Mysterical-E

He Said, She Says

       A Corpse for Christmas
                      By Edward A. Allen

Being a Memoir from the Papers of the Late-Colonel Sir Francis FitzMaurice, concerning the Strange Happening at Christmas, 1906

Paris, 1906

I saw old Knollys the other day, and he asked me, “Do you remember that Christmas in Scotland?” Good Lord! I hadn’t thought of it in years, but of course I remembered it, as if it were yesterday.

It was early-December of 1906. We had only just returned the previous week from Vienna, where Montclaire’s genius for deduction had resolved that deadly affair of The Cursed Violin. That morning, as we enjoyed a splash of café noir before the warm fire in our Library hearth, there came an awful racket from the entrance foyer. I turned to see what could be the matter and I’m certain my mouth fell agog to see Edward VII standing in the doorway, looking as distressed as I had ever seen him.

Close behind him stood a tall, balding gentleman with a large moustache and an equally grim expression. It was Sir William Melville, chief of Britain’s Special Branch. Oh my, I thought. This is trouble.

“Your Majesty, come in . . . er . . . by the fire,” Montclaire offered, as I moved a chair closer to the hearth. “It’s a good day to catch a chill, even if you’re careful. Sir William—Welcome.”

The King seemed to collapse into the chair. Montclaire ordered brandy and offered cigars, while we both filled our pipes and waited to learn what had brought so distinguished a visitor to 6 Rue de Longchamp.

“Montclaire, I want you to make an investigation on my personal behalf, and I’ll tell you now, the thing goes directly to my honor.”

“A serious matter, Your Majesty—a gentleman’s honor.” Montclaire said, just a touch of ennui in his voice.

“Special Branch—as Melville here will tell you-- has intercepted a message, which they believe is very important. Trouble is, though it says very little, I’ve not had a decent night’s sleep since I learned of it.”

“What does it say? And how can you be certain it’s important?”

Melville responded, his Irish accent more pronounced than I had remembered.

“A foreign Government has a senior agent in Britain who is very well placed indeed. The message says this agent will be among His Majesty’s guests over the coming Holiday at Balmoral in Scotland – and that ‘something important’ will happen there.”

“That’s indeed sketchy. ‘A foreign Government? --- could be anyone.”

“Yes, but don’t you see, Montclaire. That house party will be composed entirely of my friends. That cursed message, if true, as much as says that one of my friends is a spy!”

“Good Heavens!” I blurted out, as the thought overcame me.

“Yes, a difficult situation, I grant you, but even more difficult is the vagueness at the other end of the thing – that ‘something’ that is to happen. What is that, I wonder?”

“Yes, Monsieur, that’s troubled Special Branch as well. We’ve put our best men to find out more, but no luck,” said Melville.

The King leaned forward, looking straight at Montclaire.

“That’s where you come in Monty. We must stop this thing as it happens; there’s no time to learn more beforehand. I’ve told Melville here and the Government that I want to engage you to do the job. Join my house party over the Holidays, discover this agent, and stop whatever is to happen. I know that’s asking much of you, but if anyone can do it, you’re that man.”

“Your Majesty’s confidence is inspiring,” Monty said, without accepting the challenge.

I knew that even then Montclaire had doubtless analyzed about fifty permutations of the equation: Agent+Something Important = Enough to Disrupt a Montclaire Holiday. And I knew that Monty had already calculated the probability that Agent meant a truly important and dangerous agent, and that important meant something more than, for example, a well-crafted piece of commercial espionage that would net the King of Montenegro a few thousand pounds.   Of course, I had no idea of what Montclaire’s calculations would produce, but I expected to find out in about one minute.

“There is one other thing I should tell you. Two of the guests are foreign friends, but are also invited for reasons of state. They are the new Austrian Ambassador, Count von Goblintz and his young daughter, Emma.”

Montclaire offered His Majesty a brandy.

“The invitation was made months ago. Goblintz and I are old friends – though it’s been five years since I last saw him – but never mind that he’s an Austrian.”

“And Special Branch is certain this senior agent is one of the invited guests – all of them your friends?”

“Exactly, it’s distressing to think that one of my friends would betray me and our country.”

Montclaire rose and walked to the hearth, tonged a firebrand to relight his pipe, and after a long pause, turned.

“Your Majesty. Sir Francis and I will undertake this problem of yours, but I caution you, I make no promises. This business has already progressed very far, and the opposing team may be clever and ruthless.”

The King’s face brightened at Montclaire’s acceptance; his shoulders lifted as if freed from a burden.

“Damn me, Montclaire; that’s precisely why I’ve come to you! You’re the cleverest, most goddamned ruthless man I’ve ever known. You don’t think I’d invite a priest in Holy Orders to be my agent, do you? We’ll expect you and Fitz at Balmoral on the 23rd. In the meantime, whatever Special Branch can do, you have but to ask.”

And in the next minute, the King and Melville departed, as unceremoniously as they had come. At the end of it all, I could scarcely believe what I had heard.

*

Next morning the British Embassy sent ‘round a list of the King’s guests. It included members of the Household, Sir Francis Knollys –the King’s Secretary -- eight close friends . . . about twenty people.

Monty set immediately to study the list, making notes at his desk; sometimes reading in his chair. Afterwards, he dispatched several telegrams, consulted some reference books in his own library, and sent Petrovsky, his Russian valet, with a message to the Deuxieme Bureau, the French foreign intelligence service.

Having done all that, he made plans for a dinner party of his own, three days hence, at which he gathered several of the foremost financial thinkers in France, including Bertrand de Mouton, France’s most respected financial journalist. What could that be about? I wondered.

In general, however, Monty seemed to prepare for his investigation by reading great volumes of materials gleaned from the press and from the archives of the Surete and the intelligence service. It was an example of the research of criminal investigation, at which Montclaire excelled.

Finally, armed with as much information as possible, we set out on the 21st for Scotland. As our train departed the Gare du Nord bound for the Channel boat, I asked, “Monty, you’ve studied all sorts of documents these past days. What have you learned?”

“I’m not sure that I’ve learned much of any use. I know that many of the King’s friends have complicated lives. But, everything I’ve digested seems perfectly ordinary. I know that’s not much help, but there it is.”

“Who are these guests with whom we are to spend the Holiday, then? Perhaps something will occur to me.”

“Aside from the King, Queen, and their children, we are to holiday with the King’s cousin, the old Duke of Cambridge. Several of the King’s closest friends will be there, including Viscount Escher, Christopher Sykes, and Sir John Fisher, the Admiral.”

“Then too, there will be some financiers and businessmen with whom the King has dealings. Sir Earnest Cassel and Baron Nathan de Rothschild advise the King on his personal finances; William Knox D’Arcy is a millionaire whose business interests in Persia—petroleum mainly--are important to the British government.”

“I say, those fellows are interesting.”

“Indeed they are. Their personal business interests make for fascinating reading, as I’ve learned from the files Melville provided. I think Special Branch knows things about Cassel’s doings that even the King does not.”

“Oh? What, for example?”

“He has invested extensively in Russian industry and the TransSiberian Railway. SB tells me he’s into these up to his eyebrows – unknown to his friends – and therefore has a big interest in the improvement of relations between England and the Czar. Of course, the Liberals in the present Government despise the Russians for their autocratic government.”

“I see. You’re spot-on to be suspicious of Cassel.”

“The Austrian Ambassador, Count von Goblintz, is a widower these many years and his daughter is a girl in her teens I understand.”

“I see what you mean. Seems a perfectly ordinary sprinkling of people you’d expect to find at Balmoral at Christmas. But, you say the Austrian Ambassador – do you find that the least odd? I mean the Austrians are allies of the Kaiser, who is hostile to England, and particularly toward his Uncle Edward.”

“A little suspicious, perhaps, but as the King says, they are very old friends. And, Old Goblintz’s late wife was English. He is known as an Anglophile among Austrian diplomats, and he’s on the best of terms with the Government. Besides, it hardly seems likely that an agent would bring his young daughter on so dangerous a mission.”

“Oh, almost forgot. There’s another guest whom you’ll remember from Harrow.”

“A school chum? Who?”

“Not exactly a close chum; he was in the Shell when we were in the Fifth From, but I know you’ll remember him. He’s making a name for himself lately, especially his journalism in the Boer War. And, he’s prominent among those Liberals in Parliament who oppose closer relations with the Czar.”

“You don’t mean . . . ?”

“Yes, young Winston Churchill.”

*

Our arrival at the Victoria Station was but the occasion to change to a Royal Train for the North. Unexpectedly, we found Melville standing on the platform, waiting to accompany us to Deeside in Aberdeenshire.

“Melville, delighted to have you along.”

“I’ve joined you, Montclaire, because we’ve been able to answer some of the questions you telegraphed from Paris.”

“Oh, which questions?” Monty asked, as we settled into our compartment. I noticed that a number of our fellow guests were boarding at the same time. Once we were seated, moving through London’s dismal northeast environs, and could count upon the privacy of our car, Melville continued.

“Cassel and Rothschild are invested deeply in numerous Russian ventures, but mainly the TransSiberian Railway and those investments are hanging fire. If there is a rapprochement between England and Russia, they will gain ten fold. But, if not, they will be broken men.”

“And there’s more. The Rothschild Bank is also heavily involved with another of the guests in quite another venture.”

“You probably mean D’Arcy?”

Melville seemed surprised.

“You’re well-informed, Montclaire. Yes, the Rothschild are secretly backing a rival enterprise that wants to drive D’Arcy and his colleagues out of their oil concession in Persia. The Shah gave D’Arcy a very liberal contract some years ago, in return for a mere sixteen percent of proceeds. D’Arcy had great difficulty finding oil, but eventually discovered an ocean of it and now he’s in a position to reap a fortune from it.”

“Good for D’Arcy, I say. And you say the Rothschild are maneuvering to do him out of his gain?”

“Yes. But there are others who want that, including the Shah, who regrets that he gets so little from the concession. Still, D’Arcy and Rothschild are almost blood enemies, and so I’m just a little surprised to find them on the same guest list.”

“I see. If D’Arcy were to disappear and his concession go to, say the Rothschild and their cronies, the Shah could negotiate a better return for himself, eh?

“Exactly.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes, indeed. It concerns Fisher.”

“The Admiral? What?”

“Sir John has become a vocal opponent of much greater naval spending, and that’s made enemies for him. His position is increasingly unpopular, both in the political class and in the country as a whole.”

“But,” I asked, “how might that place him in danger? Or, how might it make him suspect?”

“Danger? Who can answer that? There are many who have invested mightily in naval construction, including the Rothschild and Cassel. And, young Churchill is probably the foremost champion of navy expansion in the Liberal Party. But, Sir John’s potential friends are more interesting than his enemies.”

“How so?”

“The one man in the world who must wish Sir John the very best is the German Kaiser.”

The prickly underside of Montclaire’s personality surfaced unexpectedly. “What are you suggesting, Melville. That Sir John Fisher is a German agent?”

“I suggest nothing, Montclaire. I only offer facts. I’ll let you do the suggesting, after all.”

“And, there’s one other thing. You asked us to find what we could about old Goblintz. We’ve found nothing against him. He is indeed quite Anglophile in his views and he and the King have been close friends for many years. He is a widower. His only weaknesses are cards – he loves whist – and rare books. He’s a noted bibliophile.”

“Interesting.”

“Oh, and rare books figure in the life of another guest – D’Arcy. He’s a collector, and mark this well, he and Goblintz have butted heads at rare-book auctions. The two reportedly have had words.”

“Not a friendly competition, eh?”

“Decidedly unfriendly. It’s difficult to know why the King has brought them together, given their past friction.”

Though our compartment was comfortable, neither Monty nor I was able to sleep well. Next morning, we made our way to breakfast, eager for café noir. There, we found ourselves seated with the old Ambassador and his daughter.

Goblintz—a slight man with rounded shoulders and a high forehead that ascended to a bald oval shaped head, gave the impression of being more scholar than diplomat. His pretty daughter, Fraulein Emma, appeared to be about fifteen and dressed in the fashion of an Austrian schoolgirl. She was also shy, hardly looking at either of us as we were introduced, but all the while smiling demurely as she focused on her roll of butter and milky tea.

Montclaire spoke in English.

“Count von Goblintz, Your Excellency, Fraulein Emma, we are pleased to meet you.” The old ambassador expressed much the same sentiment, while the girl said nothing, but smiled into her napkin.

“Monsieur de Montclaire. We were unaware that you would join our party for Christmas. What an unexpected pleasure.”

“I believe His Majesty invited Sir Francis and me as something of an afterthought, but we’re delighted to be in his party. Still, Balmoral seems an odd place to pass the Christmas Holiday; it’s more a summer and autumn house, is it not?”

“I believe His Majesty may wish to remember his dear Mama, who was known to spend every Christmas at Balmoral. And, there is no man more jovial at Christmas than the English King.”

“Ah yes, that must be it.”

The breakfast passed in such small chat for some minutes. Fraulein Emma remained silent for the most part, speaking only to ask for the marmalade.

“Papa, gehen Sie am Gsalz bitte vorbie?” she asked, looking toward the marmalade bowl.

“Ah, sie wollen die marmelade, mein Kind?”

“Ja, vielen Dank, Vati.”

Goblintz passed the bowl, as the girl smiled shyly.

“Fraulein is on holiday from school?”

“Yes, Monsieur. She rejoined me only last week, from her convent school, near Innsbruck. She’s in her third year and doing quite well. Her dear Mamma would be so proud of her. She is becoming such a lady.”

“Indeed, Monsieur; and she will be a beautiful woman some day. That’s clear.”

At that observation, the Fraulein’s face flushed quite red.

*

We arrived at the Deeside Station in mid-afternoon, and once at Balmoral, the King’s Secretary, Knollys, directed us down a long Gallery to His Majesty’s Study.

“Montclaire! Fitz! So pleased to see you. You and those who came up with you are the last to arrive. The journey was pleasant, eh?”

“It was, Your Majesty. Delightful.”

“Well, now you’re here, I can tell you that you’ve come for nothing.”

“What?! Pardon me, Sire. You were saying . . . ?”

“Yes, just this morning the Scotland Yard detectives, who are thick as deer ticks around here, caught a fellow skulking about the park. A Serb blighter, no less, and an Anarchist at that! He’s known to the SB, alright.”

“You say he was ‘skulking’?”

“Indeed he was. Waiting for Goblintz to arrive, according to him. Yes, the Scotland Yard chaps took him in hand and questioned him a bit, if you know what I mean. He pretty readily confessed that he’d been sent here to assassinate the old Austrian.”

Montclaire seemed just a little taken aback.

“Well, don’t you see, Montclaire? The Serb blackguard must be the agent who was sent to do something, and the something he was sent to do was to kill Goblintz. There is it, eh?   Neat as you please.”

“Sire, I am not so certain this is the end of it. I mean . . . .”

“Nonsense! It all fits. Well, now that you’re here, it’s just as well. You can enjoy the Season with us, and we need not worry about the foreign agent business.”

Immediately the King signaled that the interview was at an end, and as Monty and I backed from the Study, I could see that Montclaire was troubled.

“What do you make of that, Monty? Seems we’ve come on a fool’s errand.”

“No, mon vieux, we have not. And, that’s the trouble. The King may think his difficulties have vanished, but he’s sadly mistaken.”

“But, how can you be so certain? That Serb blighter seems to fit the bill, right enough. And, he’s confessed.”

“Yes, but don’t you see. I have already identified the foreign agent who was sent here, and that agent is not a Serb.”

“What?!”

“Yes, Fitz. There is a foreign agent at work here, right now, and I believe I know who it is.”

“Great Scot, Montclaire! You surprise me. We’ve only just arrived, and you tell me you’ve confirmed our worst fears and you know who the agent is?!”

“But, dare we wait? Let’s move against him.”

“No, I beg to differ. This Serb, whose capture has lulled the King and Scotland Yard into a false confidence, may have been sent here for that very purpose – to be caught and therefore distract attention from the real agent.”

“Monty, we must tell the King.”

“No. Too late. The King has already taken the bait of this Serb; he will dismiss all my reservations. No. We must now work on our own, with only Melville to help us, perhaps. And, a part of our difficulty is that we cannot move against this agent. For one thing, the agent may not be alone – as we can see from the Serb – and if we move too early, those who dispatched the agent will doubtless only send another, and perhaps with greater success the second time. No, we must wait and disarm both the agent and the plot.”

My spirits sank, as I realized that we were now quite alone in our mission.

*

A little later we found Melville in the Great Stairhall.

“Sir William,” Monty asked, “where are you holding the skulking Serb, if you please. I’d appreciate an opportunity to question him, briefly.”

“He is presently in the lock-up of the local Constables, just beyond the Park. It’s not a mile from here. Tomorrow we’ll send him to London.”

When Montclaire and I had made the walk of a mile or more to the local Constable’s office, we discovered that the Serb had somehow acquired a lawyer. According to the Constable on duty, the local Justice of the Peace – Sir Watkin MacPherson, had issued a warrant to remand the Serb into custody, but only on condition that his nephew, a local barrister, should be paid to represent him.

As we entered the small interview room, just off the cells, the Serb sat at a small table, his barrister – a smiling, open-faced young man – sitting beside him. We learned from the Constable that the Serb spoke English.

“Martin Dandridge, Monsieur de Montclaire. I am representing Mr. Draskovitch.”

“Pleased to meet you, Dandridge. This is my associate, Sir Francis FitzMaurice. We wish to question your client about his intentions here. We understand he has already told Scotland Yard something of his plans.”

“That was before I arrived. Now, I’ve advised my client to say nothing until we are able to speak with the Serbian Ambassador in London, tomorrow,” the barrister said, just a little smugly I thought.

Montclaire turned to the Constable. “Sergeant, I would be obliged if you would excuse us. I fear that my interview must be held in confidence.”

When the Constable had gone, Montclaire turned to Dandridge and kicked him hard between the legs, such that he screamed, grabbed his groin, and doubled over in a corner of the room. Moving swiftly to where Dandridge continued to moan, Gerard beat his face several times against the wall, such that blood began to stream from his nose. Soon, there was a quantity of blood and the barrister was drifting in and out of consciousness.

Then, turning to Draskovitch – whose face was filled with the certainty that Montclaire was just a little insane – Gerard said quietly but deliberately, “My friend, you have one opportunity to answer a simple question. Otherwise, I intend to leave you a corpse on the floor of this room.”

The Serb shook his head furiously in the affirmative.

“Who sent you here?”

“Nicolai Markoff. He ordered me to do what I have done, no questions asked. I was to come here, sneak around the grounds, get arrested, and then say I was here to kill Goblintz.”

Monty explained to me that Markoff is the sinister head of the Serb secret society Black Hand and a leading Anarchist. He sometimes works for the Russians, but also is not above taking money from the Germans, in the right circumstances.

“Plays both sides, eh?”

“Markoff said the Black Hand would get me out of gaol soon. He said in a month it would be clear I had made a false confession and I would be released. I should pretend to be crazy and I would be deported.”

We left the small room and locked the door behind us, the barrister now resting quietly on the stone floor.

As we returned to the Castle, I decided to unburden myself of a concern with Montclaire’s behaviour.

“Monty, I don’t mean to be excessively English, but in this country it’s almost always considered bad form to kick annoying barristers between the legs and then pound their faces against walls. It’s a small thing, I know, but somehow it goes against the best traditions of British jurisprudence, if you know what I mean.”

“I take your point, Fitz, and please excuse me. If Mr. Dandridge annoys me again, I will ignore him.

   That evening, the guests assembled in the Salon for sherry before dinner. Goblintz had already found his archcompetitor, D’Arcy, and the two were in a hot discussion on some disputed issue of books. In the middle of the combat, however, young Fraulein Emma stepped forward to act as peacemaker.

“Papa. Herr D’Arcy, it simply won’t do for two gentlemen of bookish sensitivities to make harsh speeches at one another at the Christmas Season. I insist that both of you remember constantly the phrase “Peace on earth, good will toward men.”

“Young Lady, you show far better judgment than either of us old bookmen,” said D’Arcy. “I bow to your good sense.”

Several of the guests were lolling about the hearth. Fisher, Cassel, and Rothschild seemed to be in a serious discussion—something nautical, I imagined. Sir Francis Knollys, Viscount Escher, and Sykes stood joking and laughing in a corner, while Monty and I engaged young Churchill on the recent Parliamentary session and the likelihood of elections.   No sign of His Majesty.

The gong for dinner sounded at 8 o’clock, and as if on theatrical queue, the Royal Family entered. As we made our way toward the Dining Room, I noticed that old D’Arcy led Fraulein Emma on his arm and once at table insisted she sit between him and the Ambassador, “as a guarantor of peace.” The suggestion roused a good laugh all round.

As is the custom, the King led the conversation at table by a little speech on his late mother’s fondness for Balmoral and for spending the Holiday in the Highlands. He welcomed each of us by name, and proposed that the next morning would present an opportunity for those gentlemen who wished to do some fine deer-stalking.   As we greeted the serving of the first course, the King’s piper struck-up a lively rendition of Scotland the Brave.

The follow-on conversation around the table was most congenial. Speaking to those on either side and across the table, the guests pursued a variety of topics. Sir Earnest Cassel, who sat next to Monty, asked in a loud voice, “Monsieur de Montclaire. Have the French reconciled themselves to playing a secondary role in Africa?”—a question that seemed a trifle undiplomatic, I thought.

“At the moment, Monsieur, France needs friends more than colonies. So, France will do what is necessary,” Monty replied.

“Well said, Montclaire,” the King replied. “I’m pleased to say that France and England have drawn closer in recent years.”

I noted the good cheer around the table as the guests fell to conversing with those next to them. Looking at each as they laughed and spoke, it seemed impossible, I thought, that one was a dangerous foreign agent.

Directly across the table, D’Arcy and the Ambassador enjoyed a newfound civility toward one another. Though she had been given milk, Fraulein Emma enjoyed sipping wine first from her Papa’s glass and then from D’Arcy’s, much to their mutual amusement.

Somewhat more distant, I observed Rothschild and Churchill discussing the outlook for investments in Russian railway bonds. Dry stuff, I thought.

After dinner, the men enjoyed port and cigars, while the ladies repaired to the Salon. At 10 o’clock, the King suggested cards and so most guests settled down to whist. Monty and I teamed, against Frauline Emma and Sir John. Only the Queen and her children did not play, and after a few minutes, they retired.

Card play continued until well past midnight. As Monty and I ascended to our bedchambers, he stopped me to ask if I had noticed Frauline Emma’s remarkable skill at cards.

“Indeed I did. She’s a prodigy. Took tricks like an experienced card sharper. The girls at her Convent must indulge a passion for whist, eh?”

Just then, the old Ambassador and his daughter approached us. Sending Fraulein Emma ahead, Goblintz begged a moment with Montclaire in the Library. As we diverted to the Library, Monty said, “Please speak as freely in the presence of my associate Sir Francis as you would with me, Your Excellency.”

“Very well, Monsieur. My Government bids me inform His Majesty of some sensitive information that has come our way, from sources that we are not at liberty to divulge. His Majesty has instructed me to inform you as well, Monsieur.”

“Please.   I am at your service.”

“Monsieur, we believe that a foreign agent is now in Scotland, with the intention of doing harm to British interests. I know this seems an odd thing to say, but I assure you the source of this information is quite reliable.”

“I am grateful to Your Excellency. It does your Emperor’s Government great credit that you have shared this information with us.”

“In any case, Monsieur de Montclaire, I would have approached you earlier had I known that you were here to act on His Majesty’s part.”

And with this brief exchange, Goblintz excused himself, while Monty and I lingered in the Library.

“Well, Monty; that was unexpected, eh?”

“Indeed it was. If the Austrians are warning of this danger, the threat may well come from a source that they disapprove. Russians, perhaps? That indication also is interesting. Something to sleep-on, n’est pas?”

As Monty and I descended to breakfast next morning, he asked me if I had a fresh impression from the night before.

“Well, I remembered that Rothschild seemed preoccupied by something, and was decidedly unfriendly. So was Escher, come to that. A grim fellow.”

“How did you find Churchill?”

“He seemed ill at ease too, but I credit that to politics between him and the King. Churchill and Escher had their heads together quite a lot and I wondered what that was about.”

“Oh, and it’s dashed good of the Austrians to share their intelligence with us, eh?”

At breakfast, we found we were later than those who had risen to the King’s invitation to Highland deer-stalking. At table we found Knollys, the Ambassador, and Churchill. Many of the ladies had gone out with the stalkers, to observe. I noted out the large windows of the Breakfast Room that a gentle snow was falling.

“A raw day for hunting, eh?” said Churchill, nodding toward the window.

“We Austrians are accustomed to such conditions,” Goblintz replied, “and I think my Emma will show her stamina. Perhaps she will even shoot,” he laughed. “She is a fine shot, you know.”

The breakfast conversation was entirely trite, and still I noted that Churchill seemed a little on edge.

Monty and I made our way to the Great Library where we enjoyed a look at the King’s books. Suddenly, however, there arose a disturbance in the Entrance Foyer. We rushed to see what the matter was. Servants and guests scurried about. The great doors were flung open, and in came several of the gentlemen, carrying Sir John Fisher. The King was directing everything, and ordered Fisher taken up to his bedchamber.

“Summon Fielding at once,” he commanded, as Knollys hastened to find the King’s physician-in-attendance.

Monty and I caught D’Arcy by the arm and urging him to one side.

“Tell me, Monsieur. What has happened?”

“We were up on the moor. The snow began to fall more heavily. As we walked up some rocks to better sight the deer, Rothschild slipped, lost his balance, and discharged his gun at Sir John. The Admiral was struck, but luckily it does not seem to be a serious wound. Only a scrape, really. The King took charge of everything quite marvelously. Personally saw to dressing Fisher’s wound, on the battlefield, as it were. And here we are.”

“A lucky miss, eh?”

“Strange though.”

“What was strange?”

“It seemed certain that Rothschild lost his footing as we climbed, but just after, he maintained that he had not slipped, but rather had been bumped from behind. And yet, he could not say who it was behind him. Odd, eh?”

“Yes, most odd.”

I noticed Rothschild standing to one side, looking forlorn. Emma stood beside him, apparently reassuring him.

“That girl impresses me as a remarkably fine person, Monty.”

“Oui, mon vieux—Elle est tres sympatique. Formidable!”

“Well Monty; what do you make of all this?”

“It’s most interesting, especially in light of what I learned in Paris before we left. Do you recall my conversation with the financial journalists?”

“Yes. What of it?”

“After telling my guests the names of those who would be my companions in Scotland, I asked, ‘Which guest would be most likely to kill another of the guests?’ Do you know the consensus answer I got?”

“You don’t mean it! They said Rothschild would kill Fischer?”

“Precisely, mon ami. You have guessed it,” he said, smiling slyly.

After several hours, we learned that Fisher was resting with a minor injury and was even expected to rejoin us by evening. The snow now fell more heavily, and so all guests tended to gather in the Salon and the Library. Monty accepted an invitation to join a discussion between the Ambassador and D’Arcy, about books of course – or rather, about one book in particular. Something by that rascal the Comte de Saint-Germaine.

Monty smiled and considered the question a moment, and then – as I knew he would – amazed the listeners with his knowledge of the subject.


At dinner that evening we took our accustomed seats, and enjoyed a round of toasts to the King, to England, to Austria, to the Queen, and to the Royal Family. The King rose to toast his very good friends, and to wish all the compliments of the Season.

No man in England keeps Christmas more merrily than the King himself, I thought.

It was a most congenial gathering, and I noted once again that the two gentlemen across from us were made all the happier by the merrymaking of the Fraulein Emma, who seemed to cheer everyone who spoke to her. However, as she sipped wine from one glass and then another, I feared she might become a little tipsy. That wouldn’t do, for a convent girl, I laughed to myself.

Sir John was not at dinner, but rejoined us at cards afterwards. He seemed quite his old self, except for a bandage on his hand and forearm. Asked about his injury, Fisher seemed nonchalant. “Merely a scratch and I’ve told Rothschild to think nothing of it. Anyone can slip in snow; wasn’t his fault the ground was so deuced uneven or that it had snowed. We’ll say no more of it.”

“Thank you, Sir John. And thank God you were not badly injured or killed,” Rothschild said. Still, I wondered that a man of Rothschild’s worldly disposition seemed so contrite. You’re too suspicious, I told myself.

Churchill, standing by Monty and me, said in an undertone, “I’m damned surprised Rothschild refrains from speaking up, if he was pushed, as he at first claimed.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“He says he did not slip, but felt someone ‘bump’ him on the rocks. Well, Sykes told me that that simply could not have happened, because he was the only one of the party behind Rothschild, and he did not ‘bump’ anyone. Sykes was quite adamant about that.”

“But, why should Rothschild lie about something like that?”

“Good question,” Churchill said, as he sauntered-off, hands tucked smugly in his pockets.

It being Christmas Eve, the King and Queen returned to the Salon at 10 o’clock and as soon as they arrived, servants began to distribute small gifts – in most cigarette cases, jewelry. Afterwards, two footmen carried in the Yulelog and placed one end in the hearth.

“It’s an ancient custom of England,” the King explained. “We’ll enjoy the log’s fire until it’s burned down, and the firebrand will be saved to light the Yulelog next year.”

When the log was lighted by this elaborate ceremony, we all applauded and sang that the King was “a jolly good fellow.” His Majesty seemed touched by the gesture, and stayed to drink many a wassail before midnight, accompanied by a small group of musicians and his piper, who entertained some who danced and others who merely listened.

*

Awakened early Christmas morning, we learned that it was the tradition of Balmoral to have an early Service in the Chapel, at which the King himself would read the Scripture. It was a fairly groggy crowd who assembled by 8 o’clock, as the King’s Chaplain and then the King read selections from the story of the first Christmas. A short sermon begged all of us to think to the issue of peace, which is the thing we truly celebrate at this season. “How true,” Monty said. “If only we could all take that message to heart, eh mon ami?”

“Indeed. My most earnest hope. Peace. It sounds a wonderful thing.”

The Highland weather continued snowy and so there was no question of enjoying the day outdoors. The guests again lingered about the Castle’s large public rooms, mostly enjoying conversation. Some read. Others played at games. A few of the ladies discussed this and that among themselves, over needlepoint.

In mid-afternoon Monty and I found ourselves alone in a corner of the Great Library.

“I just don’t see it, Gerard. You assured me we are close to a successful resolution, but I just don’t see it. We’ve observed for three days, but have seen nothing out of the ordinary – except perhaps a minor accident, which seems very excusable.”

“Is that it?” I asked. “Rothschild’s our man? Is he? And his objective is to murder Sir John? Good Heavens!”

“Steady-on, Fitz. All I will say at the moment is that we have seen a great deal and all we need to see. You see, the problem is not to observe, but to see.”

At that moment, Petrovsky handed Montclaire a small stack of telegrams, which he took to another corner of the Library and sat to read. I watched, but asked no questions. After reading, he lapsed into one of his long silences, from which I knew it was impossible to wake him. I contented myself with thinking about that very interesting distinction between observing and seeing.

As we came down to dinner and found our fellow guests enjoying sherry in the Salon, I wondered if this strange case was really near its conclusion. Most odd, I suppose, I wondered what it was that we had come to Scotland to “observe,” as Monty had stated our mission. Somehow the arrival of the telegrams and Montclaire’s meditation told me that something was about to happen. But what? I asked myself.

I put the question to Montclaire as we went into sherry. “Yes, it means the end is near, mon ami.”

As usual, the King and Queen arrived well past the gong, and we once again trooped into the Dining Room, each man leading a lady on his arm.

After a bit of trivial conversation, the King asked Montclaire if he foresaw an Entente between England and Russia, similar to the one that had been negotiated with France in 1903.

“The obstacles are significantly greater in the case of Russia, Your Majesty. English Liberals – such as Monsieur Churchill -- seem wary of an understanding with Russia, because of the autocracy of the Czar’s regime. It may be possible to overcome it, depending largely on how provocative the Kaiser becomes, but there is a very high political barrier to jump.”

Fisher could not contain himself. “The Kaiser’s battleship building mania is provocation enough,” to which Goblintz responded that Germany was “exercising a sovereign choice in its armaments, just as England does, and just as Austria does.”

“It would seem,” the King lamented, “that all the divisions in British policy are represented at this table.”

“That seemed a signal for most of the guests to fall to chatting amongst themselves. The Queen and those next to her listened to a story that Rothschild was telling, while the King and Admiral Fisher exchanged witty stories at the other end of table. Across from us, Frauline Emma once more sat between her Papa and D’Arcy and seemed to keep both in smiles.

Suddenly, it was not the guests but Montclaire’s face that caught my attention. His eyes riveted on something, and the intensity of his gaze alarmed me, somehow. I looked, but could see nothing, except that the Frauline was once more tasting wine from her Father’s glass and then from D’Arcy’s – the little game that they had all enjoyed on previous evenings. Was Montclaire looking at them? Or, beyond the table at something in the room, where the footmen stood, I wondered.

Then, however, Montclaire sprang from his seat and began to ring his wine glass with a spoon.

“Your Majesties, ladies and gentlemen. Please, allow me to propose a toast of the entire table.” Then, glancing across the table, he said, “Would one of the footmen bring another glass for Monsieur D’Arcy, so that Fraulein Emma can enjoy the toast as well.”

Very quickly a new glass of wine appeared for D’Arcy.

“I give you Their Majesties,” Monty raised his glass, “in gratitude for their hospitality in this most hospitable of Seasons. Here, Here!!”

As the guests rose to toast Their Majesties, hoisting their glasses and answering “Here, Here!” Monty broke the spirit of the thing by shouting: “But there is one among us who does not drink. I am scandalized that one of us refuses to drink the health of Their Majesties.”

Montclaire’s outburst astonished everyone, not least the King.

“Montclaire, what’s the meaning of this? You’re behaving outrageously!”

“Pardon me, Your Majesty, but I have just witnessed something outrageous – the attempted murder of one of your guests.”

“What?!” There were loud murmurs and grumbling around the table—then, a strange silence, as Monty stepped from his place and began to circle about the table.

“Yes. You see, for the past three evenings this table has been the venue for a rehearsal of sorts – a rehearsal for murder. The assassin has stalked the victim each evening, establishing exactly the means of killing him. And, this evening, I have just witness the murderous act itself. And, so I was compelled to ring down the curtain on this vicious little drama.”

“But, who? How was it done?   And Why?”

“Ah, Your Majesty. Those are all the proper questions. But, allow me to answer them in a different order. First, the How. The murder was to be done by poison, and I can assure you that one glass at this table right now is laced with a deadly potion – arsenic, I would guess, or perhaps, hydrogen cyanide. Yes, the How was to be poison.”

“The Why? Well, that’s a rather involved topic, and one that has required a great deal of research on my part. I began that research even before we left Paris, and I have continued it while here. The Why has to do with one little word, oil. The murder was to be done because someone has it, and another wants it, to be quite simple. And, in between, there was an element of revenge directed at Your Majesty and England.”

“Sorry, Montclaire. You’ve lost me.”

“In that case, I shall be more direct, Your Majesty.”

Monty looked across the table.

“The intended victim was you, Monsieur D’Arcy, and the reason for your murder was the oil concession you hold from the Shah of Persia.”

D’Arcy looked at his wineglass and dropped it. Then, he dropped into his chair, mopping his brow--clearly stunned. More murmuring.

“Yes, your death would have vacated the lucrative contract you have with the Shah, who has regretted the agreement almost from the minute he signed it. The meager sixteen percent of revenues he receives is to him an insult, and so he had collaborated with others to kill you.”

The guests murmured again.

“Your Majesty is the other reason the Shah behaves so viciously. You see, on his state visit in 1902, you refused to grant him the Order of the Garter, an honor that he had been led to expect he would receive. He has been furious with Your Majesty ever since, and has looked for an opportunity for revenge.”

“The blighter!”

“Of course, the Shah was put up to this evil by another, who is even more evil than he. The German Kaiser.”

The King seemed surprised at the accusation, and just a little put-off.

“Oh yes, Your Majesty. It is not only possible; it is true. The Kaiser you see stands to gain the vacated oil concession, and he has promised the Shah much more than sixteen percent. Together, I believe, they contrived this plot to be rid of D’Arcy here. The Kaiser took on the job, and gave it to his Intelligence Service. And, it is an agent of the Imperial Intelligence Service who is here at this table and who has just attempted to murder D’Arcy.”

“Good Heavens!” the King said, as he too collapsed into his chair.

“And now, Your Majesty. The Who.

“Fraulein Emma, I noticed that during my toast you did not drink Their Majesties’ health and good cheer of the season. Have you no taste for Monsieur D’Arcy’s wine?”

At the question, everyone looked at the young Austrian, whose face suddenly flashed crimson anger and confusion. “I think you are reluctant to drink that wine for a reason we both know very well.”

“You see, ladies and gentlemen, just before I rose, the Fraulein had poisoned Monsieur D’Arcy’s wine, and she now holds in her hand the death she intended for him. Drink it, Fraulein, and prove me wrong!” Monty shouted.

Now enraged, the girl flung the glass across the table at Monty, who managed to dodge it, but not its contents.

As Montclaire his face and dinner jacket with his napkin, he said, “Thank you, Fraulein. You’ve confirmed my suspicions perfectly.”

In the next instance, Melville and young Churchill each laid a hand on the girl, such that she could not have run, if she had wanted.

“Great Scot, Montclaire!” the King shouted. “You mean to say it was the girl – a mere child!? Poison?! And, at My table!?”

“Yes, Your Majesty. The Fraulein here is the agent I spoke of. She has been practicing her effort for three evenings, and this evening she struck. I noticed that she had palmed a powder in her left hand and not five minutes ago, she released it into D’Arcy’s wineglass as she prepared to return it to him. His next drink from that glass was to be his last. And, who would ever have suspected the wineglass, since both of them were seen to drink from it?”

“But, Montclaire. A mere child? And Goblintz’s own daughter! How can this be?!”

“Your Majesty, we will eventually learn the truth, I’m sure. But, I can shed some light on your questions now. This young woman is not Goblintz’s daughter; and she is not even Austrian. In fact, I knew even before we arrived here that she is German, and almost certainly, she is a German from Swabia.”

“What!?” Goblintz shouted. “That’s Preposterous!”

“On the train, Sir Francis and I had the good fortune to breakfast with the Count and his daughter. On that occasion, she innocently asked her dear Papa to pass to her the marmalade, only in doing so; she made a very serious error and gave herself away completely.”

“That was very sloppy tradecraft on your part, Mademoiselle,” Monty chidded, shaking his finger at her. She glared at him, silently, her arms akimbo.

“You see, she asked for Gsalz, and not Marmelade. Gsalz is one of those peculiar Swabian words for things that no German or Austrian would ever use to indicate marmalade. And, I noted she pronounced Gsalz with a perfect Swabian intonation. All this alerted me that the girl posing as Goblintz’s daughter was a Swabian German.”

Now looking at the girl, “It was only a small error, Mademoiselle, but mark this well: You cannot make even a small mistake in he presence of Gerard de Montclaire.”

Montclaire speaks five languages, I thought, and in not one of them can he define the word, humility.

“Well, Your Majesty, that was not in itself damning, for it occurred to me the old Ambassador might be traveling with his mistress, in the cognito of his daughter. And so, I dispatched some telegrams and discovered two things: the Ambassador’s daughter is still at her convent in the Tyrol, and the Ambassador’s mistress is pining for him in London – in the arms of a young Guards Officer in Brixton, to be exact.”

The room burst into laughter.

Now turning to Goblintz, Monty continued. “You Excellency, of course, tired to ensure that I would not suspect your Fraulein Emma, by warning us of the danger. That was a very clever rouse, but even at the time, it seemed to me you had probably concluded that my presence here was directed at your plot, and so I saw your desire to assist as no more than an effort to mask your guilt. Besides, you only told me what I already knew and even more telling, what you knew I already knew.”

“But, Montclaire. This girl is a mere child. A German agent!? And a murderer!? Surely not!”

“Troubling, n’est pas? Well, Your Majesty, I believe that what we see here before us is not a child, but rather a young woman who looks very much like a child, especially when her hair is fixed a certain way, and when she dresses the part, and when she uses mannerisms that a good actress can master. Of course, confirmation will have to await a doctor’s examination. Her maturity was confirmed for me by her skillful play at whist. As I watched her handle cards, I knew immediately that she is trained in slide-of-hand – hence, her artful palming of the poison tonight – but I also learned that she is as fine a whist player as one could find. No mere child of fifteen could have mastered the game as she has. No, she is deguise, Your Majesty.”

“This girl-woman was indeed a clever gambit, but even cleverer and somehow crueler, the Intelligence Service was willing to recruit and use that mentally-deficient Serb as a shield – what the Americans call a stalking-horse – for Fraulein Emma. That was pure genius, and I believe I know whose genius it reflects. Is that not so, Fraulein?”

“You will not foil him often, Monsieur. He is far cleverer than you – and the whole Deuxieme Bureau.”

“Ah, I thought I detected his presence in all this business. Though the Fraulein here will not use his name, she is speaking of Dragenfeld.”

“Dragenfeld – that monster?! He’s back?” the King asked.

“Yes, Your Majesty. Risen from his insanity, Dragenfeld seems to have emerged from his Asylum. I fear he is once again leading the Kaiser’s Intelligence Service.”

Montclaire’s explanation was a tour de force, and His Majesty acknowledged it. But the apparent return of Dragenfeld gave sobering pause to our celebration.

“Melville,” said the King, “take this girl into custody, at least until Scotland Yard is able to discover who and what she really is. And, Goblintz. Pack your bags. You are no longer welcome in my house. In a few days, you will no longer be welcome in England, so prepare to travel.”

And with that, the old Ambassador huffed out of the room, just behind Melville and the Fraulein.

“Montclaire,” the King said in a tone of amazement. Swabian? Good Heavens! Who would have known that?”

“Yes, Your Majesty. The Kaiser and the Shah intended to give you a corpse for Christmas, and at your own table. But instead, they delivered into your hands one of Germany’s cleverest agents.”

“It was only a small slip of the tongue that gave her away, but it gave her away completely. The people of Swabia are admirable—accomplished and very creative -- and I have always liked them, but they have a flaw that is summed-up in an old saying that they themselves have:

Wir Konnen alles. Ausser Hochdeutsch.
(“We can do anything….except [speak] proper German.”)

E. A. Allen, a native of Ft. Smith, Arkansas, studied in Europe and received his PhD in Modern European History at Tulane University. He later worked more than twenty years in the federal service, first in the US Air Force and then as a CIA Intelligence Officer. He became the CIA Senior Political Analyst for Europe, and later was appointed to the National Intelligence Council, serving as Deputy National Intelligence Officer for Europe. He has published and lectured extensively on European History and International Affairs. Allen now lives near Fayetteville, Arkansas, where he teaches, raises cattle, and writes mystery fiction.