‘It’s the money, Sophie, the bank’s money. In normal times, money comes in, money goes out. Now it’s only going out, and it’s going out very quickly in ways I don’t quite understand. They’ve changed the accounting systems and a new man from Germany is coming to take charge of all that. But if it goes on like this, in three months’ time Harrison’s Bank won’t have any money left. They’ll have sent it all abroad. They won’t have anything left to meet their obligations in the City. They’ll be a bank with no money. It’s unimaginable.’
Even Sophie could grasp the significance of that. ‘A bank with no money, Richard? That’s impossible, surely. What happens then?’
‘I don’t know Sophie. I have no idea.’
There was an enormous painting of W.G. Grace above the mantelpiece. The bearded batsman had been captured at the wicket, staring defiantly at the incoming bowler. Apprehensive fielders seemed to have retreated towards the boundary. A huge spire dominated the outfield, nearly as imposing as the great man at the crease. Next to this portrait was a late Poussin, a mythological scene with storms and a violent flash of lightning. Powerscourt was waiting for Bertrand de Rothschild in his great house in Charles Street at eight o’clock the following morning. Bertrand was late.
‘Cricket, Lord Powerscourt, good morning to you. Finest game in the world, I always think. How do you do?’
An old man in his late seventies with a trim white beard was advancing towards him. The suit looked as if it had been made in Paris, the silk shirt might have come from Rome.
Powerscourt smiled at the old man. ‘Good morning, sir. And thank you for seeing me so promptly. Yes, I am very fond of cricket. I have a little ground at my place in Northamptonshire.’
‘Have you indeed,’ said the old man, seating himself at a great desk by the window. ‘Do you play yourself Lord Powerscourt? Or is this merely the interest of a connoisseur?’
‘I bat, sir,’ Powerscourt replied. ‘I open the batting, not very successfully, I fear.’
‘Tricky job, that, opening,’ said Bertrand de Rothschild. ‘The bowlers are fresh and raring to go. Now then,’ he went on, ‘Rosebery tells me you are a man in a hurry today. Perhaps you are like the batsman who wants to score a hundred before lunch.’ He laughed slightly at his cricketing reference.
‘I fear I am in a hurry, sir.’ Powerscourt smiled gravely at the old man. ‘I have a train to catch this very morning not long from now.’
‘I have looked up my notes on the people you are interested in, Lord Powerscourt. Let me give you the main points now. If you need further information I shall be happy to conduct further inquiries.’
Powerscourt expressed his gratitude. The old man adjusted his spectacles and consulted a pile of papers on his desk. He had a gold pen in his hand which he turned over from time to time at regular intervals.
‘There were a great many banks in Frankfurt in the early 1870s, Lord Powerscourt. The competition for business between them was very fierce. The Goldsmiths, or Goldschmidts, of whom you speak must have been in the firm of Goldschmidt and Hartmann. They were great rivals of the Harrisons, the ones who are now in the City of London.’
The old man peered at Powerscourt over the top of his spectacles. ‘In fact, at one time there was a lot of competition between them. Both were trying to secure the accounts of the Duke of Coburg, not a great prize, you might think, but it opened many doors to other profitable opportunities. Very profitable opportunities, in fact.’
The old man paused. The gold pen was spinning ever faster in his hand.
‘The competition grew very bitter. At one point it seemed as if Goldschmidt and Hartmann had triumphed. Things looked so bad for the Harrisons that the senior partner threw himself off the top of the tallest church spire in Frankfurt. He was dead before he reached the hospital. I believe . . .’ The old man paused again, peering steadily at Powerscourt over the top of his spectacles, the pen flying like a tumbler in a circus. ‘I believe he was related to the Old Mr Harrison whose body was found in the Thames with no head and no hands.’
His pale blue eyes stared on. Powerscourt said nothing.
‘Then the tables were turned,’ Bertrand de Rothschild went on, ‘and the Harrisons triumphed. The firm of Goldschmidt and Hartmann was broken. The Frankfurt bankers blamed them for Harrison’s death. I believe he was called Charles, like the one in the bank here.’
My God, thought Powerscourt, how many dead Harrisons were there, dying not in their beds but in fires and boating accidents, committing suicide or found floating in the Thames? There must be a ledger full of them by now, lying in the vaults of their banks.
‘The Goldschmidts went bankrupt, Lord Powerscourt. They lost everything. They had to leave the city. Some went to Berlin, I believe. Some went to America.’
The pen suddenly fell on to the table. Bertrand de Rothschild had lost control. It rolled unevenly across the surface and dropped to the floor.
‘Have you found any Goldschmidts, Lord Powerscourt?’
The old man’s face was bright, the eyes keen. He’s like a bloodhound on the scent, Powerscourt said to himself, fascinated by the terrible intensity in de Rothschild’s face.
‘Have you found any Goldschmidts up there in Blackwater, hiding in the temples perhaps, lurking in the lake with the river gods?’ He laughed an old man’s laugh. ‘Have the ghosts of Frankfurt come to Oxfordshire, the past replayed once more?’
Powerscourt smiled. ‘You should have been an investigator, sir. You would have been a very good one.’
‘I suppose I am an investigator,’ the old man replied, bending in obvious pain to pick up his golden pen once more, ‘except I investigate the past and you investigate the present. I imagine the present is more dangerous than the past.’
‘Mr de Rothschild, I cannot thank you enough for your information,’ said Powerscourt, looking at his watch and thinking of his train. ‘I am most grateful.’
‘You have not answered my question, young man. Have you found any Goldschmidts up there in Blackwater?’
He was leaning forward intently, the pen spinning in his fingers again, light dancing off the gold.
‘I do not know, sir, I do not know.’ Powerscourt looked around for his gloves.
‘I think that means that you have found some link,’ said de Rothschild, his eyes bright with the joy of the hunt. ‘Why else would you be here? But I can see that you do not want to tell me. I do not blame you for that. Sometimes the past may be more dangerous than the present, is that not so? Have no fear, I shall tell no one of our conversation here this morning. But it is interesting, very interesting. For a historian, you understand.’
The old man rose from his desk to escort Powerscourt to his front door. Another series of cricket paintings lined the passage to the entrance hall.
‘Tell me, Lord Powerscourt, do you have a favourite stroke? At cricket, I mean.’
‘I do,’ said Powerscourt, relieved that the conversation had returned to cricket. ‘I have always had a great weakness for the late cut.’
‘The late cut, Lord Powerscourt!’ De Rothschild was waving an imaginary cricket bat in his hands. ‘Such a very risky shot, I believe. If your eye is not absolutely right, if your judgement is ever so slightly at fault, then it’s the end of your innings, am I not right?’
‘You are absolutely right, Mr de Rothschild.’
‘And are you often out playing this shot, this late cut of yours?’
‘No, I am not,’ said Powerscourt happily, walking out into the cold morning, ‘I have not been out cutting for years.’
‘Oh, very good, Lord Powerscourt, very good. I like that. I do like that.’
The old man’s cackling laughter followed him down the street.
14
The message had arrived by a strange and roundabout route. It had been sent, addressed to Powerscourt, care of William Burke in person at his bank. It came from the British Embassy in Berlin, despatched the day before.