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  As soon as Box and Knollys had left the shop, the beaded curtain parted, and an impressive figure emerged, tall, blue-eyed, with a gold-framed monocle in his right eye. He boasted a luxuriant mane of blond hair, recently trimmed, and a fine golden beard. One or two of the men reading at the tables made as if to stand up as he passed, but he prevented them with a kindly gesture.

  ‘You have a goodly crowd here today, Rosanski,’ said the notable, stopping for a moment at the counter. ‘And, unless I’m much mistaken, a couple of visitors from Scotland Yard. A little word of advice. Take care, pan, whom you speak to, and what you say. There are dangerous folk about.’

  Old Monsieur Rosanski frowned. He lived in a free country, and did not like that kind of talk. Was it merely a warning, or a threat?

  ‘As to that, magnat,’ he replied, ‘England is a free country, and I shall say what I like about anything, under the law. But I take your words in a good spirit.’

  The notable smiled, and settled his silk hat on his head.

  ‘Well, pan, I can but advise. I can hardly coerce you into silence. As you say, England is a free country.’

  He opened the door, and swept out into Sherry Wine Court.

  There was a wild, irregular beauty about Hampstead Heath that appealed to Jack Knollys. London’s parks were without equal, but they were carefully planned and laid out, so that the evidence of man’s hand and mind was everywhere. The heath, natural and unspoilt, stood over 400 feet above sea level, and the air was pure and invigorating.

  He and his fiancée, Vanessa Drake, had strolled up its hills and descended into its hollows, watching the crowds of people who had flocked there to escape the heat and dust of the hot June day. A gaggle of carefree girls had danced for a while to the accompaniment of a mouth organ played by a young man in a bowler hat, before collapsing on the grass in fits of giggles. Here and there, couples with young children had spread out picnics on the grass, which they had to share perforce with interested wasps.

  By four o’clock they were both tired, and made their way to the flagstaff, turning round to look once more at the breathtaking view west, where the dome of St Paul’s and the towers of Westminster could be seen dimly to the south in the haze, as though London were a far-off city. Then they made their leisurely way to Jack Straw’s Castle for tea and cakes in the garden.

  Jack Knollys glanced covertly at his fiancée, and saw the familiar wistful expression come into her blue eyes. She’s thinking of my exploits at Tower Bridge yesterday, he thought, and she’s envying me the excitement of it all. In a moment she’ll ask me all about it, and I’ll tell her as much about Anders Grunwalski as is prudent.

  How he loved her! Slender, and very feminine, with true blonde hair and lively blue eyes, she was as fearless as a lion – why, she had once rushed down a flight of stairs to rescue him from a ruthless killer! She’d only just turned twenty then. She was over twenty-one now, and legally a woman, but her girlish yearning for adventure was as strong as ever. Whatever changes the years brought about, to him she would always be a girl.

  ‘Jack,’ said Vanessa Drake, ‘are you going to tell me about yesterday? You know I’ll nag you till you do. That’s not very lady-like, I know, but nature never intended me to sit demurely behind the tea cups.’

  Jack Knollys laughed. ‘Come on, Cornflower,’ he said, ‘time for us to catch our train back to Broad Street. On the way, I’ll tell you all about it.’

  Later, as they sat together in a third-class compartment of the train, Vanessa thought of how her life had changed after the murder of her former fiancé, and her recruitment into an amorphous band of special State servants operating on the fringes of national security. The tasks that had been assigned to her had brought her dramatically into contact with the giant detective sergeant sitting beside her, a startling man in many ways, badly disfigured in a gang fight, as strong as an ox, but unexpectedly tender in a matter-of-fact sort of way that appealed to her. In the pursuit of their different duties, both of them had come perilously near to death.

  Well, now she knew all about this man Anders Grunwalski – or, at least, as much as Jack chose to tell her. She knew about the dramatic attempt to blow up the new bridge on its opening day, and how her splendid fiancé had helped to thwart the bomber’s plans.

  It had been a lovely, exhilarating afternoon out, the kind of treat that Jack loved to provide for her. But oh! She missed the thrill of adventure, the curious satisfaction of flirting with danger, that elevated above the commonplace her rather dull life as an expert needlewoman at Watts & Co in Westminster. Perhaps one day Colonel Kershaw—? Well, she would wait in patience for the time when, once again, perhaps, she would be called upon to play the part of an unsung heroine!

  As Arnold Box turned out of Maiden Lane into Sherry Wine Court he saw a crowd of excited men and women gathered around the door of Peter Rosanski’s shop. They spoke in a high-toned chatter, and in a language that he assumed to be Polish, but even at a distance Box could detect the signs of fear and anger in the general cacophony.

  At the end of the court two vehicles stood, their horses chafing nervously at the bits. One was a Metropolitan Police ambulance. The other was an empty civilian hearse, looking bleak and mournful without its usual adornment of feathers. A police sergeant and a number of constables were busying themselves around the vehicles. What had happened? Was Peter Rosanski injured, or dead?

  Box shouldered his way through the crowd, and crossed the threshold of the shop.

  It was a bizarre scene that met his eyes. Peter Rosanski lay on a stretcher which had been placed on the floor in front of the counter and, at the moment of Box’s entrance, an undertaker, watched by his silent assistant, had just finished composing the dead man’s limbs. A dark patch of blood on Rosanski’s waistcoat told Box that the old man had been stabbed under the ribs. His fierce moustache still bristled, seemingly in defiance of his fate, but his open eyes were incurious, as though the events of this world no longer interested him.

  Standing patiently beside the body was a tall, strong man clad in a blood-covered butcher’s apron. The very air around him smelt of blood. He was a stout man, with a double chin and a shining bald head. In his right hand he held a butcher’s cleaver, and in his left, a bloodstained steak knife.

  For one chilling moment Box thought that he was looking at the murderer of Peter Rosanski, but then the bead curtain at the back of the shop parted, and a uniformed police inspector came out into the dim room. The inspector peered short-sightedly at Box for a moment, and then greeted him by name.

  ‘Detective Inspector Box? You got here quickly, didn’t you? This murder’s not half an hour old. You won’t remember me, I expect. Inspector Pollard, “E” Division. We worked together once, about four years ago, when we brought in Killer Shelmerdine at Hackney. This is a shocking business, Mr Box. Poor old Peter Rosanski never harmed a soul.’

  Box glanced at the counter, where a few jars of sweets and pickles were displayed for sale. Written in chalk across the counter in bold capital letters was a foreign word: ZDRAJCA.

  ‘I wonder what that means, Mr Pollard?’ asked Box. Before the inspector could reply, the man in the butcher’s apron burst into speech.

  ‘That word is Polish, and it means renegade, traitor. It was written there on the counter by the scum who stabbed him in the ribs – a mean little runt of a man, like a weasel, a rat-faced man…. I tell you, Policeman, Peter Rosanski was no traitor. He was a good man, who loved living here in England. He loved the Queen, and this country that had adopted him – adopted all of us who live in this court. Well, rat-face has my mark upon him, and you will put him where he belongs – on the gallows.’

  ‘You did well, Mr Aaronson,’ said Inspector Pollard. ‘I’ll want to ask you a few questions later, but for the moment you’d better go back to your shop. It’s getting a bit crowded in here.’

  The big butcher nodded, and turned on his heel. They could all hear the crescendo of voices as he made his way b
ack to his premises across the court. The undertaker, who had been showing signs of restlessness, motioned to the silent figure on the stretcher.

  ‘Is it in order for us to take the deceased away now, Mr Pollard? Perhaps you’d care to step into the back room until we’ve placed him in the coffin? Then we’ll be on our way to Horseferry Road.’

  As Box and Pollard walked towards the beaded curtain at the back of the shop, Box saw the plain black coffin that the undertakers must have brought with them. Only that morning, the man who was destined to occupy it had been in vigorous life. Murder was a foul business.

  ‘We have an arrangement with them,’ said Inspector Pollard, as they had entered the sparsely furnished back room. ‘The undertakers, I mean. It’s more dignified to have people taken away in a hearse than bundled into a closed hand-ambulance or a cart.’

  ‘I saw a police ambulance standing beside the hearse at the top of the court,’ said Box. ‘Who was the ambulance for? Have you caught the villain already?’

  ‘Yes, we have, so, thank goodness, it’s an open and shut case. I’ll tell you all about it in a minute. Rosanski was stabbed under the ribs with a steak knife. The police surgeon, who’s been and gone, says that his heart was ruptured, and that he died instantly. This murder was the work of a professional assassin, Mr Box. It would have been quick, and very effective. There’s not much blood to be seen, because bleeding in this case would have been internal, so the surgeon said.’

  ‘What happened exactly, Mr Pollard?’

  ‘Just before Monsieur Rosanski shut up shop, our butcher friend, Mr Aaronson glanced across the court from his shop, and saw the weasel-faced man running down the steps, bloody steak-knife in hand. Aaronson rushed out and tackled him.’

  ‘That was brave of him. Not many men would tackle an armed killer.’

  ‘No, they wouldn’t. But our killer had met his match in Mr Aaronson. The man snarled at him and tried to stab him with the steak-knife. Aaronson chopped him in the arm with his meat cleaver, and that put the man well and truly out of action. Somebody had already run to fetch us, and we were here within minutes. The killer’s under restraint in the police ambulance, which I telegraphed to be sent here from Carter Street. Poor Rosanski will be on his way to Horseferry Road mortuary by now. As I said, it’s an open and shut case.’

  ‘Did you establish the identity of the killer? Another Pole, I expect, if he called poor Rosanski a traitor.’

  ‘Well, Mr Box, I recognized him as soon as I saw him lying on the cobbles, bleeding like a pig, with Aaronson standing guard over him with that fearsome cleaver of his. But he’s not a Pole; he’s a German, Oscar Schumann by name, who’s been suspected of more than one killing on our patch over the years. Well, we’ve got him this time. I don’t know what his motive was, but I expect we’ll get it out of him.’

  ‘Why did he write that Polish word on the counter?’

  ‘I reckon that was a blind, Mr Box. When we searched him, we found a piece of paper in his pocket with that word printed on it. ZDRAJCA. It beats me how these Poles manage to pronounce some of their words.’

  ‘You think he had that paper to remind him how to spell the word when he came to write it on the counter?’

  ‘I do. He wasn’t meant to get caught, you see. If he hadn’t been caught, we’d have thought it was some kind of Polish vendetta being worked out. We’ve had things of that sort happening round here before. Of course, he could have been hired by one or other of the Polish factions to carry out the assassination. We’ll see. Do you want to be associated with this case, Mr Box?’

  ‘I don’t think so, Mr Pollard. It’s obviously a divisional matter, and my business with Monsieur Rosanski was nothing to do with vendettas. It was something arising from an incident that occurred at Tower Bridge yesterday. Perhaps you’d send me a note at the Rents in a couple of days’ time, to tell me how you’ve got on.’

  ‘As you please, Mr Box. I’ll just straighten things up here, and make all safe, and then I’ll get back to Bow Street. I was supposed to be off at three. Maybe, later, I’ll be able to salvage what’s left of Sunday, and get back home to my family.’

  When Box arrived at King James’s Rents just before eight o’clock on Monday morning, the frock-coated figure of Superintendent Mackharness appeared at the top of the stairs. He greeted Box with his usual morning ritual.

  ‘Up here, Box, if you please. I shan’t keep you more than a minute.’

  Box joined his superior officer in the mildewed office on the first floor. Mackharness picked up a folded letter from his desk, and flicked it open with one of his stubby fingers.

  ‘Now, Box, I found a note from the assistant commissioner waiting for me here this morning. It tells us that a Mr Hugo Lang, assistant secretary of the Geological Society, has definite information about Grunwalski, which he is anxious to impart to us. He has asked for you by name. The society has its premises in Burlington House, on the north side of Piccadilly. This Mr Lang is available this morning, at any time between nine and ten o’clock. Go there, will you, Box, and see what this man can tell us.’

  ‘The Geological Society?’

  ‘Yes, Box, it means having to do with rocks and stones – that kind of thing. Oh, and while you’re here, I brought you and Sergeant Knollys a little memento of Saturday’s doings. The official doings, I mean.’

  Mackharness handed Box two attractively coloured programmes, souvenirs of the opening of Tower Bridge. The covers showed three fine photographs of the new structure, together with portraits of the Prince and Princess of Wales. It was a kindly gesture from a man whose normal mien was stiff, rigorously formal, and rather forbidding.

  ‘Well, thank you very much, sir,’ said Box. ‘That’s most kind of you, and most appreciated. Did you have a good day on Saturday, sir?’

  ‘A most gratifying day, thank you, Box. I spent most of it in the company of my friend Lord Maurice Vale Rose, a man who keeps a splendid table, and an even more splendid cellar. Anyway, get down there now, will you? The Geological Society, in Burlington House.’

  5

  Rumours of Wars

  AS ARNOLD BOX crossed the dusty carriageway of Piccadilly, an elderly, pink-faced man who had been standing under the grand archway of Burlington House, came down the steps to greet him.

  ‘Inspector Box? I am Hugo Lang. It’s very good of you to come to see us at such short notice. Let me conduct you to our offices in the east wing.’

  Box followed Lang up a marble staircase and along a carpeted corridor. They passed through a deserted library, and then through a long storeroom, its shelves bulging with sheaves of yellowing papers tied up into bundles.

  Box knew by now whom he would find when they reached journey’s end. A man would be waiting to talk to him, and they would greet each other by a familiar verbal ritual. The outcome of their interview would be some kind of enlightenment, and almost inevitably an invitation to put himself into danger.

  Hugo Lang stopped at a door in the corner of the room, knocked, and motioned Box to enter. He did so and, as the door was closed behind him, he heard a key on the outside turn quietly in the lock.

  Yes; there he was, sitting at a plain deal table in the window, looking out at the tranquil gardens beyond the courtyard, a slight, sandy-haired man in his late forties or early fifties, with a mild face and an almost apologetic air about him. He was dressed very formally in a morning coat, complemented by a white waistcoat and dark silk cravat. A tall silk hat, in which he had deposited a pair of black suede gloves, stood on the table beside an ebony walking-cane. The man spoke, and the well-known ritual began.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Box.’

  ‘Good morning, Colonel Kershaw. So it’s like that, is it?’

  ‘Yes, Box, it’s like that.’ His voice, as always on these occasions, held a tone of sardonic weariness.

  This would be the fourth time, Box mused, that Lieutenant-Colonel Sir Adrian Kershaw, RA, Knight Commander of the Bath, had begun the process of luring him
away from his police work at Scotland Yard and into the perilous subtleties of secret intelligence. Colonel Kershaw was one of the powers behind the Throne. He was rightly feared by his enemies; but it was perhaps more significant that he was feared, too, by his friends.

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

  ‘I will, sir.’

  Kershaw offered Box his cigar case. Three slim cigars reposed in the case, and beside them a tightly rolled spill of paper tied neatly with twine. Box took a cigar, and with it the spill of paper, which he placed without comment in a pocket. He knew what it was, and there was no call for either man to comment on it.

  ‘The time has come, Mr Box,’ said Kershaw, when their cigars were lit, ‘for me to tell you some things that you need to know about Saturday’s events at Tower Bridge, and what followed them. I should imagine that you’ve been working in the dark since then.’

  ‘When you say events, sir—’

  ‘When I say events, Mr Box, I mean not only the apparent attempt by Anders Grunwalski to blow up the bridge, but also the murder yesterday of Mr Peter Rosanski in Sherry Wine Court. The two things are linked, as I expect you realize.’

  ‘Anything that you can tell me about Anders Grunwalski will be very welcome, sir,’ said Box. ‘Is he a lone wolf, seeking vengeance on society for some imaginary slight, or is he part of a conspiracy? And, perhaps of more immediate concern, where is he now? To my way of thinking, those two questions require urgent answers.’

  Colonel Kershaw sighed, and his eyes narrowed.

  ‘I don’t know where he is, Box,’ he said. ‘I wish I did. We’ll talk about that aspect of the affair in a minute. As for Anders Grunwalski himself – well, he is neither a conspirator nor a lone wolf. Anders Grunwalski is one of my people.’