The Black Crow Conspiracy

by Christopher Edge

  A white number ten was fixed to a black front door, an iron knocker in the shape of a lion’s head resting beneath this. Above the letterbox she could just make out the following words on the nameplate:

  FIRST LORD OF THE TREASURY

  “My God,” Monty breathed, peering over her shoulder. “This is 10 Downing Street.”

  XV

  Penelope sat primly in her chair, nervously smoothing the folds of her skirt as Monty fidgeted on the seat next to her. In front of them, Inspector Drake was pacing the room, his shabby shoes wearing a path across the lush green carpet. With his threadbare suit, the detective seemed somehow out of place amid the dark oak elegance of the small outer office. At a desk by the window, a hawkish-looking man glanced up from his papers, a look of irritation flashing over his features at the inspector’s incessant perambulation.

  The shrill ring of the telephone on the private secretary’s desk caused both Monty and Penny to jump in alarm. Lifting the handset, the secretary held the telephone close to his ear, listening intently as the voice of the person speaking squawked through the receiver.

  “Yes, of course, sir,” he replied, nodding his head in earnest. “I’ll send them in straight away.”

  Reverently placing the receiver back in its cradle, the man looked up to meet Drake’s expectant gaze.

  “The Prime Minister will see you now,” he said, gesturing towards the green baize door. Inspector Drake turned back to Monty and Penelope, motioning for them to follow him with a chivvying gesture. Rising from her chair, Penny followed his instruction, a nervous sensation tying her stomach in knots. When Inspector Drake said his superiors had some urgent questions for them, she hadn’t imagined that he meant the Prime Minister. With his hand on the door handle, the detective turned back to face her.

  “Remember what I said, Miss Tredwell. You had better be telling the truth.”

  His warning given, Inspector Drake opened the door, ushering them both into the Prime Minister’s study. With a sense of awe, Penelope cast her eyes around the room, quickly taking in her surroundings with an authorial gaze.

  Along the entirety of one wall, floor-to-ceiling bookcases stretched, their dark oak shelves filled with thick leather-bound volumes, whilst on the other walls gilt-framed portraits of past prime ministers were hung: Sir Robert Peel, Pitt the Younger, Benjamin Disraeli. But the room was dominated by a large mahogany desk, behind which the current occupant of this post was seated: Lord Salisbury. Prime Minister of His Majesty’s Government.

  Glancing up from the papers scattered across his desk, Lord Salisbury’s eyes blinked myopically as he focused his gaze on his visitors. His bald head shone in the sunlight slanting in from the window, whilst behind his unkempt beard, a troubled expression haunted his features.

  “And who are you?” he growled, staring pugnaciously at the detective.

  “Inspector Drake, Your Lordship. I have been investigating the theft of the Crown Jewels. It was after I took Mr Montgomery Flinch into custody that I learned—”

  “Yes, yes.” The Prime Minister gruffly waved the inspector into silence. He turned towards a second man, who was standing by the window, his slicked-back hair and drooping moustache revealing the profile of his nephew, the First Lord of the Treasury, Arthur Balfour. “Arthur has read to me your report on the progress of your investigation. Damned disappointing it is too.”

  Inspector Drake bristled at the criticism, but with the same instinct for self-preservation that served him so well as a detective, he now held his tongue as Balfour began to speak.

  “So these are your prime suspects then?” he asked bluntly. “A potboiler author and his slip of a niece?”

  “As I explained in my report, Mr Flinch has displayed an unnatural knowledge of the theft of the Crown Jewels, even describing the crime in the pages of his magazine mere weeks after it took place. As for his niece, Miss Tredwell has made several unsubstantiated claims that may be linked in some way to the calamitous events of Monday night.”

  Penelope stared at the inspector, a puzzled frown creeping across her brow. There had been no mention in yesterday’s newspapers of any calamity. Then a shiver ran down her spine, her thoughts returning to the flock of ghostly figures she had watched emerge from the bowels of the Society late on Monday night. Could the radiant boys have struck again?

  “And I have read your report and thank you for it, Inspector Drake,” Balfour replied courteously. He turned his gaze towards Monty and Penelope. “Now, if this is Mr Flinch and his niece, you can return to your duties at the Yard.”

  Open-mouthed, Drake stared at the politician, unable to believe he had been dismissed in such a peremptory fashion. Then, with a swift nod of his head, he turned to leave, casting Penny a final warning glance as he stepped out of the office, the door closing behind him with a click.

  From behind his desk Lord Salisbury stared up at them both, his shoulders sloped as if worn down by the cares of office.

  “So you’re Montgomery Flinch, eh?” he said, fixing Monty with a melancholy stare. “My wife used to read every one of your tales in The Penny Dreadful. Whilst I worked through my red boxes, she would be sitting there in her armchair, her attention rapt as she turned the pages.” The Prime Minister’s voice trailed away, Lord Salisbury staring towards the fireplace where an empty armchair was set. “How I miss you, my dear.”

  Balfour cleared his throat, the sound of his cough bringing the Prime Minister’s attention back to the matter in hand.

  “And what about this latest story of yours then, Flinch?” Lord Salisbury peered down at his papers again. “The Thief Who Wasn’t There. How do you explain the fact that it describes the treasonous crime of which you have been accused?”

  Monty blanched, the sense that his new-found freedom might be short-lived swiftly dawning on his face. His hand reached up to nervously smooth his freshly grown bristles, streaks of grey now showing amidst the black.

  “It’s a coincidence,” he replied. “You have to believe me, Your Lordship. I swear I am an innocent man.”

  Penelope looked on, almost holding her breath, as Lord Salisbury held Monty’s gaze. If the Prime Minister of England didn’t believe him, what hope was left? Her thoughts flicked through the clues she had found: the anonymous letter, the radiant boys, Professor Röntgen, and the secret passage joining the German Embassy to the Society for the Advancement of Science. Inspector Drake’s last words of warning echoed in her mind. You had better be telling the truth. The truth was all she had left now.

  Stepping forward, Penny cleared her throat with a delicate cough.

  “My uncle is telling the truth,” she began. “The inspiration for the plot of The Thief Who Wasn’t There was not his own.”

  Monty glanced across at Penny in surprise. After all that she had said, he hadn’t expected that Penelope would give up The Penny Dreadful’s secrets so easily.

  “For the past year, Montgomery Flinch’s fictions have been absent from the pages of The Penny Dreadful,” she continued, “as my uncle has been afflicted by an ailment of the mind that has made it impossible for him to write. He has suffered from a dearth of inspiration, his muse sadly absent, meaning that every story that he started failed to get past the first page.”

  Lord Salisbury stared at Penelope as she pressed on with her explanation, his expression inscrutable beneath his bristling eyebrows.

  “This is why The Penny Dreadful launched a competition for its readers to suggest the plot for Montgomery Flinch’s newest tale. Most of the entries he received were unworthy of my uncle’s talent, but there was one letter that suggested a story based around a most audacious crime: the theft of the Crown Jewels from the Tower of London itself.”

  In the lengthening shadows of the Prime Minister’s study, the three men listened spellbound as Penelope recounted the events that had brought her to this place. The anonymous letter signed with the sketch of a black crow, the sightings of the radiant boys spread across the city, the trail that had l
ed her to the Society for the Advancement of Science and her suspicions about Professor Röntgen.

  Unlike Inspector Drake, the two statesmen listened to her tale in silence, interrupting only to clarify a particular point or ask an illuminating question, and when she had finally finished speaking Lord Salisbury turned to his nephew, now standing pensively beside his desk.

  “So what do you make of this, Arthur? If what Miss Tredwell says is true, then it confirms our worst fears.”

  “What do you mean?” Penelope asked, no time now for society’s normal courtesies. In her mind she could see the two black-coated figures slipping through the shadows as she stalked them through St James’s Park. “What has been stolen from Buckingham Palace?”

  For a second, the politicians remained silent. Then with a glance at the Prime Minister as if seeking his permission to speak, Balfour gave his reply.

  “Not what, Miss Tredwell, but who,” he said bluntly. “On Monday night, King Edward the Seventh was kidnapped from Buckingham Palace directly under the noses of his guards.”

  Penny and Monty gasped in unison, this revelation leaving them both reeling.

  “And that’s not all,” Balfour continued. “The rest of the royal family are missing as well: Queen Alexandra, the Duke of York, Princess Victoria, the Duke of Connaught, the Duchess of Fife. Nearly thirty members of this nation’s ruling family all spirited from their palaces and stately homes by persons unknown. At this very moment, Great Britain has no king.”

  Monty stared at the First Lord of the Treasury aghast. “But the coronation is tomorrow.”

  “The coronation has been postponed,” Balfour replied soberly. “The press has been informed that the King is suffering from a digestive complaint, and that the royal family have withdrawn from all public duties out of respect for his condition, but we will only be able to maintain this deception for a limited time. We must find the King and restore him to his throne before Britain’s enemies can act in our hour of weakness.”

  Penelope’s mind raced, trying to join the dots between what Balfour had told them and the clues that she’d already found.

  “Our enemies?” Monty asked. “Surely you don’t mean the Boer? I thought that we’d finally seen the back of those blighters with the signing of the Treaty of Vereeniging.”

  Balfour shook his head.

  “I am not thinking of our recent foes in Africa,” he replied. “The Boers fought with guns, but the enemy we face now is of a more cunning mind.”

  Penelope remembered the naval uniforms that she had seen hanging next to the radiant boys’ disguises. But before she had the chance to voice her suspicions, Lord Salisbury cleared his throat with a bone-rattling cough.

  “My nephew has omitted to inform you of one fact. Not all of the royal family have been spirited away. Queen Victoria’s eldest grandchild, Kaiser Wilhelm the Second, King of Prussia and Emperor of Germany, is in London for his uncle’s coronation. If King Edward and his family have been murdered by these ghostly thieves you have seen, then the Kaiser is next in line to inherit the British throne.”

  Penelope stood there in silence, digesting the full meaning of the Prime Minister’s words. If what Lord Salisbury said was true, then this was a conspiracy to unseat King Edward the Seventh and put Kaiser Wilhelm the Second on the throne in his stead. The British Empire conquered by Germany without a single bullet fired. She remembered the haunted features of the boy she had seen hiding in the shadows outside the palace, his skin glowing green as if lit from within. Did he realise the part he was playing in history?

  “But if you know all this, why don’t you search the German Embassy?” she asked. “I told you what I saw there. Perhaps the King and his family are hidden there too?”

  “By God if I could,” Lord Salisbury cried, slamming a fist against his desk before succumbing to a coughing fit. While he recovered himself, his nephew stepped in with his own explanation.

  “The German Embassy is the sovereign territory of the Imperial Reich. If I even sent Inspector Drake or one of his men inside to follow this lead you have found, the Kaiser would be within his rights to treat it as a declaration of war.”

  Monty piped up in outrage.

  “But if those blighters have taken dear old Teddie, then surely we can fight to find our King?”

  Balfour set his face in a mollifying expression, even as Lord Salisbury beamed his approval at Monty’s patriotic outburst.

  “The situation is rather more delicate than that,” he replied, steepling his fingers in front of him as he stepped forward to explain. “If it turned out that our suspicions were unfounded, the price we would pay for any rash act would be a high one. The Triple Alliance between Germany, Italy and the Austro-Hungarian Empire would mean that the forces of half the continent would be lined against us. We cannot risk blundering into war on the strength of a young girl’s word.”

  “So what do we do?” Penelope asked, an indignant blush colouring her complexion. “Wait for the coronation of Wilhelm the Second instead?”

  Lord Salisbury shook his head with a growl.

  “The British public would not wear it,” he replied. “Such an event would mean the end of the monarchy, provoking civil unrest and protests in the street. The fabric of our nation would be torn to pieces and the great Empire that Queen Victoria built, God rest her soul, would fall to our enemies.”

  Balfour turned to Monty again.

  “There is to be a reception at the German Embassy this evening – an Anglo-Germanic Commemoration to celebrate the achievements of both our great nations. The great and the good from London to Berlin will be in attendance – industrialists, writers, artists and scientists – and the guest of honour will be Kaiser Wilhelm himself. I will be attending as a representative of His Majesty’s Government, but I would also like to extend an invitation to you, Mr Flinch, as one of this nation’s greatest novelists.”

  “I would be delighted,” Monty replied with a grin, the prospect of fine wine and canapés a welcome change from the slop he had been served at New Scotland Yard.

  “And of course you will accompany your uncle, Miss Tredwell,” Balfour said, turning now to Penelope. “I would like you both to act as the eyes and ears of our search for the King and the rest of the royal family. Anything you see or hear that raises your suspicions or could give a clue as to where the King has been taken, you must inform me immediately. We are facing a ruthless foe and must match their cunning with our own guile. There may well be dangers, but the very fate of our nation rests upon your success.”

  Monty paled as the convivial evening he had imagined was replaced in his mind by more dangerous entertainments, but Penny held her head high as she met the First Lord of the Treasury’s gaze.

  “My uncle and I will be proud to serve our country,” she replied, her features set in a resolute expression. “We will find King Edward the Seventh and make sure he is back on his throne in time for the coronation.”

  XVI

  Beneath an ornately painted ceiling showing a menagerie of beasts, Penelope stood alone in the midst of the reception, watching the dizzying whirl of guests as they thronged the ballroom. The grand space was almost overcrowded, every member of London society eager to partake of the Kaiser’s hospitality, especially as the sad news of the King’s illness had brought preparations for the coronation festivities to a premature end. Long lines of gaudily coloured flags were hung from the white and gold galleries; magnificent chandeliers with their tinted crystals illuminated festoons of flowers.

  Uniformed waiters weaved their way through the crowd, the trays balanced on their hands filled with canapés of herring flakes, Bavarian blue cheese and spicy sausage. Looking around the ballroom, Penny saw faces familiar to her from the pages of The Times: artists and authors, politicians and musicians, industrialists and engineers. A smattering of military uniforms could be seen amidst the tailcoats and evening gowns, the top brass of Great Britain and Germany eyeing each other suspiciously over the canapés.
The great and the good, Balfour had said, but glancing round the room the only women that Penelope could see were the wives and daughters of German diplomats, laughing coquettishly at the gallant remarks of their distinguished guests.

  Beneath one of the grand chandeliers, Penelope could see that Monty had cornered one of the waiters; his wine glass was half-drained as he sampled the various German delicacies. From the ruddy sheen of his cheeks, it appeared that he had devoted more of the evening to supping the Kaiser’s Riesling than to searching for clues of the King. Penny felt a hand on her shoulder followed by the rasp of a German accent.

  “Ah, Madame Curie,” the voice proclaimed. “We meet again.”

  Turning in surprise, Penelope found herself gazing up into the face of Professor Röntgen, the scientist fixing her with a penetrating stare.

  “I’m afraid you must have mistaken me for somebody else,” Penny replied, a slight tremor in her words. She turned to move away from the professor, her heart thudding in her chest at her discovery. Röntgen caught hold of her arm, his powerful grip keeping Penny in her place.

  “Do not insult my powers of observation,” the man hissed. “I recognised you from the moment I set eyes on you this evening. You are the busybody who sneaked into the Society yesterday, impersonating Madame Curie when the arrival of her train was delayed. Why are you meddling in my business and asking questions of matters beyond your imagining?”

  He squeezed her arm, Penelope’s faint cry of pain masked by the noise of the chattering guests.

  “Who are you?” he hissed.

  Penny winced, the scientist’s tightening grip becoming more painful still. She could feel his fingernails pressing into her skin as if he was trying to dissect her with his bare hands. With a growing sense of fear, she stared up into his eyes; the fire that burned there was a pale imitation of the luminescence she had seen on the faces of the radiant boys.