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

by Andrew Wareham

  “There will be a public scandal of the worst sort – he could not have done anything better calculated to excite rumour and speculation!”

  “No. What is it they say, the educated types? ‘De mortuis…’”

  “’Nil nisi bonum’,” Hawker automatically completed the old clench. “Will we be able to hide everything?”

  “Why not? It is all a matter of speed now. Every newssheet must be spoken to before they set their pages in print. The first day is the one that counts – ‘the poor man who gave his all for his country’, that is what the public must read and remember. Driven by work and worry until he lost his reason. A hint as well that he was financially slightly embarrassed by the cost of public office – travelling all over Europe with his secretaries does not come cheap, after all – will help.”

  The note to Michael was sent, Robert appearing soon after.

  “Castlereagh’s lawyer has already been in touch with me, sir. Within the hour!”

  “Quick! There’s a man who earns his fee!”

  “He does indeed, sir. He has asked me to delay all action whilst he and the agents for the estates ‘make sense of recent transactions’. Between the lines it is clear that Castlereagh did not take them into his confidence – I am almost sure that he did not tell them of the mortgage granted on the Norfolk estate, and possibly not of those on the Scottish properties.”

  “Let that be known, very quietly, would be my advice, Mr Andrews,” Hawker said. “Not rational behaviour – evidence that his reason had deserted him to an extent, slowly over two years or so, so gradually that even his closest acquaintance did not notice, though now, of course, blaming themselves that they did not.”

  Robert was hesitant, could be seen to be choosing his words with care.

  “There is a difficulty from the bank’s viewpoint, my lord. Should the gentleman be shown to have been insane and incapable of dealing with his own affairs then the matter of the enforceability of any contract arises. Could he have taken out a mortgage when he was, it would seem, incapable of assuming responsibility for his actions?”

  “Good point… but, happily, invalid. The government could not possibly have it said that the Foreign Secretary had spent the past two years baying at the moon, as it were – it would bring every treaty and promise that he had made into question.”

  They considered the balancing act that was implied – on the one hand, the dead man had not been of sound mind in his private life; on the other, he had been alert in his pursuit of the public interest.

  “Difficult, but with the good will of all involved, not impossible. If Lord Liverpool will play his part then all may be achieved.”

  Only Liverpool could bring Canning to heel; he must ensure that there was no gloating, no sudden reversal of policies and above all, no false sympathy. They waited for the private secretary to arrive.

  “A dreadful business, my lords! I think I may say that with no fear of contradiction!”

  “You may indeed, Mr Parkinson. Yet it is a business that must be made tidy, and with a little of discretion may be swept under the carpet, as it were. We believe that first of all there must be pressure placed upon the newspapers, those which publish daily especially. The pamphleteers are a different matter, and probably cannot be influenced, they have very little to lose, being hand to mouth concerns at best. We must, I think, accept that those who write for the newspapers will have heard more or less accurate accounts of Lord Castlereagh’s doings over the last year or two. They have chosen not to publish so far and must be ‘encouraged’ to continue that policy. That must come from Downing Street.”

  Parkinson frowned – he was not used to being given abrupt orders. He was intelligent enough to realise that there was a reason behind their lordships’ urgency.

  “How great a scandal may there be, gentlemen? Might it not be better to ride the storm now rather than risk a cover-up that may become blown at a later date?”

  “We believe that this storm is not one that can be ridden – this partakes more of the hurricane, I believe. Not merely in London, but in every major capital from Washington to St Petersburg, there would be repercussions. The government would, I am certain, fall, and might be very many years in its eclipse.”

  Lord Hawker was a significant behind the scenes figure – he never interfered in policy matters and was rarely heard in any discussion, but his bank accounts ensured that his opinion was to be sought, and listened to. Lord Andrews was a major public figure, a man of authority and surprisingly well-loved by the common folk, for being one of them who had risen. Parkinson had no choice – at minimum he must convey their words to the Prime Minister.

  “Lord Liverpool is in London, fortunately, gentlemen, and much put out that this affair should have happened.”

  “Newspapers, church, coroner – all must be spoken to today, Mr Parkinson. The word must go out that this tragedy is much to be regretted, the breaking of a fine mind under the pressures of public life. Bearing in mind the sad state of our late king we all know that the strain of office can be too much for any man, from highest to lowest. An expression of regret from His Majesty would be well received.”

  Parkinson left at the run, never having asked for details of Castlereagh’s behaviour, either because he already knew or, more likely, because he preferred to honestly plead ignorance if ever he came before a court on oath.

  “You will dine here tonight, Lord Hawker?”

  He could not, he regretted, he was not properly dressed, it was impossible; he left.

  A messenger came in mid-evening, the August sun just setting, silently handed in a note at the front door, probably feeling that a surreptitious knock at the servants’ entrance might be more visible to observers, of whom there might be one or two, working for the newspapers or uninvolved agencies.

  Tom was sat at table, begged indulgence of the family for opening the letter then and there.

  “No reply required, Aitkens. I expect he has gone in any case.”

  “Confirmation, Robert, from Michael that Mr Smith’s people have been busy, and to an extent successful – they have picked up some of the principal extortionists and are asking urgent questions of the whereabouts of the others.”

  “Unpleasant business!”

  “Very. I have no doubt their irons are hot and that they will have answers before morning.”

  A quick pursuit would ensure that the blackmailers would have no time to make disclosures and might make it possible to lay hands on their evidence and witnesses.

  The morning brought relief.

  The great tragedy filled the newssheets – it was August and very little happened in high summer so the editors filled their pages with penny a word obituaries and more-or-less informed speculation about the effects on the Administration of the loss of the noble lord. All agreed that the poor peer had worked himself into a mania, had exhausted his intellects, had overbalanced his reason in the service of his country. It was gravely explained to the readers that ‘suicide while the balance of the mind was disturbed’ was to be distinguished from ‘the horrid crime of self-murder’ – the two were not the same, though regrettably the end result was very similar. There could be no doubt that the body must rest in consecrated ground, though not perhaps in Westminster Abbey; a state funeral might not be regarded as desirable, yet respect should be paid, appropriately.

  “Hypocritical little shits!”

  “Tut, Thomas! Not at the breakfast table!”

  “I apologise, my dear. Is there more coffee in the pot?”

  “There will be.”

  Aitkens appeared, serving them himself this morning, quite evidently preferring that the ears of his staff might be kept well distant.

  “The second groom, Aitkens. Is he worthy of my notice?”

  “Indeed he is, my lord. I would suggest that he could do very well in a confidential function at Mister Robert’s bank. There must, I suspect, be documents to be transferred around the country by reliable messenger – cheque
s, perhaps or Bills or other notes of hand.”

  A well paid position, and one that would take him away from the temptations of the household. There would be those who might wish to know what verbal messages he had carried and to whom – some would seek to bribe him, others perhaps to threaten; he must be protected.

  “I will see to that today. Keep a weather eye peeled, Aitkens.”

  The butler made no comment; he would do so.

  “Ten pounds a year more on Aitkens' wage, and fifty in his box at Christmas, I think, my dear?”

  “Wise, Thomas. Will the proprietors of the newssheets perhaps have second thoughts when the Administration falls to the Whigs, Thomas?”

  “They have evidence in their hands now – no single one of them will know everything, but all will know that he was experiencing blackmail – he was insufficiently discreet towards the end. Some of them will have a very good idea of what he was doing and by suppressing that knowledge they have been, at minimum, compounding a felony. Much of the evidence will be burning at the moment; more will be tucked away in strongboxes, perhaps to fall into the hands of historians at a later date, probably to be destroyed in disgust by their heirs. It will become general knowledge amongst the right sort of people that there was the potential for a great scandal and that firm steps were taken to preserve public order and the confidence of lesser mortals in their betters. Overseas? Who cares about them, really? There will be suspicions, but there will be no hard proof, and every aristocracy has its guilty secrets, and wishes to keep them. We are safe, I believe.”

  Lord Liverpool felt the same.

  A note came that afternoon, in his own hand, briefly informing Lord Andrews that Captain Matthew Star, the distinguished naval officer and proponent of steamships, was to be gazetted as a baronet, with immediate effect. His lordship said nothing else, far too wise an old fox to leave any trail on paper.

  The Bank of England contacted Sir Iain Mostyn next day and invited him to tender, at an exceptionally low price, for six month bonds they had it in mind to issue.

  “Thirty thousands in our pocket, for nothing, Mr Robert! Do you know why?”

  “Yes, sir – and it is better that you should not. I will inform you of all next year. For the while, sir, let us be thankful. Has Mr Jonathan Mostyn been contacted by the government, do you know?”

  Jonathan had not, or not in so many words, but an acquaintance had whispered to him that he could look forward to a degree of promotion in a few months, ‘when it would not seem singular’.

  “Congratulations would be premature, I believe, and we do not know whether they should be made to Sir Jonathan or my lord.”

  Frances was, naturally, curious.

  “Do you know exactly what he was being blackmailed for, Thomas?”

  “Not in all of its detail, no – and I have no wish to find out. I am sure that it involved children but do not know whether or not he believed them to be willing, or cared. Normally when little girls are involved it is with the active participation of the mother, who will often persuade them, they tell me, but there may have been abduction and a degree of violence. I do not know – but I really do believe that I should have shot him a year ago when first I received a whisper; my conscience is not entirely clear, I fear.”

  Book Seven: A Poor Man

  at the Gate Series

  Chapter Six

  The dredging ship eased away from the fitting-out wharf, twin funnels - one nearly twenty feet tall for the main engine, the other, shorter and thinner, for the dredging buckets - pouring a mass of black coal smoke low across the water, forced down by the rain. She was slow, ugly, revolutionary and liable to be very unpopular amongst the Thames watermen whose livelihood to an extent depended on the river remaining muddy and shallow.

  There would be little call for rowing boat ferries if the water ran deep enough for the new steamers to have free passage along the whole of its length. Additionally at least two hundred men and boys worked tiny barges using bucket and rope to clear the mud around the wharves, slowly and not particularly effectively – but that was the price of progress, the old must be discarded, jobs and people too.

  There was a mudbank barely two hundred yards upstream of the wharf, in full sight of the yard. The dredger eased her way to its edge and butted against the current while the crew lowered the continuous chain of buckets to the bottom. A tugging boat brought a big dumb barge alongside and a chute was rigged across. The donkey engine rattled, the cloud of smoke from its boiler thickened and the buckets began to slowly move, to dip below the water and then rise part-full of mud, tipping sideways as they reached the top. The smell drifted down to the wharf, sulphurous and rotten – the Thames was not a clean waterway.

  “A week, so I reckon, Mr Robert, and there will be a channel fit for a thousand-tonner all the way from our yard down to the East India Company wharves.”

  Robert nodded, holding his new rubberised umbrella high so that he could see, deeply impressed but very unwilling to open his mouth to the effluvia in the air.

  “What are the costs, Sir William?”

  The speaker was unknown to them, one of the many who had come to watch the event advertised in the local newssheet.

  “I have a full set of folders in my office, gentlemen, building and running costs both. Twenty are made up and may be taken away to be perused at your leisure. We have estimated the amount of coals required, of course, but have a degree of experience to assist us. My clerks will be very happy to produce more details, if they should be required.”

  Seven of the onlookers went into the office and introduced themselves to the clerks and each other in process.

  The speed with which the prototype was working suggested that it would not be sensible for each set of wharves on the river to buy their own vessel - they would probably only need to dredge for two or three days a month. Within four weeks the Thames Dredging Enterprise had been formed and had ordered six vessels, much to Sir William’s satisfaction; they discovered as well that they needed a tugging boat and barges.

  “A twelvemonth from now, Mr Robert, and we shall be building in Liverpool and Southampton and on licence, as they call it, in every other estuary in the country, and one or two overseas, I shouldn’t wonder!”

  Robert noticed that Sir William’s diction was now far more conventional, never a dropped aitch and rarely an inappropriate piece of vocabulary; he was making a successful attempt to fit in, and his young son would undoubtedly grow up to believe that his was the natural way of speech. He must, he realised, push Judy into doing the same for Patrick; it was essential to be part of the couth and the learned; one must sound like a gentleman, far more than bother to behave like one.

  “You say a ‘thousand-tonner’, Sir William. Not, I presume, by accident?”

  “On the stocks now, Mr Robert, and I expect it to be the normal thing, they are growing bigger as we learn more about building them. Mr Joseph was here last month and showed me his ideas for a two thousand tons coaster. It would have two boilers, which means two funnels, of course. The big question seems to be how the second boiler is to use its power. I am of the opinion that it would be best to have a left and a right, one paddle-wheel apiece. Mr Joseph wondered if we might not have two paddle-wheels to each side, or two side wheels and one at the stern. Then there’s the question of what size the paddles should be, their ‘di-am-et-er’.” He pronounced the word slowly in four syllables, pleased to remember it but uncertain nonetheless.

  “It’s of no use at all to ask me, Sir William! I am not one of you technical men. When you say ‘thousand-tonner’ or two, or whatever, do you mean that she will carry cargo to that weight, by the way?”

  “Well… in some ways, yes, Mr Robert. It’s not really that sort of ton, being somewhat of a variable measure. It is very old, and, so they tell me, comes from the old wine ships, what ran to France with wool and back with barrels of wine – ‘tuns’, that used to be. So a fifty-tonner carried fifty tuns. And a tun filled with win
e weighs somewhere near a ton, more or less, and is reckoned to be much the same size as a space of a yard by a yard by a yard, a ‘cubic’ yard, that is. But the tun is round.”

  Robert concentrated; he was known to be a master of high finance, would not be defeated by a few rogue figures.

  “So… a carrying capacity of two thousand cubic yards is called a two thousand-tonner?”

  “Just that, Mr Robert, and you can see that if she was filled with coal there might be more weight, but if it was feathers it would be far less, and most cargoes might be in-between, so to speak.”

  “What would you look to carry in so large a vessel, Sir William? Two thousand tons is forty thousand one-hundredweight sacks, a very substantial amount, sir - the loads of four or five hundred drays.”

  “Coal, Mr Robert. They tell me there’s more than a million folk in London nowadays, and every one of them must burn a coal fire in winter because there ain’t no firewood - the trees are all gone. So I calculate that to be in excess of two million tons a year of coals, sir. More every year, as well. Our own coal wharf, Mr Robert, with steam cranes to unload and our own trackway from dockside to coal heaps. A partner with horses and drays, being as how that ain’t our field of knowledge, and two hundreds and more of men to bag up the coal and load the wagons. No huge profits, not handling a bulk commodity, but steady, and if so be we make a shilling on a ton, sir, that’s an awful lot of tons. All of the coals burnt here now come down in little sailing colliers, one and two hundred tons the biggest, and unreliable in the storms of winter, just when they’re most needed.”

  “Our own ships, our wharves, our coal pits in the north… there’s a profit to be made at each stage, Sir William. Have you got your eye on wharves and land?”

  Sir William took him into the office and his big map of the river and pointed out three possible locations on the eastern side of the city.

  “Good! Will you do it, Sir William?”