‘No, you’re right, Kershaw,’ said Sir Charles Napier. ‘Thousands of hotheads had assembled to hear their hero in the squares and gardens around the Imperial Palace. He was greeted by prolonged cheering, and the singing of various rabble-rousing songs. It was a smouldering of resentment against moderation, Kershaw, and von Dessau could have fanned the flames. I happen to know, too, that France would have immediately sought a compromise. This was to be the dreaded Friday, the thirteenth, the day of doom. Instead of which – we have this!’
Napier struck the pile of sheets on his knee with the back of his hand.
‘Listen to what he said: “Germans, loyal subjects of the Kaiser, you look to see the Empire burst its narrow borders, and expand to east and west. But, friends, believe me, the time is not yet! A little while more, and we will give you a victory beyond your wildest dreams!” And so on, and so forth. In other words, he told them all to back off. And apparently they did. They sang the National Anthem, and dispersed. The raging fires of conflict proved to be a damp squib. Why?’
‘I don’t know,’ Kershaw replied.
‘I think I do,’ said Box.
The eyes of Kershaw, Napier, and Lord Mount Vernon turned to look at him. They all seemed startled at the sudden interruption, as though Inspector Box was little more than an afterthought. Kershaw smiled a little.
‘Pray elaborate, Mr Box,’ he said.
‘Gentlemen,’ said Box, ‘on the evening of Tuesday, 3 January, a murderous assassin called Colin McColl succeeded in destroying Dr Otto Seligmann’s copy of The Hansa Protocol, blowing Dr Seligmann to smithereens in the process. Some minutes later, McColl met and talked to Lieutenant Arthur Fenlake in Dr Seligmann’s garden. McColl knew that Fenlake had just visited Seligmann. In fact, Mr Fenlake was at that very moment carrying the precious memorandum in his pocket.’
Sir Charles shook his head impatiently.
‘That’s all very interesting, Inspector Box, a well-ordered epitome of what happened. But the point is, that poor Fenlake delivered the memorandum to me, unscathed.’
‘Why, sir?’ asked Box. ‘Why was he unscathed? Why didn’t McColl follow him from Lavender Walk, and get the memorandum from him? He’d killed Stefan Oliver when he thought the memorandum had begun its travels. When he found that he’d merely stumbled into your rehearsal, he threw the blank paper, and its courier, down at your feet. So why didn’t he kill Fenlake, and take the memorandum?’
‘I don’t quite see—’ Kershaw began.
‘Please, sir, let me finish. Here’s another thought to ponder. Had the bomb gone off five minutes earlier, the memorandum would have been destroyed! But you see, by then, it wouldn’t have mattered. McColl wasn’t interested in your precious memorandum. The threat contained in Seligmann’s memorandum, gentlemen, was always an irrelevance, because Baron von Dessau intended all along to make the Berlin mob back off, in return for a promise. He promised them something, and they believed his promise. It would be prudent if we believed his promise, too.’
Colonel Kershaw’s face had become animated with a mixture of excitement and satisfaction.
‘Go on, Box,’ he said.
‘The promise that Baron von Dessau made, gentlemen, was this: “We will give you a victory beyond your wildest dreams!” He stayed his hand this morning in Berlin, because he knew that something tremendous was going to happen without the need for mob oratory. Colin McColl knew that, too, which is why he acted in the way he did. A victory beyond their wildest dreams. If it’s beyond their wildest dreams, then it’s probably beyond ours, too.’
‘But what is it, Box?’ Napier demanded impatiently.
‘I’m convinced that it’s something to do with Scotland, sir. A woman who called herself Mrs Poniatowski, and who posed as Dr Seligmann’s housekeeper, turns out to be Maria Feissen, the head of the Feissen arms concern in Bohemia. She is now living in Scotland, near the estate of Sir Hamish Bull in Caithness—’
‘What!’ cried Sir Charles, springing to his feet in his excitement. ‘Come, now, Inspector Box, what do you know about this business? How do these things leak out? It’s a fast and closed State secret—’
‘Beg pardon, sir,’ Box interrupted, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, but evidently I’ve said the right thing. Mrs Feissen was part of a gang who had infiltrated the household of Dr Seligmann. The others were Count Czerny and the so-called niece, Ottilie Seligmann. They engineered a clever way of dispersing after they’d murdered the unfortunate doctor, and destroyed his copy of The Hansa Protocol. And working hand in glove with them is another Scotsman, this murderous Colin McColl. Together, they’re going to deliver the German war party “a victory beyond their wildest dreams”.’
Box suddenly stopped speaking. What would these high-class gentlemen think? He’d been haranguing them as though they were naughty boys caught pilfering from a sweet-stall. But he saw the look of respect in their faces.
‘Napier,’ said Kershaw, quietly, ‘what is this “fast State secret” concerning Scotland? If I don’t know about it, then it must be fast indeed. Scotland …. There have been certain movements of shipping during the past few months. Could it be that?’
‘For goodness’ sake, Kershaw, don’t blurt these things out in that cavalier fashion! I don’t know anything about it. The Foreign Secretary was sent a note by Admiral Holland, head of Naval Intelligence, to ask for certain Scottish infantry units to be assigned secret duties in the area of Caithness, under the aegis of the Admiralty. The Foreign Secretary showed me the note, and it was my duty to acknowledge it.’
Colonel Kershaw got to his feet. He seemed to be making a heroic effort to control his anger. His face had gone very pale, and he clutched the sheaf of yellow telegraph forms as though he would crush them to pieces.
‘Box, I knew I’d done the right thing in luring you into this business. Well done! Scotland! There have been sightings of ships of the line moving through the Irish Sea since late December …. Manoeuvres, that’s what they said, when one of my folk made a polite enquiry. Napier, this is some damned secret Admiralty business, I’ll be bound. You know what Holland’s like! He’s no time for my crowd, of course, that goes without saying. And he’s jealous of your people. It’s some damned smug trick of Holland’s. I’m going back to London at once. Box, you’d better come with me. I thought we’d seen the end of this business this morning. Now I fear that it’s only just beginning.’
Fritz Schneider sat at a little desk in his upstairs room at the house in Chelsea, and savoured the unaccustomed calm that seemed to have descended on the old Tudor dwelling. Since Mrs Poniatowski’s departure Miss Ottilie had become less abrasive, and more willing to give her full attention to winding up her late uncle’s affairs in England.
On the tenth of the month, His Excellency Count Czerny had departed for Germany, after enduring some very tiresome and rather scandalous tirades from Miss Ottilie. He’d given as good as he got, but on the doorstep of the house Miss Ottilie had seemed to relent a little. She had suddenly hugged the Count briefly, much to His Excellency’s surprise and embarrassment! Miss Ottilie was in her sitting-room across the passage, writing letters. She had told him that she would leave quietly for Berlin within the next few days.
Schneider had come upstairs to clear out this little desk, and to bundle up what letters and papers he wished to take back with him to Leipzig. Here was his old letter-case, which had been given to him by his former employer, a renowned professor of music at the Leipzig Conservatoire. All these letters were part of his personal history.
But what was this? An unopened envelope, addressed to a Miss Whittaker, at Maybury College, Gower Street. Miss Whittaker …. He remembered her, now. A beautiful young lady scholar, who had called the year before last, when Dr Seligmann had procured a page from an ancient manuscript, and had invited her to look at it. The herr Doktor must have come up to this room, and hidden this letter where he knew that it would be found. A strange, sinister proceeding …. What should he
do? What was the etiquette? Miss Ottilie was now head of the household. It was not for him to act in anything without her knowledge.
He looked up from his desk, and saw Miss Ottilie standing in the doorway, watching him. He sprang to his feet, clicked his heels, and bowed his head in the Saxon fashion.
‘You look pale, Fritz. What has happened? You will tell me, yes?’
‘It is nothing of moment, Miss Ottilie. I have found a letter from the late herr Doktor, addressed to Miss Whittaker, at an address in Gower Street—’
‘Whittaker?’ Miss Ottilie’s voice held an uncharacteristic sharpness. ‘I recall the name, but cannot remember – ah! Yes! She called the other day, so Lodge told me, but would not stay. Another of Uncle Otto’s dreary scholar friends. You had better give me the letter. I can then decide if it is still of any relevance. You understand me, yes?’
Fritz Schneider blushed, and avoided Ottilie’s eye. What on earth was he to do?
‘Miss Ottilie, I beg that you will not ask me to give you this letter. After all, it can be of no importance. It will be some matter of scholarly detail, no doubt. The herr Doktor would wish me to deliver it, as the last service that I can render him—’
‘Very well, Fritz. We must not upset your Saxon rectitude. Go. This college – it will be one of those dreary institutions near Euston Station. You had better take a cab. And when you have rendered this last service to the herr Doktor, I urge you to start your arrangements to return to Saxony. If you do not, you will find yourself here alone, with only the mice for company! Go!’
Ottilie Seligmann waited until Fritz Schneider had left the house, and then she hurriedly dressed herself for a foray into town. Within minutes, she was hailing a cab from the rank at the end of Lavender Walk.
‘Where to, miss?’ asked the cabbie, touching the rim of his hat. He’d often taken this German lady into town. Very fetching she was, too, though she looked a mite pale today. Well, that was understandable. She’d had a lot of trouble, poor young soul.
‘Do you know Morwell Gardens, near Bedford Square? Take me there, if you please.’
Ottilie settled down in the cab, and thought of Fritz Schneider. He had been an excellent secretary to Dr Seligmann, a man who understood the nature of duty, and one of the best kind of German. She had urged him more than once to return to Leipzig. So had Mrs Poniatowski. But Fritz liked to take his time. And now, his Saxon honour had constrained him to refuse her sight of the letter to this woman Whittaker.
‘Some matter of scholarly detail’, he’d said. Did he really think that? Fool! What fools some decent people were!
Vanessa Drake put down the square of golden damask that she had been hemming, and gave her full attention to her friend Louise Whittaker, who had burst unceremoniously into her lodgings near Dean’s Yard, Westminster. It was a tall, gaunt building, that had once been the convent of an Anglican sisterhood. A steep staircase led up from the street to a landing, from which two corridors branched, each containing what at one time had been the nuns’ cells. They had been adapted very sympathetically to create a number of sets of rooms for single women.
‘A letter? From Dr Seligmann?’ Vanessa exclaimed. ‘Oh, Louise! How exciting! Have you opened it? What does it say?’
‘I haven’t opened it yet. What on earth can it be? It was brought to our college in Gower Street by poor Dr Seligmann’s secretary, Herr Schneider. Apparently, he’d found it slipped into his writing-case. This is Dr Seligmann’s handwriting. He knew my address at the college, you see.’
‘Oh, do open it, Louise! It may have something to do with our adventure – something that Colonel Kershaw should know about!’
Louise Whittaker tore open the envelope, and removed a single sheet of paper, which she spread out on Vanessa’s round table. The printed letter heading showed that it came from the house in Lavender Walk. It was dated Monday, 2 January, 1893 – two days before Dr Seligmann’s death:
My dear Miss Whittaker
I have conceived this subterfuge of writing a letter to you, because you are an outsider, and someone whom I can trust. I well remember our meeting together, and your interest in the old panelling of my library.
I will not burden you with an account of my fears – my conviction that somewhere in my household there lurks a potential assassin. I have lost trust in those closest to me, except for my faithful secretary, Herr Fritz Schneider. He is a man of regular habits and method, and when he finds this, he will faithfully deliver it to you.
I fear that I am being watched as I write this. The Belvedere is a secluded place, but its walls seem now to have eyes!
I remember that when you visited me, you mentioned a friend at Scotland Yard. Call upon that friend, and tell him that there will be a great calamity on the 25th of this month. I have heard it spoken of – whispered about the house, but I do not know for certain what it is.
How pathetic is this communication! You will think it the ravings of a foolish old man. But I beg you, dear Miss Whittaker, do as I ask, and tell your friend at Scotland Yard. The 25th of this month of January will bring a great calamity to England. Let the authorities be alert to the threat of danger. Would to God that I could tell you what it is!
In the nature of things, I will be dead when you receive this letter. And so, I salute you from beyond the grave.
Otto Seligmann
Louise Whittaker sat in thought for a minute, pondering Seligmann’s letter. Vanessa had picked up the square of damask again, and had begun to size some brilliants, which she intended to attach by silver thread to the gorgeous fabric. Louise saw the tears standing in the girl’s eyes.
‘How very sad,’ said Vanessa. Louise sighed, and picked the letter up again.
‘Yes. But a bit flowery, don’t you think? Poor Dr Seligmann talked like that. Talked the way he wrote, I mean. But that doesn’t mean that there’s no substance in this letter. I’ll do as he said, and take it to Mr Box. Have you a sheet of paper, and a pencil?’
‘You’re not going to post it to him, are you?’
‘Of course not! I intend to brave whatever horrors are waiting for me this time at King James’s Rents, and deliver this letter personally. No, I simply want to follow good scholarly practice, and make a copy of the letter. After all, it was written to me. I always make copies of important documents.’
Vanessa supplied the necessary paper and pencil, and then sat watching her friend as she wrote. Louise often spoke as though she resented men, and their dominant role in life. But ‘Mr Box’ was forever on her lips. He was her swain in waiting – but he’d be waiting forever if Louise didn’t make some kind of move. Her academic attainments had been hard won, and people of influence were beginning to listen to women of Louise’s calibre. But academic qualifications weren’t everything.
‘There you are!’
Louise Whittaker folded the copy that she had made, and put it carefully into one of the pockets of the rather mannish grey jacket that she was wearing. It was part of a stylish costume suit, worn with a crisp white shirt-blouse. One of its advantages was its two capacious pockets! She picked up Dr Seligmann’s letter from the table, and put it carefully back in its envelope.
‘And now, I suppose I’d better take another cab, this time to King James’s Rents, though I could walk it from here, I expect. I wonder—’
Neither girl had noticed that the door of the room had been almost silently opened. It was the sudden draught from the staircase that made Vanessa look up in alarm. A man stood on the threshold, a man of thirty or so, clean-shaven and fresh-looking, with what seemed to be the beginnings of a tense, unpleasant smile insinuating itself across his even features. He was well if rather primly dressed in a dark-grey suit, covered by a tightly buttoned black overcoat.
‘Can I help you?’ Vanessa’s voice faltered, as she looked into the visitor’s hard blue eyes. She added, bravely, ‘It is customary to knock before entering a lady’s room.’
The visitor slowly closed the door behind him, and
stood with his back to it. He seemed to dominate the room, as though he had commandeered it, and they now occupied it merely on sufferance. When the man spoke, it was with the quiet and pleasant accent of the educated Scotsman. He ignored Vanessa completely, and addressed himself to Louise.
‘You are Miss Whittaker? You are holding a letter. Is that the letter from Dr Otto Seligmann, which Fritz Schneider gave to you? I see by your expression that it is. Give it to me.’
Louise quickly slipped her arms behind her back. She was terrified of this quiet, respectable young man, but she was not going to let herself be bullied.
‘I will do no such thing! How dare you burst in here—’
With a spring like that of a panther the young man bounded from the door, and swung Louise round by the shoulders. He snatched Dr Seligmann’s letter from her hand, and thrust it deep into his overcoat pocket. Louise stumbled as she tried to steady herself, and fell to the floor.
Vanessa Drake began to scream. Even as she did so, she marvelled at the terrifying noise that she emitted. The young man turned towards her with a snarl of rage, and at that moment the door of the room seemed to fly off its hinges as an enormous scar-faced giant of a man hurled himself with an oath at their unwelcome visitor.
Louise Whittaker quickly got to her feet, and joined her young friend, who was cowering in a corner of the room. ‘It’s Jack Knollys, Mr Box’s sergeant!’ she whispered to Vanessa. The two men seemed to be locked together in a kind of wrestling-hold. They flung each other around the small room, knocking furniture over, and panting with their deadly efforts to subdue each other.
The sinister Scotsman suddenly pulled himself clear, threw open the door, and dashed across the landing. In a second Jack Knollys had sprung after him, and both men went crashing down the narrow staircase. Despite a warning cry from Louise, Vanessa immediately followed them. Blood was welling up on Knollys’ right cheek. She saw the lithe Scotsman’s hands close round Sergeant Knollys’ throat, and started to run down the stairs.
The Hansa Protocol Page 18
