Britain was not France. The Germans were our ancient allies. Albert the Prince Consort had been German; the new King and all his siblings were half-German; the army had a German battalion; we had German cultural exchanges, German-owned businesses. Were they all elements in some brilliant plan to infiltrate Great Britain, played out over centuries? The idea was preposterous.
Almost certainly Steinhauer had been at that meeting of Latvian radicals. But Latvia was a thorn in Russia’s side and, as such, of strategic interest to Germany. Steinhauer, surely, was just doing his job.
If only I knew what that job was, exactly.
As I pushed through the doors of Scotland Yard, all thoughts of Steinhauer vanished from my mind. There was something terribly wrong; I could sense it in the very air of the building. The constables on duty at the front desk were grim, conferring in hushed tones with Patrick Quinn, who turned to me with a face as pale as death.
“Sir,” said Quinn, “I was about to send for you.”
“What’s happened?” I said. But somehow I already knew.
* * *
—
Our two charabancs, crammed with uniformed men and every officer we’d been able to muster, swayed wildly as they took the corner into the narrow street in Whitechapel where two squat terraces of blackened brick faced each other across a dirt road in the shadow of a railway bridge. As our vehicles rocked to a halt a train thundered overhead, filling the air with sooty smoke, steam and noise. I jumped down, looked around and saw the stocky figure of Dubois, vomiting into the gutter outside a small shabby house—the house where Lovegrove and his team had been stationed, directly opposite Remington’s lodgings. As I approached, Dubois straightened up, wiping his mouth with a handkerchief.
“Where are they?” I said.
“Inside, sir. We found them at seven, at the change of shift.”
He led me through the front door along the short gloomy hallway to the back room. From the look of the place the usual inhabitants were poor but fastidious; their furniture, though meagre, was spotless, and the kitchen stove neatly blacked. This I took in at a glance, before my eye fell on the body lying crumpled in the farther doorway. It was Sergeant Harry Bishop, in his waistcoat and shirtsleeves; the tail of his shirt was stained red with blood that had spilled from a single stab-wound to his left kidney, but most of his blood was on the floor, in a large puddle under his prone body; after he had fallen, it seemed the killer had lifted his head by his fair hair—it was still standing up in a tuft—and cut his throat. Bishop had died clawing at the oilcloth flooring, fingers stained red with his own life’s blood.
“Any footprints?” I asked.
Dubois shook his head. I looked around; the killer had waited behind the dresser, I guessed, for Bishop to come downstairs, stepped out from behind him, stabbed him, then slit his throat and hurried out before blood stained his boot-soles. Out the way he had come, through the back alley.
“Lovegrove’s in the outhouse?” I said. Dubois nodded, wondering how I’d guessed. But it was how I would have done it, if I had wanted to murder two policemen keeping surveillance from a house. I would lie in wait until morning, when one of them would come out to use the toilet. I would kill the first man there, in the dark, as quietly as possible, and stash the body out of sight. And when his companion missed him and came looking…
Lovegrove had been garrotted with a wire. His purple tongue protruded through his purple lips, and his eyes bulged painfully from his face. He was leaning forwards slightly on the toilet seat, held in place by the wire that had been secured around the down-pipe from the cistern. The tension had pulled the garrotte so tight it had disappeared into the flesh of his neck. Oddly, in death, he looked more like me than ever. I felt a pang of savage pain for the loss of a man I’d known and liked and trusted, and I felt rage boil up in my belly. To hell with defending the Kaiser or the kingdom—Akushku had made this personal. Silently I vowed that very soon I’d have the villain alone in a cell under Scotland Yard, longing for his own pit of lime.
“What about the subject?” My voice was more gruff than I’d expected. Dubois looked blank. “Remington,” I said. “Is he dead too? Has anyone checked on him?”
Dubois ran a hand through his hair. “He’s gone, sir. Vanished.”
“I am with the Chief Superintendent.”
It was Steinhauer, at the back gate, addressing the constable on guard. The man turned to me for permission, and I nodded.
“Dear God,” said Steinhauer as he joined me at the outhouse. He slid his hat off his head. “I am sorry, William.”
“They had families,” I said. “Bishop had three young children.”
“The alley out there leads off in both directions,” offered Steinhauer. “And it is heavily used. I looked for footprints, but there are too many.”
“I can’t believe it,” said Dubois. “That Akushku sniffed them out and did this. They were two of our best.”
“And yet,” I said.
But I didn’t believe it either. Akushku, for all his fearsome skills, could not have sniffed them out.
Not without help.
* * *
—
“This is grave news, William.” Anderson had for once come to my office rather than summon me to his. Whether he wanted to be close to his troops at a time of crisis, or merely wanted to keep this disaster away from his desk, I did not care enough to guess.
“It is, sir. They were good men, and well liked.”
“My sympathies to you, and to their colleagues, of course.” He made a show of cleaning his spectacles while he moved on to the practicalities. “Have the next of kin been informed?”
“It’s in hand.”
“And what about the press?”
“They’ve been sniffing about. I want to let them know what happened.”
“That would merely spread panic. We should say nothing to the newspapers until Saturday.”
Of course: Sunday’s newspapers would be crammed with accounts of Saturday’s funeral and tributes to the Queen; a story on the murder of two detectives on duty would be scarcely noticed. Trust Anderson to think of that.
“On the contrary, sir,” I said, “we should raise a hue and cry. If the general public is asked to look out for vicious bank robbers who murdered two policemen in the line of duty, it will make it that much harder for Akushku to stay concealed. Let’s use the press to our advantage, invoke public outrage.”
I watched Anderson fish for reasons to overrule me, and find none.
“Very well,” he conceded irritably. “But not a word about our quarry’s true intentions.”
“Of course not, sir,” I said.
“Perhaps,” said Anderson, replacing his glasses and gazing at a point somewhere over my shoulder, “we ought to consider bringing in more reinforcements, from CID. Officers of greater seniority.” I nodded, as if considering the idea. He meant either to replace me or line up more scapegoats to suffer when this affair was over. I was not prepared to countenance either option.
“We already have their best men. And enough of them.”
“Nevertheless, this chap Akushku seems to be running rings around us.” Around you, he meant; that was clear enough.
“Every move he makes brings me closer to him, sir. And I have a new line of enquiry to pursue.” Don’t ask me what it is, and I won’t have to lie to you, I thought. But Anderson merely shook his head and sighed.
“I am not as a rule a gambling man, William.”
“I know that, sir. And I appreciate your support.” He stood.
“Keep me informed.”
“I will,” I lied.
15
“Gentlemen…earlier today we lost two good men. Good friends. Men with families, men who served their King and their country, men who—gave everything they had.” I took a deep breath, to comp
ose myself. “Their sacrifice—it won’t be in vain, I swear to God.”
The faces watching me were grim and solemn and silent; I’d rarely made such a speech. But not rarely enough. “Four days from now the state funeral will take place. There was a chance that Akushku and Bozidar had given up or fled. Now they’ve murdered two of our colleagues, we know that’s not the case. They mean to assassinate the Kaiser, and if they succeed, if there is any defilement of that ceremony, the consequences…they’re unthinkable. We must stop these men, and we will, by any means necessary.
“The man who calls himself Akushku is the most ruthless, the most bloodthirsty and the most dangerous we have ever sought. We’re going to redouble our efforts to find him, bring in uniformed officers, search every workers’ club and social club and political club again, along with every lodging house, every bawdy house, every lean-to and every shed. And every one of you will carry his weapon, close to hand, loaded and ready to use. If for one moment you fear for your life or for the life of a colleague, do not hesitate—shoot, and shoot to kill. Whatever happens I will stand by you, and answer to anyone on your behalf, because you are my brothers. And because the stakes could not be higher.”
From the corner of my eye I noticed Steinhauer, grim and solemn, but watching neither me nor my officers; rather he seemed lost in some dark, comfortless world of his own.
“Descriptions of Akushku and Bozidar will go out to every newspaper in this country, and on the Continent. But fear and horror are the terrorists’ stock-in-trade, and I want to deny them those weapons. As far as the press is concerned, they are bank robbers who murdered two policemen while evading arrest, and that’s all anyone outside this room needs to know. Not how they died, nor the atrocity they gave their lives to prevent. I don’t have to remind you, but I will: we do not discuss our work with anyone, not our colleagues, not our sweethearts, not our families—no one. Yes, at times like this we need friendship and we need solace, but let us find it in each other. We are men, and we are warriors, and when our comrades fall in battle, we honour them by marching onwards. When this battle is won we will mourn them, and we will remember their sacrifice, and honour it. But for now we will honour them in our hearts, and avenge them with our actions. We will work every hour the good Lord gave us, and we will hunt down these savages, and we’ll see them hang or we’ll kill them ourselves, but by Christ’s holy blood they will pay for what they did today.”
I fell silent a moment; my voice was shaking. I wasn’t ashamed of my anger and grief, but there was still business to attend to.
“The team that went with me to the East End today,” I went on, “is staying there to comb the area for witnesses and evidence. Quinn here has the assignments for the rest of you. Your work is vital. Next briefing here tomorrow at seven a.m. Till then, God be with you, and with all of us.”
* * *
—
“Where did young Steinhauer go?” I asked Quinn as I headed for my office.
“Down to the canteen, I believe. Said he hadn’t eaten since this morning.” He followed me in, and cleared his throat. I guessed what was coming. “Sir…The families, of Lovegrove and Bishop, they’ve yet to be informed. Would you like me to see to that?”
“Thank you, Patrick, but no,” I said. “I’ll do it myself, this afternoon. God forbid they should find out some other way.”
“I don’t envy you that.”
“Before I go,” I said, “I’ve a job for you. I’m meeting a source tonight in Bedford Square, at two in the morning.”
Quinn was puzzled. I never told anyone I was meeting an informant, still less shared the details.
“Sir?”
“I need you to make a note of it.”
* * *
—
Twenty minutes later I emerged from my office shrugging on my coat, and saw Steinhauer just up the corridor, handing Quinn a piece of paper my man had let slip from the teetering stack in his hands. Seeing me the German smiled solemnly and sauntered over.
“Gustav, hello,” I said. “I’m just off to see the families of the men we lost today.”
“I am sorry, William. I would not wish that task on anyone. Would you like me to come with you?”
“No, no. I know these people; it wouldn’t be appropriate to bring a stranger along. And you’ve done enough for one day.” I locked the door of my office and slipped my keys back into my pocket. “Come, I’ll give you a lift to your hotel.”
“Thank you, but I do not think I will return to my hotel just yet.”
“Off to see the tailor, or the tarts?” I said. Steinhauer merely smiled. “Good,” I said. “I’ll be chasing up a lead of my own, later.”
* * *
—
My breath was condensing in clouds around me as I strode towards Bedford Square; I heard a grandfather clock chime two o’clock from a hallway nearby. Town houses loomed on each side of me, massive as cliffs, shuttered now and silent. Even the scullery maids would be abed, I thought, snatching a few hours’ sleep before they rose at five to rake out the grates and light the household fires. For myself, I couldn’t have slept if I’d wanted to. When I’d called at Bishop’s house, I found the maid-of-all-work had the night off, so Edith Bishop had answered the door herself. Seeing me on her doorstep she had known instantly what it meant, and all the colour had drained from her face. We had not met since her wedding; Amelia and I had attended as guests of her husband. I had danced with her that day, I remembered now, and tonight I had held her in my arms again, but in grief; her slight body racked with sobs. As I had left, an hour or so later, I had found myself shaking with anger, that this Russian had murdered her husband, my friend and colleague, in cold blood, and left him sprawled on the floor like a worthless drunk.
Much of that anger I directed at myself, because it had been I who had sent Lovegrove and Bishop to their deaths. I had known that Akushku was lethal, and warned them; what I hadn’t known was that they would be betrayed.
When the street opened into the square, I was the only living soul to be seen, and that was how it should be, I thought. Let the gentry and the merchants and their servants sleep soundly in their beds; it was my task to ensure they could. But I promised myself when this business was done I’d sleep for a month.
The garden at the centre of the square was surrounded by iron railings eight feet tall, but the massive gates at the eastern end lay wide open as if the park keeper had forgotten his duty. As I passed through it seemed that I was entering a primeval forest. Yes, the trees that towered above and around were leafless, but the paths were edged with evergreen bushes of holly and laurel that soaked up the streetlamps’ glare and absorbed the noises of the distant city, so I walked in black shadow, with only the sound of my boots on gravel for company. As I headed south, towards the drinking fountain, I picked up a faint rustling off to my left. I paused and waited; the sound came from low down, and moved off quickly, with a scrabbling of claws—a rat, perhaps, or a feral cat on the hunt.
The black shape of the fountain loomed out of the darkness so abruptly I nearly walked straight into it. I knew how it looked in daylight: a pink granite plinth crowned with a Gothic-style arched turret. In each of its four alcoves was a tap and a basin, with a brass cup chained to one side so visitors could drink. Now it was just a mass of stone, to be felt rather than seen. I turned my back on it, and waited, and listened.
In less than a minute I heard it—the screech of metal hinges and a heavy clang on the eastern side, followed moments later by the same screech and clang to the west. Now hobnail boots were clattering on stone, and there were urgent shouts, and in the middle distance a flicker of hand lanterns like French fireflies. I stood and waited; I had no lamp of my own, and if I had run into the bushes to see what was going on I might have impaled myself on a branch. Besides, I had a good idea what was going on, and only needed to attend the outcome.
There was a constable’s whistle, thirty feet or so away to my right, and the shouts and ruckus seemed to gather and focus there. So much for the unbroken sleep of the gentry—the rumpus was echoing all around the square. Now I started to move towards the locus of the noise, back the way I had come. Perhaps it was the lamplight glinting through the bushes, or perhaps my eyes had become more accustomed to the darkness, but I fancied I could see more clearly now. On the lawn beyond the next row of shrubs, by the light of half a dozen lanterns, a mass of heaving shadows resolved itself into solid shapes: four of my detectives—in heavy coats but hatless now—wrestling a man to the ground and pressing his face into the grass so that his yells of protest were stifled. He appeared to be heavy-set, with a long beard and hair cut short in a military style.
“Easy, lads, easy, let him breathe, now,” I said. My men lifted some of their weight, and their captive raised his head, gasping and gulping for breath.
“Gustav,” I said. “Small world.”
16
Steinhauer was manhandled, none too gently, into the rear of a Black Maria, Dubois and myself clambering after him. He struggled to get up—having lost the padding that had helped to disguise him, he kept getting tangled in his oversized coat.
“William, this is absurd—”
“Dubois, keep your gun on him.” I hauled Steinhauer up onto the bench farthest from the door. Dubois took a seat at a safe distance and propped his revolver on his knee, pointed squarely at Steinhauer’s chest.
“You think it wise to bring a witness?” said Steinhauer, but his attempts at dignified indignation fell flat. With his fake beard hanging half off his face and his hat trampled in the struggle he cut a pathetic figure. “I will report this!”
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