He might have expected it. He had never shown any interest in his father’s achievements. He wanted everything his father wanted—money and a place in Society—but he was not prepared to work for it. He had no care for the company’s activities, no desire to see the Cubitt Town project come to fruition. He went through the motions, but he was aware of the looks William Cubitt gave him when they were there together. Even the knowledge that his father had gone out on a limb to get him more interesting work did not spur him into any kind of enthusiasm. To start with, he’d always planned to sell his father’s business assets as soon as the final breath left the man’s body. But his emotions must have been more involved than he gave himself credit for, because there could be no question. He was jealous. Jealous of Charles Pope and his father’s affection for this interloper. He told himself it was about money, about protecting what was his, but it wasn’t. Not really. It was, in some twisted way, about love, although he would never have recognized it as such. Oliver Trenchard, for the first time in his life, was motivated. He was determined to find out who this upstart was, and if he could, destroy him.
James never gave much away about his various investments, and his role in Charles Pope’s business affairs was no exception. Pope had bought a mill. James was trying to help him set it up. That was all Oliver could get out of him. In the end it was a chance remark of his mother’s while they were walking with Agnes in the gardens at Glanville that caught Oliver’s attention. Indeed, she seemed to know rather more about Charles Pope than he’d thought. They were talking, for some reason, about the new version of football that had been invented at Rugby School during the headmastership of the great Thomas Arnold.
“Although I’ve never played it, nor wanted to,” said Oliver. “It seems a scrappy, violent game to me.”
“You should ask Mr. Pope. He was at Rugby under Dr. Arnold.” Anne could not see there was anything very dangerous in revealing such a thing, and on an afternoon like this it pleased her to talk about Charles. The revelation of his connection to the Brockenhursts was coming soon, anyway, and Oliver would have to learn the truth.
“How do you know?”
“Your father told me. He’s taken an interest in Mr. Pope.”
Oliver sighed. “Don’t I know it.”
But Anne did not respond to this, merely stooping to pick up a short stick, which she threw ahead of them for the dachshund to fetch. They were approaching the wonderful curving peach wall she had restored. It was winter and there was no fruit, but still it looked beautiful in the early evening light. She glanced down to check that Agnes was still with them. “They call this a crinkle crankle wall. I love that.”
Oliver was not to be distracted. “And where else did Mr. Pope conduct his studies?”
“At Oxford. Lincoln College, I believe.”
“And then?” Oliver was careful to modulate his tone, hiding the rage he felt inside.
“They had intended him for the Church, but his gifts were more suited to the world of commerce and so he applied for a job at Schroders bank, where he did well. It was then that his father asked James for some advice, and that was when your father first took an interest in him.”
“He obviously liked what he found.” Oliver struggled to keep the bitterness from his voice. The more Oliver heard about the meteoric rise of this young man, the more he disliked him. Charles Pope appeared to be so lucky, with a real head for figures, loving his work. “I suppose that was how he made the money for the mill.”
“He made some money, yes. And when he wanted to go out on his own and he’d found a mill in Manchester that was for sale, James stepped in as his mentor.”
“I’m sure Mr. Pope was very grateful to my father.”
“I think he was.” Anne wondered what Oliver would say when he discovered he had a nephew. It would be awkward at first. There was no point in denying that. Not least because she was sure he would feel protective about Sophia’s memory. But in the end she knew they would adjust. That’s if they were to be included. Or would it simply be the Brockenhursts’ show from first to last?
It was true that Anne enjoyed talking about those details, for she’d only just learned them herself. Over a few quiet evenings in Glanville, when they had retired to her rooms, she’d spoken to James, asking him to tell her everything he knew about their grandson. And James, by way of finally apologizing to his wife, had agreed. He wanted to make up for having deceived her during all those years. He was not by nature a devious man, and it was a relief to unburden himself. So she heard how he’d been in contact with the vicar throughout Charles’s childhood, learning about his schooling, his strengths and weaknesses, generally getting to know the boy, even at one remove. And now Anne was able to feel she knew him, too.
She looked up at the sky. “I think it’s going to rain. Shall we go in? Agnes hates the rain. All dachshunds hate rain.” And they trailed along the gravel paths toward the house, with Anne chattering about her new schemes in the garden. The little dog scuttled along behind them, and as they talked, Oliver was thinking how he could use what he’d heard to help him in his scheme to ruin Charles.
It didn’t rain, and later that day Oliver went out riding. There was something about the rhythm of the horse that seemed to unravel any problem. And sure enough, as he trotted back to the house in the twilight, he decided that it might be a good idea to visit Manchester. If there was anything to be found out about Charles Pope, the place to look for it would be in the town where he had made his first inroads into investing in a real business. What was his reputation there? The man seemed to be too good to be true.
“Manchester?” said Anne as they gathered for dinner that night.
“Why do you want to go to Manchester?” asked James.
Oliver smiled at their incredulity. “I have some people to see. I’ve got a couple of ideas that I’d like to investigate further before I talk about them.”
“Even to us?” Anne was quite intrigued.
“Even to you.”
“You’re not planning to abandon Cubitt Town?” James could hardly bear to think he had gone through the embarrassment of getting Oliver a job for nothing.
“Certainly not. Don’t worry.”
But they were all the more interested because he would not give them anything to go on. That night in bed, Susan spoke as she blew out her candle.
“What are you really doing in Manchester?”
“Minding my own business,” he said, and rolled over to go to sleep.
He traveled on the new London to Birmingham railway, which had opened three years before and departed from Euston Station. He knew it well enough, as the magnificent glass and wrought-iron structure had been built by William Cubitt, and Oliver had been present at its opening in July 1837. But the five-and-a-half-hour journey had been exhausting as he had rattled around in the carriage with sooty smuts blowing in whenever he opened a window.
He took a branch line from Birmingham to Derby, which was, if anything, even more uncomfortable, and a coach from there the rest of the way. By the time he stumbled into the Queen’s Arms on Sackville Street, he felt as if he had crossed a continent, but there was a certain satisfaction in the fact that he had made it.
Pope’s mill was easier to find than he had feared it might be. The following morning he took himself to Portland Street, which he had been told was the center of cotton production, and there, among the smart and newly built warehouses and mills, he asked and was directed to David Street and a large, redbrick building, signed as Girton’s Mill. He walked in and waited for the manager, a small man in a coat that was shiny from overuse, who introduced himself as Arthur Swift. Yes, this was Mr. Pope’s mill. No, Mr. Pope was in London. Could he help?
Oliver explained that he was a friend of Charles Pope’s and had hoped to look around the mill while he was in Manchester. This did not disturb Mr. Swift, who offered to give him a tour. Together they strolled through the various work spaces, all full, all busy. “Things seem to be g
oing well,” said Oliver.
Swift nodded enthusiastically. “Very well, as long as we can settle our supplies of cotton. You probably know that Mr. Pope has long-term plans for a fixed supplier in the Indian subcontinent.”
“So he told me.” Oliver looked up at the men working the looms in the clouded, dusty atmosphere. “Are you all content here?” He spoke loudly, above the noise of the machinery, and the men, hearing his words, ceased their work and brought the looms to a halt.
The question had come as a surprise, and at first there was a silence, then a sort of grudging acknowledgment. Swift looked at him. “Why should you ask that?” he said. “Why wouldn’t they be content?”
Oliver nodded. “No reason. I was just curious.”
But Mr. Swift was suddenly made uncomfortably aware that he had no written instructions to be hospitable to this Mr. Trenchard, and he had welcomed him in with no evidence to prove his friendly relationship with Swift’s employer. “If you’ve seen enough, sir, I had better get on with my day.” His voice was quite firm as he nodded for the work to start again and Oliver knew his visit was drawing to a close, but he had made his point and would now await the results.
Smiling, he thanked his guide for the time he had given so generously, and before long he was back out on David Street. He bought a newspaper and took up a position within sight of the mill. He did not have long to wait. Oliver had deliberately paid his call shortly before the dinner bell would give the men and women a half-hour break, and to avoid the dust that filled the factory air and clogged their lungs, many would come outside to eat whatever they had been able to set aside from their family’s meager rations. Sure enough they emerged, blinking in the daylight, and looked around for somewhere to take their rest. Some carried stools, which they set down on the pavement. But one man broke away from the others and came across the road to where Oliver leaned against a wall, reading his paper. He looked up.
“Why did you ask that in there? Are we content?” said the new arrival. He was short in stature, as they all seemed to be, with dark stubble and the pale skin of one who spends little time in the sunlight.
“Well, are you?”
“No, we bloody well are not.” The man stared at Oliver. “Are you here to make trouble for Mr. Pope?”
They were fencing with each other, of course. But Oliver had come a long way to find out what he could, and he did not feel there was any point in being too careful. “What sort of trouble could I make?” he said.
“Come to the King’s Head Tavern in the Market Square at eight and you’ll find out,” said the man fiercely.
“May I know your name?”
“Don’t worry about that. I’ll be there. But I’m not the one you need to speak to.”
Oliver nodded. Clearly he was not going to get a name, but why did he need one? He had connected with someone who disliked Charles Pope, and that was why he’d made the journey. So far, things were going according to plan.
That evening, he found the public house easily enough, but it was crowded and filled with smoke and it took a while for him to focus his eyes and look around. Before he had discovered anything he felt a hand on his elbow, and there was his companion of the factory visit. He beckoned, and Oliver followed him to a table in the corner where two older men were sitting. “How do you do. I am Oliver Trenchard.” This time he was determined on names, and they could hardly refuse to reveal theirs after he had introduced himself.
The first man nodded. “William Brent.” He was plump and seemingly prosperous, but there was a slight sheen over his red face that was off-putting.
The second man spoke. “Jacob Astley.” He was thinner than his companion, older and bonier.
Neither of them looked like good candidates to spend Christmas with, thought Oliver as he took his seat opposite them. There was a glass waiting for him and a large jug of ale so he helped himself. “Very well, gentlemen.” He smiled. “What have you got for me?”
“What is your connection to Pope?” This was Mr. Astley. He did not seem to feel the need to smile back and normalize their exchange, as Oliver had. He was here for some sort of business or, more likely, to settle old scores.
“If you must know, a close friend of mine has invested heavily in Pope’s business, and I am anxious that he might have opened himself up to serious losses.”
Brent nodded. “You are right to worry. He should withdraw his investment at the first opportunity.”
“But that would ruin Mr. Pope. If he withdrew completely.” Oliver was not quite sure this was true because he knew that Lady Brockenhurst might easily step in to avoid calamity, but he wanted to gauge these men’s dislike. He was not disappointed.
“He deserves to be ruined.” Astley raised his glass to his thin lips.
“May I know why?”
“You know he bought the mill from the widow of old Samuel Girton?”
“I do now.”
“We had a deal with the old lady, but he came at night and frightened her out of her wits with tales of imminent ruin and dangers that only he could save her from, until she agreed to set aside the contract with us and sell to him.”
“I see.” Oliver thought of that smiling young man walking around Lady Brockenhurst’s drawing room. Did this seem likely?
“That’s not all,” said Brent. “He cheats the customs men out of their duties when he imports cotton. He pays to have it undervalued when it is being shipped and so avoids half the tax when the shipments are unloaded here.”
“He’s not to be trusted,” said Astley. “Tell your friend to get his money out while he still can.”
Oliver looked at the man who had brought him there. “What is your connection to this?” he asked.
The fellow grimaced. “I was all set to be a manager at the mill if Mr. Brent and Mr. Astley had taken over. Pope knew it, but he hired me to work at a loom, along with the other poor fools who know no better.”
“Why did you take the job?” said Oliver.
“What else could I do? I’ve a wife and four bairns to feed.” The muscles of his jaw tightened in anger. “He told me it was to soften the blow of the other job falling through.”
“But you think that was not his motive?”
The man shook his head. “Pope has no kindness in him. It was to humiliate me when I had no choice but to let him.”
Oliver looked at them. The last point was unproven, of course, he was forced to admit that, but there was something he could work with in the frightening of the old woman and cheating the taxmen, which was the charge that would offend his father most of all. “How much of this are you prepared to write down?” he said.
Brent glanced at his companion. “We would not testify in a court of law. I’m not going back to the law for any man.”
Oliver nodded. “That’s understood. I need the information to convince my friend. But it will not come to court. If the worst comes to the worst, he can afford to lose what has already gone. As much as anything, I want him to back out now and give no more.”
Brent made up his mind. “We can help with that.” He looked at Astley to make sure he spoke for them both. “We want him out of business, but until then, we’d like as few men as possible to be taken in by his tricks.”
“Because he’s very charming,” said Oliver. “People seem to like him.”
“They like him until they know him,” said Brent.
The journey home seemed less trying, maybe because Oliver had got what he wanted. Two letters had been delivered to him at the Queen’s Arms earlier that morning, and he’d set off with them safe in his pocket. Whatever he lost of his luggage en route, he would not lose them. By the time he boarded the London train in Birmingham, he was feeling quite optimistic, and rather to the disapproval of his fellow passengers he found himself humming a tune.
Lady Templemore had not gone into her daughter’s bedroom with any intention of searching it. Or so she said to herself as she pushed the door open. It was just to see that everythi
ng was tidy and as it should be. Maria was out walking with Ryan and the servants were downstairs, so it felt right that she should check.
This position was harder to maintain once she had seen Maria’s closed traveling desk on the table beneath the window. It would be locked, but Corinne knew where the girl kept the key. She had never told Maria that she knew where the key was hidden in case the knowledge ever came in useful, and she had looked through her daughter’s letters before now, more than once. Almost without admitting to herself what she was doing, she opened the concealed drawer in the bureau, removed the key, and unlocked the traveling desk. The leather writing surface was fastened shut by a small brass latch that slipped easily at the touch of her finger—and there were Maria’s letters. She flicked through them. She knew the writers for the most part—her son, cousins, friends of Maria’s from her first two Seasons—but there was one small crested envelope that surprised her. Although she recognized it well enough.
The letter was short. “My dear,” it read. “If you will call on me on Friday afternoon at four, I think we might arrange another visit to Bishopsgate. Caroline Brockenhurst.” Corinne stared at the small cream square of paper. “Another visit.” What did that mean? Another visit to Bishopsgate? She knew who worked in Bishopsgate. When Charles Pope had walked with Maria and the maid, Ryan, as far as the London Library, Ryan had reported back everything he’d said. Had she stumbled on the reason why her plans were beginning to come apart in her hands? And why was Lady Brockenhurst arranging anything for Maria without first applying to her mother for permission? Then Corinne thought of Lady Brockenhurst taking Mr. Pope around the rooms at her party. Was this a conspiracy? If not, why had Maria said nothing about the invitation? She was silent for a few minutes. The day was Thursday. The visit was scheduled for the following afternoon. She had twenty-four hours. Very carefully she replaced the letter, locked the desk, and put the key back in its place. During this time she made two decisions. The first was to pay a call on the Countess to coincide with her daughter’s, and the second took her to her charming bonheur du jour in the pale blue back drawing room on the first floor. An hour after she sat down to write, she rang the bell and gave the footman two envelopes to carry by hand to their separate destinations.
Julian Fellowes's Belgravia Page 25