the shot or wield the steel that would set her free—and plunge Europe into civil war.
All this surmised in an instant, and whether ’twas all another great devilment of Bismarck’s, or whether Bismarck was guiltless and Willem had duped him as he’d duped me, didn’t matter. One thing was sure: I was implicated up to the neck, and as I knelt there sweating my imagination was picturing Willem out yonder, full of spite and sin, disposing of the hapless sentry, humouring the lock of the secret door, stealing up the secret stair knife in hand to the room where his royal victim was asleep … or dead already? I glanced in terror towards the passage entry—quick or dead, Franz-Josef was within forty feet of me … oh, Christ, how long had Willem been gone? I didn’t know. Was it too late to stop him? Perhaps not … but that was no work for me, bigod, not if I’d had ten loaded pistols and the Royal Marines at my back; not for Franz-Josef and a dozen like him would I have gone up against Willem von Starnberg, and as for Europe … but even as I took the first instinctive stride of panic-stricken flight, I came to a shuddering halt as the awful truth struck me.
I couldn’t run! It would be certain death, for if Willem had killed, or was about to kill, the Emperor, I’d be seen as his partner in crime, and while he would have his own escape nicely planned, I’d not have the ghost of a chance of avoiding capture, with the whole country on the look-out. And I’d never persuade them I was an innocent tool, or acting under orders from Downing Street—why, it was odds on I’d be shot on sight or cut down on the spot before I could utter a word in my defence.
I didn’t faint at the thought, but only the knowledge that I must act at once enabled me to fight down my mounting panic. Should I raise the alarm? God, no, I daren’t, for if Franz-Josef was already a goner, I’d be cooked. The only hope was that Willem hadn’t done for him yet, and that I could still … and that was when my legs almost gave way, and I found myself fairly sobbing with fear, for I knew I must go out into the ghastly dark, and find the murderous bastard and kill or disable him … why, even if Franz-Josef was already tuning up with the choir invisible I might wriggle clear if I could show that I’d flown to the rescue … too late, alas … oh Jesus, they’d never believe me!
'I’m innocent, gentlemen, I swear it!' I was bleating it softly in the darkness, and time was racing by, and I’d nothing but an empty pistol … but suppose Willem was still picking the lock, or waiting for moon-set, or for his Holnup confederates to arrive, or pausing to relieve himself or have a smoke, or for any other reason you like, and I could just steel myself to sally forth and find him, whispering raucously to identify myself … well, he might wonder what the blazes I was about, but he’d not shoot before asking questions … and I still had the seaman’s knife I’d slipped into my boot on the Orient Express, and he’d be off guard (just as his father had been when I’d parted his hair with the cherry brandy bottle)—he might even turn his back on me … well, it was that or the hangman’s rope, unless they still went in for beheading in Austria.
On that happy thought I put up my empty piece, transferred the knife from my boot to my pocket, and crept as fast as might he down the stairs with my heart against my back teeth. There was the window, pale in the gloom; I slipped over the sill to the ground … and realised I’d no notion where the sundial corner was. I forced myself to envisage the house from above … there was the Emperor’s room, here was I, on t' other side, and there the guard- room by the front porch, so I must make my way cautiously by the back.
There was still faint moonlight, casting shadows from the trees and bushes, and the loom of the house just visible to guide me as I crept along, my fingers brushing the ivy. In my imagination the undergrowth was full of mad Hungarians waiting to leap out and knife me, and once I rose like a startled grouse as an owl hooted only a few yards away. Round one corner, peering cautiously, along the wall towards another—and there was something glittering in the dark off to one side, and I saw that it was the moonlight on a little puddle of rainwater that had collected on what might well be the surface of a sundial. And in that moment, from just beyond the corner I was approaching, came a sound that sent shivers down my spine—a faint clicking noise of metal, and the rustle of someone moving. I tried to whisper, and failed, gulped, and tried again.
'Willem! Are you there? It’s me, Harry!'
Dead silence save for the pounding of my heart, and then the faintest of sounds, a foot scraping the ground, and after what seemed an age, Willem’s whisper:
'Was ist das? Harry, is that you?'
He was still outside! Relief flooded through me—to be followed by a drench of fear at the thought of what I must do. I drew the knife from my pocket, holding it against my thigh, and edged my way round the corner. The ivy was thick on the wall just there, but there was light enough to see a dark opening a couple of yards ahead—the recess of the secret doorway, and just within it the pale outline of a face. I took another step, and the face hissed at me.
'What the hell are you doing here?' In his agitation he lapsed into German. 'Stimmt etwas nicht? What’s up, man?'
Where the inspiration came from, God knows. 'The Emperor ain’t in bed!' I whispered hoarsely. 'He … he got up! His aides made a din, and woke him!'
'Arschloch!' Whether he meant me or Franz-Josef I can’t say, but it was enough to assure me I was right: he was bent on murder, for if he’d been the innocent guardian, why the deuce should he care whether the Emperor was abed or not? The clicking I’d heard must have been his working on the lock … Gad, if he decided to give up for the night, I might not have to risk attacking him … I could pour out my tale to the Emperor in the morning, denouncing Willem, clearing myself … a whirlwind of wild hopes, you see, as I crouched peering at the dim face a yard away, near soiling myself in agitation, and then those hopes were dashed as he spoke again, soft and steady.
'Back inside with you! He’s bound to go back to bed presently—and they may still come! Go on, man, be off, quickly!'
And leave you to unpick the lock and do your business, thinks I. There was only one thing for it. I gripped the hilt hard, stepping closer, and as he opened his mouth to speak again I struck upwards, going for his throat, he ducked like lightning, the blade drove past, missing by an inch, his hand clamped on my wrist, and as he twisted and I strove to wrench free, clawing fingers came out of the darkness on my right, fumbling for my throat, a fist smashed against my left temple, and I was hurled backwards and flung to the turf, pinned helpless by a massive body while another seized my legs, and a great stinking paw closed on my mouth—they must have been there, unseen in the gloom, his Holnup accomplices springing into action with the speed and silence of expert bravos. I struggled like bedamned, expecting to feel the agonising bite of steel, but it didn’t come; the hands on my mouth and throat tightened, and I felt rather than saw a bearded face snarling into mine in what may have been Hungarian; above us in the dark voices were whispering urgently—Willem seemed to be giving orders, and for an instant the hand lifted from my mouth, but before I could find the breath to bellow a cloth was thrust between my teeth and I was heaved over on to my face and my wrists pinioned behind me.
Meanwhile the debate overhead was deteriorating into agitated bickering, and since some of it was in German and my mind was most wonderfully concentrated, I gathered that Willem didn’t know why I’d attacked him, and didn’t care, but if the Emperor was up and about they’d best ignore the secret stair and invade the house in force; no, no, says another, the Englander’s lying, they always do, and storming the house was too haphazard and the aroused guardroom would be too many for them, to which a third voice said the hell with such timidity, their lives would be well lost if they could only settle Franz-Josef—there’s always one like that, you know, full of patriotic lunacy, and good luck to him.
The heavyweight atop of me weighed in with the sensible suggestion that since subduing me had caused enough row to wake the dead, they should give over and come back tomorrow, but before this could be put to the vote he was proved right by a challenge from the darkness, a bawled order, the pounding of boots, and a stentorian command to stand in the name of the Emperor. Willem exclaimed: 'Mist!', his Webley cracked, there was a yell of pain, and then bedlam ensued, with shots and oaths and screams, the dark was split by flashes of fire, I heard a clash of steel, my incubus arose bawling in several languages and blazing away, and I hastened to improve my position by scrambling up, inadvertently butting him in the crotch. He fell away, howling, and I managed to gain my feet and would have been going like a stag for the safety of the shrubbery if he hadn’t staggered into me, bewailing his damaged courting tackle, and I fell full length, only to rise again on stepping-stones of my terrified self, but not alas to higher things, for something caught me an excruciating clout on the back of the skull, and the din of shots and shouting faded as I fell again, this time into merciful unconsciousness.
• • •
I suppose I’ve been laid out, and come to with a head throbbing like an engine-room, more often than most fellows, and can testify that while one descent into oblivion is much like another, there are two kinds of awakening.
