The Hansa Protocol (3 page)

‘So he’s got special powers—’

‘No, Sergeant. He’s just a police constable. But over and above his daily work, he’ll do little portions of a job for someone, without
necessarily
knowing why he’s doing it. This time, he recognized the man in the river for what he was, and told his inspector. Bob Cross knows about Joe, and asks no questions. And it might be a good idea, Sergeant, if you did likewise.’

At the Mansion House they hailed a cab to Whitehall. Quite a throng of New Year’s Eve revellers were making themselves heard on the crowded pavements as they rattled towards the Strand.

‘You’re on duty all day tomorrow, aren’t you, sir? A bit of a tall order, is that.’

‘I don’t mind, Sergeant. Somebody’s got to step into the breach on a Sunday. It’s not as though it’s a bank holiday, like in Scotland. Mahogany, they call it.’

Knollys hid a smile behind his hand.

‘Do they, sir? Mahogany? Well, I never knew that!’

‘Oh, yes. And in any case, I’m off duty all day Monday, in lieu. I arranged that months ago with Old Growler. So on Monday afternoon, Sergeant, I shall accompany my friend Miss Whittaker to the theatre, followed by a slap-up dinner at Simpson’s.’

‘I’m sorry I won’t be able to come with you, sir. But duty calls, I’m afraid.’

Box was silent for a moment. He glanced out of the window at the crowds congregating at the brightly lit doors of public houses and taverns. Each of those men and women had a right to call upon his services. Knollys had meant his remark as a tease, but it held its own truth.

‘You’re right, Sergeant. Duty always calls. I’m thinking of that poor murdered man, Stefan Oliver. Shot in the back – for what? It’s none of our business, and in the nature of things it won’t be made public. But I wonder …. How did Joe Peabody know that I’d be up there, listening to old Dr Seligmann? And why
me
,
Sergeant? Maybe it’s a hint from higher up. Maybe I’m going to be drawn into this business of Stefan Oliver whether I like it or not.’

His mind conjured up once more the bleak environs of Waterman’s Pier, and the lifeless body of the Foreign Office courier. Duty had called for him, too, and had led him to his death. What had that cynical old constable said about him? Someone had delivered Stefan Oliver like a badly addressed parcel: Returned to Sender.

Laughing and chattering, the matinée audience erupted on to the
pavement
in front of the Savoy Theatre. The busy Strand was thronged with people, most of them warmly wrapped against the bright, frosty weather of the second day of the New Year. Steady streams of horse traffic poured along the wide carriageway on their way to and from the City and the West End.

Detective Inspector Box stole a glance at the beautiful, raven-haired young woman who was linking his right arm. Miss Louise Whittaker seemed unusually quiet. No doubt she’d rally in a minute, and say something provocative to catch him out. She was very clever – a scholar, no less, which he would have thought an occupation more fit for a man. But there, the world was changing.

The young lady linking his
left
arm suddenly made a comment. He hadn’t met young Miss Vanessa Drake before. She looked no more than twenty or so, very fair and slim, but with a kind of controlled jauntiness that suggested hidden reserves of strength.

‘Mr Box,’ she said, ‘you must enjoy working in that beautiful new building on the Embankment. New Scotland Yard it’s called, isn’t it?’

Louise Whittaker burst into laughter, but said nothing. Her friend Vanessa looked at her anxiously.

‘Oh, dear,’ she whispered, ‘have I said something wrong? I’m so sorry!’

‘Nothing to be sorry about, Miss Drake!’ Box assured her. ‘It’s just that Scotland Yard’s a sore point at the moment, and a bone of contention. I’ll tell you all about it at dinner.’

How young and vulnerable she looked! Her youth seemed to be
emphasized by the dark-blue, high-collared coat that she wore, and by the designedly frivolous hat adorned with dyed feathers. There was something else, too. This girl was troubled. It showed in the sudden shadows that fell across her bright blue eyes when she thought that no one was observing her. Perhaps she’d be more forthcoming once they had availed themselves of the delights of Simpson’s, Mr Crathie’s splendid eating-house in the Strand.

Box spent quite a long time admiring the overpowering luxury of Simpson’s Tavern and Divan, especially the awesome shrine to food and drink occupying the centre of the big dining-room. It was a sort of altar, piled up with offerings of decanters and glasses, flowers, and frothy confections, with four great silver-plated wine coolers for company, one at each of its four corners. When the efficient, dedicated waiters were not gliding around serving the crowd of hungry customers, they appeared to pause near the great altar, as though to offer brief prayers for support and sustenance.

‘Aren’t you going to tell Vanessa about the delights of Scotland Yard? You promised, you know.’ Louise Whittaker glanced at Box mockingly, treated him to a rather unnerving smile, and then continued her task of eating breaded whitebait.

Inspector Box put down his knife and fork on his plate, and turned to Vanessa.

‘You see, Miss Drake,’ he explained, ‘when the main body of the force moved to that fairy palace on the Embankment in ’91, a goodly number of us were left behind to hold the fort in what remained of Scotland Yard. The
real
Scotland Yard, you know. So I work in a
dilapidated
old heap of bricks called King James’s Rents, which you’ll find just a few yards on across the cobbles from Whitehall Place. I’d invite you to visit, but you’d probably catch pneumonia, or plague, or whatever else has soaked into the walls along with the mildew—’

‘So you don’t like it there?’

‘What? Yes, of course I like it,’ Box replied, defensively. ‘They left the best men behind there when they made tracks for the fairy palace. Yes, Miss Drake, I like it very much!’

‘And so you should, Mr Box,’ said Vanessa. ‘Your days are filled with excitement, whereas mine – well, I seem to spend my time envying other people whose lives aren’t as humdrum as mine! So, hurrah for –
what did you call it? – hurrah for King James’s Rents.’

They turned their attention to the serious business of eating lunch. The two young women began a desultory conversation, leaving Box to his own thoughts for a while. What a fibber he was! If word ever came down from above, he’d be off like a shot to Norman Shaw’s brand-new building, with its acres of windows, and bright electric lighting. Until then, he’d continue to soldier on in a soot-stained old office where the spluttering gas mantle stayed lit all day, and people stumbled on the dark narrow staircases linking the warren of rooms and landings.

It had been a marvellous afternoon, and very pleasant to have two girls in tow. Vanessa Drake’s young man, apparently, had been forced to cry off at the last moment, but had urged her to go with her friend Miss Whittaker. Vanessa’s beau was a soldier, and had to do what he was told without demur. Well, Box could understand that. He was a man under orders himself.

Louise Whittaker and Arnold Box walked Vanessa Drake home to her lodgings near Dean’s Yard, Westminster, and then made their way to Baker Street, where they climbed into one of the Light Green Atlas buses that ran out to Finchley. They journeyed through Lisson Grove and St John’s Wood until the Finchley omnibus reached its terminus at Church End, and the two steaming horses were uncoupled from the heavy vehicle. Arnold Box hurried down the curving rear stair in time to hand Miss Louise Whittaker down the steps from the interior saloon.

They walked decorously side by side along one or two pleasant roads of new, redbrick houses, skirted a playing field, and then came to the wide avenue of modern villas where Miss Whittaker lived.

Louise Whittaker opened her smart black-painted front door with a latch-key, and after they had attended to the business of hanging up their coats and hats on the hall stand, she preceded him into the front room. Miss Whittaker indicated a chair near the fireplace, and Box sat down.

Arnold Box was no stranger to Miss Whittaker’s study. He had met her more than two years previously, when she had appeared as an expert witness in a fraud case. He had visited her a number of times since then – purely in a professional capacity, of course – and had taken tea with her several times, once in an ABC tea-shop in a quiet road near the British Museum, when he had been spotted by a beat constable. He
hadn’t heard the last of it at King James’s Rents for weeks.

‘Repose yourself, Mr Box,’ she said, ‘while I make us both a cup of tea. Coffee’s all very well, but it doesn’t quench the thirst.’

Louise Whittaker left the room, and presently Box could hear the vigorous rattle of the sink pump as his hostess filled a kettle in the kitchen. It was followed by the chink of cups on saucers. Box glanced across the room at the large desk in the window bay. Many books and papers were spread out on it, and there seemed to be a positive barrage of ink wells and pens. This quiet room was a kind of sanctuary, a temporary refuge from the hectic life of the Metropolitan Police, the irascible Superintendent Mackharness, and all the inconveniences of King James’s Rents.

But today, it was not quite the same. He had tried not to think of his old father during the afternoon. ‘Don’t go worrying about me, boy,’ he’d said. ‘Enjoy yourself with your lady friend. I’m only lying in there, on Monday, while they do some tests, you see, and make everything ready. Mr Howard Paul will do the job on Tuesday. About midday, so he says.’

Louise Whittaker returned, carrying a tray of tea things, which she placed carefully on a small round table near the fire. As she poured the tea from a patterned china teapot, she talked to him in a low voice. He watched her spoon sugar into his cup, and noted how carefully she poured the milk. She had real silver spoons ….

Twelve
o’clock,
at
the
Royal
Free
Hospital
in
Gray’s
Inn
Road,
on
Tuesday,
3
January,
1893.
Tuesday was tomorrow.

‘So what did you think?’

Arnold Box started guiltily out of his reverie.

‘Think? Think about what?’

Miss Whittaker sighed with amused impatience.

‘There! I knew you hadn’t been listening. I was asking you, What did you think of Vanessa Drake? Not her pretty face, you know, or her cornflower-blue eyes, or her corn-yellow hair – but
her.
What did you think?’

‘There’s something worrying Miss Drake,’ Box replied. ‘I noticed it almost at once, and evidently you did, too. Perhaps Miss Drake has confided in you?’

He left the question hanging in the air. It was a stilted way of putting it, but then, he was never entirely at ease with Miss Whittaker. She was
gazing into the fire, and he saw her bite her lip with evident vexation. He waited for her to make up her mind.

‘Mr Box,’ she said at last, ‘I’ve known Vanessa since she was a very young girl of sixteen, with her own way to make in the world. She earns her living as a skilled needle woman – she is, in fact, a vestment maker with Watts and Company in Westminster. Well, she has fallen for a young man, a soldier. Or he has fallen for her. He was supposed to have come with us today, but cried off at the last moment.’

Louise sipped her tea for a while without speaking. Box saw how she was eyeing him with some kind of speculative concern. Did he, perhaps, look as worried as he felt?

‘According to Vanessa,’ Louise continued, ‘this young man – Arthur, she calls him – is a steady, decent fellow, but she thinks he’s being led astray by an older man, who’s introducing him to gambling of a dangerous nature. That’s why she looks worried.’

Whenever she speaks of men, thought Box, she describes them as though they were a quite distinct species. A young man. A steady, decent fellow. Arthur, she calls him. Well, why not? That was his name, no doubt.

‘This young man, Miss Whittaker, this Arthur – you say he’s a soldier. Do you happen to know what kind of soldier? It makes a
difference
, you know.’

‘Well, he’s an officer. And the man who’s leading him astray is an officer, too.’

Miss Whittaker suddenly blushed. It was an unusual reaction, thought Box.

‘You must wonder why I’m telling you all this, Mr Box. We’ve had such a splendid outing, a genuine holiday for a single afternoon, and now I must spoil it by seeming to ask you favours. But is there anything that you could do? In an official capacity, I mean. For Vanessa’s sake, at least.’

‘Well, Miss Whittaker, gambling’s curbed and reined in by statute law, but it’s very difficult to police it. It’s a moral delinquency, but not a crime in itself—’

‘So nothing can be done!’ He saw his friend’s face flush with anger. He held up a restraining hand.

‘There’s plenty that can be done when gambling leads to folk flouting the law. And there are some legally prohibited games – ace of
hearts is one of them, basset, dice (unless you’re playing backgammon), faro, roulette – but of course you can’t have a policeman standing behind every gambler when he’s behind locked doors with his friends. Still, Blackstone says that gambling “promotes public idleness, theft and debauchery”, so if you can give me a few more details, I’ll ask around, as they say. See a few people I know.’

Box was understandably pleased to see the look of respect that came to Miss Whittaker’s eyes as he spoke. It wasn’t often that he was able to parade his own specialist knowledge in front of her. She was the clever one, not he.

‘Vanessa told me that her Arthur had become very friendly with this senior man …. He’s in the Artillery, and his name’s Lankester. Major Lankester.’

‘Major Lankester. And do you know where he and this Arthur are supposed to do their gambling?’

‘I don’t know exactly where it is, Mr Box. But it’s a sort of club or society, run by a man called Gordon. Mr Gordon.’

Box smiled, and sat up in his chair. Gordon! This was more like it!

‘Well, now, Miss Whittaker, I’ll be delighted to look into this little matter for you. Mr Gordon is not entirely unknown to us at Scotland Yard. I’d be very happy to pay him a call. And I’ll ask him about this Major Lankester, and what he’s doing to Miss Vanessa Drake’s Arthur. I expect Arthur’s got another name?’

‘His name’s Fenlake. Lieutenant Arthur Fenlake.’

‘Fenlake. Bear with me a while, Miss Whittaker, while I make a note in this little book of mine.’

He scribbled a few lines in his notebook with a stub of pencil that he carried in his pocket. When he had finished, he saw that his hostess’s eyes were fixed on him, and he realized that she was no longer thinking about Vanessa Drake’s problems.

‘What’s the matter, Mr Box? There’s something worrying you. Why don’t you tell me what it is? Drink some tea, and then tell me.’

Box sipped his tea obediently, and began to order his thoughts. He was unwilling to intrude his own private concerns into this calm and ordered sanctuary. He brought professional problems here,
conundrums
that his clever friend would help him to solve, or at least to clarify. Personal worries – well, that was a different matter.

‘It’s my old pa, Miss Whittaker. I don’t know whether I’ve mentioned
him to you before? He’s a retired police sergeant – a uniformed man, he was – and he keeps a cigar divan and hair-cutting rooms in Oxford Street. He wasn’t a detective officer.’

‘And what happened to him? How old is he?’

‘He’s seventy-three. Well, way back in ’75 he was shot by a villain called Spargo. Joseph Edward Spargo. Shot in the leg. This Spargo went on to commit a murder, and he was hanged at Newgate in 1880. Pa has suffered with that leg for eighteen years, and the upshot of it is, that he’s to have it cut off before it kills him. Amputated, that’s what they call it.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Louise Whittaker’s voice held a tinge of reproach, as well as sympathy. ‘I thought there was something troubling you this afternoon. Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Well, Miss Whittaker, it’s not the kind of thing a lady wants to hear—’

‘
This
lady does! To think of all the times we’ve had tea together – it’s become a kind of ritual – and yet you never told me about your father and his predicament. When – when is the operation to take place?’