Writ in blood : a novel of Saint-Germain Read online

  It was raining, a weepy spring rain that made London seem to be a sepia print of itself. All the buildings faded to an indistinct grey and the tops of them blended with the streaming clouds. A dank chill ate into the bones and penetrated clothing so that everyone on the street huddled into themselves in the hopeless quest for warmth. As Ragoczy left his house, he was grateful for the lining of Astrakhan lamb that made his black woollen cloak better protection than most Londoners had from greatcoats and similar rain gear; the black boots on his small feet were also lined with shearling lamb. His black Florentine gloves were silk-lined and concealed his eclipse signet ring on the little finger of his right hand. His umbrella protected his black silk hat from the worst of the rain. He was pleased to see his new Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost waiting, at idle, by the kerb-side, his hired chauffeur standing beside the open door. Ragoczy went to the motor car, furled his umbrella, removed his hat, and got in, handing a slip of paper to Harris as he did.

  “That is our destination this morning, Harris. You need not rush on my account; there is more than enough time to reach our destination in the appointed time.” He settled back in the dark red leather of the seat, watching as Harris got behind the wheel and prepared to drive off into the confusion of vehicles that made up the midday traffic in London.

  “Will you want me to wait?” asked Harris, anticipating their arrival as they prepared to set off.

  “Very likely,” said Ragoczy, and added with less determination, “Although I have no notion how long I will be.”

  Harris, whose face showed the lean, lined results of a youth spent in poverty, handled the Silver Ghost like a lover, his hands caressing all he touched, easing the automobile forward with a mixture of concern and eagerness. “Til take care of her, sir. You just go about your work.” In spite of his best intentions to pay no heed to what this foreign gentleman s work might be, he could not completely banish his curiosity, though he did his best to disguise it. “Takes long, does it? Your work?” He could not be much more than thirty, but his straight brown hair was already touched with grey; he behaved as if he were forty.

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  “I am not sure; occasionally yes,” said Ragoczy, frowning slightly. He glanced out the small rear window. Although Ragoczy owned four buildings in London, three of them houses, all but the warehouse were tenanted. Not wanting to draw attention to his presence, he had arranged to let this house in a small mews between Grosvenor and Berkeley Squares. The main attraction of the house was not the May-fair location but the vast and empty top floor where Ragoczy could establish his laboratory, and the huge cellar where the crates of his native earth were stored. As the Rolls-Royce pulled away toward Mount Street, Ragoczy wondered idly if he should arrange to purchase the house.

  “Piccadilly to Haymarket do, sir?” asked Harris. There was a minor collision at the comer where a horse-drawn delivery wagon had collided with a motorized bicycle. The cyclist was sitting in the street, blood running down his face between his fingers, the drayer off his driving box fussing over his bruised horses. Half a dozen men had gathered at the comer to stare and venture opinions.

  “Whichever is the most direct way to the law courts,” said Ragoczy, whose last stay in London had been more than two decades earlier. “Should we stop to assist?”

  “They’ll work it out, sir,” said Harris, with the snobbery of one who had escaped that life through the most relentless determination. “Best not interfere.”

  Ragoczy did not argue, though he felt a quick stab of remembered grief for Hercule, who had been his coachman a century and a half ago; Hercule would have insisted they stop for such an accident: it was one of the many things about Hercule he had admired. He put his hand to the front of his cloak, and felt through his gloves and garments the stiffness of the heavy paper carried in his inner jacket pocket. The paper seemed as unyielding as metal. Three letters were there, all bearing the two-headed eagle seal of Czar Nicolai II, who signed himself Nicholas in English, as his English grandfather had taught him. It was perplexing to have to approach Edward VII so circumspectly, but a direct and formal encounter would bring about the kind of attention Czar Nicholas wanted most to avoid. “Harris.”

  “Yes, sir?” responded the chauffeur.

  “You’d better find a place to keep this motor car out of sight. It is not unknown in London, and my work here is confidential. It is best to attract only mild curiosity, nothing more.” He did not like having to tell Harris so much: the man was untried.

  “I’ll take her ’round to the British Museum, sir, if that will do. For-

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  eigners are always stopping there, and well-bred folk. A Silver Ghost won’t seem peculiar there. No one will think anything about her.” It was apparent he would take great satisfaction driving the splendid automobile without a passenger.

  “Very good, Harris,” said Ragoczy, slightly amused by the realization that Harris’ greatest loyalty was to the Rolls-Royce. “You may let me out at Fleet Street at Chancery Lane.” Being so close to the heart of ever-curious, ever-vigilant British journalism, which was centered in Fleet Street, made Ragoczy uncomfortable and wary, but his behavior did not reflect any of this.

  “Yes, sir,” said Harris, suspecting that Ragoczy wished to keep his ultimate destination a secret even from him.

  They reached The Strand readily enough, and continued on to the beginning of Fleet Street. Here there were more motor cars and fewer horse-drawn vehicles than in some other parts of the sprawling city; Harris threaded his way between the automobiles with expert care. Drawing the Silver Ghost to the side of the street to permit Ragoczy to step down, he said, “Will you need more than two hours, sir?”

  “I certainly hope not,” said Ragoczy with feeling. “I will meet you at the British Museum when I have concluded my dealings here. I would not suppose that I will be longer than two hours at most. If I am going to be more than three, I will telephone the Museum and have you informed of when to expect me.” He had already taken his umbrella and was reaching for his silk hat.

  “No offense intended, sir, but you do look a proper toff,” said Harris as Ragoczy prepared to get out of the motor car.

  Ragoczy paused before saying, “Why, thank you, Harris. I do my best to be.” With that, he opened the door and went out into the rain, opening his umbrella as he did.

  Harris continued up Chancery Lane, wishing the sky would clear so he could take the top down and all the world could see him at the wheel of Ragoczy s Silver Ghost. He consoled himself with the thought that he had been employed to work a full year—there would be plenty of chances for him to tool the streets in style once spring took hold.

  There was an uninformative brass plaque on the side of the Tudor building where Ragoczy had been summoned: #2, St. Dunstan-the-West Close. Ragoczy opened the door and stepped into a small, marble-columned lobby of Georgian design. Ahead was a reception desk, and Ragoczy again closed his umbrella as he approached. “Good morning,” he said to the lanky young man behind the desk. “My name is Franchot Ragoczy. I am here to see a Julian Sinclair-Howard. He is expecting me.”

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  With this, he handed over a card with his precise signature and title on it, his present address written beneath.

  “What is the purpose of your call?” asked the young man with an officious sniff at Ragoczy s card; he did not bother to read it.

  “I believe that is something between Mister Sinclair-Howard and me.” Ragoczy did not change the tone of his voice nor his posture, but there was something in his dark eyes that stopped the next question cold in the young mans throat.

  Til tell him you are here,” he muttered, glad for the excuse to look away. His fingers reached for one of the jacks on the telephone equipment before him, and connected it to a socket. A moment later he spoke into the bell of the speaker angled out from the array of sockets. “There is someone here to see you.” He all but whispered it,
as if the visit would be news to Ragoczy.

  “The name,” the Count said in a low voice, “is Ragoczy.”

  The young man visibly jumped and duly repeated the name, then relayed the information that Mister Sinclair-Howard would see him in five minutes. He inspected the card before holding it out, attempting to restore his dignity by remarking, “I am a trifle puzzled by your name: I would have thought you pronounced it Rah-go-chee, or something like that.”

  “My family is a very old one. Rah-go-shkee is the pronunciation left over from several centuries ago. Rah-go-chee, or similar variants, is along the lines of Chum-ley, or Fan-shaw.” He deliberately chose two noble English families whose names over time had come to be pronounced markedly unlike they were spelled.

  “I see,” said the young man, who clearly did not. He put the card down on the desk to his right. “May I keep this?”

  “I expected you would,” said Ragoczy as he shrugged out of his cloak and draped it over his arm, revealing a neat black suit, white silk shirt, and a deep red damask tie patterned with his device: the eclipse. “If you will tell me where I should dispose of these?”

  Again the young man looked nonplused. “There is a cloakroom just under the stairs. Mathews will see to you.”

  “How good of you, and Mathews,” said Ragoczy as he removed his gloves and thrust them into the inner pocket of his cloak. He rubbed his hands together briskly and stepped up to the cloakroom.

  Mathews proved to be an ancient servant with a few wisps of white hair smoothed across his bald pate. He took the cloak, umbrella, and hat from Ragoczy, muttering, “Very superior quality, if I may say so,” as he found hangers for them. “And the name?”

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  Thinking of the young man at the reception desk, Ragoczy gave his title instead. “Count Saint-Germain,” he said, not wanting to create more confusion.

  “A foreign title; don’t run into them every day,” said Mathews as he scribbled it on three tags. “I will remember.”

  “Thank you, Mathews,” said Ragoczy as he returned to the reception desk. “There,” he informed the young man. “I am now wholly at Mister Sinclair-Howards disposal.”

  “He will call directly. I have a copy of the Times, sir, if you would care to—” he ventured.

  “I’ve already read it.” Ragoczy was careful not to be too brusque with the skittish young man. “And doubtless the five minutes are nearly up. If you will tell me where I will find Mister Sinclair-Howards office?”

  “Top of the second flight of stairs, the first door on your right after the lift.” He cleared his throat. “There has been trouble with the lift, or I ... ”

  “Never mind,” said Ragoczy, going toward the stairs. “I prefer to walk in any case.”

  The marble treads were old enough to be worn, but they were still slick, and made haste in climbing them a reckless notion. The bannister was covered in velvet, also tastefully worn although in excellent repair. Ragoczy went up at a sedate pace, pausing at the top of the first flight of stairs to look down on the lobby with its fine Doric columns at odds with the electric bulbs in the Victorian chandelier that had originally been fitted for gaslights. He ascended the second flight and found himself in a wood-paneled corridor with a number of doors ranged along it, each flanked by electric bulbs covered with translucent shellshaped lamp-holders. The collapsible brass lift doors carried a notice asking would-be users to take the stairs instead. Beyond that, as the young man had said, was a door with Julian sinclair-howard picked out in small, gold-foil letters.

  In answer to Ragoczy s single knock, a deep, well-bred voice replied, “In a moment.” After a brief silence, there were four muffled steps and then three clear ones—Sinclair-Howard’s office was carpeted—before the door was opened and the same voice said, “Count Ragoczy. Right on the minute. Not many foreigners are so punctual. What a pleasure to meet you.” He held out his hand. He was fair, blue-eyed, cleanshaven and ruddy-cheeked, less than thirty-five, and handsome in the hale, horsey way many well-born English were, with that lingering air of hauteur that detracted from his outward charm. Although he was

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  dressed in full diplomatic kit, it was easy to imagine him in pink coat and breeches, riding to hounds in the morning and relaxing over port and cigars in the evening.

  Ragoczy took the proffered hand, saying with slight diffidence, “Actually, it is Count Saint-Germain, for what you would call the fief. Ragoczy is my family name.” He did not add that the Ragoczy title was Prince.

  “Oh, yes?” said Sinclair-Howard; he could not conceal his distrust of the elegant foreigner, nor his own sense of ineffable superiority to Ragoczy, whose title was not English and whose accent was unknown to him. “Sorry to have got it wrong. Crosleigh must have been mistaken.”

  “The young man at the reception desk?” Ragoczy asked, thinking that it was not a promising indication when a man had to put responsibility for so minor an error on another.

  “Yes. Mister Crosleigh is recently graduated from King’s Cambridge. He has his sights set on an ambassadors post.” Sinclair-Howard chuckled to indicate that this was most unlikely.

  “It is not important,” Ragoczy assured him. “A minor thing at best.”

  Sinclair-Howard murmured what was probably an apology as he held the door for Ragoczy. “If you will step inside, Count.”

  “Thank you,” Ragoczy said, noticing as he did that the carpet was fine quality Bohkara, in lustrous shades of deep red and intense blue with details in black, ivory, and rose. He turned back to Sinclair-Howard and said, “This is magnificent.”

  “Wog children make them,” said Sinclair-Howard. “Filthy practice, though the results are, as you say, magnificent.” He indicated the leather upholstered chair that faced his campaign desk. “If you will.”

  “Certainly,” said Ragoczy, following the young diplomats suggestion. “This is very nice. It is Turkish leather, isn’t it?” The chair was tall-backed and overstuffed; the leather creaked as Ragoczy sat down.

  “That’s right. English manufacture, of course.” He paused, inclining his head inquiringly, like a large dog; he all but sniffed the air. “Can I get you something before we begin? Sherry, perhaps, or tea?” He had walked around behind his desk and opened a cabinet. “I’ll have to send for the tea, but sherry, port, and whisky are here. What shall it be?”

  Ragoczy considered the offer. “Nothing, thank you.” He saw the tightening of Sinclair-Howard’s mouth. “But if you would like to have something for yourself, do not let my abstention stop you.” He realized that this was not sufficient for Sinclair-Howard to ignore his long train-

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  ing, so he added, “I have a . . . condition of the blood which does not permit such indulgence. I do not wish to impose my limitations on others.”

  “Blood condition, is it?” said Sinclair-Howard as he turned to pour himself a bit of sherry. “How unfortunate. And what a bore for you. It must be a great inconvenience.”

  “In some ways,” said Ragoczy with a slight shrug. “I have learned to live with it, over time.” He directed his dark, enigmatic eyes on Sinclair-Howard. “Forgive my next suggestion, but I cannot help but want to avoid all the required pleasantries: they are tiresome and accomplish little. I realize that they are considered a common courtesy, but I find them more a disruption. Let us, therefore, agree that the weather is dreadful, that my passage was about the usual duration for this time of year”—although to him, crossing water was always an ordeal—“that the press has become insolent as well as intrusive, and that the international situation is hazardous. That should save us some time, and permit us to address the Czars concerns at once.”

  “How ...” He could not think of an appropriate comment; he sat down abruptly, his sherry in front of him, and said, “Very well.” He cleared his throat, trying to accommodate Ragoczys request. “What am I to have the pleasure of doing for you?”

  R
agoczy reached into his inner pocket and drew out one of the envelopes there. This he laid on the desk and said, “I am sure you know the seal, Mister Sinclair-Howard. If not, I can provide verification for you.”

  “Czar Nicholas Romanov,” said Sinclair-Howard, doing his best to be unsurprised. He knew that Ragoczy had come from Saint Petersburg when he was first contacted, but had not assumed his mandate came from so high a source; in his experience, exiles rarely were accorded more than token acceptance, but this indicated genuine trust, and a position beyond what most foreigners attained.

  “This is for you to read. It will explain my purpose far better than I.” Ragoczy sat back in the leather chair and waited while Sinclair-Howard lifted the seal with a penknife and drew out the single sheet of paper where the Czar had written in English what he wished this assistant of Edward VIIs secretary and remembrancer to do for him.

  At the conclusion of his perusal, Sinclair-Howard drank down all his sherry and went to the cabinet for more. “Most interesting. The proposal is . . . unique in my experience. The Czar must have a great deal of faith in you, Count, if your mission is in actuality the one described in this letter. A great deal of faith. It is a most. . . um . . . delicate one,

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  from what he reveals in this. To employ.. . someone like you to undertake such a commission is . . . unusual.” His hands were steady as he poured, but the steadiness was a visible effort for him to maintain.

  “I would suppose it is, which is why I am seeking to accomplish it through semiofficial channels rather than the usual ones.” Ragoczy made a self-effacing gesture. “I have not read that letter; I am guessing at its contents. I was given it sealed upon the eve of my departure.”

  “Strange, for him to trust a foreigner, particularly as he is a Russian.” His implied question was suspended between them.