by Louise Allen
I wanted to hug him which was clearly impossible, not in the middle of a tea shop. But the silly moment was gone and I remembered why we were there. ‘It is good to stop being serious for a few minutes,’ I suggested. ‘To be thankful that we’re alive when two friends of James are not.’
Luc nodded and gestured to the waiter for the bill. ‘We had best be on our way.’
Driving down Whitehall was interesting. I had done the journey from Trafalgar Square to Westminster Abbey only a few weeks before with a Belgian friend, showing her some of the sights. There was no Trafalgar Square now, of course. No National Gallery, just the Royal Mews, a chaotic maze of alleyways and a vast inn. And then I saw the familiar equestrian statue of Charles I staring down towards the place of his execution and pointed it out to Luc before I realised that there was no Admiralty Arch to our right and the bulk of Northumberland House loomed on the left.
I spotted the Admiralty building on the right and I was almost leaning out of the window of the cab by that point. ‘I recognise this!’ I announced as the driver pulled in and we got out. ‘Oh, look, there’s the telegraph on top.’
Luc paid the driver and came over. ‘Do you use telegraph in your time?’
‘No, but I had better not explain. I doubt you’d believe me anyway. But there are aerials – those are how signals are sent – on the same place on the roof. Is it true that anyone can go and look at the telegraph just by tipping the operators?’
‘More or less.’
‘Isn’t that dreadful for security?’ I had read about it when I was looking up the history of the area before the walk with my friend and I’d tried to imagine sauntering into a modern Ministry of Defence installation and slipping someone a few quid to view the ops room.
‘Only a gentleman could afford the size of tip,’ Luc said, sounding surprised that I’d ask.
‘But the county is at war. Suppose a French spy who just happened to look and sound like a gentleman got in there, knocked out the signallers and sent a false message? He could direct the fleet to sea and into a French trap or…’
‘Our intelligence officers know who to keep an eye on,’ Luc said, with what seemed incredible complacency.
‘If George was spying, it could explain everything. His lover finds out and is threatened, George hangs himself to keep Talbot safe, but they murder him anyway.’
‘But he was not in the intelligence section of the Home Office,’ Luc objected, taking my arm and beginning to walk towards Downing Street.
‘He would have been known to the Clerks in other departments and sections, surely? And he would know them. Bustle about, arms full of files, looking for Mr Smith…’ I was distracted by spotting the familiar Banqueting House and then saw we’d arrived at Horse Guards. ‘None of this has changed much, but the Vict… There were lots of new buildings added later this century and the beginning of the next.’
Then I realised that we were actually walking along Downing Street. ‘In my time this is shut off because of the security risk.’
‘Spies?’
‘Bombs.’
Chapter Six
Luc stopped dead halfway along the stretch of pavement that Cabinet ministers are always photographed hurrying along on their way to meetings, or sackings. ‘Bombs? Good God.’ He didn’t even apologise for swearing. ‘Things should become more civilised with the passage of time, not less.’
‘If only.’ We were outside Number Ten now and while Lucian was still digesting the idea of London at risk from bombers I watched people – men only, of course – going in and out of the shiny black front door. No wonder Luc looked at me aghast at the idea of spies if the security around the heart of government could be so relaxed.
‘Over there.’ He crossed the road and went in through an unobtrusive door with a brass plaque that I couldn’t read on the wall.
There was a uniformed porter at a desk in the lobby who took one look at Luc’s tailoring (or it might have been the hat) and stood up straighter. ‘Sir?’ He took the proffered card. ‘My lord, I should say.’
‘Sir Thomas in? Or Salmond?’ Luc sounded as though he didn’t much care, one way or another.
‘No, my lord, I’m afraid not.’ I could almost see the man calculating how much of a tip he was losing as a result.
‘That is a bore,’ Luc drawled. ‘My cousin is visiting from America and I particularly wanted to show her how much better we run things over here.’
If I had been either American, or the porter, I’d have clouted him with the nearest blunt instrument but I pouted instead. ‘Oh, Cousin Lucian, you promised.’
‘Mr Salmond’s personal assistant Mr Edwards was in, my lord. I am sure he’d be delighted to show you and the lady around, but he went across to Number Ten five minutes ago and I don’t know how long he’ll be.’
‘Edwards, you say? Excellent, we’ll just go up and wait for him. This way, isn’t it?’ By some legerdemain several shiny circular objects appeared for a second in Luc’s hand and then vanished into the porter’s.
‘You know your way, my lord? Oh well, in that case… Up the stairs and first door on the left.’
‘This is the only way up,’ I muttered as we climbed. ‘He must be an idiot if he thinks you know your way around in here. The security is appalling.’ When was Prime Minister Spencer Perceval assassinated? I tried to recall. 1810? 1812? Not yet, clearly, or they wouldn’t be so laid back. I hoped.
Luc shrugged and kept going. The door was off the first landing and he opened it without knocking and strolled in with me on his heels. We were in a large room full of desks, some of them occupied by dark-suited men. Others stood in low-voiced discussion or were carrying ledgers and files.
‘Good day,’ Luc said when they turned to look at us. ‘Radcliffe. I was looking for Edwards.’
There was a flurry of files landing on desks, coat tails swishing, chairs being produced. Clearly a visiting earl was a welcome distraction from routine and an earl accompanied by a woman was even better.
A bell was rung, a porter dispatched to fetch tea, apologies were made for not sending for Mr Edwards immediately, only he was with the Prime Minister…
They calmed down when it became obvious that Luc was not on some tour of inspection and I started chatting to the youngest-looking ones who were falling over themselves to pour my tea.
I learned more about the functioning of the Home Office than I ever wanted to, not that any of it seemed very relevant. Then someone said something about Reece’s chaps and was promptly hushed, although there were grins being hidden, I noticed.
‘So, there are two Under-Secretaries,’ I said, with the air of someone trying to get it all straight. ‘And do you all work to both of them? That must be confusing sometimes.’
‘No, we work to Mr Salmond. Sir Thomas’s men are in the office upstairs,’ one of them said. He was a skinny young man with inky fingers and freckles.
‘Ooh.’ I opened my eyes wide and whispered, ‘So there’s rivalry? What fun. But aren’t they both in the same party? You’ll have to forgive my ignorance, your politics are a complete mystery to me.’
‘Everyone wants to climb the ladder, Miss Lawrence, even if they are on the same side.’ That was one of the older clerks.
‘Nepotism helps,’ someone muttered.
I glanced around, but everyone seemed to be pretending they hadn’t heard. I decided to let tact go hang. ‘Nepotism? Surely not. You mean someone pulls strings for their relatives here?’ I could well believe it – a word here, a nudge and a favour there.
‘Not in this office,’ one of the older men said. ‘Very fair, Mr Salmond is.’
I noticed several meaningful upwards looks. ‘But not every office is run so scrupulously? No, I shouldn’t have asked. You couldn’t possibly say.’
They all looked relieved, but I hadn’t missed the direction of those looks – Sir Thomas Reece’s offices.
Time to change the subject. ‘And is this where that poor man worked? The one who h
anged himself?’
‘Coates? Yes.’ They all looked at an empty desk by one of the windows, a desk with no paperwork on it at all.
‘Awful,’ I commiserated. ‘That must put a blight on the whole office. That’s a nice position for a desk,’ I added. ‘Do you have your places allocated by seniority? He’d had a promotion recently hadn’t he?’ They looked puzzled. ‘My cousin knows someone who knew him a little. That’s how we came to be visiting – I was interested in how government departments work.’
‘Promotion? No. Coates would have moved to another office if he’d been promoted,’ the freckled one said.
‘How strange. Apparently he’d been nervy and under strain and the Earl’s friend thought it was pressure because of new responsibilities.’
‘He’d been a bit peculiar, now you come to mention it,’ one of the others chipped in. ‘Asking odd questions, looking as though he wasn’t sleeping well. Must have been whatever caused him to… to do what he did.’
What to ask next? They were going to get suspicious if I kept on digging into George Coates’s affairs. I looked across at Luc who was deep in what seemed to be an earnest discussion of the duties of Justices of the Peace. No help there.
‘Mes chers!’ A slight, elegant man with thick black hair and an assertive nose flung open the door and sauntered in. ‘You have a party? Non?’
‘Non,’ said the older clerk. ‘At least, not one you’re invited to, Gaston.’
‘But you entertain a beautiful young lady, naturellement I am invited. Mademoiselle.’ He swept me a bow. ‘Enchanté. Gaston de Saint Clément, Comte de Hautmont, at your service and at your feet.’
I stood up and dropped a curtsy. ‘Miss Lawrence visiting from America.’ I knew it was bad form for him to address me without an introduction and even worse for me to reveal who I was, but he was turning on the Gallic charm in spades and it seemed ludicrous to pretend I hadn’t noticed him. But what the devil was a Frenchman doing in the Home Office? We were at war with them.
Luc was there before I noticed him moving, all smiles and that dangerous politeness that men show when they might as well be waving knives at each other. ‘Monsieur?’
The man he’d been talking to hastened over to make the introductions. The Count looked meaningfully at me and Luc said, ‘Cousin Cassandra, permit me to introduce the Comte de Hautmont. Count, Miss Lawrence. An exile from your country, I assume, Count?’
‘But yes, alas. I am émigre, some peasant-born tax collector occupies my chateau and I must earn my bread translating for Sir Thomas.’
‘How awful,’ I said, wondering just how thorough the vetting procedures were before an enemy national was allowed the run of government departments.
‘Appalling,’ Luc agreed with patently false sympathy. ‘Come, my dear, we really must be going.’
I thanked the clerks who had been looking after me. The be-freckled one made a bit of a thing of escorting me to the door, so I murmured, ‘If you do think of anything that might have caused poor Mr Coates to end his life do, please, let us know. I’m sure it would be a comfort to his loved ones to at least understand.’ He nodded eagerly. ‘But don’t mention it too obviously, they wouldn’t want gossip about such a tragedy.’
We walked down the stairs in silence and were bowed out by the porter. Luc hailed a hackney carriage in Whitehall and we climbed in, sat down and looked at each other.
‘Well, that was interesting,’ I said. ‘They’ve a French national wandering about, Coates hadn’t been promoted and there seems to be rivalry between the two teams working for the Under Secretaries. What did you learn?’
‘That everyone was very polite, but cool, about Sir Thomas but actually appeared to like Salmond and be loyal to him. There was some speculation about Coates’s death, but the verdict seems to be that he must have had money troubles. Not that anyone had any idea what he might be spending his money on.’
‘Any hint that they knew he wasn’t attracted to women?’
Luc shook his head. ‘If they knew they are loyal enough not to mention it.’ He grimaced. ‘Difficult to do any digging without revealing that all we’re interested in is Coates.’
I told him I’d encouraged the young clerk to get in touch if he thought of anything. ‘I suggested it might help the friends and family if they understood what had made him do it,’ I explained.
‘Good idea.’ He sounded uncharacteristically downbeat.
‘I feel the need to add to the evidence boards,’ I said. ‘What with coded ledgers, French spies, office politics and unknown lovers I’m beginning to lose the plot.’
‘Too many motives.’ Luc said, rubbing his right hand over his face as though to brush distracting cobwebs away.
‘They do say that motive isn’t the best indication of guilt. You need means and opportunity first – even if someone has the strongest motive in the world, if they couldn’t have committed the crime then they’re out.’
‘I just wish James wasn’t mixed up in this,’ Luc said abruptly.
Ah. So that was what the matter was.
‘You’re worried that it is upsetting him or you are concerned that he might be exposed as a result of this and be in trouble with the law?’
‘Both. And trouble with the law means public humiliation at the very least and then...’
‘Surely he wouldn’t be arrested and tried? An Earl’s brother?’ Arrested, tried, hanged. I thought about Coates’s dangling body and shuddered.
‘I could probably get him out of the country in time,’ Luc said. ‘If they arrest anyone he is associated with who hasn’t those kind of connections, then they would be in deep trouble.’
‘Is he with someone? Someone special, I mean?’ What would that do to James, to have to flee abroad, to leave a lover to be hanged or pilloried?
‘I don’t know,’ Luc said. ‘He doesn’t confide in me about that. I suspect not. And if he is found with someone casually, then they are more likely not to be a gentleman.’ He stopped abruptly. ‘I shouldn’t be discussing this with you.’
‘Nonsense. We’re both worried about him.’
Luc met my gaze for a long moment, then nodded. ‘With the country at war it is damn difficult to get someone out of the country safely these days.’
‘America?’ I suggested. ‘West Indies?’ I thought about tropical diseases. ‘America is healthier.’ Then I looked at his face as the cab turned, allowing sunlight to spill in. ‘It won’t come to that,’ I said firmly. ‘We won’t let it.’
Luc put his arm round my shoulders and hugged me against his side. ‘No. Of course it won’t.’ I wriggled and kissed his ear, the only bit I could reach, and he turned his head and found my lips. When we surfaced again, panting slightly, he said, ‘Even so. I’ll find out more about shipping to the United States. And make sure I’ve got gold coins to hand.’
Could I take James to the twenty-first century? It hadn’t occurred to me before that anyone else might move back and forth with me because Luc certainly couldn’t even consider it, not with an earldom and children and a raft of responsibilities. But James could vanish into an era where he would be accepted for himself…
‘What are you thinking about?’
‘Just an improbable idea. It wouldn’t work.’ I imagined James living off a supply of gold guineas deposited with my local solicitors to wait out the decades… We’d probably fall foul of some money-laundering regulations, knowing my luck with banks.
We set up the evidence boards again and Garrick joined us once he’d brought in what he described as, ‘A light luncheon, my lord.’ For ten, possibly, but it was well into the afternoon now, so I wasn’t complaining. James, who seemed to have an infallible nose for food, wandered in before we could begin either eating or thinking. He looked strained, I thought, but as he had clearly decided to be upbeat and positive I didn’t make the mistake of showing that I’d noticed.
I added sheets headed Home Office and listed everyone whose name we had learned under two headi
ngs, one for each Under Secretary. I gave Gaston de Saint Clément, Comte de Hautmont – and I’d believe that title when I saw some more proof – a sheet of his own.
‘Who the blazes is that?’ James stood and peered at the name, cold mutton chop in one hand, pint tankard in the other.
‘A smooth Frenchman whom I trust as far as I could throw him. Possibly less. I don’t believe his title for a start. I think he’s a spy. What does the Home Office want with a translator anyway?’
Garrick went out and came back carrying a thick book. ‘The Almanach de Gotha.’ He dumped it in a space between the chicken and the cold tongue and began to search. ‘There is a Comte de Hautmont, but Pierre-Philippe, not Gaston. How old is your count, Miss Lawrence?’
‘He’s not mine. Late twenties, very early thirties?’
‘That would be the elder son. But this is fifteen years out of date. The old Count could have died in the Terror or from natural causes and the title have passed to the son, quite legitimately,’ Garrick said.
‘Or this one might be an imposter. Or genuine and on Napoleon’s side,’ I said. Garrick was probably right but I had instinctive mistrusted Gaston, whoever he was. He was too much the clichéd Frenchman to be true.
I began to thumb through the book and felt my brain glaze over at the point where I got to someone who was Prince of Saxe-Weimar-Eisenach, Duke of Saxony, Jülich, Kleve and Berg, Engern and Westfalen, Landgrave in Thüringen, Margrave zu Meissen, Princely Count zu Henneberg, Count zu der Mark and Ravensberg, Lord zu Ravenstein and Tonna. Good grief!
‘So, what do we have?’ Luc leaned back and I jerked my attention away from the twiglets on the branches of European aristocracy. ‘The two deaths might or might not be connected. There is the fact that they were lovers and we don’t know if anyone else was involved. There is Coates’s work which may or may not be relevant, the other lodgers – although that doesn’t seem very likely – Cassandra’s French spy and, finally, the fact that Talbot may have known any number of deeply compromising secrets about members of the ton.’
