by Tom Harper
Bressanone, Italy – March, 1987.
So far as she knew her mother had never left the country, never even had a passport.
Curiosity took hold of her. She delved into the boxes, sorting through the papers. It reminded her of the data room in Luxembourg – due diligence on an unfinished life. Two lives, in fact, for among the bank statements and electricity bills was a fair sampling of Ellie’s past. School photographs and exercise books; drawings and paintings; report cards, certificates, school concert programmes. And slipped among them, the faintest shadows of a third life that had defined them both. An army discharge certificate; an old life-insurance policy; postcards from the continent. She’d never imagined her father travelling so much. The weather is fine. I’ve seen some beautiful things. Not much luck here. I love you. Nye.
She looked at her watch. Past twelve – visiting hours would start soon. She gave up on trying to get to the hot water tank and steeled herself for an icy shower. There was one bundle of papers left in the box she’d been working on. On top, tucked under the rubber band, was what looked like an unused airline ticket. Ellie pulled it out, wondering why the journey had never happened.
The ticket was for a British Airways flight from London to Munich. February 20th 1988.
She felt a wave of sadness as she realised why the ticket had never been used.
Aneurin Stanton: 12th May 1949 – 19th February 1988.
Except the name on the ticket wasn’t Aneurin Stanton. It was John Herrin.
XXIV
Normandy, 1136
JOCELIN STANDS IN the doorway holding the burning brand. The flames spit and hiss like a demon; his face is etched with fury.
He raises his sword. Ada’s nearest the door, and I think in his rage he’ll cut her down just to get to me. Instinct takes over. I snatch a spear from the rack on the wall and lunge at him. He dodges the blow the way Gornemant taught us, twisting away, but the tip catches a fold of his tunic and flings him back, into the space where the stairs drop away. He falls down the stairs, thudding and clattering on the treacherous spiral, his sword ringing like a dropped coin. The torch goes out.
I put an arm around Ada’s shoulder and hug her to me, trying to impress the urgency.
‘If you stay here, Guy will kill you.’
She nods. I take her hand and lead her down the stairs, feeling my way with the butt of the spear. We find Jocelin in a heap on the next landing, blood oozing from a wound in his skull. I don’t stop to see if I’ve killed him. Somebody must have heard the noise.
But no one’s raised the alarm yet. We reach the bottom of the stairs and creep across the courtyard to the stables. I find a groom curled up in a stall and shake him awake. He rubs the straw out of his eyes.
‘Jocelin had an accident – a fall in the dark. I have to go to Guy. Saddle my horse, and the grey palfrey.’
I leave him and run to the gate, while Ada goes inside to fetch some things. I feed the watchman the same half-truth, and together we crack open the gate wide enough for a horse to pass. I glance at the buildings, wondering if Ada will come. What if she’s changed her mind?
Ada emerges dressed in a stout travelling dress and cloak, with a small bundle tied over her back. Whatever misgivings she has, she’s mastered them for the moment. Her face is invisible under the hood: I can’t guess what she’s thinking. She puts something cold and sharp in my palm.
‘Don’t forget these.’
My spurs. The groom buckles them on around my boots. He sees Ada climb into the grey mare’s saddle and gives a bewildered stare. Has he begun to wonder why the house is so dark, so quiet, if Jocelin’s in such distress?
‘She needs to be with her husband.’
We slip out the gate. The moon’s strong, lighting our way. The rhythm of the horse under me calms my nerves. Ada rides beside me. Her hood blows back and her hair flies behind her. I gaze across the fields where we practised our swordplay and made mock charges. Past the orchard, where I told Ada the tale of Tristan, and the low-roofed barns where we met by night. These places have been my world for the past six years. It’s a strange thought that I’ll never see them again.
I feel free, but I know it’s an illusion. I saw the look on Jocelin’s face. If he’s alive, no power on earth will stop him coming after us.
XXV
Newport, South Wales
NOTHING HAD CHANGED at the hospital except the staff. Two nurses were dressing the bed, rolling her mother first one way and then the other, like a corpse. Ellie couldn’t watch; she waited outside the curtain. A sign on the wall reminded her that she should switch off her mobile phone. At least it would save the battery. In the last few weeks, it had been running down surprisingly fast.
When the nurses had gone, Ellie took up her vigil. She’d brought the old postcards from the attic and she read them aloud, giving life to a voice she’d never heard. She hoped her mother could hear, that somewhere behind that still face she was remembering happier times. What was Dad like? Ellie wondered. In her eyes, he’d only ever been a source of sadness to her mother. It was strange to think of them happy together. Like most children, she couldn’t imagine her parents having an existence without her.
The hospital closed early on a Sunday. With a stab of guilt, Ellie realised she almost felt glad. It had only been twenty-four hours, but she was already sick of the hospital, the low light and random interruptions and long hours of nothing. Was this how she’d spend the rest of her life?
The moment she got home, she found herself climbing back to the attic. She looked at the flight coupon again, half-hoping she’d imagined it. But the name was still there. John Herrin.
Now that she knew what to look for, she went through the loft systematically. She found her old school atlas and plotted her father’s travels using the postcard dates and places, ticket stubs, any receipt in a foreign currency. She looked for anything to do with John Herrin, anything to do with London and the Underground, any references to a tubby man called Harry. Working in libraries on her dissertation, she’d trained herself to disconnect the analytical half of her brain, to inventory the goods without appraising them. Only when she had all the pieces would she let herself think about how they fitted together.
At half-past midnight she was done. The hot water tank stood revealed at last. Her clothes smelled of dust, her arms and face itched from rubbing the rockwool insulation. She found the switch on the tank and treated herself to a long shower, lingering until the hot water supply started to fail again. She rummaged out a tin of soup and some cheese biscuits from her mother’s cupboards and made herself a late supper – she hadn’t eaten all day. Only then did she examine the evidence she’d accumulated.
She had the atlas. A scattering of dots marked across the double-spread Europe, trips taken every two or three months from 1984 through 1987. The furthest east was Istanbul; the furthest west Santiago de Compostela, but most of the dots clustered between the Rhine and the Seine, the fault line where France and Germany had pushed against each other for centuries, throwing up statelets like Belgium and Luxembourg in their tectonic struggle. Another string of dots ran along the Alps, from northern Italy to southern France. Several clustered in Switzerland around Lausanne.
Then there was the plane ticket for John Herrin – to which she had added a hotel bill and an application to Somerset House for a duplicate birth certificate, both in the same name.
Finally there was the letter, typewritten on thick cream paper, inviting John Herrin to a job interview on Thursday November 22nd 1987. The letter that made Ellie gasp when she saw it.
The Director, Mr Vivian Blanchard, would be delighted if you could visit him to discuss possible career opportunities at the Monsalvat Bank.
London
Ellie couldn’t believe anyone used phone boxes any more. But, like Cliff Richard and Harvey’s Bristol Cream, they still seemed to exist. Huddled inside the glass box on the corner of Moorgate and London Wall, she was glad for it. She knew Monsalvat could m
onitor the calls from her phone – she’d signed a piece of paper that let them do just that. Until two weeks ago, she hadn’t imagined she’d have anything to say worth listening to.
The phone rang and rang until an answering machine kicked in. Ellie looked at the card Harry had given her in the gardens in Brussels – a phone number with a London prefix, and a scrawled message. If no answer, leave a message for Harry from Jane.
‘Hi Harry, this is Jane.’ She stammered for something to say and couldn’t think of anything. ‘Give me a call.’ But he wouldn’t call on her mobile, and there was no phone at the flat.
A car drove by, flooding the phone box with light. Ellie turned away. Could it be the Bentley? She tried to catch a glimpse, but it was already nothing more than a pair of red brake-lights glaring back at her.
She looked at her watch. In Newport, the hospital reception desk would close in ten minutes. Hoping no one was watching, she stepped out of the phone box and got out her mobile. A soft voice, as familiar and unworldly as the talking clock, told her the same news it had told her every day for a week. No change.
All she could do was wait.
In most of the City, January was one extended hangover from the year before: slow days, long lunch breaks and early finishes. Even the junior analysts sometimes made it home before eight. But at Monsalvat, the phones rang and the corridors hummed and the e-mails flew about as quickly as ever. Ellie found out why on the Friday after New Year, when Blanchard called her into his office.
‘How is your mother?’ he asked at once.
‘Stable. Still unconscious.’ She didn’t meet his eye. Each night when she went back to the Barbican, she held her breath for fear the Bentley would be waiting outside. Each night, it wasn’t there. It was almost as if Blanchard could smell the reluctance that had come over her. She’d barely even seen him in the office.
‘You are satisfied with the care she has? She is getting everything she needs?’
‘As much as you can expect.’
‘She has family to visit her?’
‘Not really.’
Blanchard toyed with his cufflinks. ‘I was speaking to a friend of mine, a doctor. He is an expert in stroke recovery, perhaps one of the four or five best in the world. He has a private hospital near Harley Street. He is willing to accept your mother as a patient, if you like.’
Ellie shook her head. ‘That’s so kind – but we’d never afford it. My mother doesn’t have any insurance.’
‘The bank will pay.’ Blanchard leaned forward over his desk, staring so hard Ellie couldn’t look anywhere else. ‘I know you do not want charity – nor would I. But you must do what is best for your mother. When she comes out of her coma she will need intensive therapy. The Health Service is a machine; one life is nothing to them. Especially in winter. For the care your mother needs, London would be better.’
She couldn’t argue; she knew he was right. But she couldn’t agree – not because she was proud, but because she was terrified. Bringing her mother to London, to stay in Blanchard’s hospital tended by Blanchard’s doctors, would be surrendering her into his power.
Blanchard misread her doubts. ‘You forget, I have an interest in this too. I do not want you to suffer unnecessarily. It will be easier for you if you do not spend half your life on the train between here and Newport. Better for your mother if you can visit her every day. For coming out of a coma, I am told, the presence of loved ones is very important.’
He picked up a gilded letter-opener and spun it on its point on the desk. ‘And there is business. Always business. I understand your thoughts must be with your mother, but I need you here. Now.’
Ellie waited.
‘Michel Saint-Lazare was delighted to win the Talhouett auction. The company are not so pleased. The management refuse to accept our nominee to the board, or give us any access to the company. So Michel has decided to launch a bid for outright control.’
‘A hostile takeover?’
‘It will be a monumental battle. Both the French and German governments own stakes. If the French sell to us, the Germans will refuse; if the Germans sell, the French won’t. In fact, probably neither of them will do business with us, because they will suspect us of being a Trojan horse for the other. Between them, they own 40 per cent of the company. That makes it difficult for us. All the cards must fall our way. But Michel is determined.
‘We need you for this, Ellie. Your mother’s condition could last for months and you cannot put your life on hold all this time. It goes on.’
He pressed the letter-opener into the desk, pushing a dent in the leather blotter. ‘It would be difficult, I think, to keep working for Monsalvat if your mother remains in Newport.’
A week later she got a reply. The message was so well hidden she almost missed it: slipped into the folds of a free newspaper handed to her on the street as she walked towards the Barbican. The distributor thrust it into her chest; then, when she took it, held on a moment longer, so she was forced to look up. The yellow cap was pulled low over his face, but she recognised Harry’s worried features below it. The next moment, he spun away to press another newspaper on an unwilling commuter. She looked out for him again the next day, but he wasn’t there.
Two nights later, she got off the bus on the Fulham Road and walked back to the corner, checking to make sure no one was following. Old Church Street, the message had said, though there was no church Ellie could see: only an antiques shop and a plain brick wall disappearing around the corner. But there was a churchyard, an orphaned parcel of land long since forgotten. Ellie had seen it from the top deck of the bus, behind the wall she was now approaching.
Paint peeled from a green door in the wall: it looked as though it must have rotted shut years ago, but when Ellie pushed, it opened with barely a squeak. Ahead of her, a dozen rows of gravestones stood half-sunk into the soil, like some Neolithic monument.
‘I’m sorry we couldn’t find somewhere more convivial.’
In other circumstances, a lone figure loitering in the shadows of an abandoned graveyard would have made her jump. Today, she was too tired. Harry stood against the wall where the bus passengers couldn’t see him, watching through the arms of a moss-covered cross. He beckoned her over.
‘Are you trying to scare me?’
He shook his head. ‘You have no idea how difficult it’s been. Blanchard has you covered every second you’re out of the office. Seems to know where you’re going even before you step out the door.’
‘That’s not hard. I go to the office, I go home. That’s about it.’
Ellie thought back, trying to picture any unexpected coincidences, recurring faces. As ever, Harry sounded like a polite, soft-spoken lunatic. Except now, she thought, I have to believe him.
If he was right, she didn’t have much time. ‘Tell me about my father. Did he work for Monsalvat?’
Harry scratched a hunk of moss off the cross, exposing the white stone underneath. His finger came away black.
‘He didn’t get the job. In Brussels, I told you that I belong to an organisation. Call it a brotherhood, though we’ve nothing against women. We’ve been fighting a war against Monsalvat, on and off for almost nine hundred years.’
It was an extraordinary statement, but all Ellie could think to say was, ‘The bank’s only existed since the sixteenth century.’ Only.
‘As a bank. As an entity, it goes much further back. Saint-Lazare de Morgon, who founded the bank, was a descendant of a Norman warlord called Lazar de Mortain. Even by medieval standards, he was a particularly vile piece of work.’
‘Why did my father apply for a job there?’
‘He was reconnoitring. You remember I told you he died trying to break into the vaults?’
‘It’s not the sort of thing you forget.’
‘Nine hundred years ago, Lazar de Mortain stole something that belonged to our brotherhood. So far as we know it’s still there, locked deep in the vault.’
Ellie remembered the v
ault shuddering as the train roared past. She imagined the bright headlamp reaching round the corner. A figure caught in its beam, no time to react. The screech of steel, burning metal, an impact. Sometimes, when she was working late and the office was quiet, she could feel the floor shiver, echoing the faint rumble far below.
‘Monsalvat, for all its lip-service to the modern world, is effectively a feudal household. Michel Saint-Lazare’s the king, and Blanchard his loyal seneschal. He’s also Saint-Lazare’s nephew, did you know that?’
Ellie shook her head.
‘Saint-Lazare can’t have children. We met up with him once, left him paralysed from the waist down.’ Absent-mindedly, Harry played with the button on his overcoat.
Something Blanchard had said popped into her mind, that night after the opera. You don’t need any protection with me. She tried to imagine these old men – so much money, so much power – yet denied the most basic, creative power of all.
‘What about Talhouett? What have they got to do with you?’
‘With us, nothing. They’re just what they seem, a mid-ranking European industrial concern. But, by an accident of history, they own something that belongs to us.’
Ellie remembered his question in the park in Brussels, and Blanchard interrogating her after the due diligence. ‘Mirabeau.’
‘You don’t need to know what it is. But somehow Saint-Lazare found out about it. When we heard he was prowling around Talhouett, we sent someone in to find out what he knew.’
Ellie saw a shadow move on one of the gravestones. Perhaps she wasn’t too tired to be frightened after all. But it was only a squirrel.
‘It went wrong. One man died, another got captured. He’s dead too.’
‘Captured by …?’
‘Blanchard? Saint-Lazare?’ Harry shrugged. ‘Doesn’t matter. Blanchard’s got a henchman who probably did the dirty work, a nasty chap called Destrier.’
‘I’ve met him.’
A bus rumbled by on the Fulham Road. The lights of its upper deck seemed to hover in the night, men and women floating past with no conception of what was happening in the darkness below.