The Hansa Protocol (15 page)

He handed the slip of paper to Graham, who read it out aloud.

‘Go to SH3. New courier reception. Canning.’

Inspector Graham handed the document back to Inspector Box. He shook his head, and smiled ruefully.

‘I’m getting too old for this kind of work, Mr Box. I’m getting
careless
. I should have seen that paper in his hand. Not that it makes any sense to me.’

‘Fenlake was still clutching that note when he was shot, which means that he’d only just entered this place when the killer struck. This is Secure House Number 3, Mr Graham, a kind of secret trysting-place for Foreign Office couriers. Was there any sign of forced entry?’

‘No. I think both killer and victim used door keys to get into this place.’

‘Very likely. There’s treachery here, Mr Graham. That name, “Canning”, is used by the Foreign Secretary and his deputies as a
code-name
.’

‘An enemy within the gates?’

‘Exactly. But what I don’t understand, is why that enemy should want to make away with this poor young man.’

‘Maybe he doesn’t like Foreign Office couriers.’

‘Maybe not, Mr Graham. And you’re not getting too old, or careless. You’re getting too fat! Try running round the block every day, or take a course in the dumb-bells. You suggest that our killer doesn’t like couriers. You’re a cynical devil, Mr Graham, but I think that, in this case, you might have hit on the sober truth.’

Colonel Kershaw stood in front of an ornate carved desk in a very chilly, high-ceilinged chamber, which seemed at first glance to be part library and part armoury; but the bound volumes on the shelves looked undisturbed by enquiring hands, and the collection of fierce swords and daggers reposed harmlessly in glass cases. The fanciful mock-Gothic fireplace contained nothing warmer than a confection of yellow and brown dried grasses.

Into this room presently came a little woman of seventy-four, dumpy and homely, yet bringing with her immeasurable dignity. Queen Victoria had reigned as Queen of Great Britain and Ireland for fifty-six years. For seventeen years she had been Empress of India. Sovereign of the most powerful nation on earth, she held sway over one-fifth of the world’s population. She sat down on a damask-covered chair behind the desk, while unseen hands silently closed the door through which she had entered.

Etiquette forbade any conversation before the Queen had spoken. Kershaw stood rigidly before her for what seemed to him at least ten minutes, measured by the relentless ticking of a number of clocks. He noted the sheen of her black silk widow’s weeds, and the exquisite
fineness
of her white lace veil. She had donned small, round, gold-framed spectacles before entering the room, and gave her attention wholly to a collection of documents that had been laid ready for her on the blotter.

Finally, Queen Victoria carefully removed her glasses, folded them, and placed them on the desk. When she spoke, Kershaw was conscious of the contrast between her involuntarily forbidding presence and the bell-like sweetness of her voice.

‘Good afternoon, Colonel Kershaw. We say that as a matter of
courtesy
, though of course there is nothing good about it at all. Nothing. We are conscious of failings, of complacency, of a falling away of the
effectiveness
of the organs of governance. When we think back over the last half-century, we are reminded that home and foreign affairs were at one time managed with greater success.’

The Queen dropped her eyes for a moment to the documents on the desk. Colonel Kershaw wondered whether all the other rooms in Windsor Castle were as relentlessly freezing as this discreet little chamber at the entrance to the Private Apartments.

‘Last Saturday, Colonel Kershaw,’ the Queen continued, ‘a Foreign Office courier, Stefan Oliver, was murdered, and thrown by his murderer from a boat into the Thames. Did you know that?’

‘Yes, Ma’am.’

‘Last Tuesday, one of Britain’s staunchest friends, Dr Otto Seligmann, was blown to pieces in Chelsea by means of an Infernal Machine. Did you know
that
?’

‘Yes, Ma’am.’

‘How could such things occur in our capital? We summoned Sir Charles Napier here, and told him that this kind of thing had to stop. And now …. What are we to say about this slaughter, only yesterday afternoon, of a staunch and loyal young officer in a so-called “secure house” belonging to the Foreign Office? Lieutenant Arthur Fenlake was instrumental in delivering to Sir Charles Napier a memorandum written by Dr Seligmann—’

Colonel Kershaw began to frame a reply, but the Sovereign held up her hand to enjoin silence. She had grown very pale, a change
emphasized
by the deep black of her customary mourning dress.

‘Lieutenant Fenlake was thirty-one. What a waste of a young life! What contempt for the Queen’s Peace! Oliver, Seligmann, Fenlake – these are blows against
us
! These murderous assassinations, Colonel Kershaw, are symptomatic of a greater and more serious disease in the body politic. The country is riddled with traitors. They are everywhere – in the houses of the great, in the military encampments, and in the very seats of government—’

‘Ma’am—’

‘We have not yet finished speaking! These traitors, and their
sympathizers
, are gaining ground. They are mesmerized by the rhetoric of my
grandson William, and his agents. William – the Kaiser – is a man who likes to appear strong. But he is weak – weak in body and spirit, and we fear that one day he will bring the whole of Europe to ruin. Meanwhile, we must do our utmost to prevent that. And so, once again – once again, Colonel Kershaw, I have sent for you.’

The Queen had abruptly abandoned the royal plural, and with it some measure of the anger that she had felt as Sovereign. The change of pronoun let Kershaw know that the scolding was at an end, and that he was to be treated now as a confidant. The Queen permitted a little smile to play about her mouth.

‘You appear to be shivering, Colonel Kershaw. Are you cold? If so, I will tell them to light the fire.’

‘No, Ma’am, I am not at all cold. Perhaps just a little un-warm.’

The smile lingered for a brief moment on the Queen’s face, and then her mood became grave once more.

‘Sir Charles Napier, the Under-Secretary, is a very capable man. A brilliant man. In his way …. I should very much like to induce him to retire to that estate of his in Wiltshire. A peerage, perhaps? Well, I’ll speak to Mr Gladstone about that. And, of course, to dear Lord Salisbury.’

The Queen seemed to have lost sight of Kershaw for a moment. He stood quite still, waiting for her next words.

‘That memorandum of Seligmann’s – my government is anxious to convey it safely to certain parties in Germany. But you already know about that.’

‘Yes, Ma’am. I have, in fact, already interested myself in it.’

Ah!’ It was a little sigh of satisfaction. ‘I wondered, you know, whether you had already moved in the matter. Whenever I see you, Colonel Kershaw, I think of Francis Walsingham and Robert Cecil, who ran the secret services in olden times. Have you seen the picture of Queen Elizabeth at Hatfield? The Queen’s cloak is covered with embroidered eyes and ears, which I believe represent her secret servants: unseen, they saw all, unheard, they heard all. Whenever I see that picture, and what it may signify, I think of myself, and of Walsingham and Cecil. And then I think of you.’

The Queen stopped speaking, and simply looked at the slight,
sandy-haired
man standing stiffly in front of her. He knew what he had to say.

‘Your Majesty, I have the honour to head your Department of
Special Services. I have long considered the rot setting in throughout your realm, and believe that now is the time for me to act. But I cannot act effectively unless Your Majesty grants me full powers to over-ride and to commandeer.’

‘We give you those powers, Colonel Kershaw. I have already told Mr Gladstone that I would do so, if the need arose. Do what you will, and use whatever means you deem necessary. Cleanse our realm of treachery! Our people shall not be delivered into the hands of alien oppressors.’

Queen Victoria stood up. Colonel Kershaw bowed deeply. He kept his head inclined until he knew that Her Majesty had left the room. A liveried footman appeared, and conducted him from the private
apartments
. He emerged from the chill audience room into the cold winter afternoon.

‘Well done, old girl,’ he muttered to himself. ‘I’ll not fail you!’

Vanessa Drake stood a little apart from the other mourners, who formed a kind of tableau of dignified grief where they had assembled on one of the snow-pocked paths between the graves at Highgate Cemetery. The carriages had been halted at the beginning of the long avenue, and they had all walked its entire length until they reached the great cedar of Lebanon at the centre of the circular road. An
unrelenting
wind soughed through the tall, swaying trees, and blew dried snow from the draped urns, marble crosses and granite columns of the countless grand, gaunt tombs.

Arthur had been an orphan, like herself, and both his parents lay here, in the grave newly opened for him. The black-coated,
black-gloved
mourners on the path, the women veiled to the ankles, the men with long mourning bands trailing from their silk hats, were his uncles, their wives, and his cousins. They had travelled down from Hereford, and would return there later that day.

Nearer to the grave, where the snow had been trampled into slush, a group of military officers had taken up their position, their blue and scarlet uniforms making a dash of colour among the general dreariness. Although it was bitterly cold, they wore no cloaks. There were other soldiers standing in disciplined formations on the paths.

The military chaplain’s white surplice billowed out behind him, and his voice, though high and clear, was carried away by the gusting wind.
The coffin was committed to the earth, and Vanessa saw the chaplain close his book, and step back from the grave. Surely, that was the end of it? What was happening now?

A detail of soldiers appeared, six young men wearing dark-blue uniforms, and carrying rifles. In response to a series of brief orders barked out by someone unseen, they took up positions around the grave, swiftly raised their rifles, and fired a single deafening fusillade into the air. The sound echoed and re-echoed from the turrets and tombs, and a flock of shrieking crows rose up, protesting, from the trees, to the bleak sky. At the same time, the knot of officers drew their swords, and executed the complex sword-play of the ‘present arms’.

Vanessa suddenly experienced a surge of pride which for a moment swamped her grief and anger. For she had been angry and resentful at the waste of her friend’s life in the pursuit of some secret government exploit that wasn’t allowed to reveal itself to the light of day. The pride of that moment, when the rifles fired as one, seemed to banish her smouldering resentment.

The mourners moved slowly towards the avenue, that would take them back to the carriages. The gravediggers hovered discreetly with their spades. The soldiers and their officers began to disperse. One officer, though, began to walk towards Vanessa, clearly intent on greeting her. She wondered who he was, and hoped that he would not detain her long. She wanted to go back quietly in a cab to her lodgings near Westminster Abbey, and to think about Arthur there.

She looked at the man who was approaching her, picking his way cautiously among the snow-covered graves. He was a slightly built, sandy-haired man with a pleasant but rather weary expression. He looked about fifty years of age. It was difficult not to be impressed by his appearance. He wore a bluejacket, with rows of gold braid and a scarlet collar, and blue trousers with a red stripe. He carried a black busby, with a red badge and a white plume, in the crook of his right arm, while his left hand steadied the scabbard of his dress sword. As he stepped on to the path, he greeted her with a gentle, confiding smile.

‘Miss Drake? Please accept my condolences. I am
Lieutenant-Colonel
Adrian Kershaw, of the Royal Artillery.’ She could see now the grenade badges on his collar. Poor Arthur, on the rare occasions that he had worn uniform, had sported the same grenade badges. He offered her his arm, and they walked slowly together down the path.

‘Will you be joining the others, Miss Drake? I believe there’s to be a reception at the Highgate Tavern.’

‘No, Colonel Kershaw. I shall go straight home. Were – were you Arthur’s superior officer? He wasn’t an ordinary soldier, was he?’

‘The answer to both your questions is no, Miss Drake. No, I was not Arthur Fenlake’s superior officer. And no, he was not an ordinary soldier. Fenlake was a special courier, seconded from his army unit to the Foreign Office. I’m not allowed to tell you why he was killed – murdered. But I
can
tell you that he died on active service. That is why the Queen decreed a military funeral for him today.’

‘The Queen?’

‘Yes. It was Her Majesty’s express wish.’

They had reached a small, single-storey lodge set back from the avenue, and partly cloaked by trees. The front door opened, and an elderly man in a gardener’s smock came out on to the doorstep. Vanessa could see into the room beyond, where a fire was cheerfully burning.

‘Will you drink a cup of tea with me, Miss Drake? You have only to step inside the lodge. It will restore your spirits after this melancholy business, and help to drive away some of this biting cold.’

Vanessa looked searchingly at him for a moment, and then at the elderly man, who had walked away purposefully into the cemetery. She glanced up at the sky. The fitful daylight had a greenish hue, and black clouds scudded across Highgate village. There would be torrential hail, perhaps, or the final victory of the skirmishing snow. She nodded her head, and together they entered the lodge.

‘No, Miss Drake,’ said Kershaw, putting his cup down on the saucer, ‘I was not Arthur’s superior officer, though you’ll appreciate that we belonged to the same regiment. Arthur had been seconded to the Foreign Office, where he worked for the Under-Secretary, Sir Charles Napier, as one of his most valued couriers. I have charge of a different crowd of people entirely. They are folk who keep constant watch, and carry out assignments that help to guarantee the safety and stability of our country. Do you want to hear more?’

‘Yes.’

‘I have two kinds of people working for me. First, there are
professionally
trained men and women, drawn from all ranks in society. They
are required to take great risks. You will find them in the nobility, in the professions, in the working population. These people are known as secret servants, and they receive an annual purse from the Treasury.’

Colonel Kershaw sipped his tea for a while, and Vanessa gazed at the flickering flames in the rusty grate of the little room. They were both sitting on upright Windsor chairs, placed on either side of a spindly
tea-table
.

‘And then,’ Kershaw continued, ‘there are the others – the “nobodies”. They carry out small tasks that are part of a greater project. Rather like a piece of embroidery, you know, where you can work very closely on a particular detail – a panel of an altar frontal, say – and not feel bothered about losing sight of the whole design.’

Colonel Kershaw glanced at her briefly as he said this, and she
realized
that he knew how she earned her living.