The Emperor's Gold

by Robert Wilton

  ‘Is this a bad war?’

  The head turned slowly towards him again. ‘As a shipbuilding man, Grey, you don’t need me to advise you on business conditions. Our reforming friends here will accuse us of profiteering. But each panic about the Irish, or the French, or the angry labourers, sends the men of money into hysteria. How many invasions have we had or nearly had in the last century? 1708. The fifteen and the forty-five. Ninety-eight. More. And every time, there’s panic in the City and a run on the bank. Money is fleeing England, Grey, and it’s probably wise to do so.’

  Harris looked out of the window into the darkened square, and Roscarrock watched his eyes moving. ‘The Government is obsessed with radicalism, as if this were a simple battle between an army of radical men and an army of absolute reactionaries.’ He shook his head at the night. ‘Real change won’t come in some military crisis, but in a quiet shifting of self-interest. Real change will come when enough people of the middling sort find that they prefer something closer to the ideas of reform. The Government’s attitude to treason is similarly crude.’

  ‘That’s understandable. Treason is a man selling his country.’

  ‘But it’s almost certainly not, Mr Grey. It’s a man deciding that his idea of that country is better served by accommodation with Napoleon. Even more dangerous, and perhaps more likely, it’s a man working out how to come to terms with Napoleon’s inevitable victory, and limit its effects on him.’

  Throughout the exchange Harris had given no indication of his own feelings at all, and Roscarrock was suddenly tired of the shadows and the sour cynicism of all the philosophical talk. He stepped silently back into the whirl at the centre of the room, leaving Harris to the night.

  ‘Napoleon is like one of the new factories, Lady Charlotte. A brutal means of achieving progress. Personally, I do not believe that Napoleon cares a jot for the ideals that he inherited from the Revolution. But he is a necessary means of creating a world where they have a hope of flourishing.’

  ‘And Britain, Sir Joseph? Are we then a rival enterprise?’

  ‘I fear you do not quite follow, Lady Charlotte. We… we are a surly mob of machine-breakers, anxious to preserve our mediaeval traditions.’

  ‘Of course we are!’ she said quickly. ‘That’s very good, Sir Joseph.’

  Roscarrock at the entrance to the salon, regathering his energy and his sanity. I am not of these people. I do not understand them. But how can I now complain at their affectations and little deceits?

  The sea seeming very far away, and then a series of peculiar images flashed in front of his face, or seemed with hindsight to have flashed, their order as capricious as the episodes of his new life: an earnest male face – a hand holding a glass of wine – Jessel glancing towards the man – the glistening blue coat of a waiter interrupting Roscarrock’s view – the man looking more closely at the wine – some intensity in the face of the man’s companion – Jessel again – a clumsy movement from the companion and the man jerking backwards as the wine splashed towards his coat – Jessel – Jessel staring at the scene – Jessel’s predatory face spinning towards Roscarrock, but no, not at Roscarrock, past him.

  Roscarrock’s glance followed, to the waiter walking down the stairs. Back to Jessel – Jessel’s face fiercer still – eyes burning ferociously at him now with words he could not say, and nodding heavily towards the descending back of the waiter, and instinctively, mechanically, Roscarrock started to move towards the stairs.

  What has just happened? The images began to flicker and arrange themselves.

  The top of the stairs, and starting down, then the waiter on an instinct glanced over his shoulder and saw Roscarrock and saw something set in his face and began to hurry. Roscarrock matched his pace, then had to hold himself back as he remembered the place, saw the man trot the few steps to the door and push through, hurried after him, and on a sudden inspiration clapped his hand over his mouth as if about to vomit. He clattered through the door, eyes searching for the distinctive sheen of the waiter’s coat, momentarily bewildered in the busy mingling of men and carriages and the glitter of the lamps, and then catching it, a flash of blue in the patches of evening. Now the man was running, and Roscarrock set off after him.

  I am chasing a man I do not know, for a reason I do not know. The simplicities of life on the boat, of honest, calculating Simon, of their crew, of their suddenly harmless-seeming illegalities, were in vivid contrast to this madness. But actually they were not, because again this was a deceit of his mind, because the impressions and images of his past only came later as he tried to process the chaos.

  The full length of one side of the square, weaving through strolling figures and horses and the sudden blank wall of a carriage, always the flash of blue in the distance, and then not. Hunting for the flash again, a bright eye through the mask of evening, there must be… and yes, there was a side street and there was the coat, jogging into the gloom. Roscarrock’s feet braced firm on the unsteady deck and took off fast on their new bearing, away from the bustle and the light.

  But now the blue shimmer had gone with them, and the three alleys into which Roscarrock peered reflected back at him only darkness.

  Jessel caught his eye as soon as he reached the top of the stairs again, and without holding the glance Roscarrock gave the slightest shake of his head. A few minutes later he contrived to be offered a drink from a tray at the same time as Jessel.

  A nod across the room. ‘Mind telling me who that is, then?’

  Jessel spoke into his glass. ‘The one who lost his wine is an American engineer, who you should forget about immediately. Until someone decides we have to kill him, we’re trying to protect his life. The companion who knocked the wine is one of ours, and that’s what he was doing.’ Jessel turned away beside him. ‘Picked up anything else?’

  ‘A growing conviction that I chose to grow up at far too rough and demanding an end of society, and imminent indigestion. That Boeldieu person seems very interested in the practical details of English radicalism, unlike all these other salon idealists.’

  ‘De Boeldieu? The fop? Lord, if he’s Napoleon’s man in London we shouldn’t have too much of a problem.’

  ‘Perhaps, but how many of these other ladies and gentlemen would be interested in whether and how actually to meet radical men?’

  ‘Perhaps he’s just taken a fancy to you. It is a very flattering coat.’

  ‘I didn’t get very far with Rokeby Harris, maybe because I’m not sure which direction I’m supposed to be going.’

  ‘Harris? Your friend Forster put you onto him?’ Roscarrock tried to read Jessel’s tone. ‘So he’s one of Kinnaird’s, is he?’

  ‘I assume so. Surprised?’

  Jessel shrugged. ‘I knew we had him on the roll, but from the stuff I’ve seen he’s breadcrumbs. Bit of business gossip. Keep at them, Tom.’

  The polite swirl, the dance of conversation and intersecting groups, moved on.

  ‘You must have a great many men under you, Mr Grey.’ The words themselves seemed to give Lady Charlotte Pelham physical pleasure. ‘What then is your feeling for the rights of man?’

  ‘In my experience men think of food for their children long before they think of their rights.’

  Someone said that this was a terribly primitive approach, and Roscarrock resisted the urge to punch him. Lady Charlotte’s fingers were on his arm. ‘But how very real,’ she said. ‘Don’t you think that a wonderfully real position, Sir Joseph?’

  Roscarrock hadn’t noticed Plummer to one side, but he couldn’t avoid him now. The old radical’s eyes were fixed on him. ‘I find it increasingly hard to know what’s real and what’s not, Lady Charlotte,’ he said, without shifting that gaze or blinking once.

  Yet again the costumes danced around him, and as Roscarrock moved to the side of the room to look for new and promising conversations, Rokeby Harris suddenly appeared in front of him.

  ‘Young man, will you take a piece of good advice from a man
who’s old enough to care more for security than decorum?’

  ‘I’d take good advice from Napoleon himself.’

  The flat, practical voice continued steady and soft. ‘You’re intelligent, Mr Whoever, but you’re ignorant. That makes you dangerous to others and dangerous to yourself.’ A thin, grave smile. ‘Here endeth the lesson.’

  Then Roscarrock was accosted by a young actress who wished him to try another ice with her, and Harris faded into the crowd.

  Across a table, the thick curls of Burdett the reforming politician leant in to catch the hurrying words of his companion, the orator Hodge. Burdett’s eyes flicked up as Roscarrock’s shadow fell across the table, he glanced back at Hodge, and then hastily excused himself with a hand on the shoulder and a regretful smile.

  ‘I’m afraid I’ve scared off your prey, Mr Hodge.’

  Hodge’s cheeriness was unaffected. ‘You mistake, Mr Grey. He’s not worried about talking to you; he’s worried about being seen talking to me too much. I should despise these early-evening radicals. But Burdett is a good and clever man, and he and I each have our little parts to play in what must be. Lovely wife too, rich as… as the wife of Croesus. Such a comfort to a man, I have no doubt.’

  ‘Yours must be a harder road, Mr Hodge. Travelling from town to town; food and bed as best you can; no heiress to fund your oratory.’

  Hodge was brisk and open. ‘If that’s a polite offer, Mr Grey, I’ll not say no. Will you take a piece of chicken?’ He held up a silver tray and helped himself to a piece at the same time as Roscarrock did. ‘Thank you for not being shocked at my forwardness. That’s the comfort of you practical men. Not a gasp nor a frown nor a fit of the vapours when a man engages with the world as he must. I’m afraid that you and your kind get the wrong end of my words every now and then – all that gold makes you too gleaming a target to pass up – but I urge you to believe me when I emphasize my understanding, Mr Grey, and my respect.’ His shining gaze had dropped from Roscarrock to the table halfway through the last sentence, and he was casting around for something else to eat. ‘Will you be anywhere near Bury St Edmunds, Mr Grey?’

  Roscarrock hesitated. ‘If I can.’

  Hodge picked up a plum. ‘That’s good. I shall have an eye for you, and send you an invitation if I can.’

  The need for inconspicuousness forced another question to pass unasked. A shoulder pressed forwards against Roscarrock’s, and he found the grey beak of Sir Joseph Plummer close beside him, apparently deep in contemplation of the plate of chicken. The old face looked up, and stared forbiddingly at Hodge.

  Roscarrock took in a slow and silent breath, and politely held up the meat for the old man’s closer consideration. Hodge withdrew.

  Plummer ignored the chicken. ‘It’s not saying much, but your comment to Lady Charlotte was among the more sensible things that’s been said this evening – or probably ever – in this theatre of a house. How accidental was it, Mr Grey?’

  ‘Entirely. Neither the quality of the wine nor the quality of the company are familiar to me.’

  The sharp, aged face gave the words closer attention than their flippancy deserved. ‘You seem to paddle comfortably enough in these shallow waters of radicalism.’

  ‘Just a vague acquaintance really.’

  ‘You wear your shipbuilding and your radicalism rather lightly, I think.’

  Roscarrock was grappling rapidly for fluency. ‘I tend to be too boring about both, I fear. My shipbuilding you may leave to me, but I’m eager to learn more of your radicalism, if it’s the future it seems to be.’

  ‘You think it’s the future?’

  ‘I know a bit about men, Sir Joseph. As Lady Pelham says.’

  ‘Lady Pelham is an imbecile, and you know it.’

  ‘I don’t think that the success of reform in Britain depends on her.’

  ‘Then why are you here? The others are no better than her.’

  ‘There’s you, Sir Joseph. A man with an interest in reform would put up with a lot of Lady Pelhams to listen to you. And if there’s nothing better, why are you here?’

  Plummer smiled thinly, accepting the point. ‘Attention, perhaps, Mr Grey. The vanity of an old man who will not live to see his dreams fulfilled.’ In his fake humility he looked less frail than ever. ‘And money. These papier-mâché puppets will delight in supporting the eloquent and vague dreams of a feeble faded prophet.’

  ‘And if that money should end up in the hands of. . .’

  ‘Of men younger and fitter and better able to carry on the work, then Lady Charlotte can continue to dream of radicalism in whatever harmless shape pleases her, and never be troubled by the reality.’

  ‘And aren’t you troubled by what those young fit able men will get up to?’

  The old man said nothing. He didn’t look troubled and he didn’t look harmless, and he continued to look at Roscarrock with the predatory eyes of a hawk.

  After a moment he said mildly, ‘Have you seen old Kinnaird, recently, Mr Grey?’

  ‘Kinnaird?’

  Roscarrock’s blood had surged at the name – and on Plummer’s dangerous lips. He realized how much Kinnaird had been lurking on the edge of his consciousness. The old Scotsman, originally the one point of clarity in a blurred world, had become the greatest of shadows. He seemed active everywhere, revered and vital, but Roscarrock’s picture of him was fading. He moved in a parallel world, visible to Roscarrock only through windows like the Admiral and Reverend Forster. Who, after all, was Kinnaird?

  ‘You know. Sir Keith Kinnaird. I’m sure you’d have met him if – as you say – you’re a vague acquaintance of these circles.’

  Roscarrock seemed to think. ‘Kinnaird. Scottish? Man of business of some kind?’ Plummer was watching his blank face closely. ‘I think you’re right. Met him once or twice. Don’t think I’ve seen him for a while.’ He leant forwards. ‘You’ve probably gathered, Sir Joseph, but despite my wonderfully real perspective on the rights of man, I’m not one for social conversation with him.’

  ‘No.’ Roscarrock couldn’t read Plummer’s intensity. The old man was playing with him somehow, and at the same time in absolute earnest. ‘But then, Mr Grey, once one is in a certain circle of the world, the question is no longer whether one is in touch with affairs that are secret, but how one responds to the suggestion.’

  Plummer obviously thought he’d caught him out somehow, and the thought was enough. Roscarrock barely understood the point made, but the sense of discomfort in it resonated. He produced a quick, open smile. ‘Well, Sir Joseph, you obviously know more about that and about Sir Keith Kinnaird than I do.’

  The old man winced, and said seriously, ‘I think perhaps I do, Mr Grey.’ Roscarrock’s was only a tactical victory, and they both knew it.

  Plummer was willing to release him, and Roscarrock took a rapid glass of wine from a footman and a deep breath of air from an open window. He contrived to avoid Plummer for the rest of the evening, but adopted the old man’s lines on Kinnaird word for word with everyone else he spoke to. Most knew Kinnaird, and many had spoken to him about politics in Britain and France. But then, what else did one speak about?

  Whatever his professional impact, Tom Roscarrock was without knowing it an overnight literary phenomenon.

  Having offered a polite goodnight to the steward at his club, an unusually anonymous building on Pall Mall, Rokeby Harris sat down to write a short note. He described Mr Grey physically, he summarized the conversation and, emphasizing that he was shifting to speculation, he made a short assessment of Mr Grey’s character and role. He folded this into a letter, and marked it to an address in the City.

  In the early hours of morning, Philippe de Boeldieu weaved his way to his lodgings, still clutching a glass of wine, got the key in the lock at the third attempt and made a noisy ascent of the stairs. He slammed the front door of his set of rooms, set down the glass, pulled off the lace-fringed coat, splashed water on his face, and sat at a table with new thoughtfulnes
s and clarity. After a moment to compose his ideas, he began to write in slow elaborate strokes:

  Madame de la Frenais, St James’s Square, the 27th of July 1805. Delacroix. Lafleur. Comte du Guichy. Maréchal. Saint-Aubin. Plummer. Bellamy. Lady Pelham. Burdett. Hodge. Fulton. Wood. Miller. Humphreys. Strathairn. Harris. Tuff. Mrs Tyler. A new man calling himself Thomas Grey. Tall. Thirty-five? Innocent but interested in politics. Question: who is he working for?

  [SS K/F/86]

  Only three hundred yards across London, in a different and a more elegant room, another correspondent had sat down to describe the evening. Still wearing his coat, a small glass of wine beside him, he too wrote a location and a list of names. Then: Fulton, the American – he has refused all persuasion, moral or financial. Your contingency directive has therefore come into effect. A first attempt tonight was unsuccessful. You will hear once his betrayal of his contract with France has been concluded permanently. The stylish flow continued. He summarized the conversations, touching on matters economic, agricultural and political. He, too, had been struck by the new acquaintance. A shipbuilder called Mr Thomas Grey. He is not really a shipbuilder, and it is extremely unlikely he is called Mr Thomas Grey. The writer hesitated, and took a sip of wine. Then he added: Could this be Roscarrock?

  Lady Charlotte Pelham sat up in bed to write her journal, a glowing face buried in a snowdrift of nightwear, pillows, bedclothes and curtains. The stranger had caught her attention as well. She acknowledged no doubts about Mr Grey’s name or business. Her speculations about him had nothing to do with politics.

  A little after midnight, a tall, fair-haired man half-opened the door of a room in Horse Guards building and stuck his head in. Major Ralph Royce had had a very pleasant dinner, and was thinking of a lady rather than paperwork, but a lurking sense of guilt at the luxury of the evening had sent him into his office just to check that all was in order. On his desk there was a single sheet of paper, askew on the wood and pale in the light from the window. The anomaly of the paper demanded attention, and it surely couldn’t take too long to sort a single sheet.