The Hansa Protocol Read Online Free Page A

people, most of them warmly wrapped against the bright, frosty weather of the second day of the New Year. Steady streams of horse traffic poured along the wide carriageway on their way to and from the City and the West End.
    Detective Inspector Box stole a glance at the beautiful, raven-haired young woman who was linking his right arm. Miss Louise Whittaker seemed unusually quiet. No doubt she’d rally in a minute, and say something provocative to catch him out. She was very clever – a scholar, no less, which he would have thought an occupation more fit for a man. But there, the world was changing.
    The young lady linking his left arm suddenly made a comment. He hadn’t met young Miss Vanessa Drake before. She looked no more than twenty or so, very fair and slim, but with a kind of controlled jauntiness that suggested hidden reserves of strength.
    ‘Mr Box,’ she said, ‘you must enjoy working in that beautiful new building on the Embankment. New Scotland Yard it’s called, isn’t it?’
    Louise Whittaker burst into laughter, but said nothing. Her friend Vanessa looked at her anxiously.
    ‘Oh, dear,’ she whispered, ‘have I said something wrong? I’m so sorry!’
    ‘Nothing to be sorry about, Miss Drake!’ Box assured her. ‘It’s just that Scotland Yard’s a sore point at the moment, and a bone of contention. I’ll tell you all about it at dinner.’
    How young and vulnerable she looked! Her youth seemed to beemphasized by the dark-blue, high-collared coat that she wore, and by the designedly frivolous hat adorned with dyed feathers. There was something else, too. This girl was troubled. It showed in the sudden shadows that fell across her bright blue eyes when she thought that no one was observing her. Perhaps she’d be more forthcoming once they had availed themselves of the delights of Simpson’s, Mr Crathie’s splendid eating-house in the Strand.
     
    Box spent quite a long time admiring the overpowering luxury of Simpson’s Tavern and Divan, especially the awesome shrine to food and drink occupying the centre of the big dining-room. It was a sort of altar, piled up with offerings of decanters and glasses, flowers, and frothy confections, with four great silver-plated wine coolers for company, one at each of its four corners. When the efficient, dedicated waiters were not gliding around serving the crowd of hungry customers, they appeared to pause near the great altar, as though to offer brief prayers for support and sustenance.
    ‘Aren’t you going to tell Vanessa about the delights of Scotland Yard? You promised, you know.’ Louise Whittaker glanced at Box mockingly, treated him to a rather unnerving smile, and then continued her task of eating breaded whitebait.
    Inspector Box put down his knife and fork on his plate, and turned to Vanessa.
    ‘You see, Miss Drake,’ he explained, ‘when the main body of the force moved to that fairy palace on the Embankment in ’91, a goodly number of us were left behind to hold the fort in what remained of Scotland Yard. The real Scotland Yard, you know. So I work in a dilapidated old heap of bricks called King James’s Rents, which you’ll find just a few yards on across the cobbles from Whitehall Place. I’d invite you to visit, but you’d probably catch pneumonia, or plague, or whatever else has soaked into the walls along with the mildew—’
    ‘So you don’t like it there?’
    ‘What? Yes, of course I like it,’ Box replied, defensively. ‘They left the best men behind there when they made tracks for the fairy palace. Yes, Miss Drake, I like it very much!’
    ‘And so you should, Mr Box,’ said Vanessa. ‘Your days are filled with excitement, whereas mine – well, I seem to spend my time envying other people whose lives aren’t as humdrum as mine! So, hurrah for –what did you call it? – hurrah for King James’s Rents.’
    They turned their attention to the serious business of eating lunch. The two young women began a desultory