Death and the Jubilee lfp-2 Page 19

  ‘So can Mr Charles now do what he wants with the bank?’ asked Powerscourt.

  ‘No, he cannot,’ said Burke firmly. ‘There is a clause in the original agreements, drawn up by the lawyers, which says that all the partners must be in agreement before any important decisions are taken.’

  ‘What would happen if Williamson died, William?’ Powerscourt spoke very softly, anxious about being overheard. ‘Suppose he fell into the river, or his yacht capsized, or his house burnt down?’

  ‘Then, Francis,’ William Burke also lowered his voice, ‘I understand his share would pass to the surviving member of the family. And then Mr Charles could do exactly as he wanted with the bank. Exactly what he wanted.’

  William Burke rose from his seat and opened the window on his left.

  ‘Look down there, Francis.’ Five floors down the great exodus was beginning. The dark coats of the City were hastening to the buses and the train stations and the underground railway. There was a faint but regular tapping sound, the result, Powerscourt realized, of so many umbrella tips hitting the ground at the same time.

  ‘These people work with money every day of their lives. They buy it. They sell it. They trade with it. They sell shares of it to each other. They dream, almost every one of them, of being richer this evening than they were this morning. That dream sustains them as they go home to Muswell Hill or Putney or they ride the trains to Staines and Epsom. No doubt Charles Harrison has had that dream too. It is only a guess, Francis, but he must be worth well over a million pounds sterling.’

  Even Burke hasn’t got that much, Powerscourt knew, looking at his friend. He could tell by the faint note of envy that crept into his voice.

  ‘Let me introduce you to one of my young men, one of my brightest young men, Francis.’

  Burke disappeared briefly and could be heard issuing his instructions outside.

  ‘You remember you asked me if I could place somebody inside Harrison’s Bank, Francis? And I said I could not do that? Well, I thought about it and I asked Mr Clarke, Mr James Clarke, from our offices here, to befriend a young man of his own age in Harrison’s Bank. I believe he has done that.’

  There was a knock at the door, a firm knock as if Mr James Clarke was not intimidated by what he might find on the other side.

  ‘Let me introduce Lord Francis Powerscourt, James.’ Burke ushered the young man to a chair. ‘Lord Powerscourt may shortly be joining as us a non-executive director. He has particular interests in Harrison’s Bank.’

  Powerscourt smiled to himself at the prospect of joining his brother-in-law’s bank. Maybe he would become really rich through this new association. He could buy himself a yacht, or the Blackwater library.

  ‘I have made friends with a young man called Richard Martin,’ said Clarke. ‘He has worked as a clerk at Harrison’s Bank for some time. His father died three or four years ago. I believe he supports his mother. And he has a sweetheart called Sophie, though I think he has few hopes of her.’

  ‘Why is that, Mr Clarke?’ asked Powerscourt.

  ‘She’s a suffragist, Lord Powerscourt. She campaigns for votes for women, all that sort of thing.’

  ‘I see,’ said Burke, who thought it would be a disaster if women were given the vote. He would trust his own wife, he knew, with any question of domestic comfort or the education of his children but he did not want her deciding the Government of the country. It would be chaos, administration by whim and instinct rather than sober judgement.

  ‘What does he say about his bank?’ asked Powerscourt.

  ‘Well, he is very discreet, as all young bankers should be, isn’t that right, Mr Burke?’ Clarke appealed to his superior.

  ‘Absolutely, James, absolutely. It is one of the first things you all learn here.’

  ‘But he is worried, sir,’ Clarke went on, ‘I know he is worried. I think he fears that something terrible may happen to the bank and that he may lose his position and not be able to support his mother.’

  ‘Could I make a suggestion, William?’ Powerscourt was appealing to his brother-in-law. Clarke had never heard his director referred to as William before. All the young clerks were convinced that Burke’s Christian name was Ezekiel. ‘In my capacity as a prospective non-executive director, you understand,’ Burke and Powerscourt smiled at each other, ‘I think you should tell this young man that there may be openings for him here with Mr Burke in this bank. In case anything should go wrong at Harrison’s, you understand. Maybe he could come here for a possible interview so Mr Burke could form a view as to his potential. But for the moment, it is desperately important that he stays where he is. There have been strange goings on there as you know. I could produce you a letter from very high authorities asking for your co-operation in this matter. I cannot tell you how important it is that he stays in position at Harrison’s Bank. Maybe he can perform some service in the future.’

  James Clarke looked sombre at the mention of higher authority. Surely the word of William, not Ezekiel, Burke was word enough?

  ‘Could I ask one thing, sir?’ he said, looking solemnly at Powerscourt. ‘Are you anxious that things should happen quickly? Richard Martin’s interview with Mr Burke here, I mean. I do not wish to be seen to put pressure on him.’

  ‘You must form your own judgement on that,’ Powerscourt replied. ‘Speed is important, yes. But I would not want to lose this young man, as it were. You must decide when the best moment is.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’ James Clarke left them, heavy with new responsibilities.

  Powerscourt too took his farewells, saying he had to call on the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police. He thought as he went of Johnny Fitzgerald’s message in its Latin code about the arms and money being sent to Ireland. How had he heard it? Where had he heard it? Was it accurate? And he remembered checking a map of Ireland the night before. He could find no place called Blackstones, as mentioned in the message. But there was a place called Greystones, south of Dublin. It was a just a few miles from his old home.

  17

  British agents used to meet their informants in Dublin in a strange variety of places, walking by the docks on Sunday afternoons, in empty train compartments, in the side chapels of the empty Protestant churches, even in cemeteries where the British would appear with bunches of improbable flowers to mourn the deaths of their adversaries. Fergus Finn was going to meet his contact in the wide open spaces of the Phoenix Park. It was quiet on weekday mornings and they could talk beneath the trees without being seen.

  ‘I have some news for you now,’ said Finn, drawing his thin coat around him against the rain that flew into their faces and dripped from the branches above. ‘And I think it’s worth a lot of money.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’ asked the agent wearily. He carried in his jacket pocket enough for Finn’s latest subvention. Long experience had taught him to carry at least twice as much money as seemed necessary.

  ‘Michael Byrne now, you’ve heard tell of Michael Byrne?’

  The agent nodded, his eyes sweeping the park to make sure they were not being watched.

  ‘He’s got a sweetheart,’ Finn was talking very quietly,’ a pretty wee thing called Marie O’Dowd. He’s been sending her over to London.’

  ‘Do you know why?’ asked the agent.

  ‘It’ll be some sort of reconnaissance mission, don’t you see. She’s a teacher, that Marie. She goes for interviews for jobs at the schools in London. That’s what her auntie told my ma’s cousin when they met at Mass the other morning.’

  ‘She could just be intending to go and live in London, couldn’t she?’ said the agent, who had moved to Ireland from England’s capital. ‘Lots of people like London better than Dublin, you know.’

  As he thought of the squalor and the poverty, the lies and the treacheries and the betrayals, the sheer elusiveness of Dublin’s inhabitants, the agent knew where home would be for him.

  ‘You don’t understand, man,’ said Finn, ‘she’s besotted with Mi
chael Byrne, totally besotted with him. She’d do anything for him. It’s as if Michael Byrne himself has been walking the streets of London.’

  A troop of horse, part of the detachment guarding the Viceroy’s residence, trotted past the clump of trees, the horses’ coats shining in the rain.

  ‘Do you know if she did anything particular for him when she was in London?’ said the agent.

  ‘That I do not. She was always drawing things, that one. She’s got one of the best eyes in Dublin, you know. She could do you a perfect picture of the front of Buckingham Palace in about five minutes.’

  The agent looked thoughtful, even alarmed. All agents were trained to show no emotion at all, not even anger, when dealing with their informants.

  ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘We have been here long enough. Here is your money, and a little bit more besides. That’s all there is today.’ Nothing upset this agent more than arguing with the treacherous Irish, bartering information for scraps of gold as if they were in some oriental market.

  Fergus Finn took his forty pieces of silver and went back to his office. The agent waited under the trees for a full fifteen minutes before he walked back across the city to his quarters in Dublin Castle.

  News of the meeting reached Dominic Knox, senior officer in the British service responsible for intelligence gathering in Ireland, the following day. He swore as he looked out on the cobblestones of Dublin Castle at the little chapel built to commemorate British rule in Ireland. The names of the English rulers were written round its walls. It was one of the very few places in Dublin where the name of Cromwell could be found. The sentries stood to rigid attention in their dark blue boxes. The Viceroy’s carriage was waiting haughtily at the main entrance. Inside the castle walls was all the authority and certainty of the British Empire. Outside in the smoke and grime of the filthy city a handful of badly organized fanatics were trying to plot the end of English rule in Ireland.

  Knox sent a message to his counterpart in London. They were to circulate all the elementary schools in London – he corrected himself as he struggled with his codes, all the Catholic elementary schools in London – asking for details of all applicants for positions. All applicants from Ireland. It was to be part of an administrative survey into the provision of teaching staff in the capital. The circular should be sent out immediately.

  The Commissioner sent his apologies. He was delayed at a meeting. Powerscourt drank cup after cup of Metropolitan Police tea, strong and sweet. He chatted briefly with Arthur Stone, the assistant who had told him about the fire at Blackwater. There was a further message from the Commissioner. His meeting was taking much longer than expected. Powerscourt drank more tea, wondering why even these offices had to be so drab.

  ‘My dear Lord Powerscourt.’ The Commissioner was effusive in his apologies. ‘It’s the Jubilee, the wretched Jubilee. The nearer it gets the more anxious the organizers become. You’d think they were orchestrating the Second Coming.’

  Powerscourt told the Commissioner about the fire, about his suspicions that it had not started accidentally, about the whisky butler in the basement, about the mystery of the missing key.

  ‘If the fire was started deliberately, do you think the purpose was to kill Frederick Harrison?’ The Commissioner was putting some papers in a folder labelled ‘Jubilee 1897’. Powerscourt felt sure that somewhere in the building was a folder labelled ‘Jubilee 1887’. He wondered if they had one ready yet for Victoria’s funeral.

  ‘That is the only conclusion I can draw,’ said Powerscourt wearily. ‘But I cannot find any clear motive unless it is to obtain for Mr Charles Harrison the complete control over the bank’s affairs.’

  ‘Does he have that now – that control, I mean?’ The Commissioner looked keenly at Powerscourt.

  ‘Not quite yet. Almost, but not quite. There is a senior clerk by the name of Williamson who has to approve all major decisions, according to the rules of the partnership. But he could just ignore that. As to why he wants control of the bank now, if that is his purpose, when it would pass to him naturally in a couple of years, I have no idea at all. But I feel Williamson’s life may be in danger.’

  ‘Would you like us to watch him,’ said the Commissioner, ‘to make sure he is safe?’

  ‘I would be most grateful,’ said Powerscourt. ‘I have all the necessary details with me here.’

  ‘Is there anybody else you would like us to watch, Lord Powerscourt? Anything that might help you in your inquiries?’

  Powerscourt thought about this generous offer. This might just shorten the odds against him. ‘There is, sir, if you can afford the necessary manpower. I should like you to watch Mr Charles Harrison.’

  Powerscourt spent some time reading the back copies of the financial papers in the London Library. He spent some time in trains, always enjoyable for him. He travelled to Blackwater where, officially, he was keeping an eye on things, maintaining contact with Inspector Wilson, wandering about the ruined house, having desultory conversations with Jones the butler. He walked round the lake alone, stopping to peer into the temples, pausing to read the epitaphs in the churchyard. He walked to the river, mentally timing how long it would take a man on a fast horse to get there from the house, admiring the boathouse with the well-kept rowing boats by the side of the Thames.

  But, if he was honest with himself, he knew the real reason he was there. He had fallen in love. Perhaps it’s more of an infatuation, perhaps it will pass, he said to himself.

  He had fallen in love with the library, its green surroundings, the promise of the books that lined its walls, the air of serenity that pervaded the long room. Here he would sit, sometimes making notes of things to do, sometimes wandering around and pausing to bring down a Thucydides or a Clarendon, a Plutarch or a de Tocqueville from the tall cases that reached up to the vaulted ceiling. He thought of his other recent train journey, a visit to the seaside to another Harrison, Lothar of Harrison’s Private Bank, in his grand house in Eastbourne a few days before.

  A row of goat carts had been waiting patiently for their little passengers outside the front door of the Harrison house, right on the front near the pier. Behind them on the beach the bathing machines were unlikely to have much custom on this day for the rain was pouring down, the wind strong from the sea. Through the windows of Lothar Harrison’s drawing room on the first floor a couple of fishing boats could be seen, beating slowly back towards the shore.

  ‘I gather you have been to see my brother Leopold in Cornwall, Lord Powerscourt,’ said Lothar with a smile. ‘And that you are interested in our family history.’

  ‘I must confess,’ said Powerscourt, ‘that I found your brother crystal clear on the subject of money and banking, but somewhat, how should I put it, hesitant, on the subject of women.’

  Lothar Harrison roared with laughter. ‘Hesitant,’ he said, ‘I like that, Lord Powerscourt. How can I assist you in your inquiries?’

  ‘I am also hesitant,’ Powerscourt went on with a smile, ‘because of the impact it had on your brother, to mention the words family feud, but I would be most interested to know the full story. If only,’ he went on quickly, ‘so that I could eliminate any suspicions of it having a bearing on the recent murder.’

  Lothar Harrison walked to his windows and gazed out at the grey sea. ‘I will tell you all I know,’ he said at last, ‘because I do not think it could have any bearing on what has just happened in London. The people concerned are too far away.’

  He turned and walked back to his armchair. Powerscourt noticed that Lothar had an enormous collection of paintings of railway engines from all over the world on his walls. Thomas would be happy here, he felt. Thomas would be happy here for hours, if not days.

  ‘I’m afraid you’re going to have to listen to some more Harrison family history,’ said Lothar. ‘I’ll make it as simple as I can.’ He paused and looked in the large mirror over the fireplace. Powerscourt thought he must have been looking at the reflections of some mighty trains
built to cross the Rocky Mountains.

  ‘My uncle, my late uncle, Carl Harrison was the youngest of three brothers. The sister, as you know, still lives in Blackwater. My father, the middle brother, died in Frankfurt before we moved to England. The eldest brother, Wolfgang, had nothing to do with the bank at all. He was a soldier. The trouble came with his son, also called Wolfgang, who made a most imprudent marriage to a woman called Leonora. Everything went fine in the early years. She produced a son called Charles who now works in the City Bank. Then she ran off with this impoverished Polish count. He was a perfectly charming fellow but he seemed to think that the world owed him a living. I don’t think he ever did a day’s work in his life. Two years after she left, Wolfgang drank himself to death with a broken heart. Before she departed, Leonora stole all the family jewels. When they had all been sold and the proceeds spent, she came back and asked for more money. That’s when the family fell out. My brother Leopold was adamant that we should give her more money. By this time other members of the family were bringing up Charles who seemed to hate everybody because his mother had run away. I think he blamed her for his father’s death as well.’

  Now it was Powerscourt’s turn to look in the mirror. He found himself looking at an enormous empty landscape somewhere in the vast spaces of the American Mid-West. The train lines were like pencil marks drawn by a ruler across the earth. Just visible towards the horizon a train was marking its passage with a cloud of smoke. Wild birds were circling overhead. He was wondering about Charles Harrison. Had the events of his past made him so disturbed that he could set about cutting off his relatives’ heads? And their hands?

  ‘Did you give Leonora the money?’ asked Powerscourt.

  ‘That’s when the row started. My brother and I wanted to make her an allowance. We said we couldn’t have her starving somewhere. My uncle Carl refused to give her another penny. He said he didn’t care what happened to her. Willi and Frederick supported their father.’