series 02 01 Conspiracy of Silence

by Andy Frankham-Allen

  “I would think that publication a dangerous step for one engaged in government service,” Annabelle said. “Will it not anger the very men upon whose favour you rely for advancement?”

  “I will publish it under a pen name,” Cartwright answered and made a dismissive gesture. “In any case, I care more for the truth than advancement. I entered the foreign service to serve Britain, but more and more I find myself answering to a small clique whose interests are contrary to those of the nation as a whole as often as they are in accord with them.”

  Bedford wondered what protection a pen name would provide against the curiosity of men that powerful, or for talk which bordered on sedition if not outright treason. Scarce or none was his estimate, but if this idealistic fool was hell-bent on destroying his career, it was none of his concern. Bedford’s interests were more centred in the moment, and he had to admit that Cartwright seemed to know a great deal about the hidden world of London’s power and influence, a world entirely beyond Bedford’s experience.

  They sat in the corner table of a tea room in Whitehall on King Charles Street not far from the Foreign Office building. Cartwright had slipped away from his office, supposedly on an errand, to meet them here. Bedford waited while a serving girl brought and served their tea and then left before he resumed in a low voice.

  “What of Gordon’s masters?” he asked, bringing the talk back to their pressing concern. “What do you know of his department?”

  “Quite a bit,” Cartwright answered. “His department is also mine, in a sense. You see, Major Gordon is with Military Intelligence while I am with the Foreign Office, but both come under the rubric of Lord Chillingham’s fief.”

  “Lord Chillingham?” Annabelle said. “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard of him before.”

  “He is the Lord Minister Overseas, and has been these last eleven years,” Cartwright said. “The two Lord Ministers, one for overseas and one for home, have oversight responsibilities for all actions of the government. In theory policy is made by the cabinet from Commons, and my department is run by the Foreign Secretary. But the Lord Ministers have so much control over promotion and advancement they wield enormous power over the bureaucracy. Nowhere is it more pronounced than in military intelligence, which Chillingham all but directs himself.”

  “So Gordon is his creature,” Bedford said. It fit what he knew of Gordon, and what he had found out since the attack on Boxing Day—none of which elevated Bedford’s opinion of the man from his initial unfavourable impression.

  “So I gather,” Cartwright said as he stirred sugar and cream into his tea after first offering both to Annabelle. “General Buller was made director of Military Intelligence about a year ago and he’s a bluff old soldier, not one willing to put up with Chillingham’s shadow games but not really able to put an end to them either—not without ending his own career and perhaps putting a noose around his neck in the bargain, ever since Salisbury drove through that damned Official Secrets Act last year. So Chillingham uses a handful of men personally loyal to him to carry out whatever jobs he wants done. I don’t know any of them by name, but it is now seems clear Gordon is one of them.”

  “It must be convenient for the Foreign Office to have such a close relationship with Military Intelligence,” Bedford ventured but Cartwright laughed.

  “They don’t tell us a damned thing. Buller’s people think we’re all in league with Chillingham and Chillingham’s act as if we’re agents of the French Commune. The best foreign intelligence we get comes from the Times, and whenever we have a particularly thorny question someone just pops over there and asks, confidentially of course. That’s where I’m supposed to be headed now, except I already know the identity of the new head of the Austrian legation in Brussels: a chap called Rudolf Graf von Khevenhuller-Metsch if you’re curious, although I can’t imagine why you would be.”

  Annabelle looked up from her tea and for a just an instant Bedford saw a flicker of the fear and stress she fought so hard to keep hidden. “But why is Lord Chillingham doing this?” she asked.

  “I regret that on that subject I am still very much in the dark,” Cartwright answered.

  “Well without that I’m afraid all of this is interesting but not very useful,” Bedford said and immediately regretted the sharpness of his words. “Of course, one never knows the value of a puzzle piece until most of the pieces are in place,” he added by way of conciliation. For a moment Cartwright looked at him keenly as if trying to sort out what Bedford meant by all that but then nodded firmly.

  “Quite right, and I will endeavour to discover more this afternoon. For over a week there has been considerable buzz in my office over the death of the Austrian ambassador, much of the concern seeming to come from above, and with the urgency rising than ebbing, which is curious. I will see where that leads me, and any inquiries I make along those lines will be fully justified by my supervisor’s concerns.”

  “Thank you, Fairfax,” Annabelle said and placed her hand on his arm. “I am very grateful for your help.”

  Fairfax? Bedford thought and looked at her. Cartwright seemed to expand in the face of her smile as a flower opening its petals before the sun. Bedford understood exactly how he felt.

  4.

  LÉCUYER’S BODY WAS carted away, and since neither Nathanial nor Edwin were suspects, the police allowed them the time for a late luncheon before they were required for questioning at the station. Edwin, still rather excitable about the whole thing, did not understand why they were required to attend Compton Place Police Station; after all it was clear that they had been out of town at the time of Lécuyer’s murder. Nathanial suspected they were being regarded as immaterial witnesses, since it was in Nathanial’s rooms that Lécuyer died, and no doubt that was due to a case of mistaken identity. Which meant that Nathanial was a targeted man, and this was a key factor in the case.

  They arrived at the police station in Compton Place a few hours later. As they entered they passed two people who were leaving the building. A tall man, although a few inches shorter than Nathanial, who was well dressed in his Ulster cape and double-breasted overcoat, if a little on the exquisite side. The man spoke with animation to a handsome young woman, with the tanned skin of someone used to life beyond darkest England, who was undoubtedly a suffragette if her knickerbockers were anything to go by.

  “That’s the nature of the police mind. They respond to authority.”

  “Like when you ordered him to arrange a…post-mortem?”

  “Exactly! Even a flat-footed imbecile like Sergeant Kyle knows authority when he hears it! Now, then, to the mortuary we go!”

  “To talk to the Cockney’s witch-doctor?”

  “One of London’s most eminent pathologists. Our visit to the Palace Theatre will have to wait.”

  The woman shrugged, clearly not terribly interested in such a trip anyway.

  Nathanial could not help but grin at their conversation. Flat-footed imbecile, indeed! He had dealt with many people in authority over the last couple of years, and Nathanial could not disagree with that man’s assessment. He noticed Edwin looking back at the woman, his eyes wide with wonder. “You would have adored Annabelle,” Nathanial said softly.

  “Your American friend? Perhaps you need to introduce us, if she is anything like that Amazonian wonder,” Edwin said, eyes still lingering on the strange couple as they turned a corner onto Hunter Place.

  Nathanial frowned. Would that he could! He was still awaiting further information from Sir Eleias, and, as they walked up to the desk, he wondered if Annabelle herself had any connection to Lécuyer’s murder. Not directly, of course, but whoever wanted Nathanial dead could well be after Annabelle next.

  A police officer stood behind a desk, and looked up as Nathanial and Edwin approached. This was, no doubt, the flat-footed imbecile Sergeant Kyle. “Yes, gentlemen?” he asked, a singular disinterest in his voice.

  Nathanial looked around. He was not accustomed to being in a police station. “
I believe we are expected.”

  “Very good, sir.” Kyle opened the small ledger before him. “Name, sir?”

  “Nathanial Stone, and this my brother, Edwin.”

  Kyle regarded the ledger, running his finger down a list of names. Nathanial peered in closer, in an attempt to assist, but pulled back at the glare he received from Kyle. As with the constable earlier, there was a definite whiff of alcohol on Kyle’s breath. Was every member of London’s Metropolitan Police Force a heavy drinker? If so, it certainly explained a great deal, Nathanial considered.

  “I’m afraid you do not appear to be on the list, Mister Stone. Perhaps you could tell me what your business here is regarding?”

  “Well…ah, a man was murdered in my rooms, and…”

  Kyle stood up straight, his attention now fully focussed on Nathanial. “Murder, you say? Well, then, sir, that’s a different kettle of fish. Perhaps if you would care to…”

  “That will not be necessary, Kyle,” came an imperious voice from behind Kyle.

  Nathanial peered over Kyle’s shoulder and, for a brief moment, thought he was looking at Major General Sir Charles Warren, but then he realised the man was clearly too young…besides which, of course, Sir Charles died in mysterious circumstances in the summer of 1888, leading to the appointment of James Monro as Commissioner of the Police Metropolis. Grub Street had been awash with the news at the time, and they even tried to incriminate Monro in Sir Charles’ death, but as usual with the hyperbole of the London press such a story soon died on its feet. Nonetheless, the man approaching Nathanial bore a curious likeness to Sir Charles, possibly due to his massive Prussian style moustache, curling below the edges of the mouth.

  “Professor Stone, good of you to attend. I am Inspector Starling, and will personally be looking into the death of Archibald Lécuyer.” He shook Nathanial’s hand, and looked to Edwin. “And who is this?”

  “My brother, Edwin Stone.”

  “I see.” Starling nodded sharply. “I do not think he will be necessary.”

  “But, your constable told me to attend,” Edwin said.

  “Regardless, your assistance will not be required, Mister Stone. Are you renting the rooms in which Mister Lécuyer was murdered?” Before Edwin could answer, Inspector Starling continued, “no, indeed. And are you the intended victim of this crime? I tell you again, no.” He smiled at Edwin, as a teacher to a particularly slow pupil, and turned back to Nathanial. “If you will accompany me, Professor?”

  Starling returned the way he came, and paused at the open door. He looked back expectantly. Nathanial turned to Edwin.

  “I am sorry, Edwin. Return to my rooms, I shall be as quick as I can.”

  “But, Nathanial, I…”

  “Edwin, please do as I say.”

  It was clear that Edwin wished to argue the point, but Nathanial’s expression would broker no further discussion. Crestfallen, his brother turned and walked out of the police station.

  “Professor?”

  “I am coming, Inspector,” Nathanial said, and followed Starling through the door.

  5.

  “FORGIVE ME INSPECTOR, but I am confused. As I understand it, there are only four inspectors to each police division in London, so I fail to understand why you would be personally handling this investigation. Death, even murder, is not an irregular occurrence in London.”

  Inspector Starling regarded Nathanial with caution. “Are you aware of Mister Lécuyer’s position in the government?”

  Nathanial blinked. “He worked for the government?”

  Starling nodded slowly. “Quite so, a civil servant of some import. It would not be a stretch to say that his word has often helped decide national policy. I can see this is news to you, Professor.”

  “Well…yes. I mean, we never discussed his work, but I always assumed…” Nathanial shook his head. “Well, I do not know what I assumed, but I never imagined this!”

  “It is not common knowledge, which is most prudent given his…eccentricities.”

  Nathanial frowned. Eccentricities indeed! He had partaken in such eccentricities himself, and now truly wished he had not. If Lécuyer’s personal vices were known, then who was to say how many knew of Nathanial’s involvement? If such information was exposed publicly it would ruin his career before he had a chance to get it started again.

  “Now you understand my interest. The department of criminal investigation will no doubt wish to get their hands on this case, but not before I do.” Starling smiled. “I have some questions for you, and if you can answer with complete candour it would be most appreciated. Not to say sensible.”

  “Well, of course, anything I can do to get to the bottom of this debacle. Why someone would wish me harm is of great interest to me, you know.”

  “Quite so.” Starling looked to the papers on the desk before him, and retrieved a pen, dipping it in the inkpot. “Were you aware that Mister Lécuyer had keys to your rooms?”

  “He did?”

  “Indeed. Keys for your rooms were found about his person.”

  “Edwin and I suspected he must have had keys, since there was no sign of forced entry. But I have no idea why he would need such keys. After all, I was renting the rooms from him, and the only one who should have had keys other than myself is the housekeeper.”

  “Miss Mary Carmichael,” Starling said, consulting his notes. “Yes, we shall get to her shortly. You are an inventor; were you working on anything important? The designs found in Lécuyer’s hands seem rather advanced. More work for Her Majesty’s Navy?”

  “No, my ties with the Navy were severed last month. Since returning to London I have been working on private designs. Artificial limbs. Even now I have a company interested in purchasing the rights to use my patents.”

  “And you do not find your bandaged hand a handicap in your work?”

  Nathanial looked down at his right hand. He had removed the sling before leaving Putney, but still the hand was bandaged, reinforcing his weakened wrist. It would be a long time before those bones fully knitted together again. “It has been difficult, but not impossible.”

  Starling nodded. “Determination is a sign of a strong man, Professor Stone. Could it be that someone feels threatened by your resolve?”

  Nathanial shook his head. This was all too much. He had trusted Lécuyer, considered him a friend, and now it seemed Lécuyer had an ulterior motive for his interest in Nathanial. It was not financial, that much Nathanial knew, since Lécuyer was solvent enough. Someone wanted Nathanial dead, that much had become clear, but now it appeared that someone else had an unhealthy interest in him, only he knew not what. “I cannot account for why Arch… Mister Lécuyer would wish to procure my designs. What use could they be to the government?”

  “Who is to say? In all likelihood this is unrelated, except in that Lécuyer was in your rooms, for whatever reason, and was mistaken as you.”

  “Pure chance, I should say. Had Lécuyer not fallen into a fever, I daresay he would have not even been at home. As you are aware of his…ah, eccentricities, I am sure you understand. It is most likely he would have been away from home for the New Year.”

  “And you would have been in residence?”

  “Yes,” Nathanial said slowly, “had we not been invited to the country by Mister Burroughs to celebrate our new business partnership, I suspect I would have been at home.” He swallowed hard. “I would have been the one found dead.”

  For a moment Starling allowed Nathanial the silence, to compose his thoughts. “The question remains, who would want you dead, Professor? What is important about you that is worth killing for? And how did the assailant gain entry? We intend to speak to Miss Carmichael when she returns.”

  “She is running late,” Nathanial pointed out. He sat forward suddenly. “Of course! If she is, for whatever reason, part of this, then she is most likely not running late at all. But gone into hiding!” He shook his head. “Why is this happening to me?”

  “That is w
hat we’re trying to ascertain, Professor Stone.” An abrupt knock at the door interrupted them. Starling looked up sharply, not in the least amused. “What is it?”

  The door opened and the last person Nathanial had expected to see walked into the inspector’s room. Nathanial was not used to seeing him out of uniform, nor with a full beard, but the sly smile he gave Nathanial was unmistakable.

  The newcomer looked at Inspector Starling, who had the look of a child about to lose his favourite toy. “The investigation ends here, I’m afraid, James,” Captain Folkard said.

  Chapter Nine

  “Gathering Stones”

  1.

  A DARK WINTER’S night was falling early as Nathanial trudged through the backstreets of London, respirator and goggles firmly attached to his face, following Folkard towards the place of his lodgings. Although Nathanial did not know the backstreets as well as the captain, his sense of direction was strong enough that he realised they were walking south west of Compton Place. In other words, towards the land that was owned by the Duke of Bedford; now known as the Bedford Estate, it comprised many square miles, wherein the Thomas Cubitt firm helped to develop several garden squares, including Russell Square, Bloomsbury Square, Tavistock Square and…

  “Really, Captain, Bedford Square?” Nathanial asked, with some amusement, as they emerged from the backstreets.

  Folkard glanced back at Nathanial. “Indeed, Professor, suitably lower class enough for my purposes. Considering the unconventional mission I am on, I do not wish to attract undue attention.”

  “I understand that, but I was referring to your choice of residence.”

  “Oh, I see.” Folkard grinned. “A nice touch of irony, do you not think? Best place to hide things is the most obvious place, since no one would think to look there.”

  Although Folkard’s mission was still a mystery to Nathanial, it was clearly important enough for him to intercede at Compton Place Police Station, so Nathanial was not sure he appreciated the good humour the captain had about him. He made no mention of this, however, intrigued despite himself, and so he accompanied Folkard on this journey through the backstreets of the Bedford Estate.