by Evelyn Weiss
playing in an alley outside. And at long last, there’s a slow, slow smile.
“OK, Mister Black Velvet. I believe you. Let’s shake hands. But you can see why I doubted you. English spies – and New York cops – are everywhere. Can’t be too careful, can we?”
“I agree. Careful’s the word. Which is why I’ll need to know that the loading of the ship is being done. Leave a message for me at the New Amsterdam Hotel, telling me which ship is being loaded, and when. Then, I can arrange the unloading back in England. The name to leave the message for is a Mr Jack Corr.”
“Very well, Mr Jack Corr. We have a deal. Shake on it.”
As they shake hands, I see Nolan smiling in self-satisfaction. As he draws his hand away, he twists the signet ring round his finger, as if he likes to feel the gold rubbing on his skin: I can tell that it’s a mannerism he does often. Somehow, Chisholm has fooled him, and the Gophers will do exactly what Chisholm says. But how did Chisholm get us here, talking to this gangster king? Sitting in this room, at the back of this bar, I feel we’re in the central circle of Hell.
14.At the Hotel Metropole
Another room, another table, another bar. But it’s a world away from the slums and tenements: Chisholm and I are sitting in leather easy chairs beneath the ornately coffered ceiling of Billie Considine’s luxury bar at the Hotel Metropole. There’s a chatter of voices: two groups stand near us, talking: the men earnestly discuss shipping: the women talk about a recent fashion show. A waiter weaves his way through them and comes over to take our order.
“Brandy, Madam?”
“No thank you.” I recall the drink I had with the Inspector. Right now, I need to think clearly. I feel totally confused, and I need to understand the extraordinary game that Chisholm has been playing. I look at the waiter. “Do you have any Coca-Cola?”
“Of course.” The waiter brings me a glass, empty except for two chunks of ice, and the familiar shaped bottle. Chisholm looks at it and smiles fondly. He himself has a brandy: he takes a sip, then puts in down on the table in front of us. But he doesn’t say anything.
I look into his eyes for answers to all the questions I have. But still, he says nothing. I realize that I’m burning with anger against him. For all the secrets that he’s kept from me.
“Well, Chisholm?”
“Well indeed, Agnes. Sorry to put you in at the deep end. But it was the only way, really. I couldn’t risk you knowing anything, saying anything.”
“Knowing what, exactly? I’m furious with you, Chisholm. I’ve never been angrier in my life. What on earth are we into here?”
“This is a journey that you yourself started, Agnes, when you agreed to sit in on Kitty’s hypnosis. You could have gone your whole life without knowing about me. Like Blanche.”
“You mean – she doesn’t know? Whatever secret it is that you have?”
“No. She knows that I was a soldier, and that when I left the Army I became a Home Office official. She knows the external, the public face, of Chisholm Strathfarrar. She doesn’t know what my Home Office work actually involves. Although strictly speaking, I don’t work for the Home Office. My office is indeed in Whitehall, and I do work in central government. But my work is for a secret branch of the British War Office: the Secret Intelligence Bureau.”
“Well – the simple truth is, you’ve been lying to me. Your involvement in this business is not amateur: it’s professional.”
“Let me explain, Agnes. I didn’t want to betray your trust – I’ve found the last few weeks very difficult.”
“So have I. But the most difficult part of all, for me, has been the last three hours.”
“Let me start at the beginning, Agnes. My work – my real work, that is – involves infiltrating secret organizations. Organizations that the British Secret Intelligence Bureau believe may pose a threat to public safety. Terrorists, to put it plainly.”
“You work undercover?”
“Yes. Inspector Trench has led the legitimate, police side of operations against a terrorist plot. He and I have never met, except that one time when he came to Grafton Square. But I’m aware of his work. I lead the other, covert side of the same operation: infiltrating the terrorist organization in Ireland, in order to discover their secrets.”
Chisholm’s voice is low but I worry about us being overheard, despite the loud chatter. I guess he knows this type of situation, and whether there is a risk of someone hearing a snatch of our conversation. But despite the people all around, I’m glad Chisholm and I are talking about this: some of the things that Inspector Trench said to me aboard the Olympic are starting to make sense. And I realize why the inspector was so keen to be able to get messages to Chisholm, why he asked me to be his go-between. I recall the inspector’s words in the smoking room – “This case is like a photograph torn in two. You are finding out about one half: me, the other. When we can put the two halves together, we will solve the mystery.’
Thinking about Inspector Trench, I realize that there is a question that I must ask. I feel a sudden stab of fear – but I must speak. I ask my question.
“Do you know Lord Buttermere?”
This time, it is Chisholm who’s surprised. I see his eyes widen as he looks at me. Then he looks down at the table, thoughtfully. He finishes his glass of brandy before he replies. But he doesn’t answer my question: he asks a question of his own.
“How do you know that name, Agnes?”
“Lord Buttermere introduced himself to me. On the Olympic. He warned me off the case. And he warned Inspector Trench too, about confiding in me.”
Chisholm gives a low whistle. I can tell that he’s considering his answer carefully. “Like me, Lord Buttermere works for British Secret Intelligence. He’s my commanding officer. My boss.”
“I don’t like him.” The words spill out of my mouth before I can stop them.
“It’s not part of Buttermere’s job to be likeable, Agnes. I have had some disagreements with him myself. But he has achieved a lot. For example, it was his influence that led to the British Parliament passing the Official Secrets Act. As you know, the Act has been an invaluable tool in combating both German spies and Irish revolutionaries.”
“Well as you’re telling me all this hush-hush stuff now, tell me what Lord Buttermere actually does. What is his role?”
“He controls communications between the two sections of British Secret Intelligence – there is a Home Section, dealing with domestic plots and terrorism, and a Foreign Section, dealing with overseas espionage. For instance, Buttermere requires all messages between the two Sections, however seemingly trivial, to sent in coded form to him, so that enemies cannot decipher them. He decodes the messages, and gives each Section the information that they need to know.”
“If he controls all the messages, then I guess Lord Buttermere might have an overview of the situation that no-one else has?”
“Yes – you’re right. Effectively, Buttermere can see everything that goes on. But it surprises me to hear that he is taking such a personal interest in the Spence case. I didn’t know, for example, that he was actually aboard the Olympic, or that he was personally in touch with Inspector Trench. And I suppose he must now be here in New York, but I have no idea at all why. Very strange. Most of all, I wonder why he spoke directly to you, Agnes?”
“It was difficult to tell what Lord Buttermere wanted from me, Chisholm. But I got the impression that he would rather that our investigation of Spence’s death found nothing, rather than that it opened…”
“A can of worms. Yes, Buttermere is certainly good at preventing information leaking. As I said, he was a driving force behind the Official Secrets Act.”
“So if that’s what Lord Buttermere does – what do you do, Chisholm? Tell me.” I sip my Coca-Cola, and carry on listening as Chisholm explains.
“For two years, Agnes, I have been working, undercover at times, both in England and in Ireland, investigating a person who we knew of, at first, only as Black Velvet. Black
Velvet wanted an independent Ireland, and he believed that it was worth killing for. His organization – which grows stronger by the day – intends to carry out a major terrorist attack in central London. They hope that the attack will bring our government to its knees, force it to cave in to the separatists.”
Peals of laughter break out among the women. As if to pretend to be a normal guest at this hotel, I pick up the brightly-colored issue of Vogue that lies on our table and pretend to be half-listening to Chisholm, half-reading. As I gaze at the glamorous illustration on the magazine cover, I question him in a low voice.
“This leader of the conspiracy is called, you say, Black Velvet. The name of that bar… where we went earlier?”
“The bar appears to be named after the dark stout beers, such as Guinness of Dublin, which are popular among Irish communities on both sides of the Atlantic. But that sign ‘The Black Velvet’ above the door of the bar is actually a coded message, understood by those sympathetic to the Irish independence cause.”
“How is it a coded message?”
“Because what you may not know, Agnes, is that in secret, some Catholics in Scotland and Ireland still drink a toast to ‘The Gentleman in Black Velvet.’ They drink that toast because King William III of England, who defeated the Irish Catholics at the Battle of the Boyne, was killed afterwards, in a riding accident.”
“I know about King William
