As we had discussed this at Water Lane the previous evening, it came as a surprise when in the morning, the headline in all the papers was:
LADY WAHLENGRAVE KIDNAPPED IN HER OWN GARDEN.
The accounts of the transgression were almost identical in both the papers: The wife of the Shadow War Minister was taking a walk in her garden yesterday afternoon, as was her wont, when gunmen burst in through a breach they had made in the hedges, grabbed her ladyship at gunpoint and dragged her outside, where a coach was waiting. She was gagged and pushed inside before the horse-drawn carriage took off in a blaze of dust. The police was immediately alerted and was doing everything in its power to find the lady and arrest the criminals. Deputy Commissioner Labalmondière has assured the press that his officers were already on the trail of the perpetrators and promised them appropriate punishment. The Times warned against a rash intervention by the police and urged caution.
To my surprise, I was in my office in Warren Street, when shortly after lunch, a plump and officious-looking gentleman came in, out of breath and sweating.
‘Am speaking with Mr Dai Lernière?’ he asked curtly after wiping his face with a large kerchief, and I indicated that he had.
‘My name is of no relevance, but I have been sent by no less a person than Lord Wahlengrave. You are no doubt aware of his lordship’s great misfortune. He wishes to talk to you.
He will be waiting for you in the House of Lords this afternoon at half past four. Just mention your name as you go in and the porter will direct you.’ The messenger did not wait for my response. He just turned round and left. He could not have been more than three minutes in my office.
I did not much like the approach of my visitor, but curiosity won. I left Warren Street in good time and was outside Lord Wahlengrave study at twenty-five past four. A messenger outside his door told me that his lordship will receive me at half past four. Which he did. He mutely signalled to me to take a chair. He was positively massive. I had the impression that when released from the garments imprisoning it, his ample stomach would, like molten lava, flow down to his knees, and possibly not tarry there. There was no preamble of any sort.
‘Lernière,’ he said in the tone of the headmistress to an errant pupil outside her office, ‘I’ve asked you over to assign to you the task of rescuing my kidnapped wife. I received a note from the kidnappers asking me to appoint someone not from the police for that job.’ I waited, but he did not indicate that he had anything more to add. Which was disconcerting.
‘Can I please see the note?’ I asked gingerly. I admit to being in awe of this overweening politician. He looked at me scornfully.
‘Young man,’ he said sternly, looking above my head, ‘you didn’t think I’d entrust you with such an onerous task and not give you the note?’ I mumbled something which even I did not understand.
‘The account in the newspapers is broadly correct. I expect you have read it. I can add that when I came home late after a gruelling afternoon in the House, my wife was gone. Stanley had no explanation. Lady Catherine had expressed the wish to go for a walk in the gardens, and had insisted that she needed no company. When she did not come back in half an hour, she became alarmed.’
‘Stanley? Who is he?’ He looked at me as if I were a complete nincompoop.
‘Her personal maid, for Christ’s sake. Hepzibah Stanley. Who did you think?’ I did not indicate that I had not actually formed a thought on the matter.
‘I don’t know who told the papers. The kidnappers seemed to have gained ingress into my gardens through the hedges. I dislike idle conjecture but I’m told there’s a breach.’ Didn’t he think fit to go and check? ‘All I can say with any certainty is that she has disappeared. Kidnapped, obviously. All else is speculation. Here, this is the note Stanley found, stuck on the araucaria in the garden.’ He held it in his hand and obviously expected me to lean over to take it.
‘What was the note attached to?’
‘What sort of damn fool question is that? Why the devil should that matter?’ I took a breath and resolved not to let him browbeat me entirely.
‘The information might be useful, your lordship. Was it a push-pin? Can I see it? I hope you did not get rid of it?’ The warm grave exploded. ‘Young man, do you think that I have the time to keep useless trivialities?’
‘It might have provided a priceless clue, you idiotic man,’ I did not say. I was not warming up to his portliness. I cast a cursory look at the note:
We urge your lordship to understand the seriousness of the situation. We will take good care of her ladyship provided you do not do anything foolish. You must follow our instructions to the letter if you do not wish any harm to befall her. First: You will inform the police of her disappearance, but must order them not to interfere. Any involvement on their part would entail the immediate execution of the party. Second: This action of ours had only one purpose: A sizeable ransom. Third: You must appoint a party to negotiate terms on your behalf. This person will act as a messenger and must not be used as a means to locate us. Again, any attempt at subterfuge will lead to a tragic consequence for Lady Catherine. Fourth: Once you have shown a willingness to act in your own best interest, and have appointed the aforesaid negotiator, you will put an advertisement in The Times signifying this by quoting the line from John Manley Hopkins: Glory be to God for dappled things. We will then send you further instructions.
I started examining the note, but was interrupted in this.
‘My dear Lernière, you don’t expect me to sit here and watch you read. There are matters of the state to be dealt with. You study this with due diligence and urgency in your own time. When you have any communication for me, use the telephone machine.’ I was clearly being dismissed. I stood up, did a little curtsey, but did not turn round to leave immediately.
‘Lord Coldgrave,’ I said. ‘Will it be possible to talk to Hepzibah?’ I shuddered as I realised that I had got his name wrong, but he had not picked on this. Mercifully. He grunted.
‘Ask Bull.’ I stared at him.
‘He’s the Steward, man. Who did yo think he was? The heir presumptive?’ As I was preparing to leave, he called after me in a stern voice.
‘Young man how are you going to telephone me if you haven’t taken my number?’ I was going to ask Bull, but I made a little curtsey to apologise for my oversight. With a dismissive grunt, he said, ‘Ask Bull for it.’ But I was not going to let the drawing pin drop.
‘Your lordship, in a matter like this one, even the smallest detail might prove useful. I would have wished to see the pin. I understand that it’s gone, but could you describe it to me please.’ He stared at me incredulously. I suspect that he was formulating another unflattering volley to be hurled at me, but he relented. ‘How preposterous,’ he told some invisible deity on his right. ‘My wife disappears and this young man wants me to describe a blasted pin. A pin’s a pin, my good man.’ He paused, and shaking his head, he almost whispered, ‘A drawing pin with a flat head.’ That must have been the less common German type made by the Lychen clockmaker Johann Kristen, favoured by map makers.
I made my way to Cadogan Close. It was an impressive mansion with marble pillars and an open front veranda. It was the very sort of house one would expect a future British Prime Minister to be living in. As I walked down the alley leading to the entrance, I could not help noticing an enclosure where a dozen or so araucaria or monkey puzzle trees were growing, round a marble fish pond with a fountain at its centre.
Bull led me to the servants’ quarters and showed me to a chair in their dining room. ‘I’ll send Stanley along,’ he said gruffly. I could not help noticing that he based his attitude, speech form, body movements, on his master’s. Hepzibah Stanley was a frail, timid woman. She walked in gingerly, her eyes darting in all directions, like a cornered stag. When I asked her to tell me the circumstances of her mistress’ disappearance, she started blinkin
g at a rate of knots. There was a whole minute’s silence, and I repeated my question. She looked round, as if to make sure that no one was within hearing. I noticed that she kept looking at the door. She sat herself on the edge of the chair at an angle, with her feet also pointing in the direction of the door. I had assiduously studied Sherlock Holmes’ monograph Interpretations of the Truth From Body and Eye Movements.
Hepzibah’s every reaction could have served as an example illustrating how people behave when they feel uncomfortable. I wondered why she was so overwrought. She looked at me, and rapidly turned away. Then, in a voice trembling with emotion, she confirmed what the papers and Wahlengrave had said. Was her uneasiness due to her unwillingness to tell the whole story? Was it a lie? Had she been ordered by her employer to stick to that particular version? A rather horrible thought flashed through my mind: Had the man who was daily urging the extermination of the Boches disposed of his wife for no reason that I could guess? Were the servants party to this murder? I remonstrated with myself for daring to emit such an outlandish hypothesis, and tried to dismiss it from my mind.
Back in my office I made myself a cup of tea, sat down at my study, and placed the ransom note under the light of my two powerful Argand lamps to study every aspect that I could find. First the paper: It was a carefully cut half of an A4 size Cartridge Paper. I knew that this material had been used for centuries to wrap gunpowder and bullets. When this method was superseded, it gained a new lease of life as an artists’ drawing medium. The note was written in Indian ink, also something favoured by artists and map makers. The handwriting was small, even and firm, showing the writer to be someone who wrote with ease. An educated man? This was confirmed by the immaculate style and spelling of the text. I was already minded to dismiss the kidnapping being the work of ordinary villains. Might anarchists be involved? People with a political axe to grind?
Next day The Times carried the following advertisement on its front page:
Regarding a certain matter to do with Hopkins (Glory be to God for dappled things) please contact Mr Dai Lernière at 51B Warren Street.
I had no sooner read the advertisement than my telephone rang.
‘I am calling you on behalf of the persons who have the key to the release of Lady Wahlengrave. Meet me near the Cut in Hyde Park noon.’
‘The Cut?’
‘The Serpentine. Near the statue of Peter Pan.’
‘How do I recognise you?’ I asked, although I knew what the response would be.
‘We will recognise you.’
‘Right, I’ll be there.’
‘One more thing. You betray us in any way, the lady is executed and her body thrown in the Cut...eh...Serpentine.’
‘I understand, and accept your condition.’ He had the accent of an educated person. Not a Londoner. Perhaps Midlands or Black Country. It was neither pompous nor artificial. Don’t people from that region use the word “cut” for river?
I arrived at the Park ten minutes early and directed my steps towards the statue, as instructed. It had been recently erected, and I had not seen it yet. There it was, a charming bronze whimsy, with squirrels, fairies and mice. Mam used read J.M. Barrie’s book to me when she tucked me in. How I miss the old dear! I found a seat nearby, and enjoyed the fresh air and the stillness, unconcerned by the imminent possibility of coming face to face with hardened criminals. At the first gong of Big Ben, I felt a hand press on my left shoulder, its thumb brushing past my neck.
‘If you value your safety, do not turn round and do exactly as I say.’ He pronounced this “sei”. I had nothing to gain by putting my life on the line, and was not going to take any risk. I nodded my agreement.
‘Now, stend up, don’t turn round and keep wa...alking in a normal fashion towards The Italian Gaardens.’
There were few visitors in the Park, and none in our immediate vicinity. I did as instructed and started off more slowly than I do normally. The man kept about ten paces behind me.
After clearing his throat, he began listing his conditions.
‘We want Lord Wahlengrave to hand over to us the som of two toysand pounds in used notes. On receipt of this som, the leidy will be released within the ahr. This som is non-negotiable, so don’t waste your breeth. Are we agreide?’
‘First,’ I said, ‘I am not empowered to agree to anything. My task is to act as an intermediary between Lord Wahlengrave and yourself...eh...yourselves. I will naturally communicate your message to him.’
‘I will telephone you in twenty four ahrs. Make shore you are in yer office.’ I indicated that I would be.
‘Oh,’ I said, ‘can you tell me if her ladyship is well?’
‘Never better,’ came the response. We had reached the edge of the Gardens by now.
‘Do not tern round if you velue your life,’ the man ordered. ‘Count to twenty five and then make towards Lancaster Gate.’ I could hear him walking away. Suddenly, I turned round and was not turned into a salt statue.
‘Jasper Attwood,’ I said calmly, ‘you aren’t a kidnapper, you’re not a criminal. You’re an artist. Why are you doing this?’ He froze in his tracks.
Obviously I had been collecting data about the man from the very beginning. The paper on which he had written his note had provided a big clue. The wretched drawing pin used by map-makers and artists. The Indian ink. I was already considering that he might have been an artist.
When he approached me, from behind, I only had his voice and speech to go by. Now I also knew that he was left-handed. His accent was Black Country. At first I thought that he might have been a Brummie. Then suddenly I saw the light. It was Coventry. I had been to an exhibition of line drawings by Jasper Attwood at the Baker Gallery not long ago. The fineness of the writing on the note had some similarity of some of the drawings. But what gave the game away was that I remembered two exhibits at that show, placed side by side in a manner suggesting one was a mirror image of the other: Nude in Ink drawn by the right hand and Nude in Ink by the left hand.
I had a good look at him. He was a handsome man of about thirty. Of medium height. He looked more like a bank clerk than an artist – or a criminal.
‘You do anything rash, and you’ll regret it,’ he said in a tone he meant to be full of menace. I nodded to show that I understood.
‘I’ll telephone you tomorrow,’ he said meekly as he disappeared into the bushes.
Of one thing I was sure: I was not going to reveal any of this to my client. Not yet. I expected that Lord Wahlengrave would have been impatiently waiting to hear about his wife but when I telephoned, his secretary told me that he was at lunch, and had asked not to be disturbed. I mentioned that I had news about his wife, and the secretary said she would go and ask. The response that came was quite shocking. ‘Lord Warmgrave said he should not be disturbed under any circumstances.’ Here was a man to whom his lunch took priority over his wife’s safety, I mused. I left a message asking him to call me. He did not. I called again and found his tone quite offensive.
‘Do you think I have money to burn, Lernière?’ As a matter of fact I did. It was well-known that he had inherited considerable wealth from his slave-trading grandfather. I would not have thought that any man would hesitate to spend his whole fortune if his wife’s fate was in the balance.
He suggested I went back to the kidnapper and told him that under no circumstances would he consider parting with his hard earned money. Not a penny, did I hear?
‘You asked me to be your negotiator,’ I protested. ‘You’re giving me no basis for a parley.’ I was happy to air my indignation this time. My assertiveness was beginning to crystallise.
‘Just tell him there is nothing to negotiate. He returns my wife and I will move heaven and earth to see him hung drawn and quartered.’
‘But your lordship, you’re toying with your wife’s life.’
‘But me no buts, young man. Which
of the three words, “nothing, to, negotiate,” do you want me to explain to you?’
‘Maybe, maybe, you could put forward a smaller amount...’ I said this without any conviction.
‘You haven’t been listening to me, have you, Lernière?’
‘You are putting your wife’s life in danger,’ I repeated more forcefully than I had intended.
‘Listen to me, Lernière. If this country has struck terror in the heart of our enemies, let me tell you this, Lernière: It was not through wishy washy policies. No, sir. We have always been ready to show our fangs and claws. We shoot first and ask questions later. I don’t mean this bunch of cowardly capitulators and moaning milksops running the country, your Greys and your Haldanes. It is a matter of principle. If my poor wife needs to be sacrificed, so be it.’
I was shocked. The politician was condemning his own wife to death. I called on Holmes for support. He was entertaining Mycroft to Lapsang Souchong and pastry. When I related to the brothers what had happened, Mycroft shook his head.
‘Don’t quote me, Lernière, but you’ve met the most deranged man in the British Empire. He prides himself that he is so perceptive that once he’s analysed any situation in depth, he has a flawless overview of all its facets. When he summons his advisers, it is to advise them. He boasts that he has never changed his mind on any subject since he asked for chocolate cake for his tenth birthday and then demanded ice-cream instead later.
‘His real aim is to become the leader of his party, the next but one Tory prime minister. He thinks that by showing his singularity of purpose when it came to his wife, he’ll be proving his iron will to the country. That the future of the nation was safe in his hands.’ He had not finished. After taking a long sip of the brew, he let off an “aah” of pleasure, raised his forefinger and shook it a few times.
The Adventures of Irene Adler : The Irene Adler Trilogy Page 15
