Web of Discord

by Norman Russell

  ‘Excellent!’ said von Hagen. ‘The voice of reason has been heard. I would suggest that such a conference should be held in Vienna, at the invitation of the Austrian Emperor.’

  ‘I applaud the suggestion,’ said Major Count Menschikov. ‘But I would expect a date to be fixed as soon as possible. We cannot wait for months and months. Today is the third of April. The heads of government must assemble this month, and the Austrian Imperial Chancellor must be invited to arbitrate between us.’

  Napier listened to the murmurs of agreement, and watched as the meeting broke up. In the way of pourparlers, there had been no formal closure. There was a lot of stiff bowing, and frigid politesse.

  As von Hagen and his secretary left the room, Colonel Kershaw sprang to his feet. ‘Excuse me, Napier,’ he whispered, ‘but I must go after that man.’ Before Napier could reply, Kershaw had hurried out into the vestibule.

  In an empty, echoing room on the ground floor of the Foreign Office, Colonel Kershaw talked earnestly to Colonel von Hagen. He had caught the Prussian diplomat as he was nearing the exit into Whitehall, and persuaded him to send his secretary away.

  ‘Von Hagen,’ Kershaw was saying earnestly, ‘while I applaud the idea of a conference at Vienna, I’m convinced that it would be an irrelevance. I want you to get a massive grip on your temper, and listen calmly to what I’m about to say. Russia is quite guiltless of any designs on Eastern Prussia—’

  ‘But I tell you I have seen their intercepted cables! Their intentions were made abundantly clear. I read them myself.’

  ‘You can read Russian?’

  ‘No. They were in German.’

  ‘Why? Why should Russians communicate with each other in German? You were meant to read those cables, and the people who sent them out were not Russians. They were Germans. Have you ever heard of a man called Bleibner?’

  ‘Hans Bleibner? Yes. He was a colonial servant, dismissed for cruelty to the natives in the African prison where he worked. He was one of those romantic fanatics that grew up in Germany after our victories over France and Denmark. He was a misfit, attracted to secret societies like the Eidgenossenschaft, the Red Hand Brethren, and all the rest of the riff-raff.’

  ‘Well, Colonel, Bleibner has been very successful in England, creating hatred of the Russians. It was he, under the name of Karenin, who arranged for the murder of Sir John Courteline. He has since been quite successful in killing various agents of the Crown. I believe that Scotland Yard has issued a general warrant for his arrest.’

  ‘Karenin! Naturally, I believe what you tell me, Colonel Kershaw. But are you saying that Russia is as innocent as the babe newborn?’

  ‘Oh, no. Of course not. They have that monstrous machine under construction in the Lithuanian forests. Have you heard about it? What purpose lies behind that? Germany is right to fear Russia in the Baltic. You would be mad to do otherwise. But the danger to peace is not coming from Russia: it’s coming from within Germany itself. It’s coming, Colonel, from the remnants of the Eidgenossenschaft, and its financial outlet, the Brandenburg Consortium, which owns the rogue cable-ship Lermontov.’

  Colonel von Hagen looked at the mild, sandy-haired man sitting opposite him. This man was one of the powers behind the British Throne. Only two months previously, in the events surrounding the secret of the Hansa Protocol, he had destroyed the leading lights of one of Germany’s notorious semi-secret societies which had almost brought Britain and Germany to the brink of war. Now he was saying that the Eidgenossenschaft – the ‘Linked Ring’, as the English had called it – was still operating. It would be imprudent to trust this man absolutely: it would be foolish not to listen calmly to what he had to say.

  ‘Please tell me the whole story, Colonel Kershaw,’ said the German military attaché. ‘I have already spoken confidentially to Sir Charles Napier. If I am persuaded of the truth of what you tell me, I will place all my expertise at your service.’

  They talked together for over an hour. It was nearing ten o’clock when they stood up, shook hands, and parted. Kershaw enquired about Sir Charles Napier at the reception desk, and was told that the Under-Secretary had already left for St John’s Wood. He refused the porter’s offer to summon a cab, and stood on the Foreign Office steps, looking out at the stream of evening traffic in Whitehall. A thin rain had begun, and the pavements gleamed wet in the gaslight.

  Diplomats! They spoke their own language, and imprisoned themselves in the gaol of arid form and protocol. It had been stifling back there, listening to Laplace rehearsing his latest experiment in sarcasm, and watching poor Menschikov dropping the mask of political etiquette, and threatening Germany with annihilation. Napier was no different. He actually enjoyed that kind of scene, and he’s got his own way in the end. A conference at Vienna, with which he’d be associated. Napier had never had a conference.

  Colonel von Hagen was a different matter. Proud, arrogant and a firebrand, he was at the same time an utterly honest man, who could recognize and respond to honesty in others. For an hour they had discussed, among other things, the nature of the East Prussian terrain, especially the wide and wild tract of land on either side of the Rundstedt Channel. The area, von Hagen had told him, lay in the section of Brandenburg-Prussia protected by Military Field District 7, the headquarters of which were at Lindstedt-Schwanefeld, twelve miles south-west of Königsberg. There was a militia barracks at Gehrendorf, not three miles from the harbour at Rundstedt….

  He would have to drop some very strong hints to Count von und zu Thalberg when he met him at Minster Priory at the weekend. Thalberg would know what strings to pull in Berlin. If this venture came off well, someone had better put in a discreet word for von Hagen with the German Chancellor….

  Damn! It was starting to rain heavily, and he couldn’t stand here for ever on the Foreign Office steps. How odd it was to be so alone at a time like this! The man he’d really like to talk to was— Surely that was him, now, standing at the entrance to Downing Street, talking to a couple of constables? Yes, it was Inspector Box. The constables have saluted, and Box has raised his hat. Now they’re walking off towards King Charles Street. If Box is going back to King James’s Rents, he’ll have to cross the road…. Yes, here he is.

  ‘Good evening, Mr Box. Are you, by any chance, free at the moment? I’d like a word with you, if that’s convenient.’

  ‘Good evening, Colonel Kershaw. Yes, I’m free, sir, and I’d very much like a word with you. Are you going my way?’

  Kershaw hurried down the steps, and joined Box in the street. It was wet, but not cold, and somehow the presence of the perky young police inspector lifted the colonel’s spirits. They walked along in silence for a minute or two until they reached the rather gloomy entrance to Whitehall Place. Kershaw stopped, and took Box by the sleeve.

  ‘Mr Box,’ he said, ‘do you know somewhere private where you and I can speak undisturbed? I don’t want to go with you to King James’s Rents, because someone there may recognize me, and start to draw unwelcome conclusions.’

  Arnold Box glanced round rather helplessly. What would the colonel consider to be ‘somewhere private’? Well, better to be hanged for a sheep as a lamb. He’d take him to Pat Nolan’s place in Sussex Lane.

  ‘If you’ll follow me, sir,’ said Box, ‘I know just the place. It’s only two minutes from here.’

  Kershaw followed Box down a very dark cobbled alley which seemed to have no pavements. After a hundred yards or so they turned abruptly right, and came into a dimly lit road, lined with small commercial premises, all firmly closed and shuttered. At one end of the road a blaze of light spilled out of a public house, from which came the noise of cheerfully raucous singing, accompanied on a very loud piano.

  ‘This is Sussex Lane, sir,’ said Box, ‘and that’s the Duke of Sussex. We’ll be able to have a quiet talk there.’

  Box pushed open a door at the side of the public house, and the two men entered a pitch dark passage. The noise of singing, and the fortissimo cra
shing of the piano, came to them loudly through a glazed door to their right, upon which Kershaw could read the reversed letters ‘Private’.

  Really, thought Kershaw, what extraordinary places Box knows! There’s a man with pretensions to a tenor voice singing something now, and the pianist seems to be in a thumping frenzy about it. What is the fellow singing?

  Martha, (thump, thump)

  What’ve you done to my Arthur? (thump, thump)

  My Arthur was a good boy, till now! (thump, thump, thump, thump)

  Box suddenly pushed open the door, and poked his head into the public bar. A miasma of beer fumes and tobacco smoke hit them, and the noise of the singer and his accompanist increased fourfold. Kershaw watched Box semaphore some request or other to a stout, cheerful man in shirt sleeves who was standing behind the bar. The man nodded, smiled, and jerked a thumb towards the ceiling.

  He’s only seventeen, and a soldier of the Queen,

  Too young for walking out with girls like you – Oh!

  Martha (thump, thump)….

  Box closed the door on the deafening scene, and began to mount a flight of stairs that Kershaw could now see in the gloom of the passage. They came to a small landing, and Box opened a door which took them into a long room overlooking the cobbled street. The inspector struck a match, went over to the fireplace, and lit the gas bracket over the mantelpiece. The light sprang to life with a little plop.

  ‘We won’t be disturbed here, sir,’ said Box. ‘This is the meeting room of the Ancient Order of Jebusites, a kind of benevolent club. It’s not much of a place, but it’ll serve the purpose.’

  The room was furnished with a number of tables and many chairs, and smelt of stale beer. There were pictures of race-horses on the walls, and the words ‘Ancient Order of Jebusites’ had been written neatly in whiting on the mirror. The two men sat down at one of the tables. They could still hear the frantic singing in the public bar below, but it had a muted sound, now. Evidently, thought Kershaw, the floors at the Duke of Sussex were made of stout stuff.

  ‘How can I help you, sir?’ There was a very slight hint of restraint in Box’s voice which Kershaw was quick to notice, because he had expected it.

  ‘You can help me, at once, Mr Box, by clearing the air. You’re annoyed about what happened to Sergeant Knollys, so you’d better say what you have to say about that before we proceed.’

  ‘It’s six days now, sir,’ Box replied, ‘since the man called Bleibner tried to kill my sergeant. I’ve visited him in University College Hospital, and he told me that you had called in to see him. That was very much appreciated by both of us. I spoke to the doctor who’s looking after him, and he told me that the hatpin missed the right lung by the merest fraction of an inch, snapping when it came into contact with one of the ribs. Knollys survived by sheer accident. Naturally, sir, I’m annoyed.’

  ‘Bleibner once trained as a surgeon,’ said Kershaw. ‘Somebody told me that, the other day. That’s why he was successful in despatching poor Mr Oldfield in his sleep. Can you guess why I sent Mr Knollys to Northumberland – accompanied, I may say, by a platoon of soldiers from the Northumberland Fusiliers?’

  Box smiled to himself, and sat back in his chair. What was the use of being annoyed with a man who had to juggle at times with the destiny of the nation? There was neither the space nor the time for the luxury of annoyance when you were involved with Colonel Kershaw.

  ‘Oh, yes, sir, I know well enough why you sent him up there. I spent a long evening in Westminster with Miss Drake, who told me everything about her visit to Stonewick Hall. She was angry with herself for fainting, and very relieved to hear that Sergeant Knollys will be out of hospital by the weekend.’

  ‘So all’s well between you and me? Good. Speaking of Miss Drake, I’ll be calling on her tomorrow. I expect you can imagine what I am going to say to her. But now, Box, I want to hear what you think all this Russian business is about. I promise you I’ll not interrupt you while you tell me your ideas.’

  ‘Sir, I believe this whole business has been engineered to turn Britain and Germany against Russia. There has been serious interference with the cable system at Porthcurno, where false messages have been fed into the cables from a rogue ship, the Lermontov, posing as a Russian vessel, but in reality nothing of the sort. We’ve seen the results of that mischief in the newspapers: threatened invasions of India and Canada, and the atrocity of the sinking of the Berlin Star by an armed vessel flying the Russian ensign. I could go on, sir, but I’m beginning to think that time is precious in this business.’

  ‘I’m convinced that you’re right, Box. In fact, I know you’re right. What else?’

  ‘One of the active agents in this scheme to blacken Russia’s reputation is the man I call the Hatpin Man – Dr N.I. Karenin. That is the man who arranged for the assassination of Sir John Courteline, brought about the death of a man called Joseph Kitely, and then murdered Mr Gabriel Oldfield with one of his lethal hatpins.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘It was Karenin who silenced a young man called William Pascoe, who had come to suspect the truth of the whole matter. And now, as a result of the events in Northumberland, I know that this Karenin is, in fact, a German called Bleibner, the man who attempted to murder Sergeant Knollys. They are clearly the same person. The fact that both are suffering from some kind of leprous skin complaint can’t be sheer coincidence.’

  ‘And so you’ve drawn a conclusion, haven’t you? Don’t be shy of telling me, Box, because your conclusion is true.’

  ‘The people behind this spate of outrages is the Linked Ring, the gang of terrorists to which the late but unlamented Count and Countess Czerny belonged. Miss Drake saw their memorial portraits in Baroness Feissen’s house. It’s the Linked Ring.’

  ‘It is, Mr Box. The Eidgenossenschaft. The idea, of course, is to drive Britain and Germany into each other’s arms, and to send them eastward, united against Russia. They failed by force last time; this time, they hope to succeed by cunning. In the next few weeks, I intend to send the whole lot of them to perdition.’

  Both men sat in silence for a minute, listening to the hissing of the gas bracket over the mantelpiece. In the bar below, the piano still made itself heard, as a man with a deep voice began a mournful song which began with the line:

  Peggy, come back o’er the briny to me.

  ‘Well done, Mr Box,’ said Kershaw quietly. ‘You’ve arrived at those conclusions with precious little help from me. What do you propose to do next?’

  ‘Sir, I have obtained warrants of arrest for the man Hans Bleibner, alias N.I. Karenin, on separate charges of murder. I intend to go after him, and arrest him. I gather that he was able to escape from Stonewick Hall.’

  ‘He was. I imagine that he has already made his way back to Germany. He has an apartment in Berlin, so I’m told.’

  ‘And this Baroness Felssen, sir – how did she manage to escape? All those gallant soldier-boys weren’t much use, were they? If I’d been in charge up there, the good baroness wouldn’t have escaped. Not half she wouldn’t!’

  ‘Well, Box, these things do happen. Things don’t always go exactly according to plan. But to return to your arrest-warrants. If you’re going after Bleibner personally, your path would be very much smoothed if you came with me. Wait a little while until I’m ready, and then you and I – and a few others – can cross France and into Germany with no impediments placed in our way. That I can guarantee.’

  Box stood up. It was nearing midnight, and the denizens of the Duke of Sussex would soon be pouring out on to the wet cobbles of Sussex Lane.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Box. ‘I accept your invitation. I’d very much like to be of assistance to you when you send the remnants of the Linked Ring to perdition.’

  Vanessa Drake opened the door of her sitting-room, stood aside for Colonel Kershaw to enter, then resumed her seat at the table. As usual, he sat down opposite her without being invited. She watched him as he peeled off his black suede
gloves, and dropped them into his tall silk hat. He retained his long dark coat with its astrakhan collar, thus maintaining the fiction that he had just dropped in while passing.

  ‘Well, missy,’ he said quietly, after looking at her inscrutably for a minute or more, ‘it looks as though you and I have come to the parting of the ways.’

  She felt the tears sting her eyes, and dashed them away angrily. That was a sure way to arouse his contempt. He’d think that she was trying to appeal to his fatherly concern for her welfare. Best to say nothing. Just listen.

  ‘When you agreed to join my crowd, Miss Drake, I explained to you what being a “nobody” entailed. It meant carrying out a simple but vital task, then retiring from the scene. I warned you this time that your identity was known at Stonewick Hall, and I told you to look and listen. You were not to pry. You chose to disobey me.’

  Vanessa’s mind leapt back to the snow-pocked cemetery at Highgate, where this modest, respectful artillery officer had approached her as she left the grave of Arthur Fenlake, her murdered fiancé. His offer of work with the secret intelligence service had given her new life, and with the passing of the weeks she had realized the enormous power exerted in the state by her newfound friend and mentor. And now it was all to end.

  ‘You chose to disobey me,’ Kershaw repeated. ‘You chose to be a “somebody” instead of a “nobody”, and the result was that Sergeant Knollys was stabbed in the chest by a hatpin, wielded by one of the most dangerous men in England. What do you say to that?’