Keeping Bad Company

by Caro Peacock

  ‘Dearest, the Claverleys want to know about Vienna. Do come and talk to them.’

  ‘Of course, dearest. You’ll excuse me, Miss Lane. We shall talk further.’

  He let himself be rustled away, leaving me with half a cup of cold tea and a head spinning with questions.

  I knew Tom must come that evening. I’d made everything in our parlour as ready as I could. A fire of best coal burned in the grate with the kettle on the hob and the teapot standing beside it. A bottle from the dozen of good claret a grateful client had sent me was decanted, the finest cold pie that money could buy standing on the table in case he was hungry. The cat was dozing on our new hearth rug. Mrs Martley, the very picture of respectability, knitted in her chair by the fire. My ex-street urchin apprentice, Tabby, was on duty in the yard, ready to whistle up as soon as a gentleman appeared. The whistle came at around eight o’clock, just after we’d lit the lamps. I flew downstairs and this time it really was Tom. Before he could say anything I threw my arms round him and hugged him tightly, trying to make up for those seven years of missing him. For all I knew, he was intending to carry on our quarrel from where he’d left off, but for a while at least I wanted to enjoy the sheer wonder of his being back. He hugged me in return, but with some reserve, then followed me upstairs and stood in our parlour like a stranger, holding his hat and gloves in his hand. When I introduced Mrs Martley as my housekeeper he gave her a polite nod of the head and she bobbed a curtsey. I felt like crying for the time lost but took his hat and gloves from him, made him sit in the other chair by the fire, wildly offered tea, claret, pie.

  ‘I’ll take a glass of claret,’ he said. ‘Our tea tastes fresher because we’re closer to China. When you’re accustomed to tea in the East, you have no taste for what they do with it in England.’

  I made a clumsy business of pouring, hiding my dismay. I’d parted from a brave boy who’d been my follower and companion in adventures. I thought of us racing our ponies over logs in the woods, diving from rocks into the sea, daring each other to climb out of our bedroom windows at night and go watching foxes and badgers under the light of the moon. This young man’s face and figure were rounded, his dark hair sleeked down. He seemed at least five years older than I was, rather than two years younger. When we’d parted, his voice had only just broken and his laugh was still a boy’s. Now he spoke as if tea were a matter of grave policy. I couldn’t tell what to do with this stranger who’d returned in my brother’s place. Then, as I handed him his glass, I looked into his eyes and saw Tom hadn’t gone away after all. They were still the fine dark eyes he’d had at fifteen. And, as so many times on our adventures together, the look in them told me that Tom was very worried or scared and doing all he could to hide it.

  I touched my glass to his.

  ‘To your return.’

  ‘I’m not sure that it’s worth toasting,’ he said.

  Discouraging. I poured a glass for Mrs Martley and handed it to her with a nod and an upward glance that told her to keep her promise: go upstairs and leave me and my brother alone. She went. Tom emptied his glass at two gulps.

  ‘Liberty, I was very surprised to find you—’

  ‘Never mind that,’ I said. ‘What’s all this about you and a parliamentary committee and a murder?’

  That stopped him in his tracks. He almost dropped the glass.

  ‘How do you know about that?’

  ‘It seems to be pretty well common knowledge.’

  That was hardly fair to Mr Disraeli, whose knowledge was anything but common but I wasn’t ready to tell Tom about that particular friendship.

  ‘It was supposed to be a deadly secret,’ Tom said. ‘That was why I couldn’t write and tell you I was coming.’

  ‘So secret that you attend a Foreign Office reception with half the world there, but can’t tell your sister?’

  ‘We were ordered to go to the reception. I suppose they wanted to see me and size me up before the formal proceedings.’

  ‘They being the MPs on this committee?’

  A nod.

  ‘But why do they want to speak to you?’

  ‘Because I’m a witness. Except I’m not really a witness. There were no witnesses. That’s the confounded thing about it.’

  Those dark eyes were full of misery. I refilled our glasses.

  ‘You’d better tell me about it,’ I said.

  THREE

  The story Tom told me took us into the early hours of the morning. It ranged the entire distance across India, from Calcutta in the east to Bombay in the west, and then a death just before dawn by some red rocks on a hill. Here it is as he told it.

  ‘The man who died was named Burton. He was the assistant of a merchant, Alexander McPherson. McPherson runs a company that exports opium from India to China and imports tea from China to Britain. They say he’s well in with the Governor and a lot of the senior men in Calcutta. He used to work for the Company, but then branched out on his own. He’s away trading in Canton half the time. He’s supposed to be as rich as Croesus, built himself a house that’s practically a palace, stuffed with plate and jewels. But like the rest of the opium men, he took a bad knock recently when the Chinese confiscated whole shiploads of the stuff. I’ve never worked in Calcutta so all I knew about him was from gossip, until he arrived in Bombay about eight months ago. It still wouldn’t have been any concern of mine, except for the effect it had on the deputy head of my department, a man named Edmund Griffiths.’

  Tom’s voice was warm as he said the name, unlike his tone when talking about McPherson.

  ‘Although he’s senior to me and a lot older, Griffiths and I hit it off as soon as he was transferred from Calcutta to Bombay. You’d like him, Liberty. He reminds me of father. He’s spent most of his life with the Company, mostly as a local magistrate. He never cared much about money or promotion and as far as I can tell he lives on his pay. What he loves is India. He speaks dozens of the languages and dialects and even writes poetry in some of them. I’ve seen him joking on equal terms with a prince and hunkering down in the dust to talk to some old holy man. Of course, a lot of people in the Company don’t care for that sort of thing. They call him “The Mad Griff”. Even before he joined us in Bombay, some of the older men were laughing and gossiping about him. They were wondering why he was being transferred all the way there from Calcutta. Then the story got out: he was being sent pretty well in disgrace because he’d made public threats against McPherson. And I have to tell you, Liberty, if I’d been in Griffiths’s place, I hope I’d have been making threats against the man as well.’

  Tom’s eyes blazed and he ran a hand through his carefully combed hair, disordering it. He was beginning to look and sound more like the brother I knew.

  ‘Why?’ I said.

  ‘Because the man was little better than a bandit. A long way back, in his magistrate days, Griffiths kept coming across natives who’d been deprived of their little bits of land by McPherson. The method was that he’d advance the farmers small loans, get them into debt then take over their land to grow opium. All legal, so there was nothing Griffiths could do about it, but he says it drove him nearly mad. He’s never been a man to keep his views to himself, so he started trying to kick up a fuss about it, appealing to the Governor and so on. Eventually he realized it was a waste of breath. After all, who’s going to worry about the opinions of some obscure employee against a man with McPherson’s money and influence? So for years he kept on with his work and his language studies and tried to forget the likes of McPherson existed.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘The latest trouble in China. You know the Chinese authorities don’t want our opium? They keep trying to ban it, but McPherson and his like bribe the officials and get it in anyway, then just put the price up to cover the bribes. Quite recently, the Chinese have been taking a stronger line. They confiscated thousands of chests of opium, including a lot of McPherson’s, and burned them. McPherson comes rushing back to Calcutta, expecting
the Governor to pay compensation and send in warships. Well, the Governor’s pretty powerful, but he can’t do that without the say-so from Westminster.’

  ‘Hence this committee?’

  ‘Yes. Luckily the government won’t be rushed into anything, though McPherson and his gang are doing their best. Anyway, to get back to Calcutta. With McPherson rampaging round making so much noise, it stirred up all the old feelings in poor Griffiths. He stood up in public, at some dinner or another, and told McPherson to his face that he was no better than a pirate and the government shouldn’t pay him one single rupee of compensation.’

  ‘Brave.’

  ‘I agree. If I’d been in Calcutta, I hope I’d have said so. Griffiths added for good measure that McPherson was a disgrace to his country and men like him, if they weren’t checked, would get the British thrown out of India.’

  Tom thumped his fist into his palm, caught up in Griffiths’s oratory.

  ‘And the threats?’ I said.

  ‘He told McPherson that if he went on cheating Indian farmers out of their land, one of these fine days he’d be found on a lonely road with his throat cut, and serve him damned-well right.’

  ‘You heard all this from gossip?’

  ‘No, I heard it from Griffiths himself. He said the only thing he regretted was that they’d hustled him out of Calcutta before he could say worse.’

  ‘I can see why the Company wanted to put the whole breadth of India between them,’ I said. ‘But has Mr McPherson been found on a lonely road with his throat cut?’

  ‘No. He’s here in London, bursting to give his views to the committee. He and his gang came over on the same ship as I did. But the point is, that’s exactly what happened to his assistant, Burton. He was supposed to be meeting McPherson one morning. McPherson found him dead, and his luggage looted.’

  ‘But how does that concern you as a witness, since you were in Bombay all the time? Or Mr Griffiths, come to that?’

  ‘Because Burton wasn’t killed in Calcutta. He was killed just outside Bombay. McPherson and his people were honouring us with a visit.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘McPherson was making his way back to London, to pull strings here. He was travelling by way of Bombay because he wanted to realize some of his assets there, he made no secret of that.’

  ‘Assets?’

  ‘Calling in loans, mainly. Even a fellow as rich as McPherson can’t stand the loss of five thousand chests of opium without taking some harm. Then there were jewels. Everybody knew he was bringing some of his collection back to London with him to sell. While he was waiting, he used his spare time in Bombay trying to make things as difficult as he could for poor Griffiths.’

  ‘Did he succeed?’

  Tom looked into the fire and sighed.

  ‘Yes. Griffiths is a stoic. He tried not to let it show. But the sight of McPherson parading around as if he owned Bombay made him furious. His health’s not good either. He’s had warnings from the doctor about his heart and should be leading a quiet life, but with this business going on, he can’t rest. I’m sure McPherson knows that.’

  ‘But would it matter to him what Mr Griffiths thought, if he was so lacking in influence?’

  ‘You’d have thought not, but there’s something between them that goes a long way back. I don’t think Griffiths has told me the half of it.’

  ‘What about this Burton who was killed?’

  ‘I don’t know much about him, except that he was about my age and supposed to be McPherson’s right-hand man. McPherson must have trusted him to have him carry the jewels.’

  ‘The ones from Calcutta?’

  ‘No. They came by ship, as you’d expect. These were another collection, from somewhere inland. Nobody seems to know quite where. McPherson’s interests stretch all over the place. Anyway, Burton was bringing them from wherever it was and McPherson rode out on his own in the early morning to meet him. There are some big red rocks by the road that make a good place for an ambush. He found Burton and a native servant dead by the side of the road, with their throats cut. Their luggage had been looted. The other servants had run off.’

  ‘The jewels were gone?’

  ‘Some of them. But the most valuable, Burton had carried in a belt under his clothes. They were still there.’

  ‘Were you or Mr Griffiths present when any of this happened?’

  ‘No, of course we weren’t.’

  ‘Then I don’t understand how you’re involved.’

  ‘Because of a diamond hawk,’ Tom said.

  I stared at him.

  ‘Hawk?’

  ‘Swooping on its prey, head and body set with diamonds, ruby claws, eyes and beak. It’s a brooch the size of your hand. I thought it a vulgar thing, but it was supposed to be worth a fortune.’

  ‘How does that come into it?’

  ‘It was part of McPherson’s hoard. I found it on Griffiths’s desk.’

  The fire shifted in the grate and coals fell on the hearth. I scooped them up without taking my eyes off Tom’s face.

  ‘It happened two days after Burton was killed,’ he said. ‘Griffiths had asked me to fetch some report from his desk. I moved the papers, looking for the report, and there was the hawk.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Picked it up and took it to Griffiths. Of course, I had no idea that it belonged to McPherson. But Griffiths recognized it. He told me I was to go straight away with him to the Governor and explain exactly what had happened. So that’s what we did.’

  ‘Did Griffiths have any explanation?’

  ‘None at all.’

  ‘How had he recognized it as McPherson’s?’

  ‘He said it had belonged to a lady he knew.’

  ‘So what was it doing on his desk?’

  ‘He said he had no idea.’

  ‘Did the Governor believe him?’

  ‘I don’t know. I think he’d have liked to believe him. I don’t think he cared much for McPherson either.’

  ‘So was there a trial?’

  ‘No. Officially Burton was murdered and robbed by bandits. But of course the Governor had to send a report to London. Months later, word comes back that there’s going to be a parliamentary committee looking into the affairs of the Company. It’s mostly about the opium compensation business, but because of McPherson it’s all connected. Griffiths and I were ordered to London.’

  A lot of questions were in my head, but Tom looked mortally tired and the loud clock in the nearby workhouse was striking two. Tom told me that he was lodging in a house in the City which the Company owned, but I persuaded him that it would be madness to walk across London at this time of the morning. He consented to eat a slice of the pie and drink a cup of despised English tea, then I lit a candle and showed him through the little doorway into the room that I keep as my own study. It looked cosy by candlelight, with its bookshelves and daybed piled with shawls and cushions. Tom could sleep there. I could see his eyes going round the room, looking for things that would help him understand what sort of person his sister had become. If I’d found him changed in seven years, what might be going through his head about me?

  In the morning, I was up before Tom and going quietly downstairs in my riding clothes. As usual, my great friend the groom Amos Legge, was waiting for me on horseback at the gate into Abel Yard, holding the reins of my mare Rancie. We had our morning canter in Hyde Park, before the fashionable world was up and about. I told him that my brother was back, but no more than that because I supposed Tom had been talking in confidence. As he helped me down from Rancie, an idea came to me.

  ‘Tom needs exercise. Would you take him riding in the park one day? Not on Rancie, more of a weight-carrier.’

  Upstairs, Tom was sitting at breakfast in the parlour, being waited on by an obviously enchanted Mrs Martley. The remains of bacon and eggs on a plate suggested she’d used up most of our week’s supply on him and a smell of toast hung on the warm air. I sat down by the fire in my riding c
ostume and made some for myself from what was left of the loaf.

  ‘There are things we must discuss, Liberty,’ Tom said.

  My heart sank. That pompous tone was back. I buttered my toast, poured tea and ate and drank with deliberate slowness. Tom passed an impatient hand over his chin.

  ‘I need a shave.’

  ‘You’ve got too accustomed to having servants,’ I said. ‘A man won’t suddenly appear and do it for you.’

  We went upstairs to my study, leaving Mrs Martley clearing up. I sat on the daybed, leaving Tom the armchair.

  ‘Who’s paying for all this?’ Tom said.

  ‘My palace here, you mean? I am.’

  ‘From giving music lessons?’

  ‘Only a few, these days. Chiefly, I’m an investigator.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘Of anything. I try to solve problems for people. When they can afford it, they pay me.’

  ‘It must stop,’ Tom said.

  I managed not to say anything, biting my tongue.

  ‘I didn’t sleep much,’ Tom said. ‘I’ve come to a decision on what to do about you.’

  I released my tongue. It was probably bleeding.

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘When all this is over, you’re coming back to India with me.’

  ‘I am, am I?’

  Tom wasn’t even looking at me.

  ‘I can borrow your fare against my future salary and rent a small bungalow for the two of us. I don’t suppose it will be for long because I dare say you’ll be married within a year.’

  ‘Oh really. Have you anybody particular in mind for me?’

  ‘Nobody in particular, but there are a lot of Company men in their thirties and forties who don’t want to go all the way back to England to find a wife. Good, intelligent men, some of them. You’d like them.’

  ‘Should I indeed? Just as well.’

  He’d failed entirely to notice my sarcasm and grinned with relief at having got a difficult scene over. The grin faded when I stood up.

  ‘Did it occur to you at any point to consult me about this great plan?’