Lord Jocelyn missed Forest Hill, but his eyes opened as they were passing the magnificent Crystal Palace, towering on its eminence at Sydenham, 200 feet above the track to the right.
Confound the Royal Scandinavian Bank! Why should it have chosen to panic in July, of all months? It had been reassuring to be approached by Strange to make up the consortium, but it was going to be a near thing – a very near thing. He could have declined in perfect safety, but Strange would not have forgotten. Well, there was no real cause for concern – but it would be a near thing, a very near thing.
At Norwood, the train gathered speed, and Lord Jocelyn, dismissing the articulated skeleton and his doings from his mind, let his thoughts dwell on the comforts of Duppas Park House, his elegant mansion in Croydon, on his wife, dull, worthy Lady Marion, and on his flighty daughter, Clemency.
Marion was incorrigible, long given over, body and soul, to good works of the most depressing kind. It was lucky that she’d never been of a jealous temperament, otherwise she might have put spies on him to see where he went when he claimed, several times a month, to be kept all night at his offices in the Strand. It would not do, for poor, plodding Marion to find out about visits to the fascinating and magical widow out at Belsize Park.
Clemency, still only twenty, was supposedly ‘finishing’ in Paris, but he suspected that she was, in fact, enjoying herself hugely in the fast set surrounding the young Marquis de Montfort. Well, let her. She was her father’s daughter, and he was amused, rather than angry, at her constant pleas for sustaining cheques. He had a shrewd feeling, born of his natural affinity with his daughter’s temperament, that she would choose to remain in Paris for good.
As for Strange – well, let him go to the Devil, together with his money-grubbing cronies! There was more to life than rooting round in the corners of bank vaults, looking for spare crates of coin.
Confound the Royal Scandinavian Bank! It was going to be a near thing on Friday the twenty-eighth – yes, a very near thing.
‘Up here, Box, if you please. I shan’t keep you more than ten minutes.’
Box had hurried into the vestibule of 4 King James’s Rents just after eight o’clock on the morning of Tuesday, 18 July, to find Superintendent Mackharness waiting for him on the landing at the top of the stairs. He must have seen him from the window of his dark front office on the upper floor of the Rents, as he’d crossed the cobbles from Whitehall Place.
‘Sit down there, will you, Box, while I glance through these letters. Then I’ll tell you what I want you to do.’
Box regarded his superior officer with a judicious mixture of affection and apprehension. Mackharness was well over sixty, and afflicted by occasional bouts of sciatica, which had given him a more or less permanent limp. His yellowish face was adorned with neatly trimmed mutton chop whiskers. He was a neat man, dressed in a black civilian frock coat, which made him look rather like an elderly clerk in a counting-house. Box thought that he deserved better accommodation than the gloomy, lopsided chamber, smelling of stale gas and mildew, that he was obliged to occupy.
‘Now, Box,’ said Mackharness, putting aside the last of his letters, and fixing his subordinate with a steely eye, ‘I’ve called you up here to tell you that, in ten days’ time, there’s to be a movement of bullion from a number of City banks; to be precise, a consignment of specie worth four million pounds—’
‘Strewth! Four million? Specie, did you call it, sir?’
‘Yes, Box. Specie means current coin of the realm. Bullion’s too vague a word, though to most people it means gold and silver bars. My grandfather once saw a wagon laden with silver bars in the forecourt of Rothschild’s bank in St Swithin’s Lane. But this is specie – gold sovereigns, you know.’
Mackharness tapped the scuffed leather surface of his massive old desk with a large, spatulate finger, while regarding Box with an almost abstract air of speculation. Arnold Box said nothing. He looked at the superintendent’s cluttered mantelpiece, and then at the massive rectangle of vacant space above it, where a top-heavy full-length portrait of Sir Robert Peel had hung until recently. He wondered what had become of it.
‘So that’s it, Box,’ Mackharness resumed, ‘yes, indeed. But what was it I wanted to say? Oh, yes. “Strewth”. I’ve said before that you should try to find some more elegant epithets to use when you feel compelled to utter an exclamation. To the fishwife, or the costermonger, such infelicities are no doubt commonplace: they sit ill upon the person of one of Her Majesty’s police inspectors.’
‘Sir—’
‘Well, just bear what I say in mind. There’s no need to apologize. You’d better come with me now to Room 6, where I’ve set out my plans for this operation on the twenty-eighth. Scotland Yard will only be at the periphery, as the actual movements will be supervised by the City of London police, a couple of special officers from “A”, and the dock people. But where we are concerned in the matter, Box, the Governor of the Bank, and the Commissioner, will look for efficiency, discretion, and success.’
Superintendent Mackharness heaved himself up from his desk, and lumbered out into a narrow, echoing passage to the right of the landing. Box followed him.
Room 6 resembled a company board room, with long, baize-covered tables arranged in a horseshoe. The walls were hung with flyblown portraits of previous commissioners of the Metropolitan Police. The missing Sir Robert Peel was propped up against the wall in a dark corner.
The tables were covered with a massive map of London, a huge canvas affair, its surface yellow with varnish. It served as a kind of table cloth for Mackharness’s beautifully drawn route maps, to which were attached instructions and comments in his bold copperplate writing. Rulers and magnifying glasses lay where the superintendent had left them on finishing his task. Box sat down at one of the tables, and listened while Mackharness explained the details of the coming operation.
‘This four million pounds in gold, Box, is required by the Royal Scandinavian Bank to bolster their holdings. For various reasons, the Bank of England doesn’t want to transfer its own specie, and has called in Sir Hamo Strange to raise a private loan. He did this in the space of five days, calling in five prominent bankers to assist him. Sir Hamo Strange is advancing one million pounds of his own gold. This will be moved from his private bullion vaults at Carmelite Pavement, which is on our side of Blackfriars Bridge. One of the two men from “A” – in fact, Constable Lane, who assisted you at that business in Back Peter Street – will be on duty at Sir Hamo Strange’s vaults, where he is well known.’
The fat finger pointed to a spot on one of the hand-drawn maps. Box saw the double dotted lines that indicated the tunnel passing under the Embankment to Carmelite Pier, Sir Hamo Strange’s private landing-stage.
‘All the other consignments will be moved in secure vans hired from Chaplin’s, the carriers at Victoria. Each van will have a City of London policeman up on the box with the regular driver. The vans will proceed to five separate destinations along the river, where steam launches will be waiting. A launch will also be standing with steam up at Sir Hamo’s private landing stage.’
‘So there will be six steam launches, sir? Won’t that be a strain on the River Police?’
‘They’ll be private launches, Box, hired for the occasion from Moltman & Sons, who have a fleet of specially strengthened vessels used for conveying very heavy cargoes at speed along the river. These special craft will be provided at the expense of the consortium.
‘Now, very briefly, I’ll take you through the details of the other five bankers in the consortium, insofar as they affect our policing on the twenty-eighth. Each of them is putting up six hundred thousand pounds. The first is N.M. Rothschild, at New Court, in St Swithin’s Lane. You’ll see my proposed route on that plan over there – Cannon Street, across Upper Thames Street, into Swan Lane, and so to Swan Lane Pier.
‘The second banker is Sir Abraham Goldsmith, at Old Change Court, south of St Paul’s, just off Carter Lane.’ Mackharness
described the short but tortuous route that would take Sir Abraham’s gold sovereigns down to Queenhythe Steps, close to the Middlesex end of Southwark Bridge.
‘I wondered what to do about the next bank, Brown’s of Lothbury. I was tempted to combine their consignment with that of Rothschild’s, as the two banks are virtually neighbours. But it’s better to be safe than sorry. So Brown’s van will go out of Lothbury, into Old Jewry, then Cheapside, and along New Change Lane, skirting St Paul’s. It will then cross Upper Thames Street, and end up at White Lion Stairs, on the City side of Blackfriars Bridge.
‘The two remaining banks are simpler propositions. Thomas Weinstock & Sons are in Fenchurch Street, so it’s a fairly straight route for their van to take them out beyond London Bridge at Grant’s Quay. Peto’s Bank is in the Strand, which means that their consignment can simply proceed down Surrey Street to Temple Pier.’
Superintendent Mackharness sat back in his chair, and permitted himself a little smile of self-congratulation. Box pulled the various plans towards him, and studied them in silence for a while. Really, he thought, the guvnor’s first rate at this kind of work. There were six separate hand-drawn plans, one for each of the journeys, and a seventh, which depicted a great arc of the Thames stretching from their own stamping-ground at Whitehall Stairs to Tower Bridge. The river had been tinted a pale blue, and the six moorings where the special steam launches would be waiting were clearly marked in red.
‘Take those drawings away, will you, Box, and make yourself familiar with them. I don’t anticipate any trouble, but it’s as well to ensure that we understand fully what will be happening on the twenty-eighth.’
‘I suppose this will be mainly a task for the City of London Police, sir?’ asked Box. He was beginning to wonder why he had been made privy to Mackharness’s clever scheme, but knew better than to ask. A subtle approach always worked well with Old Growler.
‘Oh, yes, Box, it’s a matter for City, as it was when something similar was done in ’90. That, as I recall, was another of Sir Hamo Strange’s financial manoeuvrings. But, as I said, the Home Secretary and the Commissioner both feel that Scotland Yard should be involved in matters involving a foreign power.’
‘And the six launches—’
‘The six launches, Box, each with its cargo of treasure, will leave their respective berths at a time predetermined by me, and will all arrive over a period of half an hour at a spot opposite Globe Stairs Pier, from whence they will proceed into the West India Import Dock. Their cargoes will be offloaded into a tender, with armed guards on board, found by the London Rifle Brigade. The tender will convey the whole consignment to the Swedish merchant steamer Gustavus Vasa, lying at anchor in Limehouse Reach.’
‘Excellent, sir,’ said Box. ‘And do you see a role for me in this exercise?’
‘What? Well, yes, Box, otherwise I shouldn’t have asked you to come up here. Had you waited for me to finish, instead of interrupting, I’d have told you what I want you to do.
‘During the course of this week, you are to survey the six routes that I’ve delineated on these plans, and report to me any possible snags that you notice. Road works, and things of that nature. Then, on the twenty-eighth, at fifteen minutes before eight o’clock in the morning, I want you to station yourself with field-glasses on Morgan’s Lane Pier, on the Surrey side, and watch all six launches sail under Tower Bridge. All six will have white funnels, with a red band, and a letter and numeral in black beneath the band. So there you are, Box: the details of what I hope will prove to be an efficient operation. Take those plans downstairs with you, and commit them to memory. I think that’s all. Good morning.’
Clutching Mackharness’s set of plans to his chest, Box shouldered his way through the doors of his office, which swung to behind him with a series of reverberating thuds. Sergeant Knollys had come in from his lodgings at Syria Wharf, and was sitting on his side of the table, his notebook open in front of him. Box took a cardboard wallet from a drawer, slid the plans into it, and tied its faded red draw-tapes.
‘Well, Sergeant?’ he asked. Jack Knollys turned over a page of his book.
‘Sir, Mrs Pennymint lives in a house at Brookwood, Woking. Twenty-four Charnelhouse Lane. Her husband’s a market gardener. Mr Alfred Pennymint, and Mrs Wilhelmina Pennymint. They’ve been on the rate books there for twenty-eight years.’
‘Mrs Pennymint’s a cheeky lady, Sergeant. Fancy suggesting that I had an uncle called Cuthbert! What a liberty! So she’s not a native of Spitalfields?’
‘No, sir. When she comes up to town for her seances, she stays with the secretary of the Temple of Light, a Mr Arthur Portman. He lives in one of those nice little houses in Henrietta Terrace, near the Strand.’
‘And what did you find out about Mr Portman? He looked almost like a toff, but I don’t think he was. Very respectable, at least in the outward parts. For the inner man, of course, I can say nothing.’
Sergeant Knollys smiled.
‘Mr Arthur Portman, sir, is chief counter clerk at Peto’s Bank in the Strand. Very convenient for him, living in Henrietta Terrace. He and his wife have lived there for seventeen years. They rent the house from the Bedford Estate.’
Peto’s Bank…. Their £600,000 in gold was to be moved by van down Surrey Street to Temple Pier. And Mr Arthur Portman was chief counter clerk. Box shifted uneasily in his chair. From somewhere beyond the darkness of surmise, an idea was rising, but it had not yet come into the light. And Woking….
‘You know, Sergeant Knollys,’ said Box, ‘the very mention of Woking gives me the pip. All those thousands of people, and most of them dead! That necropolis at Brookwood is one of the biggest cemeteries in the country. And to make matters worse, they’ve got one of those great smoking crematoriums—’
‘Crematoria.’
‘Yes, that’s what I said. And then there’s the lunatic asylum…. Woking! I wouldn’t live there, Sergeant, if you was to pay me. Mrs Pennymint, though, will feel quite at home, and so will her spirit guide, Benvolio, I expect.’
‘Yes, sir. And now we come to Mrs Almena Sylvestris. She lives in a very nice house in Melbourne Avenue, Belsize Park. Discreet enquiry among the neighbourhood grooms and maid-servants elicited the information that she is a genuine lady, and highly regarded by all—’
‘Why all these long words, Sergeant? “Elicited”, and so on? You sound like a policeman. There’s only me here, you know. So she’s a lady – well, I could have told you that, having seen her in the flesh, if that’s not too indelicate an expression. And anywhere in Belsize Park is a good address. Single, is she?’
‘She gives herself out to be a widow, and I think she probably is. I saw her alighting from her carriage, and that’s how she struck me. The local residents know that she’s a medium, but for all that – or maybe because of that – she’s highly respected.’
Jack Knollys stopped speaking, and gazed thoughtfully into the small fire burning in the grate. Whatever the time of year, it was always cold in Box’s office. Box looked at him. What an asset he’d proved to be! When he’d told him to make enquiries about the two mediums, Knollys had done so without asking any potentially embarrassing questions. Strictly speaking, Mrs Pennymint and Madam Sylvestris were no concern of Box’s.
‘There’s more, isn’t there?’ asked Box. ‘There’s something you don’t want to tell me.’
‘I don’t like rumours where a lady’s concerned, sir, but you’d better hear this one. There’s talk in Belsize Park that Madam Sylvestris was installed in that house – number eight, Melbourne Avenue – by a rich admirer, who still maintains her there in style. It’s just rumour, but it may be true.’
Arnold Box said nothing. He removed from the table drawer the folder containing Superintendent Mackharness’s plans for the bullion movement on the twenty-eighth, and handed it to his sergeant.
‘Take that through into the drill hall, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘Sit quietly there among the trestle tables for an hour, and see if you can s
oak up its contents. You’ll see what it’s all about when you open it. Thanks for looking into those mediums. They’re up to something nasty. Mark my words.’
‘Don’t you like spiritualists, sir?’
‘No, I don’t, Sergeant. They’re vultures, battening on to people’s grief to get money out of them. And these particular vultures have got their talons into a Metropolitan Police officer, the kind of man they’d normally run a mile to get away from. I’m going out to Finchley tomorrow afternoon to have a word with Louise – Miss Whittaker – about them. About mediums and suchlike. She knows a lot of clever folk at London University, and I’ve heard that some of them take all this ghost business seriously. I’m going out now to see Mr Shale in Beak Street. By the time I come back, I expect you to have learnt the contents of that folder off by heart!’
Sergeant Knollys laughed, stooped his great frame under the arch, and made his way to what Superintendent Mackharness called the drill hall.
As Box struggled into his overcoat, he thought of PC Lane. Was he losing his sense of proportion? His niggling concern for the bereaved young man was in danger of becoming an obsession. Lane was no direct concern of his, and there were others in Whitehall Place who would minister to his needs if necessary. Nevertheless, he’d been right to get Jack Knollys to investigate the background of those two mediums.
Most clairvoyants, tarot-readers and suchlike, were poor, ignorant folk, eking out a hand-to-mouth existence by accepting coppers for dubious predictions; but Mrs Pennymint lived in comfort down at Woking, and Madam Sylvestris in affluence in Belsize Park. What lay behind their interest in PC Lane? Box intended to find out.
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