by Stephen Wade
Cara was at the far end of the room, which was cluttered with a dozen elaborate chairs and tables of ornate Rococo guilded magnificence. There were a few chaises-longue among the chairs, and a scattering of small card-tables, adorned with ormolu and mother-of-pearl. Everything was of the latest fashion, down to the huge potted plant by a solid white pillar in the middle of the right side of the room.
She arrived at the piano and Grossmith stood in order to bow, and, in return, Cara gave a curtsey. Her beautiful face and long black hair had captivated all the men, but none so much as the Baron. He had not yet had an opportunity of speaking to her, but as he strolled from talker to talker, his glance returned to Cara, as he found her irresistible. Now he moved to the front row and sat in adoration.
Cara went into Mabel’s song and at each rendering of the refrain, ‘Poor wandering one’ the Baron sighed. When she reached the last line and sang, ‘Take any heart – take mine!’ he positively felt that he was twenty years old again, and not the overweight fifty-year-old he had grown into. As soon as the applause died down he was up on his feet.
Cara was surrounded by admirers, but the Baron was first to take her glove hand and kiss it. ‘My little beauty, how I adore you! Ladies and gentlemen, ein glas den damen … let us drink to the ladies, the eternal feminine, as the great poet Goethe memorably wrote.’
Cara was speechless and blushed. The small talk carried on, and other admirers drifted away, leaving the Baron alone with her. He was a square man, sturdy and firm. Once red-haired and dashing, he was now balding and tried to compensate by growing a prominent moustache and beard. None of this, however, reduced his attraction to the fairer sex. ‘My dear girl, you have entranced me. I would like you to call me Dieter. Can you do that?’
Cara smiled and nodded. As the evening wore on she found a moment to speak quietly to Maria. Seated on a leather sofa beneath a minstrels’ gallery in the small sitting room, Maria said, ‘My dear, Leo and I are watching the Baron. He is suspected of being possibly a little too friendly with certain Russian émigrés. You know how the city is talking about them?’
‘Of course, stories have been in the papers. They are very much a threat to peaceful life, I gather.’
‘Indeed. Now, how does the idea of being a tart for your country appeal?’
They laughed so much that Leo came into the room, tutting. ‘Dear me, some of my guests are being antisocial!’ It took only a wink and a flash of the eyes from Maria for him to realise that something private was being discussed and he left. Leo had a faithful following: his romances attracted the interest of the fairer sex, Lord George always said, in such a way that they would faint at the very mention of Aubrey Antoine. This was amply demonstrated now as he strode back into his broadest room, where guests had assembled to hear Grossmith play again, and offered to read an extract from his forthcoming novel, Dangerous Embrace in the Levant. ‘With your permission, Mr Grossmith, I would like to read this before your next song.’ The pianist gave a little bow and begged him to continue. The assembled party was enthralled as Leo’s hero, Sir John Daring, survived a night attack by three would-be assassins. It was the perfect distraction for the Baron, who was as enraptured as anyone there.
In the quiet of the sitting room, hidden beneath the ridiculously overdone minstrels’ gallery, Maria and Cara were whispering.
‘Cara, by all means flirt with him,’ Maria said. ‘I know it is a challenge, but …’
‘Oh he’s repulsive,’ Cara retorted. ‘What if he – you know, goes beyond the bounds of good manners?’
‘He most certainly will. He is a dandy with a penchant for gambling and for pretty women … but how deeply his political interests go we are not sure. We know that he has Russian friends in Vienna, and that he inherited a fortune from his banker family. Could you perhaps … lead him on? You could torment him by saying you are married – that will really stir him up!’
When, later on, they explained the situation to Leo, he was most put out. He lamented that he was always on the margins and never actually sleuthing. Maria’s response was to run her fingers through his hair, give his forehead a little kiss and say, ‘My dear, Aubrey Leo Antoine is the brains of our little detective club … in the central office, like the Scotland Yard Commissioner!’
As the ladies left him, he gave a little self-satisfied smile and murmured, ‘I say, here comes the next plot … Dangerous Department.’
Maitland dropped in to see Chief Constable Williamson at the Yard.
‘Well, Dolly, I now feel rather more informed about Russian intellectuals. The one who has been troubling Mr Parfitt appears to be subject to being bought off. He’s been trying blackmail, and I gave him some funds. Parfitt says he’s had to have some secret meetings with this Russian. Something shady going on there, and I fear for David. But it will be the last. Next time I’ll be asking you to … remove him.’
‘Sir David Parfitt himself, if I have to remind you,’ said Williamson, ‘is not exactly the man we read about in the papers, what with his unorthodox opinions on the vote, and on foreign policy … and he is just one of many who wear smart coats and revel in their Oxford clubs. Who may we trust, Maitland?’ The Chief Constable stared out of the window. ‘You know, this world has a sickness. I’m not sure it can be cured … not by a police force at least. The malady runs deep and has infected the bloodstream … like a black poison, it will destroy every good thing. It will not be limited to the wilds of Russia, oh no. But perhaps I’m too old for this. I’ll soon be gone from here, boring people with talk about my garden. Things are so mixed-up now. Why, a detective has to know so much, be so well-informed. The day will come when he will need a secretary following him, keeping records of all conversations. I’m tired of it all, Maitland. But I’ll soon be out of your hair, and you people in the Cabinet can stop worrying about me making some awful mistake.’
‘Nonsense Dolly, you’re the best bloodhound we have! Now, this Baron – he has met with Pelriak. They have been seen together, but only once. There may be nothing in it. The Baron knows virtually everyone with any money in London. Their organisation is, in translation, “The Brothers of Rebirth”. They want the old Russia back, and they want allies abroad. The day might come when they recruit mercenaries to go and fight the Tsar’s army.’
Williamson moved across to his desk and took out a bag of sweets from a drawer, offering one to Maitland. ‘I don’t trust anybody. Never have. Keep following the Baron. First, he’s a foreigner, and second, he speaks Russian, we know that. Those two facts make him suspicious. A peeler trusts nobody. Even my good wife is being watched – to make sure she changes the bed. I love clean sheets don’t you old man?’ He chuckled and Maitland joined in.
‘Dolly, how many potentially dangerous Russians are in London, do you know?’
‘We have these statistics coves and they pretend to know. They tell me two thousand. But that’s nonsense. I always double any figure they give me. I can tell you that there are a hundred men and women who have been involved with the Paris disturbances, but they’ve gone to ground like damned hares. Ever hunted a hare, Maitland?’
‘Can’t say I have … none around Kensington, Dolly.’
‘Well, you can walk up to a hare, get close, almost to the point where you think you can grab her … and then whoosh! Off she goes!’
‘Hmm … so this foreign lot are like that?’
‘Exactly! Now, I’m on my way to the slippers and fireside in three weeks, and they’ll be giving me a trophy or a damned golden truncheon or something like that at the Grand Hotel, so the line of gossip tells me. Consequently, Maitland, I want no bomb beneath Mr Parfitt or any other prominent boy-o, right?’
‘Your Mr Carney and your Special Branch are doing very well, I’m sure. My own staff are always vigilant too, you can count on that.’
‘Thank you Maitland. Now you may leave me to my boiled sweets. As to the Baron, watch him like a hawk.’
When his visitor had left, Williamson sat at h
is desk, put his feet up on a chair and ruminated on what he had been saying about trust to Maitland. It struck him that, as he had said to himself many times before, it was more difficult to trust the men in smart suits than the stinking rough-ends of humanity that he had dealt with over the years. He pitied the poor devil who would be stepping into his shoes.
Baron Dieter von Merhof had played the rake for too long, and he knew it. He had had an epiphany, and, even in his cups, he knew it was genuine. He knew, deep in his bones, that his playing days were over, that he had been truly enchanted by the young woman, Cara Cabrelli. Even on waking up the next day with a sore head, he still smiled to himself when he thought of her. His manservant came in with eggs and toast, and the first thing the Baron said to him was, ‘Kasper … I am in love!’
‘Don’t be foolish Sir. You have said that before, many times.’
‘Yes, but this time I really am. I never believed in it but it has happened!’
‘How old is the girl in question Sir?’
‘Oh, twenties – early twenties.’
‘Then you are in lust Sir. I know I may speak freely. You have known me for a decade.’
‘Of course, tell me more.’
‘There is no more to say. You are deluding yourself. When you are sober, think again, Sir.’
When Cara appeared at her next concert, a week later, the Baron was there. As she sang, he was moved to tears, and as she left the hall with her agent, he was there to give her flowers. ‘My dear girl, that was wonderful … I want to ask if you would have dinner with me? Just the two of us?’ She accepted.
The gifts started to arrive the next day. First there were flowers then a necklace of diamonds and a tiara. Cara reported everything to Maria and the Septimus Society monitored progress. The opinion was that if this man was involved with the Nihilists, how could he find the time to woo a woman in such a way that his days were full of romance? He appeared to have no contact with any of the leaders of the Russians in the city. Detective Inspector Eddie Carney had him followed, and his days appeared to be no more than those typically allotted to bored sons of the rich. He gambled and he drank; he dined and he sat around in clubs, but he also visited shops and bought gifts – for one woman in particular.
Their first dinner went well, until Cara told the Baron about her husband. They sat at a corner table and she was treated like a Baroness; he had all the good manners of an aristocrat, with an ability to say exactly the right words every time he answered, advised or questioned her on her life.
‘I am most interested in the theatre. How did you become an actress?’ he asked.
‘In England, acting was never a profession for a respectable woman, Herr Baron, but times are changing.’
‘You went to a school, to a college?’
Cara laughed. ‘No, my dear. Thespians here simply join a company and learn as they put in the time … I have a good voice, so I soon had interesting parts, but I have also swept the dust and cleaned the doors.’
‘You shall never do that again my dear!’ boomed the Baron, and he was serious. Cara felt that he was genuinely revolted by her having to do such chores and judged it to be the perfect time to drop the bad news. ‘No, well, now I have a husband, I have no need to work. He is quite rich.’
The Baron stopped chewing and his chin dropped. His expression was one of sheer dismay. ‘My dear … this is not true! You are but a maiden, twenty-three perhaps? A girl!’
‘I have a husband. He’s a lawyer. I’m so sorry, Dieter, I thought we were …’
‘Friends. You thought we were friends. Ich habe eine liebesgeschichte in meinem herz …’
‘What? What are you saying Dieter?’
‘I said I have a love story in my heart. And now …’ He stood up, apologised, dropped several notes on the table, and left.
Over the following week, wherever Cara went, the Baron was there. When she appeared in a new musical play by her friend Luigi Nolliti, The Shepherdess Queen, he was there. The same flowers always appeared at the stage door: a bunch of lilies, accompanied by a letter of love. She was aware that, as she walked to her home in Russell Square, he was a hundred yards back, ducking away out of view when she turned.
Cara began to fret that he would soon come to realise that there was no husband. The problem was discussed by the Septimus Club, and it was decided that George was the best candidate, as he looked as a lawyer might look, and he was young enough. He and Cara went for dinner, arm-in-arm, and although neither saw the Baron, Cara felt a tingle on the back of her neck, as though they were being watched as they walked home.
At the end of the second week, Cara was at home with her maid, dressing for the last appearance in The Shepherdess Queen. She was busy in her boudoir and Agnes, the maid, went in and out of the sitting room, fetching and carrying a number of little things that were needed. Finally, when all preparations were virtually complete, Agnes was sent for some gloves on the side-table in the sitting room.
As the maid entered the room there was a rustling sound from across the room, somewhere behind the wide sofa. She listened intently. There it was again. Her first thought was that it was a rat or some other vermin. But then, emboldened, she spoke to the room in general: ‘Whoever you are, come out from there!’
In reply, Agnes heard the words, ‘Jedem das Seine … jedem das Seine …’ and then a crack. Peering over the sofa her eyes met those of the dying Baron. His last words were, ‘Jedem das Seine … each to his own, until Cara.’
When told the address of the shooting Eddie feared the worst, and all the way to Russell Square he expected Cara to be found dead. However, on his arrival he found the young actress weeping in her room, Agnes trying to comfort her.
Taking charge, he examined the Baron’s body and searched his pockets. He found a pen, a packet of cigars, a ticket from some theatre, and a note scribbled on a piece of paper, which read:
DM thinks that he acted in a nasty and openly hostile manner last week at l’s party, and he very painfully longs for forgiveness from all those who are your friends at the Grand Hotel. If DP is at the Grand on Monday 21, at 7, all will be resolved.
Eddie studied it but he could not immediately drag any sense out of it. The police work preliminaries were done, and death was confirmed as caused by a bullet to the brain. ‘The maid heard the shot, and there was nobody else here. The bullet went up through the chin and into the brain. All very clear cut,’ said the surgeon, leaving the cleaning up to the constables.
That evening, Eddie showed the mysterious note to Lord George and Harry Lacey at the Septimus Club.
George glanced at it and declared, ‘He was mad with passion … it’s nonsense!’ Eddie challenged George to a game of billiards, and they left the professor alone in the library with the note.
Harry, on the contrary, gave the text the attention he would have given a manuscript scrap of Elizabethan verse. His frown was deep and his concentration hard before he exclaimed, ‘Of course! How stupid of me to take so long over it!’ He ran to the billiard room, the note in his hand.
‘Edward Carney, call yourself a Detective Inspector! Look, it refers to a meeting at the Grand Hotel.’
Eddie was chalking his cue. ‘Well I got that, old man. But what of it?’
‘Wait … there’s a word formed with the first five initial letters. It’s one of those announcements you have in the Daily Graphic or even The Times – you know, when families have fallen out and so on, they have these cryptic notes published. This will have been in print along with a hundred other such notes.’
‘And?’ Eddie asked, bored.
‘Well, the word spelled out is odd … it’s “Dolly”.’
Eddie Carney had never moved so fast in his life. Chief Constable Williamson, he knew only too well, was to be given his retirement dinner and farewell presentation at the Grand Hotel on the Strand on Monday evening.
An emergency meeting was called for all those involved in monitoring the Nihilists – including members o
f the Septimus Society – and the note was circulated and discussed. Fred Maitland saw the importance of ‘DP’ immediately and snapped our orders for Dmitri Pelriak to be found and brought in.
‘Then who is “DM”?’ asked Maria, who had just arrived from a soirée.
‘Dieter von Merhof, I would suggest … the man who fell in love with our Cara,’ Harry answered. ‘He was a key member of The Brothers of Rebirth, we know that now.’
Lord George took advantage of a momentary silence. ‘I say, what if it’s not Pelriak? What if we arrest him and then some other DP turns up on Monday with a gun and points it at Dolly?’
‘Rest assured that I’ll have my men all over the Grand on Monday,’ Eddie said.
The police and the Home Office, with all the powers and men at their disposal, could not trace Dmitri Pelriak. When Monday came, Dolly Williamson called a meeting with Maitland and Eddie. Williamson was on edge and found it hard to sit down. It was now just a matter of hours before he walked out of the building for ever, and his long career as a police officer would come to a close.
The others sat and listened while the Chief Constable gave his summary of the situation. ‘Gentlemen, it now appears to be the fact, with new information, that the Baron was, shall we say, the trading depot between killers in the service of anarchist mayhem and those backroom sorts who never show their faces in public and who plot the most nefarious deeds, such as sending me to the next world. In addition, gentlemen, it seems that our rat has scuttled out of sight into his sewer. This Russian intellectual is nowhere to be found. In my experience, there is one reason for this: he is disguised. Yes, Mr Pelriak is most likely now walking around the East End with the appearance of a very hairy Jewish gentleman, or he could be a coster among a hundred costers screaming out the price of apples. You see my line of thought?’