The King's Commisar

'I have an appointment,' Graves said, presenting his card, 'with Mr O'Hara.'

'One moment, sir.'

The girl who came over to him was O'Hara's secretary. Mr O'Hara would not be in until after luncheon. Yes, she knew Mr Graves had an appointment; yes, she realized he had come from London; indeed an attempt had been made to call his office and warn him. No, it was impossible to get a message to Mr O'Hara. But he would be in after lunch.

O'Hara arrived, finally, at a quarter to three and Graves, who had been cooling his heels with growing impatience for four and three-quarter hours was shown in. O'Hara, a big open-faced Irishman, was very apologetic and extremely sorry to hear that the warning message had not reached Graves at Hillyward, Cleef.

'But what is it I can do for you, Mr Graves?'

Graves removed two envelopes from his slender document case. Handing the first, and fatter, envelope to O'Hara, he said, 'We are fulfilling the terms of some old and somewhat, er, odd instructions. These are the deeds of a house, which you are to inspect and be sure they are what we say they are. And this -' he offered the second envelope - 'is our cheque for the sum of fifty thousand. Both are to be passed to the holder of an account here.'

'Lucky fella,' said O'Hara. 'Whose account is that?'

'I don't know.'

O'Hara smiled. 'As you say, odd. But if you can't tell me the name -?'

'There's a number. It's a special -'

He was interrupted by the ringing of the telephone on O'Hara's desk.

'Excuse me.' O'Hara picked it up. 'Yes,' he said. Then, 'No.' Then 'Two and one, my dear, a diplomatic defeat.' Then, 'Well, nobody can go round Birkdale without -' He stopped, the open face suddenly flushing. 'I'll call you later, dear.'

'Golf?' Graves said, anger almost erupting. 'You were playing golf?' O'Hara's explanation was as full as his apologies were fulsome. 'Called out at the last minute, terribly sorry, but the General Manager . . , and one of our most important customers . . , promotion in the wind, you know .., no way of refusing . . . Now, you were saying?'

'I was saying there is a special account at this bank. It's number is X253.'

'An X account is it? Well, well. First time I've encountered any business with one of those. So these -' he held up the two envelopes - 'go to the account holder.'

'The cheque does. The deeds are to be inspected by you. And in return there should be some papers.'

'I see.' O'Hara rose. 'You'll excuse me a moment?'

He came back two or three minutes later, a deed box in his hands. 'The old and held file, that's what we call this, Mr Graves. Real mystery stuff. Now -' He found a key on a big ring and turned it in the lock. There was a fat foolscap-sized envelope in the box. It was sealed with wax, which O'Hara broke. He took out a sheet of paper and read it, then looked across the desk. 'Very well, Mr Graves.' From inside the envelope he took another, its shape familiar by now to Graves. 'I am to give you this. Perhaps you'll sign for it?'

Graves took out his pen. 'Yes. Oh, by the way.'

'Hmmm?' O'Hara glanced across.

'Whose account is it?'

A slow smile spread across the Irishman's features. 'Oh, now, Mr Graves! You know I can't tell you.'

'Then I'll just have to find out,' said Graves.

'Do. If you can.' O'Hara laughed. 'We're as tight as the Swiss here, and twice as difficult!'

'You wouldn't care to make it easier?'

'No.'

Graves put the new packet of papers into his document case, and left the manager's office. Outside, in the main business area, he picked up a copy of the Financial Times and took a seat, from which he had a good view of the whole floor. Carefully, he surveyed the staff of the Irish Linen Bank. Quite a number, he knew from experience, would regard an offered chance of a move to Hillyard, Cleef as one of life's great wonders. Few, however would have access to information about secret accounts. But somebody must - in case, for instance, O'Hara dropped dead on the golf-course. As Graves profoundly wished he would. The question was, who? The assistant manager, the accountant? O'Hara, meanwhile, was at his desk. The deed box still stood open before him. The foolscap envelope which had held the packet had also held something else: another envelope. His sheet of instructions told him to post it. He looked at the address before placing it in his out-tray. It was addressed to Coutts & Co., The Strand, London.

All very mysterious, O'Hara thought.

But he was more concerned with another mystery: O'Hara was in line for promotion, that much he knew. The question was: would it be to London or Dublin? It occupied his mind. Later his eye fell upon the envelope again as it lay waiting for his secretary to take away. Coutts, it occurred to him, were the royal bankers, and O'Hara enjoyed little flights of fantasy. Could this be a royal mystery?

CHAPTER SIX

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Third instalment of the account, written by LtCdr H. G. Dikeston, RN, of his journeyings

in Russia in the spring of 1918

I have observed before in these papers that to set eyes upon the Grand Duchess Maria Nikolaevna was to be aware on the instant that here was a human being of the finest. Something curious was there in the face and one can always tell ; one can look at a man of position and know him at once for a rascal, at a tramp and know him for a decent fellow. Some people are incapable of giving importance to words over which they labour long; there are others whose lightest remark is worth attention. All this is difficult to convey, and indeed there is no real need to attempt to do so, for all of us know the truth of it. Thus when, in the corridor of the train, moving through the night between Kulomzino and Tyumen, the door of the royal compartment opened and the Grand Duchess spoke, her words, though simple, conveyed much.

'May I talk to you?' was all she said. Yet I at once understood much more from certain subtleties of emphasis. I understood that she felt disloyal in leaving her parents even briefly; that such a brief escape was none the less necessary to her; that she sensed a future in which free talk would be rare for her. Many things.

'Of course. Your Royal -'

'Oh no!' she protested. 'I'm not a royal anything.' Then she laughed quietly. 'Except perhaps a royal relic. My name is Marie.'

I found myself smiling. 'Very well, ma'am.'

'Marie. Say it.'

I said it.

'Good. And you are Henry, I know that. Oh, so English a name! I've been there, you know. To England, I mean.'

'I know.'

'Father says you are a sailor. I met a young English sailor once - Prince Louis of Battenberg. You know him?'

'No. But I know of him.'

'I liked him. I think I like the English. Do you like Russians?'

'Some more than others."

'Oh yes.' She laughed. 'Some much more! You know, Henry - this is very wrong.'

'What is?' Though I knew.

She giggled. 'Why - standing in the dark talking to a sailor. Oh, shameful! And unique, I think.'

'Unique. A girl talking to a sailor? Hardly that.'

'Not an opportunity much granted to me,' she said. Then: 'Have you seen the world?'

'Some of it.'

'Tell me. I have seen so little. Have you been to China?'

'Yes.'

'Tell me about China.'

I can remember every second of it, that hour we passed in the Siberian night. In her lay a magical gaiety and attention and time went like the wind. How she could be so disposed, at a moment when only the most dangerous uncertainty lay ahead, is hard to understand, except that it was her nature. She wanted to know: I had seen and could tell. She was full of questions and swift insights following upon my answers. Nor would she allow talk of the present or the future: it was the wider world she wanted to know about; the world and the bright and exciting things in it. And so for a time we chattered and laughed, until she said suddenly. 'I must go,' and spoke my name. 'Good night, Henry.'