The Architect of Murder Page 18

  May he defend our laws,

  And give us ever cause,

  To sing with heart and voice:

  God save the King!

  I was jostled to and fro as people began to move off now that the procession had passed. I decided to try and return the way I’d come and struggled up Regent Street, my pace excruciatingly slow. I’d just turned into St Alban’s Place, when I heard another roar of cannon from the west. The King had reached Westminster Abbey, which meant it was twenty-five past eleven. No time for the Liberal Club. I strode into Haymarket, then turned right into Coventry Street, moving as fast as I could without bowling people over. The latter looked busy, so I shot up Rupert Street, aware that the more I tried to avoid the crowds, the more round-about my route became.

  I was on the verge of a trot, moving faster than anyone else on the street, when a man on a bicycle raced past me. He stopped outside a mansion opposite the Blue Posts public house, leant his machine against the fence, and ran to the door.

  He who hesitates is lost.

  In my first ever act of theft, I lifted the bicycle — ironically of the make called ‘Honesty’ — and propelled it next to me as I ran.

  “Oi, that’s my bicycle! Oi, you there!”

  I ignored the poor chap, hoisted myself on to his machine, and fumbled for the pedals.

  “Oi! Stop, thief!”

  A false start — my feet found the pedals — I was off.

  “Stop him, he’s stolen my Honesty!”

  I pedalled like a madman, soon outstripping any pursuit. I braked as I approached Shaftesbury Avenue, turned right, and made for the City.

  22. Monument

  It was a quarter to twelve when I turned off Lower Thames Street to approach the Monument from the east. I’d deliberately taken a circuitous route in order to reconnoitre the scene of a possible ambush before I pedalled into it. I’d already noticed that the viewing platform, similar to that on the Duke of York’s column, appeared empty. The whole area was deserted and the City couldn’t have presented a greater contrast to the heaving masses and crowds I’d just escaped in Westminster. My caution was in vain, however, for two men stood guard outside the entrance to the fluted Doric column. I was the only other person on the street and they saw me at the same instant I saw them. So much for surprising Armstrong, but at least my safety bicycle would still be there when I came back.

  If I came back.

  Both of the men wore bowler hats and brown suits. One was portly and middle-aged; the other younger, taller, and more muscular. I kept my eyes on them as I slowed and dismounted. They were both watching me, but neither said anything. I walked right up to them, wheeling the bicycle along next to me. “Good morning, gentlemen.” I did not touch my hat. “I wonder if I might trouble to you to look after this pedal cycle while I go up to the top?”

  The younger man’s lip curled and I readied myself for an attack. The older man said, “Your name, sir?”

  “Major Marshall.”

  He lifted his hat. “Certainly, Major, your bicycle will be safe with us. Mr Armstrong is expecting you.”

  “Thank you.” I propped the pedal cycle against the iron railings.

  The men edged away from each other and I passed between them, opened the door, and stepped into the base of the Monument. I closed the door behind me, entered the staircase, and shut that door as well. Seeing as Armstrong had cut off the one and only escape route, the more closed doors between his henchmen and me, the better. The stone staircase was narrow, curling in a tight concertina around an open, central space, which made for less room on the stairway, but better lighting. I pressed my back to the wall and waited, listening for any sounds of company.

  Silence.

  I unbuttoned my coat, loosened the Mauser in its rig, and felt for the knuckleduster. They were both ready for use, but if Armstrong had more men at the top, there’d be little I could do. I quickly stuck my head out over the stair rail — glanced up — pulled back.

  Nothing.

  I took a more leisurely look. All I could see were circle upon circle of stairs winding up in a clockwise direction. The spiral seemed without end, though I recalled that it was three hundred and forty-five steps to the viewing platform. The platform itself was a dozen or more feet under the gilded urn of fire at the top, which stood at two hundred and two feet above London. I’d come up here as a schoolboy, paying three pence for the magnificent view it afforded. At the time of its completion in 1677, the Monument was the tallest free-standing stone column in the world, built to commemorate the Great Fire of London eleven years before. Christopher Wren had designed it while he was working on St Paul’s Cathedral, half a mile to the west and twice as high.

  I waited until five minutes to twelve, when I took a deep breath and began my ascent. I interrupted my progress several times, looking above and below, and listening intently, to no avail. I stopped near the door at the top, pausing to allow my breathing to return to normal. I leant against the wall, and listened again. Nothing. I noted the interior surface of the blocks of Portland stone, worn smooth from the hundreds of thousands of hands and shoulders that had brushed against them. When I was satisfied, I gripped the butt of the Mauser — still under my shoulder — and walked slowly and silently up the last few steps.

  The door was open and I could see Armstrong, in top hat and morning dress, standing at the cage. He was looking out over London, with his back to me. I eased the Mauser an inch from the holster — took half a step on to the platform — pulled back quickly.

  Nothing.

  I stepped forward again — checked left and right. We were alone. I let go of the Mauser, but left my coat open. Once again I closed the door behind me.

  When I turned Armstrong was facing me. “Afternoon, Marshall, welcome to the Monument. You have been here before?”

  “As a lad.”

  “A lad? A child would be overwhelmed by the view, perhaps even think he was at the top of the world — yes?” I shrugged. “Yes, he would. But, like so much in life, there is even more to appreciate as an adult. Don’t you think?” I didn’t reply. “Come, Marshall, stand with me. Look out at the vast metropolis that unfolds below as if for our pleasure alone. Today, it is for us alone; Lord Rothschild has made it so. For me and for you. So that we could have this view, this moment, all to ourselves.”

  “What is this about?”

  He continued without acknowledging my question. “Behold, London. Do you know how far the city extends from its nucleus? No? From six to fifteen miles in every direction. Fifteen miles to the edge in some places. From the Square Mile itself to thousands of square miles containing nearly six million people. Can you fathom that, Marshall? Here we are at the very centre, in the beating heart of the greatest city in the world. London, itself, the hub of the Empire. Not an empire, but the Empire, the most illustrious the world has ever seen. Two percent of its population lives here, underneath us. We stand at the arch of the aorta, one might say.”

  I couldn’t remember if the view differed from my previous visit, but Armstrong was right, it was awe-inspiring. On an overcast, grey day like this, the metropolis was endless, extending as far as the eye could see in all directions.

  He raised his cane. “The East End, nearly a million lost souls all on its own. The worker bees, the ants, the foot soldiers; the rats that turn the great wheel of Empire with their toil. They are the scum, the detritus, but everyone has a role to play in the glory that is Great Britain. Come.” He walked slowly, and I followed. “More of the common herd, living in grimy hovels in filthy streets in Holborn, Clerkenwell, King’s Cross, Finsbury, and Islington. Further, the more salubrious reaches of Hampstead, Highgate, Golder’s Green, Muswell Hill. Leafy, green suburbs where respectable citizens enjoy the benefits of the commuter revolution, living miles away from their places of work.

  “The dome of St Paul’s, caked with the dirt, dust and smoke of Empire. A magnificent monument to the superiority of the Anglo-Saxon, but not nearly as importan
t as the cathedral behind it. Do you see them? The spires of Westminster mark the seat of governance of Empire. Westminster and Whitehall, where even now the King is being crowned. To call Edward the Seventh king is a misnomer. He is not a king, he is an emperor. Not just Emperor of India, but Emperor of Great Britain. Then, a succession of parks — ”

  In the distance, the forty-one guns from Hyde Park began their salute. As if in answer, cannon roared close by, from the Tower of London. The noise echoed across the city below, along with bells and the sounds of far away cheers. Sixty-two guns from the Tower. The King had been crowned: it was done. At various strategic points throughout the city, flags waved signals, just in case anyone had failed to hear the salutes.

  Armstrong kept walking. “The Thames, the docks and wharves. This is the most important view. Not the undistinguished sprawl that is South London — that has no more significance than any other part of the whole — but that,” he hit the cage with his cane, “that thin stretch of water that lies between us and the South Bank. The Thames winds its way to the sea, to even the remotest corner of the Empire. That unimpressive, foul-smelling stream is the life-blood of Empire, providing the essential, umbilical connection to the heart and the hub. From the Empire to London, back again, and to the rest of the world beyond. A world over which the Empire already holds an important sway, but a world that will one day be synonymous with Empire.”

  He stopped and I followed his gaze: Custom House, the river, London Bridge, Southwark. “What do you want?” I asked.

  “What do I want? What I want is unimportant at the moment — at the moment, mark you — I am nothing more than an implement of the will of a greater man. It is not what I want, but what the Viscount Milner of St James’ and Cape Town wants. And what My Lord wants is you.”

  “Me?” I was surprised.

  “Yes, Major Alec Marshall VC, late Natal Mounted Rifles, hero of Ladysmith.”

  “What does he want with me?”

  “Not only does Lord Milner have the ear of the King, but he is also about to inherit the greatest fortune in the Empire. The King and Mr Balfour’s government in Whitehall may be the public face of Empire, but the power behind the institutions belongs to men like him. Men like Viscount Milner, Viscount Palmer, Baron Rothschild, and the Earl Grey. Men who constitute the brain of the head of state. Of all these leaders of men, Lord Milner’s star is in ascendance above the rest. In his wisdom and foresight he has gathered about him young men with potential and ability. Young men who will one day assist him in ruling the Empire.”

  “Men like you?”

  “Men like me, Duncan, Dawson, Curtis, Brand; men who are destined to inherit the Empire. I communicated the details of our first meeting to Lord Milner, but he wasn’t offended by your impudence. He sees further than other men. He looks not to the present, but to the future, and he has had very favourable reports of you. Lord Milner considers you one of the best men of our generation. He has instructed me to offer you a place at his side. He wants you to come back to Cape Town with me. He has a position for you in his new administration.” Armstrong paused and let the import of his words sink in.

  “He sees himself as the architect of Empire, does he?”

  “Yes, you have it exactly! Lord Milner is the architect responsible for the greatest edifice ever constructed — ever conceived.” He waved his arm across the vista below us, and whispered, “All this could be yours one day. To be the brain of an Empire that will rule the whole world; what more could any man ask?”

  What more indeed.

  Although I didn’t like him, Armstrong’s words cast a kind of a spell on me. I felt that up here we really were at the centre of London, Empire, and Earth. I was dizzy with power. I closed my eyes for a second, opening them to the illusion that all this really was mine. I was master of all I surveyed. A lord of the Empire, a man with nations under his command. I closed my eyes again and savoured the sensation, so palpable I could almost taste it on my lips.

  Some megalomaniac like Milner had been responsible for Ellen’s death.

  I opened my eyes and saw Armstrong smile. “Yes, that’s what it will feel like.”

  But the moment had passed. “Are you offering me membership of the Society of the Elect?”

  He frowned. “The what?”

  I spoke slowly and clearly. “The Society of the Elect. Milner and Rhodes.”

  “What the hell do you mean? Are you talking about Mr Rhodes’ Confession?”

  “Yes.”

  He made a dismissive gesture. “Fantasy, pure fantasy. A great idea — the Idea — but it would never work. That’s not how things are done. Lord Milner has his own plans.”

  “Are you saying that there is no Society of the Elect?”

  “Not that I’ve ever bloody heard of!”

  I was sure he was telling the truth. “You speak as if Milner were the sole beneficiary of Rhodes’ fortune, but at the moment Jameson stands to inherit everything. Even if he manages to invalidate the codicil, Milner will still have to share the legacy with half a dozen others.”

  “Lanner! I wouldn’t give him another thought. He is nothing without Mr Rhodes, nothing. His pathetic attempt to succeed Mr Rhodes has already been outmanoeuvred.”

  Rhodes had given all of his inner circle nicknames. Jameson had two: ‘Doctor Jim’ and ‘Lanner’. “Are you saying that Milner had Lowenstein killed and Drayton is next?”

  Armstrong shook his head. “Don’t be a damned fool, man. Lanner is so completely out-matched that the life and death of Lowenstein and of Drayton are insignificant. Drayton will board his steamer tomorrow and do you know what he’ll find when he arrives in Cape Town? He’s already too late. Lord Milner has invalidated the alleged final codicil. Have you read the latest news about the will?”

  “On Wednesday?”

  “Yes. Lanner doesn’t know it yet, but Lord Milner foiled his plan on Tuesday. Drayton will arrive to find Lanner one of seven executors, and an isolated one at that. No one trusts him anymore, and his pathetic attempt at a coup d’état played right into Lord Milner’s hands. My Lord is the true inheritor of Mr Rhodes’ fortune, and he will use the power it puts at his disposal to lead the Empire to everlasting glory. You can be a part of that.”

  “Did he have Lowenstein killed?”

  “Lowenstein! Lowenstein? Why should anyone care at all that some Jewish banking clerk is dead?”

  “I care.”

  Armstrong shook his head again. “I feared as much. You still have the petty concerns of the policeman at heart. You may be a leader of men, but only on a small scale, and you will never aspire to lead the leaders. I suggested as much to Lord Milner.”

  “Did he have Lowenstein killed?” I demanded.

  “No, he did not. He didn’t need to, just as he doesn’t need to delay Drayton. Can’t your simple, narrow-minded brain grasp that?”

  “Do you know a man called Carey, Francis Carey?”

  Confusion spread over his freckled face. “Who the Devil is Francis Carey? Dammit, man, I’m here to offer you an opportunity for greatness — to rule the bloody Empire — not suffer another interrogation!”

  “You don’t know Carey?”

  “No, I don’t know this blasted Carey, whoever he is. This is your last chance. Come with me, with Lord Milner. Join us in Cape Town.” He reached for me.

  Once again, I thought he was telling the truth. I stepped away, and made for the stairs. “No thank you. You’re quite right, I am a simple policeman, and I like being one. I don’t want to be a soldier again and I certainly don’t want to be Milner’s lackey. Good day, Armstrong.”

  “Marshall!”

  I stopped — reached for the Mauser — kept my hand on it as I slowly turned around. “Yes?”

  “When you arrive at the bottom of the stairs, knock twice and wait for Moser to open the door.”

  I let my hand fall to my side, empty. “Or else?”

  “You will not leave the Monument alive.”

  2
3. Empire Day

  “Good afternoon, sir, begging your pardon — ”

  “There’s no need for that, but I require three things from you rather quickly,” I said to the attendant at the National Liberal Club as I wheeled in the pedal cycle. “First, could you find somewhere to keep this? Somewhere safe, there are plenty of thieves about today. Second, a telephone and some privacy. Third, I’d like a word with the senior member of staff who was on duty on Saturday the twenty-fourth of May.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but I’m afraid —”

  “Major Marshall, Scotland Yard.” I leant the bicycle against the counter. “I’m on police business, so I’d appreciate if you step to it.”

  He pressed an electric buzzer. “Certainly, sir. One moment, please.”

  Several guests passed me on the way in and I caught part of a comment about uppity servants, which no doubt referred to my dress — I was still in my suit — and the Honesty. A few seconds later an under-manager by the name of Barnes appeared. After a brief explanation from the attendant and confirmation from me, the bicycle was removed to the cloakroom, and Barnes asked me to follow him.

  I was taken to an office below stairs which looked as if it was shared by several under-managers or clerks. “There you are, sir. I was on duty on the date in question. May I help?”

  “Was Mr Chamberlain here with a party of guests?”

  “Yes, sir, he was.”

  “Very good. If you could return in ten minutes, I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  “As you wish, sir.”

  When he left, I gave the operator the number for Rochester Row police station, and asked for Truegood once I was connected.