‘I assume that your assistance will benefit us in some way?’ he asked gently.
‘But, of course. It is a poor bargain that only benefits one party.’ As Doria spoke, each point was emphasised by a gesture of his hands, in a very Italian way. ‘Let us say you were to transfer your gold to my possession. Only nominally, of course. Then it would no longer be subject to an import tax, which would result in a saving of twenty per cent. I could then give you some of my own funds to cover the value.’
‘That would be after we have established the value,’ said Harry.
‘Of course. Naturally I would have to charge you for the service I’m providing. I cannot be out of pocket, you understand, much as I wish to assist a fellow sailor. But my charges would be somewhat less than those of the state. Say half of the normal duty. And, taking into consideration the events of last night, it would then be in order for me to escort such funds to a place of safety.’
Harry could barely hide the look of distrust on his face as he spoke. ‘Which would be your personal bankers.’
‘Quite.’
James cut in. He could see that Harry was about to let his temper get the better of him. ‘So we would save ten per cent of the value.’
Doria nodded, but he could not fail to be aware that Harry was less than pleased. He looked at the older of the two, with an eyebrow raised, inviting whatever Harry was thinking to be openly said.
‘May I ask a question?’
That surprised Doria, who was expecting an insult. ‘Of course.’
‘Who issues permission for foreign privateers to sail from Genoa?’
‘The Council of State, Signor.’
Harry ignored the look his brother gave him. ‘Would you be a member of that?’
‘Not personally. But I have been known to advise them.’
Harry’s face remained blank as he spoke. ‘Then it would seem to be politic to do business with you, Admiral.’
Doria threw his arms wide again. ‘Not with me, Captain Ludlow. With my bankers. It ill becomes men of our stamp to descend to mere trade. More wine?’
The coach, with four matching white horses, was drawn up outside the land gate to the customs house. Pender was already on the box, and he looked stoically ahead as Harry and James approached the conveyance. James climbed straight aboard. As Doria appeared through the gate so did his guards, and with a precision born of long habit they took up position in front and behind. Harry observed that their weapons were in no way ceremonial. No pikes or muskets, but rather short swords, clubs, and pistols. Last into the coach, he joined his brother, sitting opposite their ‘host.’
‘I am informed that permission to sail from this port is somewhat restricted.’
The smile deepened and he fixed Harry with a cunning look. ‘That would rather depend, Signor, on who you ask and who you are.’
‘But is it regulated?’
‘Of course. But in the nature of things, such regulation must be to everyone’s advantage.’
‘The Republic’s advantage being paramount?’ said James, with an innocent air.
Doria’s eyes twinkled, belying the attempted sincerity in his voice. Again his arms waved as he spoke, emphasising the point with a grandiose gesture. ‘How could it be any other way?’
Harry wondered. Doria would promise them the world to get his share of their gold. It could be that Bartholomew had gained his through providing a hefty bribe to whoever was in charge. But that did not explain his ability to avoid the customs duties.
‘You would also, in your position, be aware if there were any likely craft available for purchase?’ asked Harry. Doria nodded, but volunteered nothing. The coach turned, taking one of the few routes off the quayside wide enough to accommodate its width.
James posed the next question, deciding to indulge in a little mischief by beating Harry to the next subject. ‘Tell me, Admiral, who dealt with the matter of Captain Howlett’s murder?’
Harry stiffened, and Doria seemed unnaturally still. He didn’t reply for quite a time, just staring at James, who’d turned to gaze out of the coach window, craning his neck in an attempt to see the tops of the buildings that crowded in on either side.
Doria spoke eventually. ‘Since it happened in the area of the port, it fell to me to deal with it.’
‘A terrible business,’ said James languidly, without turning his head.
A small shrug. ‘Such things happen in all ports.’
James finally turned from the coach window, his voice steady and his look calm. ‘Rather more elaborate than normal, wouldn’t you say? Or is it the habit here to string up your victims?’
Harry sat silently, aware that his brother, by his manner, was baiting their host. But he was asking the questions he’d intended to ask himself.
‘Was the gentleman a particular friend?’
‘No,’ said James. ‘I believe my brother met him some years back.’
‘I wondered at your interest,’ said Doria, almost implying that this line of questioning showed a want of manners.
That really set James alight. His voice became icy. ‘I would like to bring to your notice, once more, that we were very nearly killed last night. And since that took place in the confines of the port, I find your lack of interest remarkable.’
Doria’s skin was too dark to show a blush, but the narrowing of the lips told the Ludlows just as much. He tried to assume a blasé air, but it didn’t come off. ‘I had intended to enquire further, after we’d transacted our business.’
‘Would it surprise you, Admiral, if I said we’d rather you did it before?’ The accusation of greed before duty hung in the air, no less potent for remaining unspoken.
Doria obliged them, albeit reluctantly, asking questions, and nodding sagely at their answers. But Harry knew his mind was elsewhere. He was tense and his hand hovered near his sword as the coach made its way, with some difficulty, through the crowded narrow streets, with much shoving and shouting from their escorts before emerging into the more spacious boulevards of the city proper. The buildings now looked reasonably new, with fine stone fronts, and carved lintels over the huge windows. But they were mixed in with ancient structures. They passed an imposing church, twin-spired with a central dome, in walls made up of black and white marble in horizontal stripes. It stood at the apex of a crowded piazza, its roof towering above them. Once past this landmark, Doria lost his tense look, his shoulders visibly relaxing.
He turned back to James. ‘All in black, you say?’
James nodded, making his next point quickly. ‘It strikes me as curious that they didn’t exchange a single word.’
Doria just looked at him, waiting for him to provide the answer.
‘It’s as though speaking would have given them away.’
‘How so?’
‘What if they’d spoken in French, Admiral?’ asked Harry, finally joining in. ‘French may be common among well-educated citizens of Genoa, such as yourself, but it is hardly the language of local footpads.’
‘I see that you share your compatriots’ obsession with that French sloop.’
‘Captain Howlett’s death was meant as a warning, Admiral. I can think of no one else who would gain from issuing one. Can you?’
‘I can, and I have already made my conclusions known to your admiral.’
‘Taken in conjunction with the attack on us last night …’
‘Signori! Provide me with evidence of a connection, and perhaps I will take your suspicions more seriously.’
‘Until then?’ asked James.
‘I will institute some enquiries. A dozen black-clad villains cannot run around such a crowded city without attracting some notice.’
There was little passion in those words. The Ludlows were left wondering how energetic he would be. But being able to say nothing that would force him to action they remained silent.
Again the tenements pressed closely on each side, until they once more emerged into an area of more imposing buildings. Ea
ch one occupied an entire block and Doria, noticing James’s interest, named the owners as they rattled over the cobblestones. All the great names of the Genoese republic seemed to be represented in these few thoroughfares. Doria reeled them off, preceding each name with the word Palazzo, and pointing to the coats of arms that adorned the cap of each portico. Several Spinola palaces, Grimaldi, Fieschi, Visconti, Lecari, Gambaro, Pallavacino, and a modest nod to a palace of the extended Doria tribe.
‘They are certainly imposing enough,’ said James, his head bobbing from one side window to the other. ‘Yet I wonder that the magnates of Genoa wish to construct their houses in such close proximity?’
Doria smiled, but ventured no answer.
James turned to Harry. ‘I can envisage only two reasons. Either a fear of the mob, or the wish to outdo each other.’
‘Since all the ground-floor windows are heavily barred, and those above are shuttered, I would choose the former,’ replied Harry.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE COACH shuddered to a stop outside another substantial building. James put his head out of the coach window again and saw their guards take up defensive positions on either side of the great oak doors. The building was older, more weathered than the others, with white and black horizontal stripes in the same pattern as the large church they’d passed. Doria informed James how this denoted wealth since, in times past, only the important families of the Republic were permitted to decorate their residences in such a way.
The lack of windows on the ground floor made it look very forbidding. Indeed, with the size and thickness of the gates, and the narrowness of the windows above them, the place looked more like a fortress than a palace, harking back to an earlier age when open warfare was common in the streets of the Italian city states. Pitched battles were now a thing of the past, but the knife in the back, or the ambush of a poorly armed party, was still commonplace.
The oak door swung open and they pulled into a shaded courtyard with a fountain in the centre surrounded by trees. Liveried servants hurried to open the door and steps were produced. Other servants, under instructions from the coachman, and under the watchful eye of Admiral Doria, unloaded Harry’s strongbox and carried it inside. Harry indicated silently that Pender should stay with the remainder of their possessions. The sudden laugh from a corner of the courtyard made him look towards the sound. A party of French marines lounged there, hats off, muskets leaning against the wall, taking their ease. Harry stared at them, trying to determine whether their presence represented a threat. If it did he was powerless to do much about it. He followed his brother inside.
James stood with his head back, looking around the vaulted hallway, lit, even in daylight, by huge chandeliers and guttering candles in sconces around the bare stone walls. Tall desks lined one side of the area, each one with a clerk busy at his labour, quill pen in hand. Messengers brought slips of paper from various rooms that surrounded this central area, all transactions being carried out in a funereal hush of rustling parchment and whispered instructions.
Admiral Doria’s heavy footsteps echoing off the bare stone walls caused even the most conscientious of the clerks to look up from their labours. He made straight across the hallway and up the broad staircase, beckoning for Harry and James to follow. James noticed that the eyes of each clerk dwelt not on the admiral, but on the chest being carried between the two servants following on behind, as though they were attempting to penetrate the stout wood of the brass-bound box and discover the value of the contents inside.
Doria bounded swiftly up the stairs and on reaching the first floor, without a knock or any form of announcement, flung open the double doors to a set of elegantly furnished rooms. The contrast with the hall and stairway could not have been more marked. The walls and ceilings were a blaze of colour, with frescos edged by ornate gilded cornices. Nymphs danced, gods played and beasts gamboled, all overseen by a benign deity.
Doria didn’t hesitate. He made his way across the carpeted room to another set of matching doors at the other end. These too were flung open and a buzz of conversation flowed out. Harry and James followed as far as the doorway, stopping there to observe the scene that greeted them. They looked in upon yet another sumptuously appointed and decorated apartment. Well-dressed men, bewigged, in coats of every colour of silk, stood around in groups, while others sat on ornate couches engaged in earnest conversation. A fat, well-fed prelate, robed in the red of a cardinal of the Roman Church, stood surrounded by acolytes, his huge stomach ringed by a jewelled belt. All heads turned in Doria’s direction and nods were exchanged as he crossed to the other side of the room, to yet another set of double doors. Harry and James were left standing in the second doorway, unsure what to do. The noise of conversation died as the occupants of the salon turned their attention to these strangers.
There was no welcome in the looks, neither was there malice, just undisguised curiosity. No one made any attempt to welcome them. James, more sure in such surroundings than his brother, bowed slightly, and with a touch of Harry’s arm led the way into the throng. Those nearest them moved away, as if fearing physical contact. This movement revealed one other person obviously not part of this society. He stood alone and still, with his hands clasped behind his tricolour sash, the gaunt grey face expressionless. Harry stared at him, once more struck by the natural authority of the man. Even being politely ignored by those around him, he dominated his immediate area. Seeing the stare, he favoured Harry with a slight bow and a chilling smile.
A servant sidled up to them carrying a tray bearing coffee and several varieties of sweetmeats. The babble of conversation resumed as the people in the room turned their attention back to their own business. Another servant, a rouged fellow in an old-fashioned wig, senior to the others by the cut of his livery, eased himself through the groups, bowed low, and beckoned for them to follow. Again the conversation faltered as they were led to the other set of doors, which opened to admit them. Doria stood in the inner sanctum by a large ornate fireplace. Tall windows overlooking the courtyard filled the room with light. Two men in plain black coats rose from behind matching Louis Quinze desks as they were shown in, and advanced to be introduced.
‘The brothers Guistiani, Signori,’ boomed Doria, addressing the Ludlows. Then he turned to the two men, and in a quieter tone, reversed the introduction. ‘I bring these gentlemen to you on a personal recommendation. Please treat them as though you were transacting business for me.’
The words were certainly impressive, but somehow the delivery lacked conviction, as though in the presence of these two he was in some way diminished. The admiral gave them a slight bow, then left the room.
‘The admiral’s introduction was somewhat brief,’ said the taller of the two Guistiani brothers, he too bowing slightly. ‘Allow me a proper introduction. I am Giacomo Guistiani, and this is my brother Alfredo.’
The shorter one bowed also, but there was no servility in either of these acts of courtesy. Harry spoke for them both, since James seemed more intent on the paintings that lined the office walls. ‘Harry and James Ludlow.’
‘Admiral Doria informs us that you require our services.’
Harry was looking around the room too, but not at the walls. He was seeking the strongbox, which was nowhere to be seen. A slight frown crossed his face. James, having finished his inspection, turned to look at his brother, seemingly unaware of the nature of his curiosity. Harry pulled an oilskin pouch from the inside of his coat.
‘I have here some letters of credit from my bankers in London.’
The elder of the Guistiani brothers raised his eyebrows, as if to question the fact that Admiral Doria was unaware of this addition to their available funds.
‘Splendid.’ Alfredo Guistiani was more businesslike than his elder brother, immediately holding out his hand to take the pouch. He turned away from the Ludlows to examine the contents. Simultaneously a side door opened and an elderly clerk, with the grey skin of a man who saw little sunlight, sidl
ed up to the older brother, handing him a slip of paper. Giacomo glanced at it, and waved the clerk away, raising his head to smile at Harry as the man retreated through the side door. He reached behind him to his desk and picked up another slip of paper, passing it to Harry.
‘The admiral informs me that he is indebted to you for this sum, which, for convenience, we have calculated at the latest price we have from London.’
Harry looked closely at the paper, frowned, but said nothing. Then he looked at it again. The frown deepened and a flash of anger crossed his face. He passed the slip of paper to James, who, in turn, examined it. He too frowned as soon as he saw that the admiral had, by using imaginative accounting related to the differing value of both bullion and the currencies, substantially increased the percentage of his gain. Harry indicated the papers that Alfredo Guistiani was still studying.
‘I can appreciate currency fluctuations on letters of credit, Signor Guistiani. That is in the nature of things, and accepted by all as matter of some risk. But that strongbox contained gold, and the price of that, so close to a zone of conflict, tends to be high. It is also well known that gold has less value in England than it does on the entire continent of Europe. To set it at the English rate is to devalue it.’
Giacomo’s face showed not the slightest flicker of reaction at the implications of what Harry was saying.
‘It would also be true to say that this is not the only banking concern in the Republic,’ added James, still frowning at the paper in his hand.
‘That is true, of course. But I would be disappointed if a good friend like Admiral Doria were to deposit his funds elsewhere.’
The banker emphasised the word ‘his’, and the inference of that was as plain as a pikestaff. You have come to some arrangement with the admiral. It’s his money we’ve deposited. If you want to dispute the sum he has given you, take it up with him.
The smaller Guistiani, who had finished perusing Harry’s letters of credit, quickly grabbed a pen and wrote on yet another slip of paper. Then he intervened, passing the paper to his brother. Giacomo looked at it, a slight flicker of his eyebrow showing that he was impressed. Had Harry not been angry, perhaps he would have admired the smooth way that Giacomo Guistiani executed a hundred-and-eighty degree turn.
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