Death and the Jubilee lfp-2 Page 27
Powerscourt remembered Brooke’s onslaught on imperialist historians, the ones who said it was Britannia’s fate to rule the waves. They were his contemporaries. People said they had denied Brooke the chair he deserved.
‘Treitschke preached a German version of the same rubbish,’ Brooke continued his character assassination. ‘Germany’s destiny is to be the most important power in the world. That’s what German history teaches, according to the late Heinrich. Of course he was too stupid to see that he’s got it the wrong way round. He wants Germany to rule the world. Therefore he says that’s what history teaches.’
History, Powerscourt remembered him saying, is never a straight line between two points, more a series of accidental curves along a winding road filled with crossroads signposted to different destinations. Sometimes, he remembered, Brooke said the signposts had no destinations on them at all.
‘Perhaps I could ask you now, Lord Powerscourt, why you are interested in this man?’
Gavin Brooke inspected Powerscourt sharply. They never realize we grow up, we grow older, Powerscourt thought. To him I’m still twenty years old, sometimes producing essays that he liked, only yesterday or the day before.
Powerscourt explained that he was an investigator, currently looking into a strange series of deaths in a London bank that seemed to have links with secret societies in Berlin.
‘Secret societies?’ The old man was scornful. ‘Of course there’s a secret society in von Treitschke’s honour. I think it was founded over twenty years ago. Why didn’t you ask me in the first place?’
‘How do you know about that, Mr Brooke?’ Powerscourt had come to Cambridge to learn about von Treitschke the man. He would never have expected an ageing history don, who rarely left Cambridge and then only to venture as far as Oxford or the London Library, to know about secret societies at the University of Berlin.
‘Lots of historians knew about it.’ Gavin Brooke looked pleased with his knowledge. ‘The old boy himself used to boast about it in his later years. Treitschke said he hoped the society founded in his name would do more to restore Germany to her rightful place in the world than all his lectures and all his history books. We had a German historian here, ten years ago it must have been. They’d asked him if he wanted to join. He did, just to see what it was like. He said they were all fanatical German nationalists. Whatever profession they went into, the law, diplomacy, finance, the military, they had to do whatever they could and whatever the leaders asked them to advance the German cause.’
‘Did it have a name, this society, Mr Brooke?’
‘It did, Powerscourt, it did. But I’m damned if I can remember it. It’ll come to me.’ The bells were ringing twelve, echoing round the courts and the cloisters, fading away across the meandering river and the flat lands of the Fens. The old man shuffled towards a large glass-fronted cabinet to the side of his bookshelves.
‘Sherry, Powerscourt? A glass of the college’s finest? Wine’s gone off, of course, bloody Master has reduced the money going to the cellars.’
Powerscourt accepted a glass of the driest sherry he had ever tasted. He remembered it was always dry, the stuff the dons gave you, so dry the taste almost stripped the roof of your mouth.
‘Staying for lunch, are you?’ Brooke asked, ‘You’d be welcome at High Table, of course. The food’s gone to the dogs too, the Master said it cost too much. It’s not much better than some bloody boarding school now.’
Powerscourt felt he had to move the conversation back to Berlin.
‘What sort of German nationalist was von Treitschke, Mr Brooke? Did he want to conquer Russia or swallow the Austro-Hungarian Empire?’
‘Sorry,’ said the old man, pouring them both a second glass of sherry. His hand was shaking slightly, drops of sherry falling on the old copies of The Times. ‘I should have told you that at the beginning. He didn’t want to conquer Russia, he wanted to be friends with Russia. He wanted to be friends with Vienna too, he thought it was easier to leave the Austrians with all those nationalities in the Balkans than for Germany to have to deal with them.’
Gavin Brooke leant forward in his chair, peering at Powerscourt like some wizened old bird.
‘For von Treitschke there was only one enemy. England, England with all her colonies and her trade and her fleet and her arrogance. He said, he preached, that only when Germany had a navy to beat the English would she come into her own. I think he really hated the English, you know, Heinrich von Treitschke.’
Powerscourt finished his sherry and announced that he had to return to London. Gavin Brooke saw him down the stairs, leaning on his stick, tapping his way towards the porter’s lodge.
‘Hope I’ve been some use to you, Powerscourt. Let me know how it all goes, won’t you?’
Powerscourt shook him warmly by the hand. ‘I am most grateful to you, Mr Brooke, your information has been invaluable.’
As he set off up the cobbled street of the Senate House Passage, young men wandering about arm in arm, he heard a shout behind him.
‘Powerscourt! Powerscourt!’ The old man was hobbling up the street as fast as he could, shouting as he came. ‘I’ve just remembered.’
Powerscourt stopped by the side entrance into Gonville and Caius.
‘The secret society’s name,’ Brooke panted, ‘they named it after some bloody marching song that von Treitschke wrote years ago. “The Song of the Black Eagle”. And the man in charge is called Scholl, Helmut Scholl. He’s on the staff of Admiral Tirpitz.’
The old man was now completely out of breath.
‘Tirpitz?’ said Powerscourt. ‘Isn’t he the chap who wants to build up the German Navy?’
‘You’ve got it in one, Powerscourt.’ Gavin Brooke nodded furiously at him. ‘I always thought you were a promising student of history.’
Powerscourt found himself thinking about Charles Harrison as the train took him back to London. During his military career he had known men who had lost their parents for whom the Army and the regiment had become the centre of their professional and emotional lives, a substitute family round the mess table and the camaraderie of regimental dinners. For Charles Harrison, educated at von Treitschke’s own university, attending von Treitschke’s lectures no doubt, had the German secret society replaced the family he never had in his affections? A society devoted to the greater glory of Germany and bitter hatred of England?
Then, as the train reached the outskirts of London, he thought about the cache of letters on the island at Blackwater. And about the articles on the fall of Barings Bank, seven years before.
25
It was almost four o’clock by the time Sophie Williams reached the City. She had called again on Richard’s mother. No, he still had not come back. He’s probably dead by now, Mrs Martin assured Sophie, wiping her eyes.
Cheapside, that’s where the bank was. Richard had brought her for a walk round the City one Sunday afternoon when the place was deserted, the streets quiet, the coffee houses closed. Sophie summoned up her courage in this alien world and spoke to the commissionaire on duty at the entrance to Harrison’s Bank.
‘I’m so sorry to disturb you. Could I have a quick word with Mr Richard Martin, please?’
The commissionaire looked at her gravely. She makes a change from all those rude young men delivering messages and skylarking about in the streets, he thought.
‘He works here,’ Sophie added, looking up at the sentinel of the banking hall within.
‘He did work here, miss. Until yesterday that is. We haven’t seen him at all this week, not yesterday, not today. We thought he must be ill. He is ill, isn’t he?’
The commissionaire looked worried suddenly. Richard Martin was a well-respected young man. He was always polite to commissionaires, he didn’t give himself airs like so many of these arrogant young pups they got nowadays from the public schools.
‘I don’t know if he is ill or not,’ said Sophie. ‘We thought he might have been working late at the bank and had to s
tay over.’
‘Bless you, miss,’ said the commissionaire kindly, ‘there’s no likelihood of anyone working late here at the moment. The place is as quiet as the grave. Sorry I can’t help you, miss. I expect he’ll turn up. Maybe he went out with some of his friends and fell ill that way.’
Sophie looked at him coldly. Richard was not likely to go out on the town with friends and get so drunk he couldn’t go to work the next day. That was not Richard’s style at all.
‘Thank you so much for your help,’ said Sophie firmly. ‘I shall continue my inquiries elsewhere.’
Quite where elsewhere was going to be Sophie had no idea. She moved away down Poultry towards the Royal Exchange. What was the name of Richard’s friend, the one who took them to the cricket match? James Clarke, that was it. And what was the name of his governor, the nice middle-aged gentleman who had looked after them at lunch? Broad? Bucknall? Broughton? Was it Broughton? No, it wasn’t, she said to herself triumphantly, it was Burke, Mr Burke of the London and Provincial Bank. She looked around at the nameplates that surrounded her. There were so many banks here, foreign ones, American ones, German ones, British ones. How was she to find the London and Provincial?
She decided to ask one of the doorkeepers at the Bank of England, resplendent in their top hats and frock coats, guardians of the guardian of the City’s wealth.
‘London and Provincial?’ said the man. ‘I’m afraid there are three or four of those around here, miss. Do you happen to know which one, or does that not matter? The nearest is just round the corner. Or is there a particular person you wish to see?’
‘Mr Burke,’ said Sophie firmly.
‘Mr Burke, Mr William Burke?’ said the man.
‘Yes, that’s him,’ Sophie nodded.
‘Why didn’t you say, miss? Mr Burke is to be found at the Head Office in Lombard Street, just over there.’
Powerscourt had just sat down in Burke’s office when the porter knocked on the door.
‘There’s a young lady here asking to see you, sir. She says she’s a friend of Mr Clarke and that she met you at a cricket match last Saturday, sir.’
Very faintly, behind the deference, Powerscourt thought the porter detected a whiff of scandal. A pretty girl meets Mr Burke on Saturday, then she turns up at the office on the Tuesday. Who could tell what might have been going on, what demands for money might now be forthcoming.
‘What’s her name, man? What’s her name?’ said Burke testily. He too had sensed the suspicion in the porter’s eyes.
‘Miss Williams, sir. Miss Sophie Williams. A very pretty young woman, sir.’ The porter sounded as if he was congratulating William Burke on his choice.
‘Show her up. And ask Mr James Clarke to step this way if you would. At once. The porter left. Bloody man thinks I’ve been up to no good with young Miss Williams,’ said Burke angrily.
‘Why has she come here, William?’ said Powerscourt softly. ‘She works as a schoolteacher, doesn’t she? What business has she got in the City? Unless, unless . . .’ A terrible thought struck Powerscourt. He remembered Burke’s shouted instructions to Sophie Williams’ friend to come and see him on Monday morning, a scowling Charles Harrison listening among the trees. What had happened to Richard Martin? Visions of another body flashed across his mind, this one only twenty-two years old.
‘William,’ he said quickly, ‘that young man, the one at the cricket match. Did he come to see you yesterday morning?’
‘He did not,’ said Burke, looking uneasy. There was a knock at the door.
‘Miss Williams, Mr Clarke, do come in. Please sit down. How can I help you?’ Burke smiled a cheerful smile.
Sophie Williams didn’t quite know how to put it. She stumbled into her story.
‘It’s Richard, sir, Richard Martin. He works at Harrison’s Bank. You met him at the cricket match.’ She stopped, gazing helplessly at the two older men in the room. ‘Last night he didn’t come home. He lives very close to me. Usually we see each other when he takes the neighbour’s dog for a walk. I checked again with his mother this morning. He still hadn’t come home. And when I checked at Harrison’s Bank just now, they said they hadn’t seen him yesterday or today. He’s disappeared.’
She began to cry, very quietly, tears dropping on to her dress.
‘Here,’ said Burke quickly, offering her an enormous handkerchief. ‘Try to compose yourself, Miss Williams. I’ll order some tea. This is terrible news.’
Powerscourt waited. James Clarke made consoling noises. Burke poured the tea.
‘Forgive me, Miss Williams,’ said Powerscourt, ‘please forgive me if I ask you some questions. I am an investigator. I am currently looking into the strange death of Old Mr Harrison, the man found floating in the Thames by London Bridge.’
Sophie looked terrified. Was her Richard also going to be killed and floated down the Thames? She looked as though the tears were about to start again.
‘Do not be alarmed, Miss Williams. I am sure nothing untoward has happened to Richard.’ William Burke was using his most emollient voice, the one he used for angry shareholders. ‘Lord Powerscourt is one of the finest investigators in the land. He is also my brother-in-law. I am sure he has no wish to frighten you.’
Burke looked meaningfully at Powerscourt. He hoped the domestic detail might help reassure the girl.
‘Could I ask you, Miss Williams,’ said Powerscourt, ‘if Richard talked to you at all about Harrison’s Bank? Friends often talk to each other about the details of their daily lives.’
‘Well, he did. He did, a little. He was always very circumspect.’ Sophie looked defensively at the two bankers who surrounded her.
‘Goodness me, Miss Williams,’ said James Clarke, ‘we’re all meant to keep things in confidence, but that doesn’t really apply to close friends and family.’
‘When he told you a little, Miss Williams,’ Powerscourt smiled at the girl, ‘can you remember what it was? A little can go a long way sometimes.’
There was a pause. James Clarke was admiring Sophie’s eyes. He had been very taken with them at the cricket match. Burke was pouring more tea. Powerscourt dropped a biscuit on the floor.
‘Richard’s been worried about what was happening at the bank for quite a long time,’ Sophie began.
‘How long a time would that be?’ said Powerscourt. ‘Weeks, or months?’
‘Months, I think. At first he wouldn’t give any details, he had to keep things confidential. Then, fairly recently, he said something quite important. I mean, I think now it may be important, but I didn’t then.’
She stopped and drank some tea.
‘We’d been out walking the next-door neighbour’s dog. Rufus, it’s called. Richard said it was the money. He said that most of the time in a bank money goes in and money goes out. But that at Harrison’s it was only going out. Richard said that in a couple of months’ time the bank wouldn’t have any money left. He seemed to think that you couldn’t have a bank with no money.’
Sophie looked at William Burke. ‘Can you have a bank with no money, Mr Burke? Can you? Or was Richard right?’
‘I fear Richard was right, Miss Williams,’ said Burke, frowning at such irregularities in banking custom. ‘You can’t have a bank with no money. It wouldn’t be a bank any more. It’s a contradiction in terms.’
‘Did Richard mention any changes that had taken place?’ Powerscourt spoke very gently. He thought he knew the answer. And if the answer was what he expected, then, at last, he might have the whole mystery in his hands. But he knew that almost everybody would say he was mad.
‘He did, Lord Powerscourt. How clever of you to know about it. He said that new people had come in and changed all the counting systems, the accounting systems, I’m not sure which.’
‘Did he say where they were from? From another bank in the City perhaps?’
Sophie Williams frowned. ‘I’m sure he said something about that. But for the moment I can’t just remember what it was.’
‘That’s it,’ she said finally. ‘He said a new man had come in from Germany to change the counting or the accounting systems.’
‘You’re sure it was from Germany?’ Powerscourt was almost whispering.
‘I’m certain of it,’ said Sophie Williams, ‘absolutely certain.’
William Burke was watching Powerscourt very carefully. A very slight smile crossed his features.
‘Is that all you can remember of what Richard said, Miss Williams? Nothing more?’
‘That’s all I can remember for now,’ said Sophie sadly. ‘I know it isn’t very much. I can’t see how it’s going to help in finding him. You don’t think, Lord Powerscourt,’ she looked him full in the face, her bright blue eyes fearful of the future, ‘you don’t think he’s dead, do you?’
‘No, I don’t think so. Certainly not.’ Powerscourt wished he was as sure as he sounded. ‘Now then, there is something you can do to help us find him. As it happens I am on my way to see the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police on other business. It’s not every day, I assure you, that I travel between Mr Burke’s bank and the police headquarters, but this is such a day. If you would like to write a description of Richard, height, colour of hair, colour of eyes, what he might have been wearing going to work on Monday morning, I shall take it directly to the police.’ Powerscourt handed her a sheet of the bank’s best writing paper. He took a further three sheets himself and began writing furiously.
‘William, perhaps you could ask one of your people to take this one to Johnny Fitzgerald. This one is for Lady Lucy. Ah, Miss Williams, you have finished your description, I see. Thank you so much.’