The Dorset House Affair (12 page)

‘The larger picture,’ Box murmured.

‘Yes, Box, the larger picture. Whenever I look at a case that concerns secret intelligence, I have to look at a whole country, sometimes a whole continent…. But you know all this. You and I have shared some rare old adventures together.’

Kershaw pointed to the coloured map that he had placed on the table.

‘That is a map of a certain area of France,’ he said, ‘tucked up neatly in the north-east of the country, the major part on the west bank of the Rhine, and the rest in the upper Moselle Valley. It is close to the border with Germany, and within a stone’s throw of the Grand Duchy of Luxembourg and the Kingdom of Belgium. Switzerland lies to its south. This is a German map, and so the territory is marked as “Elsass-Lothringen”. Do you recognize it, Box?’

‘Yes, sir. It’s the territory of Alsace-Lorraine. Whenever I see that map, I think of poor Monsieur Veidt, who helped us to
interpret
the fragments of the Hansa Protocol. He told me that his family came originally from Strasburg, but had been driven out by the Prussians in ’71. He said that the people in Alsace never knew what they were supposed to be. According to the accidents of history, they could be French one year, and Germans the next. But he reckoned that he was a Frenchman at heart.’

‘Yes, it’s a sad, unsettled area of Europe,’ said Kershaw. ‘It was once part of the Holy Roman Empire, but was annexed by France after the Treaty of Westphalia, which followed the end of the Thirty Years’ War in 1648. It stayed French until 1871, when it
was ceded to Prussia. That’s when things became very difficult for people like Monsieur Veidt and his family.’

‘Didn’t the Germans drive the French people out of Alsace?’

‘It wasn’t quite as simple as that, Box. A good number of Alsatians had strong sympathies with Germany, being of Germanic origin themselves. They hated the French Revolution when it came, and from that time – towards the end of the
eighteenth
century – there began a constant movement of the population. There were waves of emigration to other European countries and to America.

‘Some commentators think that Bismarck didn’t want to annexe any French land, knowing that such a move would result in perpetual unrest in the region – and he was right. But Field Marshal von Moltke insisted, and the annexation took place. Alsace-Lorraine is governed directly from Berlin, and the
government
there decreed that any Alsatians who wished to do so could emigrate until 1876, when all those remaining would be
reclassified
as German citizens. Well, one hundred thousand people from Alsace-Lorraine emigrated to France in those years, and in 1876 those remaining – nearly one and a half million people – were forced to accept German nationality.’

Box looked at the map spread out on Kershaw’s table. Like all maps, its neat coloured patches and curling blue and black lines of roads and rivers linking a series of red dots gave no indication of the bloody and desperate history of the area. Those red dots stood for real places – Strasburg, Metz, Nancy – all inhabited by folk who didn’t know whether they were French or German….

‘Very interesting, sir,’ he said, and watched Kershaw try to stifle a smile.

‘Yes, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘But I’ve not asked you to come here today just to hear a history lesson. I want to tell you about a dangerous conspiracy that is brewing up
here
’ – he tapped one of the red dots on the map – ‘in the town of Metz. It was always a stubborn place, Box, and during the 1870 war it held out against
the might of Prussia until October, when it finally surrendered its garrison of a hundred and seventy-three thousand men. And now, after nearly a quarter of a century of German rule, a group of prominent and influential citizens has planned an insurrection.’

Colonel Kershaw made a little movement of irritation. He looked angered, and suddenly tired, as though this particular news had proved too much for his considerable patience.

‘There are over twenty of these people, Box, all capable of drawing hundreds of innocents into their plot. Some of them are so-called patriots, others are socialists, bent on fomenting some kind of fanciful proletarian revolution. They have perfected a plan for a great armed insurrection throughout the territory, coupled with synchronized acts of sabotage. The French Foreign Office have been aware of this group for over a year, and through their own agents in Alsace had compiled a list of all the members and likely sympathizers, together with a written epitome of their targets. That document has come to be known informally as the Alsace List. It was the intention of the French secret service to warn all these people that their plans were known, and to hint that the Germans, too, had discovered something of their
intentions
, and were poised to retaliate.’

‘Warning them off, so to speak?’

‘Yes, warning them off, at the expense of a slight elaboration of the truth. The French were convinced that this tactic would bring the conspiracy to an abrupt end, and I must say that I agree with them. It was that list, Box, and its attendant documents, that fell into the hands of Sophie Lénart, and which has now been seized by a person or persons unknown.’

‘What did these people hope to achieve by their armed
insurrection
?’ asked Box. ‘Surely they couldn’t withstand the might of Prussia—?’

‘No, they could not,’ Kershaw interrupted, ‘but they are romantic enough to expect a massive military response from France, anxious to repossess her annexed territories. Germany
would be presented with a
fait
accompli
, which she would be bound to accept.’

‘And what would happen in fact?’

‘France would do nothing. She was a signatory to the Treaty of Frankfurt, which she has always honoured, albeit with ill grace. The insurrectionists would be rounded up by the Germans and executed as traitors – which is what they are, Box, because Alsace-Lorraine is German territory. That is the pragmatic view – the sensible and logical view. There would be massive protests in France, of course, but in a year the whole business would be forgotten. Both France and Germany know that any renewed war between them in the nineties would dwarf the horrors of the Franco-Prussian War.’

‘What do you propose to do now, sir?’ asked Box.

‘I have a plan, Box, to render these hotheads harmless without any loss of face to France or Germany, but before I can carry it out, I need to find that missing document. Whoever killed Sophie Lénart, and my agent Maurice Claygate, took that document, and will attempt to sell it to the highest bidder. I need hardly point out to you that the most attractive buyer would be the German Government in Berlin. I have people there, as you know, who will keep their ears close to the ground. I have several agents in Alsace. For a little while, mine must be a waiting game. Meanwhile, you in your way, and I in mine, must try to find that document, and the man who has stolen it.’

Somewhere across the Circus a clock struck eleven. Kershaw moved in his chair, and began to tap with his fingers on the table. He glanced at the coloured map, and then at Box, who sat patiently waiting for him to speak.

‘Look here. Box,’ he said at last, ‘I may as well tell you a bit more about this business. I was closeted with Sir Charles Napier last night for over two hours, pouring out my woes to him, and asking his advice. As you know, he and I have had our little
differences
from time to time, but I’m the first to acknowledge that he’s an outstanding diplomat. I asked him for a diplomatic solution to
the crisis of the Alsace plotters – and he provided one, as it were, on the spot.

‘If that list falls into the hands of the German Government, those foolish men will be rounded up and executed as traitors. In theory, France herself could neutralize the danger posed by the plot by supplying the Prussian Foreign Ministry secretly with their names. The men would still be executed, and Berlin would send a warm note of thanks to the folk in the Quai d’Orsay.’

‘But surely, sir,’ cried Box, ‘the French wouldn’t betray their own people? They’d never survive the scandal!’

‘You’re right, of course, Box, and if ever such an action became public, the French Government would probably fall. That, I might say, is the chief reason why the French Government wouldn’t contemplate such a move. Patriotism is a fine thing, but public security must take precedence.’

‘Is it any concern of ours, sir, whether the French Government falls?’

Kershaw laughed, and wagged a finger at Box.

‘Caution, Mr Box, caution!’ he said. ‘You’re hot and angry at the thought of those Alsatian idiots going to the gallows while France does nothing. But you see, the Third Republic in France is at present one of the bastions of European stability. Not
everybody
likes it, but its existence is a fact. If it fell in disgrace, the Bonapartists would seize their chance to re-establish the heirs of Napoleon as rulers of the French. The legitimists – those who still pine for the House of Bourbon (and there are many of them) – would attempt to unsettle the provinces, particularly the Vendée. And the communards have been planning and plotting for years – do you want me to go on?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Very well. Now, here is what Sir Charles Napier has suggested. Ever since 1815, Russia has wanted a strong France to counter the ambitions of Prussia and Austria. Russia has always resented the wresting of Alsace and Lorraine from the French, and there has
been a secret treaty of alliance between Russia and France since 1891. Napier informed me that the word “secret” in this context means that everybody pretends not to know that it exists. It’s to Russia, therefore, that we intend to turn for help in solving this problem. Once that stolen list is secured, I will convey it
personally
to a trusted ally of ours, none other than Baron Augustiniak, that high-ranking officer of the Okhrana, who led you and me such a lively dance in Poland.’
*

‘And what will Baron Augustiniak do?’ asked Box.

‘He will convey that list to certain agents of the Imperial Russian Police, who will privately warn the Alsatian conspirators that their names are known, and their fate sealed, unless they abandon their ill-considered plan. The affair, discreetly brokered by us, will remain a confidential matter between Russia and France. Germany need never know about that list. And Russia, because of her secret treaty with France, will never reveal it.’

Box was silent. How many other men in his position would be entrusted with secrets of this nature? It was a great honour. As for Sir Charles Napier’s plan, it sounded quite brilliant in its simplicity. But then, he, and others like him, could use whole nations as the building-blocks of their designs.

Colonel Kershaw rose from his chair, and began to gather his papers together.

‘Are you going to help me in this business, Box?’ he asked.

‘I am, sir,’ Box replied. ‘I have certain investigations of my own to make, and when I come up with anything significant, I’ll let you know. I’ve a double murder to solve, but I’ll make the search for those missing documents a matter of equal priority.’

‘Thank you, Box, I knew that I could depend upon you. When you want to see me, you know where I will be found. I was thinking of your friend Miss Louise Whittaker the other day. As you may recall, she was of some help to me, once. Is she well?’

‘She is, sir. Well and flourishing. I’ll tell her that you were asking.’

‘Please do. I’ll be on my way, now. I’ve an urgent appointment at Horse Guards in half an hour’s time. Oh, by the way, you can make Sergeant Knollys privy to our counsels. After all, he’s one of us. Goodbye for the moment, Box.’

Colonel Kershaw retrieved his hat and stick, thrust his papers into one of his capacious overcoat pockets, and left the room.

8

Miss Whittaker Takes a View

D
eep in thought, Arnold Box made his way out of Piccadilly Circus and into busy Coventry Street. Colonel Kershaw’s revelations had unsettled him. He had not been surprised to hear that Sophie Lénart was a freelance spy, but the news that Maurice Claygate had been one of the colonel’s agents had come as a bolt from the blue.

When he’d arrived at the Rents that morning, he’d found a brief and not very enlightening account of the autopsy on Maurice Claygate and Sophie Lénart waiting for his attention. The body of Maurice Claygate was to be released for burial that very day. When details of the funeral were finalized, he would attend it as an observer.

It was odd how Colonel Kershaw had mentioned his friend Louise Whittaker. Perhaps it was a hint that he should visit her? Well, he would do so that afternoon, and tell her all about Elizabeth de Beliefort’s ‘delusion’. It was always valuable to get a woman’s slant on things, and in the past his consultations with the lady scholar had proved to be very fruitful.

It looked as though there was more to Alain de Bellefort than met the eye, and it was more than likely that Maurice Claygate had been investigating him. Could De Bellefort himself have committed those two murders? No; the Frenchman had been closeted with Field Marshal and Mrs Claygate at the time when
their son Maurice had met his death in Sophie Lénart’s house in Soho.

As Box passed the opening to Rupert Street a big man in an overcoat and black bowler hat emerged from the crowd on the pavement, and pulled him by the sleeve, causing him to stop in surprise. The man had a round, rosy face, with a fleshy, mobile mouth half-hidden by a massive black moustache.

‘Why, Sergeant Petrie,’ said Box, ‘fancy seeing you! Did Pat Driscoll have a word with you in that club of yours on Saturday night? I’m trying to find one of your minor villains—’

‘Yes, sir, I know you are, and I’ve got the answer for you. As a matter of fact, I’ve just left Harry the Greek’s lodgings. But fancy bumping into you like this, Mr Box! It must be Providence, don’t you agree? Can you spare a few minutes to have a glass of bitter with me? It’s just on lunchtime, and it’d be better than talking police business here in the street. It’s more than eighteen months since I last saw you in the flesh, so to speak.’

Box looked at the stout police sergeant with amused
resignation
. He was a very good, conscientious officer, highly thought of in Finsbury division, but he was a chronic talker: nothing short of violence could stem the flow of Sergeant Petrie’s words.

Petrie preceded Box down an alley smelling of stale rubbish, and pushed open the door of a narrow-fronted ale house, which seemed to consist of a single public bar, crammed with chattering men and women crowding around little tables awash with beer. The air was grey with reeking tobacco smoke. Sergeant Petrie elbowed his way through the press until he reached the bar.

‘Nancy! Nance!’ he bellowed above the din, and a pretty girl in a black dress smiled a greeting.

‘Hello, Mr Petrie,’ she said, ‘what’s your poison today?’

‘Two glasses of bitter, Nance. Bring them over to my friend and me at the table in the corner. Oh, and you’d better put it on the slate.’

The two men made their way to the table in a dark corner of the bar. Box produced his cigar case, and offered the sergeant one
of his slim cheroots. It was going to take time getting information from Alex Petrie, but it would be worth the wait. In a moment, Nancy had deposited two glasses of beer in front of them.

‘So, Sergeant Petrie,’ said Box, ‘you were able to find Harry the Greek?’

‘I was, sir,’ said the garrulous sergeant. ‘Or rather, I was able to find where he’d been. It’s a bit of a long story. Incidentally, sir, I was surprised to hear that you’re still billeted in that heap of
falling-down
ruins in Whitehall Place. What do you call it? The Rents. I thought you’d have gone up to New Scotland Yard by now.’

‘Well, Sergeant,’ said Box, sipping his beer, ‘that’s what we all thought in ’91, when the department moved lock, stock and barrel to that gleaming new fairy palace on the Embankment. But some of us were left behind to hold the fort, as it were. Just for a few months, they said. Well, it’s three years now, and we’re still there. There were a dozen of us original exiles, all taken under the tender wing of Superintendent Mackharness. There are over thirty
officers
there, now. I reckon we’ll be stuck there for good.’

‘Why is it called King James’s Rents? What had King James got to do with it?’

‘Well, they say that it got its name from the fact that it had provided lodging for the Scottish courtiers who’d arrived in London with James I in sixteen hundred and something. He was a canny old devil, so they say, and he charged them rent for the privilege of living near his palace in Whitehall.’

‘That’s very interesting sir,’ said Sergeant Petrie. ‘But I expect you want to hear about Harry the Greek – Aristotle Stamfordis. You know that he’s one of Pinky Wiseman’s boys. Well, I went to see Pinky first thing on Sunday morning, to ask him a few
questions
. Pinky calls himself a dealer, and I suppose that’s true, in a way, because he deals in some very shady commodities.’

‘Where does he live now, Sergeant? He used to have a place near City Road Basin.’

‘He’s not there now, sir. He’s got a scrap-yard near Pentonville
Road, and that’s where he pays off his little crowd of petty thieves and confidence men who hole up in various houses he owns, mainly in Shoreditch. They give him a cut of their takings, you see, and he does very nicely out of them.’

‘And Pinky told you where Harry the Greek could be found, did he?’ asked Box. He knew all that he wanted to know about Pinky Wiseman, and was growing impatient with the talkative sergeant’s account of his doings.

‘Well, in a manner of speaking, he did,’ said Sergeant Petrie. ‘He told me that he’d not set eyes on Harry the Greek for over a fortnight. He’d moved from his lodgings in Pentonville to rooms in Saffron Yard, Seven Dials, which is not very far from here, as you’ll appreciate. Pinky said that Harry had dropped him and started to work for some foreign cove. Very vexed, he was. He said that Harry owed him fifteen shillings. Maybe he did.’

‘Did you find Harry the Greek in Saffron Yard?’

‘No, sir. His landlady said that he’d gone out on Monday, and never come back. His things are still there, so I don’t think he’s done a moonlight flit. She thinks he’s going barmy.’

‘Barmy? What did she mean by that?’

‘She said that he’s not been the same since he did a job for this foreign cove on Saturday. She could hear him muttering to himself, and walking about his room in the night. He was
staggering
around, she said, even though he wasn’t drunk. It doesn’t sound like Aristotle Stamfordis, does it? Quite a smooth talker, he is, very respectable, as befits a man who impersonates indoor servants and then decamps with the silver.’

Arnold Box stood up. He’d had enough of all the chatter and smoke of what was evidently Sergeant Petrie’s favourite public house.

‘I’ll have to be going, now, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘Thanks very much for the drink. If you get on Harry’s trail again, will you let me know straight away? I think he was mixed up in that business at Dorset House on Saturday.’

‘Was he really? Yes, Inspector, I’ll let you know by messenger as soon as ever I get sight or sound of him. Barmy, hey? Somehow, I can’t see Harry the Greek going barmy. But there: you never know with people.’

Arnold Box alighted from the Light Green Atlas omnibus in Church End, Finchley, and made his way along pleasant roads of red brick houses skirting a number of playing fields and open spaces. Turning into a spanking new avenue of modern villas, where the wide grass verges had been planted with hopeful saplings, he knocked at the door of the third house on the
right-hand
side. It was a severe sort of door, painted a shiny black, and with a diamond-shaped window of obscure glass.

The door opened, and a trim little maid in cap and apron looked enquiringly at him. He could see that she was repressing an
inclination
to giggle. She knew who he was, but he could tell from her demeanour that it was to be one of those days when they’d both have to play her favourite little game of question and answer.

‘Is Miss Whittaker at home?’ asked Box.

‘Yes, sir. Who shall I say’s calling?’

‘Tell her it’s Inspector Box, from Scotland Yard,’ Box replied, and then burst out laughing. ‘For goodness’ sake, Ethel,’ he said, ‘you know quite well who I am! Just go and tell your missus that I’m here.’

Over two years had passed since Box had first encountered Miss Louise Whittaker, who had been summoned as an expert witness in a case of literary fraud for dishonest gain. He had been very taken with her, and she had not objected when he had asked permission to visit her from time to time – in a purely professional capacity, of course. He still saw her as a lady, far too good for the likes of him, but their friendship had developed into something rather more than a settled affection. Perhaps, one day….

Ethel stood back to let Box enter the narrow hallway of the
semi-detached house, and disappeared into a room on the right, closing the door behind her. Box carefully manoeuvred himself around a lady’s bicycle propped against the hall stand, and waited for Ethel to return. Why did she have to giggle every time he called? It made him feel like a fool. Anyone would think—

What were those two laughing at in there, now? A little round-faced chit of a maid, no more than fourteen, and Miss Louise Whittaker, a lady scholar from London University?

When Ethel returned, her face showed nothing but demure inscrutability.

‘Miss Whittaker will see you now, sir,’ she said. ‘You’re to go on in.’ Ethel hurried away through the kitchen door into the rear quarters of the house.

Box entered the large front room. Louise Whittaker, as serenely beautiful as ever, rose from the table in the wide bay window to greet him. Box admired her grey dress, with its leg-of-mutton sleeves, and the tasteful white cuffs and collar that went with it.

‘So, Mr Box,’ said Louise Whittaker, ‘once again Scotland Yard is baffled! How can the female philologist help you this time?’

Her voice, as always when she presided on her own territory, was amused and musical, carrying its own subtle tone of authority. She closed the book that she had been consulting, and motioned Box to a chair.

‘I see that you’ve refused yet again to abandon your hat and gloves to the tender mercies of Ethel,’ she said. ‘Put them on that little table by the door, Mr Box, and sit down by the fire. It’s just on tea time, so I’ll leave you for a while to give Ethel a hand in the kitchen. Then we can talk. I’ll not be long.’

They had been friends for a long time, Box mused, but there were days – this was one of them – when it seemed as though they had just met for the first time. Perhaps it was something to do with the bright, cheerful day, or with the essential newness of this part of Finchley. Louise belonged to a brighter, cleaner world than the one that he was forced to inhabit.

What was that photograph standing in an ebony frame on the end of the mantelpiece? He’d not seen that before. He left his chair, and picked up the faded image of a man and woman, both wearing the formal clothes of the 1850s. They looked stern, almost grim, but that was because of the slow photography in those days. Perhaps this couple had been Louise’s ma and pa? She’d met his own father more than once, and the two of them had got on well together immediately, but she’d never mentioned her own family.

‘My parents.’

Louise Whittaker had entered the room so swiftly that Box started in surprise. He put the photograph down on the mantelpiece, and resumed his seat.

‘That picture was taken in happier times,’ said Louise, sitting down in the chair opposite. ‘But there: we’ve all got to accustom ourselves to losses in this life.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that, Miss Whittaker – Louise,’ said Box quietly. ‘But I’m sure that your parents, if they were alive now, would be very proud of their daughter’s achievements.’