The Hansa Protocol

by Norman Russell

  They passed a pleasant hour together, recalling some of the events of the Amelia Garbutt case of the previous year, and considering the likelihood of something interesting developing between Jack Knollys and Vanessa Drake. When the time came for Box to return to King James’s Rents, Box reverted to the matter of Louise’s resignation from the ‘posse of one’.

  ‘With respect to your resignation, Miss Whittaker,’ he said, ‘am I to lose your professional services entirely?’

  Louise Whittaker regarded him with the special amused expression that always made him feel an utter fool.

  ‘Well, no, Mr Box,’ she said. ‘That would never do. I want to be here for you when you need to get away from King James’s Rents, and think aloud about a case. I want to be your advisor, someone who can give you a female slant on things. And I want to be your friend. I’m working at it, you know’

  ‘Working at it?’

  ‘Yes. I’m hoping that one day my attempts at charming you will be sufficiently successful for you to stop calling me Miss Whittaker, and try Louise for a change.’

  ‘Louise?’

  ‘Yes. It’s the female form of Louis. There’s nothing to be afraid of.’

  ‘But Miss Whittaker, if I was to call you Louise, you might then feel obliged to call me Arnold—’

  ‘Well, so I would, Arnold. There, I’ve done it!’

  ‘Oh, Louise—’

  ‘But you’d best go now. You’ve been here for hours, and you’ll miss the omnibus. Besides, the neighbours will start to talk if you don’t go.’

  Arnold Box laughed, and picked up his hat and gloves from the table. ‘Goodbye, then, Miss Whittaker,’ he said. ‘I’ll let myself out.’

  ‘Goodbye, Mr Box,’ Louise replied, sitting down at her great table in the window bay. ‘Solve your crimes, and keep us safe!’

  Vanessa Drake put down the golden silk stole that she had been hemming, and settled back in the upright chair at the round table of her sitting-room in Westminster. Had it all been a dream? Had she really unstitched the lining of a dangerous man’s pocket in the deep of the night? Had she really watched as Jack Knollys struggled desperately with a ruthless killer?

  She glanced at a framed photograph of Arthur Fenlake, which occupied a place of honour on the mantelpiece. How very young he looked! She would always remember him with pride and affection. He was one of England’s many heroes. He had taken her to exhibitions at the National Gallery, and once to a picture-hanging at the Royal Academy. She wondered whether poor Arthur would have approved of Jack Knollys.

  Jack had taken her to see Hetty Miller at the Alhambra in Leicester Square. The square had sparkled with hundreds of bright gaslights, and although it was raining, the rain hadn’t seemed to matter. After the show, they had eaten supper in a plush and gilded cafe in Regent Street. There was nothing mean about Jack ….

  There came a knock on the door, and Colonel Kershaw walked in. He must have seen the leap of excitement in her eyes, because he smiled kindly at her, and said, ‘It’s not a call to business, Miss Drake. I just happened to be passing. How are you?’

  ‘I’m very well, thank you, sir.’

  ‘Good. I expect you know, don’t you, that Major Lankester died a hero’s death in the end? I know you were sorry for him, because he’d been a good friend and mentor to Lieutenant Fenlake.’

  He glanced briefly at Fenlake’s photograph, and then looked thoughtfully at Vanessa for a moment.

  ‘There’s nothing much going forward at the moment, missy,’ he said, ‘but if you were to receive a call to arms from me again, would you still respond?’

  ‘Oh, yes, sir!’ Vanessa’s bright blue eyes sparkled with excitement.

  ‘Good, good. I’m glad. I knew you had it in you to be one of my crowd. I’ll go, now. Meanwhile – I’ve brought you a little something from the lady who owns Bagot’s Hotel. Not Mrs Prout, you know.’

  Colonel Kershaw took a small package from his pocket, and placed it on the table. Before Vanessa could ask any further questions, he had gone. The package contained a small leather case. She opened it, and gasped in delighted surprise.

  Nestling in a bed of crimson velvet was a solid silver plaque, about two inches tall, and an inch across. It had no clasp or chain, and was evidently not designed to be worn, but kept as a special treasure. The royal monogram, VR, had been inset in gold, surrounded by a circlet of tiny diamonds. Deeply engraved in firm Roman lettering below the monogram were the two words: LOYALTY’S KEEPSAKE.

  Sergeant Kenwright, standing alone in the empty drill hall, squared his shoulders, and prepared to walk through the low passage into the front office. He could hear the faint murmur of voices drifting through the tunnel-like entrance, telling him that both Mr Box and Sergeant Knollys were there.

  Kenwright was not a vain man, despite his great stature and his flowing spade beard, but he wished just then that there was a bit of mirror pinned up somewhere in the drill hall. He stretched out his arms in front of him, and looked at the three brand-new stripes sewn on each sleeve. Sergeant! He could hardly believe it! Well, it was time to face whatever ribbing may be coming his way. He stooped down, and walked through the low passage into Inspector Box’s office.

  ‘Congratulations, Sergeant Kenwright!’

  Box waited for Kenwright to salute him, and then he and Knollys rose from the table to shake hands.

  ‘I can hardly believe it, sir,’ said Kenwright. ‘All I did was sort through a lot of fragments, and arrange them into some kind of decent order—’

  ‘Your work showed us what the German conspirators were up to, Sergeant. You’ve carved out your own niche here at King James’s Rents. They’re already asking about you over at Whitehall Place. I shouldn’t be surprised if they don’t try a bit of poaching, soon.’

  ‘I hope not, sir. I wouldn’t fancy working anywhere else. It’s lovely at the Rents.’

  Sergeant Knollys had opened a cupboard beside the fireplace, and removed three bottles of India Pale Ale, together with three chipped enamel mugs.

  ‘Time for a celebration, Sergeant Kenwright,’ said Knollys. ‘Did you know that yours is the only rank in the police to bear military insignia? The three stripes of a sergeant. Clerk Sergeant, in your case. But don’t forget: we’re all civilians! So here’s a health to the Queen, and confusion to all her enemies!’

  The three men sipped their ale from the chipped mugs. The fire burned smokily in the old grate. The gas mantle shuddered and spluttered in the ceiling. Box remembered the chilling dangers of Caithness, and thought: he’s right. It’s lovely at the Rents.

  ‘So, sir,’ said Kenwright, setting his mug down on the table, ‘I’ve been rewarded far beyond my dreams. And I believe those high-up gentlemen who worked with us have been given knighthoods. I don’t suppose—’

  ‘No, Sergeant,’ Box interrupted. ‘No rewards for me. Or Jack, there. Or for poor old Mr Mack. No fear. But in my case, I can truly say, virtue is its own reward.’

  ‘And modesty likewise,’ Knollys added. ‘Talking of which—’

  Knollys stopped abruptly and scrambled to his feet. Superintendent Mackharness was standing half in and half out of the room, holding one of the swing doors open with a large hand. Box attempted to stand at attention. Sergeant Kenwright maintained a frozen salute, as though he was part of a wax tableau. Mackharness treated Box to a brilliant smile.

  ‘I’ll not trespass too much on your time, Box,’ he said. ‘I just thought I’d look in personally, and say thank you. Well done! Perhaps I don’t commend you as generously as I should, but in this matter, I felt it only right to come down here and thank you in person.’

  Strewth! What was the matter with Old Growler? Was he going soft?

  ‘You’re too kind, sir,’ said Box.

  ‘Not at all, Box. I got the menthol crystals from Curtis & Company, the chemist’s in Baker Street, and did just what you advised, with the hot water, and the towel, and so on. It worked like a miracle. The whole wretched trouble
had dissipated by next morning. So, thank you. I think that’s all. Good day, Sergeant Knollys. At ease, Sergeant Kenwright.’

  Superintendent Mackharness began to close the door, but then thought better of it. ‘Incidentally, Box,’ he said, ‘there’s an extraordinarily sinister business developing out at Hoxton. Perhaps you’d care to come upstairs, now, so that I can give you the gist of the matter. I shan’t detain you for more than a few minutes.’

  This, thought Box, is more like it! Fresh villainy among the teeming millions. It would always be like that. Inspector Box took a hasty leave of his two sergeants, and hurried up the stairs that would take him to the mildewed office of Superintendent Mackharness on the upper floor of 2 King James’s Rents.

  By the Same Author

  The Dried-Up Man

  The Dark Kingdom

  The Devereaux Inheritance

  The Haunted Governess

  The Advocate’s Wife

  Copyright

  © Norman Russell 2003

  First published in Great Britain 2003

  This ebook edition 2012

  ISBN978 0 7090 9668 9 (epub)

  ISBN978 0 7090 9669 6 (mobi)

  ISBN978 0 7090 9670 2 (pdf)

  ISBN978 0 7090 7396 3 (print)

  Robert Hale Limited

  Clerkenwell House

  Clerkenwell Green

  London EC1R 0HT

  www.halebooks.com

  The right of Norman Russell to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988