Great Historical Novels (20 page)

Mr Dillon’s eyes crinkled. Rhia almost fell off her chair – so he had a sense of humour after all. ‘A fair point, Miss Mahoney. In fact, it is something that is lately being called capitalism that interests me. It is a relatively modern industry, and one that is killing people.

Capitalism
. The word sounded inauspicious.

‘Could we talk about something a little less profound please,’ said Laurence. ‘I have no affinity with numbers.’

‘Indeed you don’t, Blake – as your recent trip to Paris demonstrates.’ Mr Dillon looked at Rhia with a raised eyebrow and a wry smile. ‘Mr Blake has purchased a collection of daguerreotypes from a Paris dealer I am convinced is a thief.’

Laurence laughed. ‘Come, Dillon, you’ve already bored Miss Mahoney with talk of the City.’

‘But I’m not bored at all,’ Rhia assured him. She was beginning to see that there was a whole side of trade that she knew little about. In effect, people bought and sold goods without even laying eyes on them, and it wasn’t even because they particularly wanted the commodity, but because they wanted to build their own little empires in trading with them. As if one wasn’t enough. ‘In fact, Mr Dillon, I would appreciate it if you would explain to me why I should have no faith in banknotes.’

He was immediately serious. ‘It is more a question of the actual capital represented by the paper money, Miss Mahoney. The Bank of England is really only a holding house for a limited amount of coin and bullion, and when a major trade route such as the South China Sea ceases to operate, there is a domino effect. The balance of capital and debit topples and the vaults are emptied very quickly.’

‘Do you mean if I deposited my silver in a bank and then wrote a note of credit, it does not represent an actual transaction?’

‘Precisely. Your silver ceases to exist once it is deposited in a bank.’

‘But then banking is a charade!’

‘Of course,’ said Dillon coolly, as though it was something everyone knew. ‘I suggest you make payments with actual coin rather than notes of credit until the silver reserves are replenished. The vaults aren’t entirely empty, don’t worry,’ he said when Rhia widened her eyes. ‘Quantities of silver enter London daily from the Calcutta exchange; opium money mostly, but it is only here to be laundered so that the Crown can honestly say that the revenue from opium is not being used outright to purchase tea.’

‘But there’s silver coming in from the colonies too,’ said Sid. ‘Land is fetching a good price on the eastern shoreline of Australia, and the wheat and wool markets are attracting investors. The Calcutta exchange sees plenty of revenue from Sydney, but maybe some punter is just robbing the wealthy squatters in New South Wales!’

Rhia was piecing all of this together. ‘But I thought the emperor of China declared the opium trade unlawful.’

Dillon shook his head in disgust. ‘It makes no difference. The transactions just take place offshore. The black gold, as it is called, is taken to a depot ship anchored at Lintin Island in the Gulf of Canton. The ships are large, with crews of fighting men. The Chinese silver that pays for the opium is deposited on an armed ship, and then transferred to a barque or a clipper and taken to Calcutta.’

Rhia shook her head. ‘And what happens to the silver in Calcutta?’

‘Most commonly, bills of exchange are issued; paper money that can be redeemed in England or in India.’

‘But what if there isn’t enough silver to redeem a bill of exchange?’

Dillon shrugged. ‘Then there will be a run on the banks. As you know, there’s an embargo on all legitimate trade with China, so no cotton, wool or English piece goods can be exported, and neither can we import tea, silk, rice, porcelain and so on. The silver from the sale of opium is always used to purchase tea, because silver is the only currency the emperor of China will trade in.’

Rhia frowned. ‘So China provides our substance and we provide theirs. I expect the black market trade off Lintin Island is thriving.’

‘Oh, it is,’ Dillon agreed, looking at her intently. ‘Then you read the papers, Miss Mahoney.’

‘I enjoy that vulgar activity, yes.’ Now she had made him smile twice in one night. He took a long draught of porter.

‘This is all very dull,’ Grace complained, looking bored.

‘It isn’t though, my love,’ Sid assured her. ‘It’s no different to watching lads play with their marbles in the street. They swap whichever they have too many of, for what they most desire.’

Mr Dillon put down his empty glass. ‘A more deadly game than marbles, Sid. One nation is being poisoned by another and the governments of Britain and India have sanctioned it.’

Sid leaned across Grace and lowered his voice to say something to Dillon that Rhia strained to hear.

‘Speaking of India, I’ve only just heard something that might be of interest.’

‘Indeed?’ Dillon was instantly sober. He stood up, excused himself and beckoned Sid to follow him. They went to stand a short distance away by the fire. Neither Laurence nor Grace
took any notice. Laurence refilled his glass and leaned back into the snug contentedly, and Grace became preoccupied with her fingernails.

Rhia strained to hear what Sid and Dillon were discussing, but they had their backs to her and the tavern was noisy. She edged closer to the fire until she could hear their conversation.

‘Of course I remember Josiah Blake’s accident,’ Dillon was saying.

‘One of the brokers who has a Quaker client doesn’t think it was an accident,’ said Sid.

‘Who doesn’t?’ Dillon’s tone was sharp and Rhia held her breath.

‘The client. And there’s a rumour that Blake may have been discovered at something … un-Quakerly – something like opium – and couldn’t face the shame.’ Sid paused and lowered his voice. ‘There’s them that say he took his own life.’

‘Does your Quaker have a name?’

‘The broker wouldn’t tell me, so he’s either scared or he’s been paid, because I’ve never known him to keep his mouth shut.’

‘If you find out who he is, Sid, I’ll see to it that you become the favourite of the newspaper investors.’

‘You’ve got yourself a deal, mister.’ Sid drained his glass.

Rhia could hardly believe what she’d heard. If both Ryan and Josiah had taken their own lives, did it mean they had both been involved in the opium trade? Was this why the journalist was so interested in Ryan’s affairs? She could not bear to think that her uncle had stooped so low. And what about Josiah Blake, with his spotless reputation? It was appalling to think that he, too, should be profiteering from such a filthy trade. Antonia would surely not bear it. She must never find out.

Mr Dillon turned and their eyes met. He raised an eyebrow, she raised one back, and that was that.

Sid retrieved Grace, and Laurence enquired politely after their plans to wed. Mr Dillon turned to Rhia and lowered his voice.

‘With regard to your uncle’s death, Miss Mahoney. The Yard have interviewed his solicitor and I’ve learnt that his estate has been frozen pending evidence contrary to suicide.’

‘
Contrary
to suicide?’

‘There is still a small chance his death was accidental. But this is neither the time nor the place to discuss it. At the very least, we must understand what drove him to it. Are you agreed?’

‘Of course.’ Rhia almost asked why he cared, and what he really thought of Ryan, but didn’t. She was too worried that she might not like what she heard.

He bowed stiffly. ‘Then I shall wish you good night and Happy Christmas.’

‘And you. Thank you for—’ But he was walking away, as bad mannered as ever.

Sid and Grace said goodnight, and Rhia found herself standing beneath the mistletoe with Laurence. He looked at it pointedly and then at her. She laughed, but then his expression became so sombre that she had to look away. When he offered her his arm instead, she was not sure if she felt more disappointed or relieved.

Cashmere

Rhia examined the address on the calling card. The Jerusalem was on Lombard Street. It was not far. The handwriting on the reverse was careful and elegant; definitely not her uncle’s, which was sloping and hasty. The Oriental character could mean something or nothing, and the numbers beside it were as puzzling as ever. She needed to do something to keep her mind from the fact that Mr Montgomery hadn’t been in touch.

The streets were as damp and glum as they had looked from the morning room at Cloak Lane. When it started to properly rain, Rhia was easily lured into the closest shop, which happened to be Cutbush’s Curios. The sign was almost obscured by ivy, which was probably why she’d never noticed it before. Inside, the shop smelt of pipe tobacco and damp and was piled to the rafters with penny-arcade tin drums and sailors’ hats, copper pots and old
Pears
’ annuals. Mr Cutbush had an oversized moustache, yellowed by tobacco, and an oversized girth. It was a wonder he could move about without toppling any of his precariously stacked whatnots.

The floor above the ground contained merchandise of a more specialised nature; a collector’s kingdom come. Here were thimbles and stamps and military regalia and monogrammed goblets and, in a fusty corner, a shelf of antiquated firearms. Rhia felt her heart lurch. How many dealers of antique pistols could there be in London?

Mr Cutbush couldn’t remember if he had or hadn’t sold any pistols to an Irishman by the name of Ryan Mahoney, but he said that it was peculiar she should enquire, because there had been a Celtic gentleman in asking all manner of questions. ‘And quite ghoulish some of them, too,’ he added, with a nod that made his jowls wobble like aspic.

Rhia cocked her head at him. ‘What do you mean, ghoulish?’

‘Well, the likes of, “what sort of wound would such and such a weapon make if it were fired at close range, as opposed to if it were fired at a distance?”’

‘And could you answer?’

‘Of course, madam. I do not hold any commodities that I don’t have a little knowledge of, and it is important to respect the perilous nature of gunpowder.’

‘Did the gentleman give you his name?’

‘He did not. I would know him again, though; he had a mane of hair and was dressed like a thespian.’

‘How long ago was this?’

Mr Cutbush looked puzzled, and then uncertain. ‘Well, now you have me. It could have been last week or last July, I’m not much good at remembering such things.’

It sounded as if Mr Dillon had been making enquiries about firearms – but when, and why? Rhia left the curio shop, and was deep in thought when a cart drove through a puddle and threw muddy water up at her. Today she longed to be riding Epona on the headland, where there were no passing vehicles or chimney stacks and no slops raining from upstairs windows. She turned into a shabby lane of weaver’s cottages that she judged should come out near Lombard Street. The lane was deserted and bleak. Through a curtainless window, she glimpsed a room almost barren of furnishings. A woman
and her skinny brood were huddled together for warmth, all bent over their sewing. In Greystones the weavers were poor, but there were always faggots for a fire and a pot of coddle on the make. There was always someone, like her mother, who cared.

Weaving was once a respectable trade and a profession that could earn a decent wage. If machines were clever enough to make cloth, then how many other trades would they claim? Rhia tried to imagine Spitalfields in the time before the factories, when the French Protestants had run the London silk trade. It was hard to conjure. She’d read that the Huguenots had cultivated a mulberry plantation, since this was all the fussy silk worms would eat. Barely a tree was now to be seen in Spitalfields. Neither the mulberry plants nor the creatures themselves thrived in the climate. Rhia empathised with the silk worm. The penetrating damp had reached her toes, even through her lace-up boots and woollen stockings.

When she came to a junction in the road, she was only a step or two away from Lombard Street and looking forward to a glass of strong coffee. The Jerusalem looked busy from what little she could see of its interior through the fogged glass, but she was not prepared for the atmosphere that greeted her when she entered. This was not at all what she expected. The air was thick with cigar smoke and the smell of men. The confusion of raised voices reminded her of the Dublin pony market. There was barely room to stand, let alone be seated, and she realised her entrance was slowly making an impression. There was not another woman in the room. The Jerusalem was a meeting place, not somewhere warm and dry to enjoy a quiet beverage.

An entire wall was dedicated to the kind of wooden file boxes that one might see at a printer’s or stationer’s shop, furnished
with piles of ledgers. On a long, narrow table beneath were piles of broadsheets, pipe dishes, tin coffee pots and a number of notebooks and pencils. Several sheets of grid-lined paper were pinned on a corkboard close by, though Rhia was not close enough to see the entries inked in their columns. She guessed it had something to do with shipping, since a good number of the men in the room had the salty look of merchant captains. She had seen enough to realise that this was not a place one came to enjoy a harmless cup of coffee. She was beginning to feel self-conscious. She turned to leave as she heard a familiar voice.

‘I thought it must be you, Miss Mahoney!’ Sid was grinning broadly at her bewilderment. ‘I see that you have taken an interest in the exchange!’

‘Not in the least. My only interest was in a glass of coffee.’

‘Coffee, well you’d best look elsewhere. You will only distract these gentlemen from their business.’ Sid seemed hugely entertained that Rhia had come to a coffee house for coffee.

‘I tell you what, Miss Mahoney, I’m about done here and then I’m off to visit Gracey. Why not walk with me?’ It was a good distance from Cornhill to Regent Street, Rhia had walked it before, but she nodded. Why not? She had nothing better to do. They left and she was relieved to be back in the damp air.

‘Is it always so crowded in the Jerusalem?’ she asked as they walked back along Cornhill. Sid shook his head.

‘Tea and China silk is at a premium – meaning it’s scarce and in demand and above the usual market price. There is a lot of selling of small goods going on, to secure ordinary commodities.’