The Angry Tide

by Winston Graham

  Fortunately Sam was home, for Drake seemed barely capable of answering questions or even wanting to; and if Sam had been absent Drake was likely to have been taken off to Truro to stand before the magistrates without protest. Sam pointed out that his brother must be innocent of any part in it, as he had been at his shop throughout the day and evening when Mr Whitworth met his death. To this the constable asked what proof Sam had of this. Sam then patiently questioned his brother in front of the men and elicited the fact that Arthur and Parthesia Mullet had been with Drake until eight in the evening, and then he had gone up at nine to Mr Maule the tailor to have his new jacket fitted, and had not left him until ten.

  The constable appeared not altogether satisfied with this, for, he said, Drake had no proof that he hadn’t rid in to Truro after this. Sam said, what time was Parson found? Well, then, short of flying, twould be hard to leave the tailor at St Ann’s at ten o’clock of the night and be in Truro in time to attack a man who’d been found dead shortly after midnight. Wouldn’t it now.

  Presently the men went off, professing themselves still unsatisfied, but, after calling on Mr Maule to hear what he had to say, they rode back to Truro with their report. No more was heard of them.

  Chapter Nine

  I

  Ross had written that he expected to be home during the week following Easter; but he had not arrived by the Friday, when Demelza had to make a decision for him. Friday was the 29th, so Saturday was pay-day at the mine.

  It was customary for Zacky or Henshawe to ride in to Truro, accompanied by Paul Daniel or Will Nanfan, draw the money from Pascoe’s Bank and return the same day. Whoever went as second man carried with him an old two-barrelled pistol. Whether it would fire if you pulled the trigger no one was quite sure, but its presence was a useful deterrent if there were a thief who had designs on the bags of money. Apart, of course, from the fact that both Daniel and Nanfan were very big men.

  They normally left at eight, and she walked to the mine just before seven-thirty and found Zacky Martin there, with Will Nanfan. Luckily Captain Henshawe came in a moment or two later, so she was able to put the situation to them all.

  After she had finished there was silence for a few seconds while they each waited for someone else to speak.

  ‘Reckon tis only a rumour,’ said Zacky uneasily.

  ‘Tis not a rumour about Mr Pearce,’ said Henshawe. ‘I heard that Wednesday. Some manner of trust that Mrs Jacqueline Aukett made for her grandsons and Pascoe’s Bank was guaranteeing . . .’

  Zacky said: ‘But even if it is more than rumour, tis unlikely that we shann’t get our money. I’ve known Mr Pascoe, man and boy, all my life, though ever at a distance, like, him being a banking man and me just a miner. There’ll never be a straighter.’

  ‘It is not the money that worries me,’ said Demelza; ‘it is drawing it out; if there are many others of the same mind, it will look bad, even though it is what we always do at this time every month. Tell me, Will, what money do we have here?’

  ‘Here?’ Henshawe looked startled. ‘In the mine, like? Twenty guineas, twenty-five maybe. Just the loose cash for the odds and ends we d’buy from time to time. There’s always less at the end of the month.’

  ‘How much do we need? What do you reckon to bring home?’

  ‘We thought to draw four hundred and seventy. We need four-twenty for the wages, minimum.’

  She frowned her perplexity at the heavy day showing through the dirty window, layer upon layer of cloud glooming down to the sea. ‘We have perhaps a hundred in the house. Ross always likes to keep something hid for emergencies. But it is not enough, is it. It is not enough.’

  ‘Pardon me, Mrs,’ said Will Nanfan. ‘It is scarce to do wi’ me at all, since I be only part time and helping out here and there, but might it not be best if you was to come with us today? See Mr Pascoe yourself? See for yourself if there be trouble or not. It would be what Cap’n Poldark would do.’

  ‘Captain Poldark,’ said Demelza, ‘knows all about money. And I do not.’

  ‘All same,’ said Will Nanfan, ‘I reckon you got a good instinct for it. I reckon you got a good instinct for most things.’

  II

  They left at eight-fifteen, Henshawe coming with them at Demelza’s request, making a quartet. There might be some decision to make in Truro which was of vital importance, and four heads, she felt, would be better than three, in spite of their somewhat pathetic belief in her capabilities.

  They were in Truro before ten-thirty, and made a detour to ride past Pascoe’s Bank. They soon saw that rumour had not exaggerated the effect of rumour. There was no disorderliness, no rush, no panic – yet, but there were dismounted horses in the street, one red-wheeled tandem cart, a farmer’s gig, some pack asses, and groups of people standing about talking, so that the four riders had difficulty in getting through.

  ‘I’ll dismount here,’ Demelza said when they came to the corner. ‘It would not do for us all to go in. You go on to the Red Lion, but you, Zacky, come back when you’ve stabled the horses and wait for me at this corner.’

  ‘Yes, mistress. That I will do.’

  She walked back, not pushing through the crowd but taking her time, avoiding people and side-stepping round them. They did not know who she was but her good clothes, her leggy slimness, her startling dark eyes all drew attention and a degree of respect. People made way for her. It was not at all a question of putting on airs, but a dozen years of being Mrs Ross Poldark had left their mark.

  She remembered that down the slit of an alley beside the bank was a side door through which they had entered on the night of Caroline’s wedding, so she decided to try that. A scared-looking maid answered the bell. Yes, Mr Pascoe was in, but was engaged. Could she have the name? Oh, Mrs Poldark, of course, she should’ve remembered, beg pardon. She’d tell Mr Pascoe, if Mrs Poldark’d care to wait.

  Mrs Poldark would wait, and was shown into a little box of a room adjoining the bank parlour. She sat on a blue plush chair and moistened her lips and was wondering precisely what she should say, when it came to her notice that she could hear the conversation in the next room through the door that the wind of her entry had caused to come ajar.

  ‘It’s a big sum,’ said a voice. ‘I know that. But ye see, Mr Pascoe, the money’s not all mine. I cannot afford to take the slightest risk . . .’

  ‘What leads you to suppose there is a risk?’ Pascoe’s voice.

  ‘Well, tis all over the town. People saying old Nat Pearce has been embezzling funds and some of those funds carry your guarantee. If that be so—’

  ‘Mr Lukey, my old friend Nathaniel Pearce has, alas, used funds that were not his own for stupid sp-speculation in India and elsewhere. In order to do this he has written and issued and signed statements which would surely see him committed to prison if he were still alive. Some of these funds which he has misappropriated carry our guarantee, and, though the way in which he has taken this money gives us the opportunity to r-repudiate these guarantees, I have every intention of honouring them in full. That does not mean that the stability of the bank is threatened. Unless . . .’

  ‘Unless?’

  ‘Unless every one of my old clients proceeds to do as you do and suddenly demand in full deposits which have lain with us for years.’

  ‘Ah, yes . . . Yes, well. That may be.’ There was the clink of a glass. ‘But you can meet this cheque now if I present it?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then I think I must, Mr Pascoe, I think I must. Ye see, as I’ve said before, all this is not my own personal money. Over the years there’s been this steady growth of investment in my little businesses, and should I not be able to repay in full . . .’

  ‘Very well . . .’ There was the ‘ting’ of a bell.

  ‘No hard feelings, I’m sure, Mr Pascoe? None on my side.’

  ‘No hard f-feelings,’ said Harris Pascoe. ‘Except that in times of temporary stringency one comes to know one’s friends.’


  ‘Well, sir—’

  ‘Oh, Kingsley, will you take this slip and pay Mr Lukey the amount on it. I trust, Mr Lukey, you do not want it all in gold?’

  ‘Well, sir . . .’

  ‘Bills on Basset’s Bank are still I b-believe worth their face value?’

  ‘Why, certainly. I’m sorry ye take it this way.’

  ‘I’m sorry that I have to. Half in coin, Kingsley; the rest in bills.’

  The door was heard to close and there was silence for a while except for the rustling of paper. Demelza thought she might have been forgotten; but then the door opened some extra inches and Harris Pascoe looked round it.

  ‘Mrs Poldark. Alice said . . . This is a pleasure. Will you come in now.’ His face was thin and drawn, the indented lines dark furrows. ‘Is Ross not here?’

  ‘No . . . We’re expecting him any day. I – hope he comes soon.’ Demelza sat on the edge of a chair. ‘I came because I thought he would want me to. I hear there is – a sort of trouble.’

  ‘Indeed. Perhaps you heard that c-conversation. Ah, yes, you did. Well, Lukey is one of my largest and oldest depositors but he has allowed himself to be infected by the general fear – and fear, once it begins, is like a forest fire. It is no respecter of persons. He, I would have thought, m-might have kept a cool head. But money rules all . . . Perhaps as a banker I should not be surprised that money rules all – yet I confess at times to a slender feeling of disappointment.’

  ‘Mr Pascoe,’ said Demelza, ‘I do very much wish Ross was here. I – am not well versed in these money matters you speak of. Is it possible for you to explain a little – simply?’

  ‘Nothing easier. Mr Pearce must in his last years have suffered some softening of the moral fibre that I was unaware of. He became enamoured of various financial bubbles that promised him a fortune in quick time – and they all burst. He has, I would estimate, r-robbed his clients of some fifteen thousand pounds. For about half of this we stand as guarantors. I trusted him, and in that am at fault, and so will bear the loss. Seven th-thousand-odd will not sink this bank nor sink me. But if the crude public who make up the population of the town and country round lose their confidence in Pascoe’s Bank, then I do not know whether we can keep our heads above water. I think there has been ill will.’

  ‘Ill will?’

  ‘Well, this.’ Pascoe handed her a letter. ‘Mr Henry Prynne Andrew is our oldest client, and one of our most substantial. He received this, put under his door this morning.’

  Demelza’s eyes went rapidly over it. ‘Honoured Sir, It has come to the notice of a Well Wisher that you continue to entrust your savings to Pascoe’s Bank in Truro. I have to inform you on the highest authority – that of a member of the staff of that bank – that is now on the verge of insolvency. Moneys made over to Mr Pascoe’s daughter on her marriage a few years ago have been helping to support a larger notes issue than any sagacious Banker would sanction. It so happens that this money has now been withdrawn, and the event coincides with the revelation of the criminal activities of Mr Nathaniel Pearce, Mr Pascoe’s old crony and confidant; and the threadbare nature of the cover that this bank offers by way of guarantee of the value of its notes is painfully revealed . . .’

  It went on in such a vein for another half page and was signed ‘A Well Wisher’.

  ‘How did it come about – who wrote this?’

  Mr Pascoe shrugged. ‘It has been written. And if, as I suspect, many people have received a similar letter, there are some among them who will b-believe what it says; and even those who do not altogether believe will wonder if their money is quite safe . . .’

  ‘It is wicked – monstrous. But you can – meet the demands?’

  Again he shrugged. ‘The basis of banking, the way it has developed, explores the very nature of credit. If a thousand pounds is paid into a bank, a prudent banker will keep perhaps two hundred of it in his safes and will lend out the other eight hundred – on good security, of course – at a higher rate of interest than that he is paying the d-depositor. So credit expands, and instead of having enormous reserves behind the counters he is concerned in land, in mines, in mills, in shops, in India Stock, in bonds, anything which bears with safety the higher rates of interest. If one depositor comes in of a sudden and demands his thousand pounds to be repaid at once, that is nothing: it is all in a banker’s day. If ten such come in he will still be able to meet it. But if m-more come to the counters and clamour, he must first sell his stock and his bonds before he can pay them, often at a substantial loss; and after that it is a question of what short-term loans he can call in. If they are not due for two months, four months, six months, they are out of his reach. The money is safe but not today, not tomorrow. And if the clamour continues he will be unable to meet his obligations and must close the shutters.’

  They could hear the murmur of voices from inside the bank. The clerk put his head round the door.

  ‘Mr Buller to see ee, sur.’

  ‘Tell him I will see him in five minutes.’

  The head withdrew. Pascoe said: ‘Apart from this, there is the note issue. All Truro banks have been issuing notes of late years. We have been the most restrained, but even so, once mistrust begins . . . Yesterday I l-learned that people with Pascoe notes were being advised to spend them while they still had value. And some shops are already refusing to change them – on the pretext that they are short of silver.’

  ‘How long has this been going on?’

  ‘Since Wednesday. Yesterday, we paid out nearly nine thousand pounds. Today, thanks to Mr Lukey, we have already paid six.’ Harris Pascoe got up. ‘But in my preoccupations I am forgetting my m-manners. A glass of port, my dear?’

  ‘Thank you, no. As you know, Mr Pascoe, this is the end of the month, and it is our custom – our usual custom . . .’

  ‘To draw money,’ he helped with a smile. ‘Of course. For wages. What is the usual amount? About five hundred? There will be no difficulty. I will instruct my clerk.’

  ‘No,’ said Demelza, ‘but I’ve been thinking, if you are in this trouble . . .’

  Pascoe stared at the glass of port he had poured for himself. ‘You may wish to safeguard yourself by taking more? It is natural. Your husband has just over two thousand to his credit at this time. Less than usual because of the accident to your mine. B-But I should esteem it a favour if you did not draw it all – at least not for the next two weeks. By then we shall, I hope, have weathered the storm.’

  There was another silence. Demelza said: ‘Mr Pascoe, you must not think all your friends are like Mr Lukey.’

  III

  In his porticoed mansion overlooking the river Fal, Mr Ralph-Allen Daniell was writing letters when a servant came to tell him he had a visitor. He walked out and found the lady standing in her velvet riding suit beside one of the broad windows that offered a view of young chestnut trees and a group of Devon yearlings.

  ‘Mrs Poldark. This is a pleasure, ma’am. Captain Poldark is not with you? Do sit down.’

  It was the second time this morning that a grave, elderly man had bowed over her gloved hand, and almost with the same words. There was little to choose between them in sobriety, this one the stouter in build and by a few years the younger and verging on the Quaker in style of dress.

  ‘Mr Daniell, it is very good of you to receive me. Mrs Daniell is well? I came – Ross is still at Westminster, and I came to ask your urgent advice . . . and help.’

  He insisted on having canary wine brought for her, and while it was being brought she speculated on whether she might not have crossed the river instead in the hope that Lord Falmouth had returned to Cornwall.

  ‘Mr Daniell, you will have heard, I suspect, that there is trouble in Truro and pressure on Pascoe’s Bank?’

  ‘I have not been in this week, but my steward told me of it. A pity. But it will blow over.’

  ‘It depends,’ Demelza said, ‘on what support he gets from his friends.’

  ‘Well, yes. But
he weathered the national bank crisis of ’97. This is only a temporary crisis of confidence, surely; and this time the other banks will not themselves be under stress and will lend a hand.’

  ‘Warleggan’s will not.’

  ‘Well, Basset’s, where I bank . . .’

  ‘Mr Daniell,’ Demelza said, ‘you’ll forgive me because I don’t understand these things, and I dearly wish that Ross were here and then he could do what he thinks is best. But while he is not I must – must try to think for him . . . It is the end of the month and the wages are due on our mine. I came to draw this money to take home tonight for the pay-day tomorrow. But I find I cannot . . .’

  ‘You mean,’ Daniell’s brows contracted, ‘that Pascoe’s can’t pay you? Why, I would have thought—’

  ‘I mean,’ she said, ‘that I cannot draw it.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘In the years when Ross was struggling, so near to a debtor’s prison that even now sometimes I wake in the night – Mr Pascoe helped us again and again. He has been Ross’s personal friend – certainly his closest in Truro – for twenty years. This is the time for us to put money into his bank, not draw it out!’

  He had been watching her interestedly. ‘The sentiment does you credit, ma’am. Though there are times when sentiment is a bad business adviser. You have a considerable deposit in the bank, more than you need?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Much more.’

  ‘Then you should not hesitate to take this lesser amount . . . Oh, I see your dilemma, and I applaud you for your feelings. It would be a sad world if we were all like the Warleggans. But . . .’ He got up to refill her glass and she smiled her assent. ‘If you have come for my advice, then—’

  ‘More than advice, Mr Daniell. Your help.’

  She had seen that cautious look come into men’s eyes before. How warmly they looked at you until you mentioned money! But Mr Daniell was known for his philanthropy, his generous business ethics.

  ‘How can I help?’

  ‘Ross has an interest in your reverberatory furnaces. I do not know the extent of it, but he tells me it is profitable.’