Web of Discord

by Norman Russell

  ‘The four things I remember most, Box, were muddle, cold, disease and death. Sebastopol was a victory of sorts, but it was a sickening war. We lost nearly twenty thousand men – and nearly sixteen thousand of them perished of disease.’

  Box turned the medal over, and looked at the image of a younger Queen Victoria.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mackharness, ‘she was only in her thirties, then, but as regal, to my way of thinking, as she is today, in advanced years. The Turks were first-rate comrades, and General Omar Pasha was a very remarkable man. The Italians, too, were fiercely brave. Piedmontese, they were called. There was no Italy, as such, in those days.’

  ‘What about the Russians, sir? What were they like?’

  ‘Oh, they fought as bravely as anyone amidst all that mud, water and filth, but they were led by heartless monsters, who sacrificed them as though they were sheep or cattle. By the end of the war, they’d lost a quarter of a million men. Nobody won in that war, truth to tell. And that’s why I regret the way we fell out with the Turks, and followed Gladstone’s dewy-eyed crusade into the Balkans. What have we gained by it? Nothing. And now, you see, the Russians are aching to plunge us all once again into the pit of destruction.’

  Superintendent Mackharness picked up the medal, and put it back carefully on the mantelpiece. He looked slightly embarrassed, and shuffled a few papers around on his table. Then he spoke in his usual business-like booming tones.

  ‘I’ll make out an immediate warrant for this fellow, Box, under the name N.I. Karenin, on the charge of murdering Gabriel Oldfield. I’ll get a general warrant from over the road later today, and they can both be signed by Mr Harrison at Bow Street. I think that’s all, now, Box. Well done. What are you going to do for the rest of this morning?’

  ‘Well, sir, I thought I’d take Sergeant Knollys with me and pay a visit to poor old John Martin, who got himself into trouble the other week. He’s far gone in drink, I’m afraid, sir, and I feel a bit guilty at not calling on him.’

  ‘Martin? Oh, yes. He was in Stables for years. I remember him well. Somebody mentioned him to me the other day. Yes, go by all means. If you find he’s very bad, I should be able to get him a placing in the Holy Cross Almshouses, through the good offices of my friend Lord Maurice Vale Rose. Bear that in mind, will you, Box? Meanwhile—’ Mackharness struggled with one of his trouser pockets for a minute, and presented Box with half a sovereign. ‘Give him that, will you, Box? And exhort him from me, if you will, to eschew the demon drink!’

  ‘It don’t half stink, sir,’ said Sergeant Knollys, as he and Box threaded their way through a maze of twisting lanes south of Tooley Street, where old Mr Locke held court. ‘Worse than breweries, it is, and that’s saying a lot.’

  Bermondsey was a centre of the leather trade, and the tanneries seemed to have been working overtime that morning, as had the local slaughterhouse. There were times – and this was one of them – when London’s air seemed positively lethal.

  ‘That’s not a very elegant way of putting it, Sergeant Knollys,’ said Box. ‘This part of our great metropolis is famed for its tanneries, hence such names as Tanner Street and Morocco Street. Did you know that Bill Sikes fell to his death somewhere in these parts? In Jacob’s Island, I think it was. So Charles Dickens says, anyway. A very famous borough, is Bermondsey. But you’re right. It don’t half stink.’

  ‘Potter’s Lane, that man in the market said, just beyond the railway ventilator – this looks like it, sir.’

  Potter’s Lane appeared to be a cul-de-sac of workmen’s crumbling brick cottages, several of them shorn up with stout wooden beams. Some children were playing in the muddy roadway, and a few lean and hungry dogs sniffed hopefully around the outside middens. At the end of the dismal lane rose a three-storey public house. There was a long wooden board fastened to its frontage, bearing the legend ‘Thwaite’s Breweries. The Salutation.’

  ‘That’s the place, Sergeant,’ said Box. ‘John Martin lives on the top floor, so I was told by one of the ostlers at Whitehall Mews. We’d better have a civil word or two with the landlord before we visit poor old John.’

  They found the landlord polishing a tray of glasses in his shabby bar. He was a seedy-looking man in shirt sleeves, who glanced at their warrant cards with a moist eye, and acknowledged their presence with a surly nod. Box began to make an enquiry.

  ‘Mr Melon—’

  ‘How do you know my name?’ demanded the landlord wrathfully. ‘Which thieving sneak told you that? I run a respectable house, here, mister. I’ve never had no truck with the police.’

  ‘You’re name’s written over the door, Mr Melon. All I want to ask you is whether a man called John Martin lodges here? It’s a civil enough question, so maybe I’ll be favoured with a civil answer.’

  ‘Well, no offence, guvnor, I’m sure. But there’s people round here who tell lies for money. Cross their palms with silver, and they’ll say anything. John Martin? Yes, poor old John lodges here. There’s an outside staircase round to the left that’ll take you up to his place. He’s got a friend staying with him at the moment. Poor old John. He won’t last the spring. He owes me ten and six in rent, but I’m minded to forget it.’

  ‘So there’s people who tell lies for money round here, Mr Melon? You’re not thinking of Barney Bernard, are you, or the likes of Twitcher Thomas?’

  Mr Melon managed a kind of gnashing smile, which brought some animation to his unshaven, lantern-jawed face.

  ‘So you know them, do you, Mr Box? Well, in that case, you’ll know that a respectable man like me would never have anything to do with the likes of them!’

  Box had been rummaging in one of the pockets of his overcoat. He brought out Superintendent Mackharness’s half-sovereign, to which he added a silver threepenny bit and three copper pennies.

  ‘I know you wouldn’t, Mr Melon,’ he said. ‘I can see that you’ve got a beautiful nature behind all that delicate politeness. Here’s the rent that John Martin owes. My sergeant and I will go up to see him now.’

  Box and Knollys left the public house and walked round the side of the building, where an external wooden staircase rose to the third storey. It was a rickety affair, ending in a small landing. Box knocked on a stout unglazed door, which was almost immediately opened to him. He stared in surprise at the man standing on the threshold. He said to himself. So here you are at last, Malcolm Enright, mariner, aged forty-one: just a stone’s throw away from Mr Locke’s court in Tooley Street. He said aloud: ‘Captain Edgar Adams, unless I’m very much mistaken? I am Detective Inspector Box of Scotland Yard.’

  ‘It’s a long and complex story, Mr Box,’ said Adams, ‘and this is neither the time nor the place to tell it. You’ve asked me how I came to know poor John Martin there. Well, I was evading a very determined gang of pursuers, men who had followed me from Germany to London. One way of escaping their clutches was to get myself locked up by the police, which I did. I had a confidant, a man who would give me sanctuary, but in case he couldn’t locate me, I scribbled a note in my cell, and slipped it into poor old John’s pocket, together with a couple of sovereigns.’

  Arnold Box glanced at the bed in the cramped room, where John Martin was dozing fitfully. He saw that Adams had made a bed for himself on the floor, and that everything in the room was clean, tidy and shipshape. Royal Naval Officer or not, Captain Adams evidently believed in the value of scrubbing the decks.

  ‘What did you write in the note, Captain Adams?’ he asked. ‘Incidentally, it’s against regulations to pass notes to other prisoners. Likewise to give them money.’

  ‘I’m sorry about that, Inspector, but the situation called for positive action. In that note I said who I was, mentioned the two sovereigns, and said that I would pay Martin that sum monthly if he would let me bed down in his place, always supposing that I turned up on his doorstep. When Oldfield— You know about Gabriel Oldfield, I expect?’

  ‘I do, sir. It was I who investigated his murder. I knew that you’d be
en staying with him, and realized that you’d fled from Hatpin Man – that’s what I call the killer, a man called Karenin.’

  ‘Karenin…. Yes, I’ve heard that name bandied about in certain quarters. I never slept during my stay in Falcon Street, and when I heard footsteps on the landing outside Oldfield’s bedroom, I knew that the game was up. I was only just in time flinging myself out on to the roof, and making my escape. I came straight here, and I’ve been here ever since.’

  ‘I expect you soon found out what had happened to poor Mr Oldfield?’ asked Box.

  ‘It was in all the papers by mid-afternoon. I sat here, in John’s quarters, reading about it, and wondering whether I should have done something to prevent his murder. I still have qualms about that.’

  Sergeant Knollys had sat down quietly by the bed, looking at the old groom who had worked so long for the police, and who was now clearly in a desperate state of decline. John Martin’s eyes opened, and focused themselves on the three men in the room.

  ‘Mr Box! It’s good of you to come. And this big lad will be your sergeant, I expect. Have you met Captain Adams? Yes, of course you have. He’s been so good to me, sending out for a doctor, and bringing me decent food. Like an angel, he’s been, for all that he’s a gentleman, and a naval officer….’

  John Martin’s eyes closed, and he was soon asleep. Box sat back on a spindly upright chair, his hands on his knees, looking at Captain Edgar Adams RN.

  ‘You’ve nothing to reproach yourself with, Captain Adams. You had your duty to do. Now, what am I to do with you, sir? You can’t stay here for ever.’

  He’s uneasy about confiding in me, thought Box. He’s wondering how much I know. It’ll save everybody’s time if I told him.

  ‘I know all about you, Captain Adams, and about your trip to Porthcurno. I think it’s time that you banished your fear of being ambushed by villains, and presented yourself to Colonel Kershaw without delay.’

  ‘And how am I to do that, Inspector? I don’t know where he is – that’s part of the way he works. And he doesn’t know where I am. Poor Gabriel Oldfield was a man who worked for me directly. He wasn’t one of Kershaw’s “nobodies”.’

  ‘I wondered about that, sir, and about your connection with Mr Oldfield.’

  ‘Our fathers were both chemists, Inspector, with thriving shops in Portsmouth. I knew Gabriel since we were both boys. When he decided to buy that shop in Falcon Street, he needed a bit of financial help, which I was able to give him. In return, I asked him to provide a safe haven for me in times of stress. He knew what kind of work I did. And now he’s gone …’

  ‘Yes, sir, he’s gone, but he won’t be forgotten. And one of these days, I’ve no doubt, he’ll be avenged. When you’re ready, I’ll arrange for you to be taken to Colonel Kershaw.’

  Adams threw Box a grateful glance, and then glanced at the old ostler’s inert figure sprawled on the bed.

  ‘And what am I to do about John Martin there?’ he asked. ‘I feel responsible for him, now. I can’t just leave him to fend for himself—’

  ‘There’s no question of that, Captain Adams. Old John’s not going to be left alone from now on, and very soon he’ll be moving to a comfortable billet in the Holy Cross Almshouses, near Theobald’s Road. Meanwhile, you need to see Colonel Kershaw.’

  Box drew from his pocket the paper spill tied with twine that he had taken from Kershaw’s cigar case in the churchyard of St Edward’s, Coleman Street. He snapped the twine, and read the words written on the paper in a firm, upright hand.

  Mr Boniface, East Lodge, The Crystal Palace, Sydenham

  Sir Joseph Paxton’s stupendous glass palace at Sydenham never failed to take Box’s breath away. Composed entirely of glass and iron, it rose to a height of 175 feet above the 200 acres of beautiful landscaped gardens. He had been brought there as a boy, spent leisurely days there in his youth, and had twice gone out there to arrest a brace of rather genteel suburban poisoners.

  The two detectives and Captain Adams made their way through the exuberant fountains and along the Upper Terrace until they came to a secluded square lodge surrounded by clipped privet hedges. It was clearly a much older building than the Crystal Palace, but it been dragooned by Paxton to serve as the East Lodge. Evidently they had been observed, for the door was opened by a genial, stooping man in tweeds, who was smoking a pipe, and holding what appeared to be a blueprint in his left hand.

  ‘Come in, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘I suppose one could say that you’re expected! My name’s Boniface. The colonel will be able to speak to you in just a few moments.’

  Boniface ushered them into the light and cheerful parlour of the lodge, where Colonel Sir Adrian Kershaw RA was standing at a table talking into a telephone. He smiled a delighted greeting to Adams, but held up his hand to prevent him speaking. He talked loudly and clearly into the instrument, which was of the new type, with a separate handset, and a cradle that could stand on a table.

  ‘… And you are quite sure that she spoke to the Dean of Durham personally? It’s very important to me…. Yes, I see. Did your informant hear her mention my young lady by name…? Yes, it sounds very much as though she’s making a move at last…. Yes, I agree, not before time! Thank you. I’ll close the line now. Goodbye.’

  Colonel Kershaw handed the instrument to Boniface, and shook Captain Adams heartily by the hand. He glanced at Box and Knollys, and motioned them to sit down at the round table, which was covered in maps and papers.

  ‘Ah! Adams! Home at last! What does the poem say – Home is the sailor, home from the sea, and the huntsman home from the chase. Something like that. Thank you, Box, for rooting him out, and bringing him here. I knew you’d turn up trumps over this business. Adams, I want you to give me the gist of your recent adventures. The details can wait until later. You may speak quite freely before these two officers – they’re seasoned colleagues of mine. Mr Boniface, would you please continue with your work on the model in the next room.’

  The pleasant man with the pipe raised a hand in an informal salute, and left the little parlour. Adams began his tale.

  ‘On 8 February, Kershaw, just a week after you and I returned from Porthcurno, I enlisted as an ordinary seaman, under the name Malcolm Enright, on board the Lermontov, which was then lying off Lowestoft. It was easy enough to arrange for someone to go sick, and to take his place. You know how it’s done. The salient facts are these. The crew was part Russian, part Lascar, and part German. They spoke English among themselves, which is common enough on merchant vessels with mixed crews.’

  ‘An interesting point, that. Pray continue.’

  ‘They appeared to be operating exclusively as a cable repair ship, and all the cable-lifting equipment and specialized tools were properly greased and ready for use. We set sail for Königsberg on the ninth, which was a Thursday, sailed through the North Sea, and into the Baltic, holding a steady course some mile or so from the German coast.

  ‘Nothing unusual happened until we neared Pillau, which, as you know, is the port of Königsberg. I assumed that we were going to sail into the Pillau channel, and tie up in the port. Instead, we continued several miles east, until the towers of Königsberg had disappeared. It wasn’t my place to ask questions, but I wondered what we were doing venturing so far into the East Prussian wilderness.’

  ‘Ah! Now we’re getting somewhere!’ said Kershaw. ‘I expect you passed the inlet to the Rundstedt Channel, didn’t you? You’d be fifteen miles east of Königsberg by then, and very near the Lithuanian coast of Russia.’

  ‘Exactly. We dropped anchor there, started the winch engines, and turned the drums. We raised a single cable, which I could see travelled under the sea towards the Prussian coast, spliced into it, and transmitted a long message. Obviously, I’ve no idea what that message was, but I assumed that it was designed to end up in Berlin. The ship has its own advanced transmission equipment.’

  ‘Could you see the Lithuanian coast from where you were anchored? Did you see—
Excuse me, one moment. Boniface! Come back in here, will you?’

  Still smoking his pipe and clutching his blueprints, the genial man in tweeds appeared at the door.

  ‘You called me, Colonel Kershaw?’

  ‘Yes. If you were anchored near the Rundstedt Channel, Boniface, within sight of the Lithuanian coast of Russia, what would you expect to see?’

  ‘Well, sir, on a nice clear day I’d expect to see a vast, rolling tract of woodland, and a solitary onion-domed church at the land’s edge. There’d be little or nothing visible on the Prussian coast, just scrubland and uncultivated wilderness.’

  ‘Thank you, Boniface. Was that more or less what you saw, Captain Adams? And was the date 15 February?’

  ‘Yes, it was. And I remember that church. The sun glinted off its gilded dome. I’ve no idea, as I said, what it was that they sent through that splice, because I was just an ordinary seaman. It wouldn’t have done to show any special interest in what was going on.’

  ‘It was on that day,’ said Kershaw, ‘that the German Foreign Office in Berlin received a message purporting to come from a German agent in Lithuania, telling them that a new and deadly weapon was being developed for use against Prussia. There was to be a “grand strike”, apparently, at Germany through its eastern territories, which would entail the destruction of the ancient Prussian capital of Königsberg. I think that’s what you helped to transmit, Adams. I rather think, too, that it was the first serious attempt at disruption after those test-runs through the English cable complex at Porthcurno.’

  9

  Baroness Felssen Calls

  Kershaw glanced at a sheet of paper which he had selected from the many spread out on the round table.

  ‘The Lermontov, as you know, Adams, was originally a vessel of the Imperial Russian Marine, built in the 1870s, but it was sold off a few years ago, and now belongs to the Olafsson Steamship Company, of Stavanger. That company is in turn owned by a financial grouping called the Brandenburg Consortium, registered as a private company in Hesse-Darmstadt. It makes you think, doesn’t it? It certainly makes me think.’