“A single furnace, puddling by Cort’s method, will produce the better part of two tons a day, every day – we would have to work seven days to keep the furnace hot and save coke. It would be better to run a pair of furnaces, back-to-back, as well, I believe. So, if it is to be done there will be a lot of metal to be sold. The bulk of the Kettering men produce cast, I believe, so we should be able to sell locally.”
“I have read, Sir Thomas, of an iron plough: frame, shares, mould boards and coulters all made of iron. Two shares because it is somewhat lighter than a wooden plough, iron being the stronger material.”
“Excellent! It shall be our first aim to make such a plough and get it into use on the Home Farm, then we can encourage our tenants to use one and see if we cannot spread them throughout the county. Iron harrows after that, perhaps? We will not be able to put a wheel into use from the Isebrook, the stream is too shallow and the fall too slight, so a beam engine will be necessary to hammer the wrought. Survey for the trackway would seem to be the next need as we will be bringing in at least a hundred tons a week of coke and coals from the outset.”
Quillerson seemed a little less than enthusiastic about this, mentioned the harm that could be done to the horses by dirty, smelly, noisy steam engines, but he had sense enough not to push his objections.
A week later Clapperley arrived, in person, unheralded, begging immediate interview, stepping down from a post-chaise and four, not the parsimonious, slower pair of horses that constituted his normal mode of travel.
Tom ushered him into the library, called to Morton for refreshments, then sat down at his desk, pulling across a second comfortable chair.
“What is it, Mr Clapperley? Are we bankrupted?”
“Not as such, Sir Thomas. Hanged, more likely, I believe.”
“Who, what, how?”
“There was an Atlantic storm, a hurricane almost, I am told, and one of the ships from Savannah was unable to make port in Cork as had been her intention, was forced to run further north and make Liverpool her first rather than her second port of call. I had not been aware until this occasion that the ships bearing cotton had habitually been running a small part-cargo into Ireland, a matter of a few cases and barrels at a time. Be that as it may, the bales of cotton came off and into our warehouse in the normal way of things and my foreman spotted the items in the corner of the forehold and enquired what they were, was innocently told they were the Irish cargo, as normal, but having to be dropped off on the westward run this time.”
“And?”
“He is an intelligent, thinking man, and I pay him to use his intellects, Sir Thomas. He could not imagine what might be regularly imported into Ireland from the States and so he managed to poke his nose into that corner of the hold, spotted that the barrels had bronze bands, not the normal iron hoops, so making it very likely they contained gunpowder. That evening, the crew ashore in the drinking houses, he opened a wooden case and found it to be full of muskets. That was the night before last, Sir Thomas. She does not sail for another four days.”
“A British ship?”
“The Sarah Williams, Sir Thomas, registered out of Bristol.”
The question of what exactly Bob Chawleigh had been doing was solved – he had been betraying his country, which was a very undesirable thing to do, but, more importantly, he had jeopardised Tom’s climb into respectability and, crucially, he was very likely to cause upset and embarrassment to Verity and to cast a shadow over young Robert’s future. Intolerable! The man had to go – an offer of cash and if that was not accepted then he could be paid off in lead rather than gold. Silly man! He had brought it upon himself!
“Go back to Liverpool, Mr Clapperley, inform the captain that he is about to be arrested for piracy, he and his whole crew, and that he will hang and they will all be pressed into the Navy and sent far foreign, probably onto the African station to die from its fevers. Take custody of the cargo, and require him and his mates to make a formal written deposition of all they know; from the captain ensure that he details where he loaded and from whom particularly, the wharf and warehouse he will deliver to, bills of lading – he will have to have some paperwork, even if false; if he cooperates - which we may reasonably expect, for you said they sounded innocent of wrongdoing - then he may sail back to Savannah with the good word for the merchants there; if he does not choose to talk have him taken up as a traitor and then speak to the mates. Details, by express, to Mr Michael in London and he will know who to inform to have the Cork end shut down. I believe I know who is responsible for this, Mr Clapperley, and will take less formal action to deal with that myself – as a lawyer and a member it will, I suspect, be better that you do not know!”
“And the cargo, Sir Thomas?”
“Dispose of it, to the African Trade will be best, I suspect – nothing untoward in muskets and powder going down to the Coast, I believe.”
An hour and Clapperley was on his way north again; two hours and Tom was en route to London.
“Mr Michael, do you know of what sort of surveillance our friend Chawleigh is under?”
Michael raised an eyebrow – Tom was implying that he had a closer, more direct link with the Home Office people than ever he had admitted; he thought a few seconds before deciding to answer.
“Loose, I believe, Sir Thomas, certainly no day-to-day watch, none of the people have been designated to keep him permanently under an eye.”
“Thus, was he to suffer an unfortunate accident there would be none to give direct evidence of its nature.”
“None, Sir Thomas, and I believe I wish to hear no more on this topic!”
Michael was not stupid, had understood instantly what was being hinted.
“Certainly not, Mr Michael, though I believe and hope that you may receive a communication in the immediate future relating to the movement of muskets, powder and ball through Cork – which will not, of course, bear any relationship whatsoever to poor Mr Chawleigh.”
“Ah! An ending to that particular endeavour would be most welcome, I believe, Sir Thomas. May I make mention of your name as a source of my information – suggesting, for example, that you had discovered one or more of ships chartered to you to have been carrying the offending items and had taken immediate and vigorous action? It would stand greatly to your credit, sir.”
“You may mention it, Mr Michael, pointing out my patriotic outrage on finding that I had been duped.”
They exchanged polite farewells and Michael made his way to a small set of offices not so far from the Opera House, exchanging a nod of recognition with a pair of market porters apparently lounging on the other side of the road. Inside, he asked whether Mr Smith was at liberty and was rapidly escorted up two flights of stairs to a small room containing a desk and two chairs and a set of bookshelves, all in drab, unpolished oak, and a small, spare, ordinary-seeming, unmemorable middle-aged gentleman, reading his letters through gold-rimmed spectacles.
“Muskets, powder and ball, Mr Smith, entering Cork from the States, concealed in cargoes of cotton, without the consignee’s knowledge, I understand. Details of wharf and warehouse are due by express within two or three days. Sir Thomas Andrews discovered the transactions and is proposing to bring them to an end, being annoyed that his were the shipments covering them. He, you will remember, is the scarred gentleman who is renowned as a pistoleer.”
Smith nodded, mention of pistols suggesting just how the problem was to be ended.
“He is, himself, clear of suspicion, Mr Michael? He is not, perhaps, covering his own tracks?”
“Only to the extent that he used a dubious agent, suspecting him to be a useful criminal but discovering him to be a damned traitor instead. He is certainly irate about that – he has no objection at all to theft, fraud and sharp practice between businessmen, but he is wholly loyal to his country, of that I am quite certain, sir.”
“Good! His business dealings are no concern of ours, of course. Do I wish to know of any other names, Mr Michael?”
“Probably not, Mr Smith – it is so much easier to deny all knowledge to one’s superiors if one actually lacks the information. I will, with your permission, inform you after the event, if there should be one, which I have no prior knowledge of, as you will appreciate.”
Smith nodded, pulled a slim folder from a bottom shelf, made a brief, coded note and looked up smiling.
“A good end to a vexing problem, Mr Michael. Please to send the information as soon as it reaches you to Mr Brown in Bristol; he will take the packet for Cork immediately thereafter and will make use of our people there to apprehend materials and men. Thank you, Mr Michael! While I think of it, how is your brother’s son now?”
“He is very well, Mr Smith, settled in the family home and highly unlikely to venture overseas again. However Radical his sympathies may be I am quite sure they will never lead him back to Paris again.”
Smith made a note in another folder, said how glad he was that the boy had calmed down and that no action needed ever be taken against him or his family who had paid his way.
Tom returned to the Clarendon and addressed a note to Chawleigh, begging him to visit him early in the evening, at seven o’clock, say; he sent the sealed note by a hotel man, informing the manager that he expected a visitor after dinner, at about nine o’clock perhaps. At six o’clock he left the hotel himself, walked the three quarters of a mile to Chawleigh’s club and settled himself in an alley leading back to the mews behind the houses and premises lining the street. It was just too late for the commercial premises to be busy, too early for evening strollers out for pleasure or for the working girls to be on their beats, the pavements almost empty. As he had hoped, Chawleigh let himself out of his club with the intention of walking in the summer sunshine rather than giving an address to a cabman; he came opposite to the alley and Tom called quietly to him.
“Over here, Bob!”
“Tom! What is it? Is the hotel being watched?”
“No, no watchers at all, Bob. I know what you are doing, Bob, the muskets and powder for Ireland. I need the names of the people you work for in this country, Bob, and where to find them. I can guarantee that you will stay alive and will be well-off if you give me them, Bob.”
He knew that Chawleigh would never betray his employers – he had never double-crossed in his life – but he had to give him a chance, small though it might be.
“No, Tom – in any case, I would be dead within a month of selling them – my name will be known to their bosses in Paris and they would pay me out.”
“A pension in Canada? It has been done before, I believe.”
“No, Tom. I’m sorry, Tom, but I have no choice. I can’t and I won’t betray them, so, Tom, there is only one thing to do to keep myself safe.”
Chawleigh drew a knife, short-bladed but sharp, more than adequate to quietly cut a throat. He looked surprised when Tom levelled the pistol he was holding under his frockcoat.
“You can’t do that, there’ll be every lounger in a mile galloping to see what the noise is! Call it quits, Tom. Give me twenty-four hours running time before you tell the authorities.”
Chawleigh stepped back a pace to show his pacific intent, his willingness to negotiate, and Tom shot him through the head, the heavy ball throwing blood and brain backwards, out of splash range.
He tucked the pistol away and skipped five paces down the alley, into the mews and then quickly up the parallel alley ten yards away and back to the street, running with the scurrying onlookers to the scene of the killing, joining the growing crowd, his scarred face noticed by several who saw him trotting towards the excitement. Half an hour later he wandered off as the interest died, ambled unconcernedly down the road and back to the Clarendon, changed and ate his dinner, publicly and quietly as was his normal habit. He expected no official investigation to follow this particular felony, could not imagine that Chawleigh had any relatives who might wish to fee the Runners, knew that the local constables would be unable to discover or pursue any clues – there would be no description of a fleeing murderer for them to follow up. He finished his meal and took a single glass of port, as was his normal practice, noting that his hands were not shaking, that he was effectively unmoved by the killing – it was still as easy as it always had been, which was, perhaps, a surprise – happily married, content in his life, he had wondered if it would make a difference, but it did not, he could still destroy quite casually. A pity, in some ways, he would have to take care that he did not resort to killing except as a very last answer to an otherwise insoluble problem – it could not be a wise habit, might well draw unfavourable attention to the family.
He visited Michael again two days later before leaving London.
“I received a letter this morning, Sir Thomas, dispatched on horse-back by a special messenger and containing all of the detail one could hope for both in Ireland and in the States. The matter is in hand, of course, and your efforts have been noted and are very deeply appreciated.”
Tom nodded his approval.
“I hear that Bob Chawleigh was shot in the street near his club, Sir Thomas. Official opinion is that his French masters, fearing he had been betrayed, got rid of him before he could talk.”
“He would never have talked, Mr Michael – his loyalty, once bought, was absolute, so no useful knowledge was lost with his death.”
“Noted, Sir Thomas.”
They discussed the subject a little longer, neither able to find loose ends needing to be tied up, both finally satisfied that the unsavoury business had been brought to a satisfactory, discreet end, one which redounded to their joint credit.
“Whilst I think of it, Mr Michael, Lord Rothwell, the new one, my brother by marriage, has been recommended to a Mr Goldsmid as a business agent in London – he used a cousin as his prize-agent in Jamaica.”
“Nathan Goldsmid?”
“I believe so, sir.”
“The family were money lenders and have now become bankers, have connections throughout Europe and much of Asia as well. Their probity is beyond query, but as Jews in England they are outsiders – I am sure they would dearly love to be associated with the heir to the Marquis of Grafham as a means of making contact with the powers-that-be and effecting an entry to the inner circles of government and business. It could well be greatly to his advantage, Sir Thomas. I believe there are unmarried daughters, as well.”
Tom thought for a few seconds.
“Portions?”
“Massive, Sir Thomas.”
“Yet very unpopular with society, I fear.”
“Probably – but that might be overcome, in time.”
“I wonder… Do you think it would be possible to make some sort of informal contact with their bank, sound them out on the possibility of a bank loan at commercial rates to cover the costs of the enclosure of the Grafham estates?”
“It could be done, Sir Thomas. Might I enquire why?”
“To put me at a distance, Mr Michael – if no commercial loan can be found then I must provide, and will be happy to do so, but I fear to be over-generous and overbearing. I could very easily be resented by the family, I fear.”
Michael made no comment other than to say that he would contact the Goldsmids without delay, pointing out, perhaps, that the Grafhams had recently wed their eldest daughter to the well-known manufacturer, Sir Thomas Andrews.
“Verry, how possible would it be for your brother to marry the daughter of a Jewish banker?”
“Do what?”
The blank incomprehension on her face provided a first answer.
“With an income of not less than five thousand a year into his pocket, her own funds in addition held separately, no doubt.”
“It cannot be done! Simply impossible! Unheard of!”
“It may well be possible. What would your father say?”
She admitted that she did not know – his opinions on the subject of the Hebrew race were a closed book to her, and she had to accept that he had been more welcomin
g to Tom than she had ever expected.
“Perhaps we should speak to your mother first.”
“I do not know M ama’s opinions on Hebrews, but I am well acquainted with her firm belief that money has neither colour nor creed!”
“Frederick, what would you say to a marriage to an unknown but very rich young lady?”
“How unknown, Thomas, and how rich?”
“Very!”
“What would my parents say, do you think?”
Tom shook his head.
“I have no idea, but you might have to talk long with your father. Daughter to a Jewish banking house, which is even more for him to swallow than I was. It occurs to me that it might be presented as a valuable alliance in terms of securing the loyalty of the bankers of Europe, many of whom have had to flee their current places of business, driven out by the French. A welcome in London could do much to assist the City and the war and could persuade them never to return to the Germanies. I understand that Jews are often subject to vigorous persecution in Europe and Russia, murder, looting and atrocity a commonplace – a welcome and a guarantee of protection in England and perhaps a place in government might well bring them to settle here.”
“A matter of public policy, rather than simple commercial greed, Thomas – there would be any number of problems, of course – she would have to convert – my son and heir must be a Christian to take his seat in the Lords and must be able to go to school without standing out amongst the others there. From my point of view – I can see no great problem, I must marry and for money, my mother has been distressingly blunt on that point, so the more the money, the better, and one well-bred young lady is much the same as any other. It will mean living in Town for much of the year, I should imagine, in the company of such part of Society as will not give me the cut direct – for that will be part of the bargain, gaining acceptance for my wife’s family. I would seek employment with one of the Boards, I suspect, or perhaps become a member and join the government, initially in some junior capacity, which would meet the needs of my new family. Like you, Thomas, I shall be an outsider for many years, a little blown upon but still Grafham’s heir, probably until I bring children to the Marriage Mart, their wealth making me much more acceptable. It could be amusing!”
Nouveau Riche (A Poor Man at the Gate Series, Book 2) Page 27