The Dorset House Affair Page 3

  ‘Steady, Maurice! You’re just trying to give flesh and bones to your prejudice against the man. We all think he’s a poseur and a buffoon, but surely that doesn’t make him a rogue?’

  ‘Listen, Teddy,’ said Maurice. ‘Last year, I fell in with a group of people who know things about De Bellefort and his like. I can’t give you details, because I’m sworn to secrecy, and I can’t tell you about De Bellefort’s crimes. But you can take my word for it that he’s a scoundrel. I was in Paris last week, and while I was there, these people I know – this group – gave me immediate proof of that fellow’s perfidy.’

  ‘Well, that may be so, but does that mean that you have to do anything about it? Dash it all, Moggie, you’re getting married on the fifteenth. Just be coldly polite to this fellow De Bellefort – hold him at a distance, you know – and mind your own business!’

  ‘There’s a man here, in England, who’d very much like to know what I’ve found out. I think I’ll pay him a visit early next week, and have a quiet word with him—’

  ‘You’re not in trouble of any kind, are, you, Maurice? I don’t like the sound of these so-called friends of yours. If you can’t even tell me who they are, perhaps it would be better for you not to know them.’

  ‘You’re a good fellow, Teddy,’ said Maurice Claygate, ‘and I’ll do as you say about Elizabeth. No, I’m not in any trouble, and I’ll do as you suggest about De Bellefort. I’ll be civil when I have to be in his company, but for the best part of the coming week I’ll keep out of his way.’

  Maurice drained his coffee cup, and stood up. It was time to get dressed, and face the day.

  ‘Now, you’ll all be there on Thursday, won’t you?’ he asked. ‘All the old pals from the Cockade Club, I mean. There’ll be you, and Williams, and Bobby Saunders – and Cedric Brasher, of course. I think I spoke out of turn to him last night, and in the sober light of morning, I’m sorry for that. Tell him, will you?’

  ‘I will. I’m glad you’ve survived last night’s encounter with the grape and the grain. I’m out of Town for a day or two, but I’ll see you without fail on Thursday.’

  As Teddy Morton made his way through the state rooms of Dorset House on his way to the entrance hall, he thought over what Maurice Claygate had told him. He didn’t like the sound of these new ‘friends’ of his. Had he got himself mixed up with some kind of gang? He wouldn’t be the first wealthy young man to be battened upon by ruthless opportunists. It sounded very much as though Moggie had fallen in with a bad lot. Maybe marriage to Julia Maltravers would be a powerful enough spur to make him sever all connection with them. One could only hope so.

  2

  The Collector of Indiscretions

  Detective Inspector Arnold Box turned out of Whitehall Place and made his way across the cobbles to the jumble of ancient smoke-blackened buildings known as 2 King James’s Rents. As he hurried up the steps, he heard a neighbouring clock striking eight. It was Tuesday, 4 September, only a day after he had brought to its triumphant conclusion the mystery surrounding the Mithraeum at Clerkenwell.*

  He was halfway across the vestibule, and had almost reached the swing doors of his office, when his superior officer, Superintendent Mackharness, appeared at the top of the stairs.

  ‘Is that you, Box?’ he called. ‘Come up here, will you? I’ll not keep you more than a minute.’

  Arnold Box had learnt to regard his superior officer with a judicious mixture of affection and apprehension. Mackharness was well over sixty, and afflicted by occasional bouts of sciatica, which had given him a more or less permanent limp. His yellowish face was adorned with neatly trimmed mutton chop whiskers. At all times impeccably turned out, he dressed in a black civilian frock coat, which made him look rather like an elderly clerk in a counting-house.

  Mackharness, though, was rather more than that. A veteran of the Crimean War, he had the mind of a tactician, and ruled his fiefdom at the Rents as though it were a battalion headquarters.

  ‘Sit down in that chair, will you, Box,’ said Mackharness, when the inspector had entered the gloomy, lopsided chamber, ‘and listen carefully to what I have to say. I received this morning a note from Sir Charles Napier, Her Majesty’s Permanent Undersecretary of State for Foreign Affairs, asking whether I’d be good enough to let him – er – borrow you for a few hours this coming Thursday evening. That was the word Sir Charles used – “borrow”. I should not have regarded it as a particularly felicitous word, Box. You are not a pen or pencil to be loaned on request; but there, that is the word that Sir Charles Napier used.’

  Superintendent Mackharness paused, and fiddled with some papers lying on his ornate desk. Box waited patiently. The guvnor had evidently forgotten what he was telling him. No doubt he, Box, would get the blame.

  ‘So there it is, Box. Now, what was I trying to tell you? That expression of patient expectation that you assume when I’m telling you things has all the characteristics of an interruption. Ah! Yes, I remember. Sir Charles wants you to attend a function at Dorset House, the Town residence of Field Marshal Sir John Claygate, in order to carry out a confidential mission. A signal honour, I should have thought, to wait upon that great national hero. The function is to be held this coming Thursday, the sixth of September, commencing at six o’clock in the evening.’

  ‘Does Sir Charles say what kind of function it is, sir?’ asked Box.

  ‘Yes, he does. It’s a grand reception to celebrate the twenty-sixth birthday of the field marshal’s younger son, Mr Maurice Claygate. There’s to be a buffet, and dancing, I believe, and the evening will conclude with a magnificent firework display. I expect you are familiar with Dorset House?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Box replied. ‘It’s that enormous white stucco mansion in Dorset Gardens, roughly midway between Grosvenor Square and New Bond Street. There’s always a lot of comings and goings to that place by government ministers and the like.’

  ‘That’s right. Of course, you’ve worked with Sir Charles Napier before, notably in that business of the Hansa Protocol, so it’s natural that he should want you to perform this task for him. As to the nature of this mission, Box, he gave me no information, and, of course, I did not ask for any. Sir Charles said that he’d give you all the necessary details when you call upon him. I take it that you are willing to accede to his request?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good.’ Mackharness opened a drawer in his desk and produced a little paperbacked notebook. He ruffled through the pages, and then sat back in his chair.

  ‘Now on Thursday, Box,’ he said, ‘you finish your day shift at eight. I anticipate that you’ll be on duty at Dorset House until eleven, which gives you three hours overtime, at one and eight an hour, which is – er – five shillings. So there’ll be an extra five shillings for you when you collect your wages on Friday. It’s nearly half past eight, so I’d walk up to Whitehall now, Box, if I were you, and call on Sir Charles Napier straight away.’

  Arnold Box turned out of the little narrow street called Great Scotland Yard, and crossed the thronging thoroughfare of Whitehall. A few minutes’ walk took him past the Admiralty and Horse Guards, and so to Sir Gilbert Scott’s magnificent Italianate Foreign Office. A commissionaire conducted him to Sir Charles Napier’s spacious office overlooking the lake in St James’s Park.

  Napier was standing at one of the rear windows, thoughtfully sipping coffee from a small porcelain cup, and holding its accompanying saucer in his left hand. He turned as Box was ushered into the room, and smiled a greeting.

  ‘Ah! Box. How good of you to come. I was just looking out at the park for a while – a little interlude, you know, between bouts of business. There’s a hint of autumn in the trees this morning. Will you take coffee? This set of porcelain was a gift to one of my predecessors from the Viceroy of China.’

  Not for the first time during the last couple of years, Box thought what a tremendous honour it was for a mere police inspector to be summoned to places like this inner sanctum of the Fore
ign Office by a man who was close to the Sovereign and to the great Ministers of State, a man who was a household name in England. Sir Charles Napier could prevent wars by the subtle power of his words and the exercise of a first-rate and informed mind.

  ‘Normally, Mr Box,’ said Napier, when he had handed the inspector his coffee, ‘I wouldn’t inconvenience a Scotland Yard detective with what amounts to routine courier business. But you’ve worked so closely with Colonel Kershaw and his secret intelligence organization over the past couple of years – and with me, of course, in consequence – that I decided to ask for your help. I expect you’ve heard of Dorset House?’

  ‘I have, sir.’

  ‘Well, its owner, Field Marshal Sir John Claygate, is, as you know, one of England’s most distinguished retired soldiers. He was at the siege and capture of Delhi during the Indian Mutiny, and helped in the relief of Lucknow. He was second-in-command of the Bengal Brigade in the Abyssinian expedition of ’67. He did many great things in the Afghan wars, and was adjutant to the commander-in-chief of the Indian forces for ten years. We at the Foreign Office know every detail of his distinguished career.

  ‘The field marshal is no political animal, Box, if I may use that term, but he’s more than content to let Dorset House be used as a kind of political exchange. A lot of discreet diplomatic business is conducted there, particularly during the many balls and receptions that are held in the house during the year. These political activities take place behind a façade of something totally unpolitical. Dorset House is a fashionable venue for people with ambitions to shine in Society – people who are loosely referred to as “The Dorset House Set”. Harmless enough, you know, and, as I say, a backdrop against which a lot of very useful work can be done – done discreetly, you understand, in the midst of a glittering throng!’

  ‘And you want me to attend a function there, I gather, sir?’

  ‘I do. I want you to go to the reception being held there this coming Thursday to celebrate Mr Maurice Claygate’s twenty-sixth birthday, and wait for one of the guests there, a foreign gentleman called Monsieur de Bellefort, who is staying with the family at Dorset House, to make himself known to you. He will give you a sealed envelope, and in return you will give him this.’

  Sir Charles Napier opened a drawer in his desk and removed a printed cheque.

  ‘This is a cheque made payable to “Bearer”, in the sum of three hundred pounds. As you can see, it is a Treasury cheque, which can be encashed at any bank for the sum indicated. That is what we always give to Monsieur de Bellefort whenever he has something of interest for us to acquire.’

  ‘He sounds like what we call an informer, sir, in our line of business.’

  ‘Well, I suppose he is an informer, in a way,’ said Napier, ‘but he’s of a rather higher class than the average copper’s nark. De Bellefort is a collector of political indiscretions, such things as imprudent memoranda, indiscreet letters written by eminent persons to their friends, comments made apparently in private, but conveyed to De Bellefort by faithless servants for money—’

  ‘A blackmailer, then, sir?’

  ‘No, no, Box, nothing as crude as that. Were De Bellefort a mere blackmailer, he’d hold no special interest for us here at the Foreign Office. No, Alain de Bellefort sells items in his collection to interested parties, usually the kind of shady person one finds hovering on the fringes of political receptions, country house-parties, and the like. Sometimes, we’re content to let the fellow peddle his wares unmolested, as nothing of any great moment will transpire.

  ‘But, occasionally, Monsieur de Bellefort gets hold of something that interests us here, and then, you see, we make him an offer, as we have on this occasion. He accepted that offer immediately, and I want you to effect the exchange on Thursday night at Dorset House. De Bellefort will approach you, identify himself, and give you an envelope containing the particular indiscreet letter that we are prepared to buy from him.’

  ‘How will this man De Bellefort recognize me?’

  ‘He’s been shown photographs of you, enlarged from some of the images that appear in the newspapers.’

  ‘And will you tell me what’s in the indiscreet letter, sir? It would be as well for me to know that. You can count on my complete discretion in the matter.’

  Sir Charles Napier did not reply immediately. He sat with his hands folded in front of him, his gaze evidently directed towards some inner object. Presently he spoke.

  ‘There’s a slight complication to this business, Box,’ he said. ‘This De Bellefort’s father, a man called Philippe de Bellefort, served under Marshal Saint-Arnaud in the Crimea in ’54. Without making a long story of it, this Philippe saved John Claygate’s life during one of the Russians’ night sorties on the plain of Sevastopol. The old field marshal has never forgotten that incident, which is why he has made a number of efforts to assist the son – our collector of indiscretions – both financially and in more personal ways. Last year, it was thought that De Bellefort’s sister, Elizabeth, would marry Maurice Claygate, but I understand that nothing came of the proposed match.’

  ‘Does Field Marshal Claygate know of this De Bellefort’s nefarious activities, sir?’

  ‘Good heavens, no! That’s why I want you there at Dorset House on Thursday. De Bellefort is small fry in the great surging ocean of informers and other international riffraff here in London, and I don’t want him disturbed. And I don’t want old Field Marshal Claygate disturbed. A discreet, unnoticed exchange of envelopes, Box, effected in some little room, nook or cranny of that vast mansion is what I have in mind. Should anybody ask you directly what you’re doing there, just say that you’re in charge of security.’

  ‘Are you going to tell me what’s in that indiscreet letter?’ asked Box for the second time.

  ‘Yes. I think that you should know. The wife of a prominent French politician wrote a very foolish and injudicious letter to a friend in England, a lady who is one of the ladies-in-waiting to the former Empress Eugénie, asserting her secret contempt for the Third Republic, of which her husband is a minister, and further declaring that she would rally immediately to any attempt to restore the Empire. That letter fell into De Bellefort’s hands. We want to buy it from him, and return it discreetly to the relevant authorities in France.’

  ‘Won’t that get the lady into trouble, sir?’

  Sir Charles Napier smiled.

  ‘How very gallant of you, Inspector! But when I say “the relevant authorities”, I actually mean the lady in question. Now, let me show you a picture of Alain de Bellefort, so that you will recognize him on Thursday night.’

  Sir Charles Napier rummaged among the papers on his desk and retrieved another photograph, which he handed to Box. It showed a rather majestic, powerful man in evening dress, a man in his mid-thirties, with a shock of dark hair and very deep-set eyes. The man’s face was pockmarked, and his mouth looked both cruel and determined. Despite the pockmarks, he was an undoubtedly handsome man of great presence.

  ‘An impressive fellow, don’t you think?’ said Napier. ‘He’s what we in England would call a gentleman farmer, but he’s a man with a very exaggerated opinion of himself and his rank. He’s a member of the lower French gentry, but dreams of being a duke; he’s as proud as Lucifer and as poor as a church mouse. He poses no danger to us here, of course, but he could be a deadly foe in a private capacity.’

  ‘Does he work alone?’

  ‘Usually; but he does have a little coterie of English thugs and other parasites whom he can call to his aid if and when the need arises. Still, all you have to do is give the man that envelope, and receive one from him in exchange. Guard it carefully overnight, and bring it to me here at the Foreign Office on Friday morning. It’s a simple enough transaction, Box. I think you’ll find that your evening at Dorset House on Thursday will pass without incident.’

  When Box left the Foreign Office, he walked down to the cab-rank in Parliament Square. Sir Charles Napier expected the coming Thursday
evening to prove uneventful, and he was probably right. It was Tuesday today, so two full days would elapse before he presented himself for duty at Dorset House. It would do no harm to study the lie of the land now, while he had some leisure to do so. He climbed into the first cab in the rank, and told the driver to drop him at the corner of Berkeley Square and Bruton Street.

  A short walk took him into Dorset Gardens, on the far side of which the great mansion known as Dorset House rose serenely behind its railings. It had caught the morning sun, and its white stucco frontage dazzled the eye. Green blinds had been pulled down over the windows on all three storeys; no doubt they would stay down until the sun moved away in the late morning. A curving carriage drive, provided with separate entrance and exit gates, lay behind the railings, and Box saw that a closed brougham was drawn up in front of the classical Corinthian portico.

  On the right side of the house a separate drive led away to some mysterious region that could not be glimpsed from the road. Box walked along this drive, noting that the side of Dorset House to his left was covered in luxuriant ivy, a plant that was evidently not allowed to dim the aristocratic glories of the front elevation. Presently he came to the spot where the house ended, and a high brick wall began, bounding the extensive grounds and gardens, which extended to the end of the property.

  Behind the house Box found a quiet, cobbled lane, bounded on one side by the long rear garden wall of Dorset House, and on the opposite side by a similar wall, behind which he could glimpse the rear quarters of other houses in one of the quiet streets lying behind New Bond Street. To his right was an archway, with a stone plaque above it bearing the legend ‘Dorset House Mews’. Lying beyond the arch Box could glimpse a line of stables and coach houses, facing a row of brick cottages.