Fenlake said nothing. It was time for him to leave the Admiralty by a rear door that gave on to St James’s Park. Should he walk up to the Foreign Office now, and alert Sir Charles Napier to what he had just discovered? It was only a step away. But then, if Colin McColl was one of their own people, how could he have been an assassin? Was Sir Charles wrong about that?
Well, the matter would have to wait until the morning. Duty called, and he would make his way to 3 Thomas Lane Mews, near Grosvenor Square. He had been there on a number of occasions before. It would be prudent to walk over to Carlton House Terrace, and take a cab from the rank at the corner of Waterloo Place. As he skirted the vast, sombre expanse of the park, some part of his tidy mind hoped that Vanessa Drake would be all right.
Inspector Box felt tired. The desperate struggle with Baby-Boy Contarini had fatigued him more than he’d cared to admit. What a day for Miss Whittaker to pay a surprise call! Still, her information confirmed what he and Knollys had suspected all along. The young woman called Ottilie Seligmann was an impostor. Well, they were all being discreetly watched – Ottilie, Count Czerny, the housekeeper, and the secretary. They could wait.
He sat down in his accustomed chair near the fire, and lit a thin cigar. It was just after five, and quite dark outside. The old gas mantle flickered and spluttered. Box could hear the faint movements of other people in distant rooms. A coal settled in the grate.
His mind turned to Dr Seligmann. He must have acquired a complete set of The Hansa Protocol and hidden it away behind those dummy books in the Belvedere. Then someone had found out …. Perhaps the false Ottilie had done some snooping. Seligmann was a German, a subject of the Kaiser. Didn’t that make him a traitor? To some people, like those angry men in St Swithin’s Hall, he would be a traitor. But to others – well, to hold the keys of the German military machine meant some guarantee of peace.
He glanced at the paper calendar hanging beside the fireplace. Friday, 6 January, it said, the Feast of the Epiphany. There was just one week to go before the Pan-German rally in Berlin. Box wondered when the memorandum was to start on its journey.
The old sergeant from the front office came in through the swing doors, carrying a slim ledger, which he placed in front of Box on the desk. The incident book.
‘How late does this go, Sergeant Driscoll?’ asked Box.
‘To five o’clock, sir. The duty officer at Whitehall Place will compile the night book from six onwards. Is it all right for me to go off now, sir?’
Box removed the slim cigar from his mouth.
‘That’s quite all right, Sergeant. PC Kenwright will be back soon.’
Sergeant Driscoll saluted, and left the room. Without leaning forward in his chair, Box dragged the incident book towards him across the cluttered table, and opened it where a piece of blotting paper marked a place.
The teeming millions …. There was never any relief from the constant wave of crime surging through the vast metropolis. His eyes scanned the carefully written entries – Parker, Emmanuel, jeweller, stabbed at such-and-such an address; O’Hanlon, Patrick, taken up on suspicion of murder; Fenlake, Arthur, shot dead at such-and-such an address—
Box sat up straight in his chair. All trace of tiredness had left him.
‘Fenlake, Arthur, shot dead in premises at 3 Thomas Lane Mews, Grosvenor Square.’
Within a minute Box was in a cab, rattling through the bitter cold streets towards Grosvenor Square.
Box could hear the murmur of the crowd before he turned the corner from the square into Thomas Lane Mews. The narrow lane was thronged with the usual parcel of loiterers, tradesmen and know-alls, who gazed at the grimy brick front and dirty windows of number three as though they could read its secrets.
The door of the house opened to admit him, and was immediately closed after him. He stood in a dusty hall, where a stout, whimsical looking inspector had come out to greet him. He spoke with a kind of suppressed chuckle, which indicated the kind of man he was. He wore a smart but comfortable uniform, and carried his round pillbox hat in his hand.
‘I saw you striding along the pavement just now, Mr Box,’ he remarked, ‘which made me ask myself, “What does he want?” And then I thought to myself, “Why not ask him?” You’d better come through to the back room.’
‘How are you, Mr Graham?’ asked Box. ‘I know you’ll not mind me coming. It’s just that there’s a little link here with something I’m engaged on.’
Inspector Graham motioned with his hand to a plain wooden desk, which, with two upright chairs, completed the furnishing of the room.
‘There he is, Mr Box, on the floor behind the desk. Shot at point-blank range in the back. Revolver, I’d say, though we can’t be sure till later. Dr Cheshunt’s coming. Poor young man. I don’t think he could’ve been thirty, by the look of him.’
‘Why was he found? The house looks empty to me.’
‘Someone heard the shot. Someone who knew the house was empty. They sent for us. I’ve examined the body. There were some letters and papers in his pocket, which tell us who he is. Arthur Fenlake, his name was. A lieutenant in the Royal Artillery. Are you going to associate yourself with this?’
Inspector Box looked down at the young man’s body. This dead man was Vanessa Drake’s young man. The manner of his death had the deadly hallmark of Colin McColl. Stefan Oliver, too, had been shot in the back. It was an economical way to murder a man, because there was no possibility of a struggle. You took your victim by surprise.
Arthur Fenlake had spun round with the force of the shot, and was lying on his back in a pool of dark blood. His arms were outstretched, the left hand contracted into a tight fist. The face, and open eyes, expressed not fear, but surprise. Box had to use both hands to prise open Fenlake’s fingers. He removed a slip of paper from his hand and quickly read it. He drew in his breath sharply.
‘Associate myself? No, Mr Graham, I’ll not do that. I’ve seen all I need to see. I don’t think you’ll find out who did this for a long time. It’s a Foreign Office affair – you know the kind of thing I mean.’
He handed the slip of paper to Graham, who read it out aloud.
‘Go to SH3. New courier reception. Canning.’
Inspector Graham handed the document back to Inspector Box. He shook his head, and smiled ruefully.
‘I’m getting too old for this kind of work, Mr Box. I’m getting careless. I should have seen that paper in his hand. Not that it makes any sense to me.’
‘Fenlake was still clutching that note when he was shot, which means that he’d only just entered this place when the killer struck. This is Secure House Number 3, Mr Graham, a kind of secret trysting-place for Foreign Office couriers. Was there any sign of forced entry?’
‘No. I think both killer and victim used door keys to get into this place.’
‘Very likely. There’s treachery here, Mr Graham. That name, “Canning”, is used by the Foreign Secretary and his deputies as a code-name.’
‘An enemy within the gates?’
‘Exactly. But what I don’t understand, is why that enemy should want to make away with this poor young man.’
‘Maybe he doesn’t like Foreign Office couriers.’
‘Maybe not, Mr Graham. And you’re not getting too old, or careless. You’re getting too fat! Try running round the block every day, or take a course in the dumb-bells. You suggest that our killer doesn’t like couriers. You’re a cynical devil, Mr Graham, but I think that, in this case, you might have hit on the sober truth.’
10
The Mistress and her Servants
Colonel Kershaw stood in front of an ornate carved desk in a very chilly, high-ceilinged chamber, which seemed at first glance to be part library and part armoury; but the bound volumes on the shelves looked undisturbed by enquiring hands, and the collection of fierce swords and daggers reposed harmlessly in glass cases. The fanciful mock-Gothic fireplace contained nothing warmer than a confection of yellow and brown dried grasses.
Etiquette forbade any conversation before the Queen had spoken. Kershaw stood rigidly before her for what seemed to him at least ten minutes, measured by the relentless ticking of a number of clocks. He noted the sheen of her black silk widow’s weeds, and the exquisite fineness of her white lace veil. She had donned small, round, gold-framed spectacles before entering the room, and gave her attention wholly to a collection of documents that had been laid ready for her on the blotter.
Finally, Queen Victoria carefully removed her glasses, folded them, and placed them on the desk. When she spoke, Kershaw was conscious of the contrast between her involuntarily forbidding presence and the bell-like sweetness of her voice.
‘Good afternoon, Colonel Kershaw. We say that as a matter of courtesy, though of course there is nothing good about it at all. Nothing. We are conscious of failings, of complacency, of a falling away of the effectiveness of the organs of governance. When we think back over the last half-century, we are reminded that home and foreign affairs were at one time managed with greater success.’
The Queen dropped her eyes for a moment to the documents on the desk. Colonel Kershaw wondered whether all the other rooms in Windsor Castle were as relentlessly freezing as this discreet little chamber at the entrance to the Private Apartments.
‘Last Saturday, Colonel Kershaw,’ the Queen continued, ‘a Foreign Office courier, Stefan Oliver, was murdered, and thrown by his murderer from a boat into the Thames. Did you know that?’
‘Yes, Ma’am.’
‘Last Tuesday, one of Britain’s staunchest friends, Dr Otto Seligmann, was blown to pieces in Chelsea by means of an Infernal Machine. Did you know that?’
‘Yes, Ma’am.’
‘How could such things occur in our capital? We summoned Sir Charles Napier here, and told him that this kind of thing had to stop. And now …. What are we to say about this slaughter, only yesterday afternoon, of a staunch and loyal young officer in a so-called “secure house” belonging to the Foreign Office? Lieutenant Arthur Fenlake was instrumental in delivering to Sir Charles Napier a memorandum written by Dr Seligmann—’
Colonel Kershaw began to frame a reply, but the Sovereign held up her hand to enjoin silence. She had grown very pale, a change emphasized by the deep black of her customary mourning dress.
‘Lieutenant Fenlake was thirty-one. What a waste of a young life! What contempt for the Queen’s Peace! Oliver, Seligmann, Fenlake – these are blows against us! These murderous assassinations, Colonel Kershaw, are symptomatic of a greater and more serious disease in the body politic. The country is riddled with traitors. They are everywhere – in the houses of the great, in the military encampments, and in the very seats of government—’
‘Ma’am—’
‘We have not yet finished speaking! These traitors, and their sympathizers, are gaining ground. They are mesmerized by the rhetoric of my grandson William, and his agents. William – the Kaiser – is a man who likes to appear strong. But he is weak – weak in body and spirit, and we fear that one day he will bring the whole of Europe to ruin. Meanwhile, we must do our utmost to prevent that. And so, once again – once again, Colonel Kershaw, I have sent for you.’
The Queen had abruptly abandoned the royal plural, and with it some measure of the anger that she had felt as Sovereign. The change of pronoun let Kershaw know that the scolding was at an end, and that he was to be treated now as a confidant. The Queen permitted a little smile to play about her mouth.
‘You appear to be shivering, Colonel Kershaw. Are you cold? If so, I will tell them to light the fire.’
‘No, Ma’am, I am not at all cold. Perhaps just a little un-warm.’
The smile lingered for a brief moment on the Queen’s face, and then her mood became grave once more.
‘Sir Charles Napier, the Under-Secretary, is a very capable man. A brilliant man. In his way …. I should very much like to induce him to retire to that estate of his in Wiltshire. A peerage, perhaps? Well, I’ll speak to Mr Gladstone about that. And, of course, to dear Lord Salisbury.’
The Queen seemed to have lost sight of Kershaw for a moment. He stood quite still, waiting for her next words.
‘That memorandum of Seligmann’s – my government is anxious to convey it safely to certain parties in Germany. But you already know about that.’
‘Yes, Ma’am. I have, in fact, already interested myself in it.’
Ah!’ It was a little sigh of satisfaction. ‘I wondered, you know, whether you had already moved in the matter. Whenever I see you, Colonel Kershaw, I think of Francis Walsingham and Robert Cecil, who ran the secret services in olden times. Have you seen the picture of Queen Elizabeth at Hatfield? The Queen’s cloak is covered with embroidered eyes and ears, which I believe represent her secret servants: unseen, they saw all, unheard, they heard all. Whenever I see that picture, and what it may signify, I think of myself, and of Walsingham and Cecil. And then I think of you.’
The Queen stopped speaking, and simply looked at the slight, sandy-haired man standing stiffly in front of her. He knew what he had to say.
‘Your Majesty, I have the honour to head your Department of Special Services. I have long considered the rot setting in throughout your realm, and believe that now is the time for me to act. But I cannot act effectively unless Your Majesty grants me full powers to over-ride and to commandeer.’
‘We give you those powers, Colonel Kershaw. I have already told Mr Gladstone that I would do so, if the need arose. Do what you will, and use whatever means you deem necessary. Cleanse our realm of treachery! Our people shall not be delivered into the hands of alien oppressors.’
Queen Victoria stood up. Colonel Kershaw bowed deeply. He kept his head inclined until he knew that Her Majesty had left the room. A liveried footman appeared, and conducted him from the private apartments. He emerged from the chill audience room into the cold winter afternoon.
‘Well done, old girl,’ he muttered to himself. ‘I’ll not fail you!’
Vanessa Drake stood a little apart from the other mourners, who formed a kind of tableau of dignified grief where they had assembled on one of the snow-pocked paths between the graves at Highgate Cemetery. The carriages had been halted at the beginning of the long avenue, and they had all walked its entire length until they reached the great cedar of Lebanon at the centre of the circular road. An unrelenting wind soughed through the tall, swaying trees, and blew dried snow from the draped urns, marble crosses and granite columns of the countless grand, gaunt tombs.
Arthur had been an orphan, like herself, and both his parents lay here, in the grave newly opened for him. The black-coated, black-gloved mourners on the path, the women veiled to the ankles, the men with long mourning bands trailing from their silk hats, were his uncles, their wives, and his cousins. They had travelled down from Hereford, and would return there later that day.
Nearer to the grave, where the snow had been trampled into slush, a group of military officers had taken up their position, their blue and scarlet uniforms making a dash of colour among the general dreariness. Although it was bitterly cold, they wore no cloaks. There were other soldiers standing in disciplined formations on the paths.
The military chaplain’s white surplice billowed out behind him, and his voice, though high and clear, was carried away by the gusting wind. The coffin was committed to the earth, and Vanessa saw the chaplain close his book, and step back from the grave. Surely, that was the end of it? What was happening now?
A detail of soldiers appeared, six young men wearing dark-
blue uniforms, and carrying rifles. In response to a series of brief orders barked out by someone unseen, they took up positions around the grave, swiftly raised their rifles, and fired a single deafening fusillade into the air. The sound echoed and re-echoed from the turrets and tombs, and a flock of shrieking crows rose up, protesting, from the trees, to the bleak sky. At the same time, the knot of officers drew their swords, and executed the complex sword-play of the ‘present arms’.
Vanessa suddenly experienced a surge of pride which for a moment swamped her grief and anger. For she had been angry and resentful at the waste of her friend’s life in the pursuit of some secret government exploit that wasn’t allowed to reveal itself to the light of day. The pride of that moment, when the rifles fired as one, seemed to banish her smouldering resentment.
The mourners moved slowly towards the avenue, that would take them back to the carriages. The gravediggers hovered discreetly with their spades. The soldiers and their officers began to disperse. One officer, though, began to walk towards Vanessa, clearly intent on greeting her. She wondered who he was, and hoped that he would not detain her long. She wanted to go back quietly in a cab to her lodgings near Westminster Abbey, and to think about Arthur there.
She looked at the man who was approaching her, picking his way cautiously among the snow-covered graves. He was a slightly built, sandy-haired man with a pleasant but rather weary expression. He looked about fifty years of age. It was difficult not to be impressed by his appearance. He wore a bluejacket, with rows of gold braid and a scarlet collar, and blue trousers with a red stripe. He carried a black busby, with a red badge and a white plume, in the crook of his right arm, while his left hand steadied the scabbard of his dress sword. As he stepped on to the path, he greeted her with a gentle, confiding smile.
‘Miss Drake? Please accept my condolences. I am Lieutenant-Colonel Adrian Kershaw, of the Royal Artillery.’ She could see now the grenade badges on his collar. Poor Arthur, on the rare occasions that he had worn uniform, had sported the same grenade badges. He offered her his arm, and they walked slowly together down the path.
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