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  ‘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.’

  11

  Powerscourt was thinking about family feuds as the early train carried him south-west to Cornwall for his rendezvous with Leopold Harrison, senior partner in Harrison’s Private Bank, nephew to the man found floating by London Bridge. He knew that William Burke had said there were no rumours of a family feud in the splitting of Harrison’s Bank, but he was still curious. Could a feud, which led to the bank dividing into two, be responsible for the Curse on the House of Harrison? Professionally, Powerscourt quite liked family feuds, they could last so long that perfectly unintelligible crimes could be explained by terrible internal wars a generation or two before.

  The Greeks had been pretty good at family feuds, he reflected, until the Italians came along and took the prize. As his train rolled through the innocent Hampshire countryside he remembered the curse of the house of Atreus, the infamous feast laid on in Mycenae by Atreus for his brother Thyestes. Cubes of white meat bubble in a large bronze cauldron. Atreus offers one or two specially tasty morsels to Thyestes. Thyestes eats them. At the end of the banquet Atreus’ servant brings in a plate crammed with human hands and feet. Only then does Thyestes realize that he has been eating the flesh of his own children. Revenge, hatred, murder, rape follow through the family for generations. Powerscourt had tried to count how many had perished from this one feud in his schooldays. He had given up when he reached seventeen. However ferocious a Harrison feud might have been he didn’t think it could be as bad as that, even if headless corpses with their hands cut off could have come straight out of Aeschylus.

  Cawsand was one of a pair of pretty villages four or five miles by sea from Plymouth but a long way round by land. The sea curved in to form one little bay, Kingsand, swung out again into a rocky promontory, then turned back into the other little bay of Cawsand. Powerscourt’s cab deposited him in the small main square of Cawsand. The public house, the Smugglers, bore witness to the past of the inh
abitants. The Harrison house was called Trehannoc, just up the twisting street that led from the square and the tiny beach. The houses were small and pretty, late eighteenth century or early in this one, Powerscourt thought, looking with admiration at the sea views they must command. He wondered if prize money from the long sea war against Napoleon had paid for them. Prize money, the lubricant of greed added to the fires of patriotism, had made the Royal Navy a terrifying force; captured privateers, caught trying to beat the blockade of France with sugar from the West Indies or coffee from Brazil, French men of war won in battle and sold off to His Majesty’s Treasury, could have paid for these little houses. Lieutenants, climbing slowly through the numbers from fourth to first, helped on their way by the death toll in battle, could have spent a comfortable retirement here, walking along the coastal paths, inspecting the ships that passed by on their way in and out of Plymouth. Rich captains and admirals, he remembered, who took the lion’s share of the spoils, would not have settled here. They bought their way into the country gentry with substantial estates in Devon and Hampshire.

  Trehannoc was not a very handsome house. A black door, a nondescript window looked over the winding street. Leopold Harrison opened the door. He was a short tubby man in his late forties or early fifties.

  ‘You must be Powerscourt. Come in, please.’

  He was wearing a suit that looked as though it came from one of London’s finest tailors and should have been walking along Lombard Street or Piccadilly rather than the twisting lanes of Cornwall. His shoes gleamed. His hair was immaculate.

  Harrison brought Powerscourt along a passageway, past a dining room where he spotted a fine Regency dining table and chairs, into a drawing room that looked out over the sea. Then Powerscourt understood. The house was built back to front. Trehannoc stood at the apex of the promontory that ran between the twin villages. The front door was really the entrance on the little slipway on the rocks below. When you sat down in the corner of the room, all you could see was the ocean. In winter, Powerscourt realized, the spray from the storms must come right up to the top of the windows, encrusting them with salt.