Honourable Intentions

2

The Cannon Street Hotel wasn’t quite in the heart of the City but a bit south of that; say the liver. So it was geographically Corinna’s territory, and the hotel was prepared to overlook its City prejudice against women – save as rich widow shareholders at the many company annual general meetings held there – because she was the daughter of Reynard Sherring. And Sherring controlled a private bank that, even at the flood tide of joint-stock banking, was keeping its head a million or two above water.

Shortly before four, Ranklin and the Commander were sipping tea in the drawing-room of the hotel which, true to the current fashion, ran to a high ceiling, cushioned wickerwork chairs and potted palms.

The Commander looked at his watch. “She said four o’clock, didn’t she?”

“That‘s what you said.”

“Is she usually late?”

“I wouldn’t say she was, yet.”

The Commander watched five seconds tick by. “Dammit, she could perfectly well have told you whatever-it-is. No need for me. I’ve got things to do.”

Like keeping the Bureau from getting involved in the mess that was Ulster. There was a good case for this, but the danger was that the spring of 1914 was turning out to be rather quiet on the Bureau’s true international stamping-ground and they didn’t have enough to do.

Ranklin shrugged and another five seconds passed.

Then the Commander demanded: “I know she’s a partner or something in her father’s bank, but does she really understand banking and finance and . . . whatnot?”

“I imagine so. But I don’t, so I can’t judge.”

“She’s one of these clever women, then.”

“Certainly.” Ranklin realised they were passing the time with a little game of make-the-other-lose-his-temper-first.

“Handsome gal, though.”

“I didn’t know you’d met her.” Did he lose half a point for being surprised?

“Oh yes. At a dinner party at the Grenfells’. We got on rather well.”

Perhaps that was supposed to make Ranklin jealous. But he could well believe that Corinna had been intrigued to meet the Bureau’s Chief. Of course, his identity was a closely-guarded secret, but equally of course, that didn’t apply to Certain People. Moreover, the Commander – a genuine naval rank – fancied himself as a ladies’ man. By now in his mid-fifties, he was a stocky man with a face like Mr Punch, nose and chin seemingly trying to meet. He had a complexion that he probably hoped looked weatherbeaten-old-seadog, but was really just ruddy, and the Navy had long ago beached him for incurable seasickness. He had once been heard calling espionage a “capital sport”, but probably that was just a sop to the type of Englishman who took nothing seriously except games.

On the whole, Ranklin thought he was probably right for his job. He had a lot of enthusiasms – gadgetry, motor-cars, pistols – a love of secrecy, and apparently no scruples. Certainly he betrayed his rich wife, who lavished Rolls-Royces and yachts on him, as skilfully and naturally as he did foreign governments. Ranklin wished he thought these two talents weren’t connected.

When Ranklin hadn’t reacted, the Commander provoked further: “Bit tall for you, I thought.”

“I don’t know . . . Can’t have too much of a good thing.”

That gave the Commander the choice of being even more vulgar or pretending to be upright and shocked. Cannily, he did neither. “Ah, your intentions aren’t honourable, I see. Just animal passion.”

“As technically my commanding officer, would you give me permission to marry an American citizen?”

“Certainly, if it was just for her money. If I thought you were sincere, I’d sack you.”

Ranklin decided it was time for a change of subject. “What do we know about Noah Quinton?”

“As a man or as a lawyer?”

“Either.”

“I understand he doesn’t come of one of the academic-professional families. First of his line. Lower-middle-class East London Jew . . . Perhaps not very East London.” The Commander wasn’t speaking geographically. “It’s said he’s a good man to go to if you want to win and don’t mind how.”

In answer to Ranklin’s raised eyebrows, the Commander added: “I don’t say he breaks the law. Just got a reputation for sailing close to it.”

Ranklin wondered if he’d been naive in thinking that that was just what lawyers were for. While he was still wondering, Corinna and Noah Quinton arrived.

Corinna, who liked to be called Mrs Finn and thought of as a widow for entirely immoral reasons, was indeed tall and attracted words like “striking” and “handsome”. Or “vivid”, because her eyes and mouth were exaggerated like an actress’s and her hair was very black. With all this, she could carry off strong colours and did, while most of London was wearing pastels and fussy little hats. Today she wore a black matador hat and was wrapped in a cape of purple wool that completely hid, and therefore hinted at, her shape beneath.

Probably it was too warm for the day – a fine Easter was stretching on, with temperatures nearing 60° – but when did being hot or cold affect how a woman wanted to look?

The Commander pre-empted her to the introductions. “I’m Commander Smith and this is Captain Ranklin. Army Captain, of course.”

Corinna smiled. “May I present Mr Noah Quinton?” They shook hands and Quinton said: “And you represent the Government?”

“Whatever Mrs Finn told you,” the Commander said blandly. They all sat down, a watchful waiter hurried up with a fresh pot of tea, and Ranklin poured.

If you had met Quinton anywhere, you would have thought: Ah, a sharp lawyer. But how else was a lawyer allowed to advertise? He was dapper (attention to detail), quick of movement (and thus of thought), and looked you in the eye with a smile (he believed what you were telling him). Actually, between his curly grey hair and small grey beard was a rather ferrety face, which his heavy-rimmed glasses helped humanise, but he was constantly putting those off and on.

“We’re all busy me-people,” the Commander said briskly. “So: I believe you have something you feel we should know.”

“Yes.” Corinna took a deep breath. “My father, Reynard Sherring, is honorary treasurer of a small fund set up by Americans in London to help out American citizens in trouble here. Our consulate passes on people they think are deserving of our help. Last week they told us about a young American in prison over in Brixton. It seems you’re holding him for the French. They want him extradited on an arson charge.”

“What did he burn down?” the Commander asked. “Allegedly.”

“Oh, only a police station-house.” The Commander’s eyebrows vibrated at that “only”, but Corinna sailed on. “It doesn’t seem to have been more than singed, anyhow. So, I run the fund when my father isn’t here, and I was . . . well, I was kind of bothered by something the boy said to our vice-consul and a letter the boy’s mother wrote him. He was bothered, too. The vice-consul. So I asked Mr Quinton to take on the case. Frankly -” she flashed Quinton a searchlight-strength grin to disarm him “- I was hoping the boy would say more to him and he’d pass it on to me, but . . .”

“Without my client’s permission, it would have been quite unethical for me to do anything of the sort,” Quinton said tonelessly.

Corinna said cheerfully: “But it seems he hasn’t said any more anyhow, so our ethics are unsullied.” She could be deceptively feminine and vague when she wanted. In truth, she must have dealt with lawyers in half a dozen countries.

There was a pause, then the Commander said: “Are we going to hear what the chap said?” at the same time as Ranklin’s “Does the lad have a name?”

Corinna chose to answer Ranklin. “Grover Langhorn, aged twenty-three; he worked as a waiter at a cafe in La Villette – the nineteenth arrondissement.” She flicked on a fastidious expression: the nineteenth was the area Paris didn’t talk about, like an uncle who had gone to the bad. All Ranklin knew of it was that it was in the north-east of the city and had acres of abattoirs.

The Commander, who didn’t like coming second, said: “Grover Langhorn?”

“As I’m sure you remember,” Corinna said sweetly, “we had a President called Grover Cleveland around the time this boy was born. And what he told the vice-consul was that if he was going to be sent back to France he’d tell something scandalous about your King.”

Ranklin felt his own expression must be a mirror of the Commander’s: blank puzzlement. Agreed that it would be impossible to top the late Edward VII’s mark for scandalous behaviour, George V didn’t even seem to be trying. His appearance was entirely the opposite: that of a dutiful family man. Could he have told a risque story from his naval days in mixed company? At full stretch, that was the worst Ranklin’s imagination could reach.

Finally the Commander asked: “Is that all?”

“Not quite.” Corinna dug in what she called a “purse” and anyone else would have said was a moderate piece of luggage, and unfolded a sheet of pale violet writing-paper. She passed it across.

18 rue Castelnaudry

Paris 19

April 3erd

Dear sir

My son Grover has been arested by the London police becaus the French say he set fire to the police baracks but I know he did not do this but they will lock him up for ever if he is sent back here becaus of perjery so pleas see him amp; listen very carefuly to what he tells you becaus it is true

yrs faithfuly

Enid Langhorn (Mrs (widow) born Bowman).

“Let me get this quite clear,” the Commander said. “Was this sent to the American Consul here?”

“She was English, and married an American merchant seaman back . . . whenever. And the letter was sent to the American consulate. It was opened by one of the young vice-consuls – a sweet boy, you’d love him – and it was he who saw Grover and then got in touch with me. As he’d sort of handed the case over to me, he gave me the letter as well. He said that it probably wasn’t the sort of thing to leave lying in a file anyhow. Between you and me, I don’t think he feels America should be mixed up in the scandalous behaviour of royalty.

“You can keep it,” she added. “Unless Mr Quinton wants it.”

Quinton shook his head firmly and the Commander, after one last frowning glance, tucked the letter into an inside pocket. He seemed uncertain about what to say next.

So Ranklin said: “Perhaps Mr Quinton would care to say something about extradition procedure – in general, of course, not in regard to this case.”

Quinton’s smile flickered quickly and then he said: “Extradition’s rare, so not many lawyers bother to know much about it. It’s really an uneasy mix of law and international politics. Our courts can decide that a man should be extradited, but then the Home Secretary – although it would really be a Cabinet decision – can overrule them and decide he shouldn’t be. However, not vice versa: if the courts decide someone should not be extradited, that’s an end of the matter.”

The Commander said: “Be a bit of a snub to that foreign government if the Home Sec chose not to extradite when the courts had said he should.”

“Quite so,” Quinton nodded. “Just what I meant by an uneasy mix with politics. And that aspect goes a little further: the court can hear evidence to show that the alleged crime was a political one – something that would be irrelevant in a normal trial – and if they decide it was political, set the prisoner free.”

The Commander frowned. “But suppose-”

“Even if the charge is murder. There was something of a landmark case some thirty years ago, Castioni. He killed a man during the overthrow of the local government in one of the Swiss cantons and fled to England. The judges decided the killing had been a political act and refused to extradite . . . Perhaps I should point out that treason, spying, subversion and so on aren’t even extraditable crimes, of course. Nobody gets sent back to, say, Germany because he’s been doing naughty things to their government.”

Perhaps Quinton was just trying them out: Corinna certainly wouldn’t have told him who they really were. The Commander was clearly less certain about her, but she ignored him and asked: “Burning a police station-house . . . is that political? Sounds as if it could be.”

Quinton didn’t answer; instead, he said: “Why doesn’t someone ask about anarchism?”

Knowing the Commander now wouldn’t, Ranklin asked: “What about anarchism?’

“Interesting that you should ask that,” Quinton said. “Because there was a case just a few years after Castioni: Meurnier, this time, a French anarchist. He blew up a Paris cafe and killed a couple of people and claimed that had been political. Mr Justice Cave – as he then was – came back with a rather crafty judgment. In effect, he said that a political act is one aimed at replacing one party or system of government by another – but that, since an anarchist didn’t believe in any form of government, all his actions must be directed against private citizens, and he sent Meurnier back.”

“Does that mean,” Corinna asked, “that nothing an anarchist does can be political?”

“That would be one possible reading of the judgment.”

A grimy light began to shine on Ranklin’s thoughts. “This cafe in La Villette – do you know what sort of place it is?”

Quinton smiled but retained his legal caution. “I understand that it is said to be a haunt of anarchists.”

The Commander growled: “If this damned American is an anarchist then all that stuff about royal scandal is probably just trouble-making.”

Quinton said: “Nothing in the depositions offers any proof that he is an anarchist.”

“But if he was working as a waiter there-”

“Would you assume that every waiter at a poets’ cafe is a poet?”

Corinna said: “But Mr Tippett the vice-consul said the boy-”

“That is not evidence.”

With Corinna and the Commander both rebuffed, that left Ranklin to steer the conversation into a more soothing, general channel. “You were going to explain to us laymen the normal progress of an extradition case . . .”

“‘Hearing’ is the proper term. Yes. It starts with a request through diplomatic channels for us to arrest the chap. When we’ve done that, he makes a brief appearance at Bow Street police court to be remanded to Brixton. Then the foreign government sends over depositions and perhaps witnesses themselves – there are two in this matter – for the magistrate to decide whether they have made a prima facie case of an extraditable crime for the prisoner to answer. We’ve reached that point now, with the hearing due tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” the Commander and Ranklin said simultaneously.

“I came a little late to this matter-”

“I was slow off the mark myself,” Corinna confessed. “And the consulate didn’t-”

“It seems,” Quinton said firmly, “that the lad didn’t take the matter very seriously until someone else read the French depositions and explained how strong a case there was.”

“Is it strong, then?” the Commander asked.

“I think . . .” Quinton sounded a little reluctant but now he was embroiled in the real case and couldn’t turn back – which was roughly what Ranklin had hoped. “I think it might be torn to pieces by a good, well-prepared advocate at a full trial – in France. Whether I can do as much tomorrow, I wouldn’t care to say.”

He looked pensive and Ranklin prayed for the Commander to stay quiet. And for once, he did.

Quinton went on: “The prosecution only has to show there is a case to answer – the defence doesn’t have to answer it. But the boy wants me to: he wants above all not to be sent back to France. He’s convinced the police are fabricating evidence against him.”

“And are they?” the Commander asked, brightening up at this hint of illegality.

“There’s one witness in particular whom I’d like to see cross-examined within an inch of his life. But to do that properly, I need more preparation. If I do a half-cock job and the boy gets extradited anyway, I’ll just have shown the prosecution the holes in their case so they can patch them up for the full trial. But my client seems ready to risk that.”

Corinna said: “What about it being a political crime anyhow?”

“I shall argue that as well. But I can’t see a Bow Street magistrate ruling on that. I think he’ll leave that to a higher court.”

The Commander asked: “Can you appeal the magistrate’s decision, then?”

“In effect. It’ll be a habeus corpus hearing in the King’s Bench. When,” he turned to Corinna, “your fund will have to stump up for Counsel. But I think I can find one who’ll say what he’s told and not have ideas of his own.”

Mr Quinton, one suspected, did not share the high opinion that barristers had of themselves.

The Commander said: “I think we’re getting bogged down in legalities. Frankly, it’s no skin off our nose whatever happens to the lad – that is, I’m sure he’s safe in Mr Quinton’s capable hands. What concerns me is whether he’s going to say anything in open court. Is he?”

“If he listens to me, he’ll say nothing bar his name,” Quinton said very firmly.

“Good. And meanwhile, if he tells you anything more about this – alleged – royal scandal, you’ll be sure to let us know?”

Quinton frowned. “Whatever a client tells his solicitor is in the strictest confidence.”

“Good Lord, man, this is a question of your duty to the King!”

Quinton stiffened. “I agreed to come to this meeting on the understanding that you would take this aspect out of my hands. It isn’t germane to the boy’s case and is the sort of thing I prefer not to be told. And if told, not to hear.”

“I would have hoped your patriotic-” the Commander began, but Ranklin cut in:

“I’d better come and hear what happens at Bow Street myself tomorrow. Will I get in?”

“I’ll make sure you do. But I can’t promise you’ll hear anything from the public seats. Meet me outside at lunchtime and I’ll explain what’s been happening. Now, if you’ll excuse me . . . Mrs Finn . . .” He bowed over Corinna’s hand, shook hands with the Commander and Ranklin, and walked briskly away.

Watching him go, the Commander said thoughtfully: “D’you think I overdid the duty-to-your-King bit?”

“Perhaps,” Ranklin said.

Corinna said: “He’s supposed to be good.”

“I imagine, madam, that by that you mean ‘effective’.”

“Isn’t that what we all mean?” She was quite unabashed. “Well, I’ve done my effective deed for the day.” And she leant back in her chair and looked at them expectantly.

The Commander looked puzzled. Ranklin said: “Not quite. That letter the lad’s mother wrote had a Paris address. When you sent someone from your Paris office to check up on her, was she still there?”

Corinna said dreamily: “If I had three wishes, d’you know what the first would be? To have someone push that terrible little crook Lloyd George under a bus. Having a Chancellor of the Exchequer who-”

“Sorry we can’t oblige you there,” Ranklin interrupted. “What’s the second wish?”

“Are you truly offering to do me a favour?” Her surprised delight was quite false.

“No, ducky, we’re not, but let’s hear it anyway.”

“Well, since you mention it . . . at the moment, the Treasury doesn’t place many bonds in the US but it does so exclusively through Morgan Grenfell. Now, if you happened to be speaking to anyone with influence, you might just mention that the House of Sherring has its main office on Wall Street and would be only too happy to help out.”

Looking grim again, the Commander came in with a surprising knowledge of financial politics – surprising to Ranklin, anyway. “Madam, I can only see us needing to sell more Treasury bonds abroad in an exceptional circumstance – such as a European war. And a long one.”

“Is that truly so?” Corinna was an innocent little girl again. “Dear me. Still, it helps to be prepared, don’t you think? So you will remember?”

“Are you blackmailing us, Mrs Finn?”

“Me, sir? Blackmail? What a terrible thought. No, I’m just doing what is known in my humble trade as a ‘deal’. A quid - or dollar – pro quo.” She shifted her smile to Ranklin. “Yes, I sent our people to see Mrs Langhorn, but she’d gone, bag and baggage, and no forwarding address. It was just a pension, and a pretty lowly one, anyway. But another thing Grover told our vice-consul: she was born English, Miss Bowman.”

“Thank you. And would it now be too much to ask that you leave the rest to us?”

“Delighted. I must get back to the office. Thank you so much for the tea, and it was a pleasure meeting you again, Commander . . . Smith.”

Ranklin walked with her to the hotel lobby. “Thank you again, but . . . may I offer a word of warning?”

This was still her home ground; she nodded cheerfully.

“You held things up for at least a day sending your Paris people to see the lad’s mother because, if I know you, you wanted the full story before you came to us. So here’s the warning: don’t try to be clever when it comes to our monarchy. No deals. Just hope for gratitude.”

“I’ve heard you say things about your kings that I’d never dare.”

Ranklin nodded. “We all do. It’s fashionable. But there can be a very sudden closing of ranks, too. I’d hate to see you caught on the outside.”

When he got back to the Commander they sat in silence for a while. Then the Commander said: “Is she usually so . . .” He was obviously trying to think of a (relatively) polite synonym for “mercenary”.

“She has an instinct for doing deals; she’s a banker. But banking is a secretive trade, too.”

“Hm.” The Commander felt in his pocket and took out the violet-paper letter. “The woman’s spelling suggests she’s either daughter of a duke or a dustman. I’d guess the dustman. And obviously she’s in on it: tipping off the American Consul to start the ball rolling, and then vanishing. I presume it’s all to get us to let her son off . . . What else have we got?”

“D’you think we should be taking this seriously, then?”

“That’s the first thing to find out.”

“But we don’t even know what it is that the lad’s threatening.”

“Then that’s the first thing to find out.”

“And whether we’re really the right people to tackle-”

“Damn it, it was your girl-friend who dumped it in our lap. If we go to the police that’s just spreading it. And they probably wouldn’t do anything because he hasn’t committed any offence – over here, that is. And I don’t propose to give it to Kell and his people.” Relations with their sister counter-spy service had recently become a little strained.

Ranklin nodded unenthusiastically. “Well, I’ll go along to Bow Street tomorrow; I don’t know if I’ll learn anything, but . . . Should we ask O’Gilroy to have a look at back numbers of the Paris papers?”

“Good idea. Send him a telegram – but don’t let him know why we want to know.”

Ranklin let that slur pass; anyway, the Commander was still thoroughly irritated by Corinna and didn’t care about Ranklin’s feelings. “I know you’ve usually worked with him and trust him, but we want to keep this as small as possible. Anyway, as an Irishman he probably thinks royal scandals are a good thing.”

“Don’t we all – as newspaper readers? But do we want to get in touch with the lad himself?”

“How?” the Commander growled. “We can’t go along to Brixton and demand to see him, we’d have to go through Quinton or the American consulate-”

“- or we could try slipping O’Gilroy into his cell on a fake dynamiting charge, and let them swap grievances and brigandry techniques. There, O’Gilroy can be as republican as he likes.”

As Ranklin expected, the prospect of behaving dishonestly cheered the Commander up immediately. “Ye-es . . . All right: get him here by tomorrow night, bringing whatever he’s got about the arson, and if the whole thing hasn’t fizzled out by then . . . we’ll see.”

Ranklin nodded, hiding the uplift he got from prospectively having the Irishman back. O’Gilroy was, unofficially, their Man in Paris. He was there mainly because he had to be somewhere, and London was too full of other Irishmen who wanted to cut his throat. He wasn’t much good at French politics, but there was no shortage of self-styled experts on that; what O’Gilroy now knew was the Paris streets. Ranklin felt he himself belonged there, too: the Bureau’s job was abroad, and Paris was eight hours closer to anything happening on the Continent.

The Commander may have suspected how he’d been led to his decision, because he went on looking at Ranklin. “You know, you’re not a bad second-in-command.” Then added explosively: “But by God – you’ve got a bloody funny taste in girl-friends.”