Sea Change (22 page)

'Mr Spandrel, is it?' said James Edgar, as he looked up from his desk.

It was the late afternoon of the following day. The glaring Roman light of noon had faded to a purpling pink in the sky and to a blackening grey in the office of the private secretary to King James VIII and III, as Mr Edgar would undoubtedly have described himself. He was a spare, round-shouldered, bespectacled man who looked, though he probably was not, much older than the thirty-two-year-old king-in-exile whom he served. Mr Edgar was the dry-as-dust inky-fingered quintessence of a Scottish solicitor, transplanted with no apparent change of habit to the land of dead Caesars and dissolute cardinals.

Spandrel had waited many hours to see Mr Edgar. He had been left to cramp his haunches during those hours on a narrow chair in a draughty passage near the main stairway of the Palazzo Muti, while a contrasting assortment of whispering clerics, grumbling Scots and pinch-mouthed servants passed him heedlessly by. He had waited as patiently as he could, bearing Estelle's prediction of delay in mind. The Green Book was now safely lodged at the Banco Calderini, while Estelle was being shown the wonders of the Pantheon and the Campidoglio by the ever attentive Buckthorn and Silverwood. It was Spandrel's demanding lot to await his opportunity of a conversation with the dour Mr Edgar and to ensure that the opportunity, when it came, was not wasted.

'My name is Spandrel, yes. May I come straight to the purpose of my visit?'

'I'd be grateful if you did. I'm a busy man, Mr Spandrel. And we have more than our fair share here of uninvited visitors. I can't afford to waste my time hearing all their stories.'

'I'm obliged to you for seeing me, then.'

'I was told you gave no sign of meaning to leave.'

'I've come too far to do that without explaining myself… to someone close to…'

'The King?'

Spandrel shrugged. 'Yes. The King.'

Edgar smiled thinly. 'You don't sound like a true believer, Mr Spandrel.'

'My beliefs don't matter.'

'Do they not? How far have you come, by the by?'

'That doesn't matter either. It's what I've come with that's important.'

'And what is that?'

'The secret account book of the chief cashier of the South Sea Company.'

Edgar raised one sceptical eyebrow, but seemed otherwise unmoved. 'The Green Book?'

'You've heard of it?'

'I've heard of many things. The King's loyal friends in England make sure I do. The South Sea disaster is a judgement on those who let in a German prince and his greedy minions to rule the Stuart domain. I'm aware of all the highways and byways of the affair. But I'm not aware of a single reason why I should suppose that a… man like you… might have charge of the errant Mr Knight's sin-black secrets.'

'It's a long story. Chance and treachery are about the sum of it.'

'As of many a story.'

'I have the book, Mr Edgar. Believe me.'

'Why should I?'

'Because you can't afford not to. It represents a heaven-sent opportunity for you.'

'You don't look like a heavenly messenger to me.'

'The Green Book lists all the bribes paid to secure passage of the South Sea Bill last year. Exactly how much. And exactly who to.'

'Tell me, then. Exactly how much was it?'

'I'm no accountant. It would certainly take one to tease out the pounds, shillings and pence. Many hundreds of thousands of pounds is as close as I can get. More than a million, I'd guess.'

'Would you, though?' Edgar's gaze was calm but penetrating. He looked neither disbelieving nor convinced. 'And exactly who received this money?'

'I can give you some names.'

'Do.'

'Roberts; Rolt; Tufnell; Burridge; Scott; Chetwynd; Bampfield; Bland; Sebright; Drax.'

'Members of Parliament to a man.'

'You'd know them better than me, Mr Edgar. They're all listed.'

'Who else?'

'Carew; Bankes; Forrester; Montgomerie; Blundell; Lawson; Gordon—'

'Sir William Gordon? The Commissioner of Army Accounts?'

'Sir William Gordon, yes.' Estelle had insisted he memorize some of the names and now he realized how right she had been to. Edgar's expression was softening. His doubts were receding. 'And various peers.'

'Which ones?'

'Lord Gower; Lord Lansdowne; the Earl of Essex; the Marquess of Winchester; and the Earl of Sunderland.'

'Sunderland?'

'Yes.' Spandrel looked at Edgar with the confidence of knowing that what he said was absolutely true. 'The First Lord of the Treasury's isn't the most eminent name in the book.'

'No?'

'Far from it.'

'Whose is, then?'

'His master's.' Spandrel paused for effect. He was beginning to enjoy himself. 'The King.'

'The King?' Edgar smiled. 'I take it you are referring to the Elector of Hanover.'

'I beg your pardon.' Spandrel felt himself blushing at his mistake. In the looking-glass world of the Palazzo Muti, it was important to remember who was notionally a king and who was not. 'I do mean the Elector of Hanover. Of course. But whatever we call him…'

'He is listed.'

'Yes.'

'To the tune of what?'

'An allocation of one hundred thousand pounds in stock for a payment of only twenty.'

'When was the allocation made?'

'The fourteenth of April.'

'Then it signifies nothing. That was when the First Money Subscription opened. Twenty per cent would have been a normal first instalment.' Edgar shook his head. 'Dear me, Mr Spandrel. You seem to be just another bearskin jobber, of the kind the Stock Exchange always has in plentiful supply.' Seeing Spandrel's uncomprehending look, he added, 'You are trying to sell me the bear's skin before you have killed the bear.'

'No, no. You must let me finish. The K—' Spandrel gulped back the word. 'The Elector of Hanover,' he continued slowly, 'sold the stock back to the company on the thirteenth of June at a profit of sixty-eight thousand pounds. He never paid any more instalments.'

'No more instalments?' Edgar queried softly.

'None.'

'Sold back… and treated as fully paid?'

'Yes.'

Edgar pursed his lips. 'Were any other members of the Elector's family similarly treated?'

'Yes. The Prince of Wales. That is, I mean—'

'Let it pass. I know who you mean.'

'Also the Princess.'

'Aha.'

'As well as the Duchess of Kendal and her nieces.'

'As one would expect.'

'And the Countess von Platen.'

'Both mistresses. What a considerate lover the Elector is.'

'I should also mention…' Spandrel hesitated. He knew from what Mcllwraith had told him of the political situation at Westminster that the name he was about to let fall was in many ways the most significant of all. 'Walpole.'

'Robert Walpole?'

'Yes.'

Edgar looked straight at him. 'You're sure of that?'

'I'm sure.'

'How much?'

'I can't say.'

'Why not?'

'Because…' Spandrel had employed Estelle's tactics faithfully and was not about to stop. He had told Edgar enough. Now it was time to name their price. 'We need to agree terms, Mr Edgar.'

'Terms?'

'For your purchase of the book.'

'You are not making a gift of it to the cause, then?'

'No.'

'You are merely a thief, seeking to sell what he has stolen.'

'Do you want to buy it… or not?'

'How much did Walpole receive?'

'How much are you willing to pay to find out?'

'How much, Mr Spandrel' — Edgar let out a long, slow breath — 'are you demanding?'

'One hundred thousand pounds.'

'Absurd.'

'I don't think so.'

'The King hasn't the resources to pay such money.'

'It's not so very much… for a kingdom.'

'For a kingdom?' Edgar leaned back in his chair and rested his hand thoughtfully on the papers strewing his desk. A moment of silence passed. Then he looked up sharply. 'Why are you offering this to us instead of to the Elector? He'd pay handsomely to retrieve the evidence of his own corruption.'

'I lost all the money I spent on South Sea stock. Every penny. I was cheated. I want the people who cheated me to suffer for what they did.'

'Revenge, is it?'

'Partly.'

'But mostly greed.'

'Call it what you will. The price is a fair one.'

'The price is extortionate. But…' Edgar drummed his fingers. 'I will apprise the King of your proposition.'

'When can I have an answer?'

'Return here at noon tomorrow. By then, I should have something for you, be it an answer or no.'

'The Green Book blasts the reputation of every man in it, Mr Edgar. It can topple a throne. You'll never have—'

'I know what it can do. If what you say is true.'

'It's true.'

'Then be patient, Mr Spandrel.' Edgar nodded towards the door. 'Until noon tomorrow.'

Colonel Lachlan Drummond must once have cut an imposing figure. He was broad-shouldered and square-jawed enough to have led many a man into battle and many a woman into bed in his time. But that time was gone. Exiled in Rome with his make-believe king, he had sought consolations where he could find them. Now, bloated and bedraggled, his mind fuddled and his words slurred by drink, he slumped at a table in a private booth at the rear of L'Egiziano, a coffee-house just off the Corso, gazing blearily across at Nicholas Cloisterman, while a smile hovered complacently on his lips.

'The King's been entertaining no Dutch widows, my friend. You can be sure of that. The Queen would scratch out the eyes of any woman who—'

'You seem deliberately to misunderstand, Colonel. Mrs de Vries is no courtesan.'

'Whatever she is or isn't, she hasn't shown her face at the Palazzo Muti.'

'Is there anything to suggest that valuable information might have reached your master? Talk of another rising, perhaps?'

'There's always talk.'

'A recent change of mood. Anything.'

'We've been drinking Prince Charlie's health for the past three months. The birth of a son and heir has put everyone in good spirits. I don't know about anything else. There's some… nervousness… now the Pope's up and died. But that's to be expected.'

'What I'm referring to would be known only to a few.'

'Aye. But I'm one of the few, d'you see?' Drummond tapped his nose. 'There's not a whisper in a corridor I don't get to hear in due course. Your Mrs de Vries is a bird that hasn't flown into our parish.'

'I wish I could be sure of that.'

'You can. She's not been here, my friend. She's not been near.' Drummond leaned forward, the brandy on his breath wafting over Cloisterman. 'Do you mean to wait in case there's sign of her?'

'I haven't decided.'

'Either way, vigilance doesn't come cheap.'

'You don't, Colonel, certainly.' Cloisterman lifted a purse from his pocket and slid it across the table. 'I'll bid you good afternoon,' he added, rising to his feet.

'Good afternoon to you, my friend.'

Leaving Drummond to count his money, Cloisterman hurried from the booth and threaded his way between the settles and tables in the main room of the coffeehouse. Blain had assured him of Drummond's reliability as an informant, though whether Blain had ever met the fellow Cloisterman did not know. It was difficult to place much confidence in the good colonel's self-proclaimed vigilance. The only reassurance Cloisterman had obtained for his money was that the Green Book — and the havoc it might wreak — was not the talk of the Palazzo Muti.

The likelihood, Cloisterman consoled himself, was that Estelle de Vries had not yet reached Rome. It was therefore also likely, given the precautions Blain had taken for him in Florence, that she never would. Telling himself to feel more satisfied with his afternoon's work than he did, he stepped from L'Egiziano into the chill onset of a Roman night and strode down the street to its junction with the Corso, intending to cross the thoroughfare and make for his lodgings at the Casa Rossa.

A lantern illuminating a sign on a tobacconist's shop at the corner was all that saved him from a collision with a man hurrying along the Corso. As Cloisterman pulled sharply up, the man headed on across the side-street, apparently unaware of what had happened.

Cloisterman, for his part, stepped back to the wall of the shop and leaned against it for support, his heart racing. He had caught a clear sight of the man's face in the light of the lantern and had recognized him immediately. He could still do so, in fact, by the set of his shoulders as he pressed on into the shadows.