“A born cryptographer!” Sir David praised.
“But I chose the simplest of the hieroglyphs to interpret,” Johnny said candidly.
“An important first step nonetheless.”
“Do you function as a tutor in hieroglyphic script?”
“I cannot spare the time, but there is an informal class that meets here at eleven each morning, if you are interested.”
“I most certainly am, sir,” Johnny said eagerly, and turned to Joanna who nodded her approval.
“But will this not interfere with your formal education?” Sir David queried.
Johnny hesitated before answering. “Well, sir, I am currently enrolled at Eton—”
“Excellent!” Sir David broke in. “There is a Museum of Antiquities at Eton that has a superb Egyptian section, the director of which is a personal friend. I shall arrange for you to continue your study of hieroglyphics under his tutelage.” After jotting down a note to himself, he looked to Joanna and said, “Now let us turn to the puzzle you wish to bring to my attention.”
Johnny quickly raised his hand. “Sir, may I be permitted one last question?”
“Of course,” Sir David replied patiently.
“Could there be a hidden code within the hieroglyphs that we have yet to decipher?”
“It is a possibility.”
“But what do you believe?”
“I am very careful in my beliefs, for in my world things are often not what they appear to be.”
“So too is it in the world of crime, which brings us to the purpose of our visit,” said Joanna. “Watson mentioned that you were fluent in many languages, including German.”
“Seven to be exact. English, French, German, Spanish, Arabic, Dari, and Pashto.”
“It is German I am most interested in,” Joanna went on. “Because of the sensitivity of the case, I can give you only limited background information.”
Sir David tilted back in his chair, but his eyes never left Joanna. “The words German and sensitivity are usually not found in adjoining sentences at this moment in history—unless of course one is speaking of espionage or war plans.”
Joanna ignored the conclusion and continued on. “An Englishman was abducted by people unknown. Someone overheard the word rot being shouted from the second floor of the house in which the Englishman was being held captive. What do you make of it?”
“What do you?”
“Rot is the German word for red.”
“Yes.”
“But is there more to it?”
“Perhaps,” Sir David said. “But I require more information. To begin with, was the word cried out rot or rotes?”
“Rot as far as we know.”
“Good. For rotes is the adjective form of rot, so in all likelihood we are dealing with the noun—rot or red. This would tend to exclude the possibility that the crier was referring to an object, such as rotes Hausen or red house.”
Johnny raised his hand. “Could it not be a red bandage covering a cut, Mother?”
I could not help but be astonished at the lad’s quick mind. He was connecting a red bandage to the deep gash in the German agent’s hand. He was unaware that the shout of rot had occurred prior to the struggle in Verner’s office.
“I am afraid that would still involve the use of the adjective rotes,” Sir David said. “A red bandage would be ein rotes Verband.”
“More importantly, the Germans would never use that term for a bloody bandage,” Joanna informed. “They would say blutig Verband.”
Sir David nodded. “I see you too are well versed in German.”
“I have some grasp of the language,” Joanna told him. “I accompanied my late husband, John Blalock, on a sabbatical to Berlin where he learned new techniques for tendon and ligament repair. For six months I worked beside him as a surgical nurse.”
“Where you no doubt saw more than your share of blutig Verbanden,” Sir David said.
“I did indeed.”
“This must have occurred when relations between the two countries were far more cordial.”
“A lifetime ago,” Joanna said with a hint of melancholy, then flicked her wrist to dismiss the subject. “But let us redirect our attention back to the word rot, which we believe was not used to denote an object. So it must be a person.”
“Most likely,” Sir David agreed. “But what kind of person? A red can refer to a communist or socialist, which of course is the antithesis of the German mind-set. Or could red be part of an address where a given man lives?”
“There is a Red Lion Street in Holborn,” my father recalled. “And a Red Lion Square.”
“I would still favor it being the name of a person,” Sir David said. “But to my knowledge, there is no German name such as Red.”
“A nickname, perhaps,” I suggested.
“Very unlikely in German,” Sir David answered at once. “First, in contrast to England, nicknames are seldom used in public for adults. They are primarily employed as terms of endearments. Secondly, five to ten percent of the German population, depending on the region, is redheaded, so the name Red would not be very distinguishing.”
“Are you excluding Rot as a name?” Joanna asked.
“I am excluding it as a nickname,” Sir David corrected. “You must allow me to put all of your clues together in a neat little package. You initially told me we are dealing with an individual shouting out the word rot, which indicates that person possesses a German vocabulary. You also informed me that this matter is very sensitive and cannot be spoken of in detail, and that indicates this German should not be in England. And since we are at war with Germany, I think it fair to conclude this German is here secretly and is up to no good. It all smells of espionage, and I therefore believe rot in fact refers to Rot, the code name of an agent.”
“You have been very helpful,” Joanna said as she pushed her chair back. “I trust you will not speak further of this matter.”
“Most assuredly.” Sir David rose and said a final word to Johnny. “We shall see you tomorrow morning.”
“Indeed you shall, sir.”
Hurrying down the corridor, we remained silent, for there were others strolling about. We passed a group of chattering children in their school uniforms on the stairs, then went by a throng of tourists clustered around the Rosetta Stone. Only once we were outside did we speak of our meeting with Sir David.
“It would appear we have a nest of Huns amongst us,” my father grumbled. “Heaven knows how many.”
“Four at a minimum,” Joanna estimated, then counted them off on her fingers. “Number one has a facial tic. Number two is the agent who closed the window in the adjoining room, and number three is the just-mentioned Rot.”
“Who is number four?” I asked.
“The driver of the carriage who delivered Verner to the house,” Joanna replied. “They would not dare assign that role to an outsider.”
“Your knowledge of German has served you well yet again,” my father remarked. “Nevertheless, even with your fluency in the language, we required Sir David’s assistance to come up with the notion that Rot was in fact the name of one of their agents. But then again, he was knighted for seeing things others did not.”
“But Mother helped him along,” Johnny asserted.
Joanna turned to her son and gave him a warm smile. “You may now read the slip of paper I gave you.”
As Johnny unfolded the slip, my father and I glanced over his shoulder at Joanna’s writing. It read:
CODE NAME FOR GERMAN SPY
Johnny nodded slowly to himself. “One has to be aware of the nuances of the language.”
“Quite so,” Joanna agreed. “But it is always wise to seek a second opinion from a renowned expert, eh, Watson?”
“It is the smart move and an important one, for now we can place a name on a member of the spy ring,” my father replied. “Perhaps Scotland Yard or Naval Intelligence can put a face to the name.”
“If so, they may
have the names and descriptions of Rot’s usual associates,” I added.
“You both are making a number of assumptions that for the most part are highly unlikely,” Joanna said. “What are the chances our agencies would have photographs of Rot or know of his associates?” She paused a moment before answering her question. “Very small indeed.”
“But surely there is no harm in asking,” I ventured.
“Oh, but there is,” Joanna cautioned. “Keep in mind we have a traitor amongst us, and one loose tongue will alert Rot we are aware of his presence, which would send him into deeper cover or cause him to flee England altogether. And that, dear John, is what we must avoid, for it will remove any advantage we now have.”
“But how then are we to delve into the identity of Rot and his associates?” my father asked.
“There are a number of avenues, including a phone call to Sir Harold Whitlock, the First Sea Lord, who knows us well,” Joanna responded. “He could surely make a quiet inquiry into the matter.”
“Lestrade and Dunn will be most unhappy with your decision.”
“I am not concerned with their happiness, but only with the rescue of Alistair Ainsworth,” said Joanna, as she gestured to a nearby carriage. “And if we ruffle some feathers along the way, so be it.”
11
Covent Garden
Joanna awoke the next morning with a dreadful cold, yet still managed to see Johnny off for his hieroglyphics class at the museum. Coughing and hoarse, she had no choice but to remain home in bed. But she stressed the importance of investigating Hoover the poulterer, and bade us to take her place at the Covent Garden market.
“You must be very careful,” Joanna implored, with a raspy voice. “Do not speak condescendingly to Hoover, but rather engage him, like someone interested in sharing information about geese. He will know vastly more than you, but you will have enough knowledge to indicate you are not novices on the topic and only wish to learn more from an experienced hand. He will then speak freely and take delight in conversing with gentlemen of your obvious standing.”
“But neither of us has the knowledge you speak of,” my father said.
“You will shortly,” Joanna said, and paused to loudly sniff and swallow. “Follow my instructions and this will play out the way we wish it to. First, do not make idle conversation when you approach the poulterer’s stall. Go directly to a goose and examine the bird with your hands. Smell it and comment on the aroma in one fashion or the other. An unpleasant odor tells you of poor quality, you see. Pick the bird up and determine if the skin is smooth and free of bruises or blemishes, for these are always absent in the best of geese. When you finally decide on which to purchase, make certain it is plump and well formed, since this will cook best. Make a point to ask if the goose you select is country or city bred.”
“Does this matter a great deal?” I interrupted.
“It does to those who know their way around geese,” Joanna replied. “Those raised in the country feed only on grass, which gives their meat a richer, tastier flavor. In addition, the country bred are reputed to be quite tender, and for all these reasons are far more desirable.”
“What about size?” my father asked. “Should we select a larger bird?”
“You must be careful here,” Joanna cautioned. “Have the poulterer weigh the bird, for you must stay below ten pounds. Those that are larger often yield the tougher meat.”
My father and I had to smile at one another, both of us dazzled by Joanna’s command of such a peculiar subject. We were aware she could talk exceedingly well on a broad variety of topics, but usually chose not to show her brilliance unless it could be readily applied to a criminal investigation. Yet how she became so informed about geese was a wonderment. In our year of marriage I’d never seen her once go near Miss Hudson’s kitchen or inquire about recipes or makings of a dish.
“How did you come by all this information on geese?” I asked. “And please do not tell us you simply read about it.”
“I had no such books to consult,” Joanna said.
“Then how?”
“By asking Miss Hudson the name of her poulterer and spending an hour with him yesterday afternoon. He was most helpful.” Joanna arose from her chair by the fireplace as she suppressed a weak cough. “Now you should be on your way, for we are only an hour from noon at which time Lady Jane’s cook will arrive at Hoover’s stall. You must remain unnoticed, but close enough to observe the interchange between the cook and the poulterer. Only approach Hoover’s stall when it is clear of customers.”
“It is difficult to believe a simple poulterer is involved,” my father said. “What purpose could he possibly serve?”
“Keep in mind the Germans never forget the Fatherland,” Joanna replied. “It runs in their blood.”
“I am still not following you.”
“He could be a go-between,” Joanna explained. “The traitor and his German masters will stay as far apart as possible to avoid raising suspicion. Nevertheless, they must have a method to communicate and exchange messages. If Lady Jane is the guilty party, what better liaison than an inconspicuous poulterer who is available every day and on a moment’s notice.”
“The messages might even be concealed within a plump goose,” I ventured.
“Which could be purchased on site and delivered to a given address,” my father added.
“Precisely,” Joanna said. “That is why I inquired whether there was evidence of food being delivered to the empty house the Germans once occupied. If wrappings containing goose feathers had been found, it would have represented a most compelling clue. But unfortunately, that was not the case.” She coughed weakly again and cursed at her illness. “In any event you must shortly be on your way. I suggest you take a very slow stroll over to Covent Garden, which is just over a mile south. By my estimation you should arrive shortly before noon. Remember to stand well back from the stall and watch the cook’s hands as well as those of the poulterer. Stroll over to the stall only after the purchase is made and the cook departed.”
“Should we mention Alistair Ainsworth to the poulterer?” I asked.
“Yes, but only casually and in the course of your conversation,” Joanna replied. “For example, if Hoover were to inquire how you came upon his stall, say that you were referred by Alistair Ainsworth and watch for the poulterer’s reaction. See if his face loses color or his mannerisms become abrupt. But appear not to notice.”
“Your keen eye would be most helpful here,” my father said.
“But alas, my keen eye will have to remain in bed with my miserable cold,” Joanna said, and headed for her bedroom. “Now be on your way.”
We took my wife’s advice and set out on a slow stroll to Covent Garden, timing our walk so we would arrive at the appropriate time. All the while we wondered if Lady Jane Hamilton, her cook, and the poulterer could all be intertwined in a most traitorous affair. It seemed so unlikely that Lady Jane, a woman of such high standing, would be involved in this sordid matter, and even less likely that a simple poulterer would be by her side. But, as my father reminded, we should never underestimate Joanna’s keen instincts. She often saw what others failed to see.
As we approached Covent Garden, one could not help but be impressed by the size of the marketplace and the huge crowds mingling through it. Carts and wagons and lorries rumbled into three acres of profusion, bringing with them the produce of nearby farms that were in such abundance they dazzled the eye. It was a world of vegetables and fruits in all their splendor, which included oranges, tangerines, festoons of grapes, Canadian apples, and grapefruit from Cuba. And to this assemblage, add the colors of masses of glorious flowers. Making our way through the crowd we came upon a line of stalls, some large, others small and barely a yard wide. One of the more prominent ones had a sign that read Hoover & Son, Poulterers.
At the stall’s counter was the heaviest woman I had ever encountered. At five feet in height, she weighed in excess of two hundred pounds, with r
olls of fat stretching her garments to the breaking point. But she seemed nimble enough as she began her examination of a snow-white goose. Lifting the bird’s wings, she gave the underneath skin a most careful study. Satisfied, she next went to the goose’s head and neck. All the while the poulterer remained well back from the counter, his hands clasped together upon his apron.
“I believe she is unaccompanied,” I said from the side of my mouth.
“Which is to be expected,” my father said. “If Lady Jane is implicated, she would wish to keep her distance from the poulterer.”
I gestured with my head toward the stall. “Ah! She has made her purchase. See how well the goose is being wrapped.”
“I noticed nothing untoward with the poulterer’s or cook’s hands,” my father remarked.
“Nor did I.”
We concentrated further on the happenings at the poulterer’s stall, but our line of vision was abruptly interrupted by a rather tall flower girl, with long blond hair that was covered with a tattered bonnet. She was more woman than girl, with a sad face and a smudge of dirt on her chin. Her sadness seemed to be exaggerated by her spectacles, which had a cracked lens. The white blouse and floral skirt she wore were so threadbare that light could go through them.
“Please, guv’nor, please buy me flowers,” she begged, holding up a packed basket. Her Cockney accent was so deep it was difficult to understand. “Two bundles a penny, primroses!”
“Be on your way,” my father ordered, making a sweeping motion with his hand. “We have important business here.”
The flower girl stood her ground, undeterred. “Sweet violets, penny for the whole bunch!”
“Later perhaps,” my father offered. “You must move on at once!”
The flower girl hung her head in defeat and, approaching the next prospective customer, called out, “Buy me violets, oh do, please!”
We returned our gaze to the poulterer’s stall and watched the massively overweight cook waddle away, with the wrapped goose under her arm. She apparently was well-known in the market, for she waved to more than a few and stopped to chat with a man of middle years, who was likewise considerably overweight.
The Disappearance of Alistair Ainsworth Page 12