A Thief in the Night (17 page)

Parfitt held the view that the most risky topics of conversation were best done in the midst of the buzzing and hubbub of a place where people ate, laughed and shouted, such as the Café Giraudier.

No more was said and they returned to chat about the next meeting with the planning group where they would be wining and dining the great explorer, Henry Morton Stanley.

At number 34 Grosvenor Square, George Grossmith had finished his last song and stood up to take a bow and revel in the applause from the crowded drawing room. He adjusted his pince-nez and said, ‘That was my new song, and I apologise for my egregious Irish accent. The title,
His Nose Was On The Mantelpiece
, bears no relation to any of Mr Sullivan's melodies so there is no need for any lawsuit to be considered.'

The gathering was amused. They loved him. Leo was acting as an amateur
conferencier
, as if the whole event was in Vienna, and he took the singer a glass of wine and invited him to stay by the piano ready for his next task. Grossmith, petite and dapper, thanked his audience once again and did a little dance step which would have been familiar to anyone who had seen him at The Savoy as John Wellington Wells, and in fact many of the present party applauded.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, before we resume our conversation and allow dinner to settle – and by the way, in my home the ladies and gentlemen do not separate for post-prandial chat in their various rooms – may I ask you all to welcome two special guests. There is Baron Dieter von Merhof, all the way from Vienna, and the truly wonderful Maria de Panay Bellezza, society hostess and former wife of the late Margrave of Karnesheim.' There were cheers and clapping and both guests took a little bow. ‘Now for the entertainment part of my little soirée; I would like to introduce the very talented singer and actress, Cara Cabrelli. Mr Grossmith has kindly offered to accompany her with a song from
The Pirates of Penzance
that you will surely all be familiar with, ‘Poor Wandering One'.

Cara was at the far end of the room, which was cluttered with a dozen elaborate chairs and tables of ornate Rococo guilded magnificence. There were a few chaises-longue among the chairs, and a scattering of small card-tables, adorned with ormolu and mother-of-pearl. Everything was of the latest fashion, down to the huge potted plant by a solid white pillar in the middle of the right side of the room.

She arrived at the piano and Grossmith stood in order to bow, and, in return, Cara gave a curtsey. Her beautiful face and long black hair had captivated all the men, but none so much as the Baron. He had not yet had an opportunity of speaking to her, but as he strolled from talker to talker, his glance returned to Cara, as he found her irresistible. Now he moved to the front row and sat in adoration.

Cara went into Mabel's song and at each rendering of the refrain, ‘Poor wandering one' the Baron sighed. When she reached the last line and sang, ‘Take any heart – take mine!' he positively felt that he was twenty years old again, and not the overweight fifty-year-old he had grown into. As soon as the applause died down he was up on his feet.

Cara was surrounded by admirers, but the Baron was first to take her glove hand and kiss it. ‘My little beauty, how I adore you! Ladies and gentlemen,
ein glas den damen
… let us drink to the ladies, the eternal feminine, as the great poet Goethe memorably wrote.'

Cara was speechless and blushed. The small talk carried on, and other admirers drifted away, leaving the Baron alone with her. He was a square man, sturdy and firm. Once red-haired and dashing, he was now balding and tried to compensate by growing a prominent moustache and beard. None of this, however, reduced his attraction to the fairer sex. ‘My dear girl, you have entranced me. I would like you to call me Dieter. Can you do that?'

Cara smiled and nodded. As the evening wore on she found a moment to speak quietly to Maria. Seated on a leather sofa beneath a minstrels' gallery in the small sitting room, Maria said, ‘My dear, Leo and I are watching the Baron. He is suspected of being possibly a little too friendly with certain Russian émigrés. You know how the city is talking about them?'

‘Of course, stories have been in the papers. They are very much a threat to peaceful life, I gather.'

‘Indeed. Now, how does the idea of being a tart for your country appeal?'

They laughed so much that Leo came into the room, tutting. ‘Dear me, some of my guests
are
being antisocial!' It took only a wink and a flash of the eyes from Maria for him to realise that something private was being discussed and he left. Leo had a faithful following: his romances attracted the interest of the fairer sex, Lord George always said, in such a way that they would faint at the very mention of Aubrey Antoine. This was amply demonstrated now as he strode back into his broadest room, where guests had assembled to hear Grossmith play again, and offered to read an extract from his forthcoming novel,
Dangerous Embrace in the
Levant
. ‘With your permission, Mr Grossmith, I would like to read this before your next song.' The pianist gave a little bow and begged him to continue. The assembled party was enthralled as Leo's hero, Sir John Daring, survived a night attack by three would-be assassins. It was the perfect distraction for the Baron, who was as enraptured as anyone there.

In the quiet of the sitting room, hidden beneath the ridiculously overdone minstrels' gallery, Maria and Cara were whispering.

‘Cara, by all means flirt with him,' Maria said. ‘I know it is a challenge, but …'

‘Oh he's repulsive,' Cara retorted. ‘What if he – you know, goes beyond the bounds of good manners?'

‘He most certainly will. He is a dandy with a penchant for gambling and for pretty women … but how deeply his political interests go we are not sure. We know that he has Russian friends in Vienna, and that he inherited a fortune from his banker family. Could you perhaps … lead him on? You could torment him by saying you are married – that will really stir him up!'

When, later on, they explained the situation to Leo, he was most put out. He lamented that he was always on the margins and never actually sleuthing. Maria's response was to run her fingers through his hair, give his forehead a little kiss and say, ‘My dear, Aubrey Leo Antoine is the brains of our little detective club … in the central office, like the Scotland Yard Commissioner!'

As the ladies left him, he gave a little self-satisfied smile and murmured, ‘I say, here comes the next plot …
Dangerous Department
.'

Maitland dropped in to see Chief Constable Williamson at the Yard.

‘Well, Dolly, I now feel rather more informed about Russian intellectuals. The one who has been troubling Mr Parfitt appears to be subject to being bought off. He's been trying blackmail, and I gave him some funds. Parfitt says he's had to have some secret meetings with this Russian. Something shady going on there, and I fear for David. But it will be the last. Next time I'll be asking you to … remove him.'

‘Sir David Parfitt himself, if I have to remind you,' said Williamson, ‘is not exactly the man we read about in the papers, what with his unorthodox opinions on the vote, and on foreign policy … and he is just one of many who wear smart coats and revel in their Oxford clubs. Who may we trust, Maitland?' The Chief Constable stared out of the window. ‘You know, this world has a sickness. I'm not sure it can be cured … not by a police force at least. The malady runs deep and has infected the bloodstream … like a black poison, it will destroy every good thing. It will not be limited to the wilds of Russia, oh no. But perhaps I'm too old for this. I'll soon be gone from here, boring people with talk about my garden. Things are so mixed-up now. Why, a detective has to know so much, be so well-informed. The day will come when he will need a secretary following him, keeping records of all conversations. I'm tired of it all, Maitland. But I'll soon be out of your hair, and you people in the Cabinet can stop worrying about me making some awful mistake.'

‘Nonsense Dolly, you're the best bloodhound we have! Now, this Baron – he has met with Pelriak. They have been seen together, but only once. There may be nothing in it. The Baron knows virtually everyone with any money in London. Their organisation is, in translation, “The Brothers of Rebirth”. They want the old Russia back, and they want allies abroad. The day might come when they recruit mercenaries to go and fight the Tsar's army.'

Williamson moved across to his desk and took out a bag of sweets from a drawer, offering one to Maitland. ‘I don't trust anybody. Never have. Keep following the Baron. First, he's a foreigner, and second, he speaks Russian, we know that. Those two facts make him suspicious. A peeler trusts nobody. Even my good wife is being watched – to make sure she changes the bed. I love clean sheets don't you old man?' He chuckled and Maitland joined in.

‘Dolly, how many potentially dangerous Russians are in London, do you know?'

‘We have these statistics coves and they pretend to know. They tell me two thousand. But that's nonsense. I always double any figure they give me. I can tell you that there are a hundred men and women who have been involved with the Paris disturbances, but they've gone to ground like damned hares. Ever hunted a hare, Maitland?'

‘Can't say I have … none around Kensington, Dolly.'

‘Well, you can walk up to a hare, get close, almost to the point where you think you can grab her … and then whoosh! Off she goes!'

‘Hmm … so this foreign lot are like that?'

‘Exactly! Now, I'm on my way to the slippers and fireside in three weeks, and they'll be giving me a trophy or a damned golden truncheon or something like that at the Grand Hotel, so the line of gossip tells me. Consequently, Maitland, I want no bomb beneath Mr Parfitt or any other prominent boy-o, right?'

‘Your Mr Carney and your Special Branch are doing very well, I'm sure. My own staff are always vigilant too, you can count on that.'

‘Thank you Maitland. Now you may leave me to my boiled sweets. As to the Baron, watch him like a hawk.'

When his visitor had left, Williamson sat at his desk, put his feet up on a chair and ruminated on what he had been saying about trust to Maitland. It struck him that, as he had said to himself many times before, it was more difficult to trust the men in smart suits than the stinking rough-ends of humanity that he had dealt with over the years. He pitied the poor devil who would be stepping into his shoes.