If Cloisterman had lingered in the Piazza del Popolo until late afternoon, he would have been taken aback to witness the arrival in Rome not just of Estelle de Vries, but also of William Spandrel, in the company of two Englishmen, one shaped like a bean-pole, the other like a water-butt – Giles Buckthorn and Naseby Silverwood. The latter pair administered as many loud complaints as lavish bribes before progressing beyond the customs-house, while Mrs de Vries and her supposed cousin attracted little attention. Buckthorn and Silverwood had it on good authority, so they declared, that the best accommodation was to be found in or near the Piazza di Spagna. By strange chance it was the very same fox-faced servitor who had earlier obliged Cloisterman who now earned another fee by leaping aboard their carriage and directing its driver to their destination.
The light was fading fast as they drove along the Via del Babuino, the sky turning a gilded pink. Spandrel saw the alternately grand and dilapidated buildings to either side as purple-grey monuments to a world he had never expected to experience – ancient, exotic and mysterious. He should have felt exhilarated. Instead, the bile of regret and resentment lapped at his thoughts – regret for the promise he had given McIlwraith and was now busily breaking; resentment of Buckthorn and Silverwood for forcing Estelle to maintain a seemly distance from him. His only consolation was that they had finally arrived where their bold project of enrichment could be enacted. Once the book presently nestling in Estelle’s travelling-case was sold, Buckthorn and Silverwood could be forgotten, along with everything else comprising their past. Only the future would matter then. And it was the future that seemed to glitter in Estelle’s eyes as she glanced across at him. Nothing would be denied him then.
The Palazzo Muti, Roman residence of the self-styled King James III of England and VIII of Scotland, was a handsomely columned and pedimented gold-stuccoed building at the northern end of the Piazza dei Santi Apostoli, close to the heart of the old city. The Pretender had spent all but the first six months of his life exiled from the country he claimed the right to rule. The failure of the Fifteen had led to a still more humiliating exile from France and the past four years had found him sheltering in Rome, further than ever, both metaphorically and geographically, from where he wanted to be. Yet those four years had also seen his marriage, to the beautiful Polish princess, Clementina Sobieski, and her obliging production of a bonny baby boy. With the British Government mired in unpopularity, half its ministers on trial and the other half scrabbling for position, the Pretender’s prospects did not currently seem as negligible as they often had.
Surveying the Palazzo Muti from the trottoir on the other side of the piazza, the lanterns flanking its entrance newly lit against the encroaching dusk, Cloisterman reflected that, grand though it was, it was far from grand enough for a king. Nor were its surroundings – narrow, rubbish-strewn streets rank with mud and merda – in any way flattering to James Edward Stuart’s dignified view of himself. All in all, the Pretender’s home-from-home looked what it was: a tribute to his past failures. But they would not matter if he could achieve one crowning success. And for that, Cloisterman suspected, the Green Book might be enough.
He moved away then, walking smartly towards the other end of the piazza. Before reaching it, he turned right, back towards the Corso, middle and longest of the three streets leading south from the Piazza del Popolo. He crossed the Corso, headed up it a little way, then turned off along a narrow street consumed by the shadows of unlit buildings, before stepping through a low arch into a dank courtyard, where he felt his way to a doorway and rang three times at the bell.
A minute or so passed, then the sound of shuffling feet and the glimmer of a candle seeped around the door. It creaked open and a small old woman with no more flesh on her than a sparrow squinted out at him. ‘Si?’
‘For Colonel Drummond,’ said Cloisterman, thrusting a letter into her ice-cold hand. ‘You understand?’
‘Colonel Drummond,’ she repeated, comprehendingly enough. ‘Si, si.’
‘It’s important.’ He raised his voice. ‘Importante.’
The candlelight made a shadowy chasm of her toothless grin. There was the rattle of something that might have been a laugh. ‘Si, si. Sempre importante.’ Then she closed the door in his face.
Circumstances had meanwhile conspired to smile on the wishes and desires of William Spandrel. The Piazza di Spagna was a broad concourse, centred on a fountain fashioned in the likeness of a leaking boat, separating the Spanish Embassy from a muddy, cart-tracked slope, at the top of which stood the twin bell towers of the church of Trinità dei Monti. The servitor who had accompanied them from Piazza del Popolo persuaded Buckthorn and Silverwood that the most charming lodgings in the area were to be found in the Palazzetto Raguzzi, at the northern end of the piazza. Buckthorn and Silverwood were indeed charmed by the two first-floor rooms that were available, though chagrined to discover that the whole party could not be accommodated under the same roof. After much courteous proposing and chivalrous disposing, it was agreed that Estelle had to be given the benefit of one of the rooms and Spandrel that of the other, while Buckthorn and Silverwood contented themselves with rooms at the Albergo Luna in Via Condotti, just off the piazza.
The Palazzetto Raguzzi was well named so far as Spandrel was concerned. His room, like Estelle’s, was palatially proportioned, with high windows overlooking the piazza, and was richly furnished. Such odd stains and frays as there were did not prevent it being just about the grandest lodgings he had ever secured. But grandeur was something he was already looking forward to becoming accustomed to. And meanwhile there was a priceless pleasure to be enjoyed.
After dinner with Buckthorn and Silverwood at the Albergo Luna, they retired early to the Palazzetto on grounds of fatigue following the long day’s journey. Fatigued they certainly were. But for Spandrel that counted for nothing compared with his four days’ worth of pent-up longing for Estelle. She seemed as delighted as he was to end their self-denial. An evening of irksome attendance on Buckthorn and Silverwood’s by now all too familiar vapidities gave way to a night of physical release in which the joy Spandrel had felt in Geneva bloomed anew. It was a joy he knew at the back of his mind he should not make the mistake of supposing that Estelle shared. But by morning, suppose it he nonetheless did.
By morning also their thoughts had turned to the purpose for which they had come to Rome. ‘We must deposit the book at a bank this morning,’ said Estelle, as they lay in bed together at dawn. ‘Mr Buckthorn and Mr Silverwood will be eager to show me some of the antiquities I have assured them I am equally eager to see. I propose you complain of some minor illness and absent yourself. They will not question your absence.’
‘I reckon not.’
‘In fact,’ said Estelle with a smile, ‘they will be rather pleased by it.’
‘And won’t hide their pleasure well.’
‘Exactly. At all events, while I am yawning my way round some ruin or other, you will go to the Palazzo Muti and seek an audience with the Pretender’s secretary.’
‘What if he won’t see me?’
‘If you are persistent, he will. It may take a little while. We must be patient. When you tell him what we have to sell, he will understand its significance. And he will pay what we ask to gain possession of the book. For the Pretender, it will promise an end to exile.’
‘Is that truly what the Green Book means, Estelle? Revolution in our homeland? A Stuart king back on the throne?’
‘Who knows? And who cares?’ Estelle inclined her head to look at Spandrel. Her eyes were deeper shadows amidst the shadows of the room. The scent of her flesh was all about him, the cunning and the daring of their scheme wreathing itself around his intoxicating memories of the night before. ‘This is for us, William. Us and no-one else.’
‘I wish you could come with me.’
‘So do I. But such negotiations are best conducted by a man. It is the way of the world.’
‘Who’d have conducted them for yo
u if we hadn’t met in Vevey? Buckthorn? Or Silverwood?’
‘Neither.’
‘But you just said—’
‘Enough.’ She silenced him with a kiss. ‘We met. We made our pact.’ She stretched out her hand to touch him beneath the sheets. ‘Now we look forward. Not back. Ever again.’
Chapter Twenty-Four
Skinning the Bear
‘MR SPANDREL, IS it?’ said James Edgar, as he looked up from his desk.
It was the late afternoon of the following day. The glaring Roman light of noon had faded to a purpling pink in the sky and to a blackening grey in the office of the private secretary to King James VIII and III, as Mr Edgar would undoubtedly have described himself. He was a spare, round-shouldered, bespectacled man who looked, though he probably was not, much older than the thirty-two-year-old king-in-exile whom he served. Mr Edgar was the dry-as-dust inky-fingered quintessence of a Scottish solicitor, transplanted with no apparent change of habit to the land of dead Caesars and dissolute cardinals.
Spandrel had waited many hours to see Mr Edgar. He had been left to cramp his haunches during those hours on a narrow chair in a draughty passage near the main stairway of the Palazzo Muti, while a contrasting assortment of whispering clerics, grumbling Scots and pinch-mouthed servants passed him heedlessly by. He had waited as patiently as he could, bearing Estelle’s prediction of delay in mind. The Green Book was now safely lodged at the Banco Calderini, while Estelle was being shown the wonders of the Pantheon and the Campidoglio by the ever attentive Buckthorn and Silverwood. It was Spandrel’s demanding lot to await his opportunity of a conversation with the dour Mr Edgar and to ensure that the opportunity, when it came, was not wasted.
‘My name is Spandrel, yes. May I come straight to the purpose of my visit?’
‘I’d be grateful if you did. I’m a busy man, Mr Spandrel. And we have more than our fair share here of uninvited visitors. I can’t afford to waste my time hearing all their stories.’
‘I’m obliged to you for seeing me, then.’
‘I was told you gave no sign of meaning to leave.’
‘I’ve come too far to do that without explaining myself … to someone close to …’
‘The King?’
Spandrel shrugged. ‘Yes. The King.’
Edgar smiled thinly. ‘You don’t sound like a true believer, Mr Spandrel.’
‘My beliefs don’t matter.’
‘Do they not? How far have you come, by the by?’
‘That doesn’t matter either. It’s what I’ve come with that’s important.’
‘And what is that?’
‘The secret account book of the chief cashier of the South Sea Company.’
Edgar raised one sceptical eyebrow, but seemed otherwise unmoved. ‘The Green Book?’
‘You’ve heard of it?’
‘I’ve heard of many things. The King’s loyal friends in England make sure I do. The South Sea disaster is a judgement on those who let in a German prince and his greedy minions to rule the Stuart domain. I’m aware of all the highways and byways of the affair. But I’m not aware of a single reason why I should suppose that a … man like you … might have charge of the errant Mr Knight’s sin-black secrets.’
‘It’s a long story. Chance and treachery are about the sum of it.’
‘As of many a story.’
‘I have the book, Mr Edgar. Believe me.’
‘Why should I?’
‘Because you can’t afford not to. It represents a heaven-sent opportunity for you.’
‘You don’t look like a heavenly messenger to me.’
‘The Green Book lists all the bribes paid to secure passage of the South Sea Bill last year. Exactly how much. And exactly who to.’
‘Tell me, then. Exactly how much was it?’
‘I’m no accountant. It would certainly take one to tease out the pounds, shillings and pence. Many hundreds of thousands of pounds is as close as I can get. More than a million, I’d guess.’
‘Would you, though?’ Edgar’s gaze was calm but penetrating. He looked neither disbelieving nor convinced. ‘And exactly who received this money?’
‘I can give you some names.’
‘Do.’
‘Roberts; Rolt; Tufnell; Burridge; Scott; Chetwynd; Bampfield; Bland; Sebright; Drax.’
‘Members of Parliament to a man.’
‘You’d know them better than me, Mr Edgar. They’re all listed.’
‘Who else?’
‘Carew; Bankes; Forrester; Montgomerie; Blundell; Lawson; Gordon—’
‘Sir William Gordon? The Commissioner of Army Accounts?’
‘Sir William Gordon, yes.’ Estelle had insisted he memorize some of the names and now he realized how right she had been to. Edgar’s expression was softening. His doubts were receding. ‘And various peers.’
‘Which ones?’
‘Lord Gower; Lord Lansdowne; the Earl of Essex; the Marquess of Winchester; and the Earl of Sunderland.’
‘Sunderland?’
‘Yes.’ Spandrel looked at Edgar with the confidence of knowing that what he said was absolutely true. ‘The First Lord of the Treasury’s isn’t the most eminent name in the book.’
‘No?’
‘Far from it.’
‘Whose is, then?’
‘His master’s.’ Spandrel paused for effect. He was beginning to enjoy himself. ‘The King.’
‘The King?’ Edgar smiled. ‘I take it you are referring to the Elector of Hanover.’
‘I beg your pardon.’ Spandrel felt himself blushing at his mistake. In the looking-glass world of the Palazzo Muti, it was important to remember who was notionally a king and who was not. ‘I do mean the Elector of Hanover. Of course. But whatever we call him …’
‘He is listed.’
‘Yes.’
‘To the tune of what?’
‘An allocation of one hundred thousand pounds in stock for a payment of only twenty.’
‘When was the allocation made?’
‘The fourteenth of April.’
‘Then it signifies nothing. That was when the First Money Subscription opened. Twenty per cent would have been a normal first instalment.’ Edgar shook his head. ‘Dear me, Mr Spandrel. You seem to be just another bearskin jobber, of the kind the Stock Exchange always has in plentiful supply.’ Seeing Spandrel’s uncomprehending look, he added, ‘You are trying to sell me the bear’s skin before you have killed the bear.’
‘No, no. You must let me finish. The K—’ Spandrel gulped back the word. ‘The Elector of Hanover,’ he continued slowly, ‘sold the stock back to the company on the thirteenth of June at a profit of sixty-eight thousand pounds. He never paid any more instalments.’
‘No more instalments?’ Edgar queried softly.
‘None.’
‘Sold back … and treated as fully paid?’
‘Yes.’
Edgar pursed his lips. ‘Were any other members of the Elector’s family similarly treated?’
‘Yes. The Prince of Wales. That is, I mean—’
‘Let it pass. I know who you mean.’
‘Also the Princess.’
‘Aha.’
‘As well as the Duchess of Kendal and her nieces.’
‘As one would expect.’
‘And the Countess von Platen.’
‘Both mistresses. What a considerate lover the Elector is.’
‘I should also mention …’ Spandrel hesitated. He knew from what McIlwraith had told him of the political situation at Westminster that the name he was about to let fall was in many ways the most significant of all. ‘Walpole.’
‘Robert Walpole?’
‘Yes.’
Edgar looked straight at him. ‘You’re sure of that?’
‘I’m sure.’
‘How much?’
‘I can’t say.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because …’ Spandrel had employed Estelle’s tactics faithfully and was not about to
stop. He had told Edgar enough. Now it was time to name their price. ‘We need to agree terms, Mr Edgar.’
‘Terms?’
‘For your purchase of the book.’
‘You are not making a gift of it to the cause, then?’
‘No.’
‘You are merely a thief, seeking to sell what he has stolen.’
‘Do you want to buy it … or not?’
‘How much did Walpole receive?’
‘How much are you willing to pay to find out?’
‘How much, Mr Spandrel’ – Edgar let out a long, slow breath – ‘are you demanding?’
‘One hundred thousand pounds.’
‘Absurd.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘The King hasn’t the resources to pay such money.’
‘It’s not so very much … for a kingdom.’
‘For a kingdom?’ Edgar leaned back in his chair and rested his hand thoughtfully on the papers strewing his desk. A moment of silence passed. Then he looked up sharply. ‘Why are you offering this to us instead of to the Elector? He’d pay handsomely to retrieve the evidence of his own corruption.’
‘I lost all the money I spent on South Sea stock. Every penny. I was cheated. I want the people who cheated me to suffer for what they did.’
‘Revenge, is it?’
‘Partly.’
‘But mostly greed.’
‘Call it what you will. The price is a fair one.’
‘The price is extortionate. But …’ Edgar drummed his fingers. ‘I will apprise the King of your proposition.’
‘When can I have an answer?’
‘Return here at noon tomorrow. By then, I should have something for you, be it an answer or no.’
‘The Green Book blasts the reputation of every man in it, Mr Edgar. It can topple a throne. You’ll never have—’
‘I know what it can do. If what you say is true.’
‘It’s true.’
‘Then be patient, Mr Spandrel.’ Edgar nodded towards the door. ‘Until noon tomorrow.’
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