Schneider nodded his assent. It was hard for the young Police Inspector from Prague to disagree. I agreed on the basis that it was better than being in prison. The Home Secretary dismissed us, but assured me that my presence would be necessary again — once the Foreign Office was involved.
As we were leaving, Big Ben was chiming ten-thirty from across Parliament Square. It had all been accomplished in one business-like hour. Closer to Schneider now, I noticed his collar was quite soiled. Poor man, I thought — he hadn’t prepared for such a lengthy journey and God knows what lodgings he could afford in London on the expenses of the Prague Police Department. But as for his warrant, that was an outrage. Even so, it did not look at all good for me: I had fled from the carriage. It had been Karel’s gun. It could seem I was as guilty as hell. And the nice Inspector would simply tell me that he was only doing his job if I were to be taken back as a prisoner under arrest!
***
The villa of Sir Emile Brodsky was in the district of St. John’s Wood on a tree-lined avenue behind Lord’s Cricket Ground. It was smaller than I had expected for such an eminent man, with one room on each side of a columned porch and three windows of the first floor above it. Our party was in two hansoms — myself and Schneider, for we were now to be inseparable, in the first, and Max with a London Police Inspector following.
Once we were all assembled on the porch, Inspector Grey — for that was our London man’s name — pulled the door-bell. We could hear it lazily swinging on its spring from somewhere deep inside the house. Presently the door opened and we were confronted by a couple — a rather surly man and a shrew-like woman, perhaps in their forties. They stood in that unmistakable attitude of “They shall not pass.”
Grey explained that we wanted to meet with Sir Emile on a very important matter. The woman said that her employer was not at home for the moment and looked to the man, who said he would go and telephone Sir Emile. In the meantime this woman held her ground like all three Horatii, for which she had the stature. In a short while the man returned and said that Sir Emile would be pleased to receive us in an hour’s time at the rooms he kept in Albany, the name of the distinguished gentlemen’s chambers just off Piccadilly.
It was March, there was still the smell of coal-smoke in the air and the possibility of one of the dense London fogs that so beset the capital. But I detected another scent in the air. Whilst we were being watched by the servant couple as we made our way back to the hansoms, I pretended to drop my handkerchief and in stooping to pick it up I was able to get a better view of another building beside the house — erected in the garden. It was quite a substantial, rectangular structure of one storey. It could have been, for example, a laboratory. It had a single chimney and the smoke and flying ash from what can only have been burning papers were pouring forth from it.
There was nothing particularly strange in this. People often have to burn papers, but somehow it was one of those facts that one should retain “to lie on file.” I was beginning to learn that detective work is ninety percent slogging around obtaining one seemingly meaningless fact after another — or so it probably seems at the time. But these facts eventually form part of a much larger and fuller picture…pieces in some giant jigsaw puzzle. Up to now I didn’t think that Trixie had it in her to be patient and, indeed, to have any real skills at all apart from putting the right people next to one another at dinner parties and choosing suitable menus. Oh, and picking out the most expensive dresses!
So next on our round was Albany, that exclusive male preserve (no women may rent its rooms) in a private courtyard between Savile Row and Piccadilly. Sir Emile’s set of rooms was in the wing which backed onto Burlington House. We were welcomed in by the man who so much resembled our French actor. I saw Max giving me a glance and a smile — it was, after all, his recalling of Sir Emile’s face that had brought us here. There was the high-domed forehead, the bushy eyebrows, and that same intensity of expression. His black hair was shot with grey and I guessed him to be in his mid-sixties or thereabouts.
Soon, after introductions, we were all seated in his sitting room while we waited for the man he had sent off to return with coffee for us.
Inspector Grey decided to open the conversation. “We are here, Sir, merely to establish that you are in good health. We have received reports that quite possibly you might be the target of some criminal gang.”
“Well, you can see that I am here, quite well,” he said with a relaxed air and in a thick French accent. “So am I to know the source for your reports?”
“I’m afraid we cannot divulge that,” replied Grey. “I am sure you can understand the reason.”
I sat there looking at him intently. He was either the intended victim of this scheme or, if not, then perhaps its originator. He certainly had the brains, but for the life of me I could not fathom out any coherent reason. I looked at him again — did he look like someone who has just been told his life is perhaps threatened? He seemed to have read my thoughts, for he said, “I must admit, it is rather disturbing to think that there are those out there who would ‘do me harm,’ as you say…” he left the sentence dangling, perhaps deliberately encouraging one of us to say more than we should in reply.
When no-one spoke, he started again. “And Countess, how are you involved in all this? No harm to you, I hope.”
“Let us just say,” I said, “that it’s a case of feminine intuition.”
“I didn’t know there were any old wives’ tales about taking dastardly revenge on scientists!” he said, smugly.
“I think that’s because in those days they were called ogres,” I found myself countering. I regretted I had said it at once, of course. “But then in those days they were ignorant of the possible benefits of wizardry — what we call science today.” I was trying, somewhat desperately, to make-up for my earlier faux-pas.
He was viewing me intently as his hand stroked his chin. I didn’t think we could get any further with him. We had already agreed between us not to ask him anything about Jenks. If Brodsky turned out to be more involved in this than we first thought, then we wanted Jenks to lead us to the evidence, and to be unsuspected in the eyes of his possible master.
As we stood up together Grey asked: “And are you expecting to be travelling anywhere in the next few months? Abroad perhaps?”
I could clearly see Brodsky’s thought processes, or so I fancied. He seemed about to say ‘Oh, no — not at all’ — then he calculated for a moment, the smallest moment, but it was a change and I recognised it.
“Why, yes,” he said, “I am going to the Bohemian spas for a rest cure at the end of next month.” He cast his gaze about us, his eyes ending on mine. “Do you think I shall be safe there?”
“Of course we shall all endeavour to ensure your personal safety, Sir Emile,” replied Schneider with some good old-fashioned Austrian courtesy.
Soon we said our good-byes and were let out.
***
We needed to discuss the situation. Inspector Grey suggested we go to the Tea Room of Swan & Edgar’s, the unfashionable department store on Piccadilly Circus. I was about to say that Fortnum & Mason’s was hardly any further when I received a sharp tap on my leg from Max. All right, I had to give in. I couldn’t imagine that Swan & Edgar’s would be in any way a worse place than Fortnum’s for such a discussion — but, simply, who would be seen dead there? Just because I lived in Prague didn’t mean I didn’t know the right places! Max was becoming perfectly tiresome in his drive against snobbery.
“So, Mr. Grey, perhaps you could tell a novice such as I what the secret is of detective work?” I asked.
“Research. And when you’ve done the research — then do more research. You cannot know too much about your subjects. So what have you discovered about Sir Emile Brodsky, for instance?” He was certainly to the point.
“Well…” I began, not knowing which waffle to start off with. Max
rescued me, somewhat.
“We know that he is a very eminent scientist, and his speciality is in explosives.”
“That’s what everyone knows,” Grey retorted. “People’s weaknesses lie in information not everyone knows. Information that perhaps they don’t want everyone to know. Why don’t you begin by going to a library and looking up all his patents, for instance? That might be a very good start.”
Suddenly, I felt about one centimetre in height. He was perfectly right. I realised how little I knew about the Tontine Financial Association, for example, or who actually held the lease for the Fenix Theatre.
“We can go down to the London Library. It’s only in St. James’ Square and I keep a subscription.” (Max was ever helpful.)
The two Inspectors began talking about how they would coordinate the meetings with the Foreign Office and my concentration wandered. We were sitting by the window on an upper floor. The room was decorated in an English version of Paris-Prague Art Nouveau, with chairs from the Thonet factory in Moravia. Actually, although I dared not admit it, I was happy we were here. The window overlooked the famous Shaftesbury Monument, crowned with its winged statue of Eros. My eyes were drawn to a four-wheeler cab crossing towards the Haymarket. It was unmistakable: with three other passengers sat the recognisable figure of Jenks. I could see his red hair. So he was in London, after all. This was what could only be called a stroke of luck. I thought of asking Grey how much luck figured in the detective’s work.
I stared hard again, with only the shortest glimpse of the cab now possible — maybe my optimism was getting the better of me…but no, it really was Jenks…I recognised the ungainly set of his shoulders.
I should have called the alarm, but to what purpose? We would all have run out of the building, only to find the cab had already disappeared down towards Trafalgar Square and The Mall. It was enough for me to know that the man was indeed in London. The picture I was constructing seemed to make sense again. Then for a moment I again doubted I had seen him — surely there are lots of rough-looking men with red hair in this city? Yet all my senses told me that it must have been him. I had to learn to trust my informed instinct.
By the time we were at the London Library we were down to three of us. Grey had said there was nothing more he could usefully do until we would meet him at the Foreign Office tomorrow morning. Schneider, of course, had to stay with me.
Max returned to the desk where we were seated with a thick directory in his hand.
“This will be good for patents applied for up to the end of 1902. It’s the latest edition; came out in July 1903.”
Soon we were looking at a very long list. Between 1899 and 1902 were these entries:
An Automatic Disinfection Spray for Hospitals and Workhouses.
A Rotating Barrel Gun capable of firing 300 rounds per minute.
Device for the Alleviation of Drought in Hot Countries.
A Colourless and Odourless Explosive Material (Application Withdrawn).
A Gas VM12Y10.
A Gas VM12Y11.
A Gas VM12Y12.
A Gas VM12Y13.
A Gas VM12Y14.
A Gas VM12Y15.
A Gas VM12Y16.
A Gas VM12Y17.
“So what does this ‘Application Withdrawn’ mean?” Schneider asked.
“I haven’t the foggiest,” Max answered, “but supposing someone bought the invention but didn’t want it published — that could be a reason. Or perhaps the invention was found not to work. I’m afraid I’m not familiar with the Patent Office’s rules.”
“And the gasses?” Schneider queried.
“Inspector, as I said, I’m not expert in any of this,” Max answered. “A gas is a gas. They could be used for anything from filling air balloons to fertilising the soil. Although I have my suspicions they are probably for a more warlike purpose.”
I was looking through Who’s Who. “Can’t see that he’s married. No children obviously. Usual list of clubs — one in Paris as well. Usual sports — shooting, tennis, chess. Nothing about an army career or universities or antecedents. I suppose because he is French. Not a lot to go on.”
“So what do you think, Trixie? Are you as impatient as I am?”
“To see inside that laboratory of his? Certainly. It only remains for us to convince our Inspector here that a little common burglary is strictly necessary in the circumstances.”
***
Darkness descended by seven o’clock, the time we set out. We took a four-wheeler to Lisson Grove in St. John’s Wood from where we would walk, so as not to attract too much attention. I was wearing one of the plain dresses that Sabine had had made for me — quite nondescript and allowing for more freedom of movement than the styles one would normally wear in Society. I did not wear my far more practical urchin outfit, as I thought I might yet need to fool Schneider in the course of the unfolding of these events. After all, the Home Secretary had never said I wasn’t under arrest. Max’s reaction to my becoming a boy would also be something I did not want to hazard. He had nearly caught me when I had been dressing in the morning without my wig.
We had no particular plan ready in advance, although Max had visited an ironmonger’s in Paddington on the way and procured a variety of things he thought would be useful.
The only lights visible in the residence of Sir Emile Brodsky were at two windows in the basement, to the right of the steps that led up to the porch. The laboratory — if that’s what it was — was to the rear, left of the house. The lights were evidently from those rooms occupied by the couple we had encountered earlier. It would seem that the house’s owner preferred to stay at his rooms in Albany.
Fortunately there was a narrow path skirting the side of the garden we wanted to enter. It ran by the fence until that became the wall of this building that we hoped would answer at least some of our questions. After the wall the fence resumed. There was a wooden gate.
“We can scramble over and then open it for my sister,” Max whispered to Schneider.
“I think not,” he answered. “I’m just here to keep watch on the Countess. You open the gate and then we can both walk through.”
“I see,” said Max — obviously disappointed that some rules Schneider had suggested earlier were actually to be kept to.
In a couple of seconds Max was over the gate, and had drawn the bolt on the other side. Our next obstacle was the entrance to the laboratory itself. Luckily a glazed door which led out into the garden, was only a few metres from where we were standing. The far end of the building appeared to be joined by a short corridor to the house.
Max tried the door, but indeed it was locked. He looked at the keyhole and shook his head. From the bag he had brought — a small Gladstone, suited more for a doctor than a house-breaker — he took out some sticking plaster and a pair of scissors. He was intending to prepare one of the glass panels of the door for smashing. Schneider shrugged his shoulders, sighed, and dug into one of his trouser pockets, bringing out a large bunch of keys which he handed to Max — skeleton keys for a hundred different locks.
So far, so good. We had managed to get into the building without waking anyone or even making any visible signs of our entry. During the day the large room we had entered would have been full of light as it had tall windows overlooking the lawns. The blinds were still up and Max thought it would not be good to switch on the electric light, making our presence very visible indeed if either of the couple were to go to the back of the house. Max had brought a little paraffin-oil cycle lamp which he proceeded to light and this was our only illumination.
Yes, it was a laboratory — or had been a laboratory. There were the numerous gas-taps necessary and one cardboard box full of test-tubes but otherwise it was completely bare. There was not even a chair or a desk. At one end were various cupboards built into the wall. Schneider watched me as I opened one; it wa
s empty.
Max had walked through the long, barren laboratory to a smaller room beyond. This had evidently been some kind of office. It had a fireplace with a grate. A door led from this room into the short corridor connecting it with the house. Again, as I caught up with Max, I could see that this room too was completely empty. Max was kneeling by the grate, pointing his lamp into the cinders. He fished out the charred remains of an envelope, the torn flap embossed with a headless eagle. He put the two torn edges together — an eagle with one head.
“Not ours, you see. A Prussian eagle.”
Turning it over he put the lamp closer still, trying to make out a postmark as the area of the stamp had been burnt. “Yes, Berlin.”
“Well, there’s nothing wrong with corresponding with the German government at the moment, is there?” But I knew as I uttered the words, it probably wasn’t quite the thing for a man knighted “for services to the British Empire.”
“There’s nothing else that means anything here,” Max said after sifting through all the ashes, “but there was an iron stove in the laboratory. Let’s try that.”
We returned to the first room, where there was a large cast-iron stove. Its sides were still warm to the touch. Max opened its round plate and shone the lamp down into a chamber that we were soon to see was filled with the half-burnt remains of leather-bound notebooks.
“I’ll take a couple, shall I?” I asked. The contents, being examined by Max, seemed to be all the same — pages and pages filled with an intense mass of formulas, scientific symbols, calculations. Max found two which were less charred than the rest and handed them to me.
The Countess of Prague Page 12