The Duke of Newcastle's Agent

Thank you, Constantine15, Dagonsfal_rektor, and DaoistDragonEye, for your kind support! I'm happy to announce that more than 100 people have added this story to their collections. For the occasion, I will upload 2 chapters! Enjoy!

Chapter 1/2.

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One of the first things he had been told was that everything he did, heard, and said was confidential and should only be disclosed by order of his employer, the Duke of Newcastle. The second was that if he were discovered, he would be alone, as the Crown could not acknowledge knowing his name or his intentions. The third was that if he were caught, only death awaited him.

Such was his fate as a spy. He would never be recognized, never praised for his work, and even less likely to be decorated. At best, he would receive money, enough to live decently.

This was the main reason he had accepted this rather unequal offer. John Ingham came from a modest background with modest manual skills, which wasn't ideal for the son of an artisan, and he had a mountain of debts left by his alcoholic father, who was also addicted to gambling. When the old man finally decided to die on May 15, 1724, which was inevitable given his lifestyle, his creditors had shown up at his door to demand the money owed, increased by staggering, albeit legal, interest.

In fact, there were more creditors than relatives at poor Peter Ingham's funeral.

For the sake of his sister, who had always been in poor health, his young wife, and his child, he accepted the offer he was fortunately made one rainy evening in his modest shop. That was in October 1726.

For the Duke of Newcastle, who had just become Secretary of State for the Southern Department, he spied for nearly a decade in London and other British cities. His employer mainly wanted to hear and control rumors. Then, in 1738, he was sent to France on a mission of the utmost importance, having taken the initiative to learn that complex language to better serve his master.

The Duke ordered him to go to Rochefort in anticipation of a war that was bound to happen, and he did. He was to observe the movements in the port, count them, assess their firepower, report on the morale of the inhabitants and workers, and even stir up conflicts. This last part wasn't the most complicated. Almost as soon as the War of Austrian Succession began, the coffers of the Kingdom of France emptied as if they were leaking. Without money, there were no salaries. His whispers turned into massive protest movements.

Then, one of his collaborators, a foolish local who had the bad idea to boast about being a spy to his landlady, was arrested. Luckily, he heard rumors about this and fled before King Louis XV's troops could come and place a thick hemp rope around his neck.

He boarded a modest smuggling ship at night in 1744 and returned to England. Despite his failure, he retained the Duke's trust and continued to serve him.

Almost all the money he earned went to his wife, a faithful and loving spouse who never questioned his activities or how he earned a living. Thanks to her, his sister Mary's health greatly improved, and his son, James, grew up without want. He could have good clothes and fine shoes.

He served for a time alongside his master in London but also served on the continent, notably in the Holy Roman Empire.

Now, John Ingham was a mature man of almost sixty. After so many years of service risking his life, a rarity in his profession where few lived to old age, his nerves were solid.

Dressed in a long and expensive poppy-colored coat that he kept open despite the freezing temperatures to show off a splendid buttercup-yellow waistcoat, this old man with an extravagant appearance stood at the bow of a small single-masted ship. A red sail, filled by a light breeze from the east, carried the boat across the calm waters of the Spree, through fragile sheets of ice that had broken off from the still-frozen banks.

The center of the river was navigable and frequented by many other vessels, both small and large.

Slowly, the ship had ascended the Spree from the North Sea and was now approaching Berlin. On this January 21st, the city, with its snow-covered rooftops and steeples, seemed so peaceful that it was hard to imagine that not long ago it had been besieged by an Austrian force and that a war was still ongoing.

Here we are. Berlin. Is this their capital? How pitiful. From here, it looks like a provincial town.

The ship's captain, a large man with a round throat like a frog and a poorly-shaved face, approached him heavily.

"Monsieur, we are arriving in Berlin. We'll dock near the Royal Bridge. Will that do?"

"Thank you, Captain. That will be perfect," replied the old man with a soft smile, highlighting his many wrinkles.

The spy didn't have a high opinion of this man, but he had done what was expected of him and hadn't asked questions. Naturally, he knew nothing of his identity or mission. A little gold had been enough to convince him to take him on board to this city.

My mission can finally begin. I hope it's not too late.

Despite some concerns, he was relatively confident. A peace treaty wasn't negotiated in such a short time. Even if the talks had begun in the weeks following the disaster at Rossbach last November, only a little more than two months had passed.

When France had to negotiate the least costly and least humiliating peace possible with the all-powerful Great Britain, it had taken six months of discussion! There was no reason for it to be different this time.

As soon as he set foot on land, he headed towards the heart of the city with surprising ease for a foreigner. It was as if he had visited the Prussian capital hundreds of times. In reality, this was his first time in this city. He had simply memorized its layout by studying a detailed map for long hours over several days.

Hmm, not bad. The streets are wide and well-maintained. The hygiene isn't perfect, but even London doesn't smell like roses. They are somewhat similar.

The streets were slippery due to freezing and thawing, and more than once, he almost fell, like some of the people he passed between the docks and his destination. It was a modest shop selling canes, located across from the house of the British Ambassador to Berlin, Sir Andrew Mitchell.

Naturally, his house was closely watched. Anyone who made contact with this man or one of his servants was, in turn, monitored. This ordinary shop was a point of contact, practically under the observers' noses.

In fact, he walked right past one of them, who was dying of boredom and occupying himself as best he could. If he noticed him, the man gave him no importance. To everyone, he was just an old man entering a cane shop. His sharp gaze swept the room, and as soon as he saw that everything was safe, he headed towards the counter.

"Good day, sir, how may I help you?" asked the shopkeeper, a man of a similar age, but so hunched over that one might think he was bowing.

"Good day, sir. What a beautiful day! It puts me in a good mood!"

The shopkeeper's gaze subtly changed.

"Yes, but I don't have time to enjoy it. I'm far too busy. I have work to do."

"Then I won't stay too long. I'm here to pick up an order."

"Ah, very well," said the shopkeeper, "under what name?"

"Alban Minsten."

The old man nodded softly and went to the back of the shop, leaving the "customer" alone for a few moments.

Good, he has the message.

The old man quickly returned with a long, dark wooden cane topped with a beautiful silver handle, which he handed to the agent. With respect, the agent received it with both hands and tested it. It was perfect in both size and the shape of the handle.

"How much do I owe you, sir?"

"It's already been paid, sir."

"Oh, that's right. Where is my head? In that case, I'll leave you to your work. Good luck."

"Thank you very much, dear customer! A wonderful day to you as well!"

John left the small shop with his new cane, and like an honest bourgeois, he walked down the street with pride. The agent stationed in front of the ambassador's house saw him and clicked his tongue in disdain. He must have thought that this man wanted to live like a noble and was willing to spend a fortune to resemble them.

He made his way to a district outside the city walls—now useless due to the city's rapid and extensive growth—where he found an inn. It was very simple and blended perfectly into the landscape. The landlady, a plump woman in her forties with a friendly face, quickly assigned him a room. For a tidy sum, she agreed not to take in any other guests. It was a room large enough to accommodate four other people, so it needed to be compensated. But money wasn't an issue.

Once he was in his room, which was rather simple, he took his cane and unscrewed the handle. There, in a hollow compartment, he found, as expected, a short message written by the ambassador himself. There was only one name: Karl Wilhelm Finck von Finckenstein.

What a long name! No matter. So, he's my target.

***

This man was an experienced diplomat who had served his king by representing him in Denmark-Norway, Great Britain, and Russia. He had then served more directly under Frederick II of Prussia by becoming one of his ministers.

Naturally, he was present when Prince Ferdinand convened the kingdom's top figures to decide whether to open negotiations with France and its allies. As the son of a Prussian field marshal and brother of a division general, he could not accept the idea of peace so soon after the beginning of this war for Silesia. It was imperative that Prussia survive and rebuild its forces to return to the forefront.

According to him, at the start of the war, they were only a step away from joining the world's great powers!

But now, they were heading toward a shameful peace! Despite his close friendship with Frederick II, he could not accept these scandalous terms that were being offered with a smile, as if those scoundrels had already made enormous concessions.

Greedy bastards! How dare they look down on us like that?! In the time of the "soldier king," they would have trembled with fear!

Even though Frederick II had an impressive reputation far beyond Prussia, it still didn't match that of his father, Frederick William I. He was a harsh man with many flaws, but a good king with a keen sense of duty. He wouldn't have hesitated to arrest Prince Ferdinand and execute all his bad advisors, for what they were doing was high treason.

How dare you claim to be Prussian and bow down like that?! Have you no pride?! If Father could return to life with the "soldier king," they would all tremble in fear!

Fortunately, there were those who, like him, did not want a peace that would bring Prussia to its knees, even annihilate it. He had expressed his opinion to His Highness Prince Ferdinand, and for that, he had been sidelined. As he had been told, his "opinion was too problematic for the proper conduct of negotiations with the involved parties."

He had indeed fiercely argued with his comrades in front of the representatives of Austria, France, Russia, and Sweden, but was it not too harsh to dismiss him in such a manner? He could only see it as an injustice, he who had the kingdom's interests at heart more than anyone else.

May they all be damned! Under their quills, the kingdom that was so painstakingly built will be destroyed and absorbed!

With furious steps, he left the royal palace under the bewildered gazes of courtiers and guards. As soon as he passed through the palace gates, he was assaulted by a cool, almost cold wind. Accustomed to the region's climate, which could be as harsh as the one that forged the bodies and minds of Russia's inhabitants, he paid it no mind and continued on his way until he reached the city.

To his left, the Spree flowed peacefully, unaffected by the tensions and complex games of politics. The same was true for all the people going about their business. Everyone had their own problems, and it was the duty of the nobility to take charge of all those concerning the kingdom's politics.

If they knew what was being said behind these high walls, they wouldn't hesitate to come before its gates in great numbers, Karl thought, his heart heavy.

His jaw was so tight that he could feel his teeth grinding. His clenched fists were lined with large, very visible veins, swollen as if filled with air. His lips, pressed together, formed only a thin line beneath his very narrow nose.

I-I need to calm down... I'm starting to get stomach pains. Damn it! But how can I calm down when my kingdom is being murdered?!

He placed a hand on his large belly, where a pain had begun to emerge. It felt as if his insides were being twisted.

Lost in his thoughts, he almost didn't notice, until the last second, an old man richly dressed who, however, could not go unnoticed. The man leaned with a certain elegance on a cane so dark it could be described as black with red highlights, and topped with a charming silver handle.

"Lord von Finckenstein? W-would you have a moment to spare? Please!" implored the old man, his face showing concern, even desperation.

"Hmm? Do we know each other? If so, I apologize, but I have no memory of our meeting."

"Oh, no, we are meeting for the first time. My name is Alban Minsten. I... I understand that your opinions regarding the ongoing negotiations have caused you some trouble," said the man, lowering his voice and looking around as if he feared someone might steal his purse.

The minister's thin eyebrows furrowed sharply. It was almost a provocation. His father wouldn't have hesitated to challenge this old man to a duel for that, but he was not his father. He considered himself more mature than that.

"If this is to mock me, sir," he said in a dry, cold tone, "I take my leave."

"No! I have no intention of mocking you, my lord!" John, alias Alban, responded, waving his hands vigorously in front of him. "I... In fact, I am more saddened by the situation. To think that these people do not understand the gravity of the situation and are willing to abandon everything, even their honor, to preserve their financial interests! What a sadness, truly!"

The politician's gaze softened a bit upon hearing these words. It was always pleasant to hear someone share the same opinions as you. Although he was not isolated at the Royal Palace, he had been the only one to take a stand as he had, loudly proclaiming that they should not be ready to sign anything just to quickly end this disastrous war.

"What do you want from me, Mr. Minsten?"

"To speak with you, my lord, that's all. In private, please. What I have to say must not be heard by anyone else!" he said very seriously. "Do you have time and a place where we won't be disturbed... or overheard?" he added in a whisper.

The stout man observed this old man, who seemed more sympathetic, for a moment. Although richly dressed, he did not seem superficial like many courtiers. Growing more intrigued by the mystery, he finally nodded in agreement.