‘The fire could have been caused by an intruder,’ Powerscourt went on, ‘come to steal valuables, paintings, books maybe, like these. This library must be worth a fortune with
some of those shady London booksellers. Anything with an old binding is gratefully received, then sold on to America where no questions are asked about where they come from.
‘Or the fire could have been caused by somebody who left the house early in the evening and then came back and let himself in again. And after he completed his business he let himself out
again.’
Inspector Wilson whistled quietly to himself.
‘When we know the results of your inquiries, Inspector, and when the fire gentlemen let us know their findings, we shall be in a better position to form a judgement.’ Or, he thought
bitterly to himself, I may be more confused than ever.
Lady Lucy was sitting on a sofa in the upstairs drawing room staring sadly at a portrait of her grandfather when her husband dashed into Markham Square. ‘Oh,
Francis,’ she said, ‘it’s so sad, so terribly sad.’
‘What’s so sad, Lucy?’ said Powerscourt, dreading yet more bad news. ‘I can’t stop. I have to see William straight away. I’ve got to go to the City. I should
be in Blackwater, but William can’t wait.’ He sounded distracted.
‘It’s that poor family, the Farrells, Francis, the ones I told you about. Do you have to rush off straight away?’
‘I can wait a while, Lucy,’ said Powerscourt. He was concerned about the terrible sadness in his wife’s face. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Oh, Francis . . .’ Powerscourt sensed his wife was close to tears. ‘You remember the baby was ill, with the terrible fever?’
Powerscourt nodded.
‘Well, little Peter died. The doctors couldn’t save him. The funeral was this morning.’ Lucy was fighting back the tears. ‘Now the oldest child, a very skinny girl called
Bertha, is ill with the same thing. So is the father. He is so ill he can’t go to work. If they haven’t any money coming in they won’t be able to pay the rent and they’ll
get thrown out.’
‘We can help with the rent, surely,’ said Powerscourt gently, taking hold of Lucy’s hands. ‘Of course we can.’
‘There’s a very curious thing, too, Francis.’ Lady Lucy looked across at her husband. ‘I only discovered it today when I was talking to the vicar. The flats where they
live are run by a charity, but they are held in the name of Harrison’s Bank, the private one. Isn’t that a coincidence?’
Powerscourt remembered William Burke telling him that the private Harrisons did a lot of business with charities. Then Lady Lucy remembered she had more news to tell her husband.
‘There’s something else, Francis,’ she said. ‘Somebody came here earlier today when I was out asking about Johnny Fitzgerald, wanting to know where he was.’
‘What sort of person, Lucy? Was he official, a postman or somebody like that?’
‘No, he wasn’t. Rhys said he was just a young man who said he was a friend of Johnny’s.’
Garel Rhys, the Powerscourt butler, had been a sergeant with him in India.
‘But why did he come here?’ Powerscourt was looking concerned now. ‘Did he know Johnny was a friend of ours?’
‘The first thing he said, I think, was, “Is your husband at home?” Then he said, “Is he a friend of Lord Fitzgerald?” When Rhys said he was, then he started asking
where Johnny was. He said he was an old friend from before.’
‘So what did Rhys tell him, Lucy? Did he say where Johnny is?’
‘Well, yes, I think he did,’ said Lady Lucy, looking anxiously at her husband. ‘Rhys said Johnny was in Berlin, that he should be back soon. He didn’t say anything about
investigations or anything like that, Francis.’
‘Where was this fellow from, Lucy?’ Powerscourt was worried now, worried for his friend far away in Berlin. ‘Was he English? Irish perhaps if he’s an old friend from
before?’
Powerscourt hoped he was Irish.
‘Rhys didn’t think he was Irish or English, Francis,’ said Lady Lucy, alarmed at the look on her husband’s face, ‘He said the young man was very well-spoken but he
did have an accent. Rhys thought he was German.’
‘German? Oh, my God!’ said Powerscourt, and fled into the afternoon towards the City of London.
There’s one mystery down by the lake at Blackwater, Powerscourt said to himself as his cab laboured up Ludgate Hill. There’s another mystery about the unknown woman
behind the feud in Harrison’s Bank. There’s a third mystery surrounding Jones the butler. Even now he couldn’t make up his mind whether Jones was telling him the truth. Twenty
years would be time enough to concoct a story like that, the shells purchased block by block in the fish markets of London, the pictures on the walls picked up in clandestine visits to junk shops.
A visit to one of the larger lending libraries would provide enough information about the legend of St James without going any further than Oxford or Maidenhead, or maybe even the nearest Catholic
seminary where Jones would have been welcomed with enthusiasm, fresh pilgrims always welcome into the fold.
A group of policemen and soldiers, they might have been Royal Engineers, had closed off the front of St Paul’s, taking measurements, carrying things up and down the steps. They must be
preparing for the Jubilee Day, Powerscourt thought, now just six weeks away, its high point the arrival of the aged Queen at these very steps for a Service of Thanksgiving.
William Burke was waiting for him in his office, a small room with high windows looking out over Cheapside.
‘Francis,’ the financier said, ‘you look worried. I got your wire. I think I have the answers you required about the capital and shareholding of Harrison’s
Bank.’
‘Thank you so much,’ said Powerscourt, sipping a cup of tea. ‘What is the position?’
‘It is difficult to be certain,’ said Burke the banker. ‘These private banks are extremely secretive about their financial arrangements.’
‘They’re bloody secretive about all their bloody arrangements, William,’ Powerscourt butted in. ‘I only wish they weren’t.’
Burke looked closely at his brother-in-law. His normal irony and detachment seemed to have deserted him this afternoon.
‘The Harrisons all had identical arrangements about their share of the bank’s capital,’ Burke went on. ‘I have inspected the wills of the earlier ones who have passed
away. Each time the entire capital of the deceased passes directly to the next family member. That way the capital of the bank remains intact.’
‘Do you mean, William, that Old Mr Harrison’s share went straight to Mr Frederick and his share goes direct to Mr Charles? So is he now in sole charge of the bank and its
monies?’
‘He is certainly the biggest shareholder by far,’ said Burke, ‘but he is not the only one. There are, you will be relieved to hear, no female relatives with any holdings. There
is only one other person with a share in the bank and that is the chief clerk, a man called Williamson, who is now a partner. If my guess is accurate, he controls less than a tenth of the
bank’s capital.’
‘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.
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.