‘We uncovered that little scrap of paper, sir, while Mr Mack was still at the site. I showed it to him just before he left, and he kindly scribbled that note. And on this big board here, sir, I’ve pasted a whole pile of little fragments of paper – thirty-six pieces I’ve found so far – all with printed words on. I don’t know what they mean. They’re all in that fancy German type you see at the top of newspapers, so I expect they’re German words.’
‘It’s quite remarkable, Constable. I’ve not seen anything quite like this before. I know you’ve a light touch for a giant of a man, but all this fine, detailed work – smoothing out the bits of paper, flattening them out, mounting them behind glass – it’s excellent. You’re a shining ornament.’
PC Kenwright smiled appreciatively into his beard.
‘Well, sir, I suppose this kind of task comes naturally to me. When I was a little boy, I used to help my father to make his models. He made models of Nelson’s ships from the days of the war against Napoleon. We used to make little sally-ports and little spars from pieces of wood he brought home from Covent Garden. He was a porter there for nigh on fifty years.’
Kenwright returned to his ledger, and Box went back through the passage to his office. The fire was burning brightly, and the rackety old gas mantle trembled and spluttered, as though gasping for air. Box pulled one of the chains, and the light burned brighter. He sat down at the table, and gave himself up to thought.
Pieces of leather that looked like the spines of books, but weren’t. Dummies, Miss Whittaker had called them. A collection of fragments of paper, with German printing on them. Where did that lead him? Maybe the dummies were like boxes, filled with papers printed in German ….
The Belvedere was supposed to have been Dr Seligmann’s academic library, but that had not been the truth. The people in that house at Chelsea were adept at dropping subtle hints about things. A pack of playing cards thrown carelessly down …. Perhaps they were good at playing tricks.
The Belvedere …. It hadn’t fitted in with the house. It was too big, too menacing, for its modest surroundings. And it had thick walls, lined with brick. And an iron door, which Colin McColl had seemingly risked his life to breach. The Belvedere.
Of course! It was the Belvedere, not Seligmann, that had been the subject of Colin McColl’s fiendish attention! Seligmann could have been disposed of less expensively by pushing him under a cab, or chucking him in the river at Chelsea Reach. There was no need to blow him into atoms.
No; they’d needed that massive charge of explosive in order to destroy the Belvedere – and its contents. Something to do with PC Kenwright’s carefully garnered scraps of paper. That had been the object of the whole diabolical exercise. Killing Seligmann in the process was by way of being a bonus.
Box felt inside his coat and removed the spill of paper that Colonel Kershaw had passed to him on the previous day in the garden shed at Chelsea. He had already glanced at it, and realized what it signified. It was inscribed in small, neat letters with a name and address.
Mrs Prout, Bagot’s Hotel, Carlisle Place, Archbishop’s Park.
Whoever Mrs Prout was, she would be able to grant him access to Colonel Kershaw. It was time for Box to take himself to Carlisle Place. He committed the name and address to memory, and then burnt the spill in the office fire. He watched the slip of paper curl rapidly and fly up the chimney in a shower of sparks.
8
The Hansa Protocol
‘Dull!’
Louise Whittaker paused in the act of stirring her coffee, and looked at her young friend Vanessa Drake. A moment before, she had asked the girl how she found life at the moment. Vanessa had uttered the single word so vehemently that several of the other ladies taking lunch in the restaurant of the Acanthus Club had looked up disapprovingly. Vanessa blushed, and lowered her voice.
‘I never felt like that until I met Arthur,’ she continued. ‘I had my way to make in life, and a gift for needlework and embroidery. And the people at Watts & Co are all that one could desire. But it’s all so deadly dull, Louise! I envy you, because you meet so many different people, you know detectives at Scotland Yard, you travel abroad to romantic countries, you’re a member of this marvellous club for professional women—’
‘I’m thirty-five, Vanessa,’ said Louise. ‘You’re a mere chit of a girl of twenty. You’ve plenty of time to expand your horizons in life. And why has knowing Lieutenant Fenlake unsettled you? Inspector Box was able to set your mind at rest about your Arthur’s gambling propensities, and the good intentions of Major Lankester—’
‘Yes, it was very good of him to do that. But it’s something about Arthur’s work that’s making me chafe at the bit. He’s something more than just a soldier, Louise. Why is he always at the Admiralty? Why is he never in barracks? He disappears, sometimes for days, on mysterious errands, and shies away if I try to ask any questions …. He’s having adventures while I’m languishing among the silks and damasks in Tufton Street!’
Vanessa Drake laughed in spite of herself, and a lady sitting at a table nearby looked up from her newspaper, caught Vanessa’s eye, and smiled. She was an affable-looking woman of fifty or so, wearing a businesslike black dress. Vanessa had noticed her earlier, because her auburn hair was enlivened by a single tress of natural silver. She had been peering at her copy of The Times through gold pince-nez, but now she put the paper down on the table.
‘I couldn’t help but hear what you said just now, my dear,’ she said. ‘I hope you’ll forgive me speaking to you like this, but I know just how you feel. My name is Mrs Prout. I’m an hotelier.’
‘I’m Vanessa Drake,’ said Vanessa, in some confusion. Mrs Prout seemed to be a kindly, comfortable kind of woman, but there was something very shrewd in her expression that was slightly unnerving. ‘And this is my friend Miss Whittaker. I’m only a guest here today. Miss Whittaker is a member.’
‘Well, now, isn’t that nice? How do you do, Miss Whittaker? I don’t think we’ve met before. I don’t come here very often, these days.’
‘Perhaps you’d care to join us for coffee?’ said Louise Whittaker. She wondered about this Mrs Prout. It was not usual for a lady of her generation to be so informal about introductions. She watched as Mrs Prout pulled her chair across to their table, and sat down.
‘You see, Miss Drake, when I was your age – twenty? – I worked in my father’s little printing-house, binding up parcels of tracts for the Chinese Mission. Day after day I’d turn the handle of the special machine that bound the sheets together, and then I’d pack them in dozens in shallow wooden boxes. I couldn’t read them, of course, because they were printed in Chinese! Day after day …. I’d done that for three years, and I began to think that I’d carry on doing it for another thirty.’
‘And what happened?’
‘Well, Miss Drake, the mission decided to establish a printing-house at Canton, and Father agreed to go out there and set it up. And so we went. As soon as we got there, the war broke out – well, one of several wars. Canton was occupied by rebels, people who didn’t care much for foreigners. Our little mission house was surrounded by a fearful mob, and the upshot of it was that they set fire to the place. Then they set fire to the neighbouring houses. There was a lot of shouting, and shooting, and we were all quite convinced that we were going to be slaughtered.’
Louise Whittaker had made two efforts to pour Mrs Prout a cup of coffee, but on both occasions she had been stopped by the dizzying speed of the older woman’s narrative. She glanced at Vanessa, and saw her blue eyes shining with excitement. Her young friend seemed to have lost sight of the quiet, elegantly appointed restaurant of the Acanthus Club, and she herself, for all her cool, academic detachment, was beginning to be enthralled by the friendly woman’s tale.
‘What happened next?’ asked Vanessa.
‘We were rescued by the provincial governor and his loyal troops, but then we had to make our way alone and unseen down to Hong Kong. Eventually, of course, we got
back to England, and a few years afterwards the Viceroy of China and General Gordon restored what passes out there for law and order.’
‘And did you resume your work for the mission?’ asked Louise. Mrs Prout treated her to a good-humoured smile, and shook her head.
‘Oh, no, Miss Whittaker. I’d had my fill of adventure! I married into the hotel business soon afterwards, and have been there – very contentedly! – ever since. So there, my dear Miss Drake. Life doesn’t have to be all stitching and sewing. The most amazing things can happen – if you’re willing to take the risk.’
Mrs Prout declined to take any coffee, and after a few pleasantries, she gathered up her paper, and left the room.
‘I wonder who she was?’ asked Louise Whittaker.
‘Why, she told us who she was—’
‘I don’t mean that, Vanessa. That was a true story she was telling, something unbelievable that once happened to someone who is now a comfortable, commonplace woman. But she was telling it for a purpose, and I have a feeling that she was watching you, seeing how you’d react to her story. It’s just a little odd, that’s all. Perhaps I’ll ask Inspector Box about this Mrs Prout.’
‘You like him, don’t you? Really like him, I mean.’
Louise Whittaker blushed, more with vexation than embarrassment. It was mortifying to like a man who seemed constantly overawed by one’s academic abilities. They’d never once addressed each other by their Christian names. Like him? Of course she liked him. She liked his defensive boastfulness, which masked some kind of sensitive vulnerability. And he’d lightheartedly made her the one and only member of his female posse.
Suddenly Louise Whittaker realized that she, too, was envious, just as Vanessa was envious of Arthur Fenlake. Arnold Box was part of the official establishment of the country. He had powers of arrest, privileged access to all kinds of influential people denied to her. But he came to her when a case began to puzzle him, content to avail himself of her scholar’s trained mind, and female insights. Why shouldn’t women have their share of such privileged authority? She would make as good a detective as Arnold Box, given the opportunity.
‘Well, do you?’
‘What? Yes, I really like him. I’m hoping that one day he’ll stop treating me as a kind of idol or oracle of wisdom, and treat me like a woman! Come on, Vanessa, let’s leave the Acanthus, and return to the big, wide world of Arnold Box and Arthur Fenlake! That Mrs Prout’s tale of derring-do has made me determine to beat these proud and secretive men at their own game, if ever I have the chance!’
Box had never heard of Bagot’s Hotel, but the cabbie whom he hailed at the corner of Whitehall Place made no comment when he asked to be taken there. He turned the head of his rather unwilling horse, and the cab rattled off on its journey to Westminster Bridge.
Bagot’s Hotel proved to be a small but high-class establishment, tucked discreetly into a cul-de-sac behind the rear garden wall of Lambeth Palace. Box paid off the cabbie, and walked up three steps into the dimly lit foyer of the hotel. An affable lady in a businesslike black dress occupied a little glazed office near the door. Her well-tended auburn hair was enlivened by a single silver streak, that somehow added distinction to her appearance.
The lady marked Box’s arrival by darting a quick and unexpectedly shrewd glance at him over pince-nez, and then continued talking to a gentleman who had evidently arrived only moments before Box.
‘It’s so nice to have you back with us, Major Lankester,’ said the lady, ‘even though it’s only for a few days. Just passing through, are we?’
This, then, thought Box, is the officer who saved young Fenlake from ruin. A handsome, fine-looking man in his mid-forties. That sleek black hair owed nothing to artifice. His clipped and waxed moustache told of a man with pride in himself. His tailored black overcoat with its warm astrakhan collar, suggested that Major Lankester was a man of means, and a smart dresser by inclination. Another military man …. Perhaps Bagot’s was an establishment for military and naval officers. Or perhaps it was something else.
‘Just passing through? Yes, Mrs Prout, that’s what I’m doing. Any chance of dinner, soon? I know it’s confoundedly early, but it’s dashed cold out there.’
‘Dinner’s whenever you like, Major Lankester. Down here, or upstairs. Just as you like. Mr Gordon was in, earlier. He said he hoped they’d see you soon at Eagle Street.’
‘Did he, by George? Well, we’ll see. I suppose he looked as prosperous as ever?’
‘Oh, yes, Major. Very spruce he looked – very dapper, if you understand me.’
Box watched Mrs Prout as she smiled rather archly at Major Lankester. That woman, he thought, can speak two languages at the same time. If you were sharp enough, you could divine what she meant by delving beneath her spoken words to what lay behind them.
‘I know what you mean, ma’am.’ Lankester replied. ‘Always very well turned out, is Mr Gordon.’ He lowered his tone a little. ‘You see men like him at the Italian opera. Tenors, mostly.’
Mrs Prout crowed with delight, and Box saw Lankester smile. It was a good-humoured smile, he thought, from a man without malice. Major Lankester turned away from the little glass office towards the staircase.
‘I’ll have dinner upstairs, Mrs Prout. In half-an-hour’s time, if that’s convenient.’
Box had taken the opportunity of glancing into the cosy, panelled lounge beyond the vestibule, where a good fire was burning, and a number of middle-aged men were sitting around, talking to each other in loud, commanding voices. They seemed to know one another, and Box judged that they were all military and naval men, some still on active service, and others obviously retired. There was a pervasive aroma of tobacco and brandy about the place.
‘Can I help you, sir?’
Box saw that Mrs Prout was regarding him with half-concealed amusement. He watched her glance briefly at a document on her desk, and then back at him again. Once more he saw the shrewd expression behind the rather arch, flirtatious exterior.
‘Would you care to go up the stairs to the first floor, sir? Knock on the door of room six. You are expected.’ She had not asked his name.
A deeply carpeted staircase led up to the bedrooms. The carpet was unworn, and spotlessly clean, with gleaming brass stair-rods. There was, Box mused, a decidedly military air about the buffed and polished surroundings of Bagot’s Hotel. He reached the first-floor landing, and knocked at the door of Number 6.
The door was opened by Colonel Kershaw, who had evidently just left an armchair placed in front of the fire. He was clutching a copy of The Morning Post in one hand, as though he had been reading it when Box had summoned him to the door.
Box took in the large, well-furnished room in a single glance. He saw the regimental shields and crossed swords above the fireplace, the shelves of books, and the wealth of framed photographs. This room in Bagot’s Hotel bore all the marks of being personal to the man who occupied it.
‘You live here!’ he exclaimed.
Colonel Kershaw laughed, and motioned to a chair facing his by the fire. He looked much the same as he had done in the brick shed at Chelsea. Slightly built, with thinning sandy hair, and a cast of countenance that was habitually apologetic, he looked more like a senior clerk approaching retirement than a professional soldier. Box wondered whether he cultivated different identities, and tried them out for consistency on people like himself.
‘Well, living here’s not a crime, Mr Box. One has to live somewhere, you know! In any case, I have other places where you’ll find me – always supposing that you’re looking for me. But you sent a note by special messenger, saying you had something to tell me.’
‘Yes, sir. I’m going to outline a theory, if I may. It’s based on the premise that the massive charge of explosive concealed in that crate at Chelsea was intended not to kill Dr Seligmann, but to destroy the Belvedere. Killing Dr Seligmann in the process, sir, was just a bonus, so to speak.’
‘Why should they want to destroy the Bel
vedere?’
‘Because of what it contained. Some kind of documents, sir, concealed in filing boxes disguised as large books. Shelf after shelf of dummy books. I’ve a constable back at King James’s Rents who’s salvaged over thirty fragments of these documents, so far. They appear to be printed in the German language. Do you want to hear how I arrived at these conclusions, sir?’
‘No. What I want to do, Box, is send a man – one of my crowd – to look at those fragments, and read what they say. Printed, you say? I wonder …. If I allow myself to become immersed in the detail, Box, I’ll lose sight of the overall picture. So, no, I don’t want to hear how you found this out, but I’m sure that you’re right. Well done! I knew I’d made the right decision when I ran you to earth in that foggy garden at Chelsea. You’ll definitely be around me, now, when this business blows up.’
‘You’re very kind, sir.’
‘Not at all. I trust that your friend Miss Whittaker is well? And Miss Vanessa Drake – is she still plying her busy needle?’
‘The answer’s “yes” to both your questions, Colonel Kershaw. I suppose it would be idle if I were to ask you why you want to know?’
‘Totally idle, Box. I just like to know things, that’s all. I’ll send a man down to see these fragments of yours. Can you see him later this afternoon? About five o’clock? Excellent. His name is Veidt. Monsieur Veidt. I already have an inkling of what he’s going to find. It opens up interesting possibilities …. We’ll talk further, Box, and sooner rather than later. Meanwhile, any message delivered here at Bagot’s will always find me.’
‘The lady in the office, sir – Mrs Prout – is she the owner?’
Colonel Kershaw smiled. He looked secretly amused at Box’s question.
‘The lady in the office is quite content to let people assume that she’s the owner of Bagot’s. But the ultimate owner, Mr Box, is a widowed lady, who lives in a castle at Windsor. This place belongs to her. And so, of course, do I.’
The Hansa Protocol Page 11