“While His Majesty’s Government is relieved and grateful that these nihilists were successfully dealt with, I am sorry to say I have serious concerns regarding the Chief Superintendent’s methods.” Hang it, I thought. He knows. “In fact, I am appalled by certain of his actions.”
Gone was the anodyne exchange of compliments; Lord Salisbury’s wheezing voice was hard-edged, barely concealing his disgust. Anderson looked to me, then the King, for a lifeline. Finding none, he prevaricated. “William is something of a rough diamond, inclined to cut corners. But his methods are effective—”
“I am referring,” cut in the PM, “to the interception of privileged correspondence. Specifically, private letters written by His Majesty’s Privy Counsellors which last February Chief Superintendent Melville opened and read. It is an appalling breach of protocol which can on no grounds be justified.” I wondered how Salisbury had learned of our operation at Mount Pleasant, but it was hardly a question I could ask him.
“This—this is the first I have heard of the matter—” stammered Anderson. But Salisbury had now turned to me.
“Do you deny it, Chief Superintendent?”
I didn’t feel inclined to oblige him with a confession or an explanation. Anything I said would have sounded like an excuse, and it looked like I was for the high jump anyway. “I have no comment to make, Prime Minister.”
I saw the PM bridle at my impertinence, but in the presence of the King he had to rein in his temper. “I believe I am entitled to an answer, sir!”
“I assure you, my Lord,” cut in Anderson, “I shall get to the bottom of this.” If he meant to pivot to the Prime Minister’s side, it was an ill-judged move. Now Salisbury turned on him.
“Get to the bottom of it? You said this man acted under your direct supervision. Did you know about this?”
“Extreme cases call for extreme measures—”
“A simple yes or no will suffice, Mr. Anderson.”
“I knew about it,” said Edward.
Salisbury wheezed to a halt, mid-charge. The King peered at the lit end of his cigarette as if it were a rare jewel. “Melville had my express permission.”
I maintained my poker face, but I was secretly impressed; I had once declared Edward was no actor, but now he exuded sincerity. “It was a matter of national security,” the King continued. Salisbury’s eyes narrowed until they almost disappeared into that fleshy face behind its enormous hedge of beard. “Sensitive information about Melville’s search was being conveyed to the terrorists themselves by certain…disloyal parties. To catch them in the act, it was vital that no one knew about the operation beforehand. And afterwards, well…least said, soonest mended.”
Salisbury grunted. He had not risen to the peak of his profession without knowing when he was being sold a spavined horse. “Might I ask if this…collaborator…was ever identified?”
The King did not look at me but merely raised a finger. I took my cue.
“His Lordship will recall,” I said, “the unfortunate incident involving Lord and Lady Diamond on the eve of Her Late Majesty’s funeral.”
“Lord Diamond?” spluttered Salisbury. He seemed lost for words as he tried to absorb the revelation. I did not blame him for discounting the involvement of Lady Diamond—I had made the same mistake myself, after all—but I didn’t set him straight either.
“I was as shocked as you, Prime Minister,” said Edward. “But the matter has been resolved, without scandal. Let that be the end of it.”
But Salisbury, it seemed, had a pound of flesh on his shopping list.
“Would that we could, Your Majesty. This offence against the privilege of the Crown’s Privy Counsellors cannot go unaddressed. Their advice must remain sacrosanct and confidential, or all trust is lost.” An old-fashioned Tory landowner, Lord Salisbury despised anything that smacked of progressiveness and considered terrorism to be a direct result of educating workers. It was not hard to imagine how he felt about a jumped-up Paddy peasant reading his correspondence; the man must have nearly burst a blood vessel.
“I rather think,” said Edward, “that the Crown should define the privileges of its Privy Counsellors, don’t you?” But his former assurance had slipped; he sounded defensive, even petulant.
“Indeed, sir,” the PM pretended to agree. “And the Crown has defined those privileges over a thousand years of custom and practice—traditions that must not be lightly set aside. This affair cannot be allowed to set a precedent. It is a grievous breach of protocol and those responsible must answer for it.”
Damn, there goes my pension, was my first thought. Someone’s head was going to roll. Salisbury’s appeal to custom and tradition was aimed squarely at the King’s Achilles’ heel—his mother, the Empress Victoria, had made clear over decades how unworthy she considered him to defend the Crown and the Realm, and how inadequate.
“Melville has answered for it,” said Edward. “He has answered to the King, and the King is satisfied.” And now it occurred to me that after decades of being browbeaten by Victoria, even the towering figure of Salisbury held little dread for Edward. “I will not see the man who saved my life, and the life of the Kaiser, punished for his efforts.” There was a pause; Salisbury did not blink, or lower his gaze, and neither did the King, and I did not dare to breathe. The pause grew painfully long; the tick-tock of the mantel clock filled the room, and a log spat sparks from the fire. It seemed to me the first man to utter a sound would lose this battle.
Assistant Commissioner Anderson cleared his throat, nervously, and thus sealed his fate. Edward turned to him.
“Assistant Commissioner, you say you supervised this operation. That you were kept fully informed, and that your officers acted under your guidance.”
“Yes, but—I—that is…” Anderson rowed back furiously, but the tide had turned. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Your actions were commendable. The operation was, as you say, a complete success. When you retire, you can do so knowing you have distinguished yourself in the fulfilment of your duties.” Anderson’s shoulders sagged perceptibly at the King’s unspoken order. He needed no translation: he knew all too well the ceremony of the scapegoat, and its accoutrements: the confession inscribed on the finest vellum, the razor whetted and the hot bath drawn.
“Indeed,” the King went on, “given the right circumstances, We should not be surprised to see a knighthood on Our next Honours List.”
These words had a miraculous effect on Anderson; he straightened up like a parched flower in the rain. The King, and Salisbury, and indeed the entire Metropolitan Police force knew how much the Assistant Commissioner had longed to rise one day as Sir Robert Anderson. “I am Your Majesty’s humble servant.” Anderson stood, straightened his frock coat, and bowed. “You shall have my resignation before the end of the day.” He smiled, but I could see the words nearly choked him. Edward turned to Salisbury.
“I believe that resolves the matter?”
Salisbury nodded, appeased by the sacrifice.
And not for the first time it struck me that politics is a stately dance with poisoned daggers, and that I would rather take my chances with terrorists than count such men as friends.
“Thank you both,” said the King to Anderson and me. “Melville, if you wouldn’t mind waiting outside, I’d like a word with you presently.”
* * *
—
In the palace lobby a valet helped Anderson on with his overcoat. It seemed too big for him now, as if he had shrunk in the course of that audience.
“I’m sorry it came to this, sir,” I said.
“A little forewarning would have helped, William.”
“I had no idea the PM knew.”
“I mean, before you opened those letters.”
“If I had asked your permission, would you have given it?”
The valet hande
d Anderson his hat.
“This collaborator who passed on your reports,” said Anderson. “You must at some point have suspected it might be me.”
“I never doubted your loyalty for a moment, sir. I’ve worked with you for seven years.”
Sir Robert Anderson, former Assistant Commissioner of the Met, snorted and tapped his hat-brim in a token salute.
“Good day, Chief Superintendent.” He turned and walked down the staircase, carefully. An old man scared of falling.
And for seven years I’ve been reading all your correspondence, I could have called after him. But I decided to spare him the dignity he had left.
* * *
—
“About Lord and Lady Diamond…”
The King and I were walking through a long gallery lined with paintings of his royal ancestors, towards a massive portrait of Victoria as Empress of India. I noticed Edward did not look up at them, or at me either, and although he had sent out all the servants he was keeping his voice low.
“Yes, Your Majesty?”
“Your report said he shot her, then turned the gun on himself.”
“A very sad business, indeed.”
“You didn’t say why he shot her, though. Was it from jealousy, or…?” Was the King blaming himself? It hardly seemed fair to let him.
“Lord Diamond had never been under any illusions about his wife,” I said. “And there was little love lost between them. Perhaps she provoked him. I doubt we’ll ever know the whole truth.”
Edward nodded, reassured. “I’d never have dreamed Geoffrey was capable of such a thing.” Did he mean the murder or the suicide?
“It was a crime of passion, sir,” I said. “It could not have been anticipated, or prevented.” We paused before the portrait of Her Late Majesty, decked out in all her Imperial finery. The King looked up at last. Neither of us had to wonder what she would have said about the whole sorry business.
“Did Lady Diamond ever tell you why?” the King asked, after a moment.
“Forgive me, sir. Why what?”
“Why she took up with…that Russian madman.”
“She took that secret to her grave, sir. But I am making enquiries.”
28
It was an unseasonably warm day for late March, and I could feel sweat beading under my collar as Rachkovskii and I strolled alongside Rotten Row. The Russian spymaster seemed merry, loudly appraising the horses and riders—especially the attractive female riders—trotting along the bridle path, and engaging me in empty banter whenever we were within earshot of passers-by. I was sure this sunny mood of his had nothing to do with the approaching spring; he knew something I didn’t, and he wanted me to be aware of that. He wanted to watch me squirm and perhaps even beg. And after I had done all that, he might choose to tell me nothing at all.
But then, why suggest this meeting? It would have been going to a lot of trouble just to gloat.
“Oh, yes—you asked me some time ago about that Countess who was murdered by her husband,” said Rachkovskii at last. By now we were approaching the Albert Memorial, and there were no passers-by close enough to eavesdrop.
“Lady Diamond?” I feigned uninterest. “What of her?”
“I have heard from my people in Odessa.”
He said no more, forcing me to ask. “And have your people learned anything useful?”
Rachkovskii shrugged, as if he was unsure if what he had gleaned was useful or not. “The lady’s father, Piotr Mikhailovich Volosenko, was a horse-breeder. A very successful one. He still supplies excellent mounts to His Imperial Highness the Tsar.”
“Not the sort of family one would associate with anarchy,” I said.
“You are quite right. Volosenko is a commoner made wealthy by his own efforts. He would be the last to throw in his lot with social agitators and egalitarians. If they ever came to power, he would lose everything he had achieved through honest toil.”
“What about Lady Diamond’s mother?”
“Also tediously respectable. From a long line of kulaks.”
“Farmers, you mean?”
“Forgive me, yes, farmers. Again, not the stuff of which revolutionaries are made.”
“So how was it their daughter got mixed up with a man such as Akushku?”
We were at the nub of it, finally, and Rachkovskii was beaming now, almost chuckling to himself. I let him relish his moment of fun. Whatever enlightenment he had to offer me, I was sure, would carry a sting in the tail.
“Lady Diamond—or, as she was then, Valeriya Alekseyevna Volosenkova—was raised as a respectable young woman with all the advantages of wealth. Her parents hoped that with a suitable dowry she would marry well, hopefully into nobility.”
“As indeed she did. She said herself, they sold her off like a brood mare.”
“Of course the daughter of a mere horse-dealer, even a wealthy one, would hardly be an acceptable bride for a nobleman. So the girl had to be taught all the genteel virtues: deportment and manners, how to play the piano, an appreciation of culture and literature—not so much, of course, that she would become a…a…” He clicked his fingers.
“A bluestocking?” I suggested.
“Precisely, a bluestocking. And to this end the family hired a governess, herself from a noble family, but widowed, and living in reduced circumstances. Eager to support her only son.”
He paused, presumably to let that sink in. I did not respond; my mind was racing ahead. “And this governess’s son was taught alongside young Miss Volosenkova?”
“That was the young lady’s one request. And seeing no disadvantage to the arrangement, and keen to secure her services, Piotr Mikhailovich agreed.”
“So this boy, the son of the governess, grew up to be Akushku?”
“From the description you gave me,” he said, “of the man you and Herr Steinhauer encountered, it does seem likely that they were one and the same. For six years—from the age of nine—the man we now call Akushku, he and Valeriya Alekseyevna Volosenkova spent every day together. They became firm friends.”
“More than friends, I take it.”
“Indeed, if the household servants are to be believed. Much more than friends. And in time this…inconvenient relationship came to the attention of Volosenko himself. He claims now the governess left because his daughter needed no more education. But it’s rather more likely he fired her. I imagine he was worried about having to sell—how do you put it—shop-soiled goods?”
“So what became of this governess?”
“She returned with her son to her own country and died, in poverty, only two months later.”
“Forgive me, Colonel—her own country?”
Rachkovskii grinned. Now we come to it, I thought.
“Her married name was Maria Adelheide Lippe-Detmold, of Bavaria. Her husband had been a distant cousin of the late Count Lippe-Detmold before he died. Of typhus, very sad.”
“This governess—and her son—they were German?”
“Akushku’s real name, I am reliably informed, was Aleksandr Ruprecht Lippe-Detmold. After his mother passed away, the boy was penniless, without prospects. So he joined the army. The German army. Presumably it was they who discovered and developed his remarkable talents. After that, I am afraid, we have no further information—what a magnificent filly!”
Rachkovskii pretended to admire a grey horse cantering by, but his eyes were fixed on the slim outline of its young female rider. Very young; I made a mental note of the Russian’s taste. Rachkovskii turned back to me as if he had just been struck by an amusing idea.
“Perhaps your young friend Herr Steinhauer might be able to help.” He offered the suggestion with the merest hint of a smirk. “He is, after all, German.”
* * *
—
“I was sorry to hear about Miss Minetti.
She was a woman of great spirit.”
“She was,” I said. “But it was the death of her, in the end. I should have looked after her better.”
“You did what you could, William,” said Steinhauer. “I shall light a candle in her memory. Were it not for her courage, who knows what horrors might have come about.”
He leaned back and drew on his Cuban cigar. It had been his suggestion that we meet in Paris, where I was laying the groundwork for a state visit by His Majesty in a few months’ time. King Edward wanted closer relations with France; the German government had made approving noises from the sidelines about the joys of peace and the friendship of nations, but few believed them, and I thought it interesting that Steinhauer had turned up in Paris just now. This visit had offered me the chance to catch up with certain old acquaintances, some more openly than others. No doubt the same applied to Steinhauer.
At this time of the afternoon the Café de Flore was relatively quiet, and we could talk without fear of being overheard. All the same, in the ten minutes since we had embraced like old warriors, neither of us had uttered anything worth overhearing; our conversation had been banal observations about European politics of the sort one might read in any decent newspaper. Of course, men who have faced death together and saved each other’s lives don’t need to retell their war stories; such an experience forms an unbreakable bond. Steinhauer and I would always be friends; but that did not preclude the possibility that someday we might be enemies too. How likely that was, I was intrigued to find out.
“I picked up some interesting gossip about our old friend Akushku,” I said.
“Indeed?” said Steinhauer, with an air of polite detachment.
“Or I should say, Aleksandr Ruprecht Lippe-Detmold?” Steinhauer raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
“You might have told me he was one of yours, Gustav.”
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