Sea Change (31 page)

St James's was better lit than most parts of London, but there were still plenty of shadows large and deep enough to shroud Spandrel from view. He stood in the entrance to a service alley on the northern side of Jermyn Street, watching for signs of life at Phoenix House, handsome residence of one Mrs Davenant, a little way down the opposite side of the street. So far, there had been none.

Spandrel had several times asked himself what he was expecting to see at this hour of the evening. Estelle, if she truly did live there, was not likely to show herself to suit his convenience. The afternoon was a better time by far to watch for her. But he could not risk loitering in the area in daylight, any more than he could knock at the door and demand to see Mrs Davenant.

It made little sense, in all honesty, for him to be there at all. But the alternatives were hardly better. He could go home and listen to his mother describing the girls who might — or indeed the girl who had — become the maid their new station in life enabled them to employ. Or he could slink into a tavern and drink as much as he needed — which would be a lot — to forget the dilemma that Mcllwraith had placed him in.

Should he tell Walpole that Mcllwraith was alive and well and intent on meting out his own brand of justice? If he did, he would have to admit in the process that his attempt to gull Atterbury had failed miserably. Nor did he know what he would be warning Walpole against. It would certainly be easier to tell him the lie Mcllwraith had suggested. But Walpole was a dangerous man to lie to. Only if Mcllwraith really could destroy him, as he had pledged to, was such a risk worth taking.

Tomorrow, though, he would have to decide. Walpole required a report by then on what progress he had made, to be submitted by hand to the Postmaster-General —none other than Walpole's brother. Spandrel had to say something. And whatever he chose to say might easily rebound on him.

The need to see Estelle and to assure himself that what Mcllwraith had told him about her was true was thus a distraction, in some ways, from a problem he had no hope of solving. More and more, he felt like a man trapped in a quagmire, whose every attempt at extrication only sucked him in deeper. Even his pleasure at Mcllwraith's return from the dead was soured by the knowledge of the peril it exposed him to. And now—

There was a movement at one of the illuminated upper windows of Phoenix House. Spandrel caught his breath as a curtain was twitched back. A figure, outlined against the glow of a lamp, glanced down into the street. From where he stood, Spandrel could see that it was a woman. Her long dark hair flowed over bare shoulders above a low-cut gown. He could not make out a single detail of her face. And yet he knew, by the way she stood, head thrown back slightly, arm raised, that it was Estelle. He stared up at her, knowing full well that she could not see him, yet half-hoping, half-fearing, that she would somehow sense his presence. Then she released the curtain. Her shadow dwindled away behind it. She was gone.

Spandrel stood there for several more minutes, wondering what he had gained from this paltry glimpse. Mcllwraith had told him she lived there and he had not seriously doubted it. Yet he had felt driven to see her for himself. And now he had. It told him little. It proved nothing. Strictly speaking, he could not even be sure it was her he had seen. But it was enough.

With sudden decisiveness, Spandrel emerged from the alley-mouth and started walking east along Jermyn Street, head bowed, moving fast. He regretted now that he had ever allowed himself to be drawn to the area. Estelle rediscovered as Walpole's mistress was Estelle lost to him more conclusively than if she had been removed to the other side of the world.

He paid the few passers-by little attention as he pressed on. Seeing a man come round the corner of Eagle Street ahead of him, he did no more than move slightly to the left to accommodate him. But the man moved into his path, as if deliberately. He was a big, bulky fellow in a broad-collared greatcoat, full-bottomed wig and low-brimmed hat, flourishing a stick. And, far too late to avoid the encounter, Spandrel recognized him.

'Mr Walpole,' he said nervously, coming to a halt.

'Mr Spandrel.' Walpole prodded him in the chest with the point of his stick. 'What are you doing here?'

'I—' Spandrel broke off, but only momentarily. One of the few advantages conferred on him by his misadventures of the year before was speed of thought. Walpole was going to pay a late call on his mistress. He was not likely to believe that coincidence had led Spandrel to the very street where she lived. And Spandrel could not allow him to catch him out in a lie. But there were lies… and then there were lies. 'I saw… Estelle de Vries … in Pall Mall and followed her here… to Phoenix House.'

'Estelle de Vries? Here?'

'It seems so, sir.'

'You're sure?'

'I saw her with my own eyes.'

'Well, well.' Walpole lowered the stick and stepped towards the area railings of the house beside them, lowering his voice as he did so and beckoning Spandrel closer. 'Phoenix House, you say?'

'Yes, sir. Near the corner of Duke Street.'

'Very well. You may leave me to have this matter looked into. You'll do nothing about it. You'll make no attempt to approach her. You'll give her no means of knowing that you've returned to London. Is that understood?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Good. Now, then.' The stick tapped at Spandrel's shoulder. 'What of other matters? Since we have this chance of a private word, you needn't trouble to call at the G.P.O. tomorrow.'

Such relief as Spandrel felt at outwitting Walpole over Estelle was instantly banished by the realization that he could equivocate no longer about what he should report concerning Atterbury and Mcllwraith. He paused only long enough to draw a deep breath, then chose his course. 'I have… secured an appointment… to call at the Bishop's Palace.'

'When?'

'A week today.'

'A week? Why so long?'

'He's a busy man, sir.'

'But busy with what? That's what we want to know.'

'It was the best I could do, sir.'

'Who gave you this appointment?'

'His secretary, sir. The Reverend Kelly.'

'See Kelly again. Tell him you can't — won't — wait so long.'

'But—'

'See him again.' The stick moved to Spandrel's chin and pushed it up, forcing his head back. 'Report to my brother the day after tomorrow. I want prompter progress. You understand?'

'Very clearly, sir,' Spandrel said, as distinctly as the extension of his neck would allow.

'So I should hope.' Walpole whipped the stick away. 'Now, be off, damn you.' And with that the First Lord of the Treasury and Chancellor of the Exchequer strode past Spandrel and on along the street.

Even Robert Walpole could not always have what he wanted. Spandrel's problem was how to fend off the evil hour when he would have to explain that to him, hoping Mcllwraith would spare him the necessity. It condemned him to an agony of uncertainty throughout the next day, during which his mother believed him to be scouring London for mapmaking equipment, while he was in truth wandering its streets in a state of aimless anxiety.

Thursday found him no better placed. Quite the contrary, since before it was out he would have to submit his report to Walpole's brother. He composed this work of fiction in a Covent Garden coffee-house, after searching the newspapers for some portent of Mcllwraith's intentions — and finding none. I have been unable to secure an earlier appointment, he wrote. I would have done my cause more harm than good had I persisted in the plea. A nice touch that, he thought. I am confident, however, of achieving much of what you require of me when I visit Bromley next week. He was, of course, confident of absolutely nothing, except that he would not be going to Bromley next week.

He left delivery of the report as late in the afternoon as he dared, trudging out along the Strand and Fleet Street, then up Ludgate Hill to St Paul's and round by narrow ways he still remembered from his waywising days to the General Post Office on Lombard Street.

He was expected. The doorman directed him up to see the Postmaster-General's secretary, a taciturn fellow who conveyed all he needed to by way of acknowledgement in one lingering look and a dismissive nod. The report was received.

Spandrel's apprehensiveness amounted now to a fluttering of the heart and a tremor of the limbs. He walked round to Threadneedle Street and looked into the courtyard of South Sea House, where only an air of neglect about the stuccoing and paintwork revealed the savage decline of its fortunes. He had never set foot across its threshold, yet, thanks to the Green Book, he knew the darkest secrets of its bankrupt workings — and wished to God he did not.

From South Sea House he wandered along Lothbury towards the cluster of inns between Lad Lane and Love Lane, eager to drown his identity as well as his sorrows in one of their cavernous tap-rooms. The route took him within sight of Guild Hall. A glance in its direction was enough to remind him of a visit with his father to one of the regular prize draws held there when the War of the Spanish Succession was still on and the Government took to organizing lotteries to raise money for Marlborough's army.

Two giant drums had been set up in the banqueting hall, one containing numbered tickets, the other tickets representing either blanks or prizes. Tickets drawn from the first drum won whatever was drawn next from the second drum. 'Look at these men's faces, William,' his father — an avowed non-gambler — had said. 'Can you tell which of them will be lucky?'

'No, Pa,' William had replied.

'No more you can, son. And no more you'll ever be able to. Just remember: the more desperately you need to win, the more certain it is that you won't.'

Good advice, then and now. Good advice, but bleak counsel. Spandrel's need of a prize to match his ticket was so acute that desperation was hardly the word for it. And the draw could not much longer be delayed.

Spandrel arrived home late enough to find his mother already abed, for which he was grateful, having no wish for her to see how drunk he was and hardly feeling equal to the task of pretending for her benefit that all was well. He took to his own bed at once and plunged instantly into a dark well of slumber.

From which he was roused by a commotion of raised voices and pounding feet in what the light seeping through the window suggested was early morning. He heard his mother protesting at something, with alarm bubbling in her throat. Then the door of his room burst open and several large, burly men, one holding a lantern, strode in.

'Take him,' came a shout.

'Who are you?' Spandrel wailed, as he was hauled from the bed. 'What do you want?'

'We want you, Spandrel. Put some clothes on. Mr Walpole won't want to see you in your nightshirt.'

'Mr Walpole?' The name hit Spandrel like a bucketful of cold water. Suddenly, he knew. It had happened. Whatever Mcllwraith had planned to do… he had done.

Whitewash and a drizzle of sunlight through one of the barred windows set high in the wall did little to brighten the cellar of the Cockpit building in Whitehall to which Spandrel had been delivered. It was cold and damp, moisture clinging to the iron rings fitted to the floor, the vapour of his breath dissipating but slowly in the stale, frozen air.

The only other occupant of the room strode back and forth between the far wall and a trestle-table separating him from Spandrel. Robert Walpole was flushed about the face despite the prevailing chill and breathing heavily, his jaw working rhythmically, as if chewing on some irreducible lump of gristle. An intimidating presence at the best of times, he seemed now, in his evident anger, purely frightening, like a bull pawing the ground and choosing its moment to charge.

'You live with your mother, I'm told,' he growled, the remark striking Spandrel as just about the last thing he might have expected Walpole to say.

'Yes, sir.'

'She loves you?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Even if nobody else does. Because she is your mother.'

'Er… yes, sir.'

'And your father loved you too?'

'He… did, sir, yes. 'But I—'

'I have three sons and two daughters, Spandrel. My eldest daughter, Kate, is racked with illness. The doctors can do nothing for her. Such fits and fevers and purges as would grieve even you to see. She's not yet nineteen, but there's no hope for her. Not a one.'

'I am… sorry to hear it, sir.'

'You're sorry? Do you think that lightens my heart?'

'Well

'No, sir.' Walpole slammed his fist down on the table. 'It does not. She's dying slowly, at Bath, in an agony of mind and body. And I can't ease her suffering. Only my other children console me for that. Robert, Mary, Edward and little Horace. They're all well, thank God.'

'I'm glad to—'

'Or so I thought they all were. Until last night. When the news came from Eton.'

'What news, sir?'

'You don't know, of course. You don't know a damned thing about it.' Walpole rounded the table and clapped his hand to Spandrel's throat. His hand was large, his grip vicelike. 'Isn't that so?'

Spandrel tried to speak, but only a hoarse splutter emerged. He looked into Walpole's glaring eyes and could not tell whether the man meant to strangle him or not. He was about to try to push him away, indeed, when Walpole released him and stepped back.

'Yesterday afternoon, my son Edward was set upon by two masked men while returning to Eton College from some sport by the river. The boys who were with him say he was forced into a carriage at the point of a sword and driven away in the direction of Datchet. Those boys were given a letter and told to deliver it to the Provost, Dr Bland, a friend of mine from my own days at Eton.' Walpole whipped a folded sheet of paper from his pocket and handed it to Spandrel. 'Read it.'

Spandrel looked down at the letter. It was short, jaggedly scribed if elegantly worded, unsigned and very much to the point.

26th April 1722

Sir,

Be so good as to inform your friend, Mr Walpole, that his son will be released unharmed provided only that the full contents of the Green Book are published in the May Day edition of the London Gazette. Failure so to publish will result in his son's execution. Be warned. We are in earnest.

Walpole plucked the letter from Spandrel's trembling fingers and replaced it in his pocket. 'In earnest,' he said. 'Yes, I rather think they are.'

'I don't…' Spandrel's words dribbled out with his thoughts. 'I can't. . .'

'Account for it?'

'No, sir. I can't.'

'It's no more than a coincidence that this should happen so shortly after your approach to Atterbury?'

'What else… can it be?'

'It can be cause and effect, Spandrel. Damnable cause and bloody effect. Poke your stick into a beehive and you can expect to be stung. Prod a bishop and… what?'

'I'm sure there's no connection, sir.'

'Well, I'm not. Why else should Atterbury delay seeing you until next Tuesday?'

'You mean…' Spandrel uttered a silent prayer of thanks to whatever deity had decreed this one true coincidence. 'Because by then he believes he won't have to buy what I'm offering to sell him.'

'So it would seem.'

'I never had any inkling of such a response on his part, sir. As God is my witness.' This much was true. What Spandrel did not add, of course, was that he also had not the slightest suspicion that Atterbury was responsible for the abduction of Walpole's son. Mcllwraith had taken him. Mcllwraith might even have written the letter. But Mcllwraith was supposed to be dead. 'This is… dreadful.'

'Did you recognize the writing?'

'No, sir.'

'The boys say one of the men spoke with a Scotch accent. Kelly's Irish. They could have mistaken that for Scotch. Or it could be some bloodthirsty Highlander Kelly's recruited. Either way, Jacobites have done this. Oh yes. There's no doubt of that. Who else would stoop to punishing the child for their hatred of the father?'

'They say… he'll come to no harm, sir, if…'

'If I gazette the Green Book. Do you think I'm likely to do that, Spandrel?'

'I… don't know, sir.'

'You know what it contains. There's your answer.'

'But—'

'Which poses another question. How do the kidnappers know I can publish it?'

'I don't understand, sir.'

'You were to tell Atterbury that the book came from Sunderland, not me. Why then are the people he obviously put up to this so sure that I have it?'

'I didn't tell them, sir.' But he had told them. He had told Mcllwraith, as Mcllwraith had obliged him to, little thinking that the admission would rebound on him in such a fashion as this. 'I swear I didn't tell them.'

'Who did, then?'

Spandrel swallowed hard. 'There is… Mr Cloisterman.'

'So there is.' Walpole stepped closer. 'But Cloisterman is far away and greatly beholden to me. What would you say if I told you I was certain it wasn't Cloisterman?'

'What could I say, sir? It wasn't me. That's all I know.'

'And you truly have no idea who it might have been?'

'I truly have none, sir. None at all.'

'It really is a coincidence?'

'It must be.'

'Indeed.' Walpole took a slow walk to the wall beneath the windows and gazed up at the rectangles of milky sunlight that revealed the brickwork beneath the whitewash like the ribs beneath a starving man's skin. Then he turned. 'It's just a pity for you I don't believe in coincidences. Anyone who lays a hand on my son — or any child of mine — strikes at me as if he were thrusting a sword into my heart. And I strike back, as best I can. It may be that they saw through your offer of the Green Book. Or it may be that you know more than you're telling. I can't be sure which. And I haven't the time to spend deliberating on the point. I'll save my son if I can. What's certain is that I'll have the men who are holding him and I'll see them hanged, drawn and quartered for what they've already done, let alone what they've threatened to do. If I find that you bear so much as a shred of responsibility for their actions, I'll have you sent to Amsterdam to be hanged as a murderer… and I'll have your mother hanged as a thief.'

'My mother?'

'An honest woman, I'm sure. But no-one will believe that with her son swinging from a Dutch gallows and one of my wife's necklaces found about her person.'

'You wouldn't…'

'I would. And I will.' Walpole moved back to where Spandrel was standing and looked him in the eye. 'Is there nothing you want to tell me?'

There was much. But to confess the truth now was to confess to not having warned Walpole that Mcllwraith was moving against him. 'There's nothing I can tell you, sir.'

'Then get out. And be sure you can be found when I want you. If you run, it's your mother who'll answer for it.'

'Should I still go to Bromley… on Tuesday?'

'Of course not. Do you think any of that will matter a damn by—' Walpole stopped and took a deep, soulful breath. Fear simmered beneath his fury: a fear of what would happen to his son. But it would not deflect him. It would not defeat him. 'Just get out of my sight, Spandrel. Now.'