A Spider in the Cup

by Barbara Cleverly

  Joe told him. “But make sure you’re exchanging a salute when you utter the words. That way, their gun hand is nowhere near their holster.”

  “My fault. I’ve been neglecting them. I’ve been spending more time than I ought on your American.”

  Joe trusted Bacchus’s nose for trouble well enough to feel uneasy. “Give me what you have, James. I’ll make some notes and save you the time.” He began to write.

  “So, all going quietly about their business … He lunched where? Hotel Victoria? Ah, yes. This was scheduled, I understand. Prime Minister and the ambassador present—that meeting. And you covered it yourself? Good man. Luncheon in honour of Cordell Hull. Given by? The Pilgrims … Pilgrims? Who are they? I confess ignorance.”

  “It’s an Anglo-American Friendship charity. A very grand one. You know—it’s a reference to the Mayflower, the ship that carried the first English pilgrims to Cape Cod in sixteen twenty. They have more descendants than you’d believe over there, considering half the passengers died within a year of landing. President: the Duke of Connaught. Patrons: our king and the president of the United States, whoever he happens to be. They gathered to hear an address by Lord Derby and drink a toast to”—Bacchus referred to a notebook—“to ‘the continuance of good relations between this country and the United States.’ Cordell Hull replied that the Pilgrims’ organization had become renowned throughout the world by reason of the splendid services it had rendered in fomenting friendship and cementing better relations between nations.”

  Joe stifled a yawn. He was getting restive and wanted to move on. “All this fomenting and cementing is nothing but good news, I’m sure. I can’t think of a safer place for our bird to be roosting than in the bosom of these patriots. Did you get a guest list? I’d like to hear who was there.”

  “Just get a copy of tomorrow’s Times. I noticed their journalist was let in. It was hardly a hush-hush do! I’m surprised they didn’t open with a fanfare. Batting for England we had: our Prime Minister Macdonald and half the aristocracy … a few generals and admirals, a couple of bishops. For the away team: Secretary of State Hull … senators, governors, the consul general. And from both sides of the Atlantic: a seriously heavy brigade of bankers.”

  Joe’s expression of slight boredom was enlivened by a flash of humour. “Thank God no one put a bomb in the surprise pudding. The wealth makers of the world would have been splattered over London!”

  “Strawberries, crème de la crème and blue blood sauce,” Bacchus spoke grimly. “A real Eton Mess we’d have had to clear up!” He shrugged the idea away. “No. Never likely to happen. Military Intelligence were there in force. Ex-guardsmen,” he sniffed. “Blended right in. But the Branch had it covered just in case. Someone had to keep the glasses charged. I buzzed about like a bee in honeysuckle time. Those blokes do a lot of toasting.”

  Joe smiled with anticipation at the picture of neat, slim, unctuous James Bacchus leaning close to the world’s most powerful men as they grew increasingly inebriated and indiscreet.

  “Can’t wait to hear!”

  “Nothing too exciting, I’m glad to say. I could hope it set the mood for the conference. After a lot of heart-swelling stuff about the Magna Carta, Habeas Corpus, the balustrades of Boston and the Liberty Bell they got down to the serious pledges. These appeared to be: ‘Action rather than words’ and ‘the World Conference must not fail because it dare not fail.’ ”

  “No objectors to that?”

  “No one. Not a single voice raised in dissent. ‘Brothers across the Briny’ was definitely the theme.”

  “Fine sentiments! I’d have raised my glass to that! Let’s hope Kingstone was listening. Did he appear moved by all this high-minded fervour?”

  “Hard to tell. He behaved himself. Taking more in than he was giving out. He tucked into the food but I’ll swear he only drank a couple of glasses throughout the meal. Saving himself, I expect.”

  “For what?”

  “He knew he was going on somewhere afterwards.”

  Joe picked up the slight unease in Bacchus’s voice. “Not according to our schedule, he wasn’t, James.”

  “Oh, it was cleverly done. He stuck to the time and the place; he went in to the Victoria with Pilgrims, spent time in their exclusive company and came out four hours later. I’m sure no one else would have noticed and perhaps I’m being a bit hysterical …”

  “But?”

  “All a bit odd. After the lunch party broke up, some of the fellows lingered behind. A group of eight plus Kingstone. They settled down together at a table and lit cigars. Gawd! I thought I was going to be stuck there until supper time! But no. One of them told me to have brandy served in the small private dining room next door. They each picked up a little leather case. A similar one was handed to Kingstone, who didn’t appear to have come equipped and didn’t seem to know quite what he was expected to do with it. They wandered off laughing and joking into the next room. They accepted a tray of brandy and nine glasses but dismissed me at the door. ‘We’ll wait on ourselves, steward.’ Sorry, Joe, I couldn’t get near. And the Vic’s private dining room is one we haven’t yet managed to crack.”

  Joe’s antennae were twitching. “You have names for these gentlemen?”

  “Not all. I recognised one or two. There was a banker whose name will make your eyes pop. Two industrialists who made fortunes in the war, a retired English admiral, two other blokes I’d never seen or heard of before and a villain I did recognise from his pictures in the press.” Bacchus extracted a brown envelope from his pile and put it down in front of Joe.

  Joe looked with interest. The man in question had clearly claimed the attention of the Branchman. He read the name on the front in disbelief, then read it out loud. “I say—have they spelled this correctly?”

  “Heimdallr Abraham Lincoln Ackermann?”

  Bacchus nodded.

  “Who the devil’s this when he’s at home? And where on earth is his home? German surname, Scandinavian first name and American in the middle? That places him in the mid-Atlantic somewhere south of Iceland, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Right. A man who carries his autobiography in his name. Prussian father, Swedish mother, brought up in the States.”

  “How did Abraham Lincoln get in on the act?”

  “Mother’s hero, apparently, though she, being an aristocratic sort of Swede, insisted on giving her son an ancient Scandinavian first name. Look inside—you may recognise him.”

  Joe opened up the file and studied the photograph pasted inside. A bespectacled, middle-aged man with pale face and neatly trimmed grey moustache looked back at him with a benevolent and slightly questioning expression from under the brim of a straw boater set precisely in the centre of his head. This was not a man to wear his hat at a roguish angle. His suit was neat, his glasses had thin gold rims. He seemed to be asking, “Will that be all, sir?”

  “I do recognise him. It’s my local pharmacist. Makes a point of asking discreetly if sir has everything he requires for the weekend. I’ll tell you who it isn’t—Heimdallr, son of Odin, King of the Gods! This chap couldn’t wield a paper-knife, let alone a broadsword. What’s he done to raise your blood pressure?”

  “His weapon’s the pen! Are you telling me you haven’t heard of him? They told me you’d been primed …” Bacchus was stunned. “I’ll give you a minute to read through his details and another minute to get your breath back.”

  Bacchus was chuffed to hear the low growl as Joe caught up. “Ackermann! Someone mentioned his name to me just the other day. One among many new ministers. How did you identify him?”

  Bacchus was clearly pleased with himself judging by the studied casualness of his reply. “It was tricky. The chap was speaking with an American accent and the others were calling him ‘Abe’ so it was a moment or two before the penny dropped.”

  Trying to remain calm, Joe asked, “And what, do you suppose, the new President of the German General Bank is doing in London masquerading as
a Pilgrim?”

  “Dunno. Guest of honour? Possible. But he could be a bona fide member for all we know. They don’t publish a list. It’s as easy to get a list of members from them as from a London club. In other words—forget it. A starchy ‘Our members know who they are,’ is the only response you get.”

  “But—a German citizen?”

  “They do get about, you know. We don’t own the Atlantic. The pilgrims—the original seed corn, you might say, were from several different European nations including Germany, all fleeing religious or political persecution in various lands. There were Ackermanns in Pennsylvania in the seventeen hundreds. It means ‘farmer’ and lots of farmers emigrated.”

  Joe was becoming increasingly concerned that James had all these facts at his fingertips and said so.

  “Right. This man just happens to be at the top of my pile of foreigners to watch. I’d say he’s the key man in Herr Hitler’s new government. One of the first appointments he made. He’s got the banking slot all right but he’s also Advisor for Economics and is, we hear, about to be given charge of Hitler’s policy of redevelopment, re-industrialization and—rearmament.”

  Joe groaned. “So there was a bombe surprise to follow after all.”

  “Yup! He’ll be the bloke who signs the cheques for the tanks and the bombers and the roads and the airstrips. And—more importantly—who conjures up the cash to back them. I began to wonder in my suspicious way if this meeting within a meeting had been called to arrange a few transfers between consenting parties. I expected his little case to contain a paying-in book as well as a cheque book and gold pen but, no—there was another little surprise in those cases.” Bacchus said cheerfully.

  “Hang on—these attaché cases—you’ve lost me. What did they look like?”

  “A bit like the things Freemasons carry their leather pinnies to meetings in. No distinguishing marks. All the same design. A job lot you’d say.”

  “Oh, Lord! A secret society! That’s all we need!”

  “That’s what I thought. So I acquired one of them. Just to check.”

  “Safely acquired?”

  “Of course. When they left I was on the spot and I helped the one who was most unsteady on his pins into his coat. The gentleman happened to drop his case during the manoeuvre and staggered off without it. Luckily it had his name in it. Turns out he’s a certain Adolphus Crewe from New York. A top lawyer with links to the FBI. I got the Victoria to ring his hotel (which happened to be Claridge’s) ten minutes later with a message that it had been handed in and was in safekeeping. Would he collect or should they send it round?”

  “Ten minutes? Was that long enough to break the US navy code?”

  “We did that last year. Took us five. No—there was nothing much in there to detain the attention.”

  “Well, go on. What was there?”

  There was a pause as Bacchus considered. “A square of leather. Plus eighteen ivory counters. It’s a game. A portable game.”

  “What? Like drafts? Chequers?”

  “Not quite. It’s a very ancient game. Though you can still get them at Hamleys toy shop in Regent Street. Goes back to Ancient Egypt. The Bronze Age Celts of Ireland played it. The Romans whiled away the hours on Hadrian’s wall with it. My uncle Arthur was addicted. He carried one about with him too in his pocket. But—more significantly—the pilgrims, confined at sea aboard their tiny ship for two months, played it. It’s called Nine Men’s Morris.”

  “And those were the Nine Men? Is that what you’re thinking? That you’d uncovered a secret gaming club? An inner temple dedicated to an ancient tradition? More like a joking link with the past, I’d say. The Masons go in for that sort of stuff, don’t they? Leather aprons, scrolls, memorised speeches?” He floundered on: “You’ll probably find the others in the society know what’s going on and think it’s a bit of a laugh. The men you tracked may be a special group who’ve achieved the Ninth Level of Peregrination and are accordingly charged with the preservation of the Society’s ancient rituals. Seems a harmless, bloke-ish way of spending the afternoon. Wish we had the time, James …”

  Bacchus left a silence in which Joe replayed his own dismissive, comfortable words. His voice took on a little uncertainty as he added, “Look, James, I’ll tell you straight: I don’t much like splinter groups or secret societies within societies.”

  “Time wasters usually. Overgrown boy scouts. All mouth, no trousers. They probably collect cigarette cards too. But—speaking of cards—they’re not the only collectors. I have my own bits of memorabilia. Tell you what …” Bacchus looked at his watch. “I’ll make time to rootle through my files with the Times list in hand and send round a rogues’ gallery for you to give your opinion on. All the faces I can remember. It may be important.”

  “You’re needling me into saying the obvious: these nine men are no boy scouts. They’re running our world, aren’t they?”

  “I’d say so. They’re certainly greasing the wheels it runs on. But look—if you want to know more, you could always ask your sergeant.”

  “My sergeant?” Joe knew he was prevaricating. “Which one? I’ve got a hundred and forty seven on the books.”

  “You know who I mean! Armitage. He was there. Right on the spot.”

  “With his ear to the keyhole?” Joe spluttered in amusement and disbelief at the effrontery. “He waved you away and listened in to their private conclave? Cheeky bugger! From what I know of his habits, never mind their secrets, they’d be lucky to get out of there with their gold cuff-links still in place.”

  “No. Nothing so crude! Armitage oozed in under his own steam. Carrying his own little case. Your sergeant is one of the Nine Men.”

  CHAPTER 9

  After a stunned silence, “I’ll speak to him,” was all Joe could reply. “If I don’t like his answers to my questions, I’ll stick him straight back on board the next Mayflower out of Plymouth.”

  “And cause an international incident? The bloke’s a United States citizen, remember. Before you put the boot in—I’d try the soft pedal first if I were you. See if you can get a tune out of this old joanna. There’s time.”

  “You’re probably right. It’s not making much sense so far. Listen, James—there is one more thing—I want you go back a bit. To last night. Thursday. Seems a lifetime. Any of our subjects out and about? Or were they all tucked up with a mug of cocoa? It may be important. A link with a murder case I’ve got on my desk.”

  Bacchus was relieved to be able to return an unexciting response. “Only one left the hotel. The maid. She nipped off at seven, by herself, nothing said, and got back when it was getting dark.” He riffled through his notes. “Ten o’clock. It was hardly worth the bother but I had a man spare. He followed her to Leicester Square. Yup! He wasted an evening sitting behind her at the movies.”

  “Any contacts?”

  “None observed.”

  JOE’S CALL A moment after Bacchus left brought Armitage to the telephone in reception at Claridge’s. He hoped his voice didn’t betray the tension and suspicion he was feeling.

  “That lady’s maid or whatever she is … Julia Something?”

  “Ivanova.”

  “Is she in the hotel?”

  “She’s down here having tea. I can see her from here.”

  “Good. Tell her I want to have a word with her in half an hour. I’ll join her at the tea table.”

  “Right.”

  Joe asked the question he knew he should have asked first and had put off in an unreasoning but human desire not to know the answer. “Any news yet of her mistress? Natalia? Kingstone’s inamorata? We have nothing to report ourselves yet, I’m afraid.”

  Armitage tuned in at once to his agitation. “Something wrong?”

  “Just answer the question.”

  “No. She’s not here.” There was an uneasy pause. “No sign or message. Okay?”

  “No. I think you know that’s not okay. Say nothing to alert Kingstone.”

  Sharp
ly: “To what? Alert him to what?”

  “I’ll explain when I get there. I’ve a bad feeling our two worlds are about to collide. Sarge—don’t let that girl out of your sight.”

  “That’ll be no problem. She’s very easy on the eye. Come and take a look, Captain.”

  “TEA’S A BIT stewed,” Julia Ivanova told him wearily. “Better ask for a fresh pot if you’re staying. The Darjeeling’s good.”

  So this was the girl whose looks had so impressed Armitage. Remotely, darkly, foreign. A girl with the austere beauty of the bust of Nefertiti, Queen of Egypt, Joe would have said fancifully—until she spoke and shattered the illusion.

  “ ‘Stewed’?” Joe picked up her word with a genial grin. “I think I must be talking to a London girl?”

  He’d already judged from her voice that she had probably been born with the sound of Bow Bells in her ears. She was taking no pains to hide it. He caught the waiter’s attention and pointed to the pot with a smiling request for more.

  “A trifle over-brewed, then. That better? I’m half a Londoner. My ma. My father was a Russian immigrant over here before the war. Political refugee. The kind who’s always on the wrong side. The Tsar? The Bolshies? He could get up anybody’s nose.”

  Joe would have liked to establish precisely which faction Ivanov had supported but didn’t want to interrupt her. He always listened with particular attention to the first confidences made to him. Truth or lies—the information he was fed was usually significant.

  “He came from a not very fashionable part of Moscow. So I can talk two languages fluently and impress no one in either. Well?” She fixed him with a gimlet eye. “Where’s Natalia? Haven’t you found her yet?”

  “I prefer to approach my subjects a little less directly, Miss Ivanova,” he said, unsettled by her blunt demand. “I like to shuffle up on them sideways like a crab.”

  “Call me Julia or Yulia, whichever you fancy. What’s your name, Mr. Plod?”