Sea Change (9 page)

Brodrick's committee, it was rumoured, had extracted evidence from Joye and Blunt of corruption extending to the most senior of ministers, including Aislabie, the Chancellor of the Exchequer, Craggs, the Postmaster-General, and Stanhope's own cousin, Charles, who as Secretary to the Treasury had personally conducted most of the negotiations leading to the South Sea Company's generous offer, as it had seemed at the time, to take over the lion's share of the National Debt. Some of the more alarmist rumour-mongers suggested that Sunderland himself was tainted. If so, the lease on power Stanhope had shared with Sunderland for the past four years might be about to expire. Sunderland could not be persuaded to tell him how great the danger was, but tomorrow, when the House of Lords was due to examine Blunt, it would surely become apparent.

These were nerve-testing times, therefore, for Lord Stanhope. As the responsible minister, he had instructed the Embassy in Brussels to secure Knight's arrest as soon as his whereabouts became known. Latest reports suggested that this was imminent. Stanhope was aware, however, that there was a constitutional objection in Brabant, within whose jurisdiction Knight had placed himself, to the extradition of criminal suspects, an objection the Austrian authorities could not readily override. He had pointed this out to Sunderland at their last meeting, only for Sunderland to reply enigmatically, 'That may be no cause to shed tears.'

What did the fellow mean by that? It was hard to resist the conclusion that Knight confined somewhere abroad, out of the committee's reach, was an outcome Sunderland distinctly approved of. But even if matters did resolve themselves in that way, it would not still the tongues of their accusers. And sooner or later those accusers would have to be answered. If ministers were forced to resign, especially if Sunderland was one of them, the King would be obliged to reconstruct the Government. Walpole was already talked of as Aislabie's successor at the Exchequer. The Treasury might soon be within his grasp. Then where would Stanhope's precious new continental polity be? Walpole was a narrow-minded Norfolk squire. He knew nothing of Europe. He would ruin everything Stanhope had worked so long and assiduously to bring about.

The threat of such ruin galled Stanhope the more because it had arisen from the greed and stupidity of other people. He was personally blameless. Yet it seemed he could not escape punishment. It was enough to drive a man mad. And it was certainly sufficient to fray his temper as he perused Dalrymple's urgent communication.

£100,000? For what? Dalrymple must be losing his reason. Perhaps it was time to send Cadogan back to The Hague if this was the measure of the man representing British interests in the United Provinces. It must surely be obvious, even to Dalrymple, that if the ledger spoken of by his mysterious Dutch visitor were truly a compendium of Knight's deepest secrets, it would not have left his side. Dalrymple seemed to suppose that the mere mention of what he semi-fabulously described, with breathless capitals, as 'The Green Book' would somehow justify his effrontery in passing on such a request. But Stanhope would show him his error. Kempis was clearly a mountebank. And mountebankery could only work its magic on fools. Stanhope had been visited by troubles enough on account of the foolishness of others. This was one instance where he could bear down hard upon it.

Stanhope seized his pen, dipped it in the ink-well, and began to write. Dalrymple would not have to wait long for his answer. He would have it short, but far from sweet.

Nicholas Cloisterman, meanwhile, was also composing a letter. His conversation with the odious Jupe had persuaded him that there were sinister ramifications to the murder of Ysbrand de Vries. The package Spandrel had delivered to de Vries on behalf of Sir Theodore Janssen contained something worth killing for, something connected with the fugitive Robert Knight and the failed South Sea Company. Cloisterman did not know what it was and in many ways was happy not to. But clearly he could no longer keep the little he did know to himself. Dalrymple, charge d'affaires at the Embassy in The Hague, would have to be told. Let him make of it what he pleased. Cloisterman would have done his duty. At least, he would be seen to have done it. And that, he had tended to find, was more important in the long run.

Evelyn Dalrymple, charge d'affaires at the British Embassy in The Hague, regarded the visitor to his office with suppressed apprehensiveness. Kempis had come for his answer. And Lord Stanhope had made it very clear what that answer should be. Indeed, he had made it very clear that Dalrymple should not have needed to be told how to respond to such a demand. But Stanhope had not met Kempis. Staring into the Dutchman's wine-dark eyes, Dalrymple detected no weakness, no lack of confidence in the terms he had set. He did not look like a man whom it was wise to dismiss out of hand.

Dalrymple was also troubled by various pieces of information that had lately come his way. From the Embassy in Brussels he had received notification that on Friday last, the day on which Stanhope had written to him, Robert Knight had been arrested while trying to leave Brabantine territory and removed to the citadel at Antwerp. No mention had been made of any papers found in Knight's possession. Dalrymple could only assume that any so found would by now be on their way to London and Stanhope's desk in Whitehall. Oddly, however, Cloisterman, the vice-consul in Amsterdam, seemed convinced that some vital South Sea document was now in the possession of the errant secretary and widow of a murdered V.O.C. merchant called de Vries. He had written to Dalrymple, warning him to be on his guard, but failing, typically, to suggest what he should be on his guard against.

Matters were further complicated by a report that had reached him from London that very morning of the House of Lords debate of Saturday evening. Sir John Blunt, it seemed, had refused to tell their assembled lordships what he had confided to Brodrick's committee. Proceedings had been acrimonious and inconclusive. Lord Stanhope, it was stated, had been 'taken ill' in the midst of a furious exchange with the Duke of Wharton. His exact condition was not known.

Taken all in all, Dalrymple did not rightly see how he could be less comfortably placed. Knight's papers were in transit. Stanhope was ill. Cloisterman was on — or up — to something. And Kempis required an answer. Dalrymple tended, in these circumstances, as in so many others, to favour procrastination. But he doubted it would carry him through.

'If you insist upon an answer at this time, mijnheer—'

'I do.'

'I should not recommend you to, I really should not.'

'I will take my own advice, thank you, Mr Dalrymple.'

'As you please.'

'Are my terms accepted?'

'As I say, this really is not—'

'Are they accepted?'

Dalrymple took a long, calming breath. 'No, mijnheer. They are not.'

'Not?' Kempis cocked one eyebrow. He seemed not so much angry as incredulous. 'I cannot have heard you correctly.'

'His Majesty's Secretary of State for the Northern Department—'

'Who?'

'Lord Stanhope. The relevant minister.'

'Very well. What does he say?'

Dalrymple glanced down at Stanhope's letter and decided against direct quotation as likely only to prove inflammatory. 'He rejects your demands.'

'He does what?'

'He declines to entertain them, mijnheer. He is quite... unequivocal... on the point.'

'You did tell him what I told you... about the Green Book?'

'I did indeed.'

'Then he cannot say no to me.'

'But he has.'

'That is his last word on the matter?'

'I do not say that. The situation is somewhat volatile at present. Wait a while and it is poss—'

'Wait?' Now Kempis was angry. He jumped from his chair and glared across the desk at Dalrymple, his eyes flashing. 'You expect me to dally here while Lord Stanhope's agents come in search of me — and what I hold? You must think me mad, sir. Your masters have had time enough. If they won't pay me, someone else will.'

'Who might you have in mind, mijnheer?' Dalrymple asked, exerting himself to sound unflustered.

'Oh, I think I know where I will find a ready buyer, never fear. You may tell Lord Stanhope that the King will not thank him when he realizes who that buyer is. Or exactly what he has bought. Be it on his head. And on yours, Mr Dalrymple. Good day to you, sir.'

The discussion had gone as well, Dalrymple afterwards concluded, as it could have been expected to. Nobody would be able to reproach him. He had done what he had been bidden to do. And he had taken one significant precaution, instructing Harris, his secretary's clerk, to follow Kempis upon his departure from the Embassy. Harris was quick-witted and fleet-footed enough to trail Kempis to his lodgings. But he returned less than half an hour later with disappointing news.

'I think he must have been expecting something of the kind, sir. He walked to Prinsessegracht and I kept behind him, out of his line of sight, all the way. But a coach was waiting for him there. They took off at a tearing pace, I can tell you. I thought I glimpsed a woman in the coach. I couldn't get close enough to see any more. They crossed the canal at the next bridge and headed east.'

Kempis had eluded him. That too, Dalrymple felt, was to have been expected. All he could hope now was that he would hear no more from him — or even about him.

But Dalrymple's hopes were to be dashed that very evening. A reception at the Swedish Embassy promised only the blandest of entertainment, but an appearance by him, however brief, was inescapably called for. No sooner had he arrived, late and in unsociable humour, than other guests were sympathizing with him on a loss to his nation of which he was embarrassingly unaware. Lord Stanhope, it rapidly transpired, was dead.

Dalrymple's shock at the news seemed generally to be interpreted as grief for a fallen leader. In truth, grief had nothing to do with it. The excuse that he had only been following orders in turning Kempis away was an excellent one, so long as the giver of those orders remained alive. Now, the excuse would ring alarmingly hollow.

The Swedish Ambassador expressed his entire understanding of Dalrymple's need to leave early and the condolences of the gathering accompanied his departure. He hurried the short distance to the British Embassy, intending to roast any clerks still on the premises for not bringing the news to his door earlier in the evening. He found Harris in his outer office and was on the point of peppering him with abuse when he noticed a stranger warming himself by the fire.

He was a glower-faced ox of a man, with bulging eyes, a nose that would have done justice to a prize-fighter and a prominent scar on his forehead. His black hair, streaked with grey, was tied back in a pigtail. His clothes were old and dusty, but of good quality. Dalrymple had jack-a-dandyish tendencies and could tell fine cloth by its cut, even when it was frayed and travel-stained. He could also tell a fighting man by the hang of his sword. And this was a fighting man by temperament, even if he was perhaps too old to see much action.

'You're Dalrymple?' the fellow growled, with no pretence of civility. There was a Scots twang to his voice, which Dalrymple took as ample explanation of his abruptness.

'I am, sir. Who is this... gentleman, Harris?'

'Mcllwraith,' the other said, before Harris could so much as open his mouth. 'Captain James Mcllwraith.'

'And what can I do for you, Captain Mcllwraith?'

'General Ross sent me.'

'Who?'

'General Charles Ross, M.P. A member of the House of Commons Committee of Inquiry into the failure of the South Sea Company. He's been deputed by the committee to secure the records of chief cashier Knight. I'm here on his behalf.' Mcllwraith pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and held it out for Dalrymple to read. 'You're called upon to give me all necessary assistance.'

'Am I?' Dalrymple perused the document. It carried the House of Commons seal, Ross's signature and the counter-signature of Thomas Brodrick, chairman, as Dalrymple well knew, of the committee in question. There appeared no reason to doubt its authenticity, other than Mcllwraith's lowly rank and uncouth demeanour. 'Well, well. It would seem I am.'

'I'll thank you for a word in private.'

'Leave us, Harris.' Harris obeyed, with what looked like alacrity. Dalrymple moved to the desk and assumed what he judged to be a patrician pose beside it. 'You're personally acquainted with General Ross, Captain?'

'I served under him.'

'In the late war?'

'I had that honour.'

Dalrymple now had the measure of his man. Eight years had passed since the end of the War of the Spanish Succession, more like ten since any serious fighting. But still they were to be found in every tavern, these scarred, bemedalled survivors of shot and shell who dreamed of being under fire as others might dream of paradise. Mcllwraith had no doubt struck terror into the enemy at Blenheim and Ramillies and Marlborough's various other blood-soaked victories. He could never have become an officer in peacetime and a mere captaincy suggested he had been a pretty truculent one in wartime. But General Ross trusted him, doubtless with good cause. He had his orders and would stick at nothing to carry them out.

'They have Knight locked up in the citadel at Antwerp,' said Mcllwraith. 'I was there last night.'

'Should you not have remained there, Captain? If his ... records... are what you—'

'Where's Kempis?'

'Who?' Dalrymple asked softly, trying hard to disguise his surprise.

'Kempis. The man you wrote to Lord Stanhope about.'

'My correspondence with the Secretary of State can be no business of a House of Commons committee.'

'Oh, but it can. When the subject of that correspondence is a green-covered ledger.'

'You seem to know a great deal, Captain.' (More, in truth, than was good for Dalrymple's peace of mind.) 'How did you come by such information, may I ask?'

'Never you mind. But Stanhope's dead. You know that, don't you?'

'Yes. I do. Sad tidings, indeed.'

'If you say so. Apoplexy, or something of the kind. Though whether brought on by the goadings of the Duke of Wharton in the House of Lords debate on Saturday or the prodigious quantity of Tokay he's said to have drunk at the Duke of Newcastle's the night before is uncertain.'

'He'll be greatly missed,' Dalrymple insisted stubbornly.

'By you, perhaps. Not by all.'

'By all men of feeling.'

'Feeling, is it? Why, I've a—' Mcllwraith broke off and ran a hand over his chin and down his neck. Dalrymple heard with distaste the rasp of the stubble against his palm. 'I haven't the leisure to bandy words with you, Dalrymple. Where is Kempis?'

'I have no idea.'

'But you've seen him this very day, according to your clerk.'

'I'm really not at liberty to discuss my dealings with Mijnheer Kempis, or anyone else. I answer to His Majesty's ministers, not the House of Commons.'

'I wouldn't be too sure of that. Do you really want your name to go in the committee's report as a damned obstructive jack-in-office?' Mcllwraith stepped closer. His voice dropped. 'I know what Kempis was trying to sell. And for how much. I also know what Lord Stanhope instructed you to do: send Kempis away with a flea in his ear. Which I've no doubt you obediently did. It's a stroke of bad luck for you Stanhope's dead, meaning his instructions are so much waste paper you'd have done better to use as kindling for your fire. But there's good luck for you as well. Information will aid me more than your head on a platter. So, where is Kempis?'

'I don't know.'

'You surely can't mean you just let him walk away?'

How predictable it was that Harris had failed to mention his own part in the day's proceedings. 'He gave us the slip,' Dalrymple admitted through gritted teeth.

'I don't suppose he found that so very difficult.' Mcllwraith stepped closer still, raking Dalrymple with a contemptuous glare. 'You must have something on him, man. For pity's sake.'

Dalrymple found himself wishing fervently that he did have something; anything, indeed, however insubstantial. And at that point his memory came to his rescue. 'I suspect his real name is Zuyler,' he said, enjoying the sight of contempt giving way to surprise on Mcllwraith's face. And there was something else to relish in the moment. Cloisterman was going to regret that unhelpful memorandum. 'Perhaps our vice-consul in Amsterdam can assist your further inquiries.'

Spandrel knew nothing of such far-off events as the death of Lord Stanhope and the arrest of Robert Knight. His life had shrunk to the dingy confines of his cell and an occasional, much cherished walk in an enclosed courtyard. The guards did not know, or if they did would not reveal, why he had not been re-examined. The answer to this and all Spandrel's other questions being so consistently unhelpful, he stopped asking and lapsed into a strange, numb torpor in which his mind grew as empty as his days. He wondered if his mother would ever learn what had become of him, but no longer worried how anxious she might be. She and all the other people he knew were slowly becoming part of a dream he often had: a dream of maps and streets and clear, unwalled horizons. But waiting for him when he woke was the dim, dank reality of the cell. Through its high, barred window came snatches of sound from the city around him: hoofbeats, footsteps, the rumbling of cartwheels, the shrieking of gulls. He listened to such sounds for hours at a stretch. He watched the movement of shadows on the wall and tried to guess what cast them. He held long, rambling conversations with his father in which he took both parts. Slowly, little by little, thoughts of the future left him. He asked nothing of the guards. Soon, he would ask nothing of himself. And then...