FOR SOME TIME THERE HAD been rumours of smuggled leaflets circulating in the tribal villages of the northwest frontier, praising the German cause and accusing the British of horrible crimes against Islam. Then in early September a courier attempting to cross from Sikkim into Nepal was intercepted by a border patrol, and when they discovered what was in his pack they arrested him on the spot and sent him back to Gangktok to be questioned.
This information came from Lily, who had heard it in the market from a parlourmaid at the British Residency. When Sophie, out of curiosity, asked Jeannie what she thought the courier might have been carrying, the answer was a wary “pas devant les enfants” and a quick change of subject. Once they were alone, with Alex safely in bed, Jeannie was a little more forthcoming.
The pale, drawn look that she had acquired over the monsoon months was still apparent as she said, with a wry smile, “There’s not much that escapes our Lily’s attention. I’ve always thought she’d make an excellent spy. I may as well tell you the rest of it — or at least, the little I know. It seems that they found a letter signed by the German Chancellor and addressed to the King of Nepal.”
“Do you know what was in the letter?”
“It’s not hard to guess. Clearly, it was an attempt to enlist Nepal on the German side, against the British. England can ill afford to lose the Gurkhas, nor can we spare the six regiments Nepal has sent to India to free British troops for service overseas. Meanwhile, someone has been smuggling messages to the rajahs of the northern Indian kingdoms, encouraging them to rebel against British rule.”
Sophie felt a sudden chill. “But that . . . ”
“Could lead to a general uprising — to another Indian Mutiny? Indeed it could. And that’s not something anyone wants to contemplate.”
Surely, thought Sophie, such a thing could never be allowed to happen again. Troops rising against their officers, old grievances inflamed, old wounds revenged; innocent women and children slaughtered, the whole country in flames. But then she thought of the attacks happening even now in the streets of Calcutta, the veiled dinner table references to seized weapons and foiled conspiracies, and — still more frightening when she stopped to consider it — the news of mass desertions from the Indian army . . .
“There’s no doubt,” said Jeannie, “that this courier, whoever he was, was not acting alone.”
“Which means there must be a German agent in our midst?”
“So it appears. I gather the courier is not answering questions. But Sir Charles is taking charge. It’s not only Lily who has sources.”
It came as no great surprise to Gangtok’s small English community when Dr. Llewellyn was taken into custody. He was to be questioned by Sir Charles Bell about his involvement with the smuggled letter. There had been rising speculation that this odd little man was not what he seemed. Someone — Sophie assumed it was Sir Charles or his secretary — had contacted all the public schools in the English Midlands. None of them had a Dr. Llewellyn on their staff, or in fact had ever heard of him.
He was — it had eventually come to light — neither a doctor of philosophy, nor a teacher, nor even called Llewellyn. He was in fact Herr Otto Ludwig, German born but raised and educated in London. English speaking, English in appearance, but loyal to his German heritage, he had, one would have thought, the makings of an ideal undercover agent.
Why didn’t I suspect him sooner? Sophie thought of his malicious attacks on Alexandra’s reputation — clearly meant to deflect suspicion from himself. And there was the matter of the misidentified pheasant. Surely she should have recognized him then as an imposter. Compared to the devious characters in Mr. Kipling’s novels, it occurred to Sophie, Dr. Llewellyn was a rather clumsy spy.
“What do you think will happen to him?” she asked Jeannie, who gave her a grim look.
“I imagine he’ll be tried as an enemy agent . . . ”
“And then?”
“He’ll be shot, I expect.”
“Oh dear,” said Sophie. And had a troubling thought. “But what about the missionary ladies, Miss Ransome and Miss Elliot?”
“Entirely innocent of wrongdoing, it would seem. Quite taken in by Herr Ludwig’s winning ways.”
“In an odd way,” said Sophie, “I feel sorry for him.”
“Really? Why ever is that?”
“He really wasn’t very good at spying, was he?”
“No,” said Jeannie. “No, he certainly was not.”