The Hansa Protocol (11 page)

Miss Whittaker sat quietly for a while, gazing thoughtfully at the fire. Box was content to wait.

‘Mr Box,’ said Louise Whittaker, ‘I wondered about that library, too! The one in the house, I mean. Dr Seligmann showed me around it. It was just a courtesy on his part. He wanted me to admire the very fine carved Tudor panelling.’

‘And did you, miss? I must confess that I never noticed it.’

‘I was content to listen to him talking about it, while I looked all round the room. Like you, Mr Box, I realized that it was there that he kept the books he actually read! I was waiting to see whether you, too, had seen the truth of the matter. Oh, I know it was filled with
interminable
reference material to do with Germany and German politics, but those books around the mantelpiece – well-thumbed volumes, some with the spines sprung loose from constant opening – they conjured up for me the younger Dr Seligmann, the man who, perhaps, would have liked to become a scholar of international repute. But in his later years, you know, I think his enthusiasm was largely nostalgic: he had become a politician – perhaps a statesman in the making – and philology had become something of a romantic regret.’

Box watched Louise Whittaker as she smiled, and shook her head.

‘But that library in the Belvedere, Mr Box – well, I thought it was a very peculiar place. It was there that Dr Seligmann showed me the medieval manuscript that he’d bought. While I was there you may be sure I cast my eyes around very thoroughly! As I remember, there were three shelves containing a wide range of modern German books on European history – three great shelves, completing the circle of the Belvedere. But above those shelves, Mr Box, rose tier after tier of leather-bound dummies! I wasn’t fooled – I’ve seen that kind of thing before, and they make a good show.’

‘Dummies?’

‘Dummies. Very much like filing-boxes, but with a leather-covered false spine. People keep sets of magazines in them, or use them to tidy away items that look untidy when left lying about. Sometimes they have amusing names printed on them. I remember feeling slightly shocked when I saw them. They suggested a kind of deceit, which I’d never have associated with a man of Dr Seligmann’s reputation.’

‘Dummies …. And why did Dr Seligmann send for you in
particular
, Miss Whittaker? To look at this old manuscript, I mean.’

‘Well, you see, Mr Box, about eighteen months ago I went with some other scholars to a symposium on Germanic Philology at the university of Jena, in Prussia. It was a very learned affair, with lectures and
discussions
for most of the day, but some opportunities for sight-seeing as well. I was invited to dinner one evening by Professor Adolf Metternich and his wife, and among their guests was Miss Ottilie Seligmann, who is Dr Seligmann’s niece—’

‘Miss Ottilie? She has been living at the house in Chelsea for the last six months, Miss Whittaker. I don’t know whether you realized that?’

Box saw the bewilderment in Louise’s face.

‘Ottilie? Here in England? I had no idea, Mr Box. I gather that there was an estrangement between Ottilie’s father and Dr Seligmann – some wretched family quarrel. Perhaps that’s why she never thought to make contact with me.’

‘Miss Ottilie’s father died six months ago, so I’ve been told. She was an orphan, and came to England in order to live with her uncle. She’s been here ever since.’

‘We were very friendly at Jena,’ said Louise. ‘She was a vivacious girl, you know, disconcertingly frank, but with an engaging personality. She
was very pretty, too, rather like Vanessa Drake, with yellow hair and bright blue eyes, but not as healthy as Vanessa – consumptive, I think. But you asked me a question. I think Dr Seligmann invited me because he knew that I had seen his niece, though when I went to Chelsea he never asked after her.’

Louise Whittaker suddenly made up her mind to visit Ottilie Seligmann at Chelsea. Whatever quarrels had kept her father and uncle apart, they were irrelevant now. It would seem both rude and heartless not to call with her condolences.

Box picked up his curly-brimmed bowler and drew on his gloves. He would have to digest what Miss Whittaker had told him, or rather sift through her account of the libraries at Chelsea. At one stage in her account he had almost had a revelation of the truth. She had
unwittingly
revealed to him something about Seligmann’s death that so far had been hidden from him. Whatever it was, it had retreated to the shadows.

‘Thank you very much, Miss Whittaker,’ he said. ‘You’ve been a beacon of light today, if I may put it like that. Without being too dramatic, I think I can say that you have helped your Queen and country in a moment of acute crisis.’

It had seemed a noble sentiment when he conceived it. After he’d actually said it, it sounded faintly ridiculous. As he turned to open the door, the lady scholar’s mocking voice rang out.

‘One day, Mr Box, there may even be a woman detective at Scotland Yard to help you. And the Queen and country, too!’

Inspector Box smiled, and thought for a moment before replying to what Louise had meant to be a friendly taunt.

‘Very well, Miss Whittaker,’ he said, ‘although I don’t imagine there’ll ever be any official lady policemen, I herewith enrol you as the first and only member of my unofficial female posse. There – does that satisfy you?’

Miss Whittaker laughed, and turned her attention once more to her books and papers.

‘Away with you, Mr Box,’ she cried. ‘Go and solve your mysteries!’

Detective Inspector Box chuckled to himself, and left the room.

Box walked through the low passage that led from his office to the long, lime-washed room at the back of King James’s Rents. It was a forlorn
place, used partly as a storeroom, and partly as a venue for meetings. Superintendent Mackharness always referred to it as ‘the drill hall’, which was the kind of description that came easily to an old Crimea veteran’s mind.

PC Kenwright was sitting at one of a number of trestle tables, writing in a large foolscap ledger. The tables were covered with what Box estimated to be hundreds of shattered fragments, each carefully reposing in a chalked circle. The huge bearded constable glanced up from his work, and lumbered to his feet.

‘Good morning, sir,’ he said. ‘I didn’t hear you coming in.’

‘Carry on with what you’re doing, Constable,’ said Box. ‘I’ve just come in to see how you’re getting on. I heard you yesterday, shifting all this stuff in here from the lane. These tables – and all these pieces that you’ve ringed in chalk – excellent, PC Kenwright! Have you drawn any conclusions yet from all these fragments?’

‘Yes, sir. Do you see all those pieces of brown leather that I’ve collected at the end of this table? They’re parts of the valise that was used to bring the detonator into the Belvedere. I was given a great deal of help by Mr Mack’s men yesterday at the site, sir. I reckon we’ve collected just about everything of significance.’

Box examined the pieces of the valise. Kenwright had drawn a rough impression of a briefcase on the wooden surface of the table, and had positioned the fragments over it. They included both a buckle and a strap, and a discoloured brass lock.

‘Excellent,’ Box murmured. PC Kenwright continued to exercise his careful penmanship, his great frame bent over the ledger. Box watched him as he glanced at specific objects that he had salvaged, before turning once more to the ledger. He realized that PC Kenwright was compiling an inventory.

He looked at the second table, and saw that Kenwright had ringed a further collection, this time of what looked like strips of green leather, charred and soaked with moisture. Box suddenly recollected Sergeant Knollys in the Belvedere, stooping down pulling a fragment of leather from the ruin. ‘Looks like the spine of a book,’ he’d said ….

‘Constable, what are these green fragments here, do you think?’

‘Those, sir? Well, they look like parts of books until you examine them closely. They look like bits of the covers of books, but when you turn them over there’s no white or marbled paper gummed on them,
which is what you’d expect to see – like on this ledger that I’m writing in. I don’t rightly know about those bits. They look like parts of books, sir, but they may have been something else.’

Yes, thought Box. They looked like something else. Dummies ….

PC Kenwright left his task, and joined the inspector at the second table.

‘We salvaged hundreds of things from that wreckage, sir. You see all those little things glinting in that jar? Little cogs and wheels. They’ll be from the timing-clock in the detonator, I expect. Or perhaps Dr Seligmann had a clock in there, and they’re part of the clock. Or maybe it’s a mixture of both.’

He pointed to some further items arranged in a wooden tray.

‘Those tiny wheels and bits of metal are what’s left of the poor doctor’s watch. There’s all sorts coming out here, sir.’

Box picked up a small picture frame, which Kenwright had used to hold a thick piece of paper on which was printed the letters
EISS
. Mounted beneath it was a brief note, written in what Box recognized as the sprawling and spiky handwriting of Mr Mack:

‘
FEISSEN WERKE
. This is part of one of the labels attached to sticks of dynamite and other explosives made by the Feissen armaments and explosive factories in Bohemia.’

Box placed the little frame carefully back on the table.

‘We uncovered that little scrap of paper, sir, while Mr Mack was still at the site. I showed it to him just before he left, and he kindly scribbled that note. And on this big board here, sir, I’ve pasted a whole pile of little fragments of paper – thirty-six pieces I’ve found so far – all with printed words on. I don’t know what they mean. They’re all in that fancy German type you see at the top of newspapers, so I expect they’re German words.’

‘It’s quite remarkable, Constable. I’ve not seen anything quite like this before. I know you’ve a light touch for a giant of a man, but all this fine, detailed work – smoothing out the bits of paper, flattening them out, mounting them behind glass – it’s excellent. You’re a shining
ornament
.’

PC Kenwright smiled appreciatively into his beard.

‘Well, sir, I suppose this kind of task comes naturally to me. When I was a little boy, I used to help my father to make his models. He made models of Nelson’s ships from the days of the war against Napoleon.
We used to make little sally-ports and little spars from pieces of wood he brought home from Covent Garden. He was a porter there for nigh on fifty years.’

Kenwright returned to his ledger, and Box went back through the passage to his office. The fire was burning brightly, and the rackety old gas mantle trembled and spluttered, as though gasping for air. Box pulled one of the chains, and the light burned brighter. He sat down at the table, and gave himself up to thought.

Pieces of leather that looked like the spines of books, but weren’t. Dummies, Miss Whittaker had called them. A collection of fragments of paper, with German printing on them. Where did that lead him? Maybe the dummies were like boxes, filled with papers printed in German ….

The Belvedere was supposed to have been Dr Seligmann’s academic library, but that had not been the truth. The people in that house at Chelsea were adept at dropping subtle hints about things. A pack of playing cards thrown carelessly down …. Perhaps they were good at playing tricks.

The Belvedere …. It hadn’t fitted in with the house. It was too big, too menacing, for its modest surroundings. And it had thick walls, lined with brick. And an iron door, which Colin McColl had seemingly risked his life to breach. The Belvedere.

Of course! It was the Belvedere, not Seligmann, that had been the subject of Colin McColl’s fiendish attention! Seligmann could have been disposed of less expensively by pushing him under a cab, or chucking him in the river at Chelsea Reach. There was no need to blow him into atoms.

No; they’d needed that massive charge of explosive in order to destroy the Belvedere – and its contents. Something to do with PC Kenwright’s carefully garnered scraps of paper. That had been the object of the whole diabolical exercise. Killing Seligmann in the process was by way of being a bonus.

Box felt inside his coat and removed the spill of paper that Colonel Kershaw had passed to him on the previous day in the garden shed at Chelsea. He had already glanced at it, and realized what it signified. It was inscribed in small, neat letters with a name and address.

Mrs Prout, Bagot’s Hotel, Carlisle Place, Archbishop’s Park.

Whoever Mrs Prout was, she would be able to grant him access to Colonel Kershaw. It was time for Box to take himself to Carlisle Place. He committed the name and address to memory, and then burnt the spill in the office fire. He watched the slip of paper curl rapidly and fly up the chimney in a shower of sparks.

‘Dull!’

Louise Whittaker paused in the act of stirring her coffee, and looked at her young friend Vanessa Drake. A moment before, she had asked the girl how she found life at the moment. Vanessa had uttered the single word so vehemently that several of the other ladies taking lunch in the restaurant of the Acanthus Club had looked up disapprovingly. Vanessa blushed, and lowered her voice.

‘I never felt like that until I met Arthur,’ she continued. ‘I had my way to make in life, and a gift for needlework and embroidery. And the people at Watts & Co are all that one could desire. But it’s all so deadly dull, Louise! I envy you, because you meet so many different people, you know detectives at Scotland Yard, you travel abroad to romantic countries, you’re a member of this marvellous club for professional women—’

‘I’m thirty-five, Vanessa,’ said Louise. ‘You’re a mere chit of a girl of twenty. You’ve plenty of time to expand your horizons in life. And why has knowing Lieutenant Fenlake unsettled you? Inspector Box was able to set your mind at rest about your Arthur’s gambling propensities, and the good intentions of Major Lankester—’

‘Yes, it was very good of him to do that. But it’s something about Arthur’s work that’s making me chafe at the bit. He’s something more than just a soldier, Louise. Why is he always at the Admiralty? Why is he never in barracks? He disappears, sometimes for days, on mysterious errands, and shies away if I try to ask any questions …. He’s having adventures while I’m languishing among the silks and damasks in Tufton Street!’

Vanessa Drake laughed in spite of herself, and a lady sitting at a table nearby looked up from her newspaper, caught Vanessa’s eye, and smiled. She was an affable-looking woman of fifty or so, wearing a
businesslike
black dress. Vanessa had noticed her earlier, because her auburn hair was enlivened by a single tress of natural silver. She had been peering at her copy of
The
Times
through gold pince-nez, but now she put the paper down on the table.

‘I couldn’t help but hear what you said just now, my dear,’ she said. ‘I hope you’ll forgive me speaking to you like this, but I know just how you feel. My name is Mrs Prout. I’m an hotelier.’

‘I’m Vanessa Drake,’ said Vanessa, in some confusion. Mrs Prout seemed to be a kindly, comfortable kind of woman, but there was
something
very shrewd in her expression that was slightly unnerving. ‘And this is my friend Miss Whittaker. I’m only a guest here today. Miss Whittaker is a member.’

‘Well, now, isn’t that nice? How do you do, Miss Whittaker? I don’t think we’ve met before. I don’t come here very often, these days.’

‘Perhaps you’d care to join us for coffee?’ said Louise Whittaker. She wondered about this Mrs Prout. It was not usual for a lady of her generation to be so informal about introductions. She watched as Mrs Prout pulled her chair across to their table, and sat down.

‘You see, Miss Drake, when I was your age – twenty? – I worked in my father’s little printing-house, binding up parcels of tracts for the Chinese Mission. Day after day I’d turn the handle of the special machine that bound the sheets together, and then I’d pack them in dozens in shallow wooden boxes. I couldn’t read them, of course, because they were printed in Chinese! Day after day …. I’d done that for three years, and I began to think that I’d carry on doing it for another thirty.’

‘And what happened?’

‘Well, Miss Drake, the mission decided to establish a printing-house at Canton, and Father agreed to go out there and set it up. And so we went. As soon as we got there, the war broke out – well, one of several wars. Canton was occupied by rebels, people who didn’t care much for foreigners. Our little mission house was surrounded by a fearful mob, and the upshot of it was that they set fire to the place. Then they set fire to the neighbouring houses. There was a lot of shouting, and shooting, and we were all quite convinced that we were going to be slaughtered.’

Louise Whittaker had made two efforts to pour Mrs Prout a cup of coffee, but on both occasions she had been stopped by the dizzying speed of the older woman’s narrative. She glanced at Vanessa, and saw her blue eyes shining with excitement. Her young friend seemed to have lost sight of the quiet, elegantly appointed restaurant of the Acanthus Club, and she herself, for all her cool, academic detachment, was
beginning
to be enthralled by the friendly woman’s tale.

‘What happened next?’ asked Vanessa.

‘We were rescued by the provincial governor and his loyal troops, but then we had to make our way alone and unseen down to Hong Kong. Eventually, of course, we got back to England, and a few years
afterwards
the Viceroy of China and General Gordon restored what passes out there for law and order.’

‘And did you resume your work for the mission?’ asked Louise. Mrs Prout treated her to a good-humoured smile, and shook her head.

‘Oh, no, Miss Whittaker. I’d had my fill of adventure! I married into the hotel business soon afterwards, and have been there – very
contentedly
! – ever since. So there, my dear Miss Drake. Life doesn’t have to be all stitching and sewing. The most amazing things can happen – if you’re willing to take the risk.’

Mrs Prout declined to take any coffee, and after a few pleasantries, she gathered up her paper, and left the room.

‘I wonder who she was?’ asked Louise Whittaker.

‘Why, she told us who she was—’

‘I don’t mean that, Vanessa. That was a true story she was telling, something unbelievable that once happened to someone who is now a comfortable, commonplace woman. But she was telling it for a purpose, and I have a feeling that she was watching
you
, seeing how you’d react to her story. It’s just a little odd, that’s all. Perhaps I’ll ask Inspector Box about this Mrs Prout.’

‘You like him, don’t you? Really like him, I mean.’

Louise Whittaker blushed, more with vexation than embarrassment. It was mortifying to like a man who seemed constantly overawed by one’s academic abilities. They’d never once addressed each other by their Christian names. Like him? Of course she liked him. She liked his defensive boastfulness, which masked some kind of sensitive
vulnerability
. And he’d lightheartedly made her the one and only member of his female posse.

Suddenly Louise Whittaker realized that she, too, was envious, just as Vanessa was envious of Arthur Fenlake. Arnold Box was part of the official establishment of the country. He had powers of arrest,
privileged
access to all kinds of influential people denied to her. But he came to her when a case began to puzzle him, content to avail himself of her scholar’s trained mind, and female insights. Why shouldn’t women have their share of such privileged authority? She would make as good a detective as Arnold Box, given the opportunity.

‘Well, do you?’

‘What? Yes, I really like him. I’m hoping that one day he’ll stop treating me as a kind of idol or oracle of wisdom, and treat me like a woman! Come on, Vanessa, let’s leave the Acanthus, and return to the big, wide world of Arnold Box and Arthur Fenlake! That Mrs Prout’s tale of derring-do has made me determine to beat these proud and secretive men at their own game, if ever I have the chance!’

Box had never heard of Bagot’s Hotel, but the cabbie whom he hailed at the corner of Whitehall Place made no comment when he asked to be taken there. He turned the head of his rather unwilling horse, and the cab rattled off on its journey to Westminster Bridge.

Bagot’s Hotel proved to be a small but high-class establishment, tucked discreetly into a cul-de-sac behind the rear garden wall of Lambeth Palace. Box paid off the cabbie, and walked up three steps into the dimly lit foyer of the hotel. An affable lady in a businesslike black dress occupied a little glazed office near the door. Her well-tended auburn hair was enlivened by a single silver streak, that somehow added distinction to her appearance.

The lady marked Box’s arrival by darting a quick and unexpectedly shrewd glance at him over pince-nez, and then continued talking to a gentleman who had evidently arrived only moments before Box.

‘It’s so nice to have you back with us, Major Lankester,’ said the lady, ‘even though it’s only for a few days. Just passing through, are we?’

This, then, thought Box, is the officer who saved young Fenlake from ruin. A handsome, fine-looking man in his mid-forties. That sleek black hair owed nothing to artifice. His clipped and waxed moustache told of a man with pride in himself. His tailored black overcoat with its warm astrakhan collar, suggested that Major Lankester was a man of means, and a smart dresser by inclination. Another military man …. Perhaps
Bagot’s was an establishment for military and naval officers. Or perhaps it was something else.

‘Just passing through? Yes, Mrs Prout, that’s what I’m doing. Any chance of dinner, soon? I know it’s confoundedly early, but it’s dashed cold out there.’

‘Dinner’s whenever you like, Major Lankester. Down here, or upstairs. Just as you like. Mr Gordon was in, earlier. He said he hoped they’d see you soon at Eagle Street.’

‘Did he, by George? Well, we’ll see. I suppose he looked as
prosperous
as ever?’

‘Oh, yes, Major. Very spruce he looked – very dapper, if you
understand
me.’

Box watched Mrs Prout as she smiled rather archly at Major Lankester. That woman, he thought, can speak two languages at the same time. If you were sharp enough, you could divine what she meant by delving beneath her spoken words to what lay behind them.

‘I know what you mean, ma’am.’ Lankester replied. ‘Always very well turned out, is Mr Gordon.’ He lowered his tone a little. ‘You see men like him at the Italian opera. Tenors, mostly.’

Mrs Prout crowed with delight, and Box saw Lankester smile. It was a good-humoured smile, he thought, from a man without malice. Major Lankester turned away from the little glass office towards the staircase.

‘I’ll have dinner upstairs, Mrs Prout. In half-an-hour’s time, if that’s convenient.’

Box had taken the opportunity of glancing into the cosy, panelled lounge beyond the vestibule, where a good fire was burning, and a number of middle-aged men were sitting around, talking to each other in loud, commanding voices. They seemed to know one another, and Box judged that they were all military and naval men, some still on active service, and others obviously retired. There was a pervasive aroma of tobacco and brandy about the place.

‘Can I help you, sir?’

Box saw that Mrs Prout was regarding him with half-concealed amusement. He watched her glance briefly at a document on her desk, and then back at him again. Once more he saw the shrewd expression behind the rather arch, flirtatious exterior.

‘Would you care to go up the stairs to the first floor, sir? Knock on the door of room six. You are expected.’ She had not asked his name.

A deeply carpeted staircase led up to the bedrooms. The carpet was unworn, and spotlessly clean, with gleaming brass stair-rods. There was, Box mused, a decidedly military air about the buffed and polished surroundings of Bagot’s Hotel. He reached the first-floor landing, and knocked at the door of Number 6.

The door was opened by Colonel Kershaw, who had evidently just left an armchair placed in front of the fire. He was clutching a copy of
The
Morning
Post
in one hand, as though he had been reading it when Box had summoned him to the door.

Box took in the large, well-furnished room in a single glance. He saw the regimental shields and crossed swords above the fireplace, the shelves of books, and the wealth of framed photographs. This room in Bagot’s Hotel bore all the marks of being personal to the man who occupied it.

‘You live here!’ he exclaimed.

Colonel Kershaw laughed, and motioned to a chair facing his by the fire. He looked much the same as he had done in the brick shed at Chelsea. Slightly built, with thinning sandy hair, and a cast of
countenance
that was habitually apologetic, he looked more like a senior clerk approaching retirement than a professional soldier. Box wondered whether he cultivated different identities, and tried them out for
consistency
on people like himself.

‘Well, living here’s not a crime, Mr Box. One has to live somewhere, you know! In any case, I have other places where you’ll find me – always supposing that you’re looking for me. But you sent a note by special messenger, saying you had something to tell me.’

‘Yes, sir. I’m going to outline a theory, if I may. It’s based on the premise that the massive charge of explosive concealed in that crate at Chelsea was intended not to kill Dr Seligmann, but to destroy the Belvedere. Killing Dr Seligmann in the process, sir, was just a bonus, so to speak.’

‘Why should they want to destroy the Belvedere?’

‘Because of what it contained. Some kind of documents, sir, concealed in filing boxes disguised as large books. Shelf after shelf of dummy books. I’ve a constable back at King James’s Rents who’s salvaged over thirty fragments of these documents, so far. They appear to be printed in the German language. Do you want to hear how I arrived at these conclusions, sir?’

‘No. What I want to do, Box, is send a man – one of my crowd – to look at those fragments, and read what they say. Printed, you say? I wonder …. If I allow myself to become immersed in the detail, Box, I’ll lose sight of the overall picture. So, no, I don’t want to hear how you found this out, but I’m sure that you’re right. Well done! I knew I’d made the right decision when I ran you to earth in that foggy garden at Chelsea. You’ll definitely be around me, now, when this business blows up.’

‘You’re very kind, sir.’

‘Not at all. I trust that your friend Miss Whittaker is well? And Miss Vanessa Drake – is she still plying her busy needle?’

‘The answer’s “yes” to both your questions, Colonel Kershaw. I suppose it would be idle if I were to ask you why you want to know?’

‘Totally idle, Box. I just like to know things, that’s all. I’ll send a man down to see these fragments of yours. Can you see him later this
afternoon
? About five o’clock? Excellent. His name is Veidt. Monsieur Veidt. I already have an inkling of what he’s going to find. It opens up interesting possibilities …. We’ll talk further, Box, and sooner rather than later. Meanwhile, any message delivered here at Bagot’s will always find me.’