Death and the Jubilee (15 page)

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.

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.’

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 inhabitants. 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.

Powerscourt could sense the tubby little man recoiling from him as they sat in the twin leather armchairs, looking out towards the grey waters where the Spanish Armada had passed by long ago.
Maybe he’s wearing that suit as a defence.

‘Lord Powerscourt,’ Harrison spoke in clipped tones, ‘the family have insisted that I should see you. How can I be of assistance?’

Powerscourt thought he should begin with expressions of sympathy. Then he could spring his surprise.

‘Naturally, Mr Harrison, I am very sorry about the terrible death of your uncle. I have been asked to investigate the matter.’

‘The death has nothing to do with me,’ said Harrison quickly, distancing himself from his family. ‘I was here in Cornwall at the time.’

‘Of course,’ said Powerscourt, smiling sympathetically. ‘Tell me about the family feud.’

There was a silence. Leopold Harrison turned rather red. His paunch seemed to expand with indignation. A little way out to sea, beyond the window, Powerscourt spotted a triumphant cormorant rise
to the surface, a small fish wriggling in its beak.

‘It was a very long time ago. It wasn’t really a feud. That’s all I wish to say.’ Leopold Harrison sounded guilty.

‘Most family feuds go back a long way,’ Powerscourt said gently, wondering if he was about to be thrown out into the street. ‘But they may still be relevant, even
today.’

He waited. Harrison had a superb collection of paintings of sea battles on his walls, Powerscourt noticed, guns blazing, rigging falling into the sea, ships blown up in terrible explosions of
red and black as their magazines took a direct hit. In happier times he could have spent a long time looking at them.

‘It was a very long time ago. I repeat, that’s all I wish to say.’

Powerscourt wondered if fear would work on Leopold Harrison. ‘I have to tell you, Mr Harrison, that so far there has been little progress in this inquiry. The murderer or murderers may
strike again. They might strike anywhere. Cornwall is not so very far away these days.’

The cormorant rose to the surface again. This time it had caught nothing.

‘I do not see how those matters can have any bearing on the terrible killing,’ said Harrison. ‘I will tell you one thing and one thing only.’

He thinks I will go away with one small crumb of information, Powerscourt said to himself. He wondered what his morsel would be.

‘It had to do with . . .’ Harrison paused. He was finding this very difficult. ‘It had to do with a woman,’ he said finally. He said the word as though it were something
terrible like bankruptcy or mental illness. He was panting slightly as if the word woman made him out of breath.

‘Who was the woman?’ Powerscourt asked very quietly, wondering if a latterday Medea or Clytemnestra was about to land in Cawsand Bay.

‘I cannot say. I have promised not to say. Please.’

Please leave me alone, he’s asking to be left in peace, Powerscourt said to himself. I’ll just try one more question and then I’ll stop. ‘Did the events surrounding this
woman take place here, or in Frankfurt?’

‘Both,’ said the little man bleakly, as if he had just broken all the promises he had ever made.

‘Thank you for that, Mr Harrison. Could you tell me if the feud had anything to with the two separate branches of the bank being formed?’

There was another pause. A small sailing boat drifted past the windows. The sea murmured on against the rocks.

‘It did and it didn’t,’ said Harrison. ‘Please, please don’t ask me any more about that feud. It makes me so upset. Promise me that,’ he said weakly,
‘and I’ll tell you anything about the bank.’

Powerscourt wondered briefly if he could now have access to the financial secrets of the great of England, the debts of Cabinet Ministers, the real wealth of the new millionaires, the payments
made by the aristocrats to their mistresses in Biarritz or Paris. He desisted.

‘All I need to know is why there are two separate parts of the bank. Leaving aside the feud, of course.’

Leopold Harrison was looking happier now. ‘It’s very simple, really, Lord Powerscourt. It all depends on how you want to make your money.’

Powerscourt looked confused. The little man’s cheeks were returning to their normal colour. The hands were stroking his stomach in a satisfied fashion, as if he had just eaten a very good
dinner.

‘How is that?’ said Powerscourt.

‘I like money. I am devoted to it.’ Powerscourt thought he could hear greed in Leopold Harrison’s voice. ‘This house here may not seem very much, but I have a house in
Chester Square. I have a villa in the hills just north of Nice near Grasse. Do you know Grasse, Lord Powerscourt?’

‘Fragonard’s birthplace?’ asked Powerscourt. He couldn’t see Leopold Harrison on a swing, surrounded by the tributes of love and the foliage of desire.

‘Fragonard. Exactly,’ said Harrison. ‘I have a couple of them in the hall of my villa. But let me return to money and banking. There are two kinds of banking at present, Lord
Powerscourt. Harrison’s City, the parent firm of my own, deals in financial instruments. They trade in bills of exchange. They launch risky foreign loans. They lend money to governments. All
of this is complicated and very hazardous. You could be wiped out in a moment. Barings were very nearly wiped out seven years ago. It took the City of London years to recover.’

‘So what do you do?’ asked Powerscourt.

‘We lend people money,’ said Harrison happily. ‘We take in money from one lot of people as deposits. We pay them as little interest as we can. Then we lend it out to other
people. We charge them as much interest as we can get away with. That’s all.’

‘But surely,’ said Powerscourt, ‘the people you lend it to could go broke or refuse to repay it, just like those foreign governments sometimes do?’

Leopold Harrison laughed. He patted Powerscourt on the shoulder like an uncle with a favourite nephew.

‘Not so, Lord Powerscourt. Security, that’s the key, security. Let me put it very simply. Suppose you want to borrow ten thousand pounds from me. Fine, I say. But I must have some
security for a loan. You have a house somewhere worth ten thousand pounds? You do? Excellent. Just let me have the deeds of ownership, a mere formality you understand, and then you can have the
loan. Would you like the money all at once?’