They were very privileged, Mr Portman was saying, to have the distinguished clairvoyant and physical medium Madam Almena Sylvestris with them that evening. He would remind the assembly that Madam sometime spoke in the direct voice, and that phantasms occasionally materialized, both of which phenomena could be distressing for those new to spiritualism. There was, he assured them, never anything to fear. Trust was essential, trust and faith.
Mr Portman lit a fresh candle on the desk, left the platform and took his seat once more in the front pew. The gaslights ranged along the temple walls remained low. The heavy curtains parted, and Madam Sylvestris appeared.
Here, thought Box, was someone decidedly different from the rotund, mundane Mrs Pennymint. Whereas Mrs Pennymint had appeared natural and homely, the impressive woman who now walked slowly to the seat at the front of the stage was very clearly a lady. She wore a well-cut dove-grey evening dress, adorned on the right shoulder with a diamond clasp. Her dark hair was elegantly cut and shaped in such a way as to leave her handsome face clear. She was, Box judged, in her early forties, but that fact could not have been gleaned from her flawless complexion. When she spoke, her voice was that of a cultured lady.
‘Dear friends,’ she began, ‘I very much hope that I will be able to bring comfort to the bereaved tonight, and at the same time demonstrate to any newcomers among us that our loved ones do indeed live and progress after they have left their envelopes of clay. As you know, I cannot predict what forms the spirit beings will take, but I exhort you all to have no fear.’
Madam Sylvestris folded her hands in her lap, and stared ahead of her across the entranced audience. Box watched her closely, and saw her eyes begin to close. For a single moment they caught his across the intervening space of the hall, and her lids quivered as though she was for the moment alarmed. Then her eyes closed, and her head fell gently on to her chest.
The candle on the table guttered and went out, and a sibilant murmur passed through the audience. At the same time, a shower of bright red sparks hissed and flickered around the medium’s head, then vanished. Madam Sylvestris groaned. Nothing happened for over a minute. Someone suppressed a cough. Suddenly, Madam Sylvestris spoke.
‘Is there an Alexander present? Alexander P … I can’t hear the last name. P, or B. Tom is here. Is there an Alexander?’
A young man in one of the middle pews stood up. He was dressed in a dark, work-worn suit, and there was a mourning band on his right arm.
‘My name’s Alexander,’ he said, his voice quavering, ‘Alexander Prentice. Tom was my brother. He died in Africa of fever. On the Gold Coast—’
‘Well, he’s here, now, and wants to tell you that all’s well. He felt nothing at the end. He sends his love to Beth—’ The medium’s voice suddenly dropped to a whisper, and she turned sharply to her left. ‘What? Are you sure? Very well.’
Madam Sylvestris groaned more deeply, and covered her face with her hands. The gaslights along the walls seemed to turn themselves lower. They could all hear the medium’s stertorous breathing. Presently, a column of smoke-like substance began to build up beside her, partly obscuring her body. It glowed very faintly, and seemed to pulsate in sympathy with the medium’s breathing. As they watched, the figure of a young man appeared to step forward from the darkness into the glowing smoke.
‘Tom!’ The young man called Alexander Prentice sprang forward as though to run on to the platform, but he was stopped when a man’s voice called strongly to him from the psychic mist.
‘Stay put, will you, Alexander! I wanted you to see me, and now you can. And you can hear me, too, thanks to this lady, who’s got the knack of living in two worlds at once! Tell Helen that I still love her, and would have married her, if the fever hadn’t taken me away from your world to this one. Tell your friends that—’
Suddenly, both spirit-form and phantom voice were swallowed up in the smoke, which dissipated like an early mist. The lights turned themselves up as if by magic. Madam Sylvestris took a number of deep breaths, and then smiled.
‘I do not go into deep trance at these demonstrations, my friends,’ she said. ‘I simply feel a heightened awareness of the two worlds impinging on each other, and then, quite suddenly, the two worlds are one. Did I bring you any comfort, Mr Prentice?’
‘You did, ma’am, you did,’ cried the young man with the mourning band. ‘Now I know that spiritualism is true, and that there is no death. How can I ever thank you?’
The audience broke out into a spontaneous burst of clapping, and Madam Sylvestris held up a hand to quell it. She looked pleased, and rather amused.
‘Wonderful!’ said Box. ‘A wonderful performance. That’s what they call the “direct voice”, you know. It’s supposed to be the actual voice of the dead person speaking through the medium. In fact, it’s a man secreted somewhere with a long, flexible speaking tube. I expect that man Alexander Prentice is an accomplice.’
Madam Sylvestris placed her hands once more in her lap, and her head fell on to her chest. A steady breeze seemed to cross the platform, ruffling the medium’s hair. She gasped, and writhed in her chair. The breeze stopped abruptly. The candle on the table spontaneously rekindled, and burned with a steady flame.
A sound came from the medium’s mouth, an unpleasant, rasping noise, like the steady pulsation of incoming waves beating upon a shore. Then, from the centre of the noise, a single piping word emerged.
‘Dada.’
With an oath PC Lane sprang to his feet, throwing off Box’s restraining hand. The baby voice continued to make itself heard over the hideous rasping sound issuing from the woman on the platform.
‘Dada. Cathy didn’t want to go. You gave me Polly to come with me. A nice lady came for me. Dora. Theo. Dada, when will you and Mammy come?’
‘That’s my little girl, Catherine Mary!’
PC Lane had struggled out of the pew, and was making his way rapidly to the front of the temple. His face was as white as chalk, and his frantic voice showed that he had thrown off all prudence. One or two men in the audience sprang up, and physically restrained him from climbing on to the platform.
‘That’s my little girl, I tell you! That’s what she called me: Dada. Polly was the name of her little doll. We put it in with her … And she’s with her great-grandmother, Theodora. She can’t say it properly, she’s not three yet. Let me talk to her!’
The woman on the platform stared at PC Lane with no apparent sign of recognition. She sagged in her chair, and for a moment it looked as though she would faint. Mrs Pennymint suddenly appeared from behind the rear curtain, and began whispering rapidly in her ear, while gently stroking her forehead. Madam Sylvestris sighed, and sat up straight.
‘Thank you, Minnie,’ she said, ‘I’m all right now. Poor man,’ she continued, looking now at PC Lane, ‘your outburst closed the door between the two worlds, and left your little girl’s question unanswered! I am so sorry for you. Perhaps you would like to come to my home in Belsize Park for a private sitting?’
‘A sitting, ma’am?’ PC Lane’s voice had steadied. There would be no further outburst from him.
‘Yes. It’s just another word for a seance. I am quite sure that Catherine Mary will come through if you are there, and perhaps you will see her materialize. I’m sorry that the direct voice upset you so. But it is a great wonder, a great miracle, for which we should be thankful. See Mr Portman at the end of the service. He will give you my address. Oh, and there will be no fee. Your assent to the teachings of spiritualism will be all the payment I shall need.’
In a private dining-room of one of the sumptuous gentlemen’s clubs in Pall Mall, a convivial luncheon was reaching its conclusion. The dessert plates had been removed, and a very old, fine claret had been produced, its appearance heralding a tattoo from appreciative fingers on the round table. There followed a scraping of matches, and the lighting of cigars.
The host was a fine-looking, hearty man in his mid-fifties, a man with a ready smile and a penchant for sudden bursts of l
oud laughter. He boasted a fine head of black curls, which made him look younger than his years. He was dressed formally, in clothes that suggested ‘banker’, but there was a certain jauntiness about him, and about the brilliant red rose in his button-hole, that denoted a man who was something more than a mere toiler in the City.
Lord Jocelyn Peto drew on his cigar, and glanced round the table. His guests were all busy talking to each other, their tongues loosened by the magic of superb food and the choicest wines. That was all to the good, for these gentlemen had been invited to lunch for the purpose of striking bargains with each other. Why do business in a poky office when you could do it in style, in Pall Mall?
Old Forbes there was discussing the details of a loan to young Everett. How the old devil smiled, and how the young rake misread that smile for disinterested kindness! Oh, well, all was fair in business. Tom Weinstock was whispering earnestly to Sir Abraham Goldsmith, who was pretending to listen. Tom wanted Goldsmith to amalgamate their two banks; this was a pleasant way of getting Tom to realize that Goldsmith wasn’t interested!
They were all welcome, here, at his club, or out at his home in Croydon. Some of these men had been friends of his from school-days at Eton, others were the comrades of a lifetime in business as principal of Peto’s Bank in the Strand.
A slight frown crossed Lord Jocelyn Peto’s brow as he thought of the man waiting patiently to see him downstairs in the smoking-room. Damn the fellow, couldn’t he have called at the bank, or, failing that, summoned him, Peto, to that rarefied Renaissance palace of his in Blomfield Place? No; he was content to wait, like an errand boy, downstairs, until this jolly lunch was over! A typical mean manoeuvre by Sir Hamo Strange to make him feel guilty and gauche. Well, he could wait until all this claret had been consumed, and the good company dispersed.
As Peto’s mind dwelt further on his old business rival, he suddenly smiled, and then laughed out loud. Dear me! Poor old Strange! Not everything was going to fall effortlessly into the lap of the man they called ‘moneylender to kings and princes’. Sometimes, the best laid plans of mice, men, and international financiers, went awry. Oh, well, he’d better go downstairs and see what the fellow wanted.
*
‘My dear Sir Hamo!’ cried Lord Jocelyn. ‘How good of you to call on me here at the club! You had only to say the word, and I would have presented myself at Medici House.’
Sir Hamo Strange smiled, and it seemed to Lord Jocelyn that his smile was like a cloud passing over the sun. He had bade his guests conclude their lunch at leisure, and had hurried down to the all but deserted smoking-room.
‘It’s no trouble, I assure you, Lord Jocelyn,’ said Sir Hamo Strange. ‘I only called, really, to ask whether you’d send me written confirmation of your willingness to oblige the Bank of England with six hundred thousand sovereigns. The Governor will want paper guarantees, as I know you’ll appreciate.’
Lord Jocelyn Peto carefully moistened his lips. It would not do to let this walking skeleton see that his mouth had gone dry.
‘Certainly. I’ll have my secretary type out a guarantee, and a messenger will take it round to Threadneedle Street later this afternoon. Six hundred thousand … For how long, did you say?’
‘I didn’t. And neither did they — the Bank of England, I mean. But I suppose it’ll be the usual six months. These government loans usually run to that.’
Each man watched the other. Neither gave anything away. Old enemies, they had long ago taken each other’s measure, and acted accordingly.
‘I suppose it hasn’t got to be all sovereigns? I mean, I have a hundred thousand in Austrian schillings still crated and between lead foil. That’s my only holding in foreign gold. Everything else under the Strand is coin of the realm.’
‘Schillings will do very well, I’m sure, Peto. None of your gold is going to be unpacked. It will just lie in the vaults of the Royal Scandinavian Bank until such times as the Swedish Government feel confident enough to return it. Well, you know that without my telling you.’
Sir Hamo Strange picked up his silk hat and cane from the floor as though to take his leave, but then apparently thought better of it. He leaned forward confidentially.
‘There’s something else I want to tell you, Peto. You and I have been friendly rivals as collectors of rare and unusual things for many years now. Well, I know you’ll be pleased to hear that I have just acquired the Ferdinand and Isabella Polyglot Bible. The only one of its kind. Congratulate me, Lord Jocelyn!’
Sir Hamo Strange closed his eyes, savouring the deliciousness of the moment. Peto had been after that book for longer than he had. According to Sudermann, he had sent an emissary hotfoot to Count Fuentes, but he’d got there too late. Yes, he’d pipped Peto to the post this time. He opened his eyes. Lord Jocelyn Peto was still smiling.
‘My dear Strange, I’m so glad!’ he cried. ‘We both coveted that book, so I’m happy to know that one of us, at any rate, has secured possession of it. I expect you employed Aaron Sudermann?’
‘Yes, yes, I did. I must say, Peto, that I’m pleased at your response. I thought you’d be vexed.’
‘Not at all. I sent a man of my own, you know, a man who’d also tracked the Bible to its hiding place in Spain. But there: I was too late. Perhaps you’d let me call some time at Medici House to inspect the volumes? I suppose you’ll have them authenticated?’
‘Yes, indeed. I’ve a man coming down from Cambridge to look at them. He’s bringing an epigraphist with him. Perhaps I’ll arrange a little reception … I’ll send you an invitation.’
‘Thank you. An epigraphist, hey?’ Lord Jocelyn laughed, and shook his glossy curls merrily. ‘Well, I look forward to seeing your latest treasure. As for the Swedish loan business, I’ll send that note round to the Bank this afternoon. Meanwhile, I must say farewell to my guests. Goodbye.’
Sir Hamo Strange sat alone in the smoking-room of Peto’s club, wondering what lay behind his rival’s assumed careless indifference. For it must be assumed. Peto had toiled for years trying to track down that unique edition of the Polyglot Bible. But then, he’d had plenty of time to prepare his response, as his man would have dashed post haste from Spain to tell him of his failure.
That was it. Peto was pretending indifference simply to annoy him. That would be typical. A shallow buffoon of a man, struggling to understand the subtleties of the financial markets from his vantage point on the heights of the aristocracy. His palatial bank in the Strand, his reputedly vast wealth — all had been inherited. He was an amateur in business, and a dilettante in the serious vocation of collecting. Well, over the matter of the Polyglot Bible he’d met his match.
3
Mackharness’s Master Plan
‘Williams,’ said Lord Jocelyn Peto to his coachman when he eventually left his club, ‘I shan’t go back to the bank this afternoon. I’ve some private business to transact. Take the carriage back to the Strand coach house.’
Lord Jocelyn watched his carriage until it had disappeared from sight round the corner from Pall Mall into St James’s Street, and then hailed a cab.
‘Belsize Park, cabbie,’ he said. ‘Put me down at the corner of Melbourne Avenue and Prince Albert Road.’
He settled back on the musty upholstery, and closed his eyes. It was a long haul from St James’s to the prosperous suburb of Belsize Park, but it was decidedly worth the journey. Madam Sylvestris always made him welcome….
What a fascinating woman she was! No one knew much about her history, apart from the fact that she was a young widow — well, youngish — and that her late husband had been a scion of the Romanian Royal Family. That’s what she claimed, anyway. Not that it mattered a fig. Nor did her claim to be a spiritualist medium. What mattered was that Madam Sylvestris knew how to soothe away the cares of jaded businessmen like himself.
Lord Jocelyn Peto fell into a light doze, from which he was jerked awake by the cab’s lurching as it passed out of York Gate and into Regent’s Park. They’d be there,
soon. He wondered whether she had appreciated the gleaming new brougham that he had purchased for her, together with a fine black horse to match its sable smartness. She had nagged him for over a month about her need for a small, smart carriage, and her conduct towards him had made it a good bargain as far as he was concerned. Almena Sylvestris was an expensive hobby – very expensive, if the truth be known. One of these days he’d have to talk to her about the need to make economies. But not yet. No, not yet.
Lord Jocelyn left Madam Sylvestris’s elegant house in Melbourne Avenue at just after four o’clock. The road was deserted, except for a tall, distinguished man with a waxed beard and moustaches, who was peering through tinted spectacles at the noticeboard of a redbrick Methodist church. He was wearing a rusty-looking frock coat, and wore a silk hat that had seen better days.
Lord Jocelyn walked to the cab rank in Eton Road, climbed sedately into the first cab, and told the driver to take him across the river to London Bridge Station. It was time to go home to Croydon. As soon as the cab had left the rank, the man with the waxed beard, who had been sauntering nonchalantly behind Lord Jocelyn, jumped into the next waiting cab, which moved out into the road, and kept close to the noble banker until he arrived at London Bridge.
At London Bridge Station, Lord Jocelyn, who was a director of the Brighton and South Coast Railway, showed his gold badge, and was ushered to a first-class carriage on the waiting train to Croydon. As they began their journey through the drab manufacturing district of Bermondsey, Lord Jocelyn closed his eyes and lapsed into a gentle doze. He’d stay like that until they came to Forest Hill, with its pleasant prospect of neat villas reposing in gentle countryside.
Poor, wretched Hamo Strange! What a rude shock he was in for! He’d been tempted to tell him the truth, but it would be much more amusing to leave him in complacent ignorance until he found out the reality of the business himself. Strange was as rich as Croesus, but what a common fellow he was at heart! Everything in that vulgar house of his was new, or bought second-hand from sale rooms. The man had no pedigree.
The Gold Masters Page 3
