Box saw the look of haughty distaste on Admiral Holland’s face. This man was jealous of his rival in a way that Sir Charles Napier, the professional diplomat, was not.
‘Well, then, Kershaw, your police friends have brought it to light. I congratulate you, and them. But I fail to see why the matter should throw you into a panic.’
‘Well, then, Admiral Holland,’ Kershaw replied, ‘here is a small piece of information that might interest you. At this very moment, living in Caithness, is a woman called Maria Theresa Feissen. She is an explosives expert, the person ultimately responsible for the destruction of The Belvedere at Chelsea. She is in Scotland, Admiral, because she had found out about the twenty-fifth long ago.’
‘How could this foreign woman have found that out?’
‘How? Somewhere on the other side of this wall is the Admiralty Cipher Office. No doubt you could lead me to it, if I were to ask you. And in that office worked a man called Colin McColl. While working under the same roof as you, he murdered two Foreign Office couriers. Yesterday, he poisoned Otto Seligmann’s secretary. And he it was – have no doubt of this, Admiral – who found out the secret of the 25th, and delivered that secret into the hands of our enemies.’
Holland had gone very pale. He seemed to be struggling for words. Kershaw held up a hand, as though to stop the admiral from speaking.
‘Make no comment now, Admiral,’ said Kershaw. ‘This is not the moment to look for rats in the ship. It is, rather, the moment to prevent the ship from sinking.’
It was odd, thought Box, that he felt no satisfaction at seeing an admiral turn pale with fright. He had too much imagination, perhaps, to react in that way. This man in the well-fitting uniform was about to face a daunting challenge to all his lofty assumptions of superiority. Would he prove able to meet that challenge? Box hoped so, for all their sakes.
Colonel Kershaw glanced at the massive painting of warships at anchor in the sunlight of some utopian haven. He permitted himself a rare unpleasant smile.
‘In the Royal Artillery, Admiral, they speak of a target that is not aware of its presence in the gun-sights as a “sitting duck”.’
‘What do you mean?’ the Admiral quavered.
‘I mean, Holland, that you have successfully penned in the entire British Home Fleet where the people who blew up The Belvedere in Chelsea can give even greater exercise to their explosive talents. It’s the 18th today: the 25th is in precisely one week’s time. Unless something is done soon, that day will go down in history not only as the greatest disaster that the Royal Navy and this country has ever endured, but as the day when the heir to Britain’s Throne and Empire was blown to pieces, and Europe plunged into war.’
14
‘Something Terrible is Contemplated’
When Kershaw and Box emerged from the rear entrance of the Admiralty building, the colonel seemed disinclined yet again to leave the shelter of the Doric pillars. He stood in silence, pulling on his gloves, and fastening them at the wrist. Something in Kershaw’s manner prepared Box for what he was going to say.
‘Well, Mr Box,’ said Kershaw at last, ‘I think we’ve put Admiral Holland on his mettle. He’s a good man, you know, despite the harsh things I felt compelled to say to him just now. He and I will manage this business well enough between us.’
It was a clear dismissal, the kind of abrupt quietus that you had to expect if ever you became entangled with Colonel Kershaw’s affairs. When he said ‘go’, you went. It was ironic, though! As far as Old Growler knew, he’d just been taken on by Kershaw that very morning. Now, on the very same day, he was being shown the door.
‘What will you do now, sir?’
‘Well, I think this is going to be a joint naval and military exercise. When I heard at High Cedars that Mrs Poniatowski was holed up in Caithness, I had a quiet word in Sir Hamish Bull’s ear. I wanted his house, you see, as a headquarters. He very sensibly agreed to spend a week or two at his London house in Eaton Square. It would help him to while away the winter agreeably enough.’
Arnold Box laughed, and a certain tension that he had detected in Kershaw was immediately dissipated. Perhaps the colonel had expected him to throw a tantrum ….
‘That weekend at High Cedars, Box, whetted Sir Hamish’s appetite for the luxurious life. It was the dry champagne, I think that did it!’
Kershaw still seemed unwilling to move. Evidently he had something more to say.
‘Look here, Box, you don’t feel slighted about this, do you?’
‘Not at all, sir. I know all about the difficulties of exercising authority. It’s not as easy as some folk think. I’ve been caught between two stools in this case. Left to myself, I’d have arrested the whole lot of them on suspicion by now! I’d have already put them where they could do no further harm. But I can see that mine’s a blinkered view, and that your people have to look at a broader canvas. No, sir, I’m not in the least slighted.’
‘Good man! It’s a seductive and persuasive notion of yours, to have arrested the whole lot of them and locked them up for questioning, and so forth. Why didn’t you do so? I suspect the answer to that question is that you’ve joined my crowd in spite of yourself!’
‘I think you may be right, sir.’
‘Well, if I’m right, you’ll see how I’ve got to juggle with the Prime Minister, the Foreign Secretary, Her Majesty’s Government, and Her Majesty’s Loyal Opposition. I’ve got to think of the Kaiser in Berlin, and the President in Paris, and the Czar in St Petersburg. Above all, I have to use the means at my disposal to root out the real traitors in our midst, and prevent a hideous war with Germany. So let’s see how things develop in Scotland.’
Although it was not as cold as it had been earlier in the month, the diagonal sheets of rain falling across the park formed a dismal prospect. Box was getting tired of the Doric pillars, and Kershaw, he felt, had said all that he wanted to say. It was time for them both to move.
‘Are you going to defy this rain, sir, and make tracks for wherever you’re going?’
‘Yes, come on, Box. Let’s make a dash for Whitehall. We’ll get our death of cold, standing here.’
The two men hurried across Horse Guards, holding their heads down to escape the driving rain. When they reached Whitehall, Kershaw stopped at the entrance to the War Office. He looked speculatively at Box for a moment.
‘Thank you for all you’ve done this last week, Mr Box,’ he said. ‘I knew you’d turn up trumps! I’ve no doubt that there will be interesting developments up there in Scotland, and I had already intended to keep you informed by telegraph. I’ll send sporadic reports to a man called Baldwin, one of the operators at Charing Cross Telegraph Office. They’ll be in the usual police code. Baldwin’s one of my nobodies. He’ll bring any messages directly to you at King James’s Rents.’
‘That’s very good of you, sir.’
‘Not at all, Box. I made a few arrangements, you see, before ever you and I darkened Admiral Holland’s doorstep. It’s as well to be prepared, don’t you think? Anything you care to send me should be directed to the Naval Quay Telegraph Station, Caithness. I arranged that, too, beforehand.’
‘Well, sir,’ said Box, ‘I wish you success in Scotland. I take it that you’ll allow me to pursue any enquiries of my own here in London? Without prejudice, as they say.’
‘Well, of course, Mr Box,’ Kershaw replied. ‘Do I ever interfere with the even tenor of your daily round?’
Colonel Kershaw smiled, raised his hat to Box in salute, and passed out of sight through the imposing portals of the War Office.
Box picked up a report on the problem of traffic congestion in the metropolitan area, flicked through its pages, then threw it down on the table. Sergeant Knollys looked up from his notebook.
‘What’s the matter, sir? Are you vexed that we’ve both been dumped by Colonel Kershaw? Perhaps “shelved” would be a better word.’
For once, Box made no attempt to respond in kind to his sergeant’s banter. Knollys had told hi
m how he had settled Louise and Vanessa into Bagot’s Hotel, where he had received a politely dismissive note from Kershaw, thanking him for his trouble. Well, ‘shelved’ was not the right word, either. There was more to it than that.
‘Where’s Count Czerny?’ he said, more to himself than to Knollys. ‘I borrowed Tracker Thompson from “B” Division to keep a special eye on the noble count. He followed him to Calais, where he was met by a group of harmless-looking German gentlemen, and conveyed away somewhere by coach. Maybe he really is back in Germany, pulling the strings of those murderous puppets of his – Baron von Dessau, and the rest of them.’
‘Maybe he’s somewhere else, sir,’ Knollys countered. ‘Maybe he’s quietly slipped back into England. I’ve made a few enquiries about Count Czerny. He belongs to some of the best clubs, and is supposed to be a crack shot. He’s a very wealthy man, with several residences on the Continent. He’s also got a steam-yacht, called the – I’ve got it written down here, somewhere – yes, the Princess Berthe Louise.’
‘A steam-yacht? There are possibilities there, Sergeant. And here’s another question for you: where’s Miss Ottilie Seligmann? She’s gone, too. Gave our man the slip by walking into Peter Robinson’s in Oxford Street, and disappearing via a few twists and turns through the back way into Regent Street.’
Box sprang up from the table. The office seemed stifling, a monument to inertia. He was tired of standing about in the rain, and sitting idly by the fire in King James’s Rents.
‘And what about Colin McColl—’
‘There’s a lead there, sir. Miss Ottilie wasn’t as careful as she should have been, and one of our people saw her make an interesting foray from Chelsea to Euston, a few days before she made herself scarce.’
‘Euston!’
‘Yes, sir. Poor Mr Schneider took that letter of Seligmann’s out to your Miss Whittaker, at Maybury College, in Gower Street. Soon after he’d left the house in Chelsea, Miss Ottilie took a cab to Morwell Gardens, near Bedford Square. That’s only a stone’s throw from Gower Street. I think she was alerting an accomplice.’
Box had been struggling into his overcoat while Knollys was talking. A fresh light of battle had been kindled in his eyes.
‘And maybe that accomplice was our friend Colin McColl,’ he said. ‘Come on, Sergeant, let’s get out to Morwell Gardens!’
Morwell Gardens proved to be a quiet enclave of lodging-houses near Bedford Square. A few enquiries brought them to the house they wanted. Yes, a Scotch gentleman had taken rooms here for a while. Very quiet and respectable person. Yes, that was right: his name was Mr McColl. No, the rooms hadn’t been re-let. Of course they could look around, but they were furnished rooms, and the gentleman had left nothing worth taking behind.
The landlady at 23 Morwell Gardens led Box and Knollys to a spacious room on the second floor of the four-storey house, and left them alone. They opened cupboards and pulled out drawers, felt under the mattress in the small adjoining bedroom, and examined the washstand. There was nothing of Colin McColl left on the premises.
‘Nothing, Sergeant Knollys,’ said Box, ‘with the possible exception of these!’
He removed a tight wad of creased and folded newspapers from a waste-paper basket in the sitting-room. He and Knollys spread them out on a table. They bore the marks of boot blacking, and were slightly yellowed at the edges.
‘These papers have been discarded from an attache case,’ said Box. ‘Perhaps McColl decided to use fresh paper to wrap a pair of boots for his next journey. The Portsmouth Daily News. There are three of them: Monday, 9 January, 1893. This one’s the Tuesday, and this one, Wednesday ….’
‘So Colin McColl was in Portsmouth last week, sir. He was there for at least three days. That was the week when we were very much preoccupied with the treacherous Major Lankester, Bagot’s Hotel, and the rest of it.’
‘Yes, Sergeant. Portsmouth …. And by the Friday, he was back in London, being pulverized by you at Miss Drake’s place in Westminster. What was he doing in Portsmouth? He worked for part of the time at the Admiralty Cipher Office. There seems to be a special naval flavour about McColl.’
Box recalled the dramatic interview with Admiral Holland. Portsmouth had been mentioned. Something to do with HMS Fearnought, and another warship. What was it? The Leicester. Portsmouth ….
‘Sergeant Knollys,’ said Box, ‘there’s a picture coming into focus, a picture that I don’t like very much. Let’s get back to Scotland Yard. I’m going to send a telegraph to an old comrade-in-arms, Bert Fielding, who moved to Portsmouth in ’89. Inspector Fielding. We’ll send it from Whitehall Place. Bert might come up with a few answers.’
It was just over half an hour later, after Box had sent his message, that the telegraph machine at the office in Whitehall Place began to spell out a reply. The constable on duty expertly converted the coded message into plain speech, and handed his note pad to Box.
Portsmouth. 18 January 93. Reply Number 1. HMS Fearnought and HMS Leicester tied up at the South Railway Jetty Portsea Monday 9 January. Both ships received complement of shells for magazines. Both set sail Tuesday 10 January for restricted destination. Reply Number 2. Your description fits a well-known general naval engineer called Angus Macmillan. He worked on both ships. Expert in bunkering work and general mechanisms. Assisted at the loading of shells into both ships on Monday 9 January. A. Fielding. Port Police.
‘Angus Macmillan. A name to conjure with, Sergeant,’ said Box. ‘I’ll keep this information to myself until Friday, and then I’ll send it up to Colonel Kershaw in Scotland. He’ll be there by then. He may have shelved us, Sergeant Knollys, but never let it be said that we shelved him. By Friday, he’ll be settled in Sir Hamish Bull’s house in Caithness. What did he say it was called? Craigarvon Tower. Sounds a bit bleak to me. I wonder what Colonel Kershaw will think of it?’
Craigarvon Tower, a four-square building of weathered granite, rose gaunt and grey through the mist of rain that enveloped the rugged demesne of Sir Hamish Bull, Baronet. The tower had stood for 700 years or more, relentlessly battered by the winds coming in from the Pentland Firth and the North Sea. There was scarcely any shelter along all the seventy miles of bold, rugged coast that girded Caithness. Once part of the kingdom of Norway, Caithness held many remains of the ancient Norsemen. Barrows and ruined stone huts were scattered widely through the area.
The two or three other titled landowners in the area had long ago sought more comfortable estates further south. The Bulls had chosen to remain in their ancient Highland home, within sight of the land’s end and the plummeting cliffs, and the great sheltered bay called Dunnock Sound.
Admiral Holland and Colonel Kershaw, well muffled against the wet cold, emerged from the castellated front entrance of Craigarvon Tower, and began a laboured walk through an ill-defined estate of undulating land, where sheep and cattle grazed, and sparse, stunted crops showed that this corner of Scotland suffered from severe winters, and late wet springs.
Holland was profoundly uneasy. He and Kershaw had made the journey to Scotland by scheduled trains rather than by ‘special’, in an attempt to preserve their anonymity, and it had been a tedious journey in the extreme. Could they hope to have arrived in Scotland unobserved?
‘Kershaw,’ said Holland, as they emerged on to a steep, stony path, ‘you know that I was called upon by a deputation of officers from the Home Fleet this morning. They included Commodore Cartwright, the commander of the flagship. I mentioned him to you when you visited me with Box at the Admiralty.’
Holland smiled rather sardonically, and glanced at Kershaw.
‘I alerted them to the dangers of the current situation. They all expressed concern, and gave me assurances that everyone would be on extra alert. When they considered that they’d extended all the correct courtesies due to my rank, they took their leave, and returned to Dunnock Sound.’
‘So they didn’t believe you.’
‘No, they didn’t. I could see that Cartwright t
hought I’d become a chair-bound theorist, who could be fobbed off with soothing words and well-turned compliments. Cartwright’s a friend of the Prince of Wales, you know. Keeping such exalted company may have gone to his head. Well, Kershaw, they may think what they like! You have the Queen’s mandate to override and to commandeer, so you and I must act in concert, with whatever help we can muster.’
They reached the end of the path, which had brought them to the summit of the cliff. There they stopped, and looked down into the vast protected haven of Dunnock Sound. It was an awesome sight that met their eyes.
Stretching away far to the western shore of the Sound a mighty fleet lay at anchor. It seemed impossible that so many great ships could have been built, let alone brought together in such a colossal show of strength. Grey and menacing, the superstructures of the vessels towered upwards through the blur of cold rain. Line after line of great battleships could be seen, and around them a whole navy of cruisers, lightly armoured and with smaller guns, the scouts of the fleet.
Admiral Holland pointed down towards a magnificent ship in the centre of the flotilla, a ship to which all the others appeared to be doing homage. It rose awesomely above the forest of masts, turrets and smoke-stacks, the jewel in the Royal Navy’s crown.
‘HMS Fearnought,’ said Holland ‘Twenty thousand tons displacement, a speed of twenty knots, ten twelve-inch guns in those five turrets. No ship of any navy on earth could withstand a salvo from her.’
Kershaw looked down at the fleet. He could see innumerable sailors at work on the decks, dwarfed by the size of the vessels and the height of the cliff where they stood. Clouds of seagulls swooped and cried around the forest of masts.
‘What ship is that lying near her to the right, Holland?’
‘The ship off her starboard bow? That’s the cruiser HMS Leicester, in which His Royal Highness will sail through the fleet’
The Hansa Protocol Page 21