling you the whole story.
‘After you left the house in Chelsea this morning, I found a phantom lurking in the fog, waiting to confront me. This phantom, Sergeant Knollys, is the man who controls Joe Peabody, and a hundred others like him, and his name’s Colonel Kershaw. We sat by the stove in that brick garden shed, and he told me all about Colin McColl.’
As Box recounted his meeting with Kershaw, he contrived to convey the sense of menace and danger that seemed to be attached to the person of Colin McColl.
‘And then, Sergeant,’ he concluded, ‘Colonel Kershaw made a reference to one of Shakespeare’s plays. Something about “the sweet milk of concord”. I’m a perky sort of fellow, as you know, but I felt intimidated by his words.’
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