The Dorset House Affair (20 page)

‘I'm sure that we are right, sir,' said Box. ‘But I don't quite see why De Bellefort felt it necessary to murder that young man, and risk the gallows in order to do so. Do you think that family honour had something to do with it after all?'

‘Do you seriously connect the concept of honour with that skulking rat?' said Kershaw. ‘Do you recall Tennyson's lines?

Those lines fit De Bellefort like a well-tailored suit. He killed poor Claygate, Box, because that young man, as I told you the other day, had discovered Sophie Lénart's part in the theft of the Alsace List from the French Foreign Ministry. You and I had imagined an unknown third party in the matter, but it's now clear to me that De Bellefort was the killer of both Sophie and Maurice. He killed one to silence him, and killed the other so that he could steal from her.'

Colonel Kershaw was silent for a while, evidently absorbed in thought. Box glanced out of the grimy windows of the colonel's hidden eyrie. It was a dismal prospect. Rain had begun to fall, and the coal heaped up in wagons on the sidings was gleaming wetly under a grey sky.

‘Box,' said Kershaw so suddenly that the inspector started in surprise, ‘on this coming Saturday, the twenty-second, De Bellefort is going to visit the Queen's Cottage in Kew Gardens, where he intends to hand over the Alsace List to an agent of the German secret services – a man called Pfeifer – in return for ten
thousand pounds sterling. Rather more than thirty pieces of silver, but the principle's the same.'

‘And what do you intend to do, sir?'

‘My original intention was to take the document from him, and send him and the German about their business, thus avoiding any diplomatic fuss. That's all changed, now. I will be there with my people from early morning on Saturday, and this time I will take the document from De Bellefort, arrest him, and hand him over to you. Let the civil arm see the fellow safely to the scaffold. Pfeifer, of course, and what happens to him, is none of our business.'

‘I'll receive Alain de Bellefort with the greatest of pleasure, sir,' Box replied. ‘Saturday's only five days off. Has he already returned to England?'

‘No, he hasn't. He's apparently in Amiens, according to my informant. He's cutting it fine, I admit, but he's not the man to turn up his nose at ten thousand pounds. He'll be there.'

14

The Double Traitor

T
he Chevalier Alain de Bellefort looked out of the window of his sitting-room at the west front of Amiens Cathedral, which rose in all its Gothic majesty not far from the quiet hotel where he was staying. What grandeur! What an enduring
monument
to Gallic genius! One day, it would be again the capital of Royal Picardy, and the oriflamme of the Bourbons would fly above those stupendous towers.

That coming Saturday, he would hand over the Alsace List to Pfeifer, an accredited agent of the Prussian intelligence service, and in return would receive
£
10,000 in Bank of England notes. But at what cost! He had had to swallow the insults of that pig, who treated him as though he were a lackey. Well, perhaps one day, something could be done about Pfeifer.

He had enjoyed the brief visit that he had made to Maître Flambard, the family’s lawyer at Rouen, soon after his return from England. As soon as he had mentioned money, the yellow-face old sinner had been all smiles and affability. ‘What would ten
thousand
English pounds achieve?’ he’d asked, and Flambard had told him that such a sum would redeem all the mortgages held by the Paris bankers. It was then that he had conceived the bold and outrageous plan that he was even now putting into effect.

‘What if I were to come into possession of
twenty
thousand pounds?’ he had asked.

‘Why, then,
monsieur
,’ the old man had replied, ‘you would be able to restore the Manoir de Saint-Louis to its former splendour. Mind you,’ he’d added, with a curiously unpleasant smile, ‘to come by such an enormous sum of money, you would have had to rob a bank!’

‘You forget yourself,’ he had replied, with all the hauteur that he had been able to muster.

‘A thousand pardons,
monseigneur
,’ the old villain had said, baring his yellow teeth in a smile. Animal! Within the week,
£
20,000 would be his –
£
20,000 in Bank of England notes.

Events in England had arranged themselves more successfully than he had ever imagined possible. The English spy Maurice Claygate – the man who at one time could have become his brother-in-law – had been silenced. It was Claygate who had discovered De Bellefort’s connection with Sophie Lénart, and that knowledge would have prevented his daring attempt to seize the Alsace List from her. She wanted money that he did not possess, and therefore she had to be removed. And so he had killed two birds with one stone.

Very soon, he would be able to take his rightful place among the nobility and gentry of Normandy. People who mattered – mattered to
him
,
that is – could come to dine and sleep at the
manoir
, issuing invitations to him in return. Perhaps he could contrive to become acquainted with the De Quetteville family, and others of that stamp.

Last month, on the promenade at Deauville, he had raised his hat to Count Gautier de Savignac, who had replied in kind, but it had been clear from the count’s expression that he had had no idea who De Bellefort was. All that would change.

The resurrected manor-house would need a chatelaine – a gracious hostess, witty and accomplished, who would shine in company. Elizabeth was well educated and a good
conversationalist
, and she was rightly admired for her beauty. But the recent events in England would soon make themselves the subject of
gossip and speculation in French society. Nothing, of course, would be
said
, but much would be thought, and no doubt, acted upon. Elizabeth had become a liability.

Since their return from England, she had shut herself up in her apartments, seeing only the grumbling Anna. (Anna would be pensioned off, as soon as was decent). He would consult the physicians at the Bon Sauveur in Caen about the possibility of Elizabeth taking up residence there. It had a first-class reputation, and others in Elizabeth’s position had reconciled themselves to seeing out their lives there….

One of the grandest of the old Norman families was that of Pierre Charles Longaunay, the Seigneur de Franqueville. His crippled daughter, Clélie, had never married. Was there a possibility of an alliance there? Why not? She was an intelligent woman, quite presentable in her own eccentric way. Yes, there were possibilities….

The door of his sitting-room opened, and Henri, the hotel manager, appeared on the threshold. He bowed, and offered De Bellefort an ingratiating smile. Curse the fellow! He suspected that there was a kind of republican mockery behind his smiles.

‘
Monseigneur
, your visitor has arrived. He is in the small salon.’

‘Very well, Henri. Let him wait for a quarter of an hour, then send him up.’

‘It is as
Monseigneur
wishes,’ said the manager, bowing himself out of the room and closing the door.

De Bellefort took up a square buff envelope from a writing desk, and examined it critically. The handwriting on the front was a perfect copy of the original. He extracted a single sheet of paper, and looked at it in admiration. The little jobbing printer had reproduced the official heading of the French Foreign Ministry to a marvel. He himself had copied the twenty-four names and accompanying details of the plotters of a coming insurrection in Alsace. Later that day, he would carefully reseal both the original Alsace List, which he had taken from Sophie Lénart, and this, his clever forgery. If he played his cards right, the two documents
would bring him in the unimaginably vast sum of
£
20,000. He put the forged document safely away in a drawer.

There came a knock on the door, and the manager reappeared with De Bellefort’s expected visitor. He ushered the man into the room, announced him, and withdrew.

‘Ah! Monsieur Norbert!’ cried De Bellefort. ‘How kind of you to come all the way from Metz in response to my letter. Kind, and wise, as you evidently understood. Do sit down. Metz! What memories of courage and endurance are summoned up by that name! What fortitude – and all in vain. Prussia was the victor, and Prussia dictated the terms.’

As he spoke, De Bellefort surveyed his visitor with the eye of a social critic. This man, he thought, is bourgeois to the core. He dresses well, in clothing that befits his standing as a private banker of some eminence in Alsace. He sported a waxed imperial beard and whiskers. He would normally cut an impressive figure enough; but now his eyes held fear and apprehension. Yes, he had chosen his man well from the twenty-four names on the Alsace List. Norbert had been foolish enough to involve himself in a conspiracy against the German authorities. Well, he would be made to pay for his folly, but in a way that he would not have anticipated.

‘I came here today, Monsieur de Bellefort,’ said Norbert
haughtily
, ‘because I was intrigued by the over-familiar and impertinent nature of your letter. It seemed to contain a threat, and I am not accustomed to being threatened. Who are you? And what do you want?’

‘Excellent! I admire your attempt at bluster, but it won’t do, you know. I am concerned about your health, Monsieur Norbert, and about the health of your friends….’

As he repeated the other twenty-three names on the Alsace List, he saw his visitor grow deathly pale. His words, as he knew they would, had struck home. Now was the time to press his
advantage
.

‘We need waste no more time in bandying idle words, Monsieur Norbert,’ he said. ‘You, and those other men, entered into a conspiracy against the German Reich, which was to lead to
insurrection
and sabotage. The French Foreign Ministry has compiled a list of all twenty-four of you, with your aims and objectives clearly set out. The idea was to warn you all privately not to carry out your foolish intentions. You, I suspect, favour the Republican cause; others in your gang are anarchists, and socialists.’

‘
Monsieur
—’

‘
Monseigneur.
You were saying?’

‘
Monseigneur
, I confess that what you say is true. Why deny it? But how did this knowledge fall into your hands?’

‘The list of names was stolen from where it had been temporarily lodged, in the French Ministry of Marine. It came into the possession of another, and was then acquired by me. I have it now, safely hidden away. Now, there is a man living here in Amiens called Herr Pfeifer, an agent for German Intelligence. I have only to take the Alsace List to him, and he will pay me very handsomely—’

‘But you are a Frenchman! Surely you would not betray us to the enemy?’

‘Yes, I am a Frenchman, but you, Monsieur Norbert, are now a German, living in the German territory of Elsass-Lothringen. That is the law, the law of nations. In the eyes of all countries that have accepted the settlement of 1870, you are a traitor to your country – Germany – and so are your fellow conspirators. Do not expect the French to move in the matter. If your treachery is revealed to the German authorities, you will all be rounded up and hanged. Your property will be confiscated, your families beggared. And no one, Monsieur Norbert, will lift a finger to prevent that.’

‘And you intend to inform against us?’ asked Norbert, faintly.

‘Me? Certainly not – at least not yet. If you and your
fellow-conspirators
will furnish me with ten thousand pounds in Bank of
England notes, I will give you the Alsace List, and you will be free to destroy it. What do you say?’

De Bellefort saw that he had won before ever the wretched banker opened his mouth to reply. The fear seemed to drain almost literally from his eyes, and he uttered a long sigh of relief.
£
10,000 was evidently not an unattainable fortune to this
prosperous
banker.

‘I can undertake to do as you ask,’ said Norbert. ‘When do you require this money?’

‘You must bring it, secure in a valise, to a place that I will
indicate
to you, later. You and I will meet there, and make the exchange. I will trust you, because you are a well-established and responsible figure in the world of banking. You can trust me, because I am an aristocrat of the old order, and my word is my bond.

‘The exchange will take place this coming Saturday, the
twenty-second
. Meanwhile,
monsieur
, you must lodge in Paris until the affair is concluded. I will be in Paris myself from Thursday
afternoon
. You will find me at the Hôtel Stella Maris in Montmartre. Call there on Thursday evening, and I will give you details of Saturday’s rendezvous.’

‘And I can trust you to keep to your bargain? You will understand that you can furnish me with no securities—’

‘There speaks the true banker!’ said De Bellefort. ‘I have already given you my word as a member of the
ancienneté
. But if that is not sufficient for you, Monsieur Norbert, let me define our relationship in simple, practical terms. I want money and you want security. It is in both our interests to make an exchange. I think that’s all. Until Thursday, then, in Montmartre.’

When the badly shaken banker had gone, Alain de Bellefort sat in thought for a while. That fool would come up with the money, sure enough, and once he had received the forged duplicate of the Alsace List, it would be in Norbert’s interest to destroy it. Thus no record of their transaction would survive as a possible source of
future mischief. The exchange, though, would be very tricky, because on the same day, and in the same place, he would deliver up the true Alsace List to Herr Pfeifer.

What did he care for any of these people? Let the Germans do as they wished. Twenty thousand pounds, paid discreetly into an account with Coutts and Company of London, would be the
foundation
of his great project: the restoration of the House of De Bellefort to its ancient glory.

As Monsieur Norbert walked disconsolately away from the hotel where he had come face to face with De Bellefort, he wondered whether he looked as corpse-pale as he felt. Did these passers-by in the old winding street sense his feeling of total despair? He caught his own reflection in a shop window, and marvelled at how smart and well set up he looked, when inside he felt that he was in the grip of a rapidly fatal illness.