The Old Order (A Poor Man at the Gate Series Book 7)

by Andrew Wareham

  The deal was clearer now – Mostyns received gold in Bombay and issued its own paper in London, using the gold as backing for its issue of notes. Provided there was no universal collapse of the banking system then everyone made money, and in a great depression there was no money to be made so it did not matter.

  “An excellent idea, Mr Benson. I shall be very happy to proceed as you suggest.”

  “You look like a man who has had a bad day, Robert. A glass of something?”

  “Welcome indeed, sir – brandy, I think, I need something strong! On second thoughts, we have some bottles of Patrick Plunkett’s Irish, do we not?”

  “Arrived last week, with his compliments. ‘Aged in the cask, nine years old best whiskey’, so it says.”

  They tried a suspicious single finger apiece, sniffing and sipping in some trepidation.

  “It is certainly not brandy, Papa!”

  “It’s not bad, Robert.”

  They refilled their glasses by mutual agreement – the spirit deserved greater attention.

  “I could come to like that, sir, but not before dinner, I think! That is a powerful tipple, I believe.”

  Tom agreed, put his empty glass down regretfully.

  “What of your day then, Robert?”

  “Castlereagh, the fool!”

  “Again?”

  “Ten thousands, this time, and I have sent him away empty-handed, suggested strongly that he must first discuss the matter with Lord Liverpool. I informed him that if he paid so large a sum out to an extortionist then he would merely be setting himself up to be bled again; he must use his sources in government to crush the blackmailers.”

  “Will he?”

  “He has begged me to consider my course overnight, says that he is at his wits end, dare not risk exposure. For the first time ever, he admitted that he was being blackmailed – there has always been some elaborately false pretext before. He tells me that I would not understand the nature of the problem, but that he could not retain public office was it to become generally known.”

  Tom was surprised, wondered if the man was not deranged, driven to the edge by the immense pressures of his work as the self-professed arbiter of Europe.

  “There are very few peccadilloes so outrageous as to excite universal reprehension, Robert. Is he perhaps exaggerating in his own mind? So driven by fear as to be unable to make a true judgement of the whole business?”

  Robert feared not; he had spoken again to Michael and he had shaken his head, said that Mr Smith could see no solution.

  “I asked, in a roundabout sort of way, whether it might not be possible to identify the extortionists and use the services of some of Mr Smith’s nastier employees to bring the matter to an end. Michael said that it was not a practical solution – witnesses and victims had been spirited out of the country and would surface with their depositions in Paris and Munich and Vienna, even in Washington it was implied. British diplomacy would be compromised by the outrage done to the susceptibilities of the political people of those states.”

  “Then he must go.”

  “I doubt he will, and Lord Liverpool is too weak in his administration to be able to dismiss him without publicly stating why. I tend to agree with you sir; I think Castlereagh is no longer wholly in command of his emotions and intellects, sir and cannot be expected to take rational action.”

  “I must talk about this, Robert, take advice. The problem is that we are in August!”

  Tom and Frances had come to London for a few days to do a little shopping, to spend time with the grandchildren and to recruit their spirits before making a duty visit to the Dorset estate of her parents. Town was almost empty of people – there were several hundreds of thousands of the mob hanging about as always, but they did not count. Parliament was not sitting and only a few Ministers of the Crown were to be discovered anywhere near their offices and virtually none of the party king-makers were sat in their smoke-filled rooms.

  Enquiry disclosed Viscount Hawker to have the knocker on the door of his mansion; he would do.

  Tom outlined the problem as he understood it, emphasised that something must be done before Castlereagh blackened the reputation of the whole country.

  “Not just that, of course, my lord. The Radical grouping will have no hesitation in playing up the issue, publicising the details in the most scandalous fashion by pamphlet and in the more scurrilous newssheets, and every last one of us will be tarred with the same brush in the public eye. The Catholics in Ireland will be told of the Protestant iniquity, no child safe from them; the workers in the mills will understand their masters all to be unspeakably vicious; farm labourers will mistrust their landlords, more than is already the case. The man could bring the whole country back to the verge of revolution!”

  Hawker feared that Tom might be right – the damage could be enormous, its potential unquantifiable, could bring British power to its knees by encouraging combinations of European nations to form again.

  “We lead Europe at the moment, Lord Andrews, not by any concrete factor but by prestige and moral example – we are the richest, most advanced of all the world’s nations. Was our most prominent statesman to be mired in vicious scandal then there would be a very genuine horror, and a feeling that perhaps we had intentionally misled them all, deliberately played the hypocrite.”

  They talked long, could find no tidy solution, and the only senior man in the Party to be in London was Canning – not the man to take advice of in this case. Wellington was at Stratfield Saye, half a day away, but, again, they doubted that he was sufficiently flexible to deal with such a matter.

  “Present the Duke with a blackmailer and he will kick his arse and tell him to do his worst! He will not be bled, and will not understand those who can be.”

  “We must talk with Castlereagh. We may be able to find a solution.”

  “If needs be we can come up with the money ourselves, much less publicly than a bank could.”

  “What do we do about the extortionist, Hawker?”

  “God knows!”

  Tom decided that whatever happened in the immediate future, he would discover the name of the criminal and make appropriate arrangements for his eventual well-being.

  “Robert, Viscount Hawker will join me in a meeting with Lord Castlereagh. He is due to see you, I believe, and will certainly be present at Mostyns at the time arranged. We think that he might refuse us if we attended him at his house, so we wish to take one of your secluded chambers in the morning. You will, if you will be so good, bring him to us.”

  “What do you intend, sir?”

  “To break him, I fear… He must be brought to understand that even if he pays off his extortionist he will not achieve silence. We shall go to Lord Liverpool if he will not. His activities must come to an end, and he will be forced to accept that he has no alternative than to discover that his health is seriously jeopardised, that illness renders him unfit to continue in service to the Crown. He must retire to his estates in Ireland to recruit his faculties. Once he is gone then his blackmailer will have nothing – if he publishes then he will not be believed, he will be seen as no more than an opportunist trying to cash in after his victim has retired from public life, and his own existence will be at serious risk.”

  “I would imagine that it is in any case, sir. With my lord away from the scene he will be very well advised to run fast and far.”

  Robert hesitated a moment.

  “What if he will not go, sir, Lord Castlereagh, that is? I really do not believe him to be in full, rational possession of his intellects, do not know that he will respond to reason.”

  “Willis must be at a loose end for a noble client, Robert.”

  The Willises had suffered an eclipse on the death of Mad King George, had returned to their practice in Yorkshire, and were still petitioning the Privy Council for the full payment of their agreed fees.

  “You will have him put away, sir? That is to go to an extreme, surely!”

  �
�Lady Castlereagh would have to sign her agreement, and I have little doubt that she would do so – the way he is wasting the readies must be disturbing her peace.”

  “Her own spendthrift ways are such that she must certainly be unhappy about the health of the family coffers, and there is no love lost between them, nor has been for many years, one is told. She would lose no sleep at the thought of him wearing a strait waistcoat!”

  Tom could find it in him to be sorry for Castlereagh – but only a little.

  “Good morning, my lord. Are you still of the same mind, sir?”

  “I must have the money, Mr Andrews. I have no choice, I tell you!”

  Castlereagh was one of the smarts, always precisely groomed, but he was untidy, dressed by guess as if he had dismissed his valet this morning. His eyes were bloodshot, red-rimmed – he had not slept by the appearance of him.

  “Would you come with me, my lord.”

  Robert led Castlereagh down the corridor, tapped on the blank mahogany door and ushered him inside.

  “I have taken the liberty of seeking advice about your problems, Lord Castlereagh. Nothing that is said will be repeated outside of this room.”

  Robert left the room, shutting the door firmly behind him. He returned to his own office, swearing quietly – if Castlereagh walked out, shouting outrage at the breach of confidentiality, then there would be a most damaging scandal, one that could hurt the bank’s profits. If, of course, all was tidied up, hushed up, then he stood to be known as having helped matters along, of acting in the best interests of all – a very useful reputation to gain.

  “Please to take a seat, my lord – our business may take some little time to conclude.”

  Hawker stared Castlereagh in the eye, challenging him; the Foreign Secretary broke, collapsed rather than sat, hid his face in his hands.

  “We have been asked to convene this discreet meeting, my lord – I need not mention names, I am sure.”

  It would be typical of Lord Liverpool to deal with so distressing a matter at second hand and Castlereagh made the assumption.

  “You have, my lord, repeatedly paid off blackmailers in the past four years – several different men involved, to cover up separate incidents. The cost has increased – it always does, of course – and you are now at a stand financially, and there is an increasing probability of public disclosure. Because of your position, this is wholly intolerable. What do you propose to do, my lord?”

  Castlereagh had no plans.

  “Have you considered resigning your Office, my lord?”

  Castlereagh could not consider such a course – the Congress of Verona was at a particularly tricky point and he must shepherd the participants to a sensible conclusion. No one else could be trusted to perform the task properly and to the nation’s benefit. His most probable successor would be the light-minded, versifying idiot Canning, who would be certain to make a mull of the whole business. He could not betray his country by resigning at this juncture.

  Tom spoke up, his voice intentionally heavy.

  “There are those who say that you have already betrayed your country by your disgraceful conduct, my lord. Your private life has been such, if it becomes known, as to expose you to the contempt of your peers. What moral authority could you display at Verona then?”

  Hawker, sat opposite, took up the argument.

  “If your conduct becomes known while you hold office then you will shame us all, my lord, and all of your policies will certainly fail.”

  “But… if I tender my resignation it will become known and I shall be exposed in any case.”

  That could be organised, they assured him. Money could be found, his extortionist silenced for a few weeks during which time he could make all of his arrangements. He could leave London, as if going to consult with Lord Liverpool in the country, and go to Ireland instead. His successor could then be named and all would be quietly made tidy.

  He could not be persuaded, but could see that there was no viable alternative.

  “I am to meet with my agent and lawyers in the morning, gentlemen, a matter of mortgages, as you will be aware. They will acquaint me with my financial position then. May I beg your forbearance till tomorrow afternoon?”

  They were reluctant to allow him to escape their pressure, but had no means of compulsion.

  “We had intended to give a resume of our discussions this afternoon, my lord. It is very much expected that all will be made tidy by then.”

  Castlereagh was adamant, he could give no immediate answer.

  “Before you go, my lord, just give me the names of the extortionists, those that you are aware of.”

  Castlereagh did so, sure that they would take no precipitate action and hoping that they might, in a year or two, be able to bring them to book. He left the bank and chose to walk to his house, wishing to think, perhaps clear his mind in the summer air.

  “Well, sir?”

  “Not at all well, Robert – he still will not be brought to take any action, still seems to hope that something may turn up for the best.”

  “One could lose patience with such a man, sir. Have you considered speaking to Michael and wondering whether his Mr Smith might not be inclined to bring my lord’s troubling to an abrupt end?”

  “It must be in the mind of those who seek to protect us from the worst of scandals, who are in the habit of removing the dangerous from our midst. You will be reminded of Captain Hood’s reference to the pair of traitors who suffered an inexplicable food poisoning.”

  They considered the possible ramifications of their making such a suggestion.

  “Too prominent a figure. Too big a risk.”

  “The various other agencies might be moved to investigate, suspecting foreign involvement. It would be easy to persuade oneself that Russia or Austria might be glad to see the British Foreign Secretary dead and his policies at the Congress lost. A pity, but he should not be assassinated, unless, just possibly, one could discover one of these wild new Frenchmen, the Reds who wish to kill everybody, and set him loose.”

  “Thus embarrassing the Frogs, which can never be a bad thing – but still too great a risk for my liking, Papa.”

  “And mine, my son. I must be getting old – twenty years ago I would have done it myself and laughed at the opportunity. Did I ever tell you about… no, never mind, better that I should not, I suspect!”

  There were disadvantages to having a pirate as a papa, Robert thought, though he would like to know what the old bugger was keeping from him this time.

  Lord Castlereagh walked slowly, dejectedly, into Piccadilly, turning the same impossibilities over and over in his mind. He could not pay; he could not refuse to pay; he could not resign; he could not remain in office; he would not vegetate in the Irish bogs; he could not stay in London…

  “My lord!”

  A quiet voice but urgent, the man was actually tugging at his sleeve, how dared he!

  “What… Oh! Why are you here? I told you I would see you tomorrow, and not in the public street!”

  “Just a little reminder, my lord. My principals are growing impatient, my lord. I must have gold for them without fail, tomorrow morning, my lord, or they will send a letter to Lord Liverpool as a first step.”

  “In the house behind the Park. Tomorrow at twelve o’clock. As we agreed.”

  “It will be my pleasure, my lord. And I am sure you would not be so very unwise as to bring constables or Runners with you, my lord. There will be four watchers, my lord, at a safe distance, and an Express sent to Paris within the hour.”

  It was impossible. There was nothing he could do. He could not find a thousand in gold, far less the half of the ten thousand the man was demanding. He ran inside his house, brushing past the porter who said there was a letter for him, just delivered by hand.

  Another one, a new demand, it was too much!

  He scuttled up the great staircase towards his own rooms.

  His wife appeared, demanding his time; she had importa
nt matters to discuss.

  “Not now! Not ever! No!”

  Into his dressing room; he pushed his valet to one side, snatched at his dressing case. There was a small knife there, a short blade that he used for paring his fingernails, razor-sharp, long enough.

  As Lady Castlereagh appeared at his door he stared into the stand mirror, then slashed once at his throat, cutting as precisely as any butcher, wholly severing the carotid artery. He was gone inside the minute.

  “He’s dead, Lord Andrews!”

  Hawker had appeared in Mount Street, banging at the door in person; he had obviously come as quickly as was possible, delaying only to make his appearance fit for public display.

  “Who?” Stupid question, there was only one man it could be, only one who would bring Hawker to him, hair so quickly combed that there was a trace of pink showing – a level of dishevelment that stated distress and urgency. “How? Not natural causes, one assumes, unless, by any stroke of luck, a sudden apoplexy brought on by despair?”

  “Cut his throat! In his dressing room, in front of my lady, blood everywhere, her in fits of tears and swooning, but able to give orders to bring lawyers and agent to the house. What’s to do, my lord?”

  Tom tugged the bell cord beside his desk; Aitkens appeared inside the minute, alert as every butler must be.

  “With the utmost urgency, running footman to Downing Street, begging the instant attendance of a confidential aide to Lord Liverpool. Message to be verbal. Can he do that?”

  “No, sir. Roderick lacks the discretion and the understanding. Our second groom has the qualities required and I shall, with your permission, send him.”

  “Do that now and there will then be a note to take to Mr Michael.”

  Aitkens withdrew and Tom turned back to Hawker.

  “I shall give Michael the names of the extortionists – those that his late lordship provided yesterday. Robert will have been informed at the bank and I would expect him here within minutes.”