Private detective Max Grenville flicked a leaf off a coat left on a bench. The sky carried an autumn chill, and he shivered in the wind. As he stepped out of a cab, he was met by a young bobby.
“The garment belongs to a lady, Mr. Grenville,” the lad blushed. “I didn’t touch it, fearing there might be an infernal machine in its pocket.”
Since the March assassination of Emperor Alexander, newspapers had competed in predicting the next royal victim. Although the coat had been found a mile from Buckingham Palace, Max Grenville considered Her Majesty to be safe.
He reassured the bobby with a smile.
“Such tiny infernal machines have not been invented yet, but thank you for not disturbing anything.”
The garment’s pockets produced a lace-trimmed handkerchief and a cardboard box.
“To Sir Philip Danbury,” the detective noted the elegant cursive. “Private and Confidential.”
Mr. Grenville chuckled.
“Seems to be a piece of cake,” he turned to the bobby. “Find me a cab. The key to our mystery lies in Whitehall.”
The coat’s red silk lining bore an embroidered monogram. Mr. Grenville traced the intertwined “O” and “D” just as the cabman shouted,
“Whitehall, Sir!”
Being no stranger to government affairs, Mr. Grenville marched into the fiefdom of the Foreign Office. It took him little time to persuade the distinguished-looking secretary that Sir Philip Danbury would appreciate meeting him.
After disappearing into the bowels of the office, the secretary returned with a blank face.
“Sir Philip is waiting, Sir,” he pointed to an oak door.
The most promising young statesman was perched on a library ladder. Though still boyish in appearance, the undersecretary of the Foreign Office had a French-style golden beard that accentuated his resolute chin.
“What is the nature of…”
Noticing the azure velvet coat, Sir Philip cut himself short.
“Are you familiar with this garment, Sir?” the detective asked, and the statesman paled.
“It belongs to my wife, Olga,” he jumped down onto the carpet. “What happened to her?”
“The coat was found on the Thames embankment,” Mr. Grenville handed him the box. “This was discovered in the pocket. Is it your wife’s handwriting?”
“Certainly,” Sir Philip tore the cardboard. “I have seen it hundreds of times.”
Inside lay an intricately carved casket.
“This is a set of seven boxes, made from walrus ivory,” Sir Philip opened the first. “They nest within each other. Olga brought them from Russia as a family treasure… What are you doing?” he shouted.
The last, minuscule box flew to the corner, revealing a protruding metal pin.
“This is death, Sir Philip,” the detective said. “A similar set was used a month ago to poison the notoriously brutal Russian general vacationing in Carlsbad.”
“Look,” the statesman whispered. “There is a note in her hand.”
Mr. Grenville put on leather gloves and read aloud,
“You’ll never find me.”
He studied the delicate handwriting.
“Oh, but I will,” the detective promised. “If only to know who you really are, Olga.”
“The garment belongs to a lady, Mr. Grenville,” the lad blushed. “I didn’t touch it, fearing there might be an infernal machine in its pocket.”
Since the March assassination of Emperor Alexander, newspapers had competed in predicting the next royal victim. Although the coat had been found a mile from Buckingham Palace, Max Grenville considered Her Majesty to be safe.
He reassured the bobby with a smile.
“Such tiny infernal machines have not been invented yet, but thank you for not disturbing anything.”
The garment’s pockets produced a lace-trimmed handkerchief and a cardboard box.
“To Sir Philip Danbury,” the detective noted the elegant cursive. “Private and Confidential.”
Mr. Grenville chuckled.
“Seems to be a piece of cake,” he turned to the bobby. “Find me a cab. The key to our mystery lies in Whitehall.”
The coat’s red silk lining bore an embroidered monogram. Mr. Grenville traced the intertwined “O” and “D” just as the cabman shouted,
“Whitehall, Sir!”
Being no stranger to government affairs, Mr. Grenville marched into the fiefdom of the Foreign Office. It took him little time to persuade the distinguished-looking secretary that Sir Philip Danbury would appreciate meeting him.
After disappearing into the bowels of the office, the secretary returned with a blank face.
“Sir Philip is waiting, Sir,” he pointed to an oak door.
The most promising young statesman was perched on a library ladder. Though still boyish in appearance, the undersecretary of the Foreign Office had a French-style golden beard that accentuated his resolute chin.
“What is the nature of…”
Noticing the azure velvet coat, Sir Philip cut himself short.
“Are you familiar with this garment, Sir?” the detective asked, and the statesman paled.
“It belongs to my wife, Olga,” he jumped down onto the carpet. “What happened to her?”
“The coat was found on the Thames embankment,” Mr. Grenville handed him the box. “This was discovered in the pocket. Is it your wife’s handwriting?”
“Certainly,” Sir Philip tore the cardboard. “I have seen it hundreds of times.”
Inside lay an intricately carved casket.
“This is a set of seven boxes, made from walrus ivory,” Sir Philip opened the first. “They nest within each other. Olga brought them from Russia as a family treasure… What are you doing?” he shouted.
The last, minuscule box flew to the corner, revealing a protruding metal pin.
“This is death, Sir Philip,” the detective said. “A similar set was used a month ago to poison the notoriously brutal Russian general vacationing in Carlsbad.”
“Look,” the statesman whispered. “There is a note in her hand.”
Mr. Grenville put on leather gloves and read aloud,
“You’ll never find me.”
He studied the delicate handwriting.
“Oh, but I will,” the detective promised. “If only to know who you really are, Olga.”
