The Aquila Project Page 11

  8

  Twenty Guests to Dinner

  ARNOLD BOX LOOKED up from the charge-sheet that he was reading as Jack Knollys burst through the swing doors into the office. It was a few minutes after nine on the morning of the 9 July.

  ‘I wish you’d learn to enter rooms with a little more finesse, Sergeant,’ said Box. ‘All this crashing about is bad for a fellow’s nerves at this time of day. Where have you been, anyway? It’s after nine.’

  Jack Knollys carefully removed his overcoat, hung it up on the coat-stand, and added his scarf and hat. Then he sat down opposite Box at the big table. He looked thoughtful, and did not reply in kind to Box’s banter.

  ‘Sir,’ he said, ‘as I came into Garlick Hill this morning on my way up from Syria Wharf, an elderly clergyman fell in step with me, and started a conversation. He had a quiet, confiding manner, and he told me that Vanessa had been employed by Colonel Kershaw to keep an eye on things at Baron Augustyniak’s villa in St John’s Wood.’

  Inspector Box removed the little round spectacles that he had been wearing, folded them, and put them into a tin case.

  ‘Did he tell you anything else? This clergyman, I mean.’

  ‘He said that if the colonel had sudden need of my services, which was more than likely, he’d let me know by word of mouth. Then he tipped his hat politely, and hurried away in the direction of Cannon Street.’

  Box was silent for a while. He had told Sergeant Knollys some salient facts about the Polish conspiracy, but had been constrained by his instinct to keep Colonel Kershaw’s business secret. But now that a clerical ‘nobody’ had revealed Vanessa’s role in the business, Box judged that the time had come to tell Knollys all.

  ‘That was very decent of the colonel to let you know about Vanessa,’ said Box, ‘and I’m taking that as a signal to tell you everything that the colonel has told me during the two interviews that I’ve had with him recently. It’s time you knew all about The Aquila Project.’

  Box spoke for nearly half an hour, during which time Knollys listened impassively. When Box had finished his story, the giant sergeant stirred, as though from sleep.

  ‘And he wants you to go with him to Poland?’

  ‘He does. All the usual strings will be pulled, Jack, and there’ll be no trouble with Mr Mackharness. The colonel says that I see things differently from him, which makes me a valuable ally. I think he’s never forgotten how I saw through those hoax bombs in the Hansa Protocol business.’

  ‘So our friend Grunwalski has been primed to assassinate Alexander III at this spa – what did you call it? – Polanska Gory…. You know, sir, I only had a glimpse of the fellow when we seized him on Tower Bridge, but I thought then that he looked a wild kind of individual, with ideas of his own. No wonder the colonel is worried. It would be a bit of a let-down if his own man decided to do the bidding of this group of anarchists out of a misguided sense of honour.’

  Arnold Box produced a cigar case, opened it, and offered it to Knollys across the table. When he spoke, his voice, Knollys noted, contained a kind of provisional doubt. Evidently something was worrying the guvnor.

  ‘You know, Jack,’ said Box, when they had lit their thin cheroots, ‘there’s a peculiar German flavour to all this business. All right, there’s a lot of Polish stuff – Grunwalski, Augustyniak, Peter Rosanski, and that Polish coin.’ Box produced it from his waistcoat pocket, and held it up for a moment for Knollys to see. ‘But there are quite a few Germans in the background, if I may put it like that. For instance, there’s Oscar Schumann, who murdered Rosanski; and last Wednesday I visited a certain Alois Gerdler, a German gunsmith, with premises in Dover Lane, Covent Garden.’

  ‘Yes, you told me about him.’

  ‘I did. And there, lurking in the back room of the shop, was another German, a recently appointed diplomat called – what was it now? – Doctor Franz Kessler, the new Second Secretary at Prussia House. It’s a Polish or Russian mystery right enough, but there’s a slight whiff of Germany in the air. It’s just a point, Sergeant.’

  ‘It’s a very interesting point, sir,’ said Knollys. ‘It’s well known that some of the citizens of Danzig secretly consider themselves to be Poles. I believe that Danzig was originally called Gdansk, and was part of the old Kingdom of Poland. I wonder—’

  Knollys broke off as a young constable came through the doors. He handed an envelope to Box.

  ‘This came for you by hand, sir,’ he said. ‘It was misdirected to Whitehall Place.’

  The constable saluted, and left the office. Box opened the envelope and extracted a single sheet of blue note paper.

  ‘This is from Superintendent Radcliffe, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘He was my old guvnor years ago, when I was still a sergeant. A chief inspector, he was, in “C”. I wonder what he wants? “If you can spare the time, please call upon me at the Home Office this morning”. I suppose I’d better go.’

  ‘The Home Office, sir?’ said Knollys. ‘What’s he doing there?’

  ‘He’s one of the Royal Protection officers in Special Branch, Sergeant. I meet him occasionally, and he’s always very civil. He’s very upper-crust these days, very genteel, which comes from mingling with Royalty all the time. I’ll go and see him now. You’d better take yourself down to Mr Shale in Beak Street with those unsigned warrants from the weekend. We’ve both got busy mornings ahead of us, so I’ll see you back here at twelve, and we’ll slip out for a bite of something and a glass of ale at The Grapes.’

  While Box and Knollys were conferring at King James’s Rents, Vanessa Drake and the other members of the household at White Eagle Lodge were listening to Mr Quiller, as he announced the arrangements for that day.

  ‘There’s to be a big dinner party tonight,’ he said, ‘when, in addition to the master and mistress, twenty ladies and gentlemen, mainly Polish and Russian diplomats and their wives, but with one or two Germans, will sit down at the table. I’ve pinned up a list of the guests in the pantry. Mrs Stafford has duly risen to the occasion. In fact, she started preparations on Saturday. There will be five courses, each accompanied by a suitable wine. Contrary to the usual custom, there will be no port left on the table for the gentlemen guests, as a little group of them – six, to be exact – intend to meet Baron Augustyniak for a private conference in the study. Brandy, cigars and coffee will be set out there, and those gentlemen will remain undisturbed.’

  ‘So they’ll all rise together, Mr Quiller?’ asked Ellen.

  ‘Yes, they will. The baron’s party will go to the study, and the other guests, both ladies and gentlemen, will be entertained by Baroness Augustyniak in the drawing-room. She will sing a selection of Polish and Russian songs, accompanying herself on the piano.’ He treated them to one of his wry smiles, and added, ‘I’m sure a good time will be had by all.’

  ‘When will dinner start?’ asked one of the footman. ‘It seems to be at a different time every day.’

  ‘They will sit down to table at seven. Carriages will be at ten-thirty. Partridge, I’ll need you to assist Moore and Saunders at the table. Moore, take a bit more care when handing dishes. You seem nervous of approaching the diners, and that nervousness unsettles them. The ideal server at table should be neither seen nor heard. Albert and Alexander, you’d better come with me now to extend the table and make all ready. Saunders, I want you to help Gladys upstairs this morning. Moore, go and dust the study carpet with pan and brush. That’s all.’

  The study was deserted, although Vanessa knew that the baron was somewhere about the house. Putting her dustpan and brush down on the carpet, she glanced quickly at the books arranged on their ornate shelves. Most of them boasted quite impenetrable titles, which she took to be Polish. A number of books were in French; they appeared to be gazetteers and political directories. She crossed to the desk, and admired the baron’s agate pen tray with its attendant cut-glass bottles of blue and red ink. She opened the flaps of the leather blotter, but saw that the blotting paper was entirely free of tell-tale b
lotted letters. Perhaps the baron was extra careful about things like that?

  In a little glazed case standing on the desk reposed a coin, set off by a red velvet background. A souvenir, perhaps? She could see the big, bold numbers on the face of the coin – a 30, a 2, and the date, 1836, but the letters were in what she knew to be the Russian script. It would be impossible to commit those words to memory, and the colonel had often warned her never to write anything down. Still, she would tell Colonel Kershaw about that coin.

  She glanced briefly at the great white eagle on its scarlet shield over the fireplace, and then completed her inspection of the room. To the right of the fireplace a white-panelled door opened outwards to reveal a small chamber, little more than a cupboard, lit by a barred window at the further end. It contained a small safe, and a number of valuable silver trophies and shields, carefully wrapped in chamois leathers. A line of shelving held tied bundles of documents. With a sudden leap of excitement, she saw a possibility of finding out more about the baron’s affairs than would be possible from merely waiting at table, and dusting furniture.

  After dinner that night, Baron Augustyniak would retire to the study with some kind of inner coterie. If she were to conceal herself here, in this little chamber, she would be able to eavesdrop on their conversation. No one would know that she was there, and when the carriage-bell was rung at twenty-five past ten, they would leave, and she would slip quietly away. Yes! It was a daring but brilliant idea.

  Falling to her knees, Vanessa began to sweep the carpet vigorously, moving crab-wise across the floor from door to fireplace. By the time she had finished, the carpets looked as though they had been cleaned properly for the first time.

  Later in the morning she met the baron as she was crossing the hall to the green baize door that opened into the servants’ wing. He glanced at her with an almost covert look of admiration, in which there was a curious and unsettling suggestion of mockery. She curtsied, and he inclined his head in acknowledgement, before opening the glazed door of a conservatory filled with exotic plants.

  Almost immediately Vanessa heard the high, complaining voice of Baroness Augustyniak. She lingered near the door to listen unashamedly to her mistress’s words.

  ‘All these girls!’ cried the baroness. ‘You cannot keep your eyes off them. Why do you wish to break my heart? They are hussies, all of them, English hussies….’ The baroness was weeping now, and her words were punctuated by choking sobs.

  Baron Augustyniak’s voice came low and placatory through the partly open door. ‘Don’t talk nonsense, Anna. What do you mean? Am I supposed to avert my eyes from my own servants?’

  ‘I saw you ogling that Susan, the housemaid, a mere slip of a girl,’ continued Baroness Augustyniak, her voice rising to something like a shriek. ‘I saw her mock blushes, the yellow-haired baggage! You will break my heart…. You’ll be glad to see me dead….’

  Vanessa quietly closed the door of the conservatory, and went into the kitchen wing. She caught sight of her own reflection in a mirror, and smiled in spite of herself. It was rather fun to be admired! Then she watched the smile fade as she recalled that a jealous woman could be a dangerous enemy. She’d already attracted Mr Quiller’s attention by her clumsiness and obvious lack of experience. She would have to watch her step.

  Box found Superintendent Radcliffe in a very small room on the ground floor of the Home Office, sitting behind a plain deal table covered in books and papers. In addition to the table, the room contained a tall cupboard, a small fire grate, and two upright chairs.

  ‘Ah, Box! You managed to make time to see me. Sit down for a moment, will you? There’s something here that I need to finish before I lose track of its details.’

  A distinguished man in his early fifties, dressed in impeccable morning clothes, Mr Radcliffe looked as though he were himself a scion of the Royal Family. Box observed him at his work, and remembered the uniformed chief inspector who had been his chief guide and mentor when he was a brand-new sergeant, newly transferred to ‘C Division at Little Vine Street, Piccadilly. Tom Radcliffe had risen in the world, and had long ago been poached by the Home Office, but he and Box shared many stirring memories of their days as uniformed officers.

  There were many books and gazetteers on the table, including, Box noticed, the Almanac de Gotha, a volume which recorded the pedigrees of European royalty and nobility. Radcliffe was poring over a kind of family tree, underlining some words and phrases in pencil.

  A small stack of printed programmes lay beside the Almanac de Gotha, and Box could see engraved portraits of a lady and gentleman, underneath which was a page of text, produced in the crabbed Gothic German typeface. More Germans….

  ‘There,’ said Superintendent Radcliffe, sitting back in his chair with a little sigh. ‘That seems to be it. How are you, Box? It must be nine months since I saw you last.’

  ‘I’m very well, sir,’ Box replied. ‘Very busy, and very much out-and-about these days. You seem to be groaning under the weight of all this paper. A bit different from your Piccadilly days!’

  ‘Oh, yes, Box, it’s very different now.’ Radcliffe smiled ruefully, and waved his hand vaguely over the mass of papers on the table. ‘My work so far this morning has been to plot a train journey across Europe for later this month in connection with an aristocratic marriage in Berlin, on the twenty-first, at which the Marquess of Lome will represent the Queen. My task will be to accompany him as security officer to Berlin, leave him there, and come straight back. It’s a matter of protocol, you see. It’s a very minor affair, but the Kaiser, and Empress Augusta Victoria, will both be present, and it would be seen as a snub if no one from our own Royal Family were to attend. The Marquess, as Princess Louise’s husband, and a former Governor General of Canada, should go down well enough.’

  ‘And who are the happy couple, Mr Radcliffe?’

  ‘Oh, you won’t have heard of either of them, Box. The groom is Prince Adalbert Victor of Savoy, and the bride is Princess Gretchen of Hesse-Darmstadt, a kinswoman of the Kaiser. As is customary with these minor marriages, the ceremony will take place in Die Kapelle an der Brücke, the private Hohenzollern chapel in Berlin, rather than in Berlin Cathedral. The various orders of precedence pose a minor nightmare for security officers.’

  ‘And you think that I can be of some assistance?’ asked Box in some bewilderment.

  ‘What? No, of course not. That’s not why I wanted to see you.’

  Superintendent Radcliffe stared gloomily at the papers on his desk, and toyed with a pencil for a while. He looked both embarrassed and in some way compromised.

  ‘It’s something quite different, Box. I’ll not beat about the bush. It’s about Bobby Fitz. Detective Inspector Fitzgerald of “J”. You know all about his “light fantastic boys”, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, sir. They’re sneak-thieves and petty informers, not above making a few shillings by breaking the law for Mr Fitz. What they’re doing in sober fact is breaking and entering.’

  ‘Exactly. Well, this Friday just gone, the 6 July, Bobby went out to Clapham to gather evidence against an up-and-coming receiver, Michael Stone. He took two of his light fantastic boys with him to break into Stone’s house, and one of them fell through a sky-light and broke his leg. He began to squeal – and not just in pain!’

  ‘What happened to Bobby Fitz?’

  ‘Well, I’m telling you, aren’t I? The upshot of all this was, that Bobby Fitz was caught red-handed at his illegal activities. We all knew what he was up to, and turned a blind eye because of the splendid results he’d got in the past. But once one of his boys grassed on him, Box, that was the end of him.’

  ‘He’s only two years off retirement,’ said Box. ‘I was talking to him only the other day. He’s got an old mother to support—’

  ‘And if he’s dismissed – or worse – he’ll lose not just his wages but his pension as well. I remember him well, Box. I worked with him twice when we were both uniformed inspectors, and you could sen
se his dedication to law and order. He was incorruptible. And now, this! He’s utterly ruined, after thirty or more years’ service to the Force.’

  ‘Is there anything you think I can do to help? It’s largely due to Bobby Fitz that Tower Bridge is still standing today.’

  ‘You understand, Arnold, don’t you, that I can’t appear in the matter? My connections to the Royal Family preclude that. But I know that Bobby’s superintendent at Bethnal Green Road, Mr Keating, wants to retire him early on health grounds – he has very bad lungs, you know. It’ll be a difficult thing to do, and not strictly ethical, I suppose, but it’ll save Bobby Fitz and his mother from penury. So I want you to visit Mr Keating at “J”, and tell him how valuable poor Bobby’s been to you over this Tower Bridge business. And then – do you know anyone at “W”?’

  ‘I don’t, sir.’

  ‘Very well, I’ll scribble a note to the superintendent at “W”, asking him to grant you an interview. You’ll understand that Bobby Fitz will be prosecuted – if it comes to that – from Clapham, where he and his precious light fantastic boys were taken up. Tell him the tale again, about Tower Bridge, and anything else you can think of that’s relevant to poor Bobby’s plight. If he can be persuaded to co-operate, we should be able to get Bobby Fitz retired, with his pension, on health grounds.’

  Superintendent Radcliffe picked up one of the pile of printed wedding invitations, turned it over, and wrote: Supt S. Lucas, Brixton Road Police Station.

  ‘There you are, Box,’ he said. ‘If all goes well, we’ll have good news about Bobby before the week’s out.’

  At half past six that evening, Vanessa and Ellen examined the list of guests for the dinner that they would help to serve in half an hour’s time. All twenty guests had arrived soon after six, and were being entertained to what Mr Quiller called ‘pre-prandial drinks’. When time served, Vanessa would look up the word in a dictionary to find out what it meant.