The Emperor's Gold

by Robert Wilton

  From the single window came the busy cries of a London morning, greetings and complaints and urgings, loud street hagglings over pennies echoing the indoor whispers of fortunes; they were as inarticulate and insistent as the gull calls that wheeled around the spires with them, and as indifferent to the obsessions of two Government agents. These noises were routines – they were both the currency and the exchange – that had changed little since the Romans first built their forum on the hill here. These noises had been London’s preoccupation across the centuries, while Kings and Governments and Empires had come and gone with the Thames tide.

  Temporarily bored of statistics, Jessel snatched up two of the journal wrappers from where he’d dropped them and looked for hints of origin in the paper, the style of writing in the simple address, the markings. Frustration increasingly souring his lively face, he then went back and noted down the dedications in the few books that had been gifts.

  By now Roscarrock had sat down behind the desk, flicking at a wrapper, watching Jessel with growing irritation, and thinking of the man who was the one thing of value missing from the room.

  Awareness of the scrutiny wasn’t improving Jessel’s mood either, and Roscarrock spoke as much to justify his own idleness.

  ‘Kinnaird can’t run his whole network of specials in person, surely. He’s not visiting them all, all the time.’

  Jessel, book open in hands, half-turned and just shrugged.

  ‘But their information isn’t coming to your friend Morrison Cope at the Admiralty, is it?’

  ‘No.’ Jessel was paying attention now, but reckoned he was ahead. ‘That’s the interest of this place. They could write to him here – meet him sometimes, no doubt. That’s why we clamped down so quick.’ He closed the book and turned back to the shelves.

  ‘And he knows that. So what’s he going to do now? Write to every contact with a new address? Too risky; too unlikely.’

  ‘Hallo!’ Jessel turned back with a small pocketbook in his hands, and threw on the desk the larger one he’d been replacing. ‘Ledger of some kind… accounts maybe, stock market trades… lovely! I’ll have this one.’

  His mood was restored, and he looked at Roscarrock with genial concern. ‘We’ll have this place monitored from now on, Tom.’ He watched him. ‘Not happy, are you?’

  Roscarrock shook his head, irritated at uncertainty. ‘Doesn’t work. Man like Kinnaird doesn’t take risks, not with his prize network above all things, if what you say is true. And he’s not going to cut loose from it.’

  ‘Tom, he’s cut loose from everything.’ Jessel leant forwards. ‘Don’t get comfortable just because I’m a friendly face. Sir Keith bloody Kinnaird is rotten, somehow. He’s halfway to Paris or halfway to hell and either way you want to concentrate on staying the right side of the divide.’ Jessel’s eyes flickered in thought. ‘If he’s thinking at all straight, he’ll stay cut off from the network because the network is our best chance of finding him.’

  Roscarrock wasn’t paying attention. He glanced around the room. ‘This wasn’t panic; this wasn’t flight.’

  ‘It’s not supposed to make sense, Tom.’ Jessel was smiling. ‘If it all made sense, they’d have to stop paying us.’ He picked up two books and the small ledger. ‘We’re done here. Come and buy me a drink and tell me the opportunities for promising young men in America.’

  Roscarrock followed him out reluctantly, wondering at the lies of Sir Keith Kinnaird.

  Inspector Gaston Gabin of the Paris Police was entitled to a tiny office of his own. The stench of the Seine coming through the dirty window, and the must of timbers that never quite dried, made the space a dubious privilege. But the space, and the door, were a privilege that Gabin cherished, and the closing of that door a luxury that he considered essential to his proper functioning.

  Many men who had been caught out by the speed of his activities would have been surprised by this insistence on reflection, on steady method. The Minister, too, would have been alarmed if he’d seen him closing that door, sitting down behind the small and broken desk and staring into the corner. The Minister wanted him giving orders, galloping somewhere, hurrying to produce a report. He was just back from delivering the morning report that the Minister had requested. He had taken care to arm himself with a busy list of actions completed, and lines of investigation in hand, with which to reassure the Minister.

  He would have enjoyed trying to discover the spy: a most satisfying problem of deduction and elimination. Now it was a mere manhunt – routine procedural business, more intensive in labour than in clear thought. The immediate actions of yesterday had been almost tedious: the search of the room of the absconding manservant; questions about his habits and routines; the enquiries sent off about his family, and his history. The new France had excellently efficient systems for such business. At a word from him, horsemen had been galloping out of the city gates and messages flickering across the countryside by telegraph. Whether he spent a second in his office or an hour, he had the advantage of speed over little Joseph Dax, out there somewhere running like a rabbit. It was important to ensure that he had the advantage of thought over him as well – over him and over the system that must exist to sustain him, if he was as much of a spy as the Minister suggested.

  The Minister was funny. A man of brilliance; a man of high intellect. But he had been genuinely surprised at the idea that his so-faithful servant should have been a spy all along. He was the former servant of arch-Royalists, and the Minister had assumed that this made Joseph Dax especially resentful towards them, and not especially devoted.

  But then the Minister, like everyone else, thought that people responded to ideas. The Minister believed that the servant had responded to the ideas of the Revolution. He believed everyone had. When it turned out that his little servant had not, the Minister had to believe that he had succumbed to a rival idea – to the idea of the monarchy, as represented by some insinuating English spy-maker.

  The Inspector knew that people responded to emotion. Always and only emotion, and it would have made Joseph Dax easy prey to the English, if they were as good as the Minister said. How, Gabin wondered, did they communicate with Joseph? How would they have identified him in the first place? A recommendation? Would they have found the man and manoeuvred him into that remarkable position, right beside the most powerful and feared man in the Emperor’s service? Or would they have found the man in that position, and then attracted his loyalty? Had it been money he wanted, or was there some other emotional attachment? That might be important: it might help to catch the fugitive and it might help to explain how the English operated with him.

  One way or another, it was always emotion and not ideas. The Revolution had been an act of frustration, not philosophy. The successful campaigns of the Emperor were the fruit of national pride, not strategy. And most times the crimes he dealt with from this little office had nothing to do with Royalist conspiracy, and everything to do with empty stomachs and empty pockets.

  And now the Minister had his great plan to defeat the English. An act of political violence within weeks, in the heart of London, and then a little game played among the ships of the English navy a short while later, and then the Emperor’s triumph would be complete. A great conspiracy built on the emotions.

  The Inspector stared into the corner. If he were in the place of the unknown English spy-runner, how would he establish, manage and protect a Royalist agent in Paris?

  At the corner of Fleet Street and Shoe Lane, at the western edge of the old City of London and near where it began to sprawl outwards into its newer and more fashionable districts, there stood for many years Fitzsimmons’s Coffee House. Fitzsimmons’s was one of the venerable institutions of the City, a place where men of business had sat and smoked their pipes and talked quietly of their affairs for generations. No money was ever exchanged over Fitzsimmons’s scarred tables. But the rise and fall of colonies had been charted on them, and trading empires had changed hands in a word.

>   Tom Roscarrock arrived at the low, glazed door of Fitzsimmons’s at the height of the mid-morning bustle, as he’d calculated. Three smart and earnest young men were pushing their way out, exchanging dreams, and he entered wedged between two large merchants who were red and sweating even before the hunched and bustling room swallowed them. He knew the sort of thing he was looking for, but wouldn’t know exactly until he’d seen it, and he had to spend the shortest possible time staring curiously around.

  The atmosphere suited him perfectly. No one was speaking above a murmur, most with heads bent towards each other and some with lips to ears, but the combined effect of ten cramped tables of hunched, black-coated bees was an impenetrable buzz that dominated the tiny room. Smoke hung in patches over the tables, and between them weaved and jostled servants and the impatient clientele. The two bulky merchants in front of him were bidding gruffly for a place and, as he moved this way and that to allow new arrivals or departures or the passage of another swaying tray, Roscarrock had two full minutes to scan the room and its traffic.

  One part of his mind was re-testing the links of a glimpsed idea. The Admiralty had received nothing from the Reverend Henry Forster for months. They knew where he lived, perhaps they’d tried visiting him, but he was still little more than a name, only to be accessed through Kinnaird himself or through a man chosen by Kinnaird. (That had turned out to be a dubious honour, hadn’t it?) Yet Forster said he had sent a report six weeks ago.

  There. The door leading to the basic facilities for those who’d overfilled themselves with coffee, presumably arranged in some dank courtyard off the back of the building, he’d deduced from the constant to and fro and those who were still adjusting their breeches as they returned. Whatever constituted the kitchen, its location was clear from servants and smell. But that kitchen was reached through a side door off a passage at the back of the coffee house, and during Roscarrock’s two minutes he saw two men emerging from that passage and one entering it. Coats and manner made them undoubtedly men of business and not servants; one of the men who had emerged and then eased politely past him into the street had been slipping a packet into his coat as he went. That passage was what he was looking for.

  As the two merchants pushed forwards in anticipation of an imminent table, he slipped past them and meandered towards the passage, his progress regulated by the trays that swerved in front of him and away and by the jam of chairs that scraped back and forth. Three paces short, and a servant caught his eye; Roscarrock looked through him, a busy man of affairs. As he reached the passage, it was suddenly blocked – a tall man, two drinks deftly carried in each hand. Roscarrock stepped to one side, with obvious show of irritation.

  The man hurried past, with an earnest nod of thanks, and Roscarrock stepped into the passage. He couldn’t hesitate now, couldn’t show any lack of familiarity. His brain had to focus solely on absorbing and understanding the images in front of him: past the presumed kitchen – a glance – the kitchen indeed – now only ten feet of passage left; the passage was ending in a door – outside door, from the quality of light under it – outside door didn’t seem right; nowhere else – but now just before the door a short flight of wooden stairs up to the left, and as he took them, feet knocking hollow on each one, the man whom he’d seen entering the passage appeared at the top. A neutral nod, reciprocated as they squeezed past each other, and out onto another wooden passage; a moment’s pause at the top – must keep moving – but two closed doors along the left-hand wall, a dusty window filtering stale light opposite them – knock before entering? – at the end of the passage some kind of open space.

  The open space. Roscarrock walked calmly down the passage, building the picture of the space as each step brought more of it into his vision. A room: no more than ten feet by fifteen, wood floor, plaster walls, light from windows to the right and back somewhere to the left, a wooden counter running the length of the room, all the wood dark and worn, a man – servant’s clothes? A clerk? – behind the counter, and the wall behind the man loomed dark with shelves. The shelves filled the wall completely from waist height to ceiling, divided into small pigeonhole compartments – one hundred? two? Many had rolled papers or packets in them. Underneath each was a label – names.

  The view was instantaneously blocked. ‘Good morning, sir. How are we today?’ A pink, spectacled face was looking up into his.

  This was Kinnaird’s private system. Reports from his network of agents could be sent here rather than to the Whitehall clearing house. Perhaps those from France too. He could then choose what to forward to Whitehall.

  The pink face was still inches from his, still staring at him.

  ‘Good morning.’ He was trying not to be obvious in scanning the name labels. ‘My name is Roscarrock. I’m a colleague of Sir Keith Kinnaird.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Always a pleasure to receive a colleague of Sir Keith.’ The man was dapper, precise, and still blocking the way. ‘How may we help you?’

  The labels were alphabetical. ‘Sir Keith asked me to come today, in his absence.’ The clerk behind the counter had suddenly started flicking through a separate pile of papers.

  ‘Indeed, sir. A pleasure to have you here.’ Was that Kinnaird’s name on a label – a label to a compartment filled with papers?

  ‘He asked me to collect anything that might have come for him.’

  Professionalism and infinite regret: ‘Alas, sir, that will not be possible.’

  Definitely Kinnaird’s name on the label, and the compartment was filled with a mixture of single sheets rolled, and packets. ‘He specifically asked. He said there would be no problem for a client of his standing.’

  Regret and pain: ‘I do so hope that we have not misled Sir Keith Kinnaird at any point. I was sure that he would know that we never release materials to anyone but the nominee themself, or to a nominated intermediary certified in advance.’

  Roscarrock hadn’t seen the sign, but in the far corner of the room another man had appeared, in the clerk’s uniform of the man behind the counter but stretching it at every corner of his considerable height and breadth. The counter clerk was still riffling through papers, but glanced up once at Roscarrock.

  Roscarrock smiled. ‘It seems he didn’t certify me in advance.’

  A smile in return.

  The bundle of documents was only feet from him, little more than an arm’s reach, and promising so much. ‘I don’t want to have to go into the details of the importance of this material, and of my getting it to Sir Keith as quickly as possible.’

  ‘I’m sure you don’t, sir. I’m sure Sir Keith will understand that our procedures are designed to serve his interests, as always.’

  Roscarrock gauged the distances, glanced again at the large man in the corner, now a step nearer: use the man in front of him to block the big man, lever off the man behind the counter to reach the documents, back down the passage – could he get through the mob in the coffee house in time? What would it achieve? Was it more important to read the documents or keep Kinnaird thinking that his system was unbroken?

  He smiled down at the pink and spectacled face.

  ‘I’m sure he will, Mr…?’

  ‘Pewsey, sir.’

  ‘Mr Pewsey. Very impressive, as he led me to expect. Good morning.’ Now he needed to get out, and quickly. These people needed to forget him as soon as possible.

  ‘Good morning to you, sir. I hope we shall welcome you again soon.’

  Roscarrock turned and started down the passage, wondering at the closed doors. He had to get his face away from here, and hope that his name was forgotten soon afterwards.

  ‘Mr Roscarrock!’

  He stopped still in the passage. Had professional Pewsey weakened? Or had he realized something that betrayed Roscarrock’s lies?

  ‘Mr Roscarrock, sir!’ Footsteps behind him. Run or turn?

  Roscarrock turned. Pewsey was behind him, holding a thin package.

  ‘My sincere apologies, sir. I had not realized t
hat you were expecting something yourself, and my man took an age in checking, sir, an age.’ He held out the package. Roscarrock looked at Pewsey, at the package, and back. Then he took the package with a curt nod: thin, perhaps a single page or two, folded and sealed.

  On the outside, in fine and flowing script: T. Roscarrock, at Fitzsimmons’s, Fleet Street, London.

  FIELD REPORT, RECEIVED THE 28TH DAY OF JULY 1805; CREDIT ++

  As of the middle of July 1805 an itinerant tailor, name Gabriel Chance, had been heard of in the parish of St Wulfram’s, Grantham, Lincolnshire, though it is not clear if he had visited the parish. Physical description is not available. He had previously been in Manchester and Sheffield; movements before that unknown. He had conversed with such men as he had met on his journey, in inns and private houses. He had been inclined to speak at great length of the rottenness of today’s England, and the better world that was to come when the old structures were overthrown. But he did not try to rouse anyone listening to share his thoughts, nor to incite them to any specific act of violence or unrest. Gabriel Chance would tell any listener that he was a man inspired – the word was sometimes possessed – by a great spirit, that he was waiting only on some final inspiration to perform a deed of true greatness and significance, and that right-thinking men would follow his inspiration. He had been moving on towards Ely and Newmarket, or Cambridge, with London his final aim.

  [SS K/50/44]

  ‘We have the name of the tailor, My Lord.’

  Admiral Lord Hugo Bellamy’s eyes looked down in sudden and real interest. ‘That’s very good, Jessel. That’s very good.’ In Bellamy, it represented something like elation.