The Emperor's Gold

by Robert Wilton

  ‘Are we in such danger?’

  Fannion was striding ahead, Chance hurrying to keep up, and now the Irishman grabbed at the tailor’s sleeve as he walked. ‘Mr Chance, I cannot stress enough how much of a threat you are to these warmongers. The Admirals are robbing England to starvation to pay for their aggression, and the Generals are kidnapping every healthy lad to throw into the field. They thrive on this war. A man like you, preaching peace and progress, is the one thing they fear. And they’re right to do so.’

  ‘The resentment of the people is growing. They will throw off the tyranny.’

  Fannion stopped, and again his dark eyes gazed down into the tailor’s. ‘The people are lost, Mr Chance. They are lost without a leader, and without a sign.’ The gaze broke, and the dark eyes looked out into the distance. ‘We have come to a crisis, Mr Chance. The tyrants, the warmongers, they are at their strongest, and the people can do nothing to resist them. One victory for Britain, one slaughter of poor Frenchmen and our own forgotten lads, and all hope of reform will drown in blood. In their vile glory, the Admirals and the Generals will have the power to crush anyone who tries to argue for a better world.’ He looked down again. Chance was still absorbing him. ‘We have just days. Tuesday must bring this corrupt Government to its crisis, or this Government will destroy us all.’

  James Fannion and Gabriel Chance walked and talked for two hours. Fannion talked about Ireland, and about the activities and attitudes of the British Admiralty. He probed the reaches of Chance’s philosophy and dreams. He checked the effect of the new arrangements he’d given Chance in Bury St Edmunds, and gave him further directions for where to stay and what to do in London. His first question, though, had been about none of these things. After his desperate warning to the tailor, there’d been a moment of silence, and then into it Fannion had said pleasantly, ‘Tell me, Mr Chance, do you have a family at all?’

  Chance had opened like an oyster, and talked as he’d never talked.

  That evening, Tom Roscarrock was in polite society again. Jessel was busy elsewhere, and the Admiral’s instructions were no more than a terse exchange in a corridor as he was leaving and Roscarrock was arriving. He listened with impatient sympathy to Roscarrock’s opinions about the Home Office, and cut him off when he tried to complain about another fatuous evening among the quality.

  ‘But – My Lord – Chance and Fannion are loose and in London.’

  ‘What of it? Have you a trace of them? Do you plan to wander the streets calling their names?’

  ‘At least let’s get into the Irish community. The Tailors’ Guild. Let’s—’

  ‘Roscarrock, the French have sent an assassin, and somewhere off the coast a whole French fleet is waiting to strike. These—’

  ‘Fannion and Chance are already here! They could—’

  ‘What could they do, Roscarrock?’ Bellamy got irritated by interruption, but never angry at disagreement; perhaps it came of knowing everyone else to be an idiot. Roscarrock wondered if Jessel had said that Chance the tailor was less of a threat. ‘I want them found, but a few more speeches and murdered sentries aren’t going to bring down the Government. Napoleon’s secret fleet could, and it will do so if we don’t find it very quickly. You’ll damn well do as you’re instructed, and listen to the French community here tonight. Who knows? Perhaps some of the great thinkers may know about your little tailor.’

  Roscarrock felt he was being kept out of the way – presumably while they investigated him. How much had the old maverick Kinnaird written about him? What parts of his past were Jessel and the Admiral digging up? He’d been a new and unknown quantity to them, and Kinnaird’s flight and the continued damage being done to the Comptrollerate-General’s network could only be increasing their suspicions about him.

  But in this world of mirrors and illusions, they thought that a traitor Roscarrock could still be useful to them. What had he said to poor Reverend Forster? No one better than a rebel to explain sedition to the Government. And no one better than a traitor to illuminate treason. If the Comptrollerate-General thought his loyalties were doubtful, Bellamy would reason, so might others whose loyalties were doubtful; and such people might talk a little more freely.

  He’d have a little room for manoeuvre, then. The Comptrollerate-General would keep Tom Roscarrock in play.

  ‘Monsieur is unhappy?’ She was French, surely under twenty, clean and fresh and pretty as a flower in the morning, and Roscarrock felt that if he so much as touched her his rough old corruption would rot her instantly. He said something gallant, and went to get two drinks.

  It was a different room in a different townhouse on a different square, but otherwise essentially the same gathering he’d been to a week before; the same currents, and many of the same landmarks. The French girl had recently heard the story of General Metz and wanted to retell it: the old Royalist lion, still in hiding and waiting for the opportunity to lead a popular reaction against the new order in France – a reactionary, of course, but wasn’t it so terribly romantic? Roscarrock handed her on to an earnest young journalist, not without a little regret, and turned to find Lady Charlotte Pelham pushing towards him.

  ‘Mr Grey! I am so pleased to find you here. How is the mood in the city?’

  Another man was hovering near them – the French fop he’d spoken to the previous week, now in a different but similarly elegant coat – De Boeldieu.

  Roscarrock barely understood the question, let alone knew how one was supposed to answer. Fortunately Lady Charlotte had only the vaguest idea of how a pretend shipbuilder’s world overlapped with finance. ‘Considerably less charming than here, Lady Charlotte.’

  She managed to combine a little gasp with a continued flow of words. ‘My husband – he has his business interests, as you know – well, I have never seen him so flustered.’ Roscarrock was more interested in the character of a man married to Lady Charlotte than his business interests. ‘You will understand these questions of finance – I’m afraid I don’t – but my husband speaks in terms of the gravest crisis.’

  ‘London is resilient, Lady Charlotte. But we face a test of nerve, I’m sure.’ Then she was gone, fixed on the next face to fall into her vision.

  ‘You really think London’s resilient?’ A man standing next to him. Roscarrock tried to put a name to the face; he’d been at the other reception – Burdett, the politician deprived of his seat.

  ‘I was more concerned with Lady Charlotte’s nerves. I’d defer to you on London’s.’

  Burdett took the invitation seriously, and his eyes searched for the words. ‘London is… a big, spoilt child, Mr Grey, prone to fever. Fundamentally the child may be healthy, but it is fickle and vicious and liable to outbursts of the wildest emotion. A burst of radical enthusiasm and a drink too many and London’s apprentices could throw over the Government in an afternoon; a failure of nerve by the men of business, and the apprentices won’t need to because a complete financial collapse would render the Government irrelevant.’

  ‘Are you worried about Tuesday, then: the march and the petition?’

  Burdett gave a humourless smile. ‘That would depend on where I stood, wouldn’t it?’ The smile went away. ‘Tuesday could be a revolution or a picnic, and no one will know until it happens. A word, a volley, and the city could erupt. London’s nerves are shot, Grey. It wouldn’t take much to set off the apprentices or the men of business. What do you hear of this special fleet of Napoleon’s?’

  Roscarrock was more interested in how on earth Burdett had heard. ‘I’ve been out of town a little.’

  ‘Just gossip. But I know a few men in the Admiralty, and there’s behind-doors talk in Parliament, and whispers in the salons. The Emperor has some new fleet that the Admiralty weren’t aware of; a new weapon. This could shift the balance of power at sea and put Napoleon across the Channel.’

  ‘The French have yet to manage a single significant victory at sea.’

  ‘Oh, I agree. But they’ve only to do it once, h
aven’t they?’ Someone had caught his eye, over Roscarrock’s shoulder. ‘That’s the sort of thing that’s got London on edge, anyway. Would you excuse me?’

  Roscarrock spoke to a barrister for a few minutes, enjoying the uncompromising honesty of his reasoning, and then a Suffolk parson whom he asked about what had happened in Bury St Edmunds. Another pause, and lace-edged fingers touching his wrist.

  The fop: ‘I did not wish to interrupt before – you were talking of tiresome things like ships and finance and so forth.’ A nervous smile: ‘You do not remember me, perhaps, Monsieur Grey, and there is no reason why you should. De Boeldieu.’

  ‘Of course I remember, Monsieur; hard to forget a man of your elegance.’ De Boeldieu had liked that. ‘Tiresome? You aren’t interested in a serious threat of invasion?’

  ‘I cannot stop it, so why should I worry about it?’

  ‘It would turn the world upside down.’

  ‘Monsieur Grey, I have already lost one whole world.’ De Boeldieu spoke as if describing a minor wager that had gone the wrong way. ‘Country, family, all gone. One learns that one can survive very well, if one is flexible. One has simply to adjust one’s priorities.’ The lace wrist clutched at an idea in the air. ‘For example, in a London ruled by Napoleon, an English patriot would feel discomfort; but a dependable shipbuilder might do very well. Is it not so?’

  ‘I wonder, Monsieur, whether you understand English patriotism.’

  ‘Mm.’ The Frenchman’s dark eyes were fixed intent on Roscarrock. ‘Are you so sure that you do?’

  Relief arrived in the unlikely form of Sir Joseph Plummer. Roscarrock excused himself from De Boeldieu’s word games, greeted the old philosopher politely, and asked him his expectations of Tuesday’s petition.

  ‘I have learnt to expect nothing in this world, Mr Grey. Nothing is usually what happens. The petitioners are well meaning, and their cause is just. In a truly civilized country their democratic march would be observed with pride, not embarrassment and fear.’

  ‘Will the petition do anything?’

  ‘Will they persuade this regime to change? Of course not. But who knows what chain of events may unfold? The Home Office will worry; they will call extra troops into the city to keep order. That may either subdue or provoke protest. London is on edge because the Emperor is waiting to cross to Dover and Nelson, the idol of the small-minded, is too far away to do anything about it. It’s a hot summer, Mr Grey, and there’s a lot of dry tinder about.’ The predatory squint came back into the old eyes. ‘Have you seen our friend Kinnaird recently?’

  The game was tiresome, and Roscarrock’s reply brusque. ‘No. Have you?’

  ‘Yes. A couple of days ago.’

  ‘What?’ He’d associated Kinnaird’s flight with a complete disappearance. ‘Where was this?’

  ‘You seem surprised.’

  ‘I… I’d thought he was away travelling.’

  ‘Perhaps he was. In Coventry, on this occasion. I was making one of my periodic journeys away from London – to see what’s really happening in this poor country. We found ourselves in the same inn. A short conversation. He was interesting himself in the possibilities of radicalism among the metalworkers of Birmingham. Clever man, Kinnaird. He actually thinks, you know? I’d thought that was going out of fashion.’

  Kinnaird was suddenly real again, but still so slippery. ‘Did he say where he was going?’

  ‘Here and there, he said. Tying up some loose ends. Housekeeping – that was his word.’ Sir Joseph tilted the arid face towards Roscarrock. ‘I’ve always assumed Kinnaird to be an intelligencing man of some kind – working for one Government or another, or just on his own account. But it’s bothered me much less than the duplicities of the salons. If one must have spies around the place, let them be men of prudence and thought, like him. You would agree, Mr Grey?’

  Roscarrock was spared by another onslaught from Lady Charlotte, with a journalist to present to Sir Joseph. Roscarrock turned his back on the group, and found himself two feet from the golden beauty of Lady Virginia Strong. His first instinctive glance took in her body, the simple string of pearls falling around the smooth swoop of her exposed neck, and at last the elegant lines of her face. She was watching him with something like amusement, and it annoyed him.

  ‘I was coming to your rescue,’ she said softly. ‘Return the favour, so to speak.’

  Roscarrock nodded slightly. ‘I was a damn sight more comfortable on that horse.’

  ‘To tell you the truth, so was I, Mr R—’

  ‘Grey, Lady Virginia. Thomas Grey.’

  The teeth opened in a wide smile of pleasure. ‘Grey. Well, that’s perfect.’ She leant forwards, tongue caught between her teeth as if ready to strike. Roscarrock noticed for the first time the cold white flash of a scar between the pale eyebrows. Very deliberately, she poked him once in the chest. ‘I am determined to bring you out of your anonymity, grey Thomas.’

  Her finger stayed where it was against his shirt. Roscarrock gripped its delicacy in his own rough finger and thumb, and lifted it gently away. ‘I like my anonymity. It’s the last warm place I have left to hide. An anonymous man is a free man.’

  She scowled prettily. ‘That sounds like Kinnaird talking. Didn’t all those grim aphorisms drive you mad?’

  ‘I didn’t understand many.’

  ‘I think Kinnaird was the one man I’ve ever been afraid of.’ She was suddenly more serious, and it made her seem younger and more vulnerable. ‘Turns out perhaps I was right.’

  Roscarrock watched her with interest; the seriousness was the opening of a door onto an unexpected landscape.

  ‘It’s a ruthless world, Tom, and I make no complaint about that. I play that game and I play it well. But Kinnaird’s was a ruthlessness of the emotions. Everyone in our world is indifferent about human life, but he—’

  ‘Was indifferent about human passion as well?’

  ‘Exactly.’ She lifted her head, the door closing. ‘You put it very delicately, but you needn’t worry about my feelings. Whether it’s me, or some drudge of a maid downstairs, or any other woman, men’s desires are essentially the same.’

  ‘But Kinnaird is immune. And you’re afraid of that?’

  Her eyes drifted up in thought, then dropped to Roscarrock’s face again. ‘My parents died when I was very young. I grew up with a bitch of an aunt who thought I was an inconvenience, and beneath the refinement of her own children.’

  Roscarrock smiled gently. ‘Kinnaird as governess; I can see that.’

  The shining blue eyes were wide, the face open and earnest again. ‘I’ve always wanted a father – one who would respect me.’ She gave a tiny nod to herself. ‘That’s it. Perhaps that sounds strange.’

  He shook his head slowly. ‘It doesn’t. I’ve always wanted a father of any kind.’ She was watching him with warm interest. ‘I met a Parson the other week. He was estranged from his family, and from the career he should have had, but he’d found Kinnaird. Jessel hated his father, but finds the chance to be loyal to this organization. I certainly can’t imagine the Admiral having parents – he must have been born aged forty.’ He shrugged. ‘We’re all orphans and bastards.’

  ‘And whores.’ She said it quietly but firm.

  Roscarrock shrugged. ‘Nine tenths of the country are on the brink of starvation. The other tenth think Napoleon will be in Kent tomorrow. Who has room for principles?’

  She smiled, and Roscarrock beckoned a servant for more wine. Around them, the rattle of chatter and the blending of bodies continued. When the servant had drifted away, Lady Virginia said, ‘And what has bastardy and whoring told you this week?’

  He watched her eyes for a moment. How much couldn’t she know? ‘I’d found Chance, the philosopher tailor, but the Home Office have lost him again. Personally I thought there could be no malice in such a man, but he’s now almost certainly working with the Irishman, Fannion, who’s an unscrupulous machine of malice. There’s an organization to Chance
’s movements now, and that suggests something specific is planned and imminent. It’s likely to involve the march and petition on Tuesday the 6th, but without Chance or Fannion we can do nothing but flood London with soldiers and pray.’ He scowled. ‘The soldiers become part of the problem, and I’m not a man for prayer.’

  ‘I heard what you did the other night. Getting into that meeting – and you had to kill a man.’

  ‘I take no satisfaction from it. He was misguided, and I had no choice. We were both victims of the times, and I got lucky, this time.’ Roscarrock took a mouthful of wine, as the faces came at him again. ‘And it could all be irrelevant, because at any moment this unknown French fleet could appear off Dover and put the Emperor on the road to London.’ He watched her face, enjoying and wondering at it. ‘Your side of the business, I think.’

  She nodded, and in her turn considered him for an instant. ‘The Emperor refuses to trust his Admirals. Perhaps he’s right. So he relies on grand schemes of his own. Unfortunately for us, that means that the Royal Navy has even less chance of predicting what’s happening, and none of our normal channels of information can tell us anything useful. This is purely Napoleon, and Fouché – his Minister of Police; vile man – and certain selected others. But everyone I speak to over there is alive with the idea. At last, a brilliant naval combination to defeat the Royal Navy! I’ve met men on the fringes of the navy, or politics, and they actually like the fact that the movements of this fleet are a secret; to them, it’s proof of their Emperor’s genius.’

  Talking business, she was focused and earnest, and part of Roscarrock’s brain watched the performance in admiration. ‘These people you meet,’ he said, ‘they’re happy to talk to you?’