Powerscourt told Rosebery of his latest case, of the succeeding tragedies that had fallen on the House of Harrison. Rosebery had married into the richest and most powerful banking family in Europe. His relations were strung out across Paris and Vienna, Berlin and London and New York in the worldwide empire of the Rothschild Banks.
‘The butler at Blackwater, Rosebery, is supposed to be a man called Jones,’ said Powerscourt, sitting on an ancient chair in the Berkeley Square library.
‘What of it?’ replied Rosebery. ‘Perfectly respectable name, Jones. Man called Jones trained some of my horses once. Damned rogue. Bloody animals never won anything at all.’
‘But you see,’ Powerscourt went on, ‘he’s not really called Jones. He’s German, like the original Harrisons. They say he came from Frankfurt some years ago, that his family were bankers and that they were once involved in some terrible smash. Goldsmith is his real name.’
‘Goldsmith?’ said Rosebery. ‘Plenty of those in Frankfurt, I shouldn’t wonder. Now I see why you are here, Francis. Do you want some information about these Frankfurt Goldsmiths? From the horse’s mouth, as it were? Or at least a Rothschild’s mouth?’
Powerscourt smiled at his friend. Age was catching up on Rosebery rather suddenly. For years he had sported the face of a cherub. Now the lines of time were beginning to creep slowly down his face. It was a wrinkled cherub he was looking at this evening.
‘Just suppose, Rosebery, that the smash of the Goldsmiths had some link with the Harrisons, then also bankers in Frankfurt. There might be some unfinished business . . .’
‘My God, Francis, you’ve got a devious mind,’ said Rosebery. ‘I suppose you have to in your business. Do you think it is possible that there is some vendetta running between these two families? That the butler has followed the Harrisons to England to take his revenge twenty years after the event? Why would he wait so long?’
One of Rosebery’s clocks struck the hour of eight. Outside in the hall other timepieces followed, not quite in unison, a straggled peal.
Powerscourt shrugged. ‘I don’t know, Rosebery. I have seldom felt so baffled by a case. I just need more information.’
Rosebery reached for some writing paper on his desk. ‘The man you want,’ he said, ‘lives just round the corner from here in Charles Street. He’s an old gentleman by the name of Bertrand de Rothschild, he must be nearly eighty by now. I don’t think he ever cared very much for banking. Come to that, I don’t think the family members in the business would have wanted him around anyway. He’s a scholar, a collector of rare books and manuscripts like myself. He’s got one or two rather fine Poussins.
‘But, Francis, the old boy has been writing a history of the Rothschild family for the past twenty years. They have connections in Frankfurt, as you know. I very much doubt if he will ever finish it. Every time you ask him how it’s going he says he has just discovered some more documents he has to read. But if any man in Britain knows about these Frankfurt Goldsmiths, he does. Would you like to see him, Francis?’
‘I would, very much,’ said Powerscourt
‘And I presume,’ Rosebery went on, ‘from the agitation in your manner that you would like to see him tonight or tomorrow morning or even earlier? I am writing to him now. The man can wait for the reply.’
Six miles to the north the bells of St Michael and St Jude had just finished the last stroke of eight o’clock. The noise echoed round the little houses of the parish, just a short pause before the bell ringers began their weekly practice.
‘Steady, Rufus, steady. For heaven’s sake, steady there.’
Richard Martin was taking his neighbour’s dog for a walk. The old lady had fallen down and injured her leg so every morning and every evening Richard took the red Irish setter around the local streets.
His mother had noticed how cheerful Richard became before these evening walks. She suspected that they were used for secret rendezvous with Sophie Williams.
‘Don’t you be taking that dog round to meet that young woman of yours, Richard. You know what I think about her. You know what your father would have thought. Don’t bring your old mother in sorrow to an early grave.’
She was sewing furiously by the fire, turning the collars on Richard’s shirts.
‘It does me good, Mother,’ Richard told her every evening now. ‘It’s good exercise, taking the dog for a walk. You know how I like dogs.’
His mother reflected that never once in all of his twenty-two years had Richard shown any interest in four-legged creatures, cat or dog, never once as a child had he asked for a pet of any kind.
‘Richard, how are you?’ Sophie had appeared out of the shadows, skipping happily along the pavement.
‘I am well, Sophie. Hold on, Rufus!’
The dog was trying to escape into a little alleyway off the street.
‘Can I take the lead? Please, Richard?’
Richard wondered if they would compete for the affections of their children as they competed for the affections of Rufus. If they ever had any children, that is. Sophie took the lead into the hands of a teacher.
‘Come, Rufus. This way. There’s a good boy.’
Richard saw how fifty six-year-olds might be summoned into silence and good behaviour. To his astonishment the dog obeyed her command without a whimper.
‘It’s all cleared up now, Richard,’ said Sophie, ‘that business with the headmistress. Mrs White called me in again today. She said that what I did in my own time was my own business. And as long as she is sure I am not trying to convert the children, the matter will be forgotten. And she knows perfectly well that I would never try to convert the children.’
Rufus was suddenly tired of his good behaviour. He made a very determined attempt to climb into a dustbin. Behind them the bells of St Michael and St Jude were chasing each other up and down the mathematical intricacies of a Kent Treble Bob.
‘Rufus! Rufus!’
Sophie looked very firmly at the dog. The dog looked back as if it knew it had broken the rules. It trotted obediently but sulking at her heels.
‘Good boy. Good boy,’ said Sophie, patting the animal firmly on the head. ‘But what news of the City, Richard?’
Sophie knew Richard was worried about something at the bank.
‘Well, I’ve got a new friend, Sophie.’
‘Male or female?’ asked Sophie sharply. Richard felt there might be hope for him yet.
‘Male. In spite of all your efforts there still aren’t many young women working in the City. He’s a very clever young man called James Clarke who works for one of the joint stock banks. I met him waiting outside the Bank of England. He seems to know all there is to know about arbitrage.’
Sophie felt that she didn’t want to join the male club of arbitrage experts just now.
‘But what of the bank, Richard? That’s what was worrying you before.’
‘I’m still worried, very worried.’ Richard paused to jump out of the way of Rufus who had suddenly decided to cross to the other side of the road.
‘Rufus! Rufus! Really!’ Sophie’s voice had the normal effect. Rufus crept back into position, tail down, a sad look about his eyes.
‘The thing is, Sophie . . .’ Richard realized to his regret that Sophie’s nearer arm was fully occupied with the dog and therefore not available to him, even if he dared. ‘The thing is, you would expect everything to be very quiet at the moment. Well, it is and it isn’t. There isn’t any new business coming in.’
‘What’s the problem then?’ asked Sophie.