The day after Max’s letter came I heard the doorbell ringing very insistently at nine in the morning and callers being admitted by Müller. He showed me two cards: one was that of the British Consul in Prague, a Mr. Wentworth-Forbes, and the other of my friend Colonel Northcott. I understood that the police, if going to make an arrest, never make an appointment. Maybe what Max had said in jest was true, and I could imagine Northcott being polite but rigidly firm.
“Show them into the drawing room, Müller. I shall be there in a minute.”
He stood there a second, a look of confused bewilderment on his face — an expression he had perfected when, without uttering a word, he objected to something.
“Yes?” I snapped back. I was getting nervous.
“The drawing room is unheated, Milady. The stove has not been lit, as you instructed.”
Yes. My damned economies. My fault. “Then they shall be permitted to keep their coats,” was my only concession.
He bowed in that hurt way of his and silently padded out.
I looked at myself in the mirror. I presumed that prisons did not have mirrors. The curve of my bottom, I noticed (as if for the first time) seemed entirely satisfactory, but my wig — I was thinking it was a little too blonde. But again, in prisons I supposed prisoners had to sport their own hair, not the poor, boughten, once-treasured and severed locks of some peasant girl from Romania or the South of Italy. It occurred to me to ask Sabine to pack a little case, but she was out for half an hour on an errand.
“Gentlemen, do sit down, won’t you?”
They did. That was a good sign. Arrests, I assumed, began with the words “Now this won’t take long,” with no time for settled conversation.
“Some coffee?”
Yes. That was another good sign — although it could have been merely for the warmth to be gained by holding the cup.
This Mr. Wentworth-Forbes — he of a stout neck and optimistic eyes — began:
“Lord Chudborough was asked by the Foreign Secretary to form an opinion as to whether or not you can assist us. You are not a British subject and I am sure your loyalties are to the Empire of Austria-Hungary. But in matters which do not affect that country, Lord Chudborough ventured to suggest that your loyalties in the next tier, so to speak, would be firmly to the United Kingdom. So we would like you to confirm that this is so before we go further.”
Loyalty? What a nightmare it would be if I did have to choose. I felt entirely comfortable being both Czech and English combined, to be at home in shops in Vienna or London, as I wished.
“Certainly. As you know I am related to Lord Chudborough through my mother and all I can say is that my sentiments are very much English, perhaps sometimes to the detriment of my feelings towards this country. Were the Czechs free of the Austrian yoke, of course, then my father’s blood which courses through my veins might alter things. But I shall always drink Jackson’s tea, eat cucumber sandwiches with the crusts removed, get my brother to put a small stake on a favourite horse in the Derby every year for me, and look down upon anyone who calls a lavatory a ‘toilet.’ So do I pass muster?”
“Delightfully put, if I may say so,” said Northcott, relaxing back into the sofa and drawing his topcoat around him.
The sofa was covered with a floral chintz. I had wanted the room to become a flower-bedecked bower and two years ago, when there had been a little money in the coffers to undertake the redecoration, mauve had been the very last word in modern colours. But I wondered now if I liked it all….
Wentworth-Forbes went on: “You brought to the attention of His Majesty’s Government last month clear evidence that a criminal scheme is being prepared which we believe directly relates to an important, private, and to all intents and purposes, secret visit of His Majesty to Marienbad. He is already due to come to the spa in August, as he usually does, and this year part of that visit will consist of a formal State Visit to meet His Imperial Majesty Francis Joseph. As you are aware, the Russo-Japanese War is threatening to destabilise the whole of Europe, and His Majesty feels that a private, social meeting with his nephew, Kaiser Wilhelm, is necessary and urgent. His Majesty will therefore be travelling to Marienbad, where the meeting will take place, on May 4th.”
“Well, I’d guessed that.”
“I think we realised that you have been able to collect enough evidence to make that assumption,” Wentworth-Forbes ploughed on. So much hot air. If it hadn’t already been April, his breath would have been visible in the decidedly chill air here. It was undoubtedly warmer outside.
“The thing is,” Northcott cut in, “I am actually coordinating Secret Service activities in the region and we are very concerned that there has been a leak. Only a very select few knew of the plan to visit Marienbad, and yet this criminal band has been targeting May 4th for some weeks. If only we knew their intentions, then we could act. I knew you’d come across something with that question of yours about uniforms.”
“I couldn’t agree more about trying to establish their intentions. It’s the motive, or the end result which they are trying to achieve, which has me completely foxed,” I admitted.
“We want you to officially assist us,” Wentworth-Forbes announced, splitting an infinitive.
“And in what way?”
“Firstly, tentify the intended crime. Secondly, to accompany His Majesty’s party in Marienbad. You will be the one most familiar with all the people involved, so your presence, in my opinion,” said Northcott, “is vital.”
I needed a moment to think — just a moment. Wentworth-Forbes took this as a bad sign:
“Rest assured that your services to the British Crown will in no way compromise your loyalty to Austria. And if any doubt did arise, then it would be resolved diplomatically between the powers, and your position would be maintained.”
“You mean I wouldn’t have to emigrate to South America and live out the rest of my life rearing ponies on the pampas?”
“Exactly.” Wentworth-Forbes was certain, although I did notice a bead of sweat now running down his temple, making part of his face glisten like his oiled hair.
By chance rather than design I happened not to have asked for any reward. Threadbare aristocracy is always too proud or stupid to demand a fair wage for its services. Everything from clothes brushes to bottled pickles are sold under coats-of-arms as “By Appointment to the Duke of this or the Prince of that” without any percentage of the profits going for this noble sales-boosting assistance. In this new century Noblesse oblige means “noblesse obliges us to pay the rent as anyone else.” This reverse of the mercenary spirit in terms of my lack of demand of any kind was taken as a sign of devout loyalty. It was, of course, merely naiveté.
“I am sure His Majesty will be very thankful,” Wentworth-Forbes added. I could guess what “thankful” meant, or rather exactly what it didn’t mean. However, I was charmed, flattered, honoured to be asked.
“So let’s begin with what must end up as the key to the mystery, shall we? It’s this man Sir Emile Brodsky.” I was getting in form now.
“But it’s quite simple,” Northcott replied. “His Majesty is going to Marienbad ostensibly as a private person and will attend a party at Sir Emile’s invitation. Sir Emile is going there for the cure and is giving a small, but significant, dinner party on May 4th.”
Well, that stood everything on its head.
“So where is Sir Emile at this moment?” I asked.
Wentworth-Forbes and Northcott looked at each other. Each saw a man blue with cold, hunched in his overcoat, and trying to avoid answering this particular question.
“I can tell you,” I went on. “I believe you’ve lost him. He’s given you the slip. He did not go to Biarritz, despite having set off for the place with a ticket. Why should he behave like that?”
“I’m afraid we just don’t know,” said Northcott. “It’s odd, I grant you, bu
t he has been known for his eccentricity in the past.”
I didn’t know if this was the time to tell them about Hammond, Number One-Six-Six, and other unsavoury links in the chain. Perhaps not. Maybe there was an explanation, but I had certainly come away from London with the clear impression that Brodsky was behind the whole plot. Max still thought that Brodsky had been replaced by an impostor — but that, I felt, was just too fanciful. The actors who had been engaged to play him would have had no chance to study the man at close quarters, to get into the role. And for Heavens’ sake, why were there two actors?
“I want you to stay in touch with Colonel Northcott. There will be a full briefing nearer the date which the Colonel will arrange. If there is any assistance you need, please make contact. In the meantime you will receive a formal invitation to the party on May 4th, but let’s hope by then we all have a clearer idea of what to expect.”
I turned to Northcott: “I presume I can ask Violet for information on what I should wear? Is it a ball or just a supper? Tiaras or not?”
“I am sure she can find those answers for you — certainly better than I can, at any rate.” He allowed himself a little smile, sharing it with Wentworth-Forbes, before going on: “Most of the agents I run don’t have tiaras, unless they’ve just purloined one and it’s under their arm in a sack as they shimmy down a drainpipe.” James Northcott was eventually showing a grain of humour. I could warm to that.
***
My darling Husband,
In reply to yrs. of yesterday. Of course I understand that you must spend more time with Count Paar. Keeping up what social connections we have is extremely important, and I know he was kind enough to lend you that money last year when you were in a fix. But don’t expect the same this year, the Paars are quite canny with their wealth. By the way, Max says on no account to buy Trans-Siberian Railway shares if anyone tries to tempt you. Sell them if you have any.
The great British Empire in its wisdom has now finally decided to believe what I had found out in Marienbad and the possible danger to His Majesty. They could have saved themselves several weeks if they had acted earlier on what Max and I had to tell them in London — but there, the wheels of government grind slowly.
I have been asked to perform a special service for His Majesty. I am not at liberty to disclose the date or other details. However, it will require a new dress and trust you will not mind if I go ahead and order. Don’t worry, it will be from Prague. Fortunately I cannot afford the time to get to Paris and to Worth’s!
I feel I haven’t seen you in such ages. Now I am even beginning to miss you a bit,
Your loving,
Trixie.
And in reply to that:
My dearest Trixie,
I am overjoyed that the British Empire finally appreciates you. However, I have to say that I have heard of the ‘special services’ that that old rascal Edward demands of his female acquaintances from time to time, especially in Marienbad. I hope what you intend to render him does not fall into this category. However, the place is full of divorcées and adventuresses of all kinds so I doubt whether he will lack for excitement.
Of course you must have a new dress, but only if you wear it. I would feel foolish lavishing money on it if (a) it were to used to cuckold me (b) and in so doing it was not to be worn at all! Just get the dressmaker, milliner etc etc to send the accounts as normal.
I am thinking of you while shooting in these woods and trust to see you soon,
Ever your loving husband with sincerest felicitations,
Karel.
P.S. I think I shall go on to the Hatzfeldts’ at Sommerberg. Charlie Kinsky will come with me. We’ve been invited to stay a night or two at a snug little shooting box of theirs a kilometre from the castle — good view of the Rhine, I’m told — bachelor party — every comfort. Couldn’t resist. K.
***
Now that I was being taken a little more seriously as a solver of mysteries — although in this case I felt I had only managed to ever deepen what had started out as a simple matter — I decided to set out the complete theory of just what I thought the rogues’ scheme to be.
In my office — once more rearranged to my liking (if not to Karel’s) — I cut up a pile of unsent “The Count and Countess von Falklenburg are pleased to announce that they have moved house” cards (printers always assume one has far more friends than one does) into new shapes roughly the size of playing cards. On the blank backs of these I transcribed all the slips of paper. Armed with this deck of pertinent information I then set about trying to put together an intelligent sequence of people, places, and events.
It wasn’t a card game that I would have recommended to anyone. It wasn’t as self-contained as Patience, although that is precisely the quality it required. In the end there were plenty of loose ends — including the white-haired terrier. However, I concluded that the scheme, which must be some kind of elaborate swindle, involved a Kaiser. It involved a ballroom of Austrian guests — unless they were to be used to create some kind of diversion, which was entirely possible. I decided that there must be only one fake Emile Brodsky in play, perhaps I had misread the situation at the Gare du Nord: I mean, why on Earth two? In any event, Brodsky’s cards included “Dog Collars” and “Dogs Missing in St. John’s Wood.”
As for the possibility of a fake King Edward, I concluded that this was part of an alternative plan which had been abandoned for the sensible reason that their first choice of actor had died and their second was not interested. There was obviously to be some amazing sleight of hand which could have been performed either by a King or a Kaiser. In fact if it weren’t for the three corpses and the unsavoury characters involved, I might have reckoned it all to be some form of harmless prank, a hoax, the climax of which would be some astonishing feat of prestidigitation. But sadly it was clear that that’s what it was not. This was a project for a reward for which it was worth committing murder.
As for old Alois, the theatre and the Tontine, at first this had just seemed a coincidental occurrence. The late Gerard Duvalier had wanted his theatre lease and had done what was needed to keep it alive. I presumed that Uncle Berty was more than an investor: his enthusiasm for the theatre had been fuelled by the smooth posteriors of young actors, which predilection had later — after Duvalier’s death — been turned into the seeds of blackmail. But there was a link to the main fraud, I felt sure: it must be this — how was all this pantomime being financed?
If Brodsky was not involved, then all the others were a fairly threadbare lot — Jenks, Duvalier, the Pilipenkos. They needed the theatre for its offices, for the training of the guests. And for additional cash — to pay the principal actors of their charade, to buy spent champagne bottles, to rent the empty tobacco factory, to order plates of chops in Paris — yes, for this cash requirement they had the chance of a few of their blackmail victims in Prague paying up. It must have been some row between the Pilipenkos over the conduct of this milking of their hapless victims that resulted in Olga Pilipenko’s terrible murder. One thing was certain — there was no big international finance behind this; an ingenious fraud was being enacted on the cheap.
I felt that this theory should be officially communicated to Colonel Northcott. In this Business Room of my husband’s there was an object that I had seen adorn many business premises, and I was pleased to see that he had acquired one. It sat under a cover on a table all its own at the end of the room I had not yet disturbed. I removed the cover with a flourish: a shiny black Consul typewriter.
It took several hours, but I was quite determined. For a machine which was supposed to facilitate writing, it was surprising it had so many ways to hamper the eager author. It appeared to wage a war against my imprinting anything in an orderly fashion, but it had not reckoned on the warrior-spirited woman pitted against it. From the de Clyffordes who had come to Britain with William the Conqueror in 1066 (or at l
east that was what was inscribed on the Battle Abbey Roll after a discreet bribe to the monk in charge of the document early in the sixteenth century) and the von Morštejns of Bohemia whose ancestors a thousand years ago had accompanied the wandering Slavic Chieftan Čech — King would be too fine a word for him — up to the top of Říp mountain (and who on looking down at the inviting broad landscape spread out below had uttered the immortal words ‘This will do’ and had stayed), no daughter of these antecedents would be defeated by a mere lifeless automaton.
The next morning I asked Müller to send the footman round to the British Consulate with the completed document. All I had to do now was to make sure that anything else I found out would have to conform to my theory. This is the way, surely, that theories survive and have respectable lives of their own? What would happen to any contrary discoveries, I had not as yet decided.
***
The formal invitation arrived, surprisingly from — or at least in the name of — Sir Emile Brodsky. It was his party, after all. The address for replies was, however, that of the British Consulate. I attended the detailed briefing with Northcott — learnt all kinds of indescribably dull facts, to which I knew I should be paying more attention: that His Majesty would be travelling with only two equerries — Oliver Montague and Sir Francis Knollys — and his private secretary, Sir Frederick Ponsonby; that the King’s normal Mercedes motor would not be driven over for this visit for the King did not want his nephew the Kaiser to see his reliance on German mechanical skill; that Mrs. Keppel, his official mistress, would not be in attendance (although his young Czech milliner, “our little Mizzi,” a resident of Marienbad, would not be ignored); the royal terrier would not be accompanying His Majesty on this particular visit; the famous Ema Destinnova would be singing; as usual, the Royal party would be lodged at the Hotel Weimar. Monsieur Ménager, the royal chef, would not be coming and reliance would be made on the hotel restaurant. Staff at the hotel were being called in early to prepare, as the Marienbad season only starts on May 1st — cutting it rather fine for putting on an impressive show.
The Countess of Prague Page 19