The Lost Empress

by Steve Robinson

  ‘You’re pretty good at this, aren’t you?’ Davina said.

  Tayte zoomed in on the information they were interested in. ‘I guess I’ve been in the business long enough to develop some kind of nose for it. There’s so much information out there. It really helps if you know where to look.’

  ‘You’ll have to give me some pointers before you go home,’ Davina said. ‘You’ve certainly rekindled my interest.’

  Tayte just smiled and continued the research. ‘Waverley died on April 6th, 1914,’ he said as he read on. ‘Caring husband and loving father to two sons . . . A few names are mentioned.’ He took out his notepad and wrote them all down. ‘Charles Metcalfe is noted here as being a friend, which we already know from the photograph. Apart from a few name connections, it doesn’t really tell us much.’

  He went back to the search results, and as he scrolled down, Davina drew a sharp breath and pointed at the screen. ‘That’s got to be important.’

  Tayte saw the entry, dated 20 April 1914, and he felt a tingle at the back of his neck. It concerned a discovery that had been made the day before the article was published, and it carried the title ‘Body Found in River Thames!’ He clicked the entry, wondering as he did so how it was connected to Lord Charles Metcalfe, the subject of his search, and whether it might be connected to Alice Stilwell. His thoughts drifted back to the accounts he’d read of those spies who were executed at the start of the First World War.

  Executed for passing information useful to an enemy . . .

  Tayte still knew very little about the nature of Alice’s spying activity in 1914, but he supposed that her involvement was along the same lines. Whatever Alice was doing, and for whatever reasons, the timing and the nature of this article from The Times, published barely more than a month before Alice was supposed to have died, was close enough to make Tayte feel excited about it. When the corresponding page from The Times displayed on his laptop screen and he began to read the article, every instinct in his body told him that he was on to something.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Tuesday, 21 April 1914.

  It was just after ten in the morning, and with breakfast at Hamberley finished, Alice Stilwell sensed that her father was as keen to share the details of his trip to London with the police as the rest of the family were to hear about it. Lord Metcalfe ushered them into the front sitting room, where he asked everyone to be seated while he remained standing. Alice and her mother, Lilian, sat together on one settee, while her aunt and uncle, Cordelia and Oscar Scanlon, sat on the settee opposite them. Chester, though much improved after having been poisoned by Raskin’s liquorice, was to remain in bed for the rest of the day under doctor’s orders, and Charlotte had been placed in the care of Mrs Morris the cook, because, as Alice’s father had said, his ‘terrible news’ was not for the ears of children.

  Lord Metcalfe paced the rug that was laid out between the two settees, tapping his fingers together as though contemplating where to start. He reached the fireplace and wheeled around. ‘I’ll not leave you to your own suppositions a moment longer,’ he said. ‘The good admiral’s wife, Florence Waverley, is dead!’

  Oscar Scanlon was the only person in the room who didn’t gasp at hearing the news. ‘Dead?’ he repeated.

  ‘That is correct. Her body was found two days ago on the south bank of the River Thames. Beneath Blackfriars Bridge to be precise.’

  ‘That really is terrible news,’ Alice said.

  ‘Indeed. Just as I said it was.’

  Lilian Metcalfe’s hand had been raised to her mouth since hearing the news. She slowly lowered it and said, ‘What happened, Charles? Did the police say?’

  ‘For the moment it’s assumed she drowned, although I’m told the precise cause of death was difficult to establish because the body was so badly decomposed.’

  ‘She must have died a while ago, then,’ Alice said. ‘Perhaps around the time Admiral Waverley had his heart attack.’

  ‘Yes,’ her father said. ‘And a connection between the two deaths seems highly likely, which is one of the reasons I was asked to go to London—to help the police establish a motive for why Admiral Waverley should want to murder his own wife.’

  ‘That’s preposterous,’ Lilian said. ‘They’ve been married nearly forty years.’

  ‘I told them exactly that,’ Lord Metcalfe said.

  Oscar Scanlon sat forward. ‘You said that was one of the reasons you were asked to go to London. What was the other?’

  ‘Indeed, there were two reasons,’ Lord Metcalfe said, ‘and together they have helped the police to form a theory that is damnably hard to refute. One is that certain documents were discovered at Admiral Waverley’s house—the details of which I am not at liberty to divulge, but suffice it to say that I was able to confirm that the contents of these documents were of a most secret nature. The other is that Admiral Waverley’s sidearm is missing.’

  ‘Secret documents?’ Scanlon said.

  ‘Most secret,’ Lord Metcalfe corrected. ‘The recently formed Secret Service Bureau is also involved, not least because the proposed theory is that Admiral Waverley was in the pay of Kaiser Wilhelm II. Their suggestion is that his wife discovered his traitorous activities, so he took her out to Tilbury to drown her, taking his sidearm with him as a precaution in case he had to use it on her. They’re supposing that performing this dark deed was all too much for him—hence the heart attack that followed.’

  ‘But why is his gun missing?’ Alice asked. ‘Surely it would have been found on his person or beside his body where he fell.’

  ‘A simple matter. Someone else must have discovered the body prior to the alarm being raised and taken the revolver. It’s a reasonable explanation, I suppose, but I can’t think it of Waverley. He was a good man. I knew him too long and too well to doubt his allegiance. Christopher Waverley, a spy for the kaiser? I can’t think of a single person besides myself least likely to do such a lowly and unpatriotic thing.’

  In light of Alice’s current situation, another theory was running through her mind, but she didn’t dare voice it. What if Florence Waverley had been kidnapped, just as her husband had been? What if she had been held to ransom in exchange for naval secrets? Perhaps the Admiral had removed the documents, ready for the exchange, but had chosen to take his revolver instead, hoping to free his wife. But the excitement had proven too much for him. His revolver might have been taken after he dropped it, and his wife later drowned and her body cast into the Thames. It was just another theory, but given what she knew, Alice thought it the more likely of the two.

  Lowly and unpatriotic . . .

  Alice felt just that as she got to her feet and delivered the lie that, between bouts of fitful sleep, it had taken her most of the night to invent.

  ‘If you’ll all excuse me,’ she said. ‘I have to go out and won’t be back until this evening.’

  ‘Where are you going?’ Alice’s mother asked.

  ‘To Margate. I saw an old friend in Rochester yesterday who told me that my good friend Violet is very sick. I must go and see her. You remember Violet, don’t you?’

  Lilian looked confused. ‘Yes, dear, but I didn’t know you two were still friends. You’ve not seen her since the family moved away, have you? You were still children then.’

  Alice took a step towards the door. ‘Which is all the more reason I must go and see her now. Suppose she dies?’

  ‘Yes, well, of course you must go and see her.’

  ‘How will you get there?’ her father asked.

  Alice made a point of eying the mantle clock. ‘I’m going by train, and I really must be getting along, or I’ll miss it. I want to look in on Chester and Charlotte first.’

  She felt bad about leaving Chester while he was still confined to his bed, but he was making a speedy recovery, just as Raskin had said he would, and not to go to Dover as he had instructe
d her to would only put her son in danger again. Raskin had been very clear about that.

  Alice’s Aunt Cordelia spoke then for the first time since breakfast. ‘Oscar will drive you to the railway station, won’t you Oscar?’

  ‘Yes, of course. I was going out anyway. I’ve got to see a man about a camera. It won’t be any bother.’

  ‘It’s a new business idea,’ Cordelia said. ‘Oscar wants to open a photographic studio, don’t you Oscar?’

  ‘Well, I—’

  Alice cut in, not wishing to be detained any longer. ‘Thank you,’ she said, thinking that her lie, which had perhaps slipped too easily from her lips, had worked very well.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Originally opened in 1865 as the Clarence Hotel, the Burlington Hotel, as it had later been named, stood in a prominent position in Dover Bay, facing the seafront directly in line with Promenade Pier. Alice had hired a bicycle as soon as she got off the train, and after she’d asked for directions, the hotel had been easy to find. She was standing in the breeze on the pier. The white cliffs of Dover rose in the distance to either side of the bay, with the medieval fortress that was Dover Castle, ‘the key to England,’ sitting atop the cliffs to her right, the Western Docks and tidal harbour to her left. It was already late morning, and the sky was patchy with high, bright clouds that Alice thought posed no threat of rain. For the past fifteen minutes, she had been gazing across Clarence Lawn, up at the letters that spelled out the hotel’s name, telling herself every now and then that everything would be all right and that she really could do this.

  On the train journey she’d had plenty of time to think about the events surrounding the deaths of Admiral Waverley and his wife, and during that time, with nothing else to do but watch the countryside speed past her compartment window, she had formed another theory. If she was right about Florence Waverley having been kidnapped and about her husband having been forced to hand over secret naval documents for her safe return, she supposed that whoever was behind the plot was now trying something similar with her and her family. In Waverley’s case, his patriotism had proven too strong, but surely even the most patriotic mother could not allow harm to come to her children if by her own actions she could prevent it. Was that what Raskin had in mind for her? Did he now mean to use her to obtain the same kind of naval intelligence they had previously tried to get from Admiral Waverley? Alice was sure of it.

  The breeze whipped up suddenly, tugging at her skirt and threatening to steal away her new straw boater. She held on to it and took a deep breath as she set her bicycle against the pier railing. Then she collected her handbag from the handlebars and made her way between the kiosks that fronted the pier, towards the hotel, crossing Marine Parade and then Clarence Lawn, not daring to stop until she was inside the hotel; otherwise, she thought she might lose the courage to go on again.

  Inside the Burlington Hotel, the lobby was colonial in style, with latticed wainscoting and parlour palms here and there in brightly coloured ceramic pots. Alice made straight for the reception desk and asked to see Mr Raimund Drescher, the head waiter, as Raskin had instructed. A few minutes later, a man wearing a black suit and a light-grey tie came into the lobby and presented himself to her. His thin face wore a quizzical expression.

  ‘I am Drescher,’ he said with a clipped German accent. ‘How may I be of service?’

  He was a short, thin-lipped man with a balding pate, who looked older to Alice than she thought he probably was. She moved closer so that her softly spoken reply could not be overheard, noticing as she did so that he was missing his right earlobe.

  ‘How is your mother?’ she said, remembering the lines Raskin had given her. ‘I hope she is well.’

  Drescher drew an audible breath through his teeth. Then in an equally low voice he said, ‘Come with me.’

  Alice followed Drescher through a set of double doors and then along a panelled corridor before entering through another door marked ‘Private.’ Part way along the narrower corridor on the other side, Drescher stopped.

  ‘In here. Quickly.’

  Drescher opened another door, and Alice stepped through into a cramped, windowless room—a storeroom, judging from the shelves and crates she could just about distinguish in the low light. Drescher flicked a switch as he closed the door behind him, and an electric lamp came on.

  ‘What is your name?’ Drescher asked.

  ‘Alice.’

  ‘Well then, Alice. Did you bring a notepad and pencil with you?’

  Alice nodded.

  ‘I must say. You are far prettier than any of the others who have come to enquire about my mother.’

  Alice feigned a polite smile, not wishing to offend. That Drescher did not smile as he spoke made her all the more nervous now that she was alone in such a confined space with him.

  Drescher edged slowly past her, brushing his arm against her as he went. She watched him go to the back of the room, where he slid one of the crates out from a lower shelf. Then he dropped to his knees and reached for something at the back of the shelf. A moment later he returned with a sheet of paper.

  ‘Raimund Drescher is too smart a man to keep this sort of thing in his room,’ Drescher said, handing the paper to Alice.

  ‘What is it?’ Alice asked, studying what was clearly a series of crude drawings of ships with letters and numbers written beside them. She put it in her handbag beside her notepad.

  ‘It is a simple identification aid and code sheet. You will use it to identify the ships you see coming and going in the harbour. You must not let anyone else see it. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, quite clear.’

  ‘Very well. Write down the identification number from the sheet, followed by the location of the ship and any markings you see. You will also observe the area in general and take note of anything you feel could be of benefit to our cause, come the day.’

  ‘Come the day?’

  Drescher grabbed Alice’s arm and cast a suspicious eye over her. ‘You are either very new to this, or you are not all you seem.’ He shook her. ‘Which is it?’

  ‘New,’ Alice offered. ‘I’m very new. You’re hurting my arm.’

  Drescher gave a condescending scoff as he let her go. ‘I refer to the day of the invasion of England,’ he said. ‘Never forget it.’

  The thought left Alice cold. ‘I won’t,’ she said. ‘Never.’

  ‘Good. I’ll show you back to the lobby. You must be discreet. Keep moving so as not to draw attention. The Admiralty Pier to the west and the Prince of Wales Pier will give you the best vantage points. When your task is done, go home and prepare your report for your agent in the usual way.’

  ‘Music sheets and lemon juice,’ Alice said. ‘And Raskin showed me a cipher—’

  ‘No names!’ Drescher interrupted. ‘And especially not that name.’

  He rubbed at the lower edge of his right ear, where his earlobe should have been, and Alice knew she was looking at the Dutchman’s handiwork.

  ‘Be careful around that one,’ Drescher said. ‘He is not someone you want to cross.’

  Alice swallowed dryly. ‘I will,’ she said. ‘How will I know when my task is done?’

  ‘You will be finished when it is too dark to see,’ Drescher said, making for the door.

  This time as he passed her, Alice pinned herself back against the shelving so as to avoid contact with him. He went for the light switch and paused, turning back to her, eying her up and down in a way that made her feel all the more uncomfortable.

  ‘Perhaps you need a job?’ he said. ‘I can find work for a pretty girl at the hotel.’

  Alice immediately wondered what would be expected of her in return. ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘As you wish.’

  Drescher went for the light again, and again he paused. ‘You know, if you would like to have dinner this evening, I can promise y
ou the finest dining in Dover, and who knows, maybe a little champagne?’

  ‘I really don’t—’

  ‘If you are in no hurry to return,’ Drescher continued, cutting in. ‘I could even find you a comfortable room here in the hotel tonight.’

  Alice felt her skin crawl. ‘No, thank you,’ she said again, a little firmer this time.

  Without saying another word, Drescher switched the light off, and the small room was plunged into darkness. Alice gasped, fully expecting his hands to find her at any moment, knowing she would not be able to call for help and risk discovery. There was too much at stake. As it was, the door clicked open, and instead of Drescher’s hands, it was the light from the corridor outside that found her. Drescher poked his head out to make sure the way was clear.

  ‘Come,’ he said, and Alice followed him back to the lobby, where they parted company without further discourse.

  As Alice reached the main doors, she became aware of a man in a tweed suit and bowler hat sitting by one of the lobby windows. She would have thought he was merely waiting for someone were it not for the way he seemed to study her, to the point of being rude, as she passed him. She was certain she had never seen him before, and his unwanted attention caused her to quicken her pace as she neared the main doors, thinking that she never wanted to set foot in the Burlington Hotel again.

  Collecting her hired bicycle from the pier, Alice tied her hat beneath her chin and pedalled west into the wind, along Marine Parade towards the esplanade and the piers Drescher had suggested she use to best monitor the harbour activity. Although the day was generally bright, it was still cold enough to keep the crowds away. She saw people on the beach and others strolling along the esplanade as she passed, but not in the numbers she imagined would be there in the height of summer if it was anything like Margate. The people she saw were mostly wrapped in their coats, and she was glad of hers as she pushed her pedals harder and the wind began to bite.