In the meantime, Schneider — despite his attempt not to be active in this crime — was casually opening the doors of the row of cupboards, the first of which I had looked into a minute or two before and which had been quite empty. The others were no different, it seemed. Then he found them.
He opened the last cupboard, and its contents spilled out onto the floor — so full it had been. With a soft leathery patter out fell a huge pile of dog collars. They seemed to be for dogs of all sizes, but larger ones predominated — and they were all comfortably used. Some even had brass tags with such English canine names as “Rover” or “Rex.”
“That’s another slip of paper for you,” said Max. Schneider didn’t understand Max’s little joke. But the collars weren’t funny. They were sad, poignant. They reminded me of a photograph I had once seen of a great pile of boots taken from the bodies of Italian soldiers killed in battle — for each pair represented the son of a grieving mother.
I sorted through these strange relics, picked out a collar identified as “Biffer” and put it with the other souvenirs of our visit. Again, the more one seemed to find out, the deeper the mystery became.
The beam from Max’s lamp was off me and I couldn’t see where Max was for the moment. Then he came running back.
“Quick. We’ve got to go. Schneider — are you ready?”
Schneider was more than ready, he was out of the door in a flash. We hurried out into the garden at Max’s urging. Through the gate, into the lane — then further down the lane, not back up to the street. There was a mews — some stables with coachmen’s rooms above — serving several houses. This emptied out into another street. There was some commotion coming from behind us, but it quickly subsided. No-one had come out into the lane.
“What, Max?”
“Look, I went into the passage from the laboratory and thought I’d take a look into the house. I must have been a bit more heavy-footed than I thought, for soon I heard voices and doors opening.”
“Did you find anything?”
“Yes. It’s strange. The whole place — apart from, I presume, the rooms for that couple of his — is totally empty.”
No wonder this pair was anxious for us not to set foot inside.
***
The Foreign Office was even grander than the Home Office. Max, Schneider, and I were shown into an anteroom at the head of a sweeping marble staircase surrounded by graceful columns with gilded capitals and under painted ceilings all undertaken quite recently, so I was told, in the Italian Renaissance style. Here was a palace fit for the Medicis, or perhaps more appropriately the Borgias, but such petty princes of the Italy of those times could never have envisaged that any single nation would rule over a quarter of the Earth. The style suited, nonetheless.
I noticed Inspector Schneider wiping his hatband as we left the four-wheeler in Whitehall; now he was turning it in his hands, a nervous habit of his I had observed before. Max seemed relaxed; we were amongst those he liked to think of as his peers. My own nervousness sprung from the doubt I was having that I would retain my liberty and not be sent away in chains, the prisoner of this lower-grade Inspector.
The clock-winders must have gained immense satisfaction from the fact that as Big Ben began to boom out the hour, so a small French mantel clock over the marble fireplace began, synchronised to each bong, its own more sweet but humble repetition. Waiting encourages the mind to wander into such frivolous speculations. Then the tall double doors of the Foreign Secretary’s office opened and we were ushered into a room which contained six or seven men.
A tall, grey-haired gentleman of dignified appearance at once approached Max and myself, extending a hand.
“Henry de Clyfforde, Lord Chudborough. We have never had occasion to meet — although I am sure you will know I am your mother’s second cousin. Looking at you now I can see some de Clyfforde in you both. I only heard yesterday that you, Max, have been living in the capital for some while, although the reason for my information was concerning you, Beatrice — and I hope we may settle this uncomfortable business to your satisfaction, my dear.”
“Thank you, My Lord,” I replied.
“Henry — please. And may I introduce Lord Lansdowne?” And here a distinguished, but younger man, only in his forties stepped forward. Despite the pomp of his office, he had a rascally twinkle in his eyes. “The Marquess of Lansdowne is, as I am sure you know, His Majesty’s Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs. I think you have met the Home Secretary, and this is Sir Frederick Ponsonby, His Majesty’s Assistant Private Secretary.”
So they had procured one of our relatives for this matter — this was obviously to soften me up for something: to make something terribly bad seem right and proper, that, or they needed something. Perhaps they had finally grasped the possible importance of what I had begun to uncover. However, I had already made the decision not to tell that I had stumbled on a horde of dog collars. I felt it somewhat devalued the international significance of this affair.
After the usual formalities, the offering of refreshments, the seating and so on, Akers-Douglas, the Home Secretary, approached a slightly bewildered Schneider and asked him if he might wait in an adjoining room as secret matters of State were possibly to be discussed. He looked relieved rather than offended as, still with hat in hand, he was led away.
Again, it was our mother’s second cousin who began and addressed himself to me: “The matters which you laid before the Home Secretary yesterday have been extensively considered. I was called from the country when it was known we were related, and naturally I vouched for you both as honourable — and only half Austrian! You were right in thinking this affair is important. How much, may I ask, do you know of His Majesty’s visits to Marienbad?”
“I know that His Majesty has been several times and that the visits are usually in August,” I replied.
Ponsonby — which, I should add, is pronounced ‘Punsunby’ — broke in: “His Majesty has always believed in the value of informal diplomacy, of talking face-to-face, often in a social setting. That is His Majesty’s way.”
I nodded, as if I knew that already.
“I am sure you are aware that there are some extremely grave international tensions at the present time,” our second cousin continued.
I nodded sagely again. This time I did know; Max had told me.
“This Russo-Japanese situation, do you mean?” but Max’s question was not at once answered.
“But it may not be known to you, since it is known to hardly more than the people in this room — and I was only told of the possibility a few minutes ago — that an earlier, and additional, visit to the spa is planned this year. This will be in order to be able to meet and discuss the crisis that your brother has so correctly identified with — shall we say? — another player of great significance. We are gambling on averting a war which would draw-in all the nations of the civilised world. A World War, in fact, if such a thing could be envisaged.”
It was time I said something intelligent, and yet I found myself questioning all this: “Is this war between Russia and Japan that significant?”
The Marquess, as Foreign Secretary, felt obliged to answer. “All the countries of Europe have webs of treaties with each other. The French have been making overtures to the Russians, for example, and we are allied to the French. We have a treaty with Japan. You can see how awkward things will get, especially if Germany picks sides.”
I had never really given much thought to the labyrinthine machinations of international politics — but even I could see that trouble could indeed ensue, and Austria, whether we liked it or not, was firmly allied to Germany. The Prussians had seen to that.
“And this revolution in Russia everyone keeps talking about — is it likely to happen?” asked Max, ever the brains.
The Secretaries of State exchanged glances. “Quite probably, if the situation in Japan goes aga
inst them,” the Marquess stated, “and the effect of a weak Russia would be that the Germans could attack France again with impunity. They could easily win a war on only one front.”
Our second cousin brought the conversation back on course: “We think there could be a threat to His Majesty by these people you have uncovered. Like you, we have no idea how the threat is to be carried out specifically — and, most importantly, why. But your help is required in further discovery. The authorities represented here would like you to continue your investigation of this mystery.”
“But why me?” I asked. Now that the offer was being made, I felt a horror of it. “Surely Inspector Schneider is entirely capable?”
“Quite apart from the fact that His Majesty travels to Bohemia as a private citizen, incognito hardly — but not in the status of King Emperor, and so your suggestion would present complications. Apart from that, we feel your tact and skill at handling this would be far preferable,” the Marquess replied. “Naturally, all assistance will be given you. That, I am sure, the Inspector will understand.”
“Well, of course. I am deeply honoured. And Max…” I began. Max completed what I had not set out to say:
“…but I am afraid I cannot really assist personally. I have helped here in London, and naturally wish my sister every success. Anyway, too many cooks spoil the broth.”
“There is another aspect to this too.” Sir Frederick Ponsonby spoke this time. “His Majesty is adamant that Sir Emile Brodsky is quite to be trusted. In fact they are old friends. It would seem from what you have managed to find out that he is possibly one of the intended victims.”
“Albert Jenks is a different matter, however. He has a long record of criminal activity — the usual burglary, selling stolen goods, some extortion. Several lengthy stretches in Dartmoor.” The Home Secretary was consulting a file. “But I must say there is to date no evidence of him associating with anarchists or revolutionaries. The police in various countries will be alerted, of course, but our opinion is that it is better to allow him to travel freely for the moment, until the purpose of his travels can be better understood.”
So I was to be left alone following or being followed by a known criminal and certain murderer. This was all more than I had bargained for. I hoped at least I could travel with Schneider, of whom suddenly I was almost fond, for the resolution of this mystery must lie in Marienbad.
The Marquess of Lansdowne wrapped up the proceedings: “The British Ambassador in Vienna and the Consul in Prague will be notified and they will, I assure you, give you any assistance within their power. Inspector Schneider will also take with him a message for the Commissioner of Police in Prague.”
Old de Clyfforde took my arm, “It goes without saying that we all wish you well. A lot might depend on it.”
— such as whether I would ever get invited to see my grand relatives, although the necessity of this, I was beginning to feel, was something that didn’t bother me. It had concerned our poor mother all her life; she would kill me for not caring a jot.
***
The big question was now whether to try to find Jenks in London, or to return to Prague and Marienbad, knowing that sooner or later he would come back there. Max thought that we had probably reached the end of what could usefully be discovered in London. He would keep me posted on any news concerning Sir Emile Brodsky, although as yet we had no certain evidence to suggest he was linked with Jenks. Schneider, quite naturally, wanted to return home. He had originally followed Sabine to Marienbad for her to lead him to me, expecting to be back in Prague the following day, the next at the most.
On returning to Mount Street, a telegram awaited us. It was from Karel:
YOUR UNCLE BERTY DEAD STOP FUNERAL ON FRIDAY STOP FELICITATIONS KAREL
“What does this mean?” I asked Max, but knowing already it had some connection with the ghastly business in hand — the mystery which had turned into a nightmare.
“It means we have to buy your ticket home this minute. We can walk round to Thomas Cook’s in Berkeley Street. There should be a de Luxe leaving first thing in the morning.
Chapter Eight
Crossing the Border
The wind was teasing what passed for my hair. It was cold, but I was warmly wrapped. By the ship’s rail, the flag of the railway company steamer billowing in the breeze, I could see England receding, the famous cliffs becoming just a thin line of white chalk on the horizon. Max — unless he was a dark horse — had never pulled a woman into the shape of her corsets before, but with Sabine gone for the time being, it had been a necessity. Thank Heavens he didn’t have to sew me into my dress. In my new regime Sabine had managed to have two of my favourite dresses converted to buttons. However, Max had still cursed. Sixty of the things, he had said, was an inordinate number. And he had used an expletive.
It was proof, so he had said, that I hadn’t entirely lost the art of being feminine — that I wasn’t one of these ghastly women Socialists. I had read about them of course: those Pankhurst sisters with their Women’s Union. They would not rest until women had the vote. I suppose that up until very recently I had been content for men to run men’s affairs on the mutual understanding that they did not interfere with what I ordered from the dressmaker or looked too closely at the flirtatious notes I passed to certain admirers, harmless as they turned out to be. Then it had seemed the world, and by that I mean the harmony of the sexes, was in perfect balance. In the space of less than a month I was beginning to see cracks in the impervious male facade. Why should men be the only ones to have adventures?
Schneider was lounging against one of the large trumpet-like ventilators that gave air to the deck below on which the de Luxe’s carriages had been manoeuvred aboard en route for Paris, Strasbourg, and Prague. He lit a cigarette. I didn’t know he smoked. I noticed he had a clean collar — a little too big for his neck. He must have had some difficulty buying a new collar or two in English feet and inches.
“Aren’t you supposed to be watching me, Inspector Schneider?”
He threw me a questioning look.
“I mean,” I ploughed on, “you are smoking on duty, are you not?”
“I don’t think travel of this kind counts,” he replied somewhat testily.
“So do you mean I am not under your supervision?”
“Didn’t the Home Secretary tell you we had agreed to suspend the warrant in the light of all you told us?”
“In short, no. However, I rather relished the prospect of travelling across Europe as a bad woman!”
Schneider blushed. “I don’t think I could ever see you as that, Countess.”
I chose to ignore the improper use of the term Countess at this juncture. I was flattered by his compliment. Perhaps it was the delayed reward for my revealing my stockinged ankle.
“Steamers make one romantic, do they not, Inspector?” I said, not waiting for a reply. “Thank goodness that there isn’t time for a shipboard romance.”
On a crossing of barely two hours there would hardly be time for the culmination of such a romance, let alone all the courting which women demand to justify the effort for that short act of consummation. I cursed again my English blood and suddenly was envious of Sabine’s doubtless honest, down-to-earth way of satisfying…well, her lust. I was aware, by reading a certain volume that Karel kept turned pages-out in his library, that in Paris there were certain hotels that hired out rooms by the half-hour.
Soon there were only three hours left before the train would arrive in Paris. For those three long hours after we had set off from Calais I sat in my sleeping compartment, which served as a day carriage — the door locked. Memories of the journey to Karlsbad overtook me, the realisation that if I had been in my compartment when Jenks and Duvalier had come — of what might have become of me. Then I dwelt on the terrible news of Uncle Berty’s death.
Karel’s telegram had said virtually
nothing. How had he died? Was this yet another mysterious death? At least my anxiety might be reduced by news at Paris. I had telegraphed my husband to respond to the train at the Gare du Nord. No sooner had we pulled into the station there when the conductor was rapping on my door and soon handing me a telegram from Prague.
UNCLES DEATH SUICIDE STOP HIS LETTER AWAITS YOU AND AM CURIOUS ABOUT CONTENTS STOP WILL MEET AT STATION STOP FELICITATIONS KAREL
Suicide? If there seemed to me a man least likely to commit suicide it was Uncle Berty. I believed there was another mystery in this. Perhaps none of this would have happened if I hadn’t agreed to start investigating for Uncle — but, no, the mystery of old Alois and the Tontine had already begun by then.
After the train set out from Paris for Strasbourg and Prague I felt so incredibly nervous, alone in my compartment, that I had the conductor go and find Inspector Schneider. I would treat him to refreshments in the Dining Car. He was, of course, travelling in the rear coach reserved for the servants of the First Class passengers. The Prague Police Department was evidently careful of its budget.
Schneider was adequate company. At least he kept my mind off my apprehensions about Uncle Berty, or what might be lurking in my compartment.
“I shouldn’t worry,” he said, “the Metropolitan Police were sure there was no-one suspicious on the train and the Railway Police made sure no-one boarded at Dover. Of course, in France we’re in the hands of the French.”
“How reassuring,” I observed. Irony was something that came naturally to me, unfortunately.
“You are not married, Inspector?” I asked, after a pause as more of the flat French countryside crawled by the windows.
“It’s not a job which encourages it. Late nights, travel like this on occasions — no regular hours. I don’t know as a wife would put up with it.”
He could see I didn’t believe a word of that. He went on, however: “Well, perhaps it’s a case of not finding the right girl.”
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