Her Royal Highness: A Romance of the Chancelleries of Europe

Chapter Twenty One.
A Confidential Report

Hubert Waldron halted on the threshold, his eyes fixed upon those of the spy.

“Well?” asked Ghelardi, with a sinister smile.

“All I desire to say is that I have the ear of His Majesty as well as yourself. And what I shall tell him will not be to your credit.”

The countenance of the Chief of the Secret Service broadened into a smile of open derision. In his high official position he was all-powerful in Italy – more powerful indeed than the whole Cabinet of Ministers.

“Neither will it be to your credit when I describe to the King what I have witnessed to-night,” he answered.

The Englishman had it upon the tip of his tongue to speak more openly, but on reflection realised that it would be more judicious to keep the information to himself. Jerningham knew that man who had been England’s arch-enemy while in the pay of his masters at Berlin; he had cause to know him – and well, too.

“Signor Ghelardi,” he said finally, “this matter is one of give and take. I offer you terms for your silence. If you refuse, then I shall act as I think fit.”

“Act just as you think fit,” was the Italian’s sneering response.

“Very well,” replied the diplomat, turning and walking up the corridor back to the ballroom.

Half an hour later he met His Majesty face to face.

“Ah, Signor Waldron, you are back again in Rome – eh?” the King exclaimed anxiously. “Well – anything to tell me?” he asked, dropping his voice.

His Majesty was passing through the Sala Regia alone, and there was nobody in the vicinity to overhear.

“Nothing, sir – only – ”

“Only what? Quick,” he said impatiently. “It is rumoured in Brussels that Austria is mobilising for attack!”

“In Brussels!” exclaimed the King as they walked together. “How do you know that?”

“I have to-night returned from there.”

“Curious – very curious,” repeated His Majesty reflectively. “Here, as far as I know, we have heard nothing. Ghelardi’s agents in Vienna report by telegraph several times daily, but they can obtain no definite information, though it is known that troops are massing in the south – for manoeuvres – the old story.”

“I am still inquiring into the affair,” said Waldron. “As soon as I have anything to report I will seek audience of Your Majesty.”

“Yes; at any hour. I have instructed Villanova.”

“I have not spoken about the matter to Ghelardi,” the Englishman said as they left the great salon and turned into one of the corridors. Several men and women had halted to bow as His Majesty passed.

“Ghelardi has discovered nothing,” was the King’s hasty response. “He has all sorts of wild theories regarding the theft of the plans, but as far as I can see he has no clue whatever to the thief.”

“Then I shall continue to work without his aid,” Waldron declared, and a moment later he bowed and left His Majesty, who passed through a small door leading to the private apartments.

Next morning, at nine o’clock, Pucci, the brigadier of detective police, called at Hubert’s rooms, and produced a carefully written report, which the Englishman settled himself to digest.

It certainly was interesting reading.

While the brigadier sat smoking a cigarette, the diplomat ran through the document, which showed that Pucci had been extremely active during the week of his absence.

The private and public lives – with extracts from the dossiers at the Prefecture of Police – of His Excellency the Minister for War, of Lambarini, secretary of the Council of Defence, and of Pironti, the Minister’s private secretary, were all laid bare.

Of General Cataldi it was stated that, after long service in the army, he became General, commanding the Third Army Corps in Calabria. While occupying that post an army scandal occurred regarding the supply of stores, great quantities having been paid for and not delivered by the contractors. A court martial was held and four officers attached to the General’s headquarters had been sentenced to terms of imprisonment and dismissed the Service. Certain journals had accused the General himself of being cognisant of the misappropriation of funds, but this he had indignantly denied and had demanded of the Minister of War an inquiry into his conduct. This had been held, and a report returned that there were no grounds for the allegation. But even in face of that the journals in question had charged him with making scapegoats of the four imprisoned officers.

It was curious that a year later the General, who had hitherto, like all Italian officers, not been very well off, had suddenly appeared to be in possession of considerable funds. He had been transferred to Turin, where he had bought a large house and, with his wife, had entertained lavishly. Another lady, a certain youthful Countess in Milan, had attracted him, and in consequence, after a few months, his wife preferred to live apart.

Then, by reason of his lavish entertainments, his apparent wealth, and also because he had a number of influential friends in the Chamber of Deputies, he had been called by the King and given his portfolio as Minister of War.

The confidential report added that his present expenditure greatly exceeded his income, and that he was also heavily in debt, owing, in great measure, to the extravagances of the young Countess in question, who had now taken up her abode in Rome.

Against Colonel Lambarini nothing was known. He was happily married, with two charming children. He lived well within his income, and was of a plain and rather economic turn of mind. He ran into debt for nothing, and his wife had a private income of her own.

The King’s estimate of Lambarini was therefore perfectly correct.

With Pironti it was different. As His Excellency’s secretary he was a man who pandered in every way to all his Chief’s whims and foibles. He was a bachelor, and spent his evenings in the gaming clubs and other questionable haunts, and had been known to lose considerable sums at baccarat. He frequented the political cafés and the variety theatres, and it was also well-known in the army that no one could obtain the ear of His Excellency without first obtaining “the good graces of his secretary.”

“These good graces you mention, Signor Pucci, mean money, I suppose!” remarked Waldron suddenly in Italian.

“Si, signore,” replied the dark-faced detective, with a smile.

Continuing, the report stated that Pironti often associated with undesirable persons, and, further, that it was a known fact that he had received from many officers who had sought promotion douceurs to a considerable amount. Indeed in the army it was declared that so lax was His Excellency in his duties as Minister that he left Pironti to prepare the lists of both promotions and military decorations, merely taking care that the names of none of his enemies appeared there, and scribbling his signature to the decree for the King’s approval.

Hubert Waldon sighed when he had finished that most instructive document.

Then, rising, he placed it in a drawer of his writing-table and locked it safely away.

“So His Excellency and his secretary are not exactly above accepting bribes – eh?” he asked, throwing himself again in his chair.

“According to the result of my inquiries they seem to be both reaping a golden harvest,” Pucci said. “But perhaps not greater than in any other department.”

“The police excepted, I hope,” laughed the diplomat.

But the brigadier grinned. During his years of office he had known more than one person being given timely warning to escape when the Government, forced to prosecute, did not wish to expose a scandal. The Italian peasant may well say that the law for the count is exactly opposite to that for the contadino.

Hubert sat for some moments looking straight into the fire.

He saw that General Cataldi, with the assistance of his dishonest secretary, could enforce a secret toll from every officer who obtained promotion. While nearly every member of the Cabinet was doing the same thing, and every Deputy was giving or accepting bribes, often quite openly, it was not likely that anyone would dare to come forward and denounce them.

The motto of the Minister in Italy is to make a fortune while the office lasts. And they certainly do – as is proved by the constant scandals ever being exposed by the Press, while more are suppressed with hush-money.

But if this were so, and if His Excellency and his sycophant were reaping such a rich harvest, then would they dare to run such risks as to connive at the theft of the plans by a foreign agent?

According to Tonini, only His Excellency and the two secretaries entered the room wherein the plans reposed. Therefore, either His Excellency or his secretary must have extracted them.

Nevertheless this report of Pucci’s made it somewhat dubious whether these two corrupt officials, making the many thousands a year themselves, would go to such lengths as to betray their country into the hands of Austria.

Pucci sat there in silence, wondering what was passing through the diplomat’s mind. He was, of course, in ignorance of what had happened, and was puzzled as to the reason why Waldron was so inquisitive.

Hubert knew the General’s house well – a splendid villa of princely proportions, with delightful garden and terraces, about five miles out of Rome on the white, dusty road which leads to Civita Vecchia. It was near Malagrotta, in the picturesque hills through which still runs the ancient Via Aurelia, and looked down upon ancient Ostia and the broad mouths of the ancient Tiber.

Was he a traitor? Or was he innocent? That was the great and crucial question which he had to decide.

“And this Countess,” he exclaimed, addressing the detective presently. “I noticed that she is not named in your report.”

“No, signore. But her name is Cioni – of the Cionis of Firenze, one of the most ancient houses in Italy – the Countess Guilia Cioni.”

“A widow?”

“No, signore. She is daughter of the late Count Ferdinando Cioni, head of the house. Their palace is on the Lung ’Arno in Firenze.”

“Of what age is she?”

“Thirty.”

“You say she was from Milan.”

“They have a palace in Milan – in one of those short streets off the Piazza del Duomo.”

“And this woman is infatuated with the General, you say? Where does she live?”

“In an apartment in the Corso Vittorio.”

“She, no doubt, knows the chief source of his income – eh?”

“Without a doubt.”

Then Waldron thought deeply. A strange theory had crossed his mind.

“Has she a maid?”

“Yes, signore, a young woman from Borghetto named Velia Bettini.”

Waldron scribbled the name upon his shirt-cuff together with the address of the young Countess Cioni.

“Anything known of this maid?”

Pucci, who had done thoroughly the work entrusted to him, reflected for a moment, and then diving his hand into his breast-pocket, drew forth a well-worn note-book, which he searched for a few moments.

“Yes,” he replied. “I made a few inquiries at the Prefecture concerning her. She was previously in the service of the Marchesa di Martini, of Genoa, and was sentenced to six months’ imprisonment for stealing jewellery belonging to her.”

“How long ago?”

“Two years.”

“Anything else?”

“Well – her record is not exactly an unblemished one, signore,” the detective went on. “After her release she went to Paris and was in the service of a young French actress, Mademoiselle Yvonne Barlet, of the Gymnase. While there she passed herself off as a young lady of good family and became friendly with a wealthy young Frenchman, whose name, however I do not know.”

“And what else?”

“She returned to Italy and then entered the service of the Countess Cioni.”

“But this Countess Cioni – who is she? I do not seem to have heard of her in Rome Society.”

“She is not known – except in a certain circle. One of her intimate friends, however, is Her Royal Highness, the Princess Luisa.”

“The Princess Luisa?” echoed the Englishman. “Yes, signore. But, as you have heard, the Princess makes many strange and unfortunate friendships. She is, I fear, rather foolish.”

“But surely this friendship ought to be put a stop to, Signor Pucci. It is impossible for a Princess of the blood-royal to associate with such a person as this Contessa Cioni.”

The detective shrugged his shoulders and elevated his dark eyebrows.

Then he smiled that quiet meaning smile which all Italians can affect in moments of indecision.

Chapter Twenty Two.
“The Thrush.”

On the night following Pucci’s visit to Hubert Waldron, Her Royal Highness sat before the fire in her handsome bedroom curled up in a soft chair, thinking.

The little leather-framed travelling-clock upon her big dressing-table with its gold and tortoiseshell brushes and toilet accessories showed that midnight was past. She had been to a dinner at the Palazzo Riparbella, where Her Majesty had honoured the Duchess of Riparbella with her presence, and an hour ago they had returned.

She had dismissed her maid-of-honour, and when Renata, her personal maid, had entered to attend her she had sent her to bed. Renata was devoted to her mistress. She was used to the vagaries of Her Highness – who so often wore her dresses in her escapades – so she bowed and retired.

For half an hour, still attired in her handsome, pale blue evening gown, with her dark hair well-dressed, and a beautiful diamond necklet upon her white throat, she had sat staring into the dancing flames, thinking – ever thinking.

At last she stirred herself, rising suddenly to her feet, and then, crossing to her bed, she threw herself upon her knees wildly and bent her head within her white hands.

Her pale lips moved, but no sound came from them.

She was fervent in prayer.

Her countenance, her movements, her attitude showed her to be in a veritable tumult of agony and despair. But she was alone, with none to witness her terrible anxiety, and the blank hopelessness of it all.

She had been wondering ever since she had regained consciousness on the previous night what had really occurred in the room of the Minister of the Royal Household – whether the British diplomat, her friend, had also been discovered there in her company. She had questioned the maids, but they had been instructed by Ghelardi and refused to satisfy her curiosity.

Therefore she was in ignorance of what had happened after the receipt of that fatal message from Brussels.

How she had passed that day of feverish anxiety she knew not. Every second had to her seemed an hour.

At last, after crossing herself devoutly, she rose from her knees wearily, when her eyes fell upon the clock.

Instantly she began to take off her splendid evening gown. Her diamonds she unclasped and tossed them unheeded into a velvet-lined casket on the big dressing-table, together with her bracelets and the ornament from her corsage.

Then, kicking off her evening slippers, she exchanged her pale blue silk stockings for stout ones of black cashmere, and putting on a pair of serviceable country boots, she afterwards opened her wardrobe and took out a dingy costume of blue serge – one of Renata’s.

This she hastily donned, and taking down her hair, deftly arranged it so that when she put on the little black bonnet she produced from a locked box, she was in a quarter of an hour transformed from a princess to a demure, neatly-dressed lady’s maid.

From a drawer in her dressing-table she took out a shabby hand-bag – Renata’s bag – and, after ascertaining that there was a small sum of money in it, she put it upon her arm, and finally examined herself in the glass.

She was an adept at disguising herself as Renata, and, after patting her hair and altering the angle of her neat bonnet, she switched off the light and left the room.

Boldly she passed along the corridor of the private apartments until she at length opened a door at the end, whereupon she passed a sentry unchallenged, and away into the servants’ quarters.

Across the courtyard, now only dimly lit, she passed, and then out by the servants’ entrance to the Via del Quirinale.

Having left the Palace she hurried through a number of dark side-streets until she reached a small garage in a narrow thoroughfare – almost a lane – called the Via della Muratte, beyond the Trevi fountain.

A sleepy, white-haired old man roused himself as she entered, while she gave him a cheery good evening, and then went up to her car, a powerful grey one of open type, and switched on the head-lamps. From a locker in the garage the old man brought her a big, fur-lined motor coat and a close-fitting hat, and these she quickly assumed. Then a few minutes later, seated at the wheel, she passed out of the garage exclaiming gaily:

“I shall be back before it is light, Paolo. Buona motte.”

Gaining the Corso, silent and dark at that hour, she drove rapidly away, out by the Popolo Gate, and with her cut-out roaring went straight along the Via Flaminia, the ancient way through the mountains to Civita Castellana and the wilds of Umbria.

The night was dark and bitterly cold, for a strong east wind was blowing from the snowcapped mountains causing Lola to draw up and take her big fur mitts from the inside pocket of the car. Then she turned up the wide fur collar of her coat, mounted to the wheel again, and was soon negotiating the winding road – the surface of which at that season was shockingly loose and bad.

After fifteen miles of continual ascent she approached the dead silent old town of Castelnuova, being challenged by the octroi guards who, finding a lady alone, allowed her to proceed without further word. Then through the narrow, ancient street, lit by oil lamps, she went slowly, and out again into a great plain for a further fifteen miles – a lonely drive, indeed, along a difficult and dangerous road. But she was an expert driver and negotiated all the difficult corners with tact and caution.

Through several hamlets she passed, but not a dog was astir, until presently she descended a sharp hill, and below saw a few meagre lights of the half-hidden town of Borghetto – a little place dominated by a great ruined castle situated on the direct railway line between Firenze and Rome.

Half-way down the hill she slackened speed, her great head-lights glaring, until presently she pulled up at the roadside and, slowly descending, extinguished the lights so that they might not attract attention.

Then, leaving the car, she hurried forward along the road, for she was cramped and cold.

But scarcely had she gone fifty yards when a dark figure came out of the shadows to meet her, uttering her name.

“Is it you, Pietro?” she asked quickly.

“Si, signorina,” was the reassuring reply, in a voice which told that its owner was a contadino, and not a gentleman.

Next second they were standing together.

“I received your message, Pietro,” she said, “and I have kept the appointment, as you see.”

The man for a few minutes did not reply. In the half-light, for the moon was now struggling through the clouds, the fact was revealed that the peasant was about forty, one of that pleasant-faced, debonair type so frequently met with in Central Italy – a gay, careless fellow who might possibly be a noted person in the little village of Borghetto.

He had taken off his hat at Lola’s approach and stood bare-headed before her.

“You are silent,” she said. “What has happened?”

“Nothing evil has happened, signorina,” was his reply, for he spoke in the distinctive dialect of Umbria, very different indeed to the polite language of Rome. “Only I am surprised – that is all.”

“Surprised! Why?”

“I feared that the signorina would not be in Rome.”

“Why?”

“Because I saw the Signor Enrico to-night, and he told me you had left.”

“Enrico! He has not been here?”

“I saw him at eleven o’clock. He arrived from Firenze by the north express at half-past eight. He had come from far away – from Milano, I think.”

“He has been at the signora’s then?” asked Her Highness quickly.

“Yes – with the Signorina Velia. I was with him an hour ago.”

“Did you tell him I should be here?”

“No; I feared to tell him, signorina.”

“Good. Where is he now?”

“Still at the signora’s.”

“Then he does not know I am here?”

“No, signorina, he goes to Rome to-morrow.” Lola was silent for a few moments. She was reflecting deeply.

“You say that Velia is here – eh? Then Enrico has come to see her, I suppose?” she asked.

“I believe so. They met before at the house of old Madame Mortara’s and again to-night.”

“Benissimo, Pietro. Now tell me, what have you found out?”

“Not very much, signorina, I regret to say. They are too wary, these people. I know, however, they are watching your friend the Englishman. And they mean mischief, too.”

“Watching Signor Waldron,” she echoed in alarm. “Are you quite certain of that?”

“Absolutely.”

“Who are watching?”

“Beppo and ‘The Thrush.’”

“That is Beppo Fiola and Gino Merlo – eh?” she remarked. “I thought Gino had been arrested in Sarzana.”

“So he was,” replied the man, “but he escaped. He is wanted, but the present moment is not an exactly opportune one for his arrest, signorina.”

“And they mean evil?”

“Decidedly. The Signor Waldron should be warned.”

“How did you discover this, Pietro?” she asked, standing with him in the deep shadow of a disused granary.

“Signorina, a man of my profession has various channels of information,” was his polite but rather ambiguous reply, his voice entirely altered, for he now spoke in an educated manner. Hitherto he had spoken in the dialect peculiar to the valley of the Tiber, but his last sentence was that of an educated man.

“Ah! I know, Signor Olivieri,” she said; “you are a past-master in the art of disguise to come out here and live as a contadino.”

“For the purpose of obtaining information every ruse is admissable, signorina. This is not the first occasion in my career by many when I have posed as a peasant.”

“Curious that Signor Enrico is so friendly with Velia, is it not?” she asked.

“Exactly my thought,” replied Pietro Olivieri, the renowned private detective of Genoa, for such he was; “there is some devil’s work afoot, but whether it is in connection with the matter we are investigating I cannot yet convince myself. As a field-labourer in madame’s service I have been ever on the alert. Fortunately no one has yet suspected me – for this place is, as you well know, a veritable hot-bed of anarchy and crime; a nest which contains some of the worst and most desperate characters in the whole of Italy. Therefore if I betrayed myself, I fear I should not return to Rome alive.”

“But have you no fear?” she asked anxiously. “Not while I exercise ordinary caution. Here, I am Pietro Bondi, a simple, hard-working contadino. I take my wine like a man. I gossip to the women, and I interfere with nobody. At first when I came here my presence aroused suspicion, but that has, fortunately, now died down.”

“You will watch Enrico?”

“Certainly.”

“I wonder what his object is in returning here to Borghetto?”

“In order to meet Velia.”

“He could have met her more easily in Rome.”

“Not if it chanced to be against his interests to be seen in Rome. Remember he is well-known there.”

“So you think he got off the train here instead of going on to the capital?”

“Yes. To see the girl Velia who came here to-night – to meet him and the others.”

“The others?” she repeated inquiringly.

“Yes – ‘The Thrush’ and the others.”

“To form a plot against the Englishman?” she gasped.

“Exactly, signorina. The Signor Waldron should be warned at once. Will you do so – or shall I send him an anonymous letter?”

“I will see him to-morrow; but – but what can I say without exposing the truth. Come, Signor Pietro, you are a good one at inventing stories.”

“Tell him the truth, signorina.”

“No,” she said, “that is impossible. I – I could never do that. I have reasons for concealing it – strong reasons.”

“Then what do you propose doing? If you tell him he is in grave personal danger he will only laugh at you and take no heed of your warning. Englishmen never can understand our people.”

“True, but – but really,” she asked suddenly, “is there any great danger?”

“I tell you, signorina, that some conspiracy is afoot against your friend,” replied the detective who, before entering business on his own account, had been a well-known official at the Prefecture of Police in Genoa. His work lay in the north and he knew very little of Rome, and was therefore unknown. “You requested me to assist you in this curious inquiry, and I am doing so; yet the further I probe, the deeper and more complicated, I confess, becomes the problem.”

“But you do not despair?” she cried anxiously.

“No. I am hoping ere long to see a ray of light through this impenetrable veil of mystery,” he replied. “At present, however, all seems so utterly complicated. There is but one outstanding feature of the affair,” he added, “and that is the attempt which will assuredly be made upon the life of your friend.”

“But why? With what motive?”

“They hold him in fear.”

“For what reason?”

“Ah! that, signorina, I am as yet unable to say,” was his quick reply. “If I knew that then we might soon get upon a path which would undoubtedly lead us to the truth.”

“We must crush the conspiracy at all hazards, Signor Olivieri,” she said quickly. “Remember that Signor Waldron is my friend – my dear friend.”

“Then go to him and tell him the truth.”

“Ah, no, I cannot!” she cried. “That is quite impossible.”

“You know him, I do not,” the detective said. “Could you not induce him to leave Italy, say for a few weeks? It would be safer. These men, I tell you frankly, are desperate characters. They will hesitate at nothing.”

“But why should they attack an Englishman?” she asked.

“Because he knows – or they think he knows – some secret concerning them. That is my theory.”

“And they intend to close his lips?”

The detective nodded.

“S-h-h-h,” he whispered next second. “See yonder” – and he pointed down the hill to where a light had suddenly shone. “Someone is coming across the vineyard. Perhaps it is Signor Enrico – probably it is, I overheard him say something about catching the night mail to Rome. It is due in twenty minutes.”

“Addio, then,” she said hurriedly. “I will manage to warn Signor Waldron if, as you say, it is absolutely necessary,” and, taking the peasant’s hand in farewell, she ran back to where her car was waiting, and was soon on the road again speeding back over the thirty odd miles which lay between that nest of bad characters and the Eternal City.

While she was hurrying away, without waiting to switch on her lamps, Pietro Olivieri leisurely descended the hill. But as he passed on through the grove of dark cypresses a human figure crept stealthily out of the shadows and, looking after him, muttered a fierce imprecation.

The pair who had believed themselves unseen, had been watched by a very sharp pair of eyes!