The Hansa Protocol (7 page)

The cab turned into Broad Sanctuary, and proceeded at a good pace down Victoria Street. Evidently, the driver was following a well-known route of his own out to Chelsea. He’d turn into Buckingham Palace Road just opposite Grosvenor Gardens, then into Pimlico Road, and go round the long boundary wall of the Chelsea Royal Hospital.

‘I must confess, Mr Lewis,’ Box said, ‘that I’m not well versed in these high-class German political thinkers, and how they live. What should I know about this house in Lavender Walk, and the folk who live there?’

Inspector Lewis coughed, and drew a sleeve across his mouth. This infernal cold! The old cab smelt of stale tobacco and damp straw. He’d be glad when they got to Chelsea.

‘Well, Mr Box, Dr Seligmann’s house has always been a popular sort of place. We’ve a lot of thinkers and artists and so forth living in Chelsea. There’s always been a lot of coming and going at Dr Seligmann’s. Poor old Mr Carlyle used to visit there, years ago, and he’d gabble away in German with Dr Seligmann and the other Germans in the house.’

Sergeant Knollys suddenly spoke, causing Lewis to start in surprise.

‘Any Englishmen, sir? Coming and going, I mean?’

Sergeant Knollys’ voice was well enunciated and slightly mocking.
The man looked like a thug, but was evidently something else. He dressed well, too. There was more to Mr Box’s sergeant than mere bulk and brawn.

‘Yes, Sergeant, there were some Englishmen from time to time. Learned men from the universities, and more than one Member of Parliament. Sir Charles Napier, the Under-Secretary, has called there more than once. He and Dr Seligmann were old friends. But usually there’d be a lot of foreigners turning up, some of them with huge pointed moustaches and what I’d call hectoring voices. Germans, most of them, I’d say.’

‘And who’s inside the house at present?’ asked Box.

‘Well, there’s Mr Schneider, who was Dr Seligmann’s personal
secretary
. Very stiff and foreign – all heel-clicking, and so forth – but a very decent, honest kind of man, I think. I’ve passed the time of day with him more than once. I told Mr Schneider that I was going to Scotland Yard. Everybody else seems to have been prostrated with grief. So Mr Schneider said.

‘Then there’s Count Czerny – C-Z-E-R-N-Y. They say he’s an Hungarian, and that may well be so, but he speaks better English than most English people. I don’t know exactly what he was supposed to do in the house, Mr Box, but he lives there, and was very close to Dr Seligmann.’

The clumsy four-wheeler rumbled its way out of Pimlico Road, and proceeded along Royal Hospital Road, which at that point was flanked by spacious, tree-lined gardens. They were passing the gracious
buildings
that housed the Chelsea Pensioners, and for a fleeting moment Box imagined that they were in the countryside.

‘And then,’ Inspector Lewis continued, ‘there’s Miss Seligmann – Miss Ottilie, as she’s called. She’s Dr Seligmann’s niece. She’s little more than a girl, very pretty, and very nice to the English staff. I don’t know what she’s like with the Germans, as I don’t speak German. I think she just lives in the house because she’s no parents. Came here six months ago, she did.’

‘What about the staff?’

‘There’s Mr Lodge, the butler, who I mentioned to you before. A very nice man, he is, fond of a glass or two of stout when the fancy takes him. I know a niece of his in the Borough. There’s a full house of English servants, and Mr Lodge is in charge of them. They’re all local
folk. And there’s Mrs Poniatowski, who’s the housekeeper. All starch and vinegar, she is. I rather think—’

Lewis broke off as a clutch of lively men in raincoats and bowler hats suddenly appeared at the corner of a narrow lane, waving their arms excitedly. Some of them were carrying notebooks. Inspector Box smiled.

‘The gentlemen of the Press, unless I’m very much mistaken,’ he said. ‘So the flies are already buzzing round the jampot. I take it we’ve arrived at Lavender Walk?’

‘We have, Mr Box. It’s just along that little lane. I don’t know why it’s called Lavender Walk. It’s more like a little square. We’ll leave the cab here, and walk down beside the hospital wall. Look at those men! What do they expect me to say?’

‘Would you like me to vouchsafe them a few words, Mr Lewis? I’m used to them, you know.’

‘I’d be very grateful if you would, Mr Box. Flies around the jampot? Vultures, more like!’

As soon as the four police officers alighted from the cab, they were surrounded by the reporters. Each represented a different newspaper, but they also had a team spirit of their own, a communal identity. Box leapt on to a low wall at the side of the road, and immediately the gaggle of men congregated eagerly in front of him.

‘Now, gents,’ said Box, in a loud, clear voice, ‘you all know me, and I won’t let you down. This is a very sinister business, and there are implications that, at the moment, it would not be prudent to make public. So if you come along at noon today, to the Clarence Vaults in Victoria Street, I’ll make a statement, and answer any questions. For the moment, though, I’ll ask you to disperse. Good day.’

The reporters seemed very satisfied with Box’s words. They moved away slowly in the general direction of Ormond Gate, chattering among themselves, and glancing back occasionally at the cab, which had been halted at the side of the road. The driver had come down from the box gratefully and shut himself up snug inside.

There had been a sickly sun shining for most of the journey, but now the fog began to descend with greater determination. The four policemen made their way into Lavender Walk, which proved to be a number of very ancient houses of modest size arranged around a patch of green. A few people were standing around, apparently heedless of the cold rain.
They were talking quietly together, and looking up at one of the houses, an old Tudor dwelling with mullioned windows and carved beams. The front door stood wide open, despite the bitter cold. The onlookers parted to make way for the policemen. Box was conscious of their curious glances as they stepped over the threshold of the stricken house.

‘Behold, Herr Schneider, the majesty of the British Law!’

Ottilie Seligmann was looking down at the neglected garden from one of the few rear windows of Dr Seligmann’s house to have escaped the destruction of the previous night. The secretary, stiff and respectful, stood on the landing behind her. He had heard the Scotland Yard men being admitted to the house a few minutes earlier. Lodge would have conducted them through the hall passage, and out into the garden.

Ottilie turned to face the secretary. He looked pale and drawn, though she could see that he was making a monumental effort to preserve his Saxon formality.

‘Come here, Fritz, and stand beside me. What are you afraid of? God in Heaven, do you think I will bite you? Look, here are the men from Scotland Yard. The dapper little man in the smart fawn coat – he, without doubt, will be the inspector. The other one, the hulking brute with the scarred face – that will be the sergeant.’

Ottilie watched as the cold winter rain turned suddenly to thick sleet, which began to freeze instantly on the grass and leaves. Towering up from the twisted and charred trees, the burnt-out Belvedere, she thought, looked like a sightless skull.

‘See, the constable on guard in the grounds has saluted, and the little inspector has raised his hat. So has the hulking brute. How formal – the ballet of the British Law! But there will be no dancing, my good Fritz! Not yet, at least.’

Ottilie moved further along the landing where she could look out of a round window almost opposite the ruined Belvedere.

‘Look, the brute sergeant has clambered up on to the ruins in that wretched building. He turns, and offers his hand to the little inspector. Soon no doubt, they will seek out the sad old man who crawled over the debris earlier, by the light of the flares. He came in the dark hours, that old one. He looks like a walrus. Bah! It does not interest me.’

Ottilie looked at Fritz Schneider with a sudden stab of guilt. He had listened patiently to her chatter, but it was clear that his mind was
elsewhere
.
How could it be otherwise? He would be shocked by her
callousness
, but would be too in awe of her to ask the reason for her attitude. It would not, perhaps, be prudent to make a confidant of him.

Schneider, she knew, had entered Seligmann’s service when he was still renowned as a scholar, and Schneider himself was well versed in the mysteries of old Germanic tongues. Like many Saxons, he had been schooled in the virtue of dumb loyalty. He had never expressed the slightest interest in the politics of his own or any other country.

‘You, see, don’t you, Fritz, that all is over here? You should go back to Germany, to Leipzig, your native city. You have a sister there, no? You will not lack for money. Go back! You see the ruin here. There may also be danger. So make plans soon to return to Leipzig.’

‘And you,
Fräulein
?
What will you do?’

‘Me? I have my plans, good Fritz. Meanwhile, there will be much to do here, repairing the damaged house, and putting things to rights. The police, also, they will demand attention. But for you, do as I say.
So,
sehr
geerhte
gnädiger
Herr Schneider: return to Leipzig!’

Detective Inspector Box blinked upwards through the sleet at the
shattered
rear windows of the house. He was in time to see two pale faces regarding him from an unbroken circular casement, which looked as though it was designed to throw light on to a staircase.

‘So, Sergeant Knollys,’ he said, ‘our arrival has not gone unnoticed! The good folk in the house will be shocked and stunned, no doubt. But they can spare time for a little peep at us from the upper storey. That’s human nature, Sergeant. There’s something to be learned there, I’ve no doubt. And this, I take it, is the Belvedere.’

The devastated building loomed up at them out of the mist. The ruined entrance framed a virtual hillock of shattered stone and timber, which was being delicately covered with the gossamer touch of unmelting sleet. A buckled iron door hung inward from its hinges, and on the grass nearby lay what they both took to be the plank with which Colin McColl had made his assault. Knollys all but leapt across the threshold, and gave a hand to Box, who clambered up after him.

They were standing on a tumulus of debris. Pieces of charred beam and twisted metal protruded from the ruin like broken teeth. They could see the remains of a chimney breast, and a great, gaunt gas
chandelier
, twisted and crushed, lay straddled across the hillock like a dead
giant spider. Knollys stooped, and pulled a fragment of leather from the ruin.

‘Looks like the spine of a book,’ he said, half to himself. He threw the fragment down again, and pulled up his collar against the rapidly thickening snow.

Box touched one of the walls. He fancied that the brickwork was still warm.

‘Look at these walls, Sergeant! Eighteen inches of stone, then lined with brick. A sledgehammer to crack a nut! You can smell foul gas trapped in the foundations. And something else …. What was it Mr Lewis said? “The smell of evil”. Maybe he was right. There’s nothing useful that we can do here at the moment. Let’s go and find Mr Mack. He and his searchers will have been through this place with a
fine-toothed
comb. He’ll tell us for certain what happened here.’

They found Mr Mack sitting in a small brick shed that seemed to be growing out of the old garden wall beyond a clump of stunted trees. They had to stoop through the low door of what Box assumed to have been at one time the hub of a gardener’s empire. From the state of the grounds it was evident that horticulture had not been among the late Dr Seligmann’s interests.

Mr Mack was sitting hunched over a small cast-iron stove, which was burning rather smokily. His watery eyes were half closed, and his prominent nose was very red. It was impossible to read his expression fully, as most of his face was concealed by a straggling yellow
moustache
. He was puffing away at an old briar pipe, and not for the first time Box thought that he looked for all the world like a
cocky-watchman
. PC Kenwright was standing impassively beside him.

The iron stove spluttered away. A sound of hammering came to their ears, and Box saw that the paved yard behind the house had been commandeered by a number of glaziers and joiners. He closed the shed door, and sat down. Mr Mack opened his eyes, and began to speak.

‘This explosion, Mr Box, was caused by a device concealed in a stout leather valise of some kind – a device that you, I suppose, would call a detonator. I’ll not teach you your job, but find out who brought a leather valise into that Belvedere and left it there. The device in the valise was controlled by a timing mechanism, set to operate at
eight-thirty
, which it did.’

Mr Mack stopped speaking, and emitted a sound that could have been a sigh, or a suppressed chuckle.

‘Now here’s the interesting bit, Mr Box. There was already a massive cache of high explosive in the building. I rather fancy it was concealed in a crate of some sort – a box of books, to judge from what we’ve found in the ruins. Whatever it was, it must have been brought into the Belvedere on an earlier occasion. When the valise exploded, what we call a “brisant” effect occurred – a kind of explosive sympathy, if you see what I mean, which sent the whole thing up sky high. Beautiful. A beautiful job.’

Mr Mack gazed morosely at the stove for a while, drawing at his old pipe. Box remained quiet. It was best not to interrupt the expert when his thoughts were running on the task in hand.

‘It wasn’t the Fenians, Mr Box. And it wasn’t Murder Malthus and his gang. I can’t tell you much yet until I’ve done some tests, but from the smell in there I know that we’re dealing with dynamite. Nothing fancy, you know: just the ordinary stuff you’ll find in mines or quarries. I can’t be very specific, but I reckon it’s come from the Feissen Werke armaments concern in Bohemia.’