Two hours later he was knocking on Lord Rosebery’s front door in Berkeley Square. Lyons, Rosebery’s imperturbable butler, a man blessed with an encyclopedic
knowledge of train timetables, showed him into the library.
Rosebery and Powerscourt had known each other at school. Rosebery had been intimately involved with one of Powerscourt’s cases five years before. Since then he had fulfilled one ambition.
He had become Prime Minister, only to leave office after a year and a quarter. Some said his premiership was destroyed by bickering and intrigue among his Cabinet colleagues. Others said it was
brought down by Rosebery’s inability to make decisions. ‘Just not worth the effort, my dear Francis,’ had been his verdict to Powerscourt on his great office two days after
leaving it. ‘Dealing with horses is so much more satisfactory. They don’t conspire behind your back all the time.’
Powerscourt told Rosebery of his latest case, of the succeeding tragedies that had fallen on the House of Harrison. Rosebery had married into the richest and most powerful banking family in
Europe. His relations were strung out across Paris and Vienna, Berlin and London and New York in the worldwide empire of the Rothschild Banks.
‘The butler at Blackwater, Rosebery, is supposed to be a man called Jones,’ said Powerscourt, sitting on an ancient chair in the Berkeley Square library.
‘What of it?’ replied Rosebery. ‘Perfectly respectable name, Jones. Man called Jones trained some of my horses once. Damned rogue. Bloody animals never won anything at
all.’
‘But you see,’ Powerscourt went on, ‘he’s not really called Jones. He’s German, like the original Harrisons. They say he came from Frankfurt some years ago, that
his family were bankers and that they were once involved in some terrible smash. Goldsmith is his real name.’
‘Goldsmith?’ said Rosebery. ‘Plenty of those in Frankfurt, I shouldn’t wonder. Now I see why you are here, Francis. Do you want some information about these Frankfurt
Goldsmiths? From the horse’s mouth, as it were? Or at least a Rothschild’s mouth?’
Powerscourt smiled at his friend. Age was catching up on Rosebery rather suddenly. For years he had sported the face of a cherub. Now the lines of time were beginning to creep slowly down his
face. It was a wrinkled cherub he was looking at this evening.
‘Just suppose, Rosebery, that the smash of the Goldsmiths had some link with the Harrisons, then also bankers in Frankfurt. There might be some unfinished business . . .’
‘My God, Francis, you’ve got a devious mind,’ said Rosebery. ‘I suppose you have to in your business. Do you think it is possible that there is some vendetta running
between these two families? That the butler has followed the Harrisons to England to take his revenge twenty years after the event? Why would he wait so long?’
One of Rosebery’s clocks struck the hour of eight. Outside in the hall other timepieces followed, not quite in unison, a straggled peal.
Powerscourt shrugged. ‘I don’t know, Rosebery. I have seldom felt so baffled by a case. I just need more information.’
Rosebery reached for some writing paper on his desk. ‘The man you want,’ he said, ‘lives just round the corner from here in Charles Street. He’s an old gentleman by the
name of Bertrand de Rothschild, he must be nearly eighty by now. I don’t think he ever cared very much for banking. Come to that, I don’t think the family members in the business would
have wanted him around anyway. He’s a scholar, a collector of rare books and manuscripts like myself. He’s got one or two rather fine Poussins.
‘But, Francis, the old boy has been writing a history of the Rothschild family for the past twenty years. They have connections in Frankfurt, as you know. I very much doubt if he will ever
finish it. Every time you ask him how it’s going he says he has just discovered some more documents he has to read. But if any man in Britain knows about these Frankfurt Goldsmiths, he does.
Would you like to see him, Francis?’
‘I would, very much,’ said Powerscourt
‘And I presume,’ Rosebery went on, ‘from the agitation in your manner that you would like to see him tonight or tomorrow morning or even earlier? I am writing to him now. The
man can wait for the reply.’
Six miles to the north the bells of St Michael and St Jude had just finished the last stroke of eight o’clock. The noise echoed round the little houses of the parish,
just a short pause before the bell ringers began their weekly practice.
‘Steady, Rufus, steady. For heaven’s sake, steady there.’
Richard Martin was taking his neighbour’s dog for a walk. The old lady had fallen down and injured her leg so every morning and every evening Richard took the red Irish setter around the
local streets.
His mother had noticed how cheerful Richard became before these evening walks. She suspected that they were used for secret rendezvous with Sophie Williams.
‘Don’t you be taking that dog round to meet that young woman of yours, Richard. You know what I think about her. You know what your father would have thought. Don’t bring your
old mother in sorrow to an early grave.’
She was sewing furiously by the fire, turning the collars on Richard’s shirts.
‘It does me good, Mother,’ Richard told her every evening now. ‘It’s good exercise, taking the dog for a walk. You know how I like dogs.’
His mother reflected that never once in all of his twenty-two years had Richard shown any interest in four-legged creatures, cat or dog, never once as a child had he asked for a pet of any
kind.
‘Richard, how are you?’ Sophie had appeared out of the shadows, skipping happily along the pavement.
‘I am well, Sophie. Hold on, Rufus!’
The dog was trying to escape into a little alleyway off the street.
‘Can I take the lead? Please, Richard?’
Richard wondered if they would compete for the affections of their children as they competed for the affections of Rufus. If they ever had any children, that is. Sophie took the lead into the
hands of a teacher.
‘Come, Rufus. This way. There’s a good boy.’
Richard saw how fifty six-year-olds might be summoned into silence and good behaviour. To his astonishment the dog obeyed her command without a whimper.
‘It’s all cleared up now, Richard,’ said Sophie, ‘that business with the headmistress. Mrs White called me in again today. She said that what I did in my own time was my
own business. And as long as she is sure I am not trying to convert the children, the matter will be forgotten. And she knows perfectly well that I would never try to convert the
children.’
Rufus was suddenly tired of his good behaviour. He made a very determined attempt to climb into a dustbin. Behind them the bells of St Michael and St Jude were chasing each other up and down the
mathematical intricacies of a Kent Treble Bob.
‘Rufus! Rufus!’
Sophie looked very firmly at the dog. The dog looked back as if it knew it had broken the rules. It trotted obediently but sulking at her heels.
‘Good boy. Good boy,’ said Sophie, patting the animal firmly on the head. ‘But what news of the City, Richard?’
Sophie knew Richard was worried about something at the bank.
‘Well, I’ve got a new friend, Sophie.’
‘Male or female?’ asked Sophie sharply. Richard felt there might be hope for him yet.
‘Male. In spite of all your efforts there still aren’t many young women working in the City. He’s a very clever young man called James Clarke who works for one of the joint
stock banks. I met him waiting outside the Bank of England. He seems to know all there is to know about arbitrage.’
Sophie felt that she didn’t want to join the male club of arbitrage experts just now.
‘But what of the bank, Richard? That’s what was worrying you before.’
‘I’m still worried, very worried.’ Richard paused to jump out of the way of Rufus who had suddenly decided to cross to the other side of the road.
‘Rufus! Rufus! Really!’ Sophie’s voice had the normal effect. Rufus crept back into position, tail down, a sad look about his eyes.
‘The thing is, Sophie . . .’ Richard realized to his regret that Sophie’s nearer arm was fully occupied with the dog and therefore not available to him, even if he dared.
‘The thing is, you would expect everything to be very quiet at the moment. Well, it is and it isn’t. There isn’t any new business coming in.’
‘What’s the problem then?’ asked Sophie.
‘It’s the money, Sophie, the bank’s money. In normal times, money comes in, money goes out. Now it’s only going out, and it’s going out very quickly in ways I
don’t quite understand. They’ve changed the accounting systems and a new man from Germany is coming to take charge of all that. But if it goes on like this, in three months’ time
Harrison’s Bank won’t have any money left. They’ll have sent it all abroad. They won’t have anything left to meet their obligations in the City. They’ll be a bank with
no money. It’s unimaginable.’
Even Sophie could grasp the significance of that. ‘A bank with no money, Richard? That’s impossible, surely. What happens then?’
‘I don’t know Sophie. I have no idea.’
There was an enormous painting of W.G. Grace above the mantelpiece. The bearded batsman had been captured at the wicket, staring defiantly at the incoming bowler. Apprehensive
fielders seemed to have retreated towards the boundary. A huge spire dominated the outfield, nearly as imposing as the great man at the crease. Next to this portrait was a late Poussin, a
mythological scene with storms and a violent flash of lightning. Powerscourt was waiting for Bertrand de Rothschild in his great house in Charles Street at eight o’clock the following
morning. Bertrand was late.
‘Cricket, Lord Powerscourt, good morning to you. Finest game in the world, I always think. How do you do?’
An old man in his late seventies with a trim white beard was advancing towards him. The suit looked as if it had been made in Paris, the silk shirt might have come from Rome.
Powerscourt smiled at the old man. ‘Good morning, sir. And thank you for seeing me so promptly. Yes, I am very fond of cricket. I have a little ground at my place in
Northamptonshire.’
‘Have you indeed,’ said the old man, seating himself at a great desk by the window. ‘Do you play yourself Lord Powerscourt? Or is this merely the interest of a
connoisseur?’
‘I bat, sir,’ Powerscourt replied. ‘I open the batting, not very successfully, I fear.’
‘Tricky job, that, opening,’ said Bertrand de Rothschild. ‘The bowlers are fresh and raring to go. Now then,’ he went on, ‘Rosebery tells me you are a man in a
hurry today. Perhaps you are like the batsman who wants to score a hundred before lunch.’ He laughed slightly at his cricketing reference.
‘I fear I am in a hurry, sir.’ Powerscourt smiled gravely at the old man. ‘I have a train to catch this very morning not long from now.’
‘I have looked up my notes on the people you are interested in, Lord Powerscourt. Let me give you the main points now. If you need further information I shall be happy to conduct further
inquiries.’
Powerscourt expressed his gratitude. The old man adjusted his spectacles and consulted a pile of papers on his desk. He had a gold pen in his hand which he turned over from time to time at
regular intervals.
‘There were a great many banks in Frankfurt in the early 1870s, Lord Powerscourt. The competition for business between them was very fierce. The Goldsmiths, or Goldschmidts, of whom you
speak must have been in the firm of Goldschmidt and Hartmann. They were great rivals of the Harrisons, the ones who are now in the City of London.’
The old man peered at Powerscourt over the top of his spectacles. ‘In fact, at one time there was a lot of competition between them. Both were trying to secure the accounts of the Duke of
Coburg, not a great prize, you might think, but it opened many doors to other profitable opportunities. Very profitable opportunities, in fact.’
The old man paused. The gold pen was spinning ever faster in his hand.
‘The competition grew very bitter. At one point it seemed as if Goldschmidt and Hartmann had triumphed. Things looked so bad for the Harrisons that the senior partner threw himself off the
top of the tallest church spire in Frankfurt. He was dead before he reached the hospital. I believe . . .’ The old man paused again, peering steadily at Powerscourt over the top of his
spectacles, the pen flying like a tumbler in a circus. ‘I believe he was related to the Old Mr Harrison whose body was found in the Thames with no head and no hands.’
His pale blue eyes stared on. Powerscourt said nothing.
‘Then the tables were turned,’ Bertrand de Rothschild went on, ‘and the Harrisons triumphed. The firm of Goldschmidt and Hartmann was broken. The Frankfurt bankers blamed them
for Harrison’s death. I believe he was called Charles, like the one in the bank here.’
My God, thought Powerscourt, how many dead Harrisons were there, dying not in their beds but in fires and boating accidents, committing suicide or found floating in the Thames? There must be a
ledger full of them by now, lying in the vaults of their banks.
‘The Goldschmidts went bankrupt, Lord Powerscourt. They lost everything. They had to leave the city. Some went to Berlin, I believe. Some went to America.’
The pen suddenly fell on to the table. Bertrand de Rothschild had lost control. It rolled unevenly across the surface and dropped to the floor.
‘Have you found any Goldschmidts, Lord Powerscourt?’
The old man’s face was bright, the eyes keen. He’s like a bloodhound on the scent, Powerscourt said to himself, fascinated by the terrible intensity in de Rothschild’s
face.
‘Have you found any Goldschmidts up there in Blackwater, hiding in the temples perhaps, lurking in the lake with the river gods?’ He laughed an old man’s laugh. ‘Have the
ghosts of Frankfurt come to Oxfordshire, the past replayed once more?’
Powerscourt smiled. ‘You should have been an investigator, sir. You would have been a very good one.’
‘I suppose I am an investigator,’ the old man replied, bending in obvious pain to pick up his golden pen once more, ‘except I investigate the past and you investigate the
present. I imagine the present is more dangerous than the past.’