The Gold Masters (2 page)

It was just after eight o’clock, and Sir Hamo, having taken an early breakfast, was sitting at the desk in his book-lined study. He was dressed very formally, in clothes so cunningly tailored that his skeletal thinness was all but obscured. His pale face, its skin like ancient parchment, was unlined, and his great luminous eyes shone bright from their dark pigmented rings.

‘Is all ready, Curteis?’

A handsome man in his early forties, who looked as
distinguished
as his famous master, Curteis had long ago attuned his ears to the demands lying behind his employer’s powerful and
domineering
voice. Strange, he knew, expected an affirmative answer to
that particular question. Any prevarication would have led to an unthinkably unpleasant scene. The secretary’s voice was
deferential
but firm, and a glance at the man would reveal that he, like his master, had hidden strength and power held deliberately in reserve.

‘Everything is in order, Sir Hamo. Your provisional list of consortium members is in your leather document case, together with your estimates of their possible contributions. I venture to suggest, sir, that the Governor will be startled to see that you’ve read his mind!’

Sir Hamo laughed, and his confidential secretary recalled that his master was never averse to a well-turned compliment.

‘I expect you’re right about that, Curteis,’ Sir Hamo said. ‘But that’s the rule in this kind of business: be at least two steps ahead of the others. That’s why I went to Stockholm immediately after my visit to Austria. I beat the Governor of the Bank of England – and his Chief Cashier – at his own game.’

‘Another brilliant coup.’

‘Yes, I suppose so. But it’s small beer, you know, Curteis, compared to – well, compared to other business in hand. Business to do with the Foreign Office and the India Office. You know what I mean.’

‘Ah, that, sir! Yes. There could be a peerage for you in that
business
, if all goes well.’

Sir Hamo smiled, and in that smile there was a warning to Curteis to say no more. Curteis was the only man whom Sir Hamo trusted. He was a man content to hear half-truths, and accept them as gospel, as in the impending business with the Foreign Office. But Strange had permitted him to know every detail of his labours over the Swedish Loan.

‘Talking of Austria, sir,’ Curteis continued, astutely changing the subject, ‘have you had time to examine your purchase? The ancient book you bought from Herr Sudermann? I should imagine that it will be most interesting.’

‘I’ve glanced at it, Curteis, no more than that. By any criterion it’s a beautiful work. Magnificently produced, you know, and in six volumes, but with a special secret of its own that makes this particular set unique. It’s through there, in the sanctum, reposing in the safe. But there, the City awaits my coming. Tell Johnson that I’m ready to be dressed for the street. See that the brougham is brought round to the side gate.’

When Curteis had gone, Sir Hamo sat in thought for a while, thinking of his recent visit to Austria. There, in the remote hill town of Regenstein, nestling in the dense forests of the Duchy of Styria, he had fulfilled an appointment with Herr Aaron Sudermann, the renowned dealer in antiquities. A ponderous, stooping man with shrewd grey eyes, Sudermann was an
acknowledged
genius at procuring the unprocurable for collectors of every kind. Sudermann was as much a genius in his line as Sir Hamo was in the world of international money-dealing, and he had employed that genius to secure for Strange one of the rarest books in the world: the unique 1519 edition of the Complutensian Polyglot Bible. It had stood discreetly parcelled in green baize on Sudermann’s dining-room table, six quarto volumes bound in ancient embossed calf.

Sudermann had prised this unique set of volumes from the hands of the reclusive Spanish nobleman, Count Fuentes de la Frontera. On his own admission, he had almost been too late. A learned Scotsman, an emissary from Strange’s hated rival Lord Jocelyn Peto, second son of the Marquess of Millchester had arrived on the same morning. Sudermann had won the day, and Count Fuentes had accepted
£
5000 in sovereigns. Without demur, Sir Hamo had reimbursed him by means of a personal cheque drawn on Hoare & Company of London.

‘The carriage is at the door, sir.’

‘What? Thank you, Curteis. I will be down directly.’

The Polyglot Bible…. He had arranged for a young scholar from Cambridge to come up to Town and verify the provenance
and authenticity of the work. Perhaps he should invite Lord Jocelyn Peto to view it? That would be an amusing revenge for Peto’s attempt to thwart him in Spain. Peto’s collection of old books and antiquities was of considerable worth, but he was not going to have the satisfaction of crowning its fame with the 1519 Bible.

Sir Hamo recalled himself to the present, and hurried down to the side entrance, where Johnson, his valet, was waiting to attire him for the short journey to the Bank of England.

‘It’s very good of you, Sir Hamo, to come down here to Threadneedle Street this morning. I know that you have many calls upon your time.’

The Governor of the Bank of England looked at Sir Hamo Strange, and thought: even a light breeze could blow him away. It’s a wonder his bones don’t creak as he walks. And yet, this man can sway the destinies of millions….

‘Not at all, Governor. As you know, I am always at your disposal.’

Despite his international reputation as ‘the moneylender to kings and princes’, Sir Hamo Strange always felt a special glow of satisfaction when summoned to Sir John Soan’s imposing
Roman-Corinthian
edifice from which, to a great extent, all the commercial affairs of England were regulated. It comprised a vast complex of over 200 offices, covering, so he’d been told, an area of 124,000 square feet.

The Bank was staffed by over a thousand gentlemen clerks, and it was a bevy of these frock-coated denizens who had conducted Sir Hamo to the board room, where the Governor,
Deputy-Governor
, the Chief Cashier, and all twenty-four directors, had assembled to greet him.

‘The crux of the matter, Sir Hamo,’ the Governor was saying, ‘is this. The Swedish Government, or rather their finance minister, has an urgent need this year to strengthen the holdings of the Royal Scandinavian Bank, consequent on the fall in value of the
krona, and, of course, because of the loan that they were obliged under treaty to grant in January to the Polish Land Federation.’

Sir Hamo permitted himself a thin smile. They were telling him things he already knew.

‘So the Royal Scandinavian Bank’s vaults are empty, are they? How much do they want, Governor?’

‘They want four million pounds in gold. If we won’t give it to them, they’ll ask the Bank of France—’

‘No, no! That will never do, as you well know. The Government would look very sourly on any attempt to sit back and let the French forge an alliance of obligation with any of the Nordic countries. If you did that, Germany would want to know why. They’d interpret it as a signal to France and Denmark that they could do as they wished over the matter of Schleswig-Holstein – come, gentlemen, you know all this without my having to lecture you. So why have you sent for me?’

The powerful, almost hectoring voice carried to every corner of the palatial chamber. The directors were all attention. It did not do to miss a single word of the sere and paper-thin financier sitting in front of them.

The Governor sighed. What was the point of playing the fool with this man?

‘We are, of course, talking about the immediate transfer of bullion, Sir Hamo,’ he said. ‘There’s no question of promissory notes and Treasury mandates here. And if not bullion, then gold coins. Four million pounds. Now, we – the Bank of England – don’t want to part with that much gold. Not this year. So we’ve asked you to help us out of our difficulty. Can you establish a consortium of private bankers who are still licensed to keep stores of bullion? Or who can lay their hands on gold from other sources? You obliged us before, you’ll remember, in 1886, and again in 1890, at the time of the Baring Crisis.’

Sir Hamo Strange chuckled, and undid the straps of his
document
case.

‘By pure coincidence, gentlemen,’ he said, ‘I was in Stockholm this last week. Indeed, I only returned to London this Saturday gone. While in Sweden I met – purely by chance – the deputy finance minister, Count Olafsson. He hinted that something like this was in the wind, so I came prepared today. Gentlemen, I have already pencilled in on this sheet of paper the potential members of such a consortium. I can undertake to guarantee their co-
operation
.’

‘We are much obliged to you, Sir Hamo—’

‘Four million in gold is a lot of money at short notice, but I will myself put in one million, currently lodged in my vaults at Carmelite Pavement – no, don’t thank me; it’s a matter of duty as well as a source of ultimate profit when the loan falls in! I have suggested another five names, all of whom will be familiar to you. I will approach each of them personally and ask for six hundred thousand. N.M. Rothschild is one, of course, and so is Abraham Goldsmith – I know for certain that those two will oblige.’

There was a sage nodding of heads and murmurs of approbation from the assembled directors.

‘And finally, I would suggest three very thriving concerns which I need only to ask: Brown’s of Lothbury, Thomas Weinstock & Sons, and Peto’s Bank. Their contributions would be in
uncirculated
sovereigns, which they hold as guarantee against their paper. Give me your sanction, gentlemen, and you shall have your four million pounds in gold before the week is out!’

There was a further low sound of approval from the assembled directors. Really, thought the Governor, this man Strange is truly a giant of commerce. What brilliant foresight he had shown in
anticipating
their needs, and what generosity in immediately supplying them! But then, he, and the likes of Lord Jocelyn Peto, had daily access to vast quantities of gold – it was the familiar stuff of their daily commerce. Men like Deloitte, the accountant, or for that matter the Bank of England’s own Chief Cashier, handled unimaginable sums of money daily; but they were sums imagined
on paper, and manipulated with the aid of all the abstract skills of accountancy. But Sir Hamo Strange and his like dealt in real gold coin and real gold bullion: they were the Gold Masters….

‘I’m sure I speak for the Deputy Governor as well as for myself,’ said the Governor, ‘when I offer you my sincere thanks for your agreeing so readily to our request for help. We will not need to move the gold physically until the twenty-eighth of this month, which will give you ample time to convene the members of your consortium, and for us to put in place the necessary security measures.’

‘It is my pleasure, as always, Governor,’ said Sir Hamo Strange, ‘to be of service to the Bank of England. I will put the process in train immediately, by walking down to St Swithin’s Lane and calling on the Rothschilds at New Court.’

‘Sergeant Knollys,’ said Inspector Box, ‘are you listening to me? Or is your great mind preoccupied with higher things?’

He looked with amusement at the yellow-haired giant of a man sitting opposite him across the office table. It was less than a year ago that the two of them had met in dramatic and desperate circumstances in a jeweller’s shop down near the river in Garlickhythe. Since then, they had worked together on many cases, some of them of national importance. Box had originally been resentful of Knollys’ appointment; now, he couldn’t imagine working without him.

‘Sir? I was listening intently. You were telling me about the new traffic regulations for Oxford Street — or did you say Regent Street? They intend to redirect the flow along, er, whatever street it was you said, from north to south, was it? No, east to west….’

Jack Knollys’ voice trailed away in awkward embarrassment. The livid scar snaking its way across his face showed white behind his blush.

‘Well, sir,’ he said, ‘I’ll have to admit that my mind
was
elsewhere
. I was thinking about something I heard about you from a
sergeant in “A”. He and I were having a glass of light ale in The Grapes….’

Sergeant Knollys gave vent to what he imagined was a delicate cough. Box jumped in alarm.

‘Sir,’ said Knollys, ‘is it true what this chap said, that you’ve become a convert to spiritualism? Table-rapping and all that?’

‘Who
is
this informant of yours?’ asked Box, in mock
indignation
. ‘You mustn’t believe everything you’re told, Sergeant. It’ll get you into trouble, if you do.’

‘He said that you’re going to attend a seance with their PC Lane. It doesn’t seem like you, somehow, sir, if I may say so.’

‘You may, Sergeant. It certainly isn’t my normal leisure activity. So let me tell you all about it.’

Sergeant Knollys sat in silence while Box told him about PC Lane, his bereavement, and his experiences at Back Peter Street in Soho.

‘I’m very sorry to hear all that, sir,’ said Knollys, when Box had finished his tale. ‘So you’re going to this seance to help PC Lane come to terms with his loss?’

‘I’m going, Sergeant, because I don’t like the sound of it at all. It’s a plant of some sort, I’m convinced of it, but this Mrs Pennymint will have to get up very early to put one over yours truly. She’ll find out, Jack, that Arnold Box wasn’t born yesterday.’

The evening of the 14 July was oppressively warm, a fitting close to a day that had threatened thunder, but had produced not a drop of rain. It was still light when Inspector Box and PC Lane turned out of Leyland Street, Spitalfields, into the narrow alley where the Temple of Light was situated.

Leyland Street had been alive with people lounging aimlessly on the pavements in front of a row of pawnbrokers and slop shops, while barefoot boys larked about on the granite setts of the carriageway. The alley – it seemed not to have a name – was quieter, flanked by the premises of a furniture factory and a
wholesale
boot manufacturer, both closed and shuttered.

The Temple of Light stood at the end of the alley. It boasted a small classical porch, and its frontage was adorned with faded white stucco, though the sides of the building revealed the rough brick of which it was constructed. Box decided that at one time it must have been a Dissenting chapel.

A number of decent-looking men and women were mounting the steps of the temple, the door of which had been thrown open. To the left of the steps, behind railings, a placard pasted to a board announced the evening’s attractions.

As Box and Lane joined the other enquirers, a single protester, a young woman in Salvation Army uniform, handed them leaflets, upon which was printed,
Brethren
,
Do
Not
Consort
with
Demons.
Most people took a leaflet without comment, though one or two reacted angrily, snatching them from the girl’s hand and throwing them down on to the pavement.

By ten to seven, over twenty people had assembled in the temple. As Lane had mentioned, the interior was whitewashed, and flickering gaslights threw long shadows across the walls. The central space was filled with pews, presumably left in the building when its original owners had vacated it. Box and Lane slid
unobtrusively
into a back pew near the door.

The front of the temple was occupied by a raised platform, backed by heavy red plush curtains. A very well-dressed, rather prim man in his early forties sat at a table, looking appraisingly at the audience. His silk hat and walking-cane rested on the table, giving the impression that he had just dropped in to the temple for a few moments. In answer to a whispered question from Box, a woman sitting in the next pew informed him that this was Mr Portman, the chairman and secretary of the temple’s governing committee.

Mr Portman slid a watch from the fob pocket of his evening waistcoat, glanced at it, and then rang a small hand-bell. The
audience
, who had been talking in low voices, fell silent.

‘Welcome, dear brothers and sisters,’ said Portman, in a quiet but clear voice that carried to every corner of the temple. ‘We are
assembled here, as always, to pull aside the veil dividing this dark and fallen world of ours from the Empire of Light, where death is no more, and evening shadows never fall. Tonight’s service will commence with a demonstration of clairaudience and clairvoyance by our beloved resident medium, Mrs Pennymint.’

He half-turned as the plush curtains parted to admit a short, plump lady in a red velvet dress adorned with a massive corsage of thornless yellow roses. Her fair hair was pulled back from her forehead, and secured behind by a velvet bow. Mrs Pennymint’s face was round, with a tendency to a double chin. Her blue eyes seemed quite guileless, and her face bore little lines of good nature around her mouth.

As the medium crossed the platform to sit down on an ornate upright chair facing the audience, two or three people moved around the temple, turning down the gaslights to a glimmer. Mr Portman lit a single candle on the table, and quietly joined the audience in the front pew.

Mrs Pennymint sat quietly, gently rocking forward and
backward
, a little smile on her face. Despite himself, Arnold Box felt a little shudder of apprehension. The woman was ridiculously
overdressed
, as though she were trying to ape a young woman of twenty when it was obvious that she was well settled into middle age. But something about that steady rocking held Box in the grip of fascination. Nobody made a sound. The gaslights hissed gently along the walls. The hair began to rise at the nape of Box’s neck.

Suddenly, there came a terrific report, as though a great weight had been dropped on the wooden floor. The medium did not flinch, and Box saw that her eyes had now closed. An echoing sound, that may have been a voice, seemed to articulate the name ‘Benvolio’ from somewhere near the back of the platform. The rocking of Mrs Pennymint’s body ceased. She spoke, and it was the kind of pleasant, friendly voice that Box had imagined.

‘Benvolio is here…. He was once an usher at the Court of Henry the Eighth, and he was burned for heresy in the days of
Bloody Mary. Benvolio is my spirit guide. He says I was once a princess at a royal court. We pass through many reincarnations on our voyage to enlightenment.’

For Arnold Box the spell had been broken. This woman was spouting the usual tosh that was the stock in trade of such people. Everybody had been a princess, or a courtier, never a simple hewer of wood or drawer of water. He glanced at PC Lane, sitting beside him in the gloom, and saw the look of vexed disappointment and disgust on the young man’s face.

‘I have a John here,’ said Mrs Pennymint. ‘Will anyone own a John? He passed over quite recently.’

‘I know a John,’ said a man in the audience.

‘Don’t we all,’ muttered Box, and PC Lane’s face broke into an involuntary smile.

‘Well, this John has a message for Betsy. She is to keep smiling, he says. He’s going now…. Benvolio is showing me a dog, a black and tan, that belonged to someone called Michael. Does anyone know them?’

‘I knew a Michael,’ volunteered another man, ‘and he had a dog that was run over. But it was a golden retriever.’

‘That’s right,’ said Mrs Pennymint cheerfully, ‘such a dear doggie. Michael had a message for us all. Spend your life doing good. He tries to help from the Other Side. He’s gone. They’re called away quickly, you know, when higher service demands.’

‘And we’ll go quickly, as soon as is decent,’ Box whispered, and Lane nodded his agreement.

‘And now I have a Toby,’ Mrs Pennymint continued, ‘still in this life. Benvolio is showing him to me in a cloud, which tells me that he’s still living. Toby has a message for his son, Arthur … Albert? No, Arnold.’

‘Strewth,’ cried Arnold Box, and someone nearby bade him ‘Hush!’

‘Toby wants Arnold to know that his Uncle Cuthbert has just passed over.’

Box sighed with relief. His old Pa, Toby Box, was still
recuperating
at Esher from the amputation of his leg early in January. It had been a lucky guess by Mrs P., but he, Arnold Box, had no Uncle Cuthbert, of that he was quite certain.

Mrs Pennymint had not waited for an answer, but had gone on to mention other spirits who had swum into her ken, introduced by the indefatigable Tudor courtier, Benvolio. There was a Gerald, a Mary, a Peter, and a few others with conveniently simple names, so that a few more members of the audience responded with delighted recognition of their departed friends and relatives.

Then it was over. Mrs Pennymint’s eyes suddenly opened, and she moved stiffly on the chair, as though sensing for the first time how uncomfortable it was. She treated the audience to a friendly, unaffected smile, executed a rather theatrical curtsy, and left the platform to polite, subdued applause.

Mr Portman immediately resumed his place at the table. He was a narrow-faced man, with sparse black whiskers adorning his cheeks and meeting, in rather an old-fashioned way, beneath his chin. Box couldn’t quite place him socially. Was he a gentleman – he dressed like one – or a prosperous tradesman? He certainly spoke well.

They were very privileged, Mr Portman was saying, to have the distinguished clairvoyant and physical medium Madam Almena Sylvestris with them that evening. He would remind the assembly that Madam sometime spoke in the direct voice, and that
phantasms
occasionally materialized, both of which phenomena could be distressing for those new to spiritualism. There was, he assured them, never anything to fear. Trust was essential, trust and faith.

Mr Portman lit a fresh candle on the desk, left the platform and took his seat once more in the front pew. The gaslights ranged along the temple walls remained low. The heavy curtains parted, and Madam Sylvestris appeared.

Here, thought Box, was someone decidedly different from the rotund, mundane Mrs Pennymint. Whereas Mrs Pennymint had
appeared natural and homely, the impressive woman who now walked slowly to the seat at the front of the stage was very clearly a lady. She wore a well-cut dove-grey evening dress, adorned on the right shoulder with a diamond clasp. Her dark hair was elegantly cut and shaped in such a way as to leave her handsome face clear. She was, Box judged, in her early forties, but that fact could not have been gleaned from her flawless complexion. When she spoke, her voice was that of a cultured lady.

‘Dear friends,’ she began, ‘I very much hope that I will be able to bring comfort to the bereaved tonight, and at the same time demonstrate to any newcomers among us that our loved ones do indeed live and progress after they have left their envelopes of clay. As you know, I cannot predict what forms the spirit beings will take, but I exhort you all to have no fear.’

Madam Sylvestris folded her hands in her lap, and stared ahead of her across the entranced audience. Box watched her closely, and saw her eyes begin to close. For a single moment they caught his across the intervening space of the hall, and her lids quivered as though she was for the moment alarmed. Then her eyes closed, and her head fell gently on to her chest.

The candle on the table guttered and went out, and a sibilant murmur passed through the audience. At the same time, a shower of bright red sparks hissed and flickered around the medium’s head, then vanished. Madam Sylvestris groaned. Nothing happened for over a minute. Someone suppressed a cough. Suddenly, Madam Sylvestris spoke.

‘Is there an Alexander present? Alexander P … I can’t hear the last name. P, or B. Tom is here. Is there an Alexander?’

A young man in one of the middle pews stood up. He was dressed in a dark, work-worn suit, and there was a mourning band on his right arm.

‘My name’s Alexander,’ he said, his voice quavering, ‘Alexander Prentice. Tom was my brother. He died in Africa of fever. On the Gold Coast—’

‘Well, he’s here, now, and wants to tell you that all’s well. He felt nothing at the end. He sends his love to Beth—’ The medium’s voice suddenly dropped to a whisper, and she turned sharply to her left. ‘What? Are you sure? Very well.’

Madam Sylvestris groaned more deeply, and covered her face with her hands. The gaslights along the walls seemed to turn
themselves
lower. They could all hear the medium’s stertorous breathing. Presently, a column of smoke-like substance began to build up beside her, partly obscuring her body. It glowed very faintly, and seemed to pulsate in sympathy with the medium’s breathing. As they watched, the figure of a young man appeared to step forward from the darkness into the glowing smoke.

‘Tom!’ The young man called Alexander Prentice sprang forward as though to run on to the platform, but he was stopped when a man’s voice called strongly to him from the psychic mist.

‘Stay put, will you, Alexander! I wanted you to see me, and now you can. And you can hear me, too, thanks to this lady, who’s got the knack of living in two worlds at once! Tell Helen that I still love her, and would have married her, if the fever hadn’t taken me away from your world to this one. Tell your friends that—’

Suddenly, both spirit-form and phantom voice were swallowed up in the smoke, which dissipated like an early mist. The lights turned themselves up as if by magic. Madam Sylvestris took a number of deep breaths, and then smiled.

‘I do not go into deep trance at these demonstrations, my friends,’ she said. ‘I simply feel a heightened awareness of the two worlds impinging on each other, and then, quite suddenly, the two worlds are one. Did I bring you any comfort, Mr Prentice?’

‘You did, ma’am, you did,’ cried the young man with the mourning band. ‘Now I know that spiritualism is true, and that there is no death. How can I ever thank you?’

The audience broke out into a spontaneous burst of clapping, and Madam Sylvestris held up a hand to quell it. She looked pleased, and rather amused.

‘Wonderful!’ said Box. ‘A wonderful performance. That’s what they call the “direct voice”, you know. It’s supposed to be the actual voice of the dead person speaking through the medium. In fact, it’s a man secreted somewhere with a long, flexible speaking tube. I expect that man Alexander Prentice is an accomplice.’

Madam Sylvestris placed her hands once more in her lap, and her head fell on to her chest. A steady breeze seemed to cross the platform, ruffling the medium’s hair. She gasped, and writhed in her chair. The breeze stopped abruptly. The candle on the table spontaneously rekindled, and burned with a steady flame.

A sound came from the medium’s mouth, an unpleasant, rasping noise, like the steady pulsation of incoming waves beating upon a shore. Then, from the centre of the noise, a single piping word emerged.

‘Dada.’

With an oath PC Lane sprang to his feet, throwing off Box’s restraining hand. The baby voice continued to make itself heard over the hideous rasping sound issuing from the woman on the platform.

‘Dada. Cathy didn’t want to go. You gave me Polly to come with me. A nice lady came for me. Dora. Theo. Dada, when will you and Mammy come?’