Death and the Jubilee

10

General Hugo Arbuthnot looked angrily at his watch. Five minutes past eleven, and the meeting due to start at eleven o’clock sharp. If there was one thing guaranteed to put the General in a bad mood it was unpunctuality, particularly when the planning of Her Majesty’s Diamond Jubilee, now only two months away, was at stake.

William Taylor, the representative of the Metropolitan Police, was already in his place at the table in Arbuthnot’s headquarters in the War Office. At least the police could be trusted to maintain order and discipline.

There was a sudden rushing up the corridor. Dominic Knox, the representative of the Irish Office, burst through the door and made his apologies, a couple of files held aloft in his left hand.

‘My apologies, General,’ he panted. ‘My most sincere apologies. We have had fresh information from Dublin.’

As Knox took his seat and shuffled with his papers, Arbuthnot wondered if the man from the Irish Office was beginning to adopt the customs and habits of the people he was meant to superintend. Going native in Ireland, he felt, would involve precisely this kind of behaviour, a lack of punctuality, a general inattention to business.

‘Mr Knox.’ Arbuthnot’s voice was cold. ‘Is your information from Dublin important?’

‘Important enough to warrant my being late for the meeting?’ said Knox with a laugh. Privately he despised Arbuthnot for being stupid. ‘Yes, I believe it is. I believe it gives us all, especially my friend Mr Taylor of the Metropolitan Police, a great deal to think about.’

‘Perhaps you would like to enlighten us then?’ Arbuthnot was tapping his pen up and down on the table to mask his irritation.

‘Quite simply, it is this. Four days ago a group of the most determined and dangerous nationalists held a secret meeting outside Dublin. Their purpose was to resolve on the nature of the disturbances they wished to cause at the time of the Jubilee.’

‘Criminal acts, criminal acts,’ muttered the General.

‘Criminal acts, indeed, General.’ Knox nodded at his superior. ‘These three men were choosing whether to perpetrate an outrage in Dublin or in London in honour of the occasion. There were arguments on both sides. A bomb is the favoured method of causing the disturbance. I understand that there was some measure of disagreement about the site. In the end, London was deemed too dangerous for the particular terrorist to make his escape. So they have decided to make their protest in Dublin.’

‘Does that mean we can regard London as being safe from Irish subversives at the time of the parade?’ William Taylor, the policeman, was quick to see the implications for the manpower and deployment of his forces.

General Arbuthnot looked hopeful, as if one cross was about to be removed from his shoulders. ‘Surely,’ he said, ‘we would be safe in making that assumption. That is, if your information is to be believed.’ He looked at Knox suspiciously.

Dominic Knox looked at them both carefully. ‘I wish I could share your optimism,’ he said finally. ‘You see, these may be the three most important terrorist leaders in the country. But there could be more we know nothing of. And there is something else.’ He paused and looked at the General. ‘Forgive me for being cautious. But it is such a game of bluff and counterbluff where this intelligence is concerned. One of those at the meeting is on our payroll, and I can tell you he does not come cheap. Somehow the more you pay them, the more you want to believe what they say. But my point is this. The senior member of the trio, a schoolteacher called Byrne, is the leader of this group and easily the most intelligent. He may suspect the truth about our informer, that the man is in the pay of Dublin Castle.’

‘You mean the information may be false?’ said William Taylor, quick to see the implications of Knox’s difficulties. They had come across similar problems with informants in the East End.

‘Exactly,’ said Knox.

‘But what does this mean for our planning, gentlemen?’ General Arbuthnot felt himself growing irritated once more. He remembered briefly that his doctor had warned him about it. ‘What precautions are we to take?’

‘It means,’ said Knox ruefully, ‘as so often in Ireland, that black is white and white is black, or orange is green and green is orange. It could be that Byrne may have apparently decided to do one thing. But in fact, he intends to do the opposite.’

‘What do you mean? What is the plain truth behind your riddles, Mr Knox?’ The General was growing more petulant by the minute.

‘What it means, although I cannot be sure, is that this man Byrne wants us to believe that a bomb is going to be planted in Dublin. But in fact, he may intend to put a bomb in London. Or a gunman. That could be what he intended to do all along.’

‘Let me try to sum up what we know so far.’ Lord Francis Powerscourt had summoned a council of war to the house in Markham Square. Lady Lucy was sitting by the fire, glancing from time to time at the notes she had taken of her morning conversation with old Miss Harrison. Johnny Fitzgerald was inspecting a bottle of Sancerre with great care. William Burke, fresh from his day’s labour in the City of London, was beginning the complicated process of lighting a large cigar. A grey Powerscourt cat, recently acquired at the request of the Powerscourt children, was asleep at her master’s feet as he leant on the mantelpiece.

‘About eighteen months ago Old Mr Harrison begins to act strangely. We know it was eighteen months ago because Samuel Parker said it was about the time the publicity began for this Jubilee. He starts to take his correspondence out of the house to read by the lake. He begins to send his letters abroad through the good offices of Parker rather than through the usual channels in the big house. And he begins to talk about conspiracies and secret societies to his sister. Lucy.’

Lady Lucy had been watching her husband’s long slim fingers as they checked out the points he wished to make. She was remembering the first time she had noticed them, at a dinner party some five years before.

‘Yes, Francis.’ She came back to the present with a little private smile for him. ‘Old Mr Harrison talked about secret societies, secret societies in Germany that might have links here. He talked about conspiracies, probably involving the bank. He was worried about the future of the bank. If you distil what Miss Harrison said while she had possession of her wits, that’s about it.’

‘Let me play devil’s advocate with that lot,’ said Johnny Fitzgerald, putting down his glass. ‘She’s potty. Her mind is wandering all over the place. You can’t believe a word of any of it. He’s potty too, the late Mr Harrison, gone paranoid in his old age, imagining conspiracies and secret societies all over the place. If they didn’t have money the two old people would have been locked up in an asylum by now. All we have is the deranged fantasies of a couple of eighty-year-olds. None of it is worth bothering with.’ He filled his glass with Sancerre and took a restorative gulp. ‘I’m not saying I believe all that, but I’m sure that’s what a lawyer or a judge would say about the old pair.’

‘William, can you cast any light on this matter?’ Powerscourt turned to his brother-in-law, who was enjoying the first fruits of his Havana.

‘All I can say,’ said William Burke, ‘is that there was no evidence at all that Old Mr Harrison was losing his wits. None at all. I talked to a man in foreign loans only the other day who had had dealings with him two months or so before he died. He said he was sound as a bell, that his brain was as sharp as ever.’

‘But couldn’t he have seemed to be perfectly sound in the City,’ Fitzgerald was being contrary again, ‘but actually out of his mind the rest of the time? I’ve known people say that I’m not the same when I’ve taken a glass or six or seven as I am when I’m sober. Couldn’t it be like that?’

‘Surely only a doctor could answer that.’ Lady Lucy now had the cat asleep on her lap. ‘I’m sure Miss Harrison was sane when she talked about her brother’s worries. It wasn’t that she was inventing things, just that her memory had slipped its moorings, if you see what I mean.’

Powerscourt ran his hand along the marble fireplace. The touch took him back to the strange statues at Blackwater, maybe hiding or pointing the way to the secrets of Old Mr Harrison and his anxieties.

‘Let’s look at it this way,’ he said. ‘Let’s suppose everything we know is true. Let’s try to make some sense of it all.’

Here come those fingers again, Lady Lucy said to herself, watching once more as they marked out the points her husband wished to make.

‘Eighteen months ago, something starts going wrong at the bank. Old Mr Harrison is worried. Not long after that his eldest son is drowned in mysterious circumstances. That could be murder. Old Mr Harrison takes fright. He doesn’t want to read his letters in the house in case he is being watched. He takes his correspondence down to the lake instead. Some news from Germany alarms him. He goes back to the cities and financial centres he knew as a boy. When he comes back he is even more worried. Whatever he knows, it is too much. He is murdered too. I was sure he was looking for something on his walks by the lake, I don’t know why, but I felt it very strongly. And there’s all this talk of conspiracy involving the bank. What kind of conspiracy could that be, William?’

Burke was looking very alarmed. ‘Something has just struck me, Francis, something very grave indeed. Are the lives of Frederick and Charles Harrison safe, if what you say is true? Should we warn them that they may be in danger?’

‘They may be in more danger from each other than they are from any outside parties,’ said Johnny Fitzgerald.

‘I have thought about that, William,’ said Powerscourt. ‘Heaven help me if I am wrong, but I do not feel we have enough to go on to issue such a warning. We could be laughed at as scaremongers.’

‘I hope you’re right.’ Burke sounded doubttul. ‘I’m not sure about conspiracies involving the bank either. I know our critics say that the whole of the City is a vast conspiracy devoted to the ruination of the widow and the orphan, but I don’t think they are right.’

‘What kind of conspiracies might banks get up to, William?’ asked Johnny Fitzgerald cheerfully.

‘Well, there have been all sorts of conspiracies this century.’ William Burke liked talking about the City’s history. It reminded him that he belonged to a glorious past. ‘You could conspire to defraud your investors by issuing foreign loans to countries where there is no hope of the money ever being repaid. God knows we’ve seen enough of those. Then there are the phoney prospectuses for share issues with outlandish names like the Great African Gold and Diamond Mining Corporation. The speculators think they are going to get rich from mining but the only people who get rich are the ones who took their money in the first place. Railways in exotic locations – they’re usually good for a quick fraud. For some reason perfectly respectable citizens are almost always willing to invest in railways. Do you know there was even a company floated many years back to recover the valuables left behind by the Children of Israel at the parting of the Red Sea? The promoters claimed they were going to use Malaysian divers to recover the gold and treasure left behind on the seabed.’

‘Great God!’ said Powerscourt, laughing at the absurdity. ‘Did the investors get rich, William?’

‘The investors got poor, Francis. Some of them lost all they had, I believe. But I cannot see Harrison’s Bank becoming involved in any of these activities. Their reputation would have been destroyed overnight.’

‘You don’t think,’ said Lady Lucy, venturing boldly into this male world, ‘that the conspiracy was a conspiracy to kill members of Harrison’s Bank, do you? That way Young Mr Harrison and Old Mr Harrison were both killed as part of this conspiracy. That’s what Old Mr Harrison was worried about.’

‘You could be right,’ said her husband. ‘But where do the secret societies come in? Were members of the secret society doing the killing?’

‘Surely you could say,’ Fitzgerald was gazing sadly at an empty bottle, ‘that the dismemberment of the corpse could have been part of some secret society ritual, some private kind of initiation rite?’

‘I don’t recall seeing reports that the Elbe and the Rhine are occasionally blocked to traffic owing to the prevalence of headless corpses,’ said Powerscourt. ‘Even the Lorelei weren’t up to that.’

The Powerscourt cat had woken up and padded hopefully towards William Burke and his cigar smoke.

‘Good Lord, Francis. Does this animal like cigars? She must be very advanced.’ Burke looked at his new friend with astonishment.

‘I’m afraid she does, William.’ Lady Lucy smiled at her brother-in-law. ‘But her favourite place in the house is the cupboard where all the children’s clothes are kept. We’re going to have to make it catproof.’

Powerscourt had abandoned his fireplace and was walking restlessly up and down the room, his mind far away.

‘This is what I think we should do. I have to say I am not very sure of any of it. Johnny, I think you should go to Berlin. Didn’t the young Harrison go to university there, William?’

‘He did indeed,’ said Burke, ‘the Friedrich Wilhelm University, the city’s finest, they say.’

‘You want me to find out about secret societies, I presume, Francis?’ Johnny Fitzgerald was looking very serious now.

‘How is your German, Johnny?’ asked Powerscourt.

‘Well, I was once more or less fluent in German. I expect it’ll come back. But I’m not going to tell them that,’ his friend replied with a grin.

‘They drink an awful lot of beer and schnapps and things over there,’ said Lady Lucy with a smile. ‘Do you think you’ll be able to cope?’

‘I expect I’ll manage,’ said Fitzgerald ‘Maybe I need to get into practice, though, Lady Lucy. Would you be having any more of this Sancerre? All in the line of duty now, you understand.’

Powerscourt turned to the smoke-wreathed figure of William Burke.

‘William, can I ask you to make more detailed inquiries about Harrison’s Bank? The nature of their business, the shape of their finances, anything that could give us a clue as to what the conspiracy might be. Is there any chance that you could smuggle a man inside, a clerk or somebody like that? Somebody who could provide real inside information?’

‘It would be risky, I think.’ Burke inspected his cigar. ‘They are very tight, these German houses. They employ their own fellow countrymen whenever they can. And if it were found out, my own reputation would be floating in the river too.’

‘For myself,’ said Powerscourt, ‘I am going to continue my investigations into the old man’s activities at Blackwater. I cannot get that lake and those statues out of my head. Somewhere, somehow, I am certain the old man hid some of his papers down there. But there are so many clues, Hercules, Aeneas, river gods, Diana, Isis, the whole place is like a gigantic puzzle. I am going to begin in the National Gallery.’

‘Why the National Gallery?’ asked Lady Lucy, remembering a previous visit there with her husband and hoping she might accompany him this time.

‘It’s the layout of those temples. I’m sure the man who built the mythical garden had been looking at paintings by Poussin, or Claude, maybe even both. Something in the paintings may give us a clue.’

‘Francis.’ Johnny Fitzgerald was looking very sombre. ‘I shall set out for Berlin straight away. I may have to be there for some time. And I make you a prediction.’ He looked at all three of them in turn as though he had second sight rather than a second bottle. ‘I bet you that by the time I come back, there will be one fewer Harrison in this world. Another one will have gone to meet his maker in mysterious circumstances. But I’m not sure I could tell which one.’

Richard Martin was waiting for Sophie Williams in the coffee shop opposite Liverpool Street station. It was half-past five in the afternoon and the place would be closing soon. Outside the fog was getting thicker. It was ebb tide in the City of London. The army of occupation that had marched in that morning, as it did every morning, was in retreat now, slightly more cheerful as the foot-soldiers hurried towards the trains and the buses that would take them home.

Richard loved the coffee shops. He loved their history, the fact that so many of the great institutions of finance had their origins in places like this, the Jonathan’s and Garroway’s of a hundred and fifty years before that had given birth to Lloyd’s and the Royal Exchange and the Stock Exchange itself. Coffee from the East Indies had lubricated, oiled, stimulated the growth of the City of London.

A gust of wind and slivers of fog rushed through the door, quickly followed by Sophie.

‘Richard, oh Richard, I am so sorry I’m late.’

Richard Martin would have waited for the rest of his life for Sophie. In his darker moments he feared he might have to.

‘Don’t worry, Sophie, let me get you some coffee. You look cold.’

‘I’m angry rather than cold,’ she said, peeling off her gloves and laying them on the table. ‘I’ve had that meeting with the headmistress.’

‘And what did she say?’

Sophie paused while a black-coated waiter deposited a cup of coffee beside her. Richard had made his one cup last for forty-five minutes and didn’t intend to order any more if he could help it.

‘She said . . .’ Sophie looked close to tears. ‘She said there had been complaints about me.’ She paused and looked for her handkerchief.

‘Hold on, Sophie, don’t get upset.’ Richard wondered if he should hold her hand or put an arm round her shoulder. Maybe the place was too public for that. ‘What sort of complaints? Who was complaining? Surely they weren’t complaining about your teaching? Everybody knows you’re a fantastic teacher. The whole area knows that.’

Sophie managed a weak smile. ‘The complaints weren’t about my teaching. She said – Mrs White, that is – she said there had been complaints about my work for the women’s movement.’

Sophie was looking defiant now.

‘And what did you say?’ asked Richard, indignant on Sophie’s behalf. ‘Surely it’s none of her business what you do outside school hours?’

‘She said there had been complaints from two sets of parents. She wouldn’t tell me who they were. They want me removed from my job, these parents. They said they didn’t want their children being taught these ludicrous notions.’

‘What did you say to that, Sophie?’ Richard was looking very carefully at her hands. He thought they looked very soft.

‘I said I thought it was absurd,’ said Sophie. ‘I said I had never, never, referred to my beliefs in my teaching. Never. That wouldn’t be right. If all teachers were allowed to indoctrinate their pupils with their own beliefs, it would be terrible. I’m going to find out who these parents are, mind you. I think I shall ask the children.’

‘You can’t do that.’

‘Why not? You can’t tell me what to do in my own school.’ Sophie was indignant, her eyes flashing. ‘What do you know about it?’

‘I don’t know about your school at all, Sophie. Only what you tell me.’ In his heart Richard felt he knew a great deal about the school. ‘But if you ask the children, however you do it, they’ll all go back home and tell their parents. More of them may get involved. The whole business could get more difficult than it already is.’

Sophie looked at him. She thought that Richard was maybe wiser than he looked.

‘More important, Sophie,’ the young man went on, ‘what did she say she was going to do about it?’

‘She said that she was going to listen to what I had to say and then she was going to consider it. Mrs White doesn’t like taking decisions in a hurry.’

‘But your job is safe in the meantime? There’s no question about that?’ asked Richard.

‘Yes, it is. I suppose that’s good news.’

‘I tell you what I think she’ll do, Sophie. She’ll talk again to these parents and try to calm them down. She’ll make it clear to them that the choice of staff in the school must rest with her and not with the parents. Otherwise it would be chaos. She’ll probably say that she has made you promise that you won’t preach the suffragist cause in the classroom. She’ll probably make you promise that all over again. Then it’ll all be over.’

Sophie looked at him carefully. Then she laughed.

‘Richard,’ she said, ‘I thought you spent your whole time in the bank adding things up and putting them in ledgers. But they seem to be teaching you a bit of wisdom as well!’

‘All kinds of human affairs pass through the banks, Sophie.’ Richard felt older than his twenty-two years. ‘Births, marriages, deaths, and most of the complicated bits in between.’

‘And what has been happening in your bank, Richard?’ Sophie seemed happier now. ‘Is everybody still alive? No more bodies floating in the Thames?’

‘We’re still alive, but only just.’ Richard Martin looked worried. ‘Nobody’s looking for any new business. The place is just ticking over. But there are some very strange things happening. I think I have been as worried about them as I have about your interview with the headmistress.’

‘Were you worried about me?’ said Sophie with a smile.

‘Of course I was. I don’t think I can say anything about what’s going on in Harrison’s Bank just yet. We’re meant to be very discreet, we bankers.’

For the past ten minutes the waiter had been dusting the neighbouring tables, pulling down the blinds, sweeping the floor.

‘I think they want us to go, Sophie. I’ll see you home.’

‘Are you very worried about what’s going on in the bank?’ asked Sophie, drawn irresistibly towards a secret.

‘I am, yes,’ said Richard, helping her into her coat, his hands lingering fractionally longer around her shoulders than they needed to. ‘But I’ll just have to wait and see what happens.’

So they joined the hurrying throng on its way home through the fog, home to loved ones, home to families, home to rest before another day in the Great City. Sophie was feeling rather proud of her Richard for being so sensible. Richard was watching the swing of her hips. He was wondering if now, with the light so bad and so many people about, if now might be the moment to hold her hand. Just in case she got lost, he said to himself.

The gravestone was granite. On top of it perched two black eagles, carved in marble to survey the city of Berlin. The epitaph was simple.

Here lies Heinrich von Treitschke. For forty years he served in the University of Berlin, instructing his students in the lessons of the past, and teaching that the history of his people points the way toward a more glorious future. In life he was revered. In death he will not be forgotten. Here lies a great German.

Even nine months after his death the flowers were piled high on top of the grave. A local florist, noting the appeal of this particular tomb, had opened an extra stall just inside the cemetery.

Both men standing there had attended the funeral, as the old historian was laid to rest with full military honours, the route from the church to his final resting place lined with hussars and guards, the slow beat of the drum punctuating his last journey.

‘Even now, Karl, the people still flock to pay tribute to his memory.’ Manfred von Munster, chief recruiter for the secret society set up to honour Treitschke’s teachings, held his hat in his hands.

‘They say in the banks,’ said Karl Schmidt, one of von Munster’s most recent recruits, ‘that they are going to name a street or a square after him.’

‘That would be splendid, a fitting memorial. But come, I have news for you today from the society.’ Von Munster spoke reverently about the society. ‘They are very pleased with your work,’ he went on. ‘The Potsdamer Bank are very pleased indeed.’

‘I am delighted to hear it,’ said Karl.

‘But now,’ said von Munster, gazing round the cemetery to make sure they were not observed, ‘is the time for you to take the next step. You must leave the Potsdamer Bank very soon.’

‘Leave?’ said the young man anxiously. ‘I thought you said they were pleased with my work.’

‘Oh, they are.’ Von Munster rubbed his hands together. ‘They’re so pleased that they are more than willing to take you back once you have accomplished your mission.’

‘Is this the journey to England of which you spoke before?’

‘It is,’ said von Munster firmly. ‘You are to travel to London and make your way to Harrison’s Bank in the City of London. A position has been reserved for you there.’

‘And what must I do when I reach London?’ asked Karl, delighted that his services were required at last. He had begun to wonder if the secret society was just a talking shop.

‘You must wait until you get there. You will receive your instructions in London. That is all I am allowed to tell you at present.’

As they made their way past the long rows of graves, some marked with the Iron Cross denoting military service, Karl had one last question to ask.

‘Manfred, can you answer this question for me?’ Von Munster smiled. ‘I will try as best I can.’

‘You said I was doing well in the Potsdamer Bank, and that they will have me back once this mission is over. How do you know all that? Do you have members of the society inside the Potsdamer Bank who keep you informed?’

Von Munster put his arm around the young man’s shoulder.

‘Karl, I should not be telling you this. But, yes, we do have members in the Potsdamer Bank. We are increasing our membership. Soon we will have members in all the most important institutions in Germany.’