Dr Kelly and the sergeant hauled the heavy body on to its back again, and then they left the pier-master’s office, accompanied by the man who had rowed the doctor to the pier. They could all hear a fresh outbreak of banter, accompanied by the doctor’s full-throated laugh, which turned into a fit of luxurious coughing as he descended the iron ladder to the rowing-boat. Inspector Box broke the silence.
‘Why did you send for me, Bob?’ he asked Inspector Cross. ‘This is divisional work. Nothing to do with me.’
Cross jerked his head towards Constable Peabody, who had said nothing at all since Box, Knollys and he had arrived at the pier.
‘Joe there will tell you what it’s all about. I’m going back to the galley. I’ll wish you good night. And you, Sergeant.’
Inspector Cross strode out on to the quay, closing the door firmly behind him.
Joe Peabody glanced uncertainly at Knollys, seemed to make up his mind about something, and then spoke.
‘You know what I am, don’t you, Mr Box? Mentioning no names, of course.’
‘Yes, Joe. I know what you are. So what do you want to tell me?’
PC Joseph Peabody glanced at the dead man. He shook his head slightly, and then gave his attention once more to Box.
‘This man, Inspector, is Stefan Oliver. He was a Foreign Office courier, one of Sir Charles Napier’s people. You’ll understand, sir, that I know something about him – being what I am. When Bob Cross opened his jacket to search for a wound, he found something thrust in the inside pocket.’
Joe Peabody produced a stout linen-backed envelope, to which a number of wax seals had been attached. It was only lightly stained, and Box could read a series of letters and numbers written in bold Indian ink on the front of the packet. It had been roughly torn open, but the contents were still intact. Box carefully drew out two folded sheets of notepaper, and opened them by the light of the flaring gas burner. They proved to be two sheets of blank paper.
‘I wanted you to see that, Mr Box. I know that in the nature of things you can’t be one of us, but you’ve worked with us before. That’s a Foreign Office cipher written there, on the cover, and this packet was to be delivered to Sir Charles Napier himself. You’ll understand, Mr Box, that I know what this is in general terms, because I can read the cipher, but I don’t know anything at all about the particular nature of this packet. It’s nothing to do with us – our crowd, you know. But I think it was what they term a “dummy run”. A rehearsal, if you get my meaning. But somebody thought it was the real thing, and shot Stefan Oliver in the back in order to get that letter.’
‘But whoever it was, Joe, put the letter back in his pocket. Why should he do that?’
Joe Peabody carefully closed the envelope, and concealed it in his coat. He turned away towards the door.
‘I don’t know, Inspector. Not for certain, anyway. I’ll see that this packet gets to Sir Charles Napier. But I’m thinking of how that fellow in the steam launch tooted his whistle to attract our attention, and then dumped poor Stefan there into the river. He wanted us to see him! Sir Charles was only a quarter of a mile away from here – I expect he’s still up there, at that meeting, or whatever it is.’
‘So you think—’
‘I don’t think anything special, Mr Box. But it did just occur to me that Stefan Oliver was being sent back to his master by an assassin with a sense of humour. You know, sir: like you can do with a letter. “Not at this address. Return to Sender”.’
In St Swithin’s Hall, the audience were dispersing, and the lights were being turned low. The heavy velvet curtains had once again been winched closed. Dr Otto Seligmann and Sir Charles Napier sat at the table on the stage, talking together in low voices.
‘What did you make of that row, Seligmann? Louts? Or something else?’
Dr Seligmann did not reply for a moment. He poured himself a glass of water from a carafe that had been provided for the lecture, and Napier saw how his hand trembled. Seligmann thought of his opponents, and their growing belligerence. Years ago, he had engaged in courteous arguments with men of differing minds, men whose interpretation of German history had differed from his. They had usually agreed to differ, but always with a strong measure of courtesy.
It was different, now. His opponents were turning into deadly enemies. He had seen their impotent reflection in the enraged knot of German so-called ‘patriots’ earlier in the evening. Frustrated exiles, they longed to see their native land develop into the colossus of Europe. He recalled the ringleader of that knot of men, the puce-faced lunatic who had shouted ‘Traitor! Traitor!’ – a vile slander, which his brainless friends had taken up as a battle-cry. Their obvious hatred of him, and of his mission, had unnerved him.
‘They were not louts, Napier. They were part of the great and growing army of the prosperous ignorant. You and I have known each other – what? – twenty years, and for most of that time we have watched together the gradual degeneration of peace in Europe. What you saw tonight will tell you that things are coming to a head. The war party’s out for blood, and soon, violent words will be replaced by violent deeds.’
Sir Charles said nothing for a while. He was thinking of the deep trust that had grown up between him and the elderly German former diplomat turned scholar. When those men had called him a traitor, Sir Charles Napier had felt personally affronted.
‘Do you think that those men were part of an organization?’ he asked at last. ‘We’ve a lot of Germans in London, and the vast majority of them are quiet, decent citizens. But there are societies – clubs, debating groups – where various forms of mild subversion are practised. I wondered whether our friends tonight came from that quarter.’
‘They may well have done so, Napier. But the real danger to peace lies in Berlin. There are new ideas abroad there that have taken hold of the heady imagination of the young, and the calculating opportunism of the older cynics. You have heard of Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche? He exhorts us all to reject what he calls the “slave morality” of Christianity, and replace it with a stern new ethic, leading to the development of the superman …. You don’t have many ideas in England, Napier, so you don’t understand their danger—’
‘Oh, yes I do, Seligmann! That’s why I agreed to go along with your plan to warn these people off – these dreamers in Berlin.’
Dr Seligmann looked very grave. To the English diplomat watching him, he seemed the very picture of despair.
‘The dreamers are bad enough, Napier, but behind them is a cold and orchestrating intelligence, the Baron Luitpold von Dessau. That man is the prime exponent of the new pan-German militarism. He’s currently the darling of the Reichstag. He’s a friend of that madman Nietzsche. But von Dessau is something more than merely a fanatical nationalist. He’s innately prudent, a quality that he inherits from his father, a careful diplomat whom I knew long ago at Jena. Von Dessau would only ever match his words with deeds if he knew that the way was clear to do so—’
‘Which brings us,’ Sir Charles Napier concluded, ‘to the day of destiny – Friday, 13 January, when von Dessau addresses a mass rally in Berlin of the Pan-German Congress. That, my dear Seligmann, will be a tinder-box waiting to be ignited, and if the orators there get their own way, Europe will be plunged into war.’
Seligmann sighed, and began to gather up his papers. How painful it was to talk about Germany to this British minister as though his native land was an enemy country! But they were living in dangerous times, and Napier was an old and trusted friend.
‘They’ll all be there on Friday, the thirteenth, Napier. That date! It sounds as though it was a deliberately perverse choice, perhaps a device of that madman Nietzsche! All the half-crazed brotherhoods will be there, encouraging each other to condone and commit excesses. The Eidgenossenschaft, the Prussian Banner, the Junkers of the First Hour – all the deadly demons who want to push the borders of the Reich east to Moscow, and west to the English Channel—’
Sir Charles Napier laughed.
/> ‘They’d better not try, Seligmann! If they ever do, we’ll be ready for them!’
‘Ah, but will you?’ asked the old German scholar softly. ‘You cannot be sure. And that is why I have written a secret memorandum to von Dessau, which one of your couriers will place in his hands on the very eve of his accursed rally. I cannot in honour tell you what I have written in that memorandum, my dear Napier, but I can promise you that it will strike von Dessau like a thunderclap! Once he reads it, he will use all his great influence to stifle at once the danger of German aggression in our time.’
‘And you won’t tell me what that memorandum contains?’
‘I cannot, Napier! I have almost compromised my own integrity as a German in revealing certain things to von Dessau that should have remained a close and fast secret.’
‘Very well. You can, of course, trust me to see that your memorandum is delivered sealed and intact. I will undertake to see it delivered at the time of our choosing by one of my special couriers. Until that time, Seligmann, it will repose in the Foreign Office strongroom.’
‘Excellent! Your man came as planned to Chelsea earlier this evening, to conduct the rehearsal. I expect all will be well.’
‘I trust so. We have fourteen days before von Dessau attempts to unleash the dogs of war. Have your memorandum ready and sealed in the packet that I gave you by next Tuesday, 3 January. It will be collected by a man called Fenlake. Lieutenant Arthur Fenlake.’
Inspector Box and Sergeant Knollys walked back up from Waterman’s Pier. They said nothing until they had emerged from the gloomy alleys to the south of Walbrook, and were within sight of the vast meeting-hall in St Swithin’s Lane. Its windows were now dark, and the collection of ostlers and coachmen who had been there earlier, had disappeared from the street.
‘Let’s walk up to the Mansion House, Sergeant Knollys, and take a cab from there back to the Rents. This is the coldest New Year’s Eve I’ve ever known. There’s no need for us to go back into that hall. It’s nearly ten now, and they’ll be done by half past.’
Knollys did not seem to hear what Box was saying. He stopped in the lane, and glanced back towards the dimly lit alleys that led down to the Thames.
‘Sir,’ asked Sergeant Knollys, ‘what was that constable talking about? PC Peabody? For a rough-and-ready riverside character he seemed to know far more than was good for him.’
‘Joe Peabody is a constable in the River Police. He’s been a galleyman since he was a lad. He joined the force when they still had the old floating station near Somerset House. But he’s also a recruit into a special body of men who assist the security services. I don’t know much about them, but I once found myself on the fringes of some business that involved them, and the man who runs them. That’s when I met Joe Peabody.’
‘So he’s got special powers—’
‘No, Sergeant. He’s just a police constable. But over and above his daily work, he’ll do little portions of a job for someone, without necessarily knowing why he’s doing it. This time, he recognized the man in the river for what he was, and told his inspector. Bob Cross knows about Joe, and asks no questions. And it might be a good idea, Sergeant, if you did likewise.’
At the Mansion House they hailed a cab to Whitehall. Quite a throng of New Year’s Eve revellers were making themselves heard on the crowded pavements as they rattled towards the Strand.
‘You’re on duty all day tomorrow, aren’t you, sir? A bit of a tall order, is that.’
‘I don’t mind, Sergeant. Somebody’s got to step into the breach on a Sunday. It’s not as though it’s a bank holiday, like in Scotland. Mahogany, they call it.’
Knollys hid a smile behind his hand.
‘Do they, sir? Mahogany? Well, I never knew that!’
‘Oh, yes. And in any case, I’m off duty all day Monday, in lieu. I arranged that months ago with Old Growler. So on Monday afternoon, Sergeant, I shall accompany my friend Miss Whittaker to the theatre, followed by a slap-up dinner at Simpson’s.’
‘I’m sorry I won’t be able to come with you, sir. But duty calls, I’m afraid.’
Box was silent for a moment. He glanced out of the window at the crowds congregating at the brightly lit doors of public houses and taverns. Each of those men and women had a right to call upon his services. Knollys had meant his remark as a tease, but it held its own truth.
‘You’re right, Sergeant. Duty always calls. I’m thinking of that poor murdered man, Stefan Oliver. Shot in the back – for what? It’s none of our business, and in the nature of things it won’t be made public. But I wonder …. How did Joe Peabody know that I’d be up there, listening to old Dr Seligmann? And why me, Sergeant? Maybe it’s a hint from higher up. Maybe I’m going to be drawn into this business of Stefan Oliver whether I like it or not.’
His mind conjured up once more the bleak environs of Waterman’s Pier, and the lifeless body of the Foreign Office courier. Duty had called for him, too, and had led him to his death. What had that cynical old constable said about him? Someone had delivered Stefan Oliver like a badly addressed parcel: Returned to Sender.
2
Calls of Duty
Laughing and chattering, the matinée audience erupted on to the pavement in front of the Savoy Theatre. The busy Strand was thronged with people, most of them warmly wrapped against the bright, frosty weather of the second day of the New Year. Steady streams of horse traffic poured along the wide carriageway on their way to and from the City and the West End.
Detective Inspector Box stole a glance at the beautiful, raven-haired young woman who was linking his right arm. Miss Louise Whittaker seemed unusually quiet. No doubt she’d rally in a minute, and say something provocative to catch him out. She was very clever – a scholar, no less, which he would have thought an occupation more fit for a man. But there, the world was changing.
The young lady linking his left arm suddenly made a comment. He hadn’t met young Miss Vanessa Drake before. She looked no more than twenty or so, very fair and slim, but with a kind of controlled jauntiness that suggested hidden reserves of strength.
‘Mr Box,’ she said, ‘you must enjoy working in that beautiful new building on the Embankment. New Scotland Yard it’s called, isn’t it?’
Louise Whittaker burst into laughter, but said nothing. Her friend Vanessa looked at her anxiously.
‘Oh, dear,’ she whispered, ‘have I said something wrong? I’m so sorry!’
‘Nothing to be sorry about, Miss Drake!’ Box assured her. ‘It’s just that Scotland Yard’s a sore point at the moment, and a bone of contention. I’ll tell you all about it at dinner.’
How young and vulnerable she looked! Her youth seemed to be emphasized by the dark-blue, high-collared coat that she wore, and by the designedly frivolous hat adorned with dyed feathers. There was something else, too. This girl was troubled. It showed in the sudden shadows that fell across her bright blue eyes when she thought that no one was observing her. Perhaps she’d be more forthcoming once they had availed themselves of the delights of Simpson’s, Mr Crathie’s splendid eating-house in the Strand.
Box spent quite a long time admiring the overpowering luxury of Simpson’s Tavern and Divan, especially the awesome shrine to food and drink occupying the centre of the big dining-room. It was a sort of altar, piled up with offerings of decanters and glasses, flowers, and frothy confections, with four great silver-plated wine coolers for company, one at each of its four corners. When the efficient, dedicated waiters were not gliding around serving the crowd of hungry customers, they appeared to pause near the great altar, as though to offer brief prayers for support and sustenance.
‘Aren’t you going to tell Vanessa about the delights of Scotland Yard? You promised, you know.’ Louise Whittaker glanced at Box mockingly, treated him to a rather unnerving smile, and then continued her task of eating breaded whitebait.
Inspector Box put down his knife and fork on his plate, and turned to Vanessa.
‘You see, Miss Drak
e,’ he explained, ‘when the main body of the force moved to that fairy palace on the Embankment in ’91, a goodly number of us were left behind to hold the fort in what remained of Scotland Yard. The real Scotland Yard, you know. So I work in a dilapidated old heap of bricks called King James’s Rents, which you’ll find just a few yards on across the cobbles from Whitehall Place. I’d invite you to visit, but you’d probably catch pneumonia, or plague, or whatever else has soaked into the walls along with the mildew—’
‘So you don’t like it there?’
‘What? Yes, of course I like it,’ Box replied, defensively. ‘They left the best men behind there when they made tracks for the fairy palace. Yes, Miss Drake, I like it very much!’
‘And so you should, Mr Box,’ said Vanessa. ‘Your days are filled with excitement, whereas mine – well, I seem to spend my time envying other people whose lives aren’t as humdrum as mine! So, hurrah for – what did you call it? – hurrah for King James’s Rents.’
They turned their attention to the serious business of eating lunch. The two young women began a desultory conversation, leaving Box to his own thoughts for a while. What a fibber he was! If word ever came down from above, he’d be off like a shot to Norman Shaw’s brand-new building, with its acres of windows, and bright electric lighting. Until then, he’d continue to soldier on in a soot-stained old office where the spluttering gas mantle stayed lit all day, and people stumbled on the dark narrow staircases linking the warren of rooms and landings.
It had been a marvellous afternoon, and very pleasant to have two girls in tow. Vanessa Drake’s young man, apparently, had been forced to cry off at the last moment, but had urged her to go with her friend Miss Whittaker. Vanessa’s beau was a soldier, and had to do what he was told without demur. Well, Box could understand that. He was a man under orders himself.
The Hansa Protocol Page 2
