Four days later, Eric Steiner arrived from Portsmouth. As soon as he left, I made a halfhearted attempt at using my hole, not expecting to glean anything of value. But to my surprise, I did. This time I was able to discover that he indeed made a total of ten moves before opening the safe. That was nothing more than a drop in the ocean, but my Mam used to say. “It’s the rain that falls, one wee drop at a time that fills rivers and lochs, lassie.” I smiled and shook my head as I wryly remarked that this drop of rain was filling nothing at all. Next time, after a visit from Jack James, I was able to confirm my finding about the ten movements, but further gleaned that there was a noticeable pause between the first six and the remaining four. Still that was nothing more than two drops of rain. Six letters and four digits? Or the other way round?
I tried to put myself in the shoes of my employer, in an attempt to break his code. I knew from experience that making a conscious attempt at solving a conundrum usually leads nowhere, but that did not stop me spending mental energy, churning the problem in my head. This preoccupation interfered with my sleeping patterns, as I expected that it would. I had a strange dream: I was a little girl lost in a dark forest, but I was not afraid. Suddenly I heard a rustling noise, and going towards it, I saw a wizard wearing a flowing green robe with a large conical hat. He had a long thin stick in his hand. He looked at me severely and spoke in a foreign language. I understood none of the words, but I remembered them clearly when I woke up. Touching me on the head with the stick he had chanted: ‘Weyhey, weyhey, funsa, biggit, lobrir. Heywey, heywey, sunfa, gibbit, lobrir.’ Then he had shaken his head and levitated vertically, gaining speed all the time until he vanished into the clouds.
A great believer in Mr Freud’s theory of the subconscious, I convinced myself that there might be a key in these strange words. I spent hours working on them. Another idea I had was that the birthdays of the girls might be somehow involved. I asked them, hinting that I would be getting them presents for the day, and made note of the dates. On a sheet of paper, I wrote down their names side by side:
LORETA, BRUNHILDE, IRMGARDE, HELGA, KLAUS
Then I wrote them one under each other:
LORETA
BRUNHILDE
IRMGARDE
HELGA
KLAUS.
Then I changed the order. These letters kept featuring in my sleep, floating above me, as a sort of flying carpet. At first they were hazy and messy, but after a few days they settled down, and only one image remained: on the flying carpet made of the letters comprising the names, loosely woven, rested the portrait of the girls that lived above the safe. I became more and more convinced that therein lay at least part of the solution. There was, however, the combination of numbers, about which I had no clue, having been unable to work out a possible conjecture involving the birthdays.
A few nights later, as I struggled with insomnia, I vividly recalled an image of the family sitting at a table eating apfelstrudel and ice-cream after dinner one evening. Suddenly Klaus von Bork’s face lit up as he pointed at the clock. ‘Seven fourteen,’ he said laughing. I did not understand the allusion, but out of the blue I remembered him once saying to the Gräfin how extraordinary it was that the two of the girls were born at exactly fourteen minutes past seven in the evening. That coincidence must have made that timing special to him. I would have given big odds against 3 of the 4 digits of the number part of the code not being 7-1-4. What, I wondered would the fourth digit be? The answer came to me in a flash. The Germans, with their military bent, would have used the twentyfour hour clock. It was not 7-1-4, but 1-9-1-4.
Whenever I was alone in the house with Helga, who spent most of the day shut in her studio, I made my way to the library and tried more than one thousand possible codes consisting of combinations of the letters of their names, like LOBIHK 1-9-1-4, LIRBHK 1-9-1-4, and obviously nothing worked. The code consisting of 6 letters and the family having only five members posed a problem. I thought that Klaus might have preferred to use the first two letters of the girls’ names to make up the required six. At night I kept seeing the three girls flying on a carpet of numbers.
Knowing that Germans love order, I thought that the girls’s name might be in order of majority.
Either LOBRIR or IRBRLO, seeing that Loretta was the youngest. She would provide the first two letters: L-O. I suddenly remembered on at least one occasion hearing Klaus say to the girls, ‘beeile dich lobrir’. It was on the Zweite Winde. Lobrir was not a word I knew, but as I do not have perfect German, I didn’t give it any thought at the time. He had called the three girls by this collective and synthetic name, culled from their actual names. I had not understood the implication, but I did now.
This was reinforced by the gibberish of the wizard of my dream which also featured the word lobrir. I was convinced that the code was LOBRIR1914. This might appear like producing a rabbit out of a hat, but I have a scientific explanation: Although the safe was hidden by the Baron’s big opaque frame, my subconscious had picked on his movements as he operated the safe, in a manner not accessible to my conscious awareness, but picked up by my subconscious. At the first opportunity I rushed into the piano room to test my hypothesis. Dear reader, it worked.
Melville had instructed me to make copies of all the documents von Bork had obtained from the traitors. Most afternoons I had the liberty of the house, with the girls and the Baron away. Helga was lost to the world, shut in her studio, painting or nursing her opiate. I was able to open the safe, unchallenged. I took out one file at a time to my room, and set to work. While I was thus occupied one afternoon, Helga pushed the open door which I had not thought of locking, walked towards my desk and stood there watching me. I was stunned and knew not what to do.
‘What are you writing?’ she asked.
‘Oh just some notes for...for...for my diary.’ How interesting, the Baronin said. Could she read it? Before I had formulated a blunt refusal, invoking my right to privacy, she said, ‘No, you read it to me, as I do not have my reading glasses.’ What the hell, I thought. I raised the sheet I was writing on, and invented an anodyne text: “This morning I got up at six twenty three, no it was six twenty four actually, as my watch is one minute slow. Outside there was a glorious sun shining already, which is heartwarming. It means we are going to have a pleasant day. I went to the toilet, spent more than ten minutes there, in fact it was more like twelve. I must watch my bowel movements. Must try the dried prunes they say work like magic. And take more exercise. I cooked breakfast for the family. The girls love an English breakfast...” She stopped me, and making no effort to hide her sarcasm she said, ‘Märta, you’ve got such a sharp mind and you write with such precision, thank you.’ She remembered that she had come down to ask me to make her an English cuppa.
After I had delivered the fruits of my labours to his man, I met M again next day, and he said he was delighted with my work. The Germans had been extremely clever, but we now knew with absolute certainty that the real spymaster was none other than Baron von Bork.
‘I had guessed right,’ he said, indicating that the delight he had just express was aimed at himself rather than at me.
It was at around that time that the Baron began receiving the visit of a hirsute and louche individual called Altamont. I was not allowed to open the door for him, or to bring him refreshments. Klaus had instructed me to place a bottle of Tokay, a plate of olives and glasses on a tray in the piano room. He himself would come to collect this when needed. One afternoon, the Baron curtly invited me to sit down, as he had something to say to me.
‘I don’t want you to feel slighted by shutting you away from Altamont, but it’s for your own protection. You know that we consider you as one of the family now. I trust you one hundred percent.’
‘I assure you I don’t feel slighted.’
‘You see, he is no ordinary seller of secrets, he is a dedicated patriot, doing what he is doing for Ireland.�
�� After the shortest of pause, he added, ‘Und für Unser wunderbar Volk und Vaterland, natürlich.’
‘I see.’
‘No, Märta, you don’t see. The English have no right to treat the Irish like they were niggers or gypsies or coolies. They will pay for this, for once they win their freedom, there will be a day of reckoning. Altamont comes to me highly recommended by Wilhelmstrasse. He has worked with the Irish patriots in Boston and has impressed them with his political acumen. Why, he might well become the leader of a free Ireland some day. He is a singularly intelligent man. Whilst organising a potent rebellion, channelling German arms to the Fenians, he is in a position to obtain strategic information about English defence and policies. He dresses like a tramp to avoid the scrutiny of that traitor to his own people, William Melville and the G-division. It was Altamont himself who gave me instructions - you’ll laugh- to the effect that he should not be let in by servants. He says you never know with Melville, he might well have infiltrated his own agents into your household.’ He laughed heartily at the incongruity of this eventuality. I assured the Baron that I perfectly understood him.
It was clear that this Altamont fellow was a real find and that the German was not taking any chances. I was therefore never able to have a good look at him, except from a distance, through the peep-hole. I could never form a clear idea of what he looked like as his face was hidden by his unkempt (presumably also unwashed) beard. I was not surprised to discover, when on the few occasions I heard him speak that he sounded like an Irish American. I had naturally sent word to Melville about this sinister newcomer, and next time I saw him he confirmed that he was indeed a dangerous enemy, and warned me to steer clear of him. Not that I would have the opportunity of crossing his path.
Suddenly one morning without warning, I was told that Helga and the girls were leaving within the hour for Flushing in the Netherlands. The Baron knew that I was really very fond of the girls, and seeing my discomfiture, he explained that he had received orders from Graf von Herling at the embassy, to send everything that he had gathered, post haste to their agent in Holland, where a man from Wilhelmstrasse had been sent to come take possession of the secrets that he had amassed in the quarter. Not a word to anyone about this, Klaus said with a wink. He was indeed convinced that I was a fanatical German patriot who would be fleeced alive before revealing a secret to our common enemy.
I knew that what was unfolding before my very eyes was a spanner in the works of the G-division. The Germans were going to receive many of our most important secrets before the Special Branch could stop them: details about research being carried out in Cowley on the Levasseur-Colby armoured vehicle. The location of our ammunition depots. Priceless data on the Airco DH series of fighter airplanes. The names of ministers in the cabinet and the degree of their enthusiasm for conflict with the Triple Alliance. And much more intelligence of a similar nature.
Melville had intimated that there was a plan being devised to deal with this, but it looked like the bird had already flown away. Was it too late to save the day? I pretended to be going out on my morning shopping round, and straight away repaired to a shop in Piccadilly where they allowed me to use their telephone to call M on a number he had told me to use only in an emergency. I had surmised that this was one, and M said that I had done the only sensible thing.
‘I’ll send Holmes to deal with this,’ he said. I had no idea that he was back. Why had he not got in touch with me? But what could even Holmes do now?
Next morning, after a sleepless night, I was in a frightful state, and was praying that Holmes would turn up and perform the miracle needed to defeat Baron von Bork. However, when a knock came, it was not Holmes, but the wicked Altamont. I was very desirous to learn what new infamy the treacherous Fenian was hatching, and rather incautiously I went to the door separating the library and the piano room, pushed it slightly ajar to enable me to eavesdrop without being seen.
And I heard a strange tale.
‘Von Bork,’ Altamont was saying sternly. I was surprised that the ragged Irishman was daring to talk to the Baron with such lack of civility, but remembered that he had the ear of Wilhelmstrasse.
He must have felt that he had the upper hand. ‘We are quite shocked at your gullibility. How could you have trusted those fellows Hollis, James and Steiner? A child could have seen through their subterfuge. How many years have you lived here and rubbed shoulders with the perfidious English?’
‘Five,’ the Baron answered sheepishly.
‘And you are telling me that you never suspected that the Melville would try to hoodwink you with his own men?’ The Baron laughed nervously at this point.
‘No, Altamont, you’re wrong there, these men came to me highly recommended. They were vetted by Wilhhelmstrasse.’
‘Ha! You have all the guile of a new born babe von Bork. Did it not occur to you that the Irish traitor might have detained our men, killed them and get his own people to take their place and feed you with misinformation? This sort of thing is being done all the time by those childish pranksters who think that they are on the Eton playing fields.’ I saw Klaus turn ashen. He had obviously never entertained such a thought. The men had me fooled too. What was M doing then, getting me to filch the documents, copy them and pass them on to him, when all the time the so-called secrets had originated from his own department? But then I knew that the Secret Services worked in mysterious ways.
‘The English? No never. They lack that sort of subtlety, don’t they? And they play a straight bat, don’t they?’
‘Ha! Tell that to our people across the Irish sea. No my friend, they are a devious, treacherous, ruthless lots. Hypocrites the lot of them. They have a smile on their face and a dagger behind their back.’
‘I’ll send them word to discard the intelligence they are about to receive,’ the Baron said decisively. Altamont shook his head and cackled viciously.
‘Lookee here, von Bork, I’ve worked with you and I am quite fond of you. We Irish are like that. We become attached to folks. I’d hate to see the Kaiser incarcerate you in the Moldaustrasse Zuchthaus and throw away the key.’
‘What do you advise me to do, then Herr Altamont?’
‘I don’t advise, I’m ordering you. Send a telegram to the Baronin, instructing her to destroy all the documents you gave her straightaway.’
‘But, but...’
‘Don’t worry, Gott sei Dank in den Himmel that you have friends watching over you. I have come prepared. Call von Herling on the telephone machine forthwith and arrange with him to take you to Flushing by the Zweite Winden. I have managed- don’t ask me how - to obtain the genuine documents about everything you were on the point of misinforming Ireland’s best friend, our dear Kaiser.’ And he handed over to him a small suitcase. I shuddered. I was not going to let them get away with this. If my time had come, so be it.
Melville had given me a small PO8 as issued to the Reichsmarine for use in an emergency. If this was not one, then I don’t know what is. I took it out of my bag, cocked it, kicked the door open and lunged at Altamont, with every intention of firing the gun, but something made me hesitate. In any case Altamont was too quick for me and in a lightning quick movement he had struck at my forearm, causing the weapon to fly into the air. He then socked me one.
‘You see, Herr Baron? Your housekeeper you said? A Melville plant!’ These were the last words I heard before I fainted.
When I came to, Altamont was bent over me, applying a hot compress over my bruised eye. Except that depleted of his beard he wasn’t the Irish traitor anymore, but my own beloved friend Sherlock Holmes. Von Bork was gone, presumably delivering the suitcase Holmes had given him. My mentor explained how he had gone to Boston and had infiltrated the dangerous Friends of Ireland Cell and completely hoodwinked them.
We gathered later that Klaus von Bork had carried out Holmes’ instructions to the letter. We tried to imagine Kaiser Bill’
s face when he was told that his trusted von Bork had sent him all the four tomes of The Compleat Bee-Keeper.
The Kidnapping
At Water Lane, we were avid readers of newspapers. We had The Times and Daily Mail delivered everyday. Algernon sometimes brought us a copy of The Pall Mall Gazette or Reynolds’ Weekly when he found an interesting article. The Gazette was edited by his friend W.T. Stead who was an inveterate campaigner for liberal causes which were usually close to our hearts.
We had been following the development of world events for some time. Kaiser Wilhelm’s bellicose words and actions had caused great alarm in our circle. Algie, however, was convinced that for all his fire-breathing, he didn’t really want war, although there was always the risk that he might be bounced into one if he felt that the we (the Triple Entente) were preparing for it. The Secretary of State for War, Lord Haldane and the Foreign Secretary Sir Charles Grey were sound men, but were being harangued daily by the irascible Lord Wahlengrave (pronounced Warmgrave), the Opposition’s spokesman on War, to adopt a more aggressive posture. As the word coward was considered unparliamentary, he had recourse to Mr Roget’s Thesaurus to find all available synonyms of the word. These, he used with great aplomb to castigate “those spineless, craven lilylivered, chicken-hearted, people on whose shoulders the fate of our country rests on.” All epithets I found much more offensive. Naturally the press picked on this.
The Times had devoted a leader column to an analysis of the confrontational incitements of the opposition, but had commended Haldane’s decision not to pour money into armaments or increase the size of our armed forces. It had cautiously welcomed this stance. On the other hand, The Daily Mail had espoused the theses of the pugnacious Wahlengrave. It had summed up its position thus: A proud nation like ours does not negotiate with its potential enemies except from a position of strength. Whenever our enemies want a war with this bull-dog nation of ours, it’s not meet that we run away, whimpering, with our tails between our legs.
The Adventures of Irene Adler : The Irene Adler Trilogy Page 14
