I ascended to the second floor, which had only two doors on the landing. One led to a dining room, the other to a smoking room and roof terrace. This floor was decorated with artefacts from the Americas: a bear skin, a mounted bison head, a pair of tomahawks, and a cavalry sabre. I was still concerned that Carey’s man might be preparing an ambush, and with all these weapons to hand, I was worried I’d have to wound him. The third floor was smaller than the second, and I perceived the apartment was pyramidal in shape. There were two rooms, a billiards room and a study, both adorned with African curios. Finally, the fourth floor held two bedrooms and a bathroom. The second bedroom appeared to be a spare.
I opted to begin my search in the study and retraced my steps to the third floor.
Having decided I was alone, I replaced my Mauser and removed the mask. The study was more like a den, with a rich oak floor and panelled walls; there were paintings, photographs, and trophies all over. A leopard skin lay in front of the fireplace, and pairs of horns belonging to a buffalo, rhino and kudu surrounded a mounted lion’s head. Underneath was a photograph of Carey with two other hunters. I recognised both of them: one was Frederick Selous, the most famous living African explorer and adventurer; the other was Colonel Frank Rhodes.
On the opposite wall was a locked cabinet filled with firearms: a set of Napoleonic duelling pistols, a Mauser similar to my own but with an extended magazine, a long-barrelled Remington .44, a Navy Colt, a double-action Bulldog, a Galand pocket pistol and a Swiss crossbow. A mahogany bureau stood next to the cabinet. I moved over to the matching desk, a rust-coloured monster with feet carved to resemble a lion’s. The top was clear except for a writing set. I sat down on the chair and tried the first of four drawers: they were locked. I reached for my skeleton keys, but the slots were far too small. This required either a delicate touch, or brute force. I rose and looked at the tools on display, reaching for a set of spears and assegais, before remembering the Asian weapons downstairs.
I returned with a kukri, which I’d not used before, but seemed perfectly suited to the task. I moved the chair out of the way first. Then I took a firm grip of the curved knife, aimed at the very top of the first drawer, and hacked. There was a crunch as the blade splintered the wood and slid into the gap between drawer and desk. It wasn’t in far enough so I took a second swing, achieving greater penetration this time. With several inches of blade inside the drawer, I twisted it around to use the curve as a fulcrum. More wood splintered, but the lock held fast. Once the knife was in position I grabbed the grip with both hands, rested my weight on the desk-top, and heaved.
With an almighty crack, the first drawer sprung open.
The kukri was still intact — very impressive — but I tossed it to the floor and went to work on the contents of the compartment. There was a slim bundle of documents and a lean book with a black leather cover. I flicked through the papers: an invitation from the Duke of Bedford to luncheon at his townhouse in Belgravia, a letter from the Duke of Westminster declining the opportunity to sponsor the proposed hunting expedition, a dozen bills and receipts. Nothing of particular relevance at the moment. The volume was a schedule book, with a full page allotted to each day of the year. I flipped my way through to today. The entry read:
9.30 Auto Club
1.00 D Bedford, Belgrave Sq.
4.00 T.D., Lyons & Co., Butler’s Wharf
7.30 Trav Club
All the entries were clear enough, except for the third. I had no idea who or what ‘T.D.’ was, but presumably it referred to a meeting at a J. Lyons and Company warehouse in Butler’s Wharf. I jotted down the details in my notebook, and then went back through August and July. The only item of interest was a series of completely blank pages from Thursday the third of July to Tuesday the eighth of July — the day after Chamberlain’s accident. Carey led a hectic existence and these were the only blank days in the schedule book since his return to England on the twenty-eighth of April. Also suggestive was the next mention of T.D., which was on Wednesday the second of July, and read:
11.00 T.D., Bartitsu Club
I’d never heard of the club, but I wondered if it was significant that the meeting was only a day before the blank week. T.D. appeared again on Monday the 9th June:
1.00 T.D., Langham
I made a note of both and continued back through the months. I tensed involuntarily when I reached the twenty-second of May:
7.30 Dr Ellen, ZG
I’d known it would be there, but it still made my blood boil to read it. I fought the fury rising within, and turned back further. T.D.’s final — or first, chronologically speaking — appearance was on Monday the nineteenth of May:
8.00 T.D., Trav Club
There was nothing else of interest in May, nor in the last few days of April. I made a final note, removed the drawer from the desk, and examined the one below. More papers, which I arranged on the desk to speed things up. It was a quarter-past ten already and I probably only had another hour to myself. Carey would be out all day, but his man had no doubt gone to watch the procession. The King and Queen were leaving Buckingham Palace at eleven, due to arrive at the Abbey twenty-five minutes later. If I left at a quarter-past eleven, it should guarantee my escape before anyone returned. There was much to be done in the mean time: the drawers on the left hand side of the desk, the bureau, and then the safe — wherever it was.
The documents from the second drawer were all concerned with Carey’s properties. It appeared he owned two other houses, one in Vine Lane in Southwark, and the other in Dibden Street in Hoxton. It confirmed he was up to no good, the latter address especially, as Hoxton had a reputation as the most criminal district in the whole of London. It wasn’t the sort of place one would buy as an investment. There didn’t seem to be anything noteworthy, so I picked up the kukri.
I took aim at the second pair of drawers — swung back — stopped.
I thought I heard a noise.
I listened.
Nothing.
I waited a few seconds. Still nothing.
I was a little nervous now, and no longer felt comfortable repeating my performance. Instead, I placed the kukri on the desk and walked over to the bureau to see if it was also locked. I tugged at the top drawer —
Footsteps.
They sounded like they were coming from the kitchen, two floors below.
My heart beat a tattoo, blood surging through my veins. I drew the Mauser. Upstairs or downstairs? The roof terrace provided the best escape route, but it was one floor below. What if I met Carey’s man on the stairs? There was no time to put the mask back on.
He who hesitates is lost.
I flew from the study, moving as swiftly as I dared. The stairs were thickly carpeted, but I slowed right down — in case they still creaked — and tried my best to ease my weight on to them.
Too late.
As I descended, I heard two men coming up from the first floor.
I could hear their hushed voices: they were speaking Russian.
21. The Russian Connection
When in doubt, maintain forward momentum. I learned that in the war. I kept moving down the stairs — faster — dashed into the smoking room — stopped, dead.
I had a problem.
After looking out into the courtyard earlier, I’d closed the shutters. I’d need two hands to open them, which meant putting the Mauser down. If I opened the shutters, the Russians might hear me. I’d still have to open the French windows before I reached the roof terrace. It was unlikely I’d be quick enough, and the attempt would leave me defenceless.
The Russians reached the landing.
I scoured the room for a place to conceal myself: a card table, four low chairs, two chaise longues, the fireplace, curtains. I crawled under the chaise longue in the corner opposite the fireplace. It was a poor hiding place. I rolled on my back — pulled my legs up as high as I could — and aimed the Mauser at the door.
A pair of feet appeared.
I held my
breath. If he gave the room anything more than a cursory look the game was up.
Brown leather boots stepped once — twice — turned and walked out.
I let out a silent sigh.
I heard voices and footsteps. They were going up to the third floor. I’d left the study in a shambles, complete with the kukri on the desk. There was only one thing for it now: I waited until I heard the men reach the next landing and made for the stairs.
There was a shout from above.
I dashed down.
First floor, ground floor.
The door to the stable was open — they must have broken in that way. I reached the entrance hall and thanked Providence I hadn’t tried to lock it. I rested my left hand on the doorknob and aimed my pistol at the stairs with my right. Silence from above, no footsteps or shouts. I waited for five seconds, then put the Mauser away. The Russians hadn’t realised I was still in the building. I opened the front door and stepped out into King Street. It was still deserted. I closed the door quietly, smiled to myself, and walked away from Blackburn House as if I’d as much right to exit as enter. I sauntered along towards Upper Grosvenor Street without looking back.
A narrow escape.
My next port of call...
Crack — buzz — ping.
A tiny cloud of dust stirred on the road in front of me.
I dived — landed heavily on the sidewalk — and rolled left.
Another crack — a third, fourth, fifth.
I jumped to my feet, put my head down, and sprinted.
There was a final shot — a shout in Russian.
I cut left — for Grosvenor Square. I glanced behind me — no one — and ran down Carlos Street. I received a few curious looks from passers-by, so once I’d made a third change in direction I decelerated to a very brisk walk.
Bastards.
And more fool me. I’d been so pleased at leaving the house without alerting the Russians, I’d relaxed my guard completely. They obviously had heard me, but had decided to snipe from the window rather than chase me into the street. It was exactly what I would’ve done had our positions been reversed. If I’d been shot in the back, I’d only have had my own carelessness to blame. If our positions were reversed… the Russians hadn’t broken in to Carey’s rooms to rifle his papers. They were assassins sent to kill either him or me. No one knew I was going to be at Blackburn House, so they must have come for Carey.
As my heart slowed to its more usual rate, I considered the implications of a pair of Russian assassins. All the intelligence Truegood and I had gathered indicated that the Okhrana wanted to eliminate Carey. Whether it was because of the wild allegations about his liaison with the empress or the potential damage to Countess Thécla’s reputation hardly mattered. They had first incriminated him in Lowenstein’s murder, and then broken into…
It didn’t make sense.
The Okhrana would either have framed Carey for Lowenstein’s murder and relied on British law to hang him, or sent assassins to kill him. They wouldn’t have done both. From their sinister reputation, an elaborate plot seemed just as likely as a straightforward slaughter. I was lately convinced that Carey had been deliberately implicated in Lowenstein’s murder, but if the Okhrana were to blame, they wouldn’t have sent agents to kill him today. The men in his house were Russian, and I had no doubt that they had been sent to kill all the occupants. They weren’t necessarily Okhrana, but it seemed probable. If they were, then someone else had manufactured the evidence in Tottenham Street.
My thoughts turned to the more immediate question of my next steps. I had an hour and a half before my meeting with Armstrong and I wanted to visit Whitehall Place en route. It was imperative that I kept the appointment, but on a day when it was going to prove so difficult to get anywhere in London, I couldn’t afford to travel back and forth. I wasn’t too far from the National Liberal Club. Ellen’s reference to ‘the chamberlain’ in her diary was very likely an innocent allusion to our Colonial Secretary. I believed that Carey had deliberately injured Chamberlain in order to scare him, possibly on behalf of T.D., who was possibly another agent or employee of Milner. What I wanted to know was who Chamberlain had met with on Saturday the twenty-fourth of May. I reckoned I might discover T.D’s identity or even a connection between Chamberlain and Rhodes’ legacy.
I glanced behind me once more as I crossed the top of Berkeley Square — still no Russians — and made for Piccadilly Circus. The Liberal Club was near enough to Waterloo Bridge for my purposes. It was too far to walk from Northumberland Avenue to the City, but if I crossed Waterloo Bridge for the South Bank, I could probably find a hansom to take me to London Bridge. From there, I could complete the journey on foot, as the Monument was only a short distance from the northern end of the bridge.
The street ahead of me was thick with a stationary crowd. I cursed under my breath. I’d meant to leave Regent Street for Haymarket, but had blundered into Waterloo Place instead. As if to underscore my error, the great guns in Hyde Park issued a salute. This was followed by a fainter sound from the east, as the battery at the Tower of London fired another twenty shots. It was eleven o’clock, and the King was leaving Buckingham Palace. A military band struck up nearby and the multitude, all dressed in their finest attire, broke into Elgar and Benson’s Pomp and Circumstance:
Dear Land of Hope, thy hope is crowned,
God make thee mightier yet!
On Sov’ran brows, beloved, renowned,
Once more thy crown is set.
Having accidentally arrived closer to the King’s route than intended, I compounded my error by attempting to push and shove my way through the press in a futile attempt to reach Charing Cross. All I succeeded in doing was incurring the wrath of most of those around me, and ten minutes later I found myself next to the Duke of York’s column. I couldn’t see down the steps on to the Mall, but a series of sharp commands to present arms reached my ears seconds before the crowd erupted into cheers.
Long live the king!
Vivat Rex Eduardus!
Three cheers for King Edward!
I assumed the King’s carriage was approaching. It would be drawn by eight of His Majesty’s creams, ponies bred exclusively for the Royal Mews, and escorted by troopers of the Royal Horse Guards. The passion around me was overwhelming. Rich and poor forgot their differences and shouted ovation after ovation. Even the most steadfast republican would’ve found it difficult not to cheer, so compelling was the fervour. I looked up the huge granite column supporting the bronze statue of the Grand Old Duke of York, and saw people on the gallery at the top. They would’ve paid well for what was one of the best views of the King’s progress. Lower down, some enthusiastic young chaps had scaled the building at the base of the column, and clung on to the pillar as they waved handkerchiefs and shouted.
The euphoria reached a crescendo as the carriage passed. To my left a young lady in a hat with a brim so lavish it appeared suspended on her head by force of will alone, shrieked in a shrill soprano. To my right an old man with a frayed coat and broken teeth cried, “Bless ’em, bless ’em, bless ’em!” in a deep baritone. About ten feet above me, one of the young men was bawling to a gentleman who had squeezed into a nonexistent space next to me. I watched the chap with concern, for his perch wasn’t particularly secure and every time he hailed my neighbour, he tottered precariously.
He turned — swayed for a second — steadied himself. Then he shouted down, “They’re here, they’re here! The King and Queen! There they go, King Eddie and his lovely lady!”
I reflected that in his zeal the man had used an unfortunate turn of phrase. While Queen Alexandra was indeed a famous beauty, the King was renowned for his unrestrained enjoyment of all the pleasures life had to offer: food, drink, tobacco, gambling… and women. His Majesty’s ‘lovely lady’ could thus have referred to any number of women, Mrs Alice Keppel being the most recent, by all accounts…
Queen Alexandra.
Empress Alexandra.
&
nbsp; Empress Alexandra of Russia, born Princess Alix of Hesse and by Rhine.
‘A’ for Alexandra, ‘A’ for Alix.
The penang lawyer belonged to Carey, not Armstrong. It had been given to him by the Russian empress. Whatever the exact nature of his relationship with her, he had cherished a gift from so peerless a source. That was why the Russians were in Carey’s rooms; he’d made a nuisance of himself with the empress and the countess. It was all intuition and hearsay, but it matched the slim evidence afforded by the stick — which was the only trace Lowenstein’s murder had left, no matter how sceptical Truegood was. I would need proof before I could present my theory to him or Melville, but the instant I made the connection between the ‘A’ on the penang lawyer and the homicidal Russians in Blackburn House, I knew the stick belonged to Carey. Never mind how, I just knew.
O’Donnell had been right: someone had deliberately implicated him. Not the Russians, they’d adopted a more direct solution to the problem. I didn’t know who else, but I’d just discovered a second route to Lowenstein’s murderer: he must not only benefit from Lowenstein’s death, but also from Carey’s imprisonment and trial. Carey had also murdered Ellen, so he was presumably involved in several schemes at present, and had probably undertaken many others of a similar nature in the past. With each one he could not only have made powerful enemies, but also employers who might later consider him a liability. Then there was his womanising. The Viceroy of India had a reputation for being as dangerous a man to cross as he was a devoted husband. A potentially fatal combination for Carey. In fact, the list of people who might want Carey out of the way seemed inexhaustible.
Somewhere, there was a man who not only had a connection to Carey, but also to one of Rhodes’ executors. When I found that man, I’d have Lowenstein’s murderer. There was, however, an easier way. Instead of solving the mystery all I needed to do was find Carey, cite the evidence implicating him in Lowenstein’s murder, and listen to what he had to say for himself. He might not know who’d killed Lowenstein, but he’d be able to make an educated guess. That was a secondary concern. What I really wanted, the real reason I’d accepted Melville’s commission, was to find Ellen’s murderer. I was certain Carey had broken her neck, but it was obvious someone had employed him to do it. Carey was the bullet; I wanted the person who’d taken aim and pulled the trigger. If he told me that, I’d let him live. Picking him up would be easy — because I had his list of appointments in my notebook.
The Architect of Murder Page 17
