by Graeme Davis
“We’re on his track,” said a voice behind me. “He’s got up on the leads, sure enough, though how he managed it from yon window is a myst’ry to me. We’re going to lock up here and try what like it is from the attics. So you’d better come with us if you’ve a mind.”
The top floor at the Albany, as elsewhere, is devoted to the servants—a congerie of little kitchens and cubicles, used by many as lumber-rooms—by Raffles among the many. The annex in this case was, of course, empty as the rooms below; and that was lucky, for we filled it, what with the manager, who now joined us, and another tenant whom he brought with him to Mackenzie’s undisguised annoyance.
“Better let in all Piccadilly at a crown a head,” said he. “Here, my man, out you go on the roof to make one less, and have your truncheon handy.”
We crowded to the little window, which Mackenzie took care to fill; and a minute yielded no sound but the crunch and slither of constabulary boots upon sooty slates. Then came a shout.
“What now?” cried Mackenzie.
“A rope,” we heard, “hanging from the spout by a hook!”
“Sirs,” purred Mackenzie, “yon’s how he got up from below! He would do it with one o’ they telescope sticks, an’ I never thocht o’t! How long a rope, my lad?”
“Quite short. I’ve got it.”
“Did it hang over a window? Ask him that!” cried the manager. “He can see by leaning over the parapet.”
The question was repeated by Mackenzie; a pause, then “Yes, it did.”
“Ask him how many windows along!” shouted the manager in high excitement.
“Six, he says,” said Mackenzie next minute; and he drew in his head and shoulders. “I should just like to see those rooms, six windows along.”
“Mr. Raffles,” announced the manager after a mental calculation.
“Is that a fact?” cried Mackenzie. “Then we shall have no difficulty at all. He’s left me his key down below.”
The words had a dry, speculative intonation, which even then I found time to dislike; it was as though the coincidence had already struck the Scotchman as something more.
“Where is Mr. Raffles?” asked the manager, as we all filed downstairs.
“He’s gone out to his dinner,” said Mackenzie.
“Are you sure?”
“I saw him go,” said I. My heart was beating horribly. I would not trust myself to speak again. But I wormed my way to a front place in the little procession, and was, in fact, the second man to cross the threshold that had been the Rubicon of my life. As I did so I uttered a cry of pain, for Mackenzie had trod back heavily on my toes; in another second I saw the reason, and saw it with another and a louder cry.
A man was lying at full length before the fire on his back, with a little wound in the white forehead, and the blood draining into his eyes. And the man was Raffles himself!
“Suicide,” said Mackenzie calmly. “No—here’s the poker—looks more like murder.” He went on his knees and shook his head quite cheerfully. “An’ it’s not even murder,” said he, with a shade of disgust in his matter-of-fact voice; “yon’s no more than a flesh-wound, and I have my doubts whether it felled him; but, sirs, he just stinks o’ chloryform!”
He got up and fixed his keen gray eyes upon me; my own were full of tears, but they faced him unashamed.
“I understood ye to say ye saw him go out?” said he sternly.
“I saw that long driving-coat; of course, I thought he was inside it.”
“And I could ha’ sworn it was the same gent when he give me the key!”
It was the disconsolate voice of the constable in the background; on him turned Mackenzie, white to the lips.
“You’d think anything, some of you damned policemen,” said he. “What’s your number, you rotter? P 34? You’ll be hearing more of this, Mr. P 34! If that gentleman was dead—instead of coming to himself while I’m talking—do you know what you’d be? Guilty of his manslaughter, you stuck pig in buttons! Do you know who you’ve let slip, butter-fingers? Crawshay—no less—him that broke Dartmoor yesterday. By the God that made ye, P 34, if I lose him I’ll hound ye from the forrce!”######
Working face—shaking fist—a calm man on fire. It was a new side of Mackenzie, and one to mark and to digest. Next moment he had flounced from our midst.
“Difficult thing to break your own head,” said Raffles later; “infinitely easier to cut your own throat. Chloroform’s another matter; when you’ve used it on others, you know the dose to a nicety. So you thought I was really gone? Poor old Bunny! But I hope Mackenzie saw your face?”
“He did,” said I. I would not tell him all Mackenzie must have seen, however.
“That’s all right. I wouldn’t have had him miss it for worlds; and you mustn’t think me a brute, old boy, for I fear that man, and, know, we sink or swim together.”
“And now we sink or swim with Crawshay, too,” said I dolefully.
“Not we!” said Raffles with conviction. “Old Crawshay’s a true sportsman, and he’ll do by us as we’ve done by him; besides, this makes us quits; and I don’t think, Bunny, that we’ll take on the professors again!”
* Lord’s cricket ground, the home of the famous Marylebone Cricket Club and the “Mecca of Cricket.”
† Know.
‡ Taking a batsman out of the game.
§ Charles Peace, a notorious burglar and murderer, was hanged in 1879 after a criminal career of more than thirty years. He dressed well and played the violin well enough to perform at local concerts, diverting suspicion in a time when criminals were thought to be ill-kempt and aggressive members of the lower classes.
¶ An annual cricket match. The Gentlemen were upper-class and middle-class cricketers who played as a hobby; the Players were mostly working-class and were paid by their clubs or by match organizers.
# Harrow is a famous English public school, second only to Eton in prestige.
** The British equivalent of a varsity letter; the school color is worn in or on scarves, ties, blazers, gowns, cuff-links, and other items of apparel. Best known are the “blues” awarded by Oxford and Cambridge Universities.
†† I Zingari (“the Gypsies”) is an amateur cricket club, named for its lack of a home ground. It was particularly formidable between 1849 and 1904.
‡‡ On the team. A cricket team consists of eleven players.
§§ Meaning unknown. Possibly a reference to the fly fishing mentioned later.
¶¶ Three players out, for forty-one runs conceded.
## Not a term commonly used today, although one may still read of someone being “taken” with the face of another person.
*** The equivalent of £620,000 (about US $830,000) in 2018.
††† Valuables.
‡‡‡ Professional or master criminals.
§§§ Latin: “wonderful to say.”
¶¶¶ French: “Where is the Marchioness’s [i.e. Lady Melrose’s] case? The window is open. It’s gone!”
### “How is the Marchioness? Is she well?” “Yes, my lord. She is asleep.”
**** A high-security prison in a remote area of south-western England, with a reputation for being escape-proof.
†††† A London magazine of the time.
‡‡‡‡ The space between two adjacent tracks.
§§§§ Imprisoned.
¶¶¶¶ A clean escape. In the slang of the time, to “show a clean pair of heels” was to flee.
#### Advantage.
***** Broke.
††††† Past saving.
‡‡‡‡‡ An evening newspaper.
§§§§§ Detective.
¶¶¶¶¶ The roof.
##### The spelling is Hornung’s attempt to convey the hard “r” sound of Mackenzie’s Scottish accent.
THE SECRET OF THE FOX HUNTER
by William le Queux
1903
The Anglo-French writer William le Queux was a prolific writer of thrillers, mysteries, and spy
fiction, including two invasion scare stories, The Great War in England in 1897 (1894) and The Invasion of 1910 (1906) which remain his best-known works. Both are marked by an almost hysterical xenophobia, and at the outbreak of World War I le Queux pestered the police constantly, seemingly convinced that German agents were out to get him for “rumbling their schemes” in his books. His appeals were not taken seriously, and he survived the war unscathed.
Le Queux was also a diplomat, a wireless pioneer, and a flying enthusiast at a time when both radio and aviation were in their infancies.
Duckworth Drew of the Foreign Office was created in 1903, and it has been claimed that his adventures influenced a young Ian Fleming, who would go on to create James Bond, the most famous fictional spy in history. Like the early Bond, Drew made occasional use of gadgets—drugged cigars, poisoned pins, and other devices are found in his adventures—and he reports to the Marquis of Macclesfield, to whom he sometimes refers by the initials “M.M.” It has also been observed that the author’s last name is pronounced “Q.”
Fourteen of Drew’s adventures were collected in the resoundingly-titled Secrets of the Foreign Office: Describing the Doings of Duckworth Drew, of the Secret Service (1903), but le Queux seems to have lost interest in him after that. Perhaps he suffered from too many ideas: at that time it was not unusual for him to publish six or seven novels in a year.
Though le Queux has been credited with inventing spy fiction, Drew’s adventures also owe something to the detective genre, whose conventions were well established by now. “The Secret of the Fox Hunter” revolves around the hunt for a stolen treaty with vast geopolitical ramifications, but it starts—like so many detective stories, from Holmes to Agatha Christie—with a seemingly inexplicable murder at an English country house.
It happened three winters ago. Having just returned from Stuttgart, where I had spent some weeks at the Marquardt in the guise I so often assumed, that of Monsieur Gustav Dreux, commercial traveller, of Paris, and where I had been engaged in watching the movements of two persons staying in the hotel, a man and a woman, I was glad to be back again in Bloomsbury to enjoy the ease of my armchair and pipe.
I was much gratified that I had concluded a very difficult piece of espionage, and having obtained the information I sought, had been able to place certain facts before my Chief, the Marquess of Macclesfield, which had very materially strengthened his hands in some very delicate diplomatic negotiations with Germany. Perhaps the most exacting position in the whole of British diplomacy is the post of Ambassador at Berlin, for the Germans are at once our foes, as well as our friends, and are at this moment only too ready to pick a quarrel with us from motives of jealousy which may have serious results.
The war cloud was still hovering over Europe; hence a swarm of spies, male and female, were plotting, scheming, and working in secret in our very midst. The reader would be amazed if he could but glance at a certain red-bound book, kept under lock and key at the Foreign Office, in which are registered the names, personal descriptions and other facts concerning all the known foreign spies living in London and in other towns in England.
But active as are the agents of our enemies, so also are we active in the opposition camp. Our Empire has such tremendous responsibilities that we cannot now depend upon mere birth, wealth and honest dealing, but must call in shrewdness, tact, subterfuge and the employment of secret agents in order to combat the plots of those ever seeking to accomplish England’s overthrow.
Careful student of international affairs that I was, I knew that trouble was brewing in China. Certain confidential despatches from our Minister in Pekin* had been shown to me by the Marquess, who, on occasion, flattered me by placing implicit trust in me, and from them I gathered that Russia was at work in secret to undermine our influence in the Far East.
I knew that the grave, kindly old statesman was greatly perturbed by the grim shadows that were slowly rising, but when we consulted on the day after my return from Stuttgart, his lordship was of opinion that at present I had not sufficient ground upon which to institute inquiries.
“For the present, Drew,” he said, “we must watch and wait. There is war in the air—first at Pekin, and then in Europe. But we must prevent it at all costs. Huntley leaves for Pekin tonight with despatches in which I have fully explained the line which Sir Henry is to follow. Hold yourself in readiness, for you may have to return to Germany or Russia tomorrow. We cannot afford to remain long in the dark. We must crush any alliance between Petersburg and Berlin.”
“A telegram to my rooms will bring me to your lordship at any moment,” was my answer.
“Ready to go anywhere—eh, Drew?” he smiled; and then, after a further chat, I left Downing Street and returned to Bloomsbury.
Knowing that for at least a week or two I should be free, I left my address with Boyd, and went down to Cotterstock, in Northamptonshire, to stay with my old friend of college days, George Hamilton, who rented a hunting-box† and rode with the Fitzwilliam Pack.
I had had a long-standing engagement with him to go down and get a few runs with the hounds, but my constant absence abroad had always prevented it until then. Of course none of my friends knew my real position at the Foreign Office. I was believed to be an attaché.
Personally, I am extremely fond of riding to hounds, therefore, when that night I sat at dinner with George, his wife, and the latter’s cousin, Beatrice Graham, I was full of expectation of some good runs. An English country house, with its old oak, old silver and air of solidity, is always delightful to me after the flimsy gimcracks of Continental life. The evening proved a very pleasant one. Never having met Beatrice Graham before, I was much attracted by her striking beauty. She was tall and dark, about twenty-two, with a remarkable figure which was shown to advantage by her dinner-gown of turquoise blue. So well did she talk, so splendidly did she sing Dupont’s “Jeune Fille”, and so enthusiastic was she regarding hunting, that, before I had been an hour with her, I found myself thoroughly entranced.
The meet, three days afterwards, was at Wansford, that old-time hunting centre by the Nene, about six miles distant, and as I rode at her side along the road through historic Fotheringhay and Nassington, I noticed what a splendid horsewoman she was. Her dark hair was coiled tightly behind, and her bowler hat suited her face admirably while her habit fitted as though it had been moulded to her figure. In her mare’s tail was a tiny piece of scarlet silk to warn others that she was a kicker.
At Wansford, opposite the old Haycock, once a hunting inn in the old coaching days, but now Lord Chesham’s hunting-box, the gathering was a large one. From the great rambling old house servants carried glasses of sloe gin to all who cared to partake of his lordship’s hospitality, while every moment the meet grew larger and the crowd of horses and vehicles more congested.
George had crossed to chat with the Master, Mr. George Fitzwilliam, who had just driven up and was still in his overcoat, therefore I found myself alone with my handsome companion, who appeared to be most popular everywhere. Dozens of men and women rode up to her and exchanged greetings, the men more especially, until at last Barnard, the huntsman, drew his hounds together, the word was given, and they went leisurely up the hill to draw the first cover.
The morning was one of those damp cold ones of mid-February; the frost had given and everyone expected a good run, for the scent would be excellent. Riding side by side with my fair companion, we chatted and laughed as we went along, until, on reaching the cover, we drew up with the others and halted while hounds went in.
The first cover was, however, drawn blank, but from the second a fox went away straight for Elton, and soon the hounds were in full cry after him and we followed at a gallop. After a couple of miles more than half the field was left behind, still we kept on, until of a sudden, and without effort, my companion took a high hedge and was cutting across the pastures ere I knew that she had left the road. That she was a straight rider I at once saw, and I must confess that I preferred the g
ate to the hedge and ditch which she had taken so easily.
Half an hour later the kill took place near Haddon Hall, and of the half dozen in at the death Beatrice Graham was one.
When I rode up, five minutes afterwards, she smiled at me. Her face was a trifle flushed by hard riding, yet her hair was in no way awry, and she declared that she had thoroughly enjoyed that tearing gallop.
Just, however, as we sat watching Barnard cut off the brush,‡ a tall, rather good-looking man rode up, having apparently been left just as I had. As he approached I noticed that he gave my pretty friend a strange look, almost as of warning, while she on her part, refrained from acknowledging him. It was as though he had made her some secret sign which she had understood.
But there was a further fact that puzzled me greatly. I had recognized in that well-turned-out hunting man someone whom I had had distinct occasion to recollect. At first I failed to recall the man’s identity, but when I did, a few moments later, I sat regarding his retreating figure like one in a dream. The horseman who rode with such military bearing was none other than the renowned spy, one of the cleverest secret agents in the world, Otto Krempelstein, Chief of the German Secret Service.
That my charming little friend knew him was apparent. The slightest quiver in his eyelids and the almost imperceptible curl of his lip had not passed me unnoticed. There was some secret between them, of what nature I, of course, knew not. But all through that day my eyes were ever open to re-discover the man whose ingenuity and cunning had so often been in competition with my own. Twice I saw him again, once riding with a big, dark-haired man in pink,§ on a splendid bay and followed by a groom with a second horse, and on the second occasion, at the edge of Stockhill Wood while we were waiting together he galloped past us, but without the slightest look of recognition.
“I wonder who that man is?” I remarked casually, as soon as he was out of hearing.
“I don’t know,” was her prompt reply. “He’s often out with the hounds—a foreigner, I believe. Probably he’s one of those who come to England for the hunting season. Since the late Empress of Austria came here to hunt, the Fitzwilliam has always been a favourite pack with the foreigners.”
