A Thief in the Night (16 page)

‘I understand. Leo will be just the man for us. You'll think him a dolt, but beneath that naïve exterior there lurks the mind of a detective who would not be out of place in our Special Branch.'

‘He's a writer, isn't he? Can't trust these writer types, son. Their minds are in the heavens and so dreamy they walk into the wall when they should be paying attention to what's coming at 'em.'

‘He's fine, Sir … he'll come good. That may be him now.' There was a knock at the door, and Leo was announced by a constable.

‘Good day gents … lovely March sunlight out there. Makes one glad to be alive, hey?'

The man the Chief Constable saw would have passed for one of the new breed of cyclists, as he wore the latest wool suit and knee breeches, canvas boots and a tweed hat. Leo had very full sideburns and a handlebar moustache that made Williamson think of a French waiter. He stood and shook hands with their visitor.

‘This is Leo … Joe actually, but to the world he is Aubrey Leo Antoine, Dolly.'

‘Good Lord! You're
that
writer!' exclaimed William. ‘I only yesterday finished reading your
Dangerous Journey
. What a pony express of a read, Mr Antoine.'

‘Call me Leo. Everyone does, except my dear wife!'

‘Do sit down and I'll have some tea brought in. Eddie, would you see to that?'

They were soon seated, and Williamson explained himself.

‘Mr Antoine … Leo … you will no doubt be aware that there has been a great deal of talk recently about the Nihilists? There have been numerous articles in the press about bombs and Fenians. Well, that may be a little part of the picture, but there is a greater story, a sinister one, and I have asked you here to help me in destroying a nest of anarchists right here in London.'

‘What? Anarchists? Tell me more, there's a book here!'

‘Indeed. I'm telling you – in strictest confidence, you understand – that their activities are moving from mere propaganda to a design on the life of a prominent politician, or someone in a position of considerable power. We do not yet know who or when, but we are sure that it will happen. After all, there have been attempts to murder our dear Queen – that young madman Maclean, just eight years ago, you'll recall. He's now rotting in Broadmoor Asylum.'

‘What can I do to help?' Leo asked, as a servant brought in the tea.

‘Well,' said Williamson, ‘I hear from Eddie here that you are a very wealthy man, and that you entertain society … virtually all kinds of society, from actresses to earls.'

‘Yes Sir. I like a party, and yes, my books, and my father's money, have made me a rich man. He was a brewer, and so I need say little more about why such profits were made here in good old England! I'll be pleased to help my country.'

‘Glad to hear it. Now, out there, if you listen, you will hear the footsteps and the cab wheels and the street cries that mark the heart of our great Empire … now imagine that to be under threat … and from the land we have been opposed to for generations – Holy Russia! But of course this little group of troublemakers have no home – they have left Russia. They – the Brothers of Rebirth, as they call themselves – aim to remove all the old beliefs and national states.'

‘Unthinkable Sir,' Leo said, sipping some tea and frowning.

‘Indeed. Therefore, I am asking you to join my organisation, attached, as it were, to my Special Branch, at least in a temporary capacity. Your task will be to gather knowledge about a certain Viennese aristocrat. He is a man who loves music and the theatre, walks in the artistic circles of the city, and is generally well-liked by the higher class of Britishers. That he is from Vienna makes his deceptive public image all the more disarming. He is with no established State – he wishes to see governments and traditional power brought down low. You would be working with Madame Bellezza of course, who, as you know, is always working as our eyes and ears regarding matters European. What about it?'

Leo, whose mind was churning with the fictional possibilities of anarchists in London, leapt at the offer. ‘Oh rather, yes, I am signing the contract here and now!'

Thus did Joe Sidebottom's life with Her Majesty's Secret Service begin.

The meeting took place at L'Église de Notre Dame de France in Leicester Place, as there had been a meeting nearby involving some French businessmen in Soho. Two men were in the centre of a row of pews, one on his knees with his head bent forward in prayer. He was young, wiry, his physique suggesting a spare diet and much anxiety. Next to him sat an older man, middle-aged, hunched in a thick coat, his hat on his knees. The young man spoke first, in a Russian accent: ‘Mr Maitland, I understand your problem. Your sympathy with our cause is admirable and very welcome. There is no need to worry. Our man will contact you.'

‘But I do worry,' replied the older man. ‘All those publications, all the public appeals for money … there's plenty of feeling in favour of your country. All I ask is that you do nothing that will lead to my superior. He continues to write, anonymously of course … and you will have another payment in two days. Goodbye, Pelriak.' He stood up and left, his footsteps echoing through the church.

The younger man stayed and finished his prayer, ‘The Lord protect my friends at home and keep them safe from the oppression of the Okhrana and their minions … look after my sister … and preserve the spirit of Rus from tyrants.'

Behind them, out of sight but near enough to see the smallest movement, was Maitland's superior, a man who never missed anything that might have a bearing on his status and security. A man with a restless mind.

Maria de Bellezza was taking afternoon tea at home with Cara Cabrelli, the two women discussing the current dashing young men on the stage or the latest fashion for playing croquet, shopping for Fedora's new styles of boot and Spence's latest styles of travelling cloaks. Maria, however, had an ulterior motive for inviting the young actress and took out a letter from a desk drawer.

‘My dear Cara, may I read you this letter from Leo? It sounds so very interesting.'

‘Oh, what a novelty. Please do!' enthused Cara, her rich black hair curling down to her shoulders.

‘Right, here goes,' said Maria and proceeded to read:

Dearest Maria,

I hope this letter will make your day cheery and fun! I like to think that I am a sort of ambassador for fun, of course, as I'm sure you know.

You may recall that the last time we met I mentioned a dinner to entertain my publisher and some of his friends? Well, the time is almost upon us, and I'm writing to ask if you will please play the hostess? I am, sadly, unattached, a resolved bachelor, and I am in need of not merely the feminine expertise in these matters but of your wit and charm. If you consider that to be shallow flattery, you are quite wrong.

May I also request that you could perhaps bring Cara with you too? She is a spirited young thing and would be the cause of much merriment among the males cramped into their tight dinner wear. She is so adorable. Those who fail to be charmed by your good self will unfailingly fall at her feet.

The event is at my home in Grosvenor Square a week on Friday. You know it well, of course, but I've had the whole place refurbished by Charles Melier, the famous Frenchy, since you were last here, and the place is impossibly huge. But then, the money earned from my Dangerous books and father's business has simply run away with everything! I have twenty rooms my dear!

Now, regarding Cara. Please, please, would she sing for us? Her voice is from Heaven, dearest Maria, and here comes the real surprise: I have engaged the services of none other than Mr George Grossmith, the Savoy singer and pianist, and I even have a real Baron.

Let me know right away please. A cab will arrive for you at six if you do come.

Fondest regards,

Joe

‘What? He has George Grossmith coming – and did you say a
Baron
?' Cara was like a child at Christmas.

Maria matched her excitement. ‘I say, my girl … you are going to sing, of course?'

Cara pretended to be coy, then struck the kind of pose an actress might for a publicity card. ‘Why Madame, how could I refuse the Baron?'

In the Café Giraudier, in the Haymarket, Maitland and Sir David Parfitt had reached the sweet Caroline pudding and talk had moved into the desultory category. People were continually tapping Parfitt on the shoulder as they walked past, such was his popularity. He was every inch the English gentleman, knighted after his exemplary and dedicated work as military attaché in several outposts of the Empire, followed by charitable work at home with fallen women and orphaned children. It was widely known that he donated liberally to both the Broadmoor Hospital and funds to help alleviate leprosy suffering in India.

‘I saw Pelriak a few days ago,' said Maitland, ‘and the matter is resolved I think. Now please, allow yourself to be at ease, will you? You have plenty to smile about. Really, David, you are the man of the moment. That Foreign Secretary post is looking more likely now than this time last year.'

Parfitt nodded, but said, ‘As long as there is nothing unpleasant from the wastes of Siberia – or their friends in Paris perhaps?' He was silver-haired and handsome, the hook nose and slightly narrowing chin suggesting a Roman emperor, and indeed the press had nicknamed him Marcus Aurelius, such was his reputation for serious reflection and moral rectitude. If a quotation was needed regarding the Salisbury-led Conservative Party, then Parfitt was the man. In addition, he was a prominent Christian, and prone to sermonizing.

‘David, I've settled that,' said Maitland reassuringly. ‘There is nothing at all to link you to these radicals. The latent boisterous student in you need have no fear.'

‘I'm sure you're right, Fred, but there's a change in the air. These people have moved from printing and collecting funds to making bombs and killing Generals. What if that sort of thing crosses the Channel? Every day there is more depressing news from Russia … why, just this morning there was a report on those students of the Agricultural Academy in Moscow being expelled. That was just for discontent. They
murdered
a Tsar, you recall, not too far back.'

‘Finish your dessert and think no more of it. Pelriak is a harmless intellectual.'

At this moment an elegant lady walked past and stopped to talk to Parfitt. ‘Oh I did enjoy your speech on the deceased wife's sister last week. Bravo!' she said, before moving on.

‘That's Sir David Parfitt,' Maitland said with a wry smile, ‘the man who says everything the upper classes want to hear … while in his private thoughts, well, quite the opposite fills his mind … I know you want to shake the foundations old friend.'

Parfitt, leaning closer, whispered, ‘He wants to write a Nihilist novel, this Parfitt man … seems to be popular now! To say true, this country is in need of a quake … a quake to bring about a new way of thinking … but we're stuck with Parliament and all that protocol and we soldier on. What would these ordinary, harmless Londoners think if they knew what I really think of all this old power? Power corrupts, of course … so measures have to be taken.'