Sea Change (23 page)

'Spandrel,' Cloisterman whispered incredulously to himself. 'What are you doing here?' Instinctively, he started after him.

As he did so, another man brushed past him, heading in the same direction as Spandrel. He was short, thin as a whippet and almost as fleet-footed. Something in the angle of his head and the intent, forward tilt of his body told Cloisterman at once what he was about. He was following Spandrel too. There were others, it seemed, who wanted to know what the bankrupt English mapmaker was doing in Rome.

James Edward Stuart, Pretender to the thrones of Scotland and England, was nothing if not assiduous in his pretensions. He addressed himself seriously to every stray chance and frail hope of the restoration of his dynasty. In his dedication to the cause, however, stood revealed his weakness. He was a king by birth and upbringing, who clung to the title because it was the only thing he knew. Long-faced and lugubrious, he was no-one's vision of the ideal monarch. As to whether he had the heart of a king, or his newly born son had for that matter, only time would tell.

But time was suddenly of the essence, as James Edgar's unaccustomed urgency of manner made clear. It was early evening at the Palazzo Muti and the king whose kingdom its walls comprised had intended to visit the nursery before dinner to dandle his celebrated infant. Instead, he found himself closeted with his secretary in earnest discussion of a potentially earth-shaking development.

'How important might this book be to us, Mr Edgar?'

'It proves the Elector of Hanover, his son, his daughter-in-law, his mistresses and most of his ministers, past and present, to be self-serving scoundrels.'

'Surely we knew that already.'

'But this proves it, sir. The nation is on its knees, brought low by the South Sea fraud. If your subjects understood how the prince who rules them had profited from their ruin, I believe they would rise against him and demand the return of their true king. I believe, in simple fact, that this book represents a surer prospect of success than any you or your father before you have ever enjoyed.'

'Then we must have it.'

'Indeed, sir. So we must.'

'How is it to be obtained?'

'This fellow Spandrel demands a sum of one hundred thousand pounds for its surrender.'

'So much?'

'I will persuade him to accept a lower figure. I have had him followed, naturally, but I feel sure he will not have the book about him. Some payment will probably be necessary. But if I may speak freely, sir…'

'Please do.'

'Our friends say London is in a ferment. Stanhope's acquittal has outraged the populace. Sunderland will doubtless have been acquitted by now as well, with Walpole's connivance. They are all in it together. And the Green Book will damn every one of them. Whatever we have to pay for it… will be a bargain.'

While in Rome the Pretender and his secretary contemplated the sudden opening of a host of attractive vistas, in London the Postmaster-General, James Craggs the elder, foresaw only ruin on the eve of his trial before the House of Commons. Beset by grief for his son and a keen knowledge of the truth of the charges laid against him, he resolved the matter by taking a fatal dose of laudanum. The last of the trials of senior ministers implicated in the South Sea scandal was thus over before it had begun. While in Rome other forms of trial were just about to begin.

Where was Estelle? It was nearly ten o'clock, yet still she had not returned to the Palazzetto Raguzzi. Spandrel was growing anxious. He had called at the Albergo Luna earlier on his way back from the Palazzo Muti, intending to claim a partial recovery from the illness that had supposedly prevented him accompanying Estelle on her afternoon tour with Buckthorn and Silverwood, but neither they nor she had been there. Perhaps they had decided to dine before returning to their lodgings. Perhaps Rome by night had proved as diverting as Rome by day.

This Spandrel doubted. Estelle would be as eager to hear how he had fared at the Pretender's court as he was to tell her. She would have found some way to prevail upon Buckthorn and Silverwood to that end. But clearly something had prevented her. What could it possibly be?

He had waited long enough. Another visit to the Albergo Luna would relieve his anxiety to some degree. For all he knew, Buckthorn and Silverwood might by now have arrived there with Estelle. He flung on his coat, extinguished the lamp and made for the door.

Cloisterman had spent several chill hours lurking in the shadows of the Piazza di Spagna, waiting for Spandrel to emerge from the Palazzetto or for Estelle de Vries to enter. So far, neither had. The whippety fellow likewise dogging Spandrel's trail had vanished. The night had deepened. Cloisterman had grown cold and bored and less and less certain of what he should do.

Now, as ten o'clock struck in the tower of Trinita dei Monti, palely lit by the moon on the hill above the piazza, he decided to try his luck at the Albergo Luna, where Spandrel had called briefly on his way along the Via Condotti. Perhaps that was where Estelle was hiding. Certainly he did not doubt that she was somewhere close at hand.

Pulling his hat down over his eyes and his greatcoat collar up to meet it, he turned and hurried away across the piazza.

A few minutes later, Spandrel emerged from the Palazzetto Raguzzi and set off across the piazza, following unwittingly in Cloisterman's footsteps.

As he turned into the Via Condotti, he was surprised to see that a small crowd had gathered outside the Albergo Luna, which lay a hundred yards or so ahead. A coach had pulled up in front of the inn and there were shouts and whistles from the crowd. As Spandrel drew nearer, he saw that the coach was not one of the low-slung gilded conveyances he had already become accustomed to seeing on the streets, but was darkly painted and soberly styled, with shutters at the windows.

Then he stopped dead in his tracks. From the inn emerged two tall, black-greatcoated figures, holding between them a shorter, slighter man, whose hat toppled from his head as he was marched out and loaded into the coach to reveal a blond wig and a pale, disbelieving face. It was the face of Nicholas Cloisterman.

'The Romans do so savour every little drama of life, don't they?' The voice came from behind Spandrel as the coach door slammed and Cloisterman was driven away. Spandrel turned to find Buckthorn standing virtually at his shoulder, smiling blandly. 'Do you happen to know the poor fellow they've arrested?'

'Arrested?'

'Looks like it to me.' Buckthorn's gaze drifted towards the departing coach, then moved back to Spandrel. 'So, do you know him?'

'Of course not.'

'Really? That's odd. He's been keeping watch on the Palazzetto Raguzzi for the past few hours. Now he strolls down to the Luna and gets himself dragged off to the clink. Deuced odd, I'd say.'

'I know nothing about him. Where's Estelle?'

'With Naseby.'

'And where is he?'

'Not at the Luna. And just as well, it seems.'

'What do you mean, Buckthorn?'

'Don't be testy, old man. I'll be happy to explain.'

'Why not just tell me where they are?'

'Because it's not as simple as that. Let's go back to the Raguzzi. We can talk there.'

'We can talk here.'

'And be overheard? I'd really rather not take the risk. You'll agree a few precautions are in order when you hear what I have to say. And if the lovely Estelle's welfare is at the forefront of your concern — which as an ever-attentive cousin I'm sure it is — you'll indulge me on the point.' Buckthorn's smile broadened. 'Come along, do.'

It took them no more than five minutes to reach Spandrel's room at the Palazzetto Raguzzi. Nothing was said on the way, but in the silence Spandrel could read more than was good for his peace of mind. Buckthorn had changed from the rich, dunderheaded young wastrel he had seemed to be. He was somehow older, subtler, worldly-wiser. Or perhaps that was what he had been all along. Perhaps Giles Buckthorn, the spoilt and shallow Grand Tourist, was nothing but an artful impersonation. If so, Naseby Silverwood, his similarly minded friend, probably was as well. In which case…

'How are the beds here?' Buckthorn enquired, as Spandrel lit the lamps. 'Soft enough?'

'The accommodation's very comfortable.'

'I'm sure it is.'

'Do you mind telling me where—'

'Your cousin is? Haven't the vaguest, old man.'

'But you just said Estelle—'

'Estelle? Oh, is that who you mean? Sorry. I thought we'd dropped that pretence. Let's be honest. She's no more your cousin' — he smiled — 'than Naseby and I are chums from Oxford.'

'Where is she?'

'Somewhere safe and secure.'

'What do you mean by that?'

'I mean she's our prisoner. And she'll remain so until our business is concluded.'

'Your… prisoner?'

'Quite so. And in case you doubt me, here's something to convince you we're keeping a very close eye on her.' Buckthorn took something from his pocket and tossed it across to Spandrel.

Spandrel caught it in his right hand and gazed down in astonishment at what he saw nestling in his palm: a blue silk garter, of the kind, if it was not the very same, that he knew Estelle wore; that he knew oh so well.

Rage flooded into him. He made to lunge at Buckthorn, but the other man was too quick for him. A punch to the pit of the stomach doubled him up, then Buckthorn was behind him, pulling him half-upright. He saw the blade of a knife flash in the lamplight. Then it was at his throat. He felt the edge of it pressing against his skin.

'We'll kill her if we have to, Spandrel,' Buckthorn rasped in his ear. 'You too.'

'What do you want?'

'Those jewels of hers she's so prudently lodged at a bank in every town we've stopped in. Not that we think they are jewels, of course. But treasure. Yes. Treasure they certainly are, of some kind, at any rate, which your anxiety to reach Rome suggests is worth more here than anywhere else. That's why we let you get this far.'

'I don't know what you're talking about.'

'But you do. You must do. You see, you're named on the Calderini receipt along with Estelle.' So he was. Estelle had insisted on a joint receipt. She was to keep it in case he ran into trouble at the Palazzo Muti. But both their signatures were required to reclaim what the receipt described as a scatola di gioielli rossa: a red jewel-box, containing a green book; the Green Book. 'Tell me one more lie, Spandrel, and I'll slit your throat.' Buckthorn's voice was as hard and sharp as the knife in his hand. 'Do you understand?'

'Yes.'

'Good. Now, what's in the box?'

'A book.'

'What kind of book?'

'An account book. It belongs to the chief cashier of the South Sea Company. It records all the bribes the company paid last year to get their bill through Parliament.'

'Does it, indeed? Whom did they bribe?'

'Members of Parliament. Government ministers. The royal family.'

'Hence Rome. You're trying to sell it to the Pretender, aren't you?'

'Yes.'

'What's your asking price?'

'One hundred thousand pounds.'

'Estelle does fly high, doesn't she? Well, I doubt you'd ever have got that much. But never mind. Who's the fellow we saw being marched out of the Albergo Luna?'

'Cloisterman. British vice-consul in Amsterdam.'

'Whence he followed you and Estelle, presumably. Who was de Vries?'

'A merchant there, entrusted with the book by one of the directors of the company.'

'I take it de Vries didn't meet with a natural death.'

'No.'

'So, you're murderers as well as thieves. Well, I'm sorry to have to disappoint you, I really am. Your efforts were all in vain. What are your arrangements with the Pretender?'

'I'm to meet his secretary, Mr Edgar, at noon tomorrow.'

'The arrangements have changed. I'll be going in your place. At eleven o'clock tomorrow morning, you'll meet me at the Banco Calderini, where you'll withdraw the box and surrender the contents to me. We'll already have persuaded Estelle to countersign the receipt and to give us the key to the box, so there'll be no difficulty. In exchange, I'll tell you where you can find her, alive and relatively unharmed. At that point, our business will be concluded. Should we meet again thereafter, it'll be the worse for you. For both of you. You follow?'

'I follow.'

'And you agree?'

'Yes.'

'I thought you would. Strictly between you and me, I'm not sure Estelle would, if your positions were reversed. But that's women for you, isn't it?' Suddenly, the knife was whipped away from Spandrel's throat. Buckthorn was in front of him now, backing towards the door, the knife held defensively before him. 'A piece of parting advice, Spandrel. Always look a gift-horse in the mouth. Oh, and don't try to follow me. You're simply not up to it.' He opened the door behind him. 'Good night,' he added. Then he stepped out into the passage and closed the door.

Spandrel raised a hand to his throat. He stared at the smear of blood on his fingers, then moved unsteadily across to the bed and sat down. He heard his breathing as if it were that of someone else, slowly returning to normal. His thoughts did so at the same pace, settling bleakly on the certainty that Buckthorn was right. He was no match for them. This was the end of his fond dream of wealth. As for Estelle, all he could do now was whatever it took to save her life. And then… But no. He could not look so far ahead. He could not bear to.

Cloisterman's ride in the shuttered black coach was a short one, so short that he was still struggling to understand what had happened when a change in the note of the horses' hoofbeats told him they were passing beneath a covered gateway into a courtyard of some kind. There he was bundled out and up some steps into a large, lamp-lit building. His guards marched him along an echoing, high-ceilinged corridor, then up a winding, stone-flagged staircase, finally delivering him to a first-floor room of some magnificence, decorated with frescoes, tapestries and a pair of opulent chandeliers in which every candle was burning.

In the centre of the room, behind a desk as large as many a banqueting-table, sat a corpulent, heavy-lidded, goatee-bearded man of advanced age, dressed in the red robes and cap of a cardinal. He cast Cloisterman a darting, reptilian glance, but said nothing. Then Cloisterman looked towards the only other occupant of the room: a brawny, bright-eyed priest with cropped black hair and a cherubic flush to his cheeks, who was standing at one end of the table. He fixed Cloisterman with a twinkling gaze and said, in Irish-accented English, 'Good evening, Mr Cloisterman. Welcome to the Quirinal Palace. I am Father Monteith. This is His Excellency the Pro-Governor of the City of Rome, Cardinal Bortolazzi. He speaks no English, so you'll pardon me if I… articulate his thoughts.'

'What the devil is going on here, sir?' demanded Cloisterman, summoning as much outraged dignity as he could. 'Why was I dragged from the Albergo Luna like some… common criminal?'

'Because you were enquiring after a Mrs de Vries and had already displayed an interest in her travelling companion, Mr Spandrel.'

'What's that to you?'

'The Pro-Governor is responsible for the maintenance of peace and order in the city.'

'I'm threatening neither.'

'What are you here for?'

'To see the antiquities.'

'Come, come. That won't do. You've not been near the Colosseum, have you? But you have been near the Palazzo Muti. You've conferred with a notorious spy at King James's court. And Mr Spandrel has been in discussion with the King's private secretary.'

'I know nothing about any spy. Or what Spandrel may or may not have been doing.'

Monteith sighed. 'These denials are futile, Mr Cloisterman. If the Pro-Governor is so minded, you can be consigned to a dungeon at the Castel Sant'Angelo for the rest of your life, with neither charge nor trial. You are not in the United Provinces now.'

'How did—' Cloisterman broke off, instantly regretting the admission.

'A guess, based on the Dutch ring to Mrs de Vries's name. But it's unimportant. Where you've come from does not concern us. Why you've come here does.'

'I'm the British vice-consul in Amsterdam.' The mention of dungeons had settled the issue in Cloisterman's mind. He could not continue trying to brazen his way out of whatever he was in. 'My Government—'

'Is no friend of His Holiness the Pope.' Monteith rounded the table and moved closer. 'As I'm sure you're aware, however, there is no pope at present. His Holiness Clement the Eleventh was gathered unto the Lord last week. Several more weeks are likely to elapse before his successor is elected by the College of Cardinals. When he is, he will no doubt wish to be assured that he finds his temporal realm in good order. The Pro-Governor is determined to ensure that he does.'