The Lost Empress

by Steve Robinson

  ‘Provenance,’ Tayte said. ‘Do you have any other old photos? Was anything else handed down to you?’

  ‘I wish,’ Dean said. ‘I was lucky to get the cigar case.’

  ‘That’s too bad. Do you know much about Frank Saxby?’

  ‘No. I was just told who the man in the photo was.’

  Bishop sat forward then, as if he were about to stand up. ‘It’s just a routine question,’ he said, a little ominously, Tayte thought, ‘but before we go, can you tell me where you were on the night of Friday the 23rd of May—the night Lionel Scanlon was murdered.’

  Dean Saxby scoffed. ‘I knew that was coming.’ He paused. Then he began to shake his head. ‘No, I can’t. I was probably here, as I am most nights—and days, come to that. I already told you I wasn’t getting much work.’

  Tayte could see that Bishop’s question with its possible implication was angering their host. His tone had changed, and his arms were now tightly crossed around his chest.

  ‘Would you have been with anyone on that Friday night who could vouch for you being home?’ Bishop continued.

  Dean scoffed again. ‘No, it’s just me. I can’t afford to go out and find a girlfriend, if that’s what you mean—let alone afford to keep one.’ He shot forward to match Bishop on the edge of his seat. ‘That doesn’t mean I killed anyone.’

  ‘Calm down, Mr Saxby. As I said, it was just a routine question.’ Bishop offered him a calming smile as he rose to leave. ‘Northfleet Hill, you said?’

  ‘That’s right. Silver cigar case. You can go and ask the dealer if you want.’

  ‘Thank you for your time, Mr Saxby,’ Bishop said, and as Tayte followed him out, he knew the Inspector fully intended to.

  ‘Come in, Mr Tayte. Have a seat.’

  An hour after leaving Dean Saxby’s flat, DI Bishop ushered Tayte into a small office at the North Kent and Medway Division police headquarters. Tayte sat at one end of the desk, facing a window that looked out onto a featureless part of the building and the car park below. As Bishop put his coffee down and lowered himself into his chair, Tayte offered him a chocolate to go with it.

  ‘Don’t mind if I do,’ Bishop said, dipping his hand into the proffered bag of Mr Goodbar miniatures. ‘I think you’ve given me a taste for these.’

  They had gone straight to the police station after their last visit, picking up a sandwich for lunch along the way. Bishop had received word that the information he’d previously told Tayte he was waiting on had arrived, and Tayte was more eager to see it than ever when Bishop told him it concerned Alice Stilwell. There was a screen on the desk, surrounded by photographs. Bishop switched it on and slid it around so Tayte could see it better.

  ‘So, your wife’s in law enforcement, too?’ Tayte said, eying a photograph of a woman in uniform beside another photograph of the same woman, this one with two small children in a park somewhere.

  ‘It’s how we met,’ Bishop said, smiling momentarily at the face in the picture as he spoke. ‘She put her career on hold to have a family, but if I know Amanda, she’ll be back as soon as they’re in school.’ He indicated the photograph of the children. ‘That’s Benjamin—he’s quite a handful. Beside him there is Olivia.’

  ‘Great-looking kids,’ Tayte offered, thinking that a simple family day out in the park must be a wonderful way to spend some time.

  Bishop thanked him, and then he began tapping at the keyboard in front of him. ‘Are you familiar with the history of our Secret Intelligence Service, commonly referred to as MI6?’

  Tayte sipped his coffee and smiled to himself as he recalled his last visit to England and how he and Jean Summer had encountered one such government agency while helping out with a very different kind of murder investigation. That was MI5, he reminded himself, the Security Service.

  ‘I’ve had some dealings with your homeland security,’ he said. ‘But I’m not too clued up on your secret service.’

  ‘I was surprised how little I knew,’ Bishop said, ‘so I conducted some research of my own. The SIS began as the Secret Service Bureau in 1909, a collaboration between the Admiralty and the War Office, largely on account of the German threat and the arms race that was going on at the time. Given what you’ve told me about Alice, I thought there might be some information on her to support the allegations that she was a spy.’

  ‘It would certainly be good to confirm the rumours,’ Tayte said.

  ‘My thoughts exactly. I don’t know whether it’s the same in the US, but government bodies here in the UK have a legal obligation under the Public Records Act of 1958 to place records in the public archive. For reasons of national security, however, the Security Service and the Secret Intelligence Service are exempt. So, the decision on what gets transferred to The National Archives is made on a case-by-case basis.’

  ‘It’s no wonder my searches on Alice Stilwell returned so little information,’ Tayte said.

  Bishop agreed. ‘Where information is considered sensitive for whatever reason, it remains out of public sight, under lock and key.’

  ‘How come you’ve been allowed access to this information?’

  ‘You mean apart from being a detective inspector in charge of a murder investigation?’ Bishop said, half-grinning. ‘Actually, as the file is just over a hundred years old now, it was up for review. Apparently, a large number of records that have previously been deemed too sensitive to release are being looked at again.’

  ‘Why was it deemed sensitive at all?’ Tayte asked, thinking aloud.

  Bishop opened a folder on the computer’s desktop and clicked on one of the files that appeared inside. ‘Let’s find out, shall we?’

  Tayte edged closer as the file opened, filling the screen with a scanned image of a document bearing the title ‘Home Office: Registered Papers, Supplementary.’ Below that Tayte read the subheading, ‘CRIMINAL CASES: Stilwell, Alice Maria.’

  ‘ “Observation,” ’ Bishop read aloud. ‘ “21st of April, 1914.” ’

  Both men continued to take the document in. Tayte read the account of observations that had been recorded in Dover on that day by a member of the Secret Service Bureau. He read that Alice had been seen meeting with a German waiter who was already known to the SSB as Raimund Karl Drescher, a man who was himself under observation for spying. The account stated that Alice had left the hotel where Drescher worked and had proceeded to Dover harbour, where she had loitered suspiciously for some hours. The account ended with a brief summary of how the SSB officer had attempted to confront Alice to enquire into her purpose there, stating that Alice had then wilfully evaded him so as not to expose that purpose.

  ‘That’s very interesting,’ Tayte said. ‘I wonder how they knew that the person they were observing was Alice Stilwell.’

  Bishop closed the file and opened another. ‘I suppose they must either have already known or had collated the information afterwards, once Alice’s identity was discovered.’

  The next file was dated a few weeks later, and it explained precisely how the SSB came to know who Alice was. The report was similar to the first, but two further incidents were logged, of Alice having been observed loitering at England’s southern ports, where it was thought she was engaged in monitoring the movements of British warships, helping to provide the enemy with an account of Britain’s naval strength and placement. Scans of several train ticket stubs were also attached, and Tayte imagined they must have been found at Hamberley at some point. Reading on, he saw that no attempt had been made to question Alice on these occasions, presumably because the purpose of her activity was now obvious to the SSB. On these further occasions, the task was not then to engage, but to follow.

  When Bishop opened the penultimate file, Tayte saw that on 30 April 1914, the SSB had been successful. Hamberley was mentioned, as was Admiral Lord Charles Metcalfe, and Tayte thought this was why the records had been classifie
d as sensitive material and not transferred to the public archive. The Metcalfe family held high positions in the Admiralty and the British government. At the very least it could have caused the family public embarrassment and perhaps even provided a motive for blackmail, making it a potential threat to national security.

  Tayte was already wondering what was in the last file, and he felt certain it would offer more incriminating evidence against Alice. That she was spying against her own country now seemed irrefutable, although he had yet to understand why. Bishop was about to open the file when Tayte’s phone started playing the theme from Guys and Dolls. He quickly took it out.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, checking the display. ‘It’s Davina Scanlon. I’d better take it.’ He pushed a button and pressed the phone to his ear.

  ‘JT,’ Davina said. ‘I hope I’m not calling at a bad time.’

  Tayte thought she sounded bright about something. ‘No, that’s okay,’ he said. ‘I’m with DI Bishop, going through a few files.’ He cast a glance at Bishop and smiled apologetically. ‘Is everything okay?’

  ‘Yes, I’m perfectly fine. I went back to the house today to finish tidying up. I’ve found something I think you should see. It might be important. I was wondering if you were free to come over and take a look.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s a telegram. I think it’s better that you come and see it. Perhaps you could bring me up to date on how your assignment’s going at the same time.’

  ‘Sure,’ Tayte said, thinking that his assignment was suddenly on a roll. ‘How about I come by later this afternoon?’

  ‘Great. I’ll be waiting.’

  The call ended and Tayte slipped his phone back inside his jacket. ‘She has a telegram to show me,’ he said to Bishop, wondering why she thought it could be important and what bearing it might have on his assignment.

  Bishop drained his coffee back. ‘Seems we’re keeping you busy between us.’ He eyed Tayte seriously. ‘I’m going to need something from you soon.’

  Tayte nodded that he understood. He had to find the connection to Lionel Scanlon’s murder, or their collaboration was over. Bishop turned back to the screen and the last of the SSB files on Alice Stilwell. This file was different from the others—that much was apparent to Tayte as soon as the scanned document image appeared on the screen.

  ‘It’s an arrest warrant,’ Bishop said. ‘Special Branch, Metropolitan Police.’

  ‘May 2nd, 1914,’ Tayte said. ‘We’re getting closer to the date Alice is supposed to have died. This warrant was issued just under a month before the Empress of Ireland sank.’ He looked quizzically at Bishop. ‘How come the Metropolitan Police were involved?’

  ‘The Secret Service Bureau had no powers of arrest, which is still true of the SIS today. They worked in conjunction with special branches of the police service, assisting with investigations and dealing with arrests. The Metropolitan Police in London had the largest Special Branch, so I’m not surprised to see they issued this warrant.’

  Tayte read on and learned that the warrant for Alice’s arrest had been issued on grounds of high treason and in connection with the murder of a Special Branch detective in Green Park, London, on the day before the attempted arrest was made. That the arrest had not been successful was evident from the events that followed; otherwise, Tayte suspected that given the enormity of her situation, Alice’s name might have appeared alongside Carl Lody’s on the list of executed spies he’d previously seen.

  High treason and murder . . .

  Tayte thought back to Lord Reginald Metcalfe’s reaction to seeing the photograph of Alice he’d shown him on his visit to Hamberley the day before. In light of this new information, Tayte began to re-evaluate his earlier thoughts about the lengths to which such a family might go to protect their good name and family honour. Reginald Metcalfe was surely too old and in too poor a state of health to have acted directly, but Tayte supposed now that this obviously wealthy man could have been behind Lionel Scanlon’s murder. And he could just as easily have sent someone to run him off the road after his first visit to Hamberley.

  Tayte didn’t voice his thoughts to Bishop; it was mere speculation for now. He gazed at the window and wondered what further discoveries he was going to make about Alice Stilwell, and he began to think over what he knew about the journey she had made, which had taken her to Canada in 1914. That Alice was in Quebec on 28 May and that she had boarded the Empress of Ireland was a fact he could bank. The reason she had fled from her home, and from her country, was now also clear to him from the records Bishop had just shown him. And they had also provided him with the date on which Alice’s journey to meet that voyage had begun: 2 May.

  What puzzled Tayte about Alice’s journey now was why she was returning to England. She had made it out of the country. She was as safe from prosecution as could reasonably be expected as long as she managed to keep a low profile. Surely a better journey, and one which he knew she had later made, was to make her way south into America, leaving the British Commonwealth behind for good. But the Empress of Ireland had been bound for Liverpool. Alice was returning, then, to certain arrest and probable execution. Yet still she had intended to return.

  Tayte gave a thoughtful sigh as he turned back to Bishop and thanked him. He collected his briefcase and rose from his chair, his thoughts drifting ahead to the telegram Davina had told him she’d found. He was keen now to go and see it. Perhaps it would unlock another piece of the puzzle that was Alice Stilwell’s life. He knew there had to be more to her story than he’d so far been able to uncover, and he reminded himself that something must have happened to instil the belief in Alice that when she returned to England, she would do so in the knowledge, or at least the hope, that she could return safely to her family—to her children—without the threat to her life that had taken her to Quebec in the first place. But what?

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Saturday, 2 May 1914.

  The day after Alice Stilwell met Archie in London, it was Oscar Scanlon’s birthday. He was drunk by lunchtime, and Alice couldn’t wait to get away from the dining table, having heard enough of the man’s bad jokes and having seen enough of his nauseating behaviour at being the centre of attention to last her a lifetime. Her father and Frank Saxby had already managed to escape. Saxby had arrived at Hamberley earlier that morning in part by invitation to the birthday lunch, and Alice thought that he and her father must have had some business to discuss because they had taken themselves off to the library and did not want to be disturbed.

  Alice could not chase the memories of the past twenty-four hours from her mind, no matter how hard she tried. On her return to Hamberley the night before, the feelings she had somehow managed to keep in check on the train journey home finally overcame her, and she was physically sick. She lay awake most of the night, thinking about the poor man who had chased her in Green Park, knowing he was only doing his duty and that her criminal actions, even if they had been forced upon her, had likely led to his murder. She supposed he was dead because she knew Raskin could not let the man live, although she hadn’t waited to see him go to work with that hideous flensing knife of his.

  I know what you’ve been doing . . .

  Those words haunted Alice. She wondered who else knew, and more importantly whether the authorities knew who she was. If they did, then she supposed they would come for her soon enough, and she was resolved to go quietly now to meet her fate, not least because she could see no way through this living nightmare that her life had become. She had not seen Raskin again, and that at least was a blessing. He had not come to her for the camera as she expected he would, and she supposed it was because he was lying low after what had happened.

  Alice forced a polite smile and rose from her seat. ‘Do excuse me,’ she said. ‘I’ve been feeling light-headed all morning and need to rest.’ It was a lie, even if she did have good reason to feel unwell. Sh
e turned to her mother, who was sitting beside Aunt Cordelia. ‘Would you mind looking after the children?’

  ‘Of course not, dear. It must be all the travelling you’ve been doing this week. How is your friend, the poor thing? Is she much improved?’

  ‘Yes, very much,’ Alice said.

  She ran a hand over Charlotte’s hair as she passed her, and then over Chester’s, dragging her feet as she went.

  Oscar Scanlon stood up as she left. ‘Make sure you come down again in time for the cake,’ he called after her.

  Alice kept up her pretence until she reached the top of the main staircase, and then instead of turning left towards her room, she turned right towards her uncle’s. She had been away from Hamberley so much that past week that she had not had time to follow up on her plan to discover whether it was Oscar Scanlon or Frank Saxby whom she had heard on the telephone the night she returned from Dover. She was all the more keen now to find out who it was. It was no secret that Oscar Scanlon was bankrupt, and Alice supposed he might be doing it for the money, or at least for the promise of some great fortune ‘come the day.’

  Alice reached his room and opened the door, confident that he would not leave the dining room until the last drop of wine had been wrung from the decanter, which was still half full. She stepped inside and pulled the door to behind her. It was a tidier room than she’d imagined, perhaps because she knew her uncle did not share it with her Aunt Cordelia. She had no idea why that was, but the situation afforded him greater opportunity for secrecy.

  After taking the room in briefly, she went to the mahogany chest of drawers beneath the window and opened each drawer tentatively, as though expecting something unpleasant to jump out at her. She found shirts, neatly folded; an assortment of undergarments; several ties and a box of cufflinks. The wardrobe yielded nothing out of the ordinary either. There was writing paper and ink on the table, but on closer inspection of the nibs, Alice found them to be bone dry and only slightly stained, as though rarely used. After checking beneath the mattress and under the bed, she decided that if her uncle was a spy, then he, like Raimund Drescher at the Burlington Hotel, kept the tools of his trade elsewhere. There wasn’t so much as a sniff of lemon juice in the air, which was more than could be said for her room.