The Lost Empress (7 page)

She was under no misconception as to whom she would be spying for. If the newspapers and general gossip were to be believed, then Raskin was in the pay of Kaiser Wilhelm II, and she, an admiral’s daughter, had been unwillingly recruited as a ‘fixed post,’ as Raskin had called it, to give up British naval secrets to Germany—or else put her family’s lives in danger. Surely, it was too much to expect any mother to choose between her family and her country? Or, as it now seemed to Alice, that was precisely why they had chosen her. She concluded that for now, at least, she would have to go on.

As she continued to watch the activity, she knew she would have to time her entry well. Then once inside, it would be darker, with only the light from the openings and the windows, which, although plentiful, could not light the entire covered area. Surely there would be shadows where she could conceal herself, and she thought her dark overcoat would help. So with a dry throat and clammy palms, she made to continue, but when she tried to move off again, she found her legs unwilling to carry her another step.

‘Everything all right, miss?’

The voice startled Alice, and she turned sharply to see a bearded man carrying a heavy-looking coil of rope across his chest.

‘Y-yes,’ she said, stammering a little. She coughed into her hand. ‘I’m perfectly fine.’ She offered a smile and felt the tremor in her lips as she did so. ‘I was just trying to get my bearings in this fog. I’m looking for my father, Admiral Metcalfe. He’s showing my son how a light cruiser is built.’

‘That would be the
Calliope
, miss. No. 8 slip.’ The man pointed ahead in the direction Alice had been walking. ‘I’d be happy to take you there if you’d care to follow me.’

Alice drew a quick breath. ‘No, no, that’s quite all right. I can manage, thank you. I wouldn’t want to keep you from your duties.’

‘Very well, miss.’ The man pointed again. ‘Just keep going in that direction. You’ll soon see the
Calliope
once you get closer.’

‘Thank you,’ Alice said again, and then she moved off at a pace, not changing her course until she felt certain the man could no longer see her.

There were several smaller buildings and sheds before the river to her left, which were next to No. 7 slip. Alice made for them, hoping they would offer her cover and a place to rest briefly while she calmed her nerves. She could feel her legs shaking as she went, and she supposed that was largely because she knew that from this point on, she would be committed to her task and would have to avoid contact with anyone. She would not be able to offer the same excuse as to why she was there again.

Making her way alongside one of the huts, Alice thought it would be better if she blended in better. Her hair being dark and short was a good start, and it was easy enough to smudge the powder from her cheeks, but her hat would easily give her away, so she removed it and ruffled her hair. Once behind the hut, she set her hat down and took off her coat, which was plain on the inside, so she turned it inside out to hide the collar. There was nothing she could do about her ankle boots, but they were black with a low heel and were only just visible beneath the hem of her coat. She didn’t think anyone would notice them.

There was an annexe on the side of No. 7 slip. Alice took three deep breaths while watching to make sure the way was clear, and then she crossed the open ground towards it, keeping her head down as she made her way alongside the corrugated steel walls, heading for the opening. When she peered around the corner, she had to pull herself back again as three men came out. She turned towards the river as they passed, keeping her back to them with one eye over her shoulder. Once they had gone, she looked again, and this time she kept going, passing several stacks of crates and boxes. The opening was no more than a few feet away now, and every step she took towards it made her heart thump harder.

Another man, in that same style of dull, sagging suit jacket that everyone seemed to be wearing, came out of the slip as two other men approached the entrance. All Alice could think to do was to busy herself with the boxes beside her. She turned away and stooped as if to pick one up. Then rising again, on legs that felt too weak to stand on, she followed the two men inside, staying close enough so as to appear to be with them and praying that neither man turned around to see the fear in her eyes.

Inside the slip, it seemed brighter to Alice than it had looked from the outside. The lifting fog was rapidly giving way to sunlight, which came in bright beams across the windows high in the walls and the roof, and to Alice it was as if a searchlight were periodically passing over the building, seeking her out. She knew she would have to hurry. It wouldn’t be long before the fog lifted altogether, and then there would be few shadows within which to hide.

She saw a rack of coats and hats against the wall just inside the slip. As she passed it, she grabbed a cloth cap to complete her disguise, thinking she would have to return it again on her way out, if indeed a way out was open to her by then. She imagined herself being caught and having to explain herself to the police, or worse still, to her father. She knew he would never forgive her for spying on the country he loved so much, and she would not blame him. How could she ever forgive herself?

Whether she failed or succeeded, the possible consequences of her actions all seemed to hit her at once, and her breath caught in her chest. She rushed to the nearest of the wide, H-section support columns that ran all around the slipway and leaned her back against it. Her senses were so heightened that she could smell the sweet tang of the ironwork in the air, mingled with the heady odour of the mud banks and the river, which, with hardly any breeze, lingered inside the slip, adding to Alice’s nausea.

Knowing she would soon draw attention to herself if she did not move again, she went further in. There were two submarines under construction: dark iron hulks lying before her in varying states of build, effectively dividing the slipway in two. She had to remind herself what Raskin had said:
Experimental submarine, HMS F1
. He wanted to know her dimensions and propulsion, her speed and armament. Even if she truly did want to obtain this information for the Dutchman, it seemed an impossible task to Alice now she was here. What did she know about submarines? She had only shown interest in the dockyard as a child to please her father, and there were no submarines being built at Chatham then. Neither had she shown any interest in her father’s collection of books about such things.

She shook her head, keeping to the shadows as best she could, turning away whenever anyone came within ten feet of her, which was often. There were iron stairways on either side of the slipway, which provided access to the gantry cranes. Looking up, Alice could see there was less activity above her, so she waited until she had a clear path to the nearest stairway and then walked out towards it. She hoped that from above she’d have a better view of the submarines and of the layout of the slip, so as to have a better idea of where she might go to find out what she needed to know. The steps clanked with her every footfall, and several times she thought she would get her heel stuck. Then it would all be over—and how she wished it were!

Halfway up, her attention was drawn to a man wheeling a barrow into the slip. At first it was the squeaking wheel that made her stop and look, and then immediately below her she heard the man who was pushing it speak.

‘Where do you want it?’

The man he had asked had a clipboard in his hands. Alice saw him turn a few pages before pointing in the direction of the river.

‘That’s for
E13
,’ he said. He shook his head. ‘Should have been here first thing this morning.’

‘I just do as I’m told,’ the man with the wheelbarrow said, and then he went on his way, and the squeaking started up again.

E13,
Alice thought, knowing now that the designation belonged to the submarine closest to the water. The submarine she was there to find out about, the
F1
, had to be the submarine that was right in front of her.

‘Don’t stand around gawping!’

The voice startled Alice. Someone was descending the steps behind her, but she did not turn to see who it was. She dropped to her knees and pretended that she had paused briefly to tie her bootlace. She kept her head down, her face turned away from the approaching man’s gaze.

‘Well, jump to it, lad! Quick about it!’

As the man passed her, Alice crouched lower and gave a nod, but she couldn’t move. Fear had locked her to the spot, and it took all of her strength and will to stand again and continue up the stairway, which she did very slowly and deliberately, knowing now that she could not go on. She was not cut out to be a spy, and her heart was certainly not in it. She heard the man continue on his way again, clanking down the iron steps at a jaunt, and she knew she would soon have to turn around and follow after him. How could she hope to get the information the Dutchman wanted? And even if she could, would her conscience really allow her to hand it over and betray her country?

As she contemplated her options, it occurred to Alice that it surely didn’t matter what she told Raskin. Her father’s many books could give her all the information she required to make her report at least seem believable. Raskin would be satisfied that she had done as asked, and her family would be safe. She could be seen to cooperate, yet in reality she would simply feed the Dutchman misinformation, and he would be none the wiser, or why else would he task her to do what he and his associates could not?

Alice turned back and began to descend the stairway. By the time she reached the last step, her pace had quickened, and she ran to the opening, pausing only to return the hat she had taken. She no longer sought the shadows or cared whether anyone saw her. If she kept going, she would be outside again before anyone had the chance to question her. Her focus was now on her father and on getting back to the medical hut, so she could intercept him on his way to collect her. As she ran back around the side of the slip, to the huts and sheds where she had left her own hat, her thoughts were only of her children and how much she wanted to see them again, to hold them in her arms and know they were safe.

Chapter Seven

Present day.

Fresh from his early morning shower, Jefferson Tayte stood in front of the full-length mirror in his hotel room, sucked his stomach in and tried again.
Better,
he thought, but he could hardly walk around like a puffed-out pigeon all day. He relaxed and everything sagged back to reality, telling him that despite all the jogging he’d pushed himself through back home in Lincoln Park, he was still an overweight forty-year-old with no hope of looking fit before he saw Jean again.

‘Must be heavy boned,’ he told his reflection. ‘That’s all it is.’

He’d even managed to cut back on the Hershey’s chocolate miniatures he was so fond of—not that he’d stopped buying them. He’d just eaten less, stashing the remainders of the packets out of sight to the point where he’d managed to fill two whole bags solely with his favourite, Mr Goodbar, one bag of which he’d brought with him. He’d intended to ‘break seal only in case of emergency’ but that idea hadn’t lasted beyond the flight over.

He looked at himself again. ‘Anyway,’ he said to his reflection. ‘You feel better on the inside, don’t you?’

His reflection nodded back.

‘Well, then, that’s what matters. And Jean’s too nice a person to worry about all that.’

His eyes fell to his star-spangled boxer shorts, and as he thought of home, he wondered where that really was. Certainly not here at the Holiday Inn, although he thought it might as well be. What was home to him anyway but another four walls somewhere else?

Home is where the heart is,
he reminded himself.

He hadn’t really given that phrase much thought before now, but if it was true, then right now he figured home was in Spain—or wherever else Jean Summer happened to be. He wanted to call her, to let her know how he still felt about her, despite how distant and uncaring he knew he must have seemed to her of late, but he resisted the urge. She’d told him she needed time to think. She’d said she would call him when she was back in London on Saturday. He had to respect her wishes and wait until then. He felt himself begin to sink at the idea of Jean not wanting to see him again, and he tried to shut those thoughts out.

It’s going to be okay, JT,
he told himself.
It has to be okay.

He turned his thoughts back to his assignment and Alice Stilwell, recalling the few words Davina Scanlon had imparted before he’d left her house the night before. Was there any truth to the rumour? Had Alice really been involved in spying against her own country before the First World War?
No smoke without fire,
he thought, but he suspected there had to be more to it. He took a clean shirt from the wardrobe, carefully chose which of his almost identical tan suits to wear, and dressed: white shirt, tan suit, and loafers. He’d never felt the need to complicate his wardrobe with anything else. To Tayte, it was something simple in an otherwise complicated world, and that was just the way he liked it.

He was meeting DI Bishop in a few hours. They were going to Hamberley, and if he was honest with himself, he was nervous about the visit given that he knew he was not welcome. In light of this new, if as yet unfounded, information about Alice, he could understand why Raife Metcalfe didn’t want to talk to him. Such families have often gone to great lengths to protect their good name and the family honour. If Alice was a traitor to her country and a disgrace to her family, such a prestigious family might well take steps to guard their family secret. And yet, he wondered what damage such a revelation could really cause today, a hundred years on. He thought there had to be more to that, too. Someone had run him off the road. Clearly it had been a warning. Or had they tried to kill him? If they had, and if Lionel Scanlon’s murder was in some way connected, then surely there was no justification in the name of family honour after all this time for such extreme measures.

Tayte finished dressing and took his laptop out. There was enough time for a little research before meeting Bishop, and his interest in spying in Britain before the First World War had been well and truly ignited. One way or another, it seemed highly likely to have played a part in the reason why Alice felt she had to abandon her old life and start again. He booted the machine up and fixed himself a coffee while he waited for his laptop to settle down. Then he sat at the desk and googled ‘spying in Britain pre-WW1.’

The first result was a link to The National Archives, concerning espionage. He followed it and read how the mounting threat of war with Germany during the pre-war years created a degree of paranoia in Britain, fuelled as it was by journalistic fantasy and such books as
The Riddle of the Sands
by Erskine Childers and several works by journalist and diplomat William Le Queux. The truth of it, he discovered as he read on, was that only ten arrests for spying had been made before the war by the Secret Service Bureau—as the British Secret Intelligence Service was then known—although twenty-one bona fide German spies were arrested on the day Britain declared war on Germany.

He went back to his search. Second on the list was a review of a book entitled
Spies of the Kaiser
by Thomas Boghardt, a historian at the International Spy Museum in Tayte’s home city of Washington, DC. He read about German naval spying, which seemed to be the focus of Germany’s naval intelligence agency before the war. He read plenty more about the ‘spy fever’ that had gripped Britain at the time, before turning to the third search result on the list.

This interested Tayte greatly because, although it concerned itself more with the period after the outbreak of the First World War, it was about the lives of those individuals who were caught and executed under the High Treason Act. There were almost a dozen names on the list. Tayte scanned them briefly and then he clicked the first entry, opening another page of information about the arrest, trial and execution of a German called Carl Lody, the first spy to be executed during the First World War and the first person to be executed in the Tower of London in 150 years.

Tayte read through the account, becoming more and more absorbed. Letters had been intercepted, and Lody had been found guilty of ‘passing information useful to an enemy’ to an address in Berlin. When later asked about his mission to gather information for Germany, he had said that it would hopefully save his country, but probably not him. Tayte also read that he had said he was an unwilling agent but that he had his orders to carry out. Tayte moved on to the verdict and sentence, and he read how Lody had been shot by a firing squad at the Tower’s miniature rifle range: a single volley from members of the Third Battalion of Grenadier Guards. Going back to the index of names, Tayte eagerly clicked another, this time at random, and he began to read through the account of a Swede called Ernst Melin.

Then his phone rang. It was over on the bedside table between the photograph he had of his birth mother and a picture he’d taken of Jean. He got up to answer the call, noting the time as he went. He thought it was too early for a social call—and who called him socially anyway?

Jean
. . .

Tayte sprinted the last few feet and picked up the call without looking to see who it was, in case the delay might cause her to hang up.

‘Jean!’

The call was silent for a few seconds.

‘Mr Tayte? Is that you?’

Tayte recognised the voice immediately. It was Davina Scanlon.

‘Mrs Scanlon. Sorry—I thought you were someone else.’

‘You must call me Davina, remember?’

‘Yes, of course—Davina. How can I help you?’

Tayte thought he heard Davina laugh to herself.

‘And there I was thinking I was helping you, Mr Tayte. Do you mind if I call you by your first name, too?’

‘Not at all. It’s Jefferson, but I prefer JT.’

‘Very well then, JT. You’re probably wondering why I’m calling you so early. It’s just to let you know where to find me later because I’m moving out of my house.’

‘Moving out?’

‘Yes, I’ve had a night prowler, and it’s unnerved me. I’ve worked myself up into thinking that whoever killed Lionel wanted something from him, and now they’re coming after me. It’s ridiculous, I’m sure, but you know how it is once the idea’s been planted. I’ve got an apartment at Gillingham Marina that few people know about. I thought I’d stay there for a while, and I just wanted to give you the address.’

Tayte went back to the desk and wrote the details down on the hotel notepad.

‘Did you report the prowler to the police?’

‘Of course, but what can they do? It’s not as if a crime has been committed—not yet anyway. I just don’t want to be there when whoever it was comes back.’

‘No,’ Tayte said. ‘It’s good thinking. So when—’

‘Come over whenever you like,’ Davina cut in. ‘I’m going to the marina now, and I don’t have any plans. I managed to find all my family history paraphernalia, and I have one photograph in particular I’m sure you’ll find interesting.’

‘That’s great.’

‘Yes, fortunately I went on the hunt for everything soon after you left yesterday. It was no bother.’

‘I’m looking forward to seeing it all,’ Tayte said. ‘I should be able to get there soon after lunch.’

The call went silent for a few seconds.

‘Look, why don’t you come and have lunch with me?’ Davina said. ‘There’s a restaurant at the marina. We can get to know each other better before we start on the research.’

Tayte found himself nodding without saying anything, as though he were reticent to commit.

‘Fabulous,’ Davina said, clearly taking his silence as confirmation. ‘I’ll see you later then.’

The call ended, and Tayte went back to his laptop, already feeling uncomfortable, as he always did, at the idea of having to engage in small talk over lunch with someone he’d only just met. The fact that Davina was such an attractive woman just made him feel more uneasy, and a big part of him felt guilty about having lunch with another woman while he was in a relationship, albeit distant, with someone else. A moment later he laughed at himself.
It’s just a business lunch,
he thought.
People have to eat.
He closed his laptop and put it back in his briefcase, deciding to worry about the small talk later. Right now he wanted breakfast. Changing time zones had given him an appetite the likes of which he could no longer ignore.