The Lost Empress

by Steve Robinson

  ‘Is it worth a kiss?’

  ‘It’s worth a hundred kisses, Archie, but not now. When this is all over, I promise.’

  ‘Well, you just name it,’ Archie said. He stopped the car and grabbed Alice’s hand. ‘Nothing’s too much for you.’

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Friday, 1 May 1914.

  Unveiled by King George V in 1911, under the watchful eyes of Kaiser Wilhelm II, London’s Queen Victoria memorial stood twenty-five metres high and was made from white Carrara marble and granite. It was the largest statue of any British monarch and was surrounded by ships’ prows, and mermaids and mermen in reference to Britain’s great naval power. Archie had told Alice to wait for him on the statue steps facing Buckingham Palace at four o’clock that afternoon, and there she had waited with her camera case hanging from her shoulder, growing more and more anxious with every minute that passed beyond the appointed time.

  Where is he?

  It was after four thirty now, and Alice wondered again whether something had gone wrong. Had Archie changed his mind? He hadn’t been so keen to help her once she’d told him what she wanted him to do for her, and she knew it was asking a lot of him, despite his obvious feelings for her. Perhaps it had proven too much for him. She certainly wouldn’t blame him given what was at stake. When he’d finally agreed to help her, Archie had told her that with his level of clearance it would not be too difficult to access the plans she needed to see. They had agreed that he would bring them to her so she could photograph them, and then he would return them again before anyone noticed they were gone. It was as simple an arrangement as they could devise, but she knew deep down that he had not wanted to do it. She had forced him to choose between her and his country, and as the minutes now ticked by, she started to think that he had made his choice and was not coming.

  Alice began to circle the statue, thankful that the day was dry and bright. She took in one of the mythical stone hippogriffs as she passed it: a winged creature that was part horse in the lower section, with the head and torso of an eagle. She eyed its wings and silently wished she had wings of her own so she could fly far away, and for the first time she wondered what would happen if she did. What would Raskin and the people he worked for make of that? Who then could they levy their threats at? A simple irony occurred to her when she thought that the biggest threat to her family might well be herself.

  Alice shook her head to rid her mind of such thoughts and gazed out from her elevated position. Being so close to Buckingham Palace, she supposed this was always a busy area, and today was no exception, making it all the more difficult to pick anyone out from the crowd. She continued to pace around the statue, and she had circled it three times before she saw him. He was walking towards her along The Mall, wearing his officer’s cap and a long greatcoat, hands thrust deep into his pockets. She went to meet him and noticed he was walking oddly and drawing even more attention to himself by looking over his shoulder every now and then.

  ‘Alice, quickly,’ he said as they met. ‘Into the park.’

  ‘Is something wrong, Archie? You’re later than you said. I was worried about you.’

  ‘I’m fine. I was delayed, that’s all. By my conscience more than anything.’

  ‘Why are you walking like that?’

  They crossed The Mall into Green Park, beneath the cover of the trees that were not quite in full leaf, and as they moved off the path and away from the other park goers, Archie showed her the reason for his odd gait. He unbuttoned his coat and quickly thrust his hand inside, before the plans he had purloined from the Admiralty Building could fall down altogether. They were wrapped around him and had slipped below his waist.

  ‘I’ve had the devil of a time trying to keep these things from falling to my ankles,’ he said. ‘I half expected them to trip me over altogether.’

  Alice thought the two of them would have laughed about that under different circumstances. One day she hoped they would, but not now.

  ‘I don’t know why we couldn’t have done this in St James’s Park,’ Alice said. ‘It’s much closer.’

  ‘Too close for comfort. Look, let’s get this over with. The sooner they’re back in their rightful place, the better.’

  ‘How will you get them back? You can’t walk into the Admiralty like you just walked here to meet me. Someone will ask what’s wrong with you.’

  ‘I’ll take them back in a roll under my arm,’ Archie said. ‘No one will suspect anything of a naval officer taking charts into the Admiralty building. At least, I hope not.’

  ‘Let’s take them further out onto the lawn,’ Alice said. ‘It’s quiet over there, and the light’s much better away from the trees.’

  When they were out in the open and a good hundred or so feet from anyone, Alice stopped, and Archie started looking around.

  ‘Stop doing that,’ Alice told him. ‘You’ll only draw attention. Here, hand me the plans, and I’ll lay them out. It will look as if I’m putting a blanket down, and anyone looking over will think we’re having a picnic or afternoon tea in the park.’

  Archie opened his coat, and Alice slid the plans out. They sat on the grass, and Alice unbuckled the leather camera case. Despite telling him not to, Archie still kept looking around, as though he was expecting the First Sea Lord himself to walk up and collar him.

  ‘It’s going to be all right,’ Alice reassured him.

  Archie just smiled nervously as she lined up the first section. She recognised part of the coastline of East Anglia, which was drawn out like an ordnance survey map, with contour lines and numerous numbers and symbols scattered here and there, along with a good many other things she didn’t understand. Of particular significance was the port of Harwich in Essex and mention of a Harwich Force. She got to her knees and hovered the camera above it, a few feet away as Raskin had instructed. She pressed the shutter release button and then did so again for good measure before moving on to the next section.

  ‘Hurry it along, Alice, please,’ Archie said. ‘I’m a nervous wreck.’

  ‘I’m almost finished. Pretend to laugh as though I just said something funny.’

  ‘What? No. Please, just hurry up.’

  Alice could feel her own heart thumping as she took the last of her photographs and sat down again. She put the camera back into its case, and she thought Archie couldn’t have collected the plans together again quickly enough. He rolled them up and got to his feet.

  ‘Look, don’t think it rude of me, Alice, but I don’t want to hang around.’

  They started walking back to the path and the gate they had entered by, and Alice slipped her arm through his. The gesture was partly for show, but she had to concede that a bigger part of her wanted to.

  ‘Will I see you tomorrow?’ Archie asked.

  Alice was more concerned about when she was going to see Raskin again. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Everything’s so complicated.’

  ‘And this trouble you’re in—’

  ‘Do you mind if we don’t talk about it just yet?’ Alice cut in.

  ‘No, I suppose not. All in good time, eh?’

  Alice had no idea how she was going to explain herself to Archie when all this was over, or whether he would understand, let alone forgive her for what she had done. She would at least have liked to remain friends, but she knew she no longer deserved such friendship. They arrived at the park gate and parted company with nothing more than a half smile between them.

  ‘Good luck,’ Alice whispered, and she watched him head back along The Mall, striding now like the naval officer he was, with the plans for Britain’s defences of East Anglia tucked neatly under his arm.

  When Alice could no longer see him, she turned away and headed back into the park. It was a pleasant afternoon, and she thought a gentle stroll before heading back to Victoria railway station would be a good tonic for her nerves. She kept to
the path now, ambling as though without purpose. A gentleman in grey with a tall top hat tipped it towards her as he passed in the opposite direction. She passed two nannies who had stopped beside their perambulators to chat, both of whom paused to wish her a good afternoon. Her thoughts drifted to better times—to when her own life had been as calm and carefree. She recalled numerous afternoon walks with her own perambulator, first when Chester was born and then with Charlotte. She found herself smiling at her memories, and she had become so caught up in the daydream that she almost bumped into someone.

  ‘Do excuse me,’ she said, stepping aside.

  But the man did not excuse her, and it was only when he stepped with her to block her way that Alice looked up and took full measure of him. She recognised him at once. It was the man with the crooked nose who had pursued her in Dover. He wore the same tweed suit and black bowler hat.

  At the sight of him, Alice startled, but she did not freeze. She turned and ran, holding the camera case as she went. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the man reach for her. She felt a tug at her shoulder as he grabbed her arm and pulled her back to him.

  ‘You’re not getting away from me this time!’

  Alice struggled. Her arm began to slip out of her coat, but she could not free herself. With her other arm she took the camera off her shoulder and swung it wildly. The man ducked and his hat flew off, but his grip held.

  ‘I know what you’ve been doing. You’re coming along with me.’

  Alice knew she could not let that happen. She struggled all the more, twisting and pulling against his grip until the buttons popped from her coat, and she slipped free of it. At the same time the man staggered back under his own force and fell to the ground. Alice ran for the trees then, aware that the disturbance had drawn attention.

  ‘Come back here!’

  Alice looked over her shoulder and saw he was close. She reached the trees, not really knowing what to do now she was there. She just kept running, hoping to make the far gate before he caught up with her again. She thought she could lose him in the streets, but he was closing fast. She knew she wouldn’t make it.

  ‘You’re only making this worse for yourself !’

  Given what Alice had done, she couldn’t imagine how her situation could be any worse. She would be shot for high treason for all she had done. The man sounded very close now, and Alice knew it would soon be over. But then she heard another voice that was followed by a heavy thump. She slowed and turned, and there was Raskin. The thump she had heard was the man in the tweed suit as he crashed to the ground following the blow the Dutchman had given him.

  ‘Chasing ladies in the park is not a very admirable pastime,’ Raskin said to the other man, who was already on his feet again.

  ‘You!’

  Raskin nodded. ‘You’ve wanted me for a long time, haven’t you? Well, here I am.’

  Alice thought the other man looked suddenly terrified. His eyes were wide, his skin pale, despite the chase. He looked as though he was about to run for his life, but Raskin lunged at him with great speed, both hands catching him around his neck. Alice swallowed dryly as she watched the smaller man pull something from inside his jacket. It was a knife. Its blade jabbed at Raskin, and the Dutchman caught the other man’s wrist, twisting the knife away until the man dropped it and cried out in pain.

  ‘Go!’

  Alice knew Raskin was shouting the command at her, but fear had rooted her to the spot. She realised then that she was not afraid for herself, but for the man in the tweed suit. Raskin hit him to the ground, and before he could recover, Alice saw another flash of steel as Raskin pulled out his flensing knife. The curved steel shone brightly as Raskin leaped onto the man with murder in his eyes, and at last Alice ran.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Present day.

  Standing in the front porch of a flat in Gravesend, ten miles northwest of Chatham, Jefferson Tayte continued to catch his breath as he watched DI Bishop knock on the door again. The lift was out of service, and they had to take the stairs—all ten flights to the top, which Tayte thought was typical. When Davina had checked her records for Dean Saxby’s contact details, as she had told Tayte she would, she had found nothing, suggesting that no business had been conducted during Dean’s visit with Lionel Scanlon on the day Davina had seen him at the workshop—at least, none that Lionel had recorded. Locating this descendant of Frank Saxby had then fallen to Bishop, who had received his details while they were visiting the Ashcrofts earlier that morning. Both men stepped back as a shadow appeared beyond the privacy glass and the front door opened. Dean Saxby was expecting them.

  ‘Mr Saxby?’ Bishop said with a businesslike smile. He showed his badge. ‘Detective Inspector Bishop. We spoke on the telephone earlier. This is Mr Tayte. He’s assisting with my investigation.’

  Tayte gave a nod, noting the close-cropped hair and the sagging sports pants and T-shirt the man before them was wearing, thinking that he understood now what Davina had meant when she’d said that Dean Saxby hadn’t looked like their usual type of client.

  ‘Sure. Come in,’ Dean said. ‘You wanna cuppa? Kettle’s just boiled.’

  ‘Coffee, thanks. Black, no sugar,’ Bishop said.

  ‘Same here,’ Tayte added.

  They were shown into the sitting room, where tired furniture seemed to sigh at them as they entered. The wallpaper was peeling back, the carpet was close to threadbare in places, and the air was heavy with the odour of stale cigarettes.

  ‘Make yourselves at home,’ Dean added. ‘I won’t be a mo.’

  Tayte sat beside Bishop on the sofa with his briefcase and continued to take the place in; the old-style cathode ray tube television set and the faded prints on the walls, telling him that Dean Saxby was either down on his luck or that he cared little for his surroundings. He was gone no more than a minute. When he came back and handed out the drinks, he sat in one of the armchairs opposite them and put his feet up on the low table that stood between them.

  ‘So, what’s this about?’ Dean said. He laughed to himself. ‘Not in any trouble, am I?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Bishop said. ‘I’m hoping you might be able to help me out, that’s all.’

  Bishop relayed everything Tayte had told him—everything Davina had said about the day she had seen Dean Saxby visiting her husband at his workshop a month ago.

  ‘Can you tell me why you went to see Lionel Scanlon?’

  ‘I knew this was about that,’ Dean said. ‘I read about his murder. I didn’t have anything to do with it, if that’s what you think.’

  ‘I don’t think that, Mr Saxby. I’d just like to know why you went to see him.’

  ‘I had something to sell that I thought he’d want to buy.’

  ‘What were you trying to sell him?’

  ‘An antique cigar case. Solid silver.’

  Tayte looked around at the décor again, and he couldn’t help but wonder what a man who lived in a place such as this was doing with an antique silver cigar case.

  ‘It’s been in the family ages,’ Dean added, answering Tayte’s thoughts. ‘I needed the money.’

  Bishop glanced at the photograph on the mantle that was above a plastic, plug-in fireplace. ‘Kids draining the coffers, are they,’ he said, half jokingly. ‘I know all about that, believe me.’

  ‘I’m divorced,’ Dean said. ‘It’s the maintenance and lack of work that’s keeping me in this dump.’

  ‘Do you mind if I ask what do you do for a living?’

  ‘Electrician. Contracts mostly. There’s not much work about at the moment.’

  Tayte sat forward then, and he looked at Bishop as if to ask if he minded him asking a question. Bishop nodded back at him.

  ‘Why did you take the cigar case to Lionel Scanlon?’ Tayte asked. ‘You said you thought he’d want to buy it, but why him? There must be plenty of other p
laces more local you could have taken it to.’

  ‘I took it to Lionel Scanlon because I thought he’d pay the best price. I said I thought it belonged to one of his ancestors.’

  Hearing that aroused Tayte’s interest further. ‘Do you know which of his ancestors?’

  Dean nodded. ‘Someone called Oscar Scanlon. Him and my great-great-granddad knew each other.’

  ‘Frank Saxby?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Dean said, eyeing Tayte quizzically, as if to ask how he knew. ‘The cigar case must have changed hands at some point. Maybe he won it off him.’

  Bishop came back into the conversation. ‘So you thought Lionel Scanlon might like to have it back in the family and would pay extra for it?’

  ‘I did. Only he didn’t want to pay much for it at all—the cheapskate.’

  ‘Did you sell it to him?’

  ‘No,’ Dean laughed. ‘Not for the price he was offering.’

  ‘Can we see it?’ Tayte asked.

  Dean shook his head. ‘Sold it last week.’

  Bishop drew an audible breath and Tayte understood why. Without the cigar case, Dean Saxby could have just made the whole thing up.

  ‘Who did you sell it to?’ Bishop asked.

  ‘There’s a place on Northfleet Hill,’ Dean said. ‘Can’t remember the name.’

  ‘Did you get a receipt?’

  ‘Probably, but I didn’t keep it. I had the cash. What was the point?’

  Tayte stepped in again. ‘How do you know Oscar Scanlon and your great-great-grandfather knew one another?’ He was keen to find out what Dean Saxby knew about his ancestors.

  ‘There was an old photograph of two men inside the case. It had their names on the back. That’s how I matched the inscription, “O.W.S”. I’ve no idea what the “W” stands for.’

  ‘Do you still have the photograph?’

  Dean shook his head again. ‘Sorry. I sold it with the cigar case. Apparently it made it more valuable.’