‘Ah! Monsieur Norbert!’ cried De Bellefort. ‘How kind of you to come all the way from Metz in response to my letter. Kind, and wise, as you evidently understood. Do sit down. Metz! What memories of courage and endurance are summoned up by that name! What fortitude – and all in vain. Prussia was the victor, and Prussia dictated the terms.’

  As he spoke, De Bellefort surveyed his visitor with the eye of a social critic. This man, he thought, is bourgeois to the core. He dresses well, in clothing that befits his standing as a private banker of some eminence in Alsace. He sported a waxed imperial beard and whiskers. He would normally cut an impressive figure enough; but now his eyes held fear and apprehension. Yes, he had chosen his man well from the twenty-four names on the Alsace List. Norbert had been foolish enough to involve himself in a conspiracy against the German authorities. Well, he would be made to pay for his folly, but in a way that he would not have anticipated.

  ‘I came here today, Monsieur de Bellefort,’ said Norbert haughtily, ‘because I was intrigued by the over-familiar and impertinent nature of your letter. It seemed to contain a threat, and I am not accustomed to being threatened. Who are you? And what do you want?’

  ‘Excellent! I admire your attempt at bluster, but it won’t do, you know. I am concerned about your health, Monsieur Norbert, and about the health of your friends….’

  As he repeated the other twenty-three names on the Alsace List, he saw his visitor grow deathly pale. His words, as he knew they would, had struck home. Now was the time to press his advantage.

  ‘We need waste no more time in bandying idle words, Monsieur Norbert,’ he said. ‘You, and those other men, entered into a conspiracy against the German Reich, which was to lead to insurrection and sabotage. The French Foreign Ministry has compiled a list of all twenty-four of you, with your aims and objectives clearly set out. The idea was to warn you all privately not to carry out your foolish intentions. You, I suspect, favour the Republican cause; others in your gang are anarchists, and socialists.’

  ‘Monsieur—’

  ‘Monseigneur. You were saying?’

  ‘Monseigneur, I confess that what you say is true. Why deny it? But how did this knowledge fall into your hands?’

  ‘The list of names was stolen from where it had been temporarily lodged, in the French Ministry of Marine. It came into the possession of another, and was then acquired by me. I have it now, safely hidden away. Now, there is a man living here in Amiens called Herr Pfeifer, an agent for German Intelligence. I have only to take the Alsace List to him, and he will pay me very handsomely—’

  ‘But you are a Frenchman! Surely you would not betray us to the enemy?’

  ‘Yes, I am a Frenchman, but you, Monsieur Norbert, are now a German, living in the German territory of Elsass-Lothringen. That is the law, the law of nations. In the eyes of all countries that have accepted the settlement of 1870, you are a traitor to your country – Germany – and so are your fellow conspirators. Do not expect the French to move in the matter. If your treachery is revealed to the German authorities, you will all be rounded up and hanged. Your property will be confiscated, your families beggared. And no one, Monsieur Norbert, will lift a finger to prevent that.’

  ‘And you intend to inform against us?’ asked Norbert, faintly.

  ‘Me? Certainly not – at least not yet. If you and your fellow-conspirators will furnish me with ten thousand pounds in Bank of England notes, I will give you the Alsace List, and you will be free to destroy it. What do you say?’

  De Bellefort saw that he had won before ever the wretched banker opened his mouth to reply. The fear seemed to drain almost literally from his eyes, and he uttered a long sigh of relief. £10,000 was evidently not an unattainable fortune to this prosperous banker.

  ‘I can undertake to do as you ask,’ said Norbert. ‘When do you require this money?’

  ‘You must bring it, secure in a valise, to a place that I will indicate to you, later. You and I will meet there, and make the exchange. I will trust you, because you are a well-established and responsible figure in the world of banking. You can trust me, because I am an aristocrat of the old order, and my word is my bond.

  ‘The exchange will take place this coming Saturday, the twenty-second. Meanwhile, monsieur, you must lodge in Paris until the affair is concluded. I will be in Paris myself from Thursday afternoon. You will find me at the Hôtel Stella Maris in Montmartre. Call there on Thursday evening, and I will give you details of Saturday’s rendezvous.’

  ‘And I can trust you to keep to your bargain? You will understand that you can furnish me with no securities—’

  ‘There speaks the true banker!’ said De Bellefort. ‘I have already given you my word as a member of the ancienneté. But if that is not sufficient for you, Monsieur Norbert, let me define our relationship in simple, practical terms. I want money and you want security. It is in both our interests to make an exchange. I think that’s all. Until Thursday, then, in Montmartre.’

  When the badly shaken banker had gone, Alain de Bellefort sat in thought for a while. That fool would come up with the money, sure enough, and once he had received the forged duplicate of the Alsace List, it would be in Norbert’s interest to destroy it. Thus no record of their transaction would survive as a possible source of future mischief. The exchange, though, would be very tricky, because on the same day, and in the same place, he would deliver up the true Alsace List to Herr Pfeifer.

  What did he care for any of these people? Let the Germans do as they wished. Twenty thousand pounds, paid discreetly into an account with Coutts and Company of London, would be the foundation of his great project: the restoration of the House of De Bellefort to its ancient glory.

  As Monsieur Norbert walked disconsolately away from the hotel where he had come face to face with De Bellefort, he wondered whether he looked as corpse-pale as he felt. Did these passers-by in the old winding street sense his feeling of total despair? He caught his own reflection in a shop window, and marvelled at how smart and well set up he looked, when inside he felt that he was in the grip of a rapidly fatal illness.

  That fellow had demanded a fortune; well, he could afford to give it to him. But could he trust him? Once in possession of that fatal document, he would burn it to ashes. What a fool he had been to join that conspiracy! And what incompetents the French authorities had been, to let their most secret documents be plundered from their secure places, and traded by the likes of this De Bellefort!

  He had received De Bellefort’s letter in the general post at his elegant villa in one of the better suburbs of Metz. It had been couched in discreet but curiously familiar and impertinent language, as though the writer despised him and his class. He had showed it to no one, not even his wife. The fear of German frightfulness was still strong in Alsace, and poor Marie would have gone into hysterics had she known about the great conspiracy.

  Well, he must do as the fellow said, and trust in Providence. He had better stay in Montmartre himself: he knew a quiet little hotel near the Sacré Coeur where he could lodge until the ordeal was over.

  As Monsieur Norbert turned out of the street and into a little square of ancient gabled houses, he was accosted by a gentleman in a rather loud sage-green suit, who raised his bowler hat and smiled a greeting. He began to speak, and though his French was perfect, it was spoken with a pronounced English accent.

  ‘Monsieur Norbert?’ he said. ‘I believe that you have just come from visiting a Monsieur De Bellefort, who is staying at that little hotel opposite the cathedral. You look quite pale and upset. Look, here is a decent little café. Let me buy you a coffee and brandy.’

  ‘I … I do not know you, sir,’ stammered the banker. ‘What business is it of yours whom I choose to visit?’

  ‘My name is Major Ronald Blythe, Monsieur Norbert,’ said the man in the green suit, ‘and anything that concerns De Bellefort concerns me. Come, drink some coffee with me, and sip some brandy. I think that you will be very interested in what I have to tell you.’

  ‘Paris?’ said Colonel Kershaw aloud. ‘Paris? Why should De Bellefort go there when he is due to meet Pfeifer in Kew Gardens this Saturday? He’s cutting things fine. Or is he up to some new devilry?’

  There was no one to reply to Kershaw’s questions, as the room in which he stood was empty. At certain times of the week, Sir Charles Napier allowed Kershaw to commandeer his private telegraph apparatus, which was lodged in a small chamber attached to the Under-Secretary’s suite on the first floor of the Foreign Office. It was the afternoon of Tuesday, 18 September, and the colonel had just received a telegraph message from Major Ronald Blythe in Amiens. He re-read the final paragraph.

  I think, Major Blythe had written, that De Bellefort intends to sell a fake copy of the Alsace List to an Alsatian banker, Monsieur Norbert. That can be the only explanation of his conduct, as he also intends to pass the real document to Pfeifer at the Queen’s Cottage this Saturday. I will follow him to Paris, and observe what he does. If he wants to go through with the business at Kew this Saturday, then he’s cutting things fine.

  So De Bellefort had decided to play a double game. He would rob the Alsatian banker, and then betray him to German Intelligence. He would retire to Normandy with a fortune, while the banker Norbert and his foolish companions went to the gallows. Well, De Bellefort would have to be stopped at all costs, and the whole business forgotten. There were ways of ensuring that the Alsace List would remain as nothing more harmful than a vague rumour, mentioned occasionally in diplomatic circles. Now, Kershaw determined, was the time for action.

  Queen Charlotte’s Cottage, thought Box, was something more than a mere copy of a peasant’s rustic dwelling. It was certainly not large, but it had fine mullioned windows let into both storeys, and deep thatched roofs. It was surrounded by trees and artfully contrived wild gardens.

  Arnold Box had felt compelled to come out to the pleasant area of Richmond and Kew to see for himself the spot that De Bellefort had chosen to hand over the Alsace List to his German contact. For somebody like himself, born within the sound of Bow bells, the whole district had the quality of an idyllic fairyland. He had come out early on that Tuesday morning, crossed the river by means of Kew Bridge, and wandered through the Old Deer Park until he reached the thirty-seven acres of garden in which the cottage stood.

  It was a very pleasant September day, with a clear blue sky, and there were many visitors in the grounds, making their way to the Royal Botanic Gardens, and to Kew Palace beyond. Somewhere in this rural retreat, the French traitor would meet the German agent. Perhaps they would meet in the house? Colonel Kershaw would have thought of all this, of course, but there was no harm in doing some intelligence work of his own on the spot. Should he go in the house? Why not? It was only sixpence for the guided tour.

  In the dim but elegantly furnished entrance hall of the cottage, an eager, intelligent young man in a grey suit had assembled a group of six visitors ready to begin the tour. Box put his sixpence into a basin on the hall table, and joined the party. Standing beside the others, he gave his full attention to the guide.

  ‘Welcome to Queen Charlotte’s Cottage, ladies and gentlemen,’ said the young man, in a clear and pleasant voice. ‘It was built in 1771, as a wedding present for the Queen when she married King George III. As you may know, the Hanoverian Royal Family made Kew Palace their home, so the cottage was not so very far away.’

  ‘Did Queen Charlotte actually live here?’ asked one of the lady visitors.

  ‘Well, madam, she would stay here for a day or two, in the summer. The whole Royal Family would come here to enjoy a picnic and a long ramble through the grounds, and then they’d have tea. Servants would come over from Richmond Lodge to wait on them. Now, if you’ll follow me, we’ll go into the front parlour….’

  I suppose De Bellefort could pass his envelope to the German agent in here quite easily, thought Box. After all, everybody would be looking at the guide. And when he’d got it, the German could slip quietly away. But then, Colonel Kershaw would have his own people in the cottage, and a posse hidden in the grounds.

  ‘… a very fine carved oak table, brought from Hanover, and the chairs are by Sheraton, though one or two of them are thought to have been brought here later than Queen Charlotte’s time. The portrait above the fireplace is of Edward, Duke of Kent, fourth son of George III, and father of our present gracious Queen, Victoria.’

  There were some ‘ohs’ and ‘ahs’ from the visitors, who crowded around the fireplace to look more closely at the portrait.

  ‘Did old King George himself ever come here?’ asked one of the men.

  ‘Well, as I said, he would come here for picnics with the family,’ said the guide. ‘He was very fond of the house, but he never came back here after 1808. The last time the Royal Family used it was in 1818, at the time of the double wedding of the Duke of Kent (up there, over the fireplace), and his brother, the Duke of Clarence, later King William IV. We leave here now, and proceed to the kitchen.’

  By the time that they had been shown the kitchens, and the quiet little bedrooms on the upper storey, Box had developed a healthy respect for the guide. The young man seemed to be steeped in the history of the place, and had shown a genuine appreciation for its contents and history.

  The tour ended where it had begun, in the hall, but the little knot of visitors seemed unwilling to leave the house.

  ‘Does the cottage still belong to the Queen?’ asked one of them.

  ‘Yes, it does, sir, and it’s looked after by a resident housekeeper. But in 1898, which will be the year of her Diamond Jubilee, Her Majesty intends to give the house and grounds to the nation.’

  ‘It’s very pretty,’ remarked one of the ladies, looking round the hall with a critical eye, ‘but it’s not really a cottage, is it? Not the type of place a farm labourer lives in.’

  ‘Well, no, ma’am,’ said the guide, ‘not really. It was what in those days they called a cottage orné, a picturesque little house in which people of the highest rank could indulge their fantasy of living a “simple” life, like that of most of their subjects. Of course, Queen Charlotte was a very nice lady, and nobody begrudged her this rural retreat. But a decade later, another very great lady decided to copy the idea, and had a cottage built for herself, one of twelve, arranged to form a little hamlet. That lady was Marie-Antoinette, the wife of Louis XVI. As you know, her life ended on the guillotine, but the Queen’s Cottage, as it is called, still stands in the grounds of the Palace of Versailles, twelve miles from Paris.’

  Arnold Box pushed open the door of Mr Broadbent’s tobacconist’s shop in Ashentree Court and strode across to the counter, where the proprietor was absorbed in consulting some kind of ledger. It was no time for the usual proprieties.

  ‘Where is he?’ Box demanded. ‘I must see him straight away.’

  Mr Broadbent smiled, and pointed to the door behind the counter.

  ‘He’s here, in the back room, Inspector Box,’ he said. ‘Go straight through. No one will disturb you.’

  Colonel Kershaw had resumed his customary dress. He sat behind a little table, clad in his long black overcoat with the astrakhan collar. His tall silk hat stood on the table, with his black suede gloves placed inside it. He appeared to be doing nothing, but as soon as Box appeared he sprang to the alert.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked sharply.

  ‘Sir,’ said Box, ‘I have just returned from the Queen’s Cottage at Kew. I thought it was time for me to have a look at it before we went out there on Saturday to apprehend the felon De Bellefort. Sir, it is the wrong cottage.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘The guide who showed us round the house told us that there is another building called the Queen’s Cottage, and that it stands in the grounds of the Palace of Versailles, a few miles from Paris. Surely, sir, that is where De Bellefort plans to meet this man Pfeifer?’

  ‘Well done, Box!’ cried Kershaw. ‘Really, I’m getting too old for this business. Trust you to find that out, while I was sitting here, thinking! Yes, that’s why De Bellefort has moved from Amiens to Paris, in order to prepare for a rendezvous at Versailles. He’s being shadowed by Major Ronald Blythe – you remember him, don’t you, from that Aquila Project business? Blythe telegraphed me earlier today at the Foreign Office, to say that De Bellefort was going on from Amiens to Paris.’

  Colonel Kershaw stood up, and made as though to retrieve his hat. Then he suddenly sat down again. He looked worried.

  ‘I shall have to change my plan,’ he said. ‘I’ve already approached Baron Augustiniak, and he has readily agreed to return the Alsace List to the French Foreign Office without the French or German Governments being aware of the matter. There will be a massive sigh of relief in diplomatic circles, and the fact of the list’s existence will simply be transposed into a rumour that proved to be false.

  ‘But now, Box, I think that I’ll tackle the problem of retrieving the list myself. I will deliver it personally to Baron Augustiniak on our return to London – I say “our”, because I take it that you’ll throw in your lot with me. You usually do.’

  ‘I will, sir.’

  ‘Good man. Now, let me tell you about a man called Norbert, who has been dragged into the business by this villain.’ Briefly, Kershaw outlined the substance of the telegraph message that he had received earlier in the day. ‘You see how it complicates matters? There will be two recipients of Alsace Lists lurking around the Palace of Versailles, one in the vicinity of the Queen’s Cottage, and the other in some location as yet unknown. It will be a tricky business to keep an eye on both, and render them harmless without arousing public alarm. Remember, the Palace of Versailles will probably be crowded with visitors.

  ‘Can you obtain a warrant of arrest within the next twenty-four hours?’ Kershaw continued. ‘When we run De Bellefort to ground, you can have the pleasure of taking him into custody. Will you have to let the Quai D’Orsay know of your intention?’