Sea Change (19 page)

'I couldn't remain. You must understand how it was.'

'Oh, I do.'

'You think me very callous, don't you?'

Spandrel nodded. 'Yes.'

'I suppose I must seem so. But it isn't—' She glanced back towards the door by which they had left the building. 'I shall be missed soon.'

'Who are they?'

'Mr Buckthorn and Mr Silverwood are two young English gentlemen sent abroad by their fathers to improve their minds. I met them in Geneva and persuaded them to add me to their party. We are due to set off for Turin in just a few days. I gather the Mont Cenis Pass is scarcely more formidable than the Simplon.'

'Why did you go to Geneva?'

'Because I could not hope to complete my journey unaided and alone. Geneva was the closest city where I was likely to find the sort of help I needed.'

'And you weren't disappointed.'

'What brought you to Vevey?'

'Chance. Mischance, so far as you're concerned.'

'I would deny anything you told them.'

'Would your denials suffice?'

'Perhaps. Perhaps not. I would prefer…' She looked at him with a faint, self-mocking smile. 'Not to find out.'

'You don't have to.'

'Are you proposing a partnership, Mr Spandrel?'

'Either I go with you. Or you don't go at all.'

'The Green Book?'

'We share the proceeds of the sale.'

'What of Mr Buckthorn and Mr Silverwood?'

'Tell them I'm your cousin. Tell them whatever you think they're likeliest to believe. But persuade them to let me join the party. Do you think you can do that?'

'Probably.'

'And will you?'

'It seems I must.' She arched her eyebrows at him. 'Does it not?'

Estelle Plenderleath, only daughter of Josiah Plenderleath, led a comfortable if not cosseted childhood amidst the rural quietude of Shropshire, untroubled — because no-one could bear to tell her — that the family estate was entailed and would pass to a male cousin when her father died. This the hale and affectionate Squire Plenderleath did not seem likely to do for many years. But a riding accident plucked him inconsiderately away, obliging his widow to explain the sombre consequences to Estelle and the pair of them to take refuge with relatives in London, while the cousin took prompt and unceremonious possession. The Spandrels were as welcoming as the constraints of space and money would permit, but those constraints were far from negligible and Estelle's mother encouraged her to seek a moneyed husband who could rescue both of them from their sadly reduced circumstances. A Dutch merchant called de Vries, whose dealings with Mr Spandrel in connection with his mapmaking business led to an encounter with Estelle, became instantly and fortuitously enraptured. There was a significant difference in age, it was true, but de Vries showed himself to be a good man and Estelle could scarcely allow her heart to rule her head. They were married and, for several years thereafter, Estelle lived quietly and dutifully with her husband in Amsterdam, while her mother, supported by an allowance from de Vries, retired to Lyme Regis. Then, quite suddenly, de Vries died. Estelle, now a wealthy widow, decided that the time had at last come to enjoy herself. De Vries had often promised to show her the wonders of Rome, but had always been too busy to take her. Now, she would take herself. When news of her departure reached her mother, the old lady was thrown into a state of high anxiety by the thought of a vulnerable young woman undertaking such an arduous and hazardous journey on her own. The Spandrels were persuaded to send their son William after her to afford such protection and assistance as he could. William was not to know, of course, that when he found Estelle he would not find her alone, but enjoying the solicitous attentions of two excellent young gentlemen whose path had crossed hers in Geneva: Giles Buckthorn and Naseby Silverwood.

Spandrel was given no cause to doubt, during the days following his addition to the travelling party, that Buckthorn and Silverwood believed this version of events. (It was not a question of Buckthorn or Silverwood; the two men were as similar in their opinions and modes of expression as they were dissimilar in appearance.) Why should they not believe it? The account of themselves to which Estelle and Spandrel had agreed to subscribe at the conclusion of their hasty negotiations in Vevey contained enough of the truth to disguise that which was not true. The exact proportion was unknown to Spandrel. Had Estelle ever been Miss Plenderleath, the demure Salopian lass? He was inclined to think not. But since, as Estelle at one point remarked, the secret of successful lying was to invent as little as possible, perhaps she really had been.

What was undeniable was the dexterity with which she accommodated Spandrel in the tale she had already told Buckthorn and Silverwood, a tale that grew around him in the telling and wove their separate pasts into an interdependent present. There were times, posing as Estelle's cousin, when he actually believed that was what he was. Certainly, he could not afford to do other than consistently pretend he was. The fiction, once agreed upon, had to be maintained — for both their sakes.

Fortunately, Buckthorn and Silverwood were an incurious pair, at least so far as Spandrel was concerned. They were not interested in him at all. They affected, indeed, to ignore him. Their attentions were devoted to Estelle and not, even then, to the circumstances that had thrown her into their company, but to the alluring possibilities that arose as a result. Amidst all their exaggerated courtesies and languid drolleries, it was obvious that they were as besotted with Estelle as she had intended them to be. They were just down from Oxford, bored, idle, vain and arrogant, acquainted, if they were to be believed, with a legion of great men and beautiful women. But they had never met anyone like Estelle de Vries. Of that Spandrel felt certain.

Spandrel, for his part, was obliged to simulate a degree of cousinly familiarity with Estelle, as she was with him. This sharing of secrets was undeniably exciting. It was all too easy to dream of a future more delectable than any he had previously envisioned. But tempting prospects, he well knew, made bad guides. Their partnership was not likely to be an enduring one. He reminded himself of his intention to wrest the Green Book from her at the first possible opportunity and deliver it to the Brodrick Committee in accordance with Mcllwraith's dying wish.

But no such opportunity presented itself during the three days the party spent in Geneva. Estelle argued, not unreasonably, that the book was best left where it was — in a safe at Turrettini's Bank — until their departure. Buckthorn and Silverwood believed it was a jewel-box she had deposited there. And why would they not, since that was what she had told them? As to the Alpine crossing, they favoured a delay until after Easter, but Estelle was keen to proceed at once, purportedly on account of her thirst for a sight of those Roman antiquities her late husband had evocatively described to her. Spandrel was rather pleased with himself for settling the issue by suggesting that Buckthorn and Silverwood had been taken in by blood-curdling travellers' tales of ravening wolves in the mountain passes at this time of the year. Their fear of personal discomfort, let alone danger, was only surpassed by their fear of losing face before Estelle. A departure upon the morrow was instantly agreed.

That afternoon, Estelle asked them to escort her to the bank so that she might collect her jewel-box. They were clearly delighted that this honour was conferred upon them rather than Spandrel. And Spandrel had no choice but to give every appearance of feeling slighted by being passed over for such a duty. What he actually felt was a growing suspicion that opportunities of laying his hands upon the Green Book during the journey to Rome were going to be few and far between. Estelle, indeed, had probably already resolved that he would have none. But, as to that, she might yet be surprised.

If Spandrel believed himself capable of surprising such a woman as Estelle de Vries, he failed to allow for the probability that she would spring a greater surprise on him. That evening, when the ill-matched party of four met for supper at the Cle Argente, the comfortable inn near the cathedral where they had been lodging, Buckthorn and Silverwood proposed an evening of cards and music at the house of the tirelessly hospitable Monsieur Bouvin, whose acquaintance they had recently made. Estelle excused herself on grounds of a headache and retired to her room. Spandrel claimed to have a letter to write. After some grumbling about the unsociability of their companions, Buckthorn and Silverwood headed out into the night.

Spandrel had no letter to write, of course. He left the inn a short time afterwards and sought out a humble tavern where he could drink and smoke at his ease and not mind his manners and turns of phrase, as he felt obliged to do while playing the part of Estelle's cousin. An hour or so later, feeling less fretful and altogether more himself, he made his way back to the Cle Argente.

As he entered his room, he noticed something pale lying on the dark boards at his feet. It was a note, apparently slipped under the door in his absence. He held it up to read by the light of the lamp he was carrying.

I must see you tonight. Come to my room. E.

She was waiting for him, seated by a well-stacked fire, wearing some kind of loosely belted dressing-gown in which threads of gold glimmered in the firelight. A bottle of brandy and two glasses stood on a small table beside her chair.

'What can I do for you… cousin?' Spandrel began.

'Sit down. Join me in a glass.'

Spandrel fetched the upright chair from its place by the dressing-table and set it down on the other side of the hearth from her, then poured them both some brandy. He felt wholly unsurprised by her masculine taste in liquor.

'Where have you been? Not to Monsieur Bouvin's, I assume.'

'No.' Spandrel seated himself and sipped some brandy. 'Not to Monsieur Bouvin's.'

'We should trust each other, William,' she said. 'Really we should.'

The only response Spandrel could summon was a rueful smile.

'I'm perfectly serious.'

'I'm sure you are.'

'We have a long journey ahead of us. Too long, I think, to be spent in watching each other for signs of impending treachery.'

'How's that to be avoided?'

'By putting what unites us before what divides us.'

'The Green Book unites us. And the money it's worth. Nothing else.'

'Nothing? Come, William. Why do you think we've been able to convince Mr Buckthorn and Mr Silverwood that we are cousins?'

'Because they're easily convinced… by you.'

'And by you. We seem like cousins. There's a similarity, a… kinship. Fate has handed us this chance to transform our lives. We must take the chance. Together.'

'Is that what you told Zuyler?'

'Pieter was greedy. But you are not. You are in truth rarer than you look. You are a good man.'

'And an easily flattered one, you seem to think.'

'Not at all. Do you think me beautiful?'

He looked at her in silence for a moment, then said, 'Yes. I do.'

'Is that flattery?'

'It's the truth.'

'Exactly. The truth. The book is in a case in the dressing-table drawer, William. Would you like to see it? I think you should.'

He frowned at her in puzzlement, then rose and carried the lamp he had brought from his room across to the dressing-table. He stood it on the table and slid open the drawer. A red, padded-leather jewel-box lay within. This he lifted out and set down by the lamp.

'It's not locked,' said Estelle from behind him. 'In ordinary circumstances, it would be, of course. But these are not ordinary circumstances.'

Spandrel released the catches and raised the lid. There was the book: a plain, green-covered ledger, with leather spine and marbled page edges. For this, and what it contained, men had died. He had nearly been one of them. Yet now, here it was, in his grasp. He hooked a finger under the cover and opened it.

The pages were ruled in columns. In the middle were listed names, on the left and right amounts at dated intervals, paid in and paid out. But for most of the names nothing had been paid in, only out. And the sums involved were massive: £10,000 here, £20,000 there. The transactions on the page he was looking at dated from about a year before. Each was recorded in the same hand, the initials of the writer, R.K., added in minute script above each entry. Spandrel turned to the next page, then the next. Thousands more, in a forest of zeros, met his gaze. He turned back to the beginning and ran his eye down the names. Then he caught his breath.

'Are you surprised?' Estelle's voice was scarcely more than a whisper. She was standing beside him now, her shadow, cast by the fire, flickering across the page. 'So many of them. The proud and the mighty. All that they took, down to the last farthing.'

'But… I never thought…'

'That there would be so many? Or that they would have taken so much? Some paid for less than they received. Others paid nothing at all. Every one of them was, and is, a bought man. And what men they are. Dukes, marquesses, earls, Members of Parliament, courtiers, ministers, persons of distinction. Abundant largesse, showered on the great and the wealthy, while the seaside widows and the humble shopkeepers scraped together their pennies to buy stock these people were made a gift of. Do you wonder that Pieter asked a hundred thousand pounds for this book?'

'No. I don't.'

'The book you carried from London to Amsterdam… for how much?'

'The promise of hardly anything, compared with…' He nodded glumly at the ranks of figures.

'Where we're going … we might reasonably ask for more than a hundred thousand.'

'Might we?'

'I think so. See…' She turned the page and pointed to an entry. 'Here.'

Spandrel stooped for a clearer view. On the line where Estelle's finger rested was written, Rt. Hon. J. Aislabie, on behalf of H.M.

'The Chancellor of the Exchequer,' said Estelle. 'On behalf of His Majesty. The King.' Her finger moved to the right. 'One hundred thousand pounds' worth of shares. That is why Pieter fixed on the figure. And how much paid for them?' Her finger moved to the left. 'Twenty thousand pounds. Just twenty. Then the whole allocation was sold back to the company, when the price was near its zenith, at a colossal profit. What do you think the London mob would do if they knew?'

'I think they might do almost anything.'

'Exactly. Which means the Pretender will pay handsomely for possession of this book — our book.'

'Why didn't the King pay handsomely, when he had the chance?'

'The message must have gone astray. Pieter dealt through intermediaries. We won't make that mistake.'

'Won't we?'

'We won't make any mistakes. Trust me.'

'That word again. Trust.'

'It comes in many guises. And pledges come in different forms. Not just words, William.'

'What else?'

'Can you not guess?'

Spandrel felt a slither of something soft and silken across his hand. He turned towards Estelle and saw that she had released the belt of her gown. It hung open. Beneath, she wore only the thinnest of shifts. His mouth was dry, his mind aswarm with competing instincts. A good man? There she was surely mistaken. He wanted her, even more than he wanted the money. But it seemed he could have both. They were his for the asking.