It had taken Mr Mack a quarter of an hour to neutralize the fourth igniter, and it was nearly a quarter past eleven when he and his companions arrived in the area of the forward magazines. Number 2 magazine, they found, contained only one of Ridgeway’s Igniters. It was one of the original glass-windowed models, quickly and easily made safe. Mr Mack consulted his watch.
‘We’ve exactly forty minutes left,’ he said, ‘and just Number 1 magazine to search. With a bit of luck, we’ll be done here in fifteen minutes or so. Then we can make ourselves scarce.’
At first sight, it seemed that Colin McColl had not reached this particular chamber. The shells lay in their cradles, their regulation fuses visible in the light cast by the electric lantern. It was as they neared the port bulkhead that Mr Mack saw the device. Painted a sullen grey, it was attached by two thick steel bands to the shell that it had been designed to detonate. There was no sign of a clock mechanism, though Box, who had crawled after Mr Mack to the far side of the copper-roofed chamber, could hear the sinister ticking.
Mr Mack’s fingers hovered around the device, examining and probing. Box noticed that the elderly expert was holding his breath. This device was not from Ridgeway’s of Birmingham. Box could see clearly the white lettering: Feissen Werke.
‘Can you make it safe?’ Box whispered.
‘No.’
As Mr Mack uttered the fatal word, Admiral Holland appeared at the entrance to the magazine.
Constrained lines of steam rose from the funnels of the fleet. The rumour began to spread through the ranks of ratings drawn up on the deck of HMS Fearnought that the Prince’s carriages had been glimpsed from the crow’s-nest. It was coming slowly down from the slight hill a mile or two to the south of Craigarvon. Commodore Cartwright, in full ceremonial uniform, took up his position at the head of the companionway with his second-in-command, and the senior commanders of the fleet.
Suddenly, Admiral Holland erupted on to the deck from one of the hatches, and the powerful whine of the hydraulic lifts could be heard. Holland was followed by a determined group of men in overalls.
‘What on earth—’
Commodore Cartwright turned red with rage. What was this new eccentricity? Had the fellow gone mad?
‘Commodore,’ cried Holland, ‘I am assuming command of this ship for the next hour. Then it is yours again. Men, stand fast! There is a dangerous shell being brought up from Number 1 magazine. You can serve yourselves best by remaining where you are until further orders are given.’
There was a murmur from the assembled sailors, but they made no attempt to break ranks. They had all heard about this Admiral Holland from Chief Stoker Reynolds.
‘Sir,’ said Commodore Cartwright, suddenly subdued, ‘what do you want me to do?’
As he spoke, a silent team of men appeared, trundling a heavy shell on an ammuntion cradle along the deck. They were followed by Mr Mack and Inspector Box, two incongruous civilians in bowler hats.
‘We’ve about twenty-five minutes, Cartwright,’ Holland whispered, ‘to prevent this ship being blown sky high. A boat – I need a boat …. What’s that little steam-launch down there?’
‘It belongs to the fleet commissariat—’
‘And, thank God, it’s got steam up. Men, get that devilish thing down over the side, and on to the deck of that launch. Use the steam-derrick. Strap the shell to the deck, or wedge it tight where it can’t roll off Careful! Careful!’
The whole company watched fascinated as the deadly shell was lowered down from the deck of the battleship in the cradle attached to the deck windlass. There was a subdued cheer when it gently touched the deck of the steam-launch, where the men accompanying it lashed it firmly to the rails. A rowing boat appeared, and the men, together with the two-man crew of the steam-launch, were rowed to safety.
‘You there, Leading Seaman,’ shouted Holland, to one of the men drawn up on the decks, ‘break ranks, and go down on to the deck of that launch. Tie the wheel, do you hear? Then open steam and send her out away from the fleet and into the open sea. Once on the move, dive for your life. If you do it well, I will personally see to your immediate promotion.’
‘Aye aye, sir!’
As the leading seaman sprang into action, Holland murmured to Cartwright, ‘Ten minutes.’
It seemed an age before they heard a defiant whistle as the leading seaman opened steam, and the launch moved rapidly with its deadly cargo away from HMS Fearnought. Holland watched it through binoculars, and saw it pass HMS Leicester. He saw the leading seaman emerge on to the deck beside the fatal shell, and immediately dive from the port bow. He swam strongly to the safety of the Leicester. The launch disappeared into the mist which lay beneath the bank of full black rain clouds hanging over the sea.
It was ten to twelve. The hoofs of the horses could be heard as the Royal procession of four closed coaches with their military outriders appeared at the far end of the Naval Quay. The band immediately struck up ‘God Bless the Prince of Wales’.
Commodore Sir Frederick Cartwright walked slowly down the gangway on to the quay. He was conscious of the magnificent sight that he presented in his blue and gold full dress uniform, with sashes and medals, and a commodore’s blue and gold hat. His long naval sword drooped down to the setts on the quay.
The coaches stopped, the doors were opened, and a collection of men in plumed hats or silk toppers emerged into the rain. There was a sudden unfurling of black umbrellas. Commodore Cartwright allowed his glance to stray beyond such lesser persons as Lord Strathspey and Sir Wheeler Tuke. Yes! Here he was – burly, bearded, and in his own way rather terrifying: His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales.
Far out beyond Dunnock Sound, Count Czerny trained his telescope on the little steam vessel fast approaching his yacht, the Princess Berthe-Louise, which was moving discreetly out into the safety of the German Ocean. Not so very long ago, he mused, he had told a thick-headed captain called Dawson that it was the Mary Tudor, and he had believed him.
What was the purpose of this odd little launch? He could see its name now, painted on the prow: Avenger. He smiled. There was nothing that such a puny vessel could do to avenge the mighty cataclysm approaching the British Fleet. Within days there would be war, and Britain’s mastery of the oceans would be shattered for all time.
Then Count Czerny saw the deadly cargo on the little boat. Even through the sea mist he could read the words embossed on the grey detonator: Feissen Werke.
*
The Prince of Wales loathed being unpunctual, and he nodded in satisfaction when an equerry murmured that it was just two minutes to twelve. He stepped on to the squelching red carpet, and received the formal salute of his friend Commodore Sir Frederick Cartwright. Cartwright was holding some kind of scroll, which meant that he was going to make a speech. It was damned cold, and damned wet. The speech could wait.
‘Your Royal Highness, on this day of national jubilation—’
‘Yes, yes, Freddy, quite so. I’m very cold, and very hungry. So where are the eats?’
It was as the Prince uttered these words, that the Avenger and the Mary Tudor met. For years after the event, people talked of the ball of fire in the sky off the coast of Caithness. Two ships, one a large steam-yacht, had literally risen in the air, begun to fall apart, and had then been engulfed in a massive, pulsating cocoon of flame. The rain had been evaporated out of the clouds, and it was minutes before the further explosions ripped the disintegrating vessels to pieces with a vile roar. Massive pieces of ship rained down upon the sea, there was a turbulence of the waters, and then the clouds closed in and re-formed. For several hours afterwards a pall of black smoke, half a mile high, hung over the ruin.
‘Yes, Freddy,’ said His Royal Highness, as the visitors passed up the gangway of the Fearnought, ‘very impressive. A remarkable welcome to the fleet, if I may say so. Over luncheon, you must explain to us all what it was supposed to represent.’
Sir Charles Napier stood at one of the tall windo
ws of his office overlooking St James’s Park. It was 8 February, and although there were no real signs of spring, the day had proved to be very sunny, and warm enough for people to take their time as they strolled on the margins of the lake.
Napier gave his attention to one of the obituary notices in The Morning Post. It was not his customary reading at that time of the day, but he had been alerted to this particular notice, which he had been waiting rather impatiently to appear.
ENGELBERT, COUNT CZERNY
The tragic demise of Count Czerny will be a matter of profound regret to his many friends and admirers in England. A seasoned yachtsman, and an established figure at Cowes, he enjoyed wide popularity for his manifest enjoyment of English life and society. He was educated at Stowe School and Cambridge, and it came as a surprise to many on first meeting him to discover that he was not an Englishman born.
The fatal explosion on board his steam-yacht, the Berthe-Louise, is thought to have been due to a collision with some unidentified vessel adrift in the North Sea. The Admiralty, at the instigation of the First Sea Lord, is carrying out a full investigation.
Engelbert, Count Czerny, was a nobleman of the Roman-German Empire, an Austrian subject, and a man with a vision of unity for all the nations of Europe ….
Sir Charles Napier closed the paper, but continued to stand at the window, looking down at the park. Thank goodness, he had prevailed over more imprudent counsels in the Cabinet meeting to which he had been summoned. There had been calls for a public exposé of Czerny and his dangerous gang, but that would have led to a shattering of the delicate balance of uncertainties that was steadying foreign policy at that moment. So England could mourn for one of its favourite foreigners, and speak fondly of his prowess at sport, his loyalty to the late striver for peace Dr Otto Seligmann – and so on, and so forth. That was much the best way.
Surely that was Kershaw now, walking gravely across the lawns towards the suspension bridge? Yes, it was the wily old fox himself, in his long black coat with the astrakhan collar, and the tall silk hat, which he wore at a slightly jaunty angle. And who was that with him? It was that perky Cockney police officer – Box. Well, he’d leave them to it. The business of poor Otto Seligmann and the Eidgenossenschaft was closed. And sealed. There would be time, now, to look more closely at that business of the compromised senators in Ecuador ….
Inspector Box and Colonel Kershaw crossed the suspension bridge that would take them over the five-acre park lake and out into the Mall. Apparently, Kershaw had an appointment with someone in St James’s Palace in half an hour.
‘This is the only occasion I have had, Box, to talk to you since our return from Scotland. I wouldn’t write to you. I never write to anybody. But as you’re free of King James’s Rents for the morning, you may as well come for a stroll with me. One can be fairly indiscreet in a park, but walls, as you know, have ears.’
Kershaw said nothing more until they had crossed the bridge, and were on the skirts of the park. He then judged the time right to speak.
‘On Monday last, Box, just ten days after we concluded that business up in Scotland, Count Czerny’s body was washed up on the shore at Langaton Point, on the Isle of Stroma. One of my people went there to identify him. There was no doubt whatever that it was he.’
‘And what about the ladies, sir? Miss Ottilie and Mrs Poniatowski.’
Colonel Kershaw smiled, and looked fondly at Box. How formal he was, for such a young man! ‘The ladies’, indeed! They were harpies, feeding their fanaticism on human lives.
‘So far, Mr Box,’ he said, ‘there has been no trace of your ladies. Perhaps the next storm will deliver them back to these shores as dead and executed prisoners of the people whom they sought to destroy.’
Box said nothing. He waited for Kershaw to precede him through the park gates into the crowded Mall. He could see the great gatehouse of St James’s Palace rising above the trees. It was good to be back in London again.
‘Or perhaps, Mr Box,’ Kershaw continued, ‘those ladies of yours had decided on some other destination than Count Czerny’s yacht. We don’t know for certain that they ever boarded the Mary Rose – or the Berthe-Louise, to give it its true name. So maybe this summer, Mr Box, one of my people may glimpse an elegant young lady taking the waters at Baden-Baden, and another may spy a sour-faced but prosperous lady of a certain age, sipping a seltzer at Carlsbad. I’ve known stranger things than that happen in my time.’
Colonel Kershaw glanced thoughtfully at Box. It would be a very long time, no doubt, before he worked again with this perky young inspector. He had proved to be an invaluable ally. He was discreet, too. There were other things that he had a certain moral right to know.
‘The Kaiser was furious when our ambassador to Berlin called on him, and told him what had been happening. He actually apologized, which, of course, he was not expected to do. The accepted diplomatic fiction, of course, was that the Kaiser hadn’t the slightest inkling of what the Eidgenossenschaft was up to.’
‘Apologize, did he? That was very nice of him, sir.’
‘Yes, wasn’t it? I met Count von und zu Thalberg in Paris last week. He told me that the Kaiser raged so furiously when the ambassador had gone, that his courtiers feared for his sanity. He’s not ready for war yet, you see, and he’s too canny a bird to be pushed in that direction before his time. Anyway, Mr Box, the upshot of it all was that Baron von Dessau, the warmonger-orator, was found shot dead at his villa in Charlottenburg.’
‘Suicide, then?’
‘Possibly. Or maybe one of his own side blamed him for failure, and made away with him. Or perhaps an agent of a foreign power seized the opportunity of his disgrace to – er, well, even things up a little, you know.’
‘Strewth!’ said Box softly, almost to himself. It wouldn’t do to dwell too much on what the colonel had just hinted.
Colonel Kershaw stopped at the entrance to the palace. He offered his hand to Box, who shook it, and bowed.
‘Goodbye, sir,’ he said. ‘Perhaps we’ll work together again sometime.’
‘I hope so, Box. Goodbye. I expect you know that Admiral Holland had been knighted? It’s in this morning’s Times. Goodbye.’
Inspector Box settled down in a seat on the top of an omnibus that would take him to Baker Street, and opened the copy of The Times that he had bought from a newspaper stall near Spencer House. Struggling against a sudden breeze that sprang up as the omnibus turned into Piccadilly, he opened the paper at the Court Circular.
Yes, there it was: Her Majesty has been pleased to invest Admiral James Holland RN with the dignity of the degree of Knight Bachelor. A well deserved honour, too! Holland had performed prodigies of inventiveness and bravery up in Caithness. He’d come back to London a changed man, and the changes had all been for the best.
Box was about to discard the newspaper when his eye caught another line in the Court Circular. He whistled in surprise.
‘Her Majesty has been pleased to confer upon Lieutenant-Colonel Adrian Kershaw, RA, Extra Equerry to Her Majesty, the degree of Knight of the Most Honourable Order of the Bath, in the Military Division.’
‘Well done, sir!’ said Box to himself. ‘And well done for not even bothering to mention it to me!’
When the omnibus reached Baker Street, Box changed to the familiar light Green Atlas conveyance, that would take him out to Finchley.
‘Today, Mr Box,’ said Louise Whittaker, ‘I declare a holiday from adventure. Perhaps we’ll allude to recent events a little later. But let us get our priorities right. I want to know how your father is progressing. So when you’ve drunk that cup of tea, and consumed that slice of fruit loaf, you had better tell me.’
Box relaxed in his armchair, and allowed himself to glance around the room. There was the big table in the window bay, covered with open books and sheets of paper. There were the glazed bookcases, and the mantelpiece with its neat array of ornaments. And there was the mistress of the house, as calm, amused, and beautiful
as ever.
‘Pa is making wonderful progress, Miss Whittaker. Yesterday, he was placed in a wheeled chair for the first time. He seems to have taken on a new lease of life …. He suffered terrible pain for years with that leg, you know. Terrible, it was. And very soon now he’s to go down to a resthome at Esher. The Police Benevolent Fund arranged that, on account of him having been a policeman for so many years.’
‘I’m so very glad,’ said Louise. ‘Esher’s a very pleasant, quiet place. Perhaps we could visit your father there, once he’s settled.’
‘We?’
‘Well, yes. You don’t mind, do you? Your papa and I could gossip about you while you walked in the grounds. Then I’d find out what you’re really like!’
They both laughed, and then Louise, who was sitting opposite Box at the fireside, set her cup and saucer down on the hearth.
‘Mr Box,’ she said, ‘it was a great adventure, but now, if you don’t mind, I should like to resign my position as sole member of your female posse.’
She held up a hand to fend off Box’s protest, and gently shook her head.
‘No, please listen to what I want to say. One day, perhaps, there really will be lady police officers, but I know now that I could never be one of them. I enjoyed staying at Bagot’s Hotel, and all that, but that was because I was looking after Vanessa. I was guarding her, if you like. But when I think of Colin McColl seizing that letter from me, and those fights – you, with that monstrosity at Scotland Yard, and Mr Knollys struggling with McColl – well, I feel sick with fear. I can’t bear it, I’m afraid. So, please accept my resignation!’
Yes; he’d wondered whether Miss Whittaker had the right temperament for police work. Miss Drake certainly had the kind of careless courage necessary for the rough-and-tumble of daily policing, but he’d always had doubts about his beautiful academic friend and ally. No harm had been done by putting her to the test.
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