Pyke’s inventory of the vault’s contents had confirmed what he had suspected ever since Nash’s initial revelations: Lister’s had borrowed short, lent long (where the money was tied up in speculative investments) and kept too little in reserve.
A month later, and with some help from Pyke, Lister’s closed its doors for the last time. Pyke had picked up the pieces, assimilating what remained of it into Blackwood’s. A week after that, and in spite of concerns about Nash’s inexperience, he’d come good on his promise and offered Nash a small stake in his business.
Still, it was Nash’s gambling, rather than his inexperience, which had caused Pyke most worry and, though he had quickly displayed an acute aptitude for business and had rapidly learnt the rudiments of banking, his recklessness at the roulette tables had earned him an altogether less favourable reputation.
‘So how much did you lose this time?’ Pyke’s booming voice echoed around the hall. They were closed for business but the cashiers were counting up inside their booths.
‘I was this close to the biggest win of my life.’ He held his thumb and index finger together until they almost touched and grinned.
‘One hundred?’
Licking his lips, Nash looked around the hall. ‘Couldn’t we perhaps talk about this somewhere more private?’
‘Did other people at the gaming house see you lose your money?’
Nash bowed his head and didn’t answer.
‘Then it’s not a private matter, is it?’ Pyke felt the blood rising in his neck. ‘Was it more than a hundred?’
When Nash didn’t answer him, Pyke slapped him on his bruised cheek.
The younger man winced and his eyes glowed with indignation. ‘It’s my business, not yours.’
‘You’re a partner in this bank. That means if you can’t pay your debts, the person you owe money to can come after us.’ He hit Nash again, this time on the other cheek and harder, his knuckles closed. ‘More than this, you owe money to someone you’re beholden to. It makes you weak and other people will sniff out your weakness and exploit it.’
In the booths the cashiers had stopped counting their coins and were watching the exchange.
‘I’ll settle my debts.’
This time Pyke almost lifted him by the throat and marched him across to one of the cashiers. ‘Before you gamble away your own money, you can settle your debt with me.’ Turning him around, Pyke pressed Nash’s face against the iron grille of the booth and said, ‘This gentleman here would like to withdraw a hundred pounds from his account. If he doesn’t have the funds, I authorise you to take it out of his next quarterly drawings.’
Terrified, the cashier gathered up the money and, with trembling hands, passed the notes through the grille.
‘That’s for the business with Gold.’ Pyke pocketed the money and wiped the palm of his hand on his coat. ‘I want you to greet Morris here in the hall at three and show him up to my office.’
Glowering and humiliated, Nash nodded but said nothing.
TEN
They didn’t make it back to Hambledon until five and it took a further half-hour to gather Emily, Felix and Jo together in order to make the short journey to Cranborne Park where, Morris assured Pyke, Marguerite and another guest, Abraham Gore, awaited them. Pyke knew Gore only by reputation and was curious to meet the man. During the journey from London, Morris had explained that Gore was one of his oldest friends; they’d known one another for thirty years.
To say that Gore was already a legend in London’s world of business would have been a gross understatement. His story was one that fathers told their children in the hope of instilling in them grand ambitions and a hard-work ethic. As a younger man, Gore had inherited a country bank in Warwickshire; by the time he was thirty he’d opened a further ten branches throughout the West Midlands; by forty, he had extended his banking empire into Lancashire as well as moving his headquarters to one of the grandest addresses in the City. Nowadays, Gore’s was not only the largest private bank in London, larger even than Rothschild’s or Coutts: Gore had also opened subsidiary branches in Edinburgh, Brussels and Dublin.
The most curious detail about Gore’s career, however, related to his personal life, or rather his lack of personal life. For years, he had been touted by society columns and gossip magazines as one of London’s most eligible bachelors - he was said, by some, to be the nation’s wealthiest businessman - but he had never taken a wife, nor shown any inclination to do so. Furthermore, throughout his time in the capital Gore had lived in comfortable, but by no means extravagant, circumstances, in a suite of chambers at the Richmond Hotel, paying just a hundred pounds a year for the privilege. He also owned a large estate in the Warwickshire countryside but his modest, even ascetic tastes and his apparent lack of interest in settling down with a wife had, rightly or wrongly, earned Gore a reputation as an eccentric.
Morris had greeted Emily and Felix warmly and told them he hoped they wouldn’t be too uncomfortable in his rickety old carriage. In fact there was more than enough room for all of them and when the carriage came to a halt at the front steps of Morris’s Palladian mansion, Felix was first out of the door, closely followed by Jo. Pyke and Morris alighted last and Pyke looked up towards the portico, where Marguerite had gathered Felix up into her arms. Next to her, an older man, whom Pyke presumed was Gore, smiled amiably and patted Felix gently on the head. When Pyke and Morris joined the party in the entrance hall, Marguerite had already introduced herself to Emily and only reluctantly passed Felix on to Jo. ‘He’s such a sweet, delightful boy,’ Pyke heard her gush to Emily. He was uncomfortable about the whole idea of Emily meeting and perhaps even befriending his old flame, and vice versa. While Emily was formally introduced to Abraham Gore, Pyke took a moment to compare the two women in his mind. With her tall, slim figure and clear, unblemished skin, Emily was unquestionably beautiful, but in a natural way that stood in contrast with Marguerite’s preened sophistication. And while Emily’s preference for Empire waistlines and simple, loose-fitting dresses made her seem wilfully anachronistic, Marguerite’s pale pink dress, laced tightly around the waist to accentuate her figure, reflected the very latest Parisian fashion.
When it was his turn, Pyke shook Marguerite’s outstretched hand, neither of them meeting the other’s eye, and then greeted Gore, who took both of his hands and squeezed them as though they were old friends. Gore’s ruddy cheeks and beaming smile put Pyke in mind of his uncle, and he had something of Godfrey’s warmth. The main difference between the men was that Gore’s shiny head was apparently almost devoid of hair and, perhaps to conceal or indeed to compensate for this, he wore a black top hat even inside the house. It matched his black frock-coat and black trousers. He looked even more like a banker than Pyke’s partner, William Blackwood.
From the entrance hall, Morris led them into the drawing room, where a fire was burning in the grate and a collection of china cups and saucers had already been laid out on the polished mahogany table. Marguerite and Emily complimented each other on their dresses, while Morris, Gore and Pyke hovered at the threshold of the room. Felix, in the meantime, had raced up the main staircase and was being carried back down by Jo, trying to free himself from her grip. ‘A spirited lad,’ Gore said, smiling. ‘I like to see young lads with spirit.’
‘Your dress is so lovely and . . . simple,’ Marguerite was saying to Emily.
Taking Morris to one side, Pyke asked him very quietly whether everything was all right.
‘Of course. Why shouldn’t it be?’ Morris said, glaring.
‘You left my bank this afternoon with ten thousand pounds. Perhaps I have a right to be nervous.’
Morris gave him a hard stare and whispered, ‘It ceased being your money when I signed those documents.’ His look told Pyke he didn’t want to discuss the matter any further and they both rejoined the group.
‘Why are you wearing a hat inside the house?’ Felix had just asked Gore, once Jo had put him down.
Laughing, Gore removed the
hat and self-consciously arranged his few strands of hair. He handed it to Felix, who tried to put it on his own head, only to discover it was too large. Morris joined in the laughter and Felix, enjoying the attention, proceeded to repeat the trick.
Emily went across to rescue Gore from the attention of their son. As she did so, Pyke shared a brief glance with Marguerite and wondered whether she would let anything slip about their shared past. He also wondered why he hadn’t said anything to Emily and whether Marguerite might exploit his silence in this regard, to try to embarrass him. He wondered, too, whether she had said anything to Morris about their past, deciding that she probably wouldn’t have, and probably wouldn’t allude to their liaison. Morris seemed to think she had fallen in love with the house and estate on their own merits and Marguerite wouldn’t want to disabuse him of this notion. No, he was safe for the time being, but this thought didn’t make him feel any more comfortable about the prospect of the next hour or two.
‘Who would have thought it, eh?’ Marguerite whispered, beside Pyke. ‘The two of us taking afternoon tea and pretending to behave like members of the aristocracy.’
‘Is that all this is to you? A pretence?’ Pyke muttered, without turning to face her.
‘Why? Are you worried I’ll say something out of turn?’
‘It’s not the time and place for this conversation,’ he said, still not looking around at her.
‘Doesn’t your wife know that we used to fuck?’
‘Her name’s Emily.’
‘A nice, proper, wholesome name.’
‘And if Morris found out you had another motive for wanting this particular house and estate,’ Pyke whispered, ‘would he be so understanding?’
‘Don’t flatter yourself, Pyke.’ Briefly Marguerite turned her head in his direction. ‘I had other reasons for wanting to move here.’
Emily had gathered Felix up in her arms and was giving him an exaggerated kiss, the kind that unfailingly made him squeal and giggle, and for a moment they all watched the performance, Pyke feeling a brief moment of pride that he was Emily’s husband and Felix’s father. He glanced across at Marguerite and noticed that her eyes were fixed on Emily and Felix with a peculiar intensity and that her fists were tightened into small round balls. Having put Felix down, Emily started to chase after him and, squealing with delight, for this was one of his favourite games, he hared across the room, straight into Marguerite’s arms. She tried to scoop him up and offer the boy the same kiss that Emily had given him, although with rather less success. In the process of trying to free himself from her grip his little fist accidentally caught her in the mouth and she let go of him. Felix landed awkwardly on the marble floor. For a moment, Pyke was certain the lad would burst into tears, and went to try to comfort him, but after a stunned silence Felix stood up a little gingerly and looked up at Marguerite, who was still trying to recover from the inadvertent punch she’d received. ‘I’m sorry,’ Felix said, almost in a whisper. ‘Did I hurt you?’ That was enough to take the sting out of the situation and Marguerite bent down, gave Felix a hug and said of course he hadn’t hurt her. Soon Felix was running around the room, pursued by an out-of-breath, laughing Marguerite. By this point Emily was chatting with Morris and Gore and Pyke couldn’t tell how she felt about being usurped, in their son’s eyes at least, by another woman.
‘I was just teasing Eddy here that, as a natural-born aristocrat, he can never quite know the extent of the pleasure that one experiences as a self-made man.’ Gore turned to Pyke and gave him a good-natured wink. ‘Perhaps you know a little of what I mean, sir.’ They were standing in a semicircle around the blazing log fire.
‘I’m always telling Emily that she doesn’t know the value of money because she’s never been without it.’ Pyke had meant it as a joke but saw her thunderous expression and realised, too late, that he had revealed too much.
‘I understand only too well the value that some men attach to the contents of their bank accounts.’ Emily’s tone was light and breezy but there was an edge to it as well.
‘You disapprove of such a state of affairs?’ Gore asked her, his eyebrows raised, a note of scepticism in his voice.
‘I disapprove of excessive wealth being hoarded away in dusty old vaults by the lucky few while ordinary men and women barely have enough to feed and clothe their families.’
‘Admirable sentiments but what might you consider to be ... excessive? A hundred pounds? A thousand or perhaps even ten thousand pounds?’ Gore asked, with a smile.
This time she turned to face him. ‘If I told you I consider the wealth that one class derives from the toils of another to be parasitic in nature, you might be able to guess my answer.’
Morris chuckled, more from nerves, Pyke sensed, than because he found what she had just said amusing. ‘Surely you can’t object to the basic principle of risk and reward? The more a man risks, the more he deserves to be rewarded.’
Emily turned to him. ‘Perhaps you’ll agree that the most a man can risk is his own life.’
‘Of course,’ Morris said, quickly.
‘Then what of the men who risk their lives every day to dig the tunnels through which the London-to-Birmingham trains will eventually run?’ Emily looked over at Gore and folded her arms.
Silently Pyke kicked himself for not having remembered, until that moment, that Abraham Gore was also the chairman of the London and Birmingham Railway. Evidently, Emily had not been as slow on the uptake: from the first moment they’d been introduced, she had known who Gore was and what he did. Briefly he wondered how she’d known it and whether this knowledge had anything to do with her dealings with Julian Jackman.
‘Are you suggesting that the navvy men are somehow unfairly rewarded for their labour?’ Gore asked carefully.
‘In comparison to the proprietors who have seen their investments quadruple in the last six months, yes, I am.’ Emily paused for breath. ‘I read in the newspaper that a tunnel near Watford collapsed last week. Ten men lost their lives.’ She turned to Morris. ‘Using your risk-reward model, and given the extreme risks these men faced, without complaint or fear, how much do you imagine they were rewarded?’
For a moment no one spoke. Marguerite, Felix and Jo had disappeared to another part of the house. Around the fireplace, Gore and Morris exchanged an awkward look and Pyke both felt for their discomfort and admired the way in which Emily had turned their words against them.
‘Two shillings a day. Meanwhile, a moderately well-off clerk who has invested a small proportion of his savings, let’s say ten pounds, in London and Birmingham stock - someone whose risk is, in relative terms, quite small - would’ve seen, in the space of this last month, his ten-pound investment double in value. In other words he has made a profit of ten pounds for doing very little while the workers who continue to risk their lives make only a miserly two shillings a day. To me, that doesn’t seem fair. But perhaps I’ve missed something here that your more enlightened minds can put me right on?’
Pyke couldn’t help but smile. She’d posed a question that couldn’t be answered, at least not without Gore revealing his rapaciousness or hypocrisy.
Gore cleared his throat. ‘If I told you of the sleepless nights I’ve had since those poor men tragically lost their lives, would it make a difference?’ The sorrow and humility in his voice sounded genuine enough. ‘Or that I’ve done my very best to ensure that all of the dead men enjoy, though it’s probably the wrong word to use, proper funerals and that their families receive a full month of their wages?’ It was as good a response as he could have made in the circumstances.
‘I think you miss my point, sir,’ Emily said, gently. ‘I am not trying to berate you personally and I’m sure the arrangements you made were greatly appreciated.’
‘Your point was a more general one, then?’ Gore replied. ‘You, perhaps, believe labour should be the sole parent of wealth?’
‘I believe labour should receive its due reward and that workers have the right t
o the full product of their labours.’
‘Turning Ricardo, the economic philosopher of industrial capitalism, against his own, eh?’ Gore seemed to be enjoying the exchange now.
‘If Ricardo is happy to concede that capital is little more than accumulated labour, then who am I to argue?’
Gore nodded, almost as though he agreed with the point. ‘Perhaps I could ask you another question, my dear. Do you think the railways that Eddy and I are trying to build are, per se, a bad thing?’
Pyke could see where Gore intended to go with this and wondered whether Emily would be able to stand her ground.
‘Properly funded by the state, I don’t believe they would bring harm to the nation, if that’s what you mean.’
‘So you believe they should be paid for out of general taxation?’
Emily nodded, and glanced across at Pyke.
‘Then what should the exchequer sacrifice in order that we should be able to pay for the railways? Or perhaps taxes should be raised for everyone?’
‘If the well-off paid more, would that be such a terrible thing?’
Gore shrugged. ‘Did you know that more than twenty million pounds has already been invested in the construction of a railway network in this country? That figure would represent almost a quarter of our government’s total yearly expenditure. Think of the cuts that would have to be made elsewhere to come up with that sum. I don’t believe the state can afford to pay for the railways. Which leaves us with a dilemma, because unless we can persuade private individuals to dip into their own pockets, then it stands to reason that we won’t have a railway. And to do this requires a system of inducements. To put it bluntly, my dear, without the risk-and-reward model Eddy mentioned a few moments ago, nothing at all would get built or manufactured. And we, as a country, would quickly return to the Stone Age.’
‘But you’re assuming, are you not, that railways, or anything else for that matter, are given life to by capital, when in fact these things, in reality, are created by the hands of men and women.’
The Revenge of Captain Paine Page 13