“Nothing out of the ordinary there,” Perlmutter said. “What do you know of her last voyages?”
“Convoy duty.” Trehorne dug deeper into the file. “She made a convoy run to Archangel in November 1916, accompanying a munitions shipment, and returned to Scapa Flow for minor repairs a few weeks later. In the middle of February, she helped escort a second convoy, arriving in Archangel on the eighteenth. But that’s where things turn interesting.” He looked up at Perlmutter and smiled. “She sailed on convoy with three other Royal Navy ships: the Concord, the Marksman, and the Trident. Those vessels returned with the convoy, arriving in Scapa Flow on February twenty-fifth. The Canterbury wasn’t among them, but German records indicate she was sunk by the UC-29 on February twenty-sixth.”
“A day after the convoy had returned to England?” Perlmutter’s lips drooped in skepticism.
“Exactly. It doesn’t make any sense. Of course, the Germans could have been off on their dates, but I did some digging at the National Archives and found this.” He handed Perlmutter a photocopy of a typewritten order from the Office of the British Admiralty to the captain of the Canterbury. Buried within the sailing and refueling orders, Perlmutter found directions for the captain to hold his ship in port for the return of Special Envoy Sir Leigh Hunt.
“Who’s Hunt?” Perlmutter asked.
“At the time of his death, he was Special Envoy to Prime Minister Lloyd George. Up until 1916, he had served as Consul General to the British Embassy in St. Petersburg. His biography indicates he had a strong personal relationship with the Tsar.”
Dirk turned to Trehorne. “So he returned to St. Petersburg in the waning days of the monarchy and held up the Canterbury for a ride home?”
“It would seem so. But I find it unusual that the Canterbury abandoned the return convoy to wait for Hunt and make the voyage alone.”
“You’re certain the ship did in fact wait for Hunt?” Perlmutter asked.
“Yes. He is listed as having perished aboard the Canterbury. I made some inquiries and found that Hunt’s personal papers are stored at the National Archives. They may shed some light on what he was doing back in Russia. But for the moment, it is all a bit of a puzzle.”
“Dr. Trehorne,” Summer said, “I have an additional clue to the mystery.” She reached into her handbag and retrieved the gold bar, which she clunked on
the table.
Trehorne regarded it with mild curiosity. “An attractive girl like yourself shouldn’t be prancing around Westminster with such a treasure.”
Dirk smiled. “I’d pity the fool who would try to take it from her.”
“I will be more than happy to be rid of it,” she said, “if you can advise an appropriate recipient.”
“I have plenty of contacts in the Royal Navy who would be thrilled to have it. It will probably end up in their fine museum in Portsmouth.” He slipped on a pair of reading glasses and studied the bar. “The Romanov crown markings, if I’m not mistaken.”
“That’s our interpretation,” Summer said. “Do you think the Canterbury might have been carrying a large shipment of gold from Russia?”
Trehorne set down the bar and stroked his chin. “Anything is possible, but I would be skeptical. Gold shipments, even in World War I, were very well documented. There’s nothing in the ship’s record that suggests as much. By that time, Russian gold shipments to the Bank of England for munition purchases had already been rerouted to the Pacific.” He shook his head. “Perhaps the Russians know something we don’t. Where exactly aboard ship did you locate this sample?” He passed across the table a black and white photo of the Canterbury.
Dirk pointed to the squat cabin deck beneath the bridge. “The first cabin there on the starboard side.”
“A likely accommodation for a diplomat such as Hunt,” Trehorne said.
Summer frowned. “Destroyed now, thanks to the Tavda.”
“Perhaps by design.” Trehorne’s voice trailed off. He stood and carried the whiskey bottle to the cabinet. “Well, Julien, you best dispose of that gold bar before every Artful Dodger in London gets on your tail. In the meantime, I’ll make an appointment with the National Archives to take a look at Sir Hunt’s papers.”
“Very kind of you to help us,” Summer said. “Is there anything we can do to repay you?”
“There most certainly is.” He glanced about the room, then stuffed the bottle back into its hiding place. “You can kindly not inform my wife how I took my tea.”
40
Across London in the East End neighborhood of Whitechapel, Viktor Mansfield stepped into a dark pub called the Boar’s Head. Wearing a navy Prada sport coat, he was notably overdressed among the sparse crowd drinking at the bar before noon. Only a gray man in a gray suit, seated at a rear booth, appeared similarly out of place. Mansfield ordered two pints of Guinness at the bar and took them to the man’s table.
“Mr. Bainbridge?” he asked.
“Yes.” The single syllable was uttered in the dry monotone of a banker reviewing a loan application. He gave the beers a derisive look. “A bit early for me, I’m afraid.”
“No worries.” Mansfield took a long draw on one of the pints, set the glass aside, and leaned forward. “I need information on a gold shipment from Russia to Britain in early 1917.”
“Yes, that is what I was told,” Bainbridge said. “The Bank of England archives, to which I have full access, are quite clear on the matter. There was a single recorded transfer of twenty million pounds placed into the Bank of England repository in Ottawa in April 1917.”