The Hansa Protocol (25 page)

‘No. Naturally, I know all about it.’

‘The contents of that letter are harmless enough, but it could be used by the German war party to its great advantage. McColl will make the contents of that letter public in Germany. “The peace party is the party of traitors!” he’d say, and the ordinary German man in the street would believe him. Find that letter, and bring it to me.’

The forlorn Lankester inclined his head, but made no reply. Kershaw looked at him, and sensed that the man was holding
something
back.

‘There are other things that you know,’ he said, sharply. ‘Why do you not speak?’

‘I am ashamed to speak too much in your presence, for fear of hearing your contempt for me in your voice when you reply’

‘Whatever you hear will be what you have deserved. It is part of your sentence. Speak!’

‘McColl is known up here in Caithness as Angus Macmillan. He migrates here for certain periods of the year. He was in England for most of last week, but appeared up here on Thursday, the twelfth.’

‘Who told you all this?’

‘A broken-down old gossip I met in an alehouse, a kind of halfwit, with decades of stone-dust in his lungs. I plied him with ale, and asked him a few harmless questions. It’s amazing what that type of man sees and hears. Angus Macmillan comes down to the Naval Quay with his
cart, which contains his box of tools. He’s been on HMS
Fearnought
,
and also on HMS
Leicester.
I don’t suppose he’s been down there among the boilers and the bunkers for the benefit of his health.’

Colonel Kershaw recalled the telegraph message that Inspector Box had sent him from London. He had mentioned the name Angus Macmillan, and had suggested that he and Colin McColl were the same man. Now, this wretched, shivering renegade had confirmed the truth of what Box had discovered.

‘I believe you’re right. McColl’s been up to no good in the bowels of those two ships. Perhaps the time’s come for us to take a look. On Monday, the coaling of the fleet takes place. By then, I expect, he’ll be up and away. Angus Macmillan …. Well, well. Colin McColl’s father was a Scot, but his mother was a German. Something tragic happened to her. So far, I’ve been unable to find out what it was.’

‘I can tell you that. I assumed you knew. Colin McColl’s mother was murdered by a French mob in Alsace, in 1871. Her crime, apparently, was being German.’

‘I didn’t know that.’

Colonel Kershaw stood up, and looked at the rain-soaked, unshaven man sitting patiently and hopelessly on the broken stones.

‘You fool, Lankester!’ he said. ‘Look what you have found out in a single day! You homed in on that old man in the alehouse like a pigeon coming back to its loft. Think now what talent you have thrown away, what public and private esteem you have lost for ever!’

The wretched man made no reply, but he seemed to shrink back further into the shadows. Kershaw turned on his heel and left the ruin. He set out across the ploughed field that would bring him to the warmth and shelter of Craigarvon Tower. The thin rain was still falling, and the meagre fields looked barren and blighted. Kershaw suddenly paused, and turned round. Lankester had emerged from the bothy, and was beginning to drag himself away towards the road beyond the field. Kershaw called his name, and he obediently stopped in his tracks, waiting until the colonel had reached him.

‘I can get you a position with a trading company in the Malay Straits,’ said Kershaw. ‘If you want it, you know how you can contact me.’

Lankester looked Kershaw in the eyes for the first time.

‘Thanks. But first, I will do what you have ordered.’

Colonel Kershaw made no reply. He retraced his steps across the fields towards Craigarvon Tower.

That Saturday evening, a blazing fire in a vast stone grate threw its orange glow on the trophies of arms and mounted spoils of the hunt adorning the walls of Craigarvon Tower’s great hall. Other light came from fitfully burning oil lamps, and whatever daylight managed to penetrate through the glazed slits of windows.

Both Kershaw and Holland had received a batch of telegraph messages, which were spread out in front of them on the table. Kershaw was relaxed and thoughtful. Holland was unusually agitated, containing some special anger only with the greatest difficulty. Kershaw said nothing. When the right time came, Admiral Holland would unburden himself.

‘I’m pleased to hear,’ said Kershaw, glancing at a telegraph form, ‘that Sir Charles Napier has already begun a ruthless purge at the Foreign Office. I expect your people will be doing something similar, Holland. They could make a start in your Cipher Office! The Press, thank goodness, have not got wind of the matter, or they’d have
manufactured
a national panic of it by now.’

‘With very good reason,’ said Admiral Holland, hotly. ‘I’m glad Napier’s thought to tell you what he’s doing. One slight advantage of being an admiral is that I was able to order that self-satisfied bunch down at the Naval Quay to give us an open telegraph line to London.’

‘Napier says here that there’s more to come. He’s ordered a visitation of our embassies, particularly in central Europe. You know, I think the Queen might revise her ideas about Napier. The last time I spoke to her she seemed to think that he was ready for the scrapyard.’

Holland smiled, and shook his head. It was not every day that someone whom he knew spoke nonchalantly about the last time that he’d spoken to Queen Victoria. He picked up another sheaf of
telegraph
forms from the table.

‘I’ve got a message here, Kershaw, from an equerry to the Prince of Wales. It’s apparently been sent to me as a matter of courtesy –
presumably
as a kind of placebo, to keep me quiet. His Royal Highness will arrive in Caithness on Tuesday morning, the 24th, at eight. He’ll be travelling overnight in the royal train, but will change to a special carriage when he transfers to the Highland Railway.’

‘He’s not coming here straight away, is he?’

‘Oh, no. He’s staying at Firth Lodge, Lord Westerdale’s place, some miles south of here. He’ll come to the fleet with as much informality as possible, at noon on. Wednesday, the 25th.’

‘Has the Prince any inkling of this business, do you think?’

‘I think so, Kershaw, though I can’t be sure. This other message here suggests that someone in London may have alerted him to the fact that something unusual is going on up here.’

Holland passed the second message to Kershaw.

Admiral Holland stirred restlessly. He threw the telegraph messages down on the table, and blushed with indignation.

‘What’s the matter, Holland?’ asked Kershaw gently. ‘What is it?’

It came as a relief to Admiral Holland to give vent to his pent-up anger.

‘I went down there this afternoon, Kershaw, to the Naval Station on the shore of the sound. I was received by Commodore Cartwright. I told him about our fears that explosive devices may have been hidden in the bunkers of the
Fearnought
and the
Leicester.
He listened. I told him all about you, and about the special powers that you have from the Queen—’

‘And I suppose he took no notice of you? They never do, you know.’

‘He said that he would have the boiler-rooms and bunkers of both ships thoroughly searched – after he had received permission to do so from Admiral of the Fleet the Lord Leyster and Stayne. I’m not much loved by that particular nobleman, Kershaw. Once my name’s coupled in his mind with obstruction and inconvenience, he’ll make sure that I’m not able to make any more attempts to rock the boat!’

‘And do you mind?’

‘Damn it all, Kershaw, no! I don’t mind. I’m with you all the way. And if you have ways of circumventing these complacent idiots, then pursue them.’

‘I will, Holland, have no doubt of that. In any case, there’s a glimmer of light in the offing. I’ve not been idle, you know. Although I may be sitting here inert, I rather think that one of my crowd is very active
down at Thirlstane village. For a little while longer – just a little while – we must watch and wait.’

On Sunday morning, Admiral Holland declared his intention of taking a walk up to the cliff top with his binoculars. He admitted to Kershaw that he felt much better for having ‘let off steam’ the previous evening, and that his temper would be further improved by a walk in the morning air.

‘Anything’s better than just sitting here, doing nothing, Kershaw,’ he declared.

Once he had reached the summit of the cliff, Holland flinched at the winter rain, which was being blown inland in drifts by the wind. The grey sea moved and churned uneasily to the horizon. Well muffled in his long naval greatcoat Admiral Holland planted himself defiantly in the face of the elements and looked through his binoculars. Not more than a mile out he could see a vessel, either moving very slowly north or at anchor. He focused upon it with his powerful binoculars. Black hull, white
superstructure
, metal masts, a raked buff painted funnel …. A steam-yacht.

‘A steam-yacht,’ said Captain Neville Dawson, commander of the patrol-boat HMS
Fortune.
He closed his telescope. ‘We’d best go out and take a look.’ HMS
Fortune
had rounded the point of Dunnock Raise some minutes earlier, and the watch had immediately alerted him to the presence of an unknown vessel in what was technically a restricted area.

Within twenty minutes, HMS
Fortune
was within hailing distance of the yacht. The two vessels rose and fell beside each other on the choppy North Sea waters. Captain Dawson took a megaphone handed to him by a sailor, and called out:

‘What ship are you?’

There was no response at first, but then a fine figure of a man appeared on the bridge of the yacht, a semi-circular structure
immediately
in front of the funnel. Well over six feet tall, with blond hair escaping from beneath his yachting cap, it was possible to see his bright blue eyes shining even in the dim light of the Northern Scottish day.

‘This is the steam-yacht
Mary
Tudor
, out of Hull, bound for Norway. I see from the ensign that you’re a Royal Navy vessel. Do you wish to board us?’

The blond man’s voice was so powerful that he could be heard
without the aid of a megaphone. He had a pleasant, well-modulated voice. As he spoke, one or two members of his crew came on deck and stared curiously at the patrol-boat.

‘Who are you?’ Captain Dawson demanded. ‘You are sailing in restricted waters.’

‘My name’s Chesterfield. Sir Mark Chesterfield. I’m skippering this yacht myself. Sorry about being in the way. I’ve heard nothing about this sea-lane being restricted. What’s your name, anyway?’

‘Dawson. Captain Neville Dawson. Please up anchor at once and proceed. There’s no call for us to board you.’

‘Thank you, Captain. Good luck!’

The giant yachtsman waved an arm in a desultory salute, and
disappeared
from the bridge. In less than a minute Dawson could hear the yacht’s anchor being hauled in. He gave the necessary commands and HMS
Fortune
turned across its own wake and sped back towards Dunnock Point. The steam-yacht also altered course, and proceeded quickly north.

Towards mid-afternoon a visitor called at the Tower. The stone-flagged entrance chamber of the building had been transformed into a guard room, and the two men could hear the challenging voice of the soldier on duty. In a moment, the soldier appeared in the great hall. He was a smart man of thirty or so, wearing the dark-blue uniform and red-piped forage cap of the Caithness Highlanders.

‘There’s a Captain Dawson to see you, sir,’ he said to Admiral Holland.

‘Dawson? I don’t recall the name, Corporal. You’d better show him in here.’

In a moment Captain Neville Dawson, commander of the
patrol-boat
HMS
Fortune
,
had been ushered into the hall. At Holland’s invitation, he took a seat by the fire, but did not remove his uniform overcoat.

‘Captain Dawson,’ said Holland, ‘let me introduce my colleague, lieutenant-Colonel Kershaw, of the Royal Artillery.’

‘Gentlemen,’ Dawson began, ‘a certain incident took place today as my boat rounded the point of Dunnock Raise. I think you should hear about it.’ Dawson gave the two men an account of his afternoon’s adventure.

‘Well done, Dawson,’ said Admiral Holland when the commander had finished speaking. ‘You did right to report the incident to me. I saw that steam-yacht myself, and wondered what it was doing out there.’

‘The man who came up on the bridge said that he was Sir Mark Chesterfield—’

‘Chesterfield, hey?’ said Holland. ‘I don’t think I’ve heard of him. But he was quite right, of course. There are no actual restrictions on sea-traffic in the area. Only if someone got too close would we want to question them about who they were. Which, indeed, is what you did this afternoon. Chesterfield …. No. Do you know the name, Kershaw?’

For reply, Colonel Kershaw took a wallet from his pocket and extracted a photograph. It showed a very tall, fair-haired man in an exotic, heavily-braided uniform. ‘Was this your yachtsman, Captain Dawson?’

He passed the photograph to their visitor.

‘Why, yes,’ said Dawson. ‘So you know him, sir. Who is he?’

He handed the photograph back to Kershaw, who successfully stifled a smile. The captain’s transparent naïvety amused him.

‘That, Captain,’ said Kershaw, ‘is a man called Count Czerny. He is an Austro-Hungarian nobleman, and head of a group of most dangerous and fanatical enemies of this country. He has a very useful gift: he tells truths as if they were lies.’

‘But— Why, the man was English! I spoke to him!’

Captain Dawson was very English himself. He seemed personally affronted that Kershaw should regard Sir Mark Chesterfield as anything other than a True Blue Englishman.