The Hansa Protocol (28 page)

Sir Charles Napier closed the paper, but continued to stand at the window, looking down at the park. Thank goodness, he had prevailed over more imprudent counsels in the Cabinet meeting to which he had been summoned. There had been calls for a public exposé of Czerny and his dangerous gang, but that would have led to a shattering of the delicate balance of uncertainties that was steadying foreign policy at that moment. So England could mourn for one of its favourite foreigners, and speak fondly of his prowess at sport, his loyalty to the late striver for peace Dr Otto Seligmann – and so on, and so forth. That was much the best way.

Surely that was Kershaw now, walking gravely across the lawns towards the suspension bridge? Yes, it was the wily old fox himself, in his long black coat with the astrakhan collar, and the tall silk hat, which he wore at a slightly jaunty angle. And who was that with him? It was that perky Cockney police officer – Box. Well, he’d leave them to it. The business of poor Otto Seligmann and the
Eidgenossenschaft
was closed. And sealed. There would be time, now, to look more closely at that
business
of the compromised senators in Ecuador ….

Inspector Box and Colonel Kershaw crossed the suspension bridge that would take them over the five-acre park lake and out into the Mall. Apparently, Kershaw had an appointment with someone in St James’s Palace in half an hour.

‘This is the only occasion I have had, Box, to talk to you since our return from Scotland. I wouldn’t write to you. I never write to anybody.
But as you’re free of King James’s Rents for the morning, you may as well come for a stroll with me. One can be fairly indiscreet in a park, but walls, as you know, have ears.’

Kershaw said nothing more until they had crossed the bridge, and were on the skirts of the park. He then judged the time right to speak.

‘On Monday last, Box, just ten days after we concluded that business up in Scotland, Count Czerny’s body was washed up on the shore at Langaton Point, on the Isle of Stroma. One of my people went there to identify him. There was no doubt whatever that it was he.’

‘And what about the ladies, sir? Miss Ottilie and Mrs Poniatowski.’

Colonel Kershaw smiled, and looked fondly at Box. How formal he was, for such a young man! ‘The ladies’, indeed! They were harpies, feeding their fanaticism on human lives.

‘So far, Mr Box,’ he said, ‘there has been no trace of your ladies. Perhaps the next storm will deliver them back to these shores as dead and executed prisoners of the people whom they sought to destroy.’

Box said nothing. He waited for Kershaw to precede him through the park gates into the crowded Mall. He could see the great gatehouse of St James’s Palace rising above the trees. It was good to be back in London again.

‘Or perhaps, Mr Box,’ Kershaw continued, ‘those ladies of yours had decided on some other destination than Count Czerny’s yacht. We don’t know for certain that they ever boarded the
Mary
Rose
– or the
Berthe-Louise
, to give it its true name. So maybe this summer, Mr Box, one of my people may glimpse an elegant young lady taking the waters at Baden-Baden, and another may spy a sour-faced but prosperous lady of a certain age, sipping a seltzer at Carlsbad. I’ve known stranger things than that happen in my time.’

Colonel Kershaw glanced thoughtfully at Box. It would be a very long time, no doubt, before he worked again with this perky young inspector. He had proved to be an invaluable ally. He was discreet, too. There were other things that he had a certain moral right to know.

‘The Kaiser was furious when our ambassador to Berlin called on him, and told him what had been happening. He actually apologized, which, of course, he was not expected to do. The accepted diplomatic fiction, of course, was that the Kaiser hadn’t the slightest inkling of what the
Eidgenossenschaft
was up to.’

‘Apologize, did he? That was very nice of him, sir.’

‘Yes, wasn’t it? I met Count von und zu Thalberg in Paris last week. He told me that the Kaiser raged so furiously when the ambassador had gone, that his courtiers feared for his sanity. He’s not ready for war yet, you see, and he’s too canny a bird to be pushed in that direction before his time. Anyway, Mr Box, the upshot of it all was that Baron von Dessau, the warmonger-orator, was found shot dead at his villa in Charlottenburg.’

‘Suicide, then?’

‘Possibly. Or maybe one of his own side blamed him for failure, and made away with him. Or perhaps an agent of a foreign power seized the opportunity of his disgrace to – er, well, even things up a little, you know.’

‘Strewth!’ said Box softly, almost to himself. It wouldn’t do to dwell too much on what the colonel had just hinted.

Colonel Kershaw stopped at the entrance to the palace. He offered his hand to Box, who shook it, and bowed.

‘Goodbye, sir,’ he said. ‘Perhaps we’ll work together again sometime.’

‘I hope so, Box. Goodbye. I expect you know that Admiral Holland had been knighted? It’s in this morning’s
Times.
Goodbye.’

Inspector Box settled down in a seat on the top of an omnibus that would take him to Baker Street, and opened the copy of
The
Times
that he had bought from a newspaper stall near Spencer House. Struggling against a sudden breeze that sprang up as the omnibus turned into Piccadilly, he opened the paper at the Court Circular.

Yes, there it was:
Her
Majesty
has
been
pleased
to
invest
Admiral
James
Holland
RN
with
the
dignity
of
the
degree
of
Knight
Bachelor.
A well deserved honour, too! Holland had performed prodigies of inventiveness and bravery up in Caithness. He’d come back to London a changed man, and the changes had all been for the best.

Box was about to discard the newspaper when his eye caught another line in the Court Circular. He whistled in surprise.

‘Well done, sir!’ said Box to himself. ‘And well done for not even bothering to mention it to me!’

When the omnibus reached Baker Street, Box changed to the
familiar light Green Atlas conveyance, that would take him out to Finchley.

‘Today, Mr Box,’ said Louise Whittaker, ‘I declare a holiday from adventure. Perhaps we’ll allude to recent events a little later. But let us get our priorities right. I want to know how your father is progressing. So when you’ve drunk that cup of tea, and consumed that slice of fruit loaf, you had better tell me.’

Box relaxed in his armchair, and allowed himself to glance around the room. There was the big table in the window bay, covered with open books and sheets of paper. There were the glazed bookcases, and the mantelpiece with its neat array of ornaments. And there was the mistress of the house, as calm, amused, and beautiful as ever.

‘Pa is making wonderful progress, Miss Whittaker. Yesterday, he was placed in a wheeled chair for the first time. He seems to have taken on a new lease of life …. He suffered terrible pain for years with that leg, you know. Terrible, it was. And very soon now he’s to go down to a
resthome
at Esher. The Police Benevolent Fund arranged that, on account of him having been a policeman for so many years.’

‘I’m so very glad,’ said Louise. ‘Esher’s a very pleasant, quiet place. Perhaps we could visit your father there, once he’s settled.’

‘We?’

‘Well, yes. You don’t mind, do you? Your papa and I could gossip about you while you walked in the grounds. Then I’d find out what you’re really like!’

They both laughed, and then Louise, who was sitting opposite Box at the fireside, set her cup and saucer down on the hearth.

‘Mr Box,’ she said, ‘it was a great adventure, but now, if you don’t mind, I should like to resign my position as sole member of your female posse.’

She held up a hand to fend off Box’s protest, and gently shook her head.

‘No, please listen to what I want to say. One day, perhaps, there really will be lady police officers, but I know now that I could never be one of them. I enjoyed staying at Bagot’s Hotel, and all that, but that was because I was looking after Vanessa. I was guarding her, if you like. But when I think of Colin McColl seizing that letter from me, and those fights – you, with that monstrosity at Scotland Yard, and Mr Knollys struggling with McColl – well, I feel sick with fear. I
can’t bear it, I’m afraid. So, please accept my resignation!’

Yes; he’d wondered whether Miss Whittaker had the right
temperament
for police work. Miss Drake certainly had the kind of careless courage necessary for the rough-and-tumble of daily policing, but he’d always had doubts about his beautiful academic friend and ally. No harm had been done by putting her to the test.

They passed a pleasant hour together, recalling some of the events of the Amelia Garbutt case of the previous year, and considering the
likelihood
of something interesting developing between Jack Knollys and Vanessa Drake. When the time came for Box to return to King James’s Rents, Box reverted to the matter of Louise’s resignation from the ‘posse of one’.

‘With respect to your resignation, Miss Whittaker,’ he said, ‘am I to lose your professional services entirely?’

Louise Whittaker regarded him with the special amused expression that always made him feel an utter fool.

‘Well, no, Mr Box,’ she said. ‘That would never do. I want to be here for you when you need to get away from King James’s Rents, and think aloud about a case. I want to be your advisor, someone who can give you a female slant on things. And I want to be your friend. I’m working at it, you know’

‘Working at it?’

‘Yes. I’m hoping that one day my attempts at charming you will be sufficiently successful for you to stop calling me Miss Whittaker, and try Louise for a change.’

‘Louise?’

‘Yes. It’s the female form of Louis. There’s nothing to be afraid of.’

‘But Miss Whittaker, if I was to call you Louise, you might then feel obliged to call me Arnold—’

‘Well, so I would, Arnold. There, I’ve done it!’

‘Oh, Louise—’

‘But you’d best go now. You’ve been here for hours, and you’ll miss the omnibus. Besides, the neighbours will start to talk if you don’t go.’

Arnold Box laughed, and picked up his hat and gloves from the table. ‘Goodbye, then, Miss Whittaker,’ he said. ‘I’ll let myself out.’

‘Goodbye, Mr Box,’ Louise replied, sitting down at her great table in the window bay. ‘Solve your crimes, and keep us safe!’

Vanessa Drake put down the golden silk stole that she had been hemming,
and settled back in the upright chair at the round table of her sitting-room in Westminster. Had it all been a dream? Had she really unstitched the lining of a dangerous man’s pocket in the deep of the night? Had she really watched as Jack Knollys struggled desperately with a ruthless killer?

She glanced at a framed photograph of Arthur Fenlake, which
occupied
a place of honour on the mantelpiece. How very young he looked! She would always remember him with pride and affection. He was one of England’s many heroes. He had taken her to exhibitions at the National Gallery, and once to a picture-hanging at the Royal Academy. She wondered whether poor Arthur would have approved of Jack Knollys.

Jack had taken her to see Hetty Miller at the Alhambra in Leicester Square. The square had sparkled with hundreds of bright gaslights, and although it was raining, the rain hadn’t seemed to matter. After the show, they had eaten supper in a plush and gilded cafe in Regent Street. There was nothing mean about Jack ….

There came a knock on the door, and Colonel Kershaw walked in. He must have seen the leap of excitement in her eyes, because he smiled kindly at her, and said, ‘It’s not a call to business, Miss Drake. I just happened to be passing. How are you?’

‘I’m very well, thank you, sir.’

‘Good. I expect you know, don’t you, that Major Lankester died a hero’s death in the end? I know you were sorry for him, because he’d been a good friend and mentor to Lieutenant Fenlake.’

He glanced briefly at Fenlake’s photograph, and then looked thoughtfully at Vanessa for a moment.

‘There’s nothing much going forward at the moment, missy,’ he said, ‘but if you were to receive a call to arms from me again, would you still respond?’

‘Oh, yes, sir!’ Vanessa’s bright blue eyes sparkled with excitement.

‘Good, good. I’m glad. I knew you had it in you to be one of my crowd. I’ll go, now. Meanwhile – I’ve brought you a little something from the lady who owns Bagot’s Hotel. Not Mrs Prout, you know.’

Colonel Kershaw took a small package from his pocket, and placed it on the table. Before Vanessa could ask any further questions, he had gone. The package contained a small leather case. She opened it, and gasped in delighted surprise.

Nestling in a bed of crimson velvet was a solid silver plaque, about two inches tall, and an inch across. It had no clasp or chain, and was
evidently not designed to be worn, but kept as a special treasure. The royal monogram, VR, had been inset in gold, surrounded by a circlet of tiny diamonds. Deeply engraved in firm Roman lettering below the monogram were the two words:
LOYALTY’S KEEPSAKE.

Sergeant Kenwright, standing alone in the empty drill hall, squared his shoulders, and prepared to walk through the low passage into the front office. He could hear the faint murmur of voices drifting through the tunnel-like entrance, telling him that both Mr Box and Sergeant Knollys were there.