He sent the same message to Rosebery, via the Foreign Office. He wondered if Rosebery’s delicate nostrils might tell him something was slightly wrong in the wording of the message.
Ricky Crabbe bent over his code book. His right hand produced a new, completely unintelligible version of the messages which he proceeded to send to London at breakneck speed.
‘You’re here about that Mr Martin, aren’t you, my lord,’ he said to Powerscourt as his hands continued to tap out the code, ‘trying to find out what happened to him, isn’t that it?’
‘You’re absolutely right, Ricky,’ said Powerscourt, remembering what hotbeds of gossip places like embassies could be. ‘Do you know anything about it? You must have all kinds of secrets passing through your hands in such a sensitive and important post as this.’
Ricky Crabbe frowned. ‘Do you know something, Lord Powerscourt? You’re the first person who’s ever asked me that.’ He paused and stared at the last two lines of the despatches to London. ‘There’s just one thing, my lord. I’m sure it’s nothing, nothing at all.’ He paused again, and then hit about six of his keys in rapid succession.
‘There, they’ve gone. Now then, where was I? Mr Martin, that’s it. I’m fairly sure, my lord, but I couldn’t prove it, that at some point round about the time of Mr Martin’s disappearance, somebody used these machines here without my knowing. There were only two times over those days when I wasn’t here on duty – once I had an urgent signal to take immediately to His Nibs, and the other early the following evening when I was summoned for a drink in his office for Christmas. I didn’t know the summons was social, if you know what I mean, I thought it was just to pick up a message, so I ran as fast as I could. Now I think about it, my lord, that was the time when the lock on this door broke and we couldn’t find a Russian to come and fix it for about three days. They were all drunk. So I tried to do what I could but I suppose somebody could have walked in here and sent a message.’
‘Assuming they knew how to send one, that is,’ said Powerscourt.
‘Indeed, my lord, there’s none of the diplomats here know how to do it.’
Powerscourt wondered again if Martin had been a spy. Suddenly he remembered Sir Jeremiah Reddaway telling him that Martin had been trained in the use of the telegraph. These machines would hold no mystery for him. ‘What made you think, Ricky, that somebody else had been on your machines?’
‘Two things,’ said Ricky Crabbe promptly. ‘I always put the cover back on when I’m not actually using it.’ He took a dark cover off the machine and replaced it quickly. ‘When I got back, the cover was off.’
‘And the other thing?’
‘Well, that’s hard to explain, Lord Powerscourt. Telegraphists would find it easier to understand. I’ve got what they call a light hand, my lord, I don’t press down very hard on the keys. Whoever used it when I was away, if somebody did, had a much harder fist than me, so the key felt different for a little while when I got back. It had just got used to the other fellow, don’t you see.’
Endless possibilities were spooling out of Powerscourt’s brain. He suddenly realized how much it must have taken the young man to tell him this.
‘Ricky,’ he said, ‘I cannot tell you how grateful I am for this news. It may make a substantial difference to my inquiries. Naturally I do not have to remind you to keep all of what has passed between us this evening as confidential.’ He smiled happily at Ricky. ‘I can see that you are going to be as valuable a member of my team here as your brother was in South Africa!’
Ricky Crabbe turned pink with pleasure. ‘Thank you, my lord, thank you. I tell you what, my lord. I’ll keep all your messages here for you unless you want them sent round, if that would be a good plan.’
‘Excellent,’ said Powerscourt.
‘And there’s one other thing, my lord,’ said Ricky, as Powerscourt prepared to take his leave. ‘If you want to send a really private message to London, one nobody knows about, just let me know. Me and my brother have been experimenting with secret codes and things. I can certainly send you a message nobody else will be able to read.’
‘I’m delighted to hear that,’ said Powerscourt, shaking the young man’s hand. ‘Thank you very much indeed. And what is the appeal for your brother in his bank of these kind of messages, Ricky?’
Ricky laughed. ‘He says we could make our fortune, my lord. These banks, he says, are so obsessed with secrecy they’d pay a king’s ransom to be certain no other bugger was reading their messages.’
‘Hindustani Rules at the Embassy.’ Powerscourt was beginning his message to Johnny Fitzgerald, perched on the edge of de Chassiron’s desk, a sea of telegrams floating off to his right. He wondered if he should repeat the phrase and decided against it. Johnny was sure to remember the time he and Powerscourt had been reading the ingoing and outgoing messages to and from a rebellious Hindustani chieftain, allowing the British authorities to mount a deadly and devastating response to a rebellion the Maharajah had thought was entirely secret. Hindustani Rules would be enough to tell him that all formal traffic to and from the British Embassy was being decoded and read elsewhere. This message was going through Mikhail’s father’s telegraph machines to Johnny Fitzgerald via Powerscourt’s brother-in-law William Burke’s bank. ‘Urgently need information on Martin’s movements,’ Powerscourt’s message continued, ‘supposed to have been in St Petersburg on following dates: 1904, January 5th to 11th, March 21st to 29th, October 15th to 22nd. 1903, January 4th to 12th, March 23rd to 30th, October 1st to 9th. 1902, January 6th to 14th, October 5th to 12th. Please check via FO, FO travel agents, possibly Rosebery butler for unorthodox routes.’ Lord Rosebery’s butler, a man called Leith, was famous throughout Rosebery’s wide acquaintance for his encyclopedic knowledge of United Kingdom and European boat and railway timetables. If there was a coal steamer to Hamburg, connecting to a timber transport to Riga or Tallinn with virtually unknown railway links to St Petersburg, Leith would know about it. His admirers claimed that his greatest coup was to have spirited abroad, for a fee of five hundred pounds, a man not only wanted by the police, but watched for in person at every port and railway station in Britain. ‘Please check Martin financial situation with William Burke. Debts? Gambling? Women? When inquiries launched please proceed to St Petersburg as fast as possible. Could be preliminary reconnaissance for Birds of Northern Europe. Love to Lucy and the children. Looking forward to seeing you. Francis.’
Mikhail Shaporov and Natasha Bobrinsky were sitting demurely in front of the fire, drinking tea, when Powerscourt returned to the Great Drawing Room shortly after six thirty. He thought there was something slightly different about their clothes as if they might have been readjusted in a hurry or even taken off during his absence but he made no comment. He remembered that he was to have the pleasure of taking the two of them out to dinner in one of the Nevskii Prospekt’s finest hotels. He handed over his message to Johnny Fitzgerald.
‘It’s to my greatest friend,’ he said, smiling at the two of them. ‘We have been together on all my investigations.’
‘And will you ask him to join you here?’ asked Natasha, pouring Powerscourt a cup of tea.
‘Yes, I have,’ Powerscourt smiled.
‘I will take the message to my father’s telegraph office this evening,’ said Mikhail, ‘but come, Lord Powerscourt, we were going to talk about Mr Martin and how to find out if he has been here.’
‘Do you know why he came here?’ asked Natasha.