The Hansa Protocol (18 page)

Throughout the Grand Salon, and in the galleries, many small tables had been set, and there were buffets near at hand, attended by liveried footmen. Wines of choice vintage had appeared from the cellars, and conversation was animated.

At one of the tables laid out in an upper gallery, Colonel Kershaw sipped dry champagne, and glanced from time to time over the balustrade at the brilliant assembly in the hall below. At the same table with him sat a very heavy, healthy man in evening dress, a man whose florid face broke from time to time into an attractive smile.

‘You know, Kershaw,’ he said, ‘I can’t think why you persuaded Mount Vernon to invite me to this do. Dashed odd, the whole thing. Far too many foreigners gabbling away. They’ll be the ruin of this country.’

‘You’re becoming too bluff and insular, Hamish,’ said Kershaw. ‘That’s what comes of living up there in the barren wastes of Caithness. It’ll do you good to mingle with a few exotic foreigners here at High Cedars.’

Kershaw’s companion laughed good-humouredly, and glanced up as a man in faultless evening dress approached their table. Kershaw
turned round, and stiffened with something approaching excitement. Thalberg! He’d no idea that he’d be at High Cedars.

‘Now here’s a chap after my own heart, Kershaw,’ said the man called Hamish. ‘I like this fellow. I met him in London at one of Salisbury’s receptions for diplomats. I can understand him when he speaks. Damned if I can remember his name, though.’

‘I like him too, Hamish. I also like the things he tells me. He’s rather in the same line of business as I am, you know.’

‘Oh! Do you want me to go, then?’

Hamish half rose from his chair, but Kershaw pushed him back with a laugh. ‘Oh, stay where you are! Try to imagine that you’re still at school: just listen, and shut up.’

The new man bowed in the German fashion, and Kershaw
introduced
him. ‘Sir Hamish Bull of Caithness. Hamish, this is Count von und zu Thalberg.’

The count, who was clutching a glass of champagne, sat down in a vacant chair.

‘Well, gentlemen,’ he said in perfect English, ‘this is very nice. One can pretend here for a brief weekend that the world is civilized. Everybody seems to be here, as far as I can make out. Mrs Pole-James, novelist and reformer, is here, and has kept me in a state of desperate politeness for the last half-hour. Lady Mary Horton-Stuart, the darling of the salons, is as fascinating as ever. She confided to me that she is actually thirty-five! “Impossible”, I said. I happen to know that she’s forty-two!’

His two companions laughed, and Sir Hamish Bull visibly relaxed. Then the count caught Kershaw’s eye with a special glance that Kershaw recognized. Thalberg was a high-ranking officer in Prussian Military Intelligence. He was also a fervent Anglophile.

Kershaw knew that he was about to be told some things of interest, probably served up in a roundabout way. The business of Lady Mary’s age had been the signal.

‘Lady Mary, you know, reminds me a little of Adelheid von Braun. Did you ever meet her? She left Germany about four years ago, and I thought she’d come to England. But it may have been Paris. A very charming young lady, but not perhaps as young as she seems. Like Lady Mary, you know. It must have been Paris, otherwise she’d have been here tonight, I’m sure.’

The Prussian aristocrat turned to Sir Hamish Bull, who was sitting well back in his chair, enjoying the convivial atmosphere of High Cedars.

‘Sir Hamish, I remember seeing you once at Lord Salisbury’s levee for the Diplomatic Corps. I’m sure you would have liked Adelheid von Braun. A lovely, blonde girl, she was. Her father, Colonel-General von Braun, was a very devoted and fanatical Prussian, with vast estates in Eastern Prussia. How admirable! The true Junker! He was more royalist than the Kaiser himself, so the Kaiser said to me on one
occasion
.’

Colonel Kershaw looked thoughtfully at Thalberg. Adelheid von Braun …. At least, it was a name, if not as pretty a name as Ottilie Seligmann.

‘Well,’ Thalberg concluded, ‘it must have been Paris she went to. Somebody told me she’d made a secret marriage to a Hungarian fellow, which may be true or false.’

‘Hamish here,’ said Kershaw, ‘is rather nervous of foreigners, Count. He’s a Scotsman, you see. They’re just about getting used to the English.’ Sir Hamish grinned, but said nothing.

‘A Scotsman, hey?’ said Thalberg. ‘Well, I knew a Scotsman once. A very dangerous, devilish kind of Scotsman. A lone wolf, as they say, and not very fond of the English. He wanted to sell something to a man in St Petersburg—’

‘What?’

‘Oh, didn’t you know that, Kershaw? Yes, my Scotsman is a very German type of Scotsman at the moment, too German for comfort. But he’s not averse from doing deals with Russians when the mood takes him. He was in Petersburg last month.’

Kershaw relapsed into silence. Sir Hamish looked doubtfully at Count von und zu Thalberg.

‘Look here, Count Thalberg,’ he said, in rather injured tones, ‘you spoke about your German Scotsman being too German for comfort. What do you mean by that? You’re a German yourself, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, indeed, Sir Hamish. But there are Germans and Germans.’

Sir Hamish beckoned a passing waiter and took another glass of champagne from a tray. He took an appreciative gulp.

‘I can’t get the measure of some of you foreigners. I’m a Scotsman, you know. I don’t wear a kilt, or toss the caber, and so on, but I’m Scots
through and through. I’ve never heard of a Scots German. Not until now, anyway. There’s a woman turned up in my part of the world who’s apparently a Polish Bohemian. Why can’t foreigners just be French, or German, or whatever they are?’

Colonel Kershaw leaned over the table and took the glass of
champagne
out of Sir Hamish’s hand. He looked at him steadily and coaxingly. His voice was soothing and quiet.

‘Hamish, think, and then speak. What does your Polish Bohemian lady call herself?’

‘Call herself? Mrs Feissen. She’s a Pole. But a fellow I know who speaks Polish says she isn’t a Pole. He says she’s a Bohemian. Not one of those gipsy violinists, but a woman from Bohemia. Oh, dash it all, a Check. That’s the word this fellow used. A Check. Damned odd, I should have thought.’

Colonel Kershaw returned the glass of champagne to Sir Hamish, and leaned back in his chair. He glanced knowingly at the count, who smiled.

At midnight, a brilliant display of fireworks on the terrace of High Cedars lit up the black winter sky above the encroaching woods. It was seen as a signal that the evening’s celebrations had ended, and the many guests assembled to be lighted up to bed.

Colonel Kershaw had slipped away from the company, and made his way up a set of obscure back stairs to a landing on the top floor. He took a key from his pocket, and unlocked a stout door, which gave him access to a series of hidden rooms. There was a sparsely furnished
business
room, containing, among other things, an electric telegraph, and beyond this, a sort of council chamber, where Inspector Box sat in one
of a number of chairs drawn round a blazing fire.

‘How are you, Mr Box? Have they treated you well?’

‘They have, sir. Food and drink aplenty, and a firework display. I couldn’t have asked for more.’

Colonel Kershaw smiled, sat down in one of the chairs, and
withdrew
his cigar case from the inside pocket of his dress coat.

‘Will you smoke a cigar with me, Mr Box?’

‘I will, sir.’

Kershaw played a match over the end of his cigar until it was glowing to his satisfaction, and then flicked the match into the fire.

‘This evening, Mr Box,’ he said, ‘a friend of mine, Sir Hamish Bull of Caithness, told me – in a rather roundabout way – that Mrs Poniatowski, the housekeeper at Chelsea, is living in his part of the world, under the name of Mrs Feissen. One of my crowd shadowed her from Chelsea when she left, but he lost her in Glasgow. Sir Hamish Bull also told me that she isn’t a Pole, but a Czech – a Bohemian, you know.’

‘A Bohemian? And her name is Feissen? But that’s – Yes! That’s the name of the concern that made the explosive used to blow up Dr Seligmann! “Feissen Werke”.’

‘Yes. So now you can see a new complexion on things, can’t you? Right in the heart of Dr Seligmann’s household was – well, I’ll tell you who she was. My people in Germany have sent me reports about her. Maria Theresa Feissen is the widow of the great Bohemian armaments manufacturer, Wilhelm Feissen. She is now the working principal of that concern. Both Feissens were fanatical pan-Germanists—’

‘Pause there, if you will sir – hold on …. This Mrs Feissen must have known Colin McColl. She must have supplied the explosive. She must have arranged for that crate to be delivered from Germany’

‘Exactly, Box. And as you very cleverly discovered, the object was to destroy the Belvedere, and with it Seligmann’s copy of
The
Hansa
Protocol.
And now she’s in Scotland, in the wilds of Caithness. Why, Box? What is she planning now?’

Box drew on his cigar, and looked at the cheerful fire. He let a string of images pass through his mind. The unseemly rows between Miss Ottilie and her sour-faced housekeeper. Her raging dislike of Count Czerny …. ‘He will go. And that Polish woman. She, too, will go.’

‘Sir, have your people found out anything interesting about Miss Ottilie Seligmann? From the start of this business I’ve had men
shadowing 
the various people in that house. Miss Ottilie never seems to go anywhere, or do anything much. She seems to spend most of her time writing letters. The butler posts them regularly in the pillar box at the end of Lavender Walk.’

Colonel Kershaw smiled, and threw the butt of his cigar into the fire.

‘Miss Ottilie’s letters are quite harmless. They’re purely chatty things to English friends, or letters to fashionable shops. Some are private affairs, and one or two are written in German to people abroad. But they seem to be quite ordinary.’

‘How do you know that, sir?’

‘I’ve read them. I’m not going to tell you how we intercept them, Box, but it’s very ingenious. Something to do with the stamps. Of much greater interest is something else that I was told tonight, this time by a German diplomat called Thalberg. Our friend Miss Whittaker was right. The young woman at Chelsea is not Ottilie Seligman: she is yet another fanatic, and her name is Adelheid von Braun.’

‘I wondered all along about her, sir. So did my sergeant, Jack Knollys. Ottilie Seligmann didn’t ring true—’

Suddenly, almost with a sense of shock, the pieces of the puzzle rushed together. Box had been hovering for a week on the edge of discovery, and now the obscurities had cleared away. He began to speak, urgently and persuasively.

‘Colonel Kershaw, what we have witnessed at the house in Chelsea has been the dispersal of a gang of assassins after the successful
completion
of a mission. It has all been disguised as a series of rows and antipathies, and we’ve watched from the sidelines as the gang dispersed, Like all gangs, I expect it will regroup when the time is ripe. Once the mission was accomplished, they could disperse. So Miss Ottilie staged those rows, first with Mrs P. and then with Count Czerny, so that they could flee – if that’s the right word here – without anyone suspecting that they were the killers. All the neighbours saw was the spectacle of a few excitable foreigners squabbling with each other. The only innocent party in that house is Schneider, the German secretary.’

‘I believe you’re right, Box. We have witnessed the dispersal of a gang. Which means, of course, that the gang must have assembled at Chelsea in the first place. The false Ottilie, and the malevolent Mrs Poniatowski, were successful in becoming part of the household of their deadly ideological enemy, Dr Seligmann.’

‘Their object, as we know,’ said Box, ‘was to destroy
The
Hansa
Protocol
,
and neutralize Seligmann’s bargaining power with the German war party. But they must have found it very difficult to keep the truth from Count Czerny.’

Kershaw gave Box a half-amused smile.

‘Are you going to disappoint me at this late hour, Mr Box? It was
brilliant
of Count Czerny to pose as a champion of peace, and to spout rhetorical nothings that told the sober truth. He is a bold man, a man who took the chance of revealing to you the existence of the
Eidgenossenschaft
,
and then linking Colin McColl directly to it. Count Czerny, I have no doubt, was so convincing, that he managed to convince you of his own innocence. When Czerny left the house in Chelsea, he crossed the Channel with all his effects, and Europe
swallowed
him up.’

‘Sir—’

‘Mr Box, it is late, and we have both had a long and tiring day. Let us talk again tomorrow, after that telegraph machine in the other room has sprung to life, and brought us an account of tomorrow’s
Pan-German
Rally in Berlin.’

Inspector Box stood at one of the windows in the sparsely furnished business room on the top floor of High Cedars, and looked out at the fir trees, which were bathed in the weak sun of the winter morning. A bank of dark cloud was beginning to show itself above the woods, and patches of green had appeared on the narrow lawn beyond the rear terrace. The relentless grip of the recent icy weather was beginning to relax in preparation for a thaw.

The door of the room opened, and Colonel Kershaw came in. He was followed by Sir Charles Napier, and a tall, bronzed man of forty or so, dressed informally in tweeds. He had jet-black hair and side whiskers, and looked out on the world from shrewd grey eyes.

‘Gentlemen,’ said Kershaw without preamble, ‘this is Detective Inspector Box, of Scotland Yard. He is intimately bound up in this
business
of Seligmann and Lankester, and I beg you both to accept without demur that he is my colleague and associate. Box, you have seen Sir Charles Napier here before. This other gentleman is our host, Lord Mount Vernon.’

As he was speaking, a young man in a sober black suit came into the room, and at a nod from Kershaw, he began to busy himself with the technicalities of bringing the telegraph machine to life. Mount Vernon and Napier joined the operator, and Colonel Kershaw drew Box aside.

‘Mr Box,’ he said, ‘I thought I’d tell you that I’ve borrowed your sergeant, Mr Knollys, and sent him back to London on a little
commission
. I hope you can spare him.’

‘I can, sir, provided that you hand him back to me in good condition!
Is it in order for me to ask whether or not the memorandum got safely to Berlin?’

‘Yes, Box, it arrived there late yesterday afternoon. I’ve already informed Sir Charles there of what happened. My wine merchant’s traveller
delivered
the memorandum to a man at the British Embassy, who immediately took it out to Baron von Dessau’s residence in Charlottenburg. Apparently, the baron opened it, read it, smiled, and said nothing.’

A faint humming sound told them that the young man had activated the electric telegraph. When the time was ripe, the machine would stutter into life, bringing the morning’s news from Berlin.

‘I wonder what made the baron smile?’ asked Box. Napier heard him, and nodded in agreement.

‘I wonder, too,’ said Napier. ‘I thought the idea was that he should quake and tremble at what poor Seligmann had written?’

‘Well, yes, Sir Charles,’ said Kershaw, ‘but that was before Colin McColl – and the
Eidgenossenschaft
– had blown the Belvedere to smithereens, and with it, Seligmann’s copy of
The
Hansa
Protocol.
That memorandum said, in effect: “If you don’t restrain the dogs of war in Berlin, I shall reveal all the secret naval and military codes of the German Empire to the British Government.” It was meant to be a containing exercise, a means of guaranteeing the peace of Europe by a careful adjustment in the balance of power.’

Sir Charles Napier nodded vigorously in agreement.

‘Quite right, Kershaw. At last, you’re talking the kind of language that I can understand. And yet—’

‘And yet the baron smiled! He did that, presumably, because Seligmann’s threat was now worthless. Once von Dessau has addressed his devoted mob in half-an-hour’s time, we’ll be able to judge the full reasoning behind that smile.’

Lord Mount Vernon stirred in his chair.

‘You know, gentlemen,’ he said, ‘I’ve been wondering about that memorandum of Seligmann’s. Are you quite sure, Kershaw, that it said – well, what you said it did? About the dogs of war, and the secret codes, and all that?’

‘Oh, yes. I read it, you see—’

‘What!’

Sir Charles Napier sprang to his feet. He looked beside himself with rage.

‘You damned scoundrel, Kershaw! I might have known you’d do something outrageous, something that flies in the face of all diplomatic practice—’

‘Hold your fire, Charles,’ said Kershaw. ‘You’ll do yourself an injury with these virtuous outbursts. Apoplexy, you know. Of course I read it! One of my people opened it as soon as I received it at Bagot’s Hotel, and then resealed it afterwards. It said exactly what I said, only it was in German, which, fortunately, I can read.’

‘You shouldn’t do these things, Kershaw,’ said Sir Charles Napier. ‘You’ll trip yourself up one of these days. Some damned traitor will be looking over your shoulder while you’re steaming the stamps off envelopes, or whatever other nefarious things you do.’

‘Talking of traitors,’ said Colonel Kershaw, ‘I went down to the cellarage very early this morning, and confronted Lankester.’

‘And what did the fellow have to say for himself?’ asked Napier, his face flushing with anger.

‘He confessed his guilt immediately. He had conducted several similar pieces of business with Ephraim Stolberg during the past twelve months or so, mainly to cover heavy gambling debts. On this occasion, a faked assault on Lankester had been arranged to take place on the train to Dover. He was to have been found, bruised and dazed, with the lining of his jacket ripped open and the memorandum gone. Stolberg had already paid him the fruits of his treachery.’

‘And who was to be the recipient, Kershaw? Who’s going to open that packet of blank paper that you substituted? It can’t be anyone in Germany—’

‘It’s on its way to St Petersburg. They’ll buy anything there, you know. It’s all grist to their Slavonic mill. I knew it would end up there. Or in Constantinople. Lankester was very obliging in his confession. He belonged to a little group of freelance spies who sell their secrets for money rather than political conviction. Ephraim Stolberg and his wife Rita, Klaus Miller …. They’re dangerous, of course, but ultimately containable.’

There was silence for a moment, and then Kershaw asked a
question
.

‘What do you want me to do with Lankester? He’s held here on Mr Box’s warrant. We can’t keep him here indefinitely.’

‘Tell him to go,’ said Napier, his voice choking with anger. ‘Tell him
to resign from the service, resign from his regiment, and hide himself away from the sight of men. Tell him to resign from his clubs. Either he can do all that, or wait for me to initiate a Process of High Crimes, which will send him to Dartmoor for life. I think I know what choice he’ll make. I don’t want things disturbed, Kershaw. Let all these traitors continue falsely secure, so that we can pick them off, one by one.’

‘You’re absolutely right, Napier,’ said Kershaw, ‘and it’s very decent of you not to throw my criticisms of
your
service in my face. What you suggest is what I myself would have advised. Perhaps you will care to leave Lankester to me? I will tell him what our judgement has been.’

‘Thank you. I’m grateful that you are to spare me the prospect of facing that man without striking him to my foot – but listen! There’s the telegraph beginning its chatter. It’s time to hear the report from Berlin.’

Half an hour later, the four men left the business room, and
reassembled
in the adjacent council chamber. Arnold Box watched his companions, and wondered what they had made of the pages of
narrative
which the young operator had rapidly scribbled on a pad of standard yellow telegraph forms. Sir Charles Napier and Colonel Kershaw sat with stacks of the papers on their knees, Both men’s faces were inscrutable. Lord Mount Vernon caught Box’s eye, and pulled a wryly comic face. Finally, Colonel Kershaw spoke.

‘I’m beginning to wonder, gentlemen,’ he said, in his quiet, rather world-weary voice, ‘whether I am rapidly getting out of my depth in this business. Baron von Dessau was free to whip up his followers to fever-pitch this morning. He could have urged an immediate expansion of the German Reich beyond its borders, and certain units of the German Army would have taken that as a signal for action. Am I right about that, or is there something I’ve missed?’

‘No, you’re right, Kershaw,’ said Sir Charles Napier. ‘Thousands of hotheads had assembled to hear their hero in the squares and gardens around the Imperial Palace. He was greeted by prolonged cheering, and the singing of various rabble-rousing songs. It was a smouldering of resentment against moderation, Kershaw, and von Dessau could have fanned the flames. I happen to know, too, that France would have immediately sought a compromise. This was to be the dreaded Friday, the thirteenth, the day of doom. Instead of which – we have
this
!’

Napier struck the pile of sheets on his knee with the back of his hand.

‘Listen to what he said: “Germans, loyal subjects of the Kaiser, you look to see the Empire burst its narrow borders, and expand to east and west. But, friends, believe me, the time is not yet! A little while more, and we will give you a victory beyond your wildest dreams!” And so on, and so forth. In other words, he told them all to back off. And
apparently
they did. They sang the National Anthem, and dispersed. The raging fires of conflict proved to be a damp squib. Why?’

‘I don’t know,’ Kershaw replied.

‘I think
I
do,’ said Box.

The eyes of Kershaw, Napier, and Lord Mount Vernon turned to look at him. They all seemed startled at the sudden interruption, as though Inspector Box was little more than an afterthought. Kershaw smiled a little.

‘Pray elaborate, Mr Box,’ he said.

‘Gentlemen,’ said Box, ‘on the evening of Tuesday, 3 January, a murderous assassin called Colin McColl succeeded in destroying Dr Otto Seligmann’s copy of
The
Hansa
Protocol
,
blowing Dr Seligmann to smithereens in the process. Some minutes later, McColl met and talked to Lieutenant Arthur Fenlake in Dr Seligmann’s garden. McColl knew that Fenlake had just visited Seligmann. In fact, Mr Fenlake was at that very moment carrying the precious memorandum in his pocket.’

Sir Charles shook his head impatiently.

‘That’s all very interesting, Inspector Box, a well-ordered epitome of what happened. But the point is, that poor Fenlake delivered the memorandum to me, unscathed.’

‘Why, sir?’ asked Box. ‘Why was he unscathed? Why didn’t McColl follow him from Lavender Walk, and get the memorandum from him? He’d killed Stefan Oliver when he thought the memorandum had begun its travels. When he found that he’d merely stumbled into your rehearsal, he threw the blank paper, and its courier, down at your feet. So why didn’t he kill Fenlake, and take the memorandum?’

‘I don’t quite see—’ Kershaw began.

‘Please, sir, let me finish. Here’s another thought to ponder. Had the bomb gone off five minutes earlier, the memorandum would have been destroyed! But you see, by then, it wouldn’t have mattered. McColl wasn’t interested in your precious memorandum. The threat contained
in Seligmann’s memorandum, gentlemen, was always an irrelevance, because Baron von Dessau intended all along to make the Berlin mob back off, in return for a promise. He promised them something, and they believed his promise. It would be prudent if
we
believed his promise, too.’

Colonel Kershaw’s face had become animated with a mixture of excitement and satisfaction.

‘Go on, Box,’ he said.

‘The promise that Baron von Dessau made, gentlemen, was this: “We will give you a victory beyond your wildest dreams!” He stayed his hand this morning in Berlin, because he knew that something
tremendous
was going to happen without the need for mob oratory. Colin McColl knew that, too, which is why he acted in the way he did. A victory beyond their wildest dreams. If it’s beyond their wildest dreams, then it’s probably beyond ours, too.’

‘But what
is
it, Box?’ Napier demanded impatiently.

‘I’m convinced that it’s something to do with Scotland, sir. A woman who called herself Mrs Poniatowski, and who posed as Dr Seligmann’s housekeeper, turns out to be Maria Feissen, the head of the Feissen arms concern in Bohemia. She is now living in Scotland, near the estate of Sir Hamish Bull in Caithness—’

‘What!’ cried Sir Charles, springing to his feet in his excitement. ‘Come, now, Inspector Box, what do you know about this business? How do these things leak out? It’s a fast and closed State secret—’

‘Beg pardon, sir,’ Box interrupted, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, but evidently I’ve said the right thing. Mrs Feissen was part of a gang who had infiltrated the household of Dr Seligmann. The others were Count Czerny and the so-called niece, Ottilie Seligmann. They engineered a clever way of dispersing after they’d murdered the
unfortunate
doctor, and destroyed his copy of
The
Hansa
Protocol.
And working hand in glove with them is another Scotsman, this murderous Colin McColl. Together, they’re going to deliver the German war party “a victory beyond their wildest dreams”.’

Box suddenly stopped speaking. What would these high-class gentlemen think? He’d been haranguing them as though they were naughty boys caught pilfering from a sweet-stall. But he saw the look of respect in their faces.

‘Napier,’ said Kershaw, quietly, ‘what is this “fast State secret”
concerning Scotland? If I don’t know about it, then it must be fast indeed. Scotland …. There have been certain movements of shipping during the past few months. Could it be that?’

‘For goodness’ sake, Kershaw, don’t blurt these things out in that cavalier fashion! I don’t know anything about it. The Foreign Secretary was sent a note by Admiral Holland, head of Naval Intelligence, to ask for certain Scottish infantry units to be assigned secret duties in the area of Caithness, under the aegis of the Admiralty. The Foreign Secretary showed me the note, and it was my duty to acknowledge it.’

Colonel Kershaw got to his feet. He seemed to be making a heroic effort to control his anger. His face had gone very pale, and he clutched the sheaf of yellow telegraph forms as though he would crush them to pieces.

‘Box, I knew I’d done the right thing in luring you into this business. Well done! Scotland! There have been sightings of ships of the line moving through the Irish Sea since late December …. Manoeuvres, that’s what they said, when one of my folk made a polite enquiry. Napier, this is some damned secret Admiralty business, I’ll be bound. You know what Holland’s like! He’s no time for my crowd, of course, that goes without saying. And he’s jealous of
your
people. It’s some damned smug trick of Holland’s. I’m going back to London at once. Box, you’d better come with me. I thought we’d seen the end of this business this morning. Now I fear that it’s only just beginning.’