The Dorset House Affair (3 page)

How he despised her! She was a
communard
,
an espouser of violent revolution, and she had once shown him a photograph of her accursed uncle standing with the other despoilers in the Place Vendôme beside the shattered column.

‘I’m right, am I not,’ said Sophie, ‘in thinking that, while you were still in France, you received a little item of interest from a man called François Leclerc, a servant in the household of the French Minister of Marine?’

‘I did. Why should I not tell you? It was an indiscreet letter,
which I have already arranged to deliver to the relevant
authorities
here in London, in return for a little financial consideration.’

‘I thought it would be something like that. Now, that same François Leclerc has conveyed to me another document, illegally abstracted form the files of the French secret intelligence, which, if it were to fall into the hands of Germany, would set all Europe ablaze.’

‘Why do you tell me this?’

‘Because I am willing to sell it to you for a price. I will not tell you what I paid for it, but from you I will require five thousand pounds. Look! I have written here on this piece of paper what the stolen document contains. It would be safer for you to read it than for me to tell you the contents in so many words, because walls – and servant-women – have ears.’

De Bellefort took the piece of paper from Sophie Lénart and read it. He sat motionless for a while, and then made a single comment: ‘
Sacré
!’

‘You say true, Monsieur de Bellefort,’ observed Sophie. She took the paper from him, struck a match, and burned it to ashes in a saucer. She laughed. ‘I ask you for five thousand pounds for that document, as I feel honour bound to give you first refusal. We evidently share a common informant, and if he proves to be a fertile source of material, there’s no reason why we shouldn’t share the proceeds. When he realizes that he is in the power of two controllers he will be doubly discreet.’

‘It is an interesting offer,
mademoiselle
.’

‘It is, But, of course, your little farm in Normandy won’t let you run to that great sum, will it? So I am probably wasting my time. What will Napier give you for your little letter? A hundred pounds?’

‘You are impertinent, Miss Lénart,’ said De Bellefort, flushing with rage. ‘And you are wrong. I not only can, but will, give you five thousand pounds for that document. When will you be able to produce it?’

‘I will have it here, in this house, this coming Thursday, the
sixth. I shall expect you here in the afternoon. When you come, bring the money in Bank of England notes, or bearer bonds.’

‘Thursday….’ De Bellefort’s eyes gleamed. ‘Good. That will be very convenient. How will I know that the document is genuine?’

‘Listen,
monseigneur
,’
said Sophie, and there was a hard edge to her voice, ‘I am no dealer in trivia. Your little letters cause foolish matrons to have palpitations; my documents cause thrones to tremble. What you will receive will be the authentic fatal
document
that the French Government thinks is hidden deep in its vault of international secrets. I will keep it available for you for the whole of that day. After that, I will take it elsewhere.’

‘Why this sudden onset of kindness towards a rival, Sophie? If you offer that document to me for five thousand pounds, I assume that you could get twice that elsewhere. What is your real reason for offering it to me?’

‘I offer it to you because I am a patriotic Frenchwoman, who wants no truck with documents of that sort. Greed for gain has its limits. You understand what I mean. You, of course, are one of those men who look at history and politics through glasses of your own manufacturing. Well, will I see you on Thursday or not?’

‘You will see me, here, on Thursday afternoon,’ said De Bellefort. ‘Never fear: I will have the money. God knows, there’s not much love lost between us two, but I thank you for this favour.’

Sophie Lénart smiled, and made a motion of dismissal.

‘You’re growing sentimental, Alain,’ she said. ‘In our line of business, that will never do. Once you have given me the money, I may find it possible to summon up a few similarly insincere words of thanks in return. Until Thursday.’

Maurice Claygate was awoken by a loud but discreet cough. He opened his eyes, and saw a footman in the scarlet livery of the Claygate family standing beside his bed. He groaned, and dragged himself up on to his pillows.

‘Oh, it’s you, Henry,’ he said. ‘What time is it? Am I late for anything?’

‘It’s eleven o’clock, sir, and you’re too late for church. Sir John and Lady Claygate have already departed for Ely Place.’

‘Oh, Lord! I expect I’ll receive a lecture about that when they get back. I suppose I’d better get dressed.’

The footman, a young man of twenty-five or so, stood back a little from the bed. Maurice hauled himself off the massive
four-poster
, and looked around him. How blindingly bright everything looked! He would have to curb his drinking – he would, once he was married to Julia.

‘Sir,’ said Henry, ‘I have brought you some coffee and a tumbler of seltzer. I have placed them in your dressing-room.’

‘Bless you, Henry,’ said Maurice. ‘You’re a friend in a thousand. Is Pa’s valet about? I don’t think I can be bothered with all those straps and buttons – no, wait, I’ll throw some water over myself and then put on that silk dressing-gown I brought back from Paris. I’ll have pulled myself together by lunchtime.’

Maurice walked into his dressing-room, and picked up the tumbler of seltzer. He drained its contents all at once, and made a wry face. Ghastly, how these cures tasted of bad eggs.

‘Hello, Henry,’ he said, ‘I see you’ve brought coffee for two. Are you going to join me?’

Despite his training, the footman laughed. That remark had been typical of Mr Maurice, bless him!

‘No, sir,’ said Henry, ‘I’ve brought coffee for two because Mr Edward Morton has called to see how you are. He’s in the library, reading one of the sporting magazines.’

‘And he’s come to see me, has he? Well, give me twenty minutes, will you, and then bring him up here. Is all well at home, now, Henry?’

‘It is, sir,’ said Henry, ‘thanks to your great kindness. Will that be all?’

‘Yes, that’s all. Send Mr Morton up in twenty minutes’ time.’

‘It’s a dashed awkward business, Teddy,’ said Maurice Claygate, regarding his friend, who was sitting opposite him, sipping coffee. ‘They arrived here yesterday, and so far I’ve contrived not to meet either of them. That’s one of the advantages of a vast mausoleum of a place like this – Dorset House, I mean. Upon my word, I don’t know what to do.’

‘Why don’t you stop being so pusillanimous, Moggie, and face up to the girl? As far as I know, she’s never reproached you with anything, and when she realized that you’d fallen for Julia Maltravers, she had the grace to say nothing, and return to Normandy. Take the initiative: go up to her, and say, “Hello, Elizabeth! How nice to see you! No hard feelings, I hope? Have a splendid time at my birthday party on Thursday.” Something like that, you know. Dash it all, you can’t just ignore her. And you can’t forget her by turning yourself into a drink-befuddled ass.’

‘You’re right, Teddy,’ said Maurice, and there was a new sobriety in his voice that made his friend look at him more closely. He recalled the scene on the previous night at the Cockade Club, and the words that Cedric Brasher had spoken to him. ‘You’re a decent fellow, Teddy,’ he’d said, ‘so I’ll take you into my
confidence
over this business. That French girl – something very dreadful happened to her as a result of getting herself mixed up with Moggie.’ Was Moggie thinking of that ‘something very dreadful’ now?

‘Yes, you’re right, Teddy,’ Maurice Claygate said, ‘and I will speak to Elizabeth when I judge the time is right. But there’s more to it than that…. That brother of hers – it’s intolerable having him here in the house. You see, I know something about him that it wouldn’t do to mention too lightly in public. He’s a rogue, and something more than a rogue. If Pa knew what kind of a fellow De Bellefort was, he’d kick him out of the front door.’

‘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

D
etective 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 Foreign 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?’