‘I ask because there was some appearance of orders coming from the Brest squadron that in the ordinary course of events would have prevented Aubrey from appearing before the Committee.’
Blame raised his hands. ‘Oh, as for that, I cannot express an opinion, of course; but I do not think any hardened politician would think such a caper anything but venial, if that. Yet scrupulous or something less than scrupulous, Admiral
Stranraer does not love Captain Jack: and his word counts.’
‘Nor does Captain Griffiths, who votes with his uncle, and who inherits.’
‘Just so. But on inheriting, Captain Griffiths loses his parliamentary value entirely, and he can do no harm. His vote in the Lords is neither here nor there, and he does not influence
a single voice in the lower house. The Stranraer estate controls no seat, no borough, and all Lady Stranraer’s patronage goes elsewhere. Griffiths becomes a cipher with a coronet; and he is even more likely than Aubrey to be yellowed.’
‘I should hate to see Aubrey yellowed.’
‘So should I. I have a very real liking for him, as you know. It may not come to that.’ Sir Joseph walked up and down the room. ‘Melville has a kindness for him, too. So has your friend Clarence. Conceivably a shore appointment could be arranged – commissioner, say, even something civilian, which would put him out of the running for a flag, and then there could be no question of his being yellowed. Conceivably something hydrographical, with the possibility of recall: I know he is a famous surveyor…’
Blame sat down, and for quite a long time they stared into the glowing fire like a pair of cats, saying nothing, each lost in his own reflections. At last Sir Joseph took the poker and delicately prised a splitting lump of coal in two: the halves fell apart with a gratifying blaze, and sitting back he said, ‘You were in hopes of making my flesh creep, I believe?’
‘So I was too. They are somewhat diminished by your recognizing my villain right away, yet even so you may still fall senseless to the ground. Don Diego does not sound a really formidable villain, does he?’
‘I cannot say he does. My impression is that of a very expensive young or youngish man, much given to high play, uncommon high play, at Crockford’s and Brooks’s, eager to make political acquaintance and to ask indiscreet questions, apt to suggest deep knowledge and private sources of information. He is remarkably well-introduced and although you might think he was merely showing away when he names
half a dozen dukes and cabinet-ministers, in fact they are perfectly genuine. Some may perhaps indulge him with oddments of more or less confidential information, which he retails, also in confidence, with an important air: they would do so because many people think him amiable, though foolish, and perhaps because he entertains so well. A busy creature, but not, I should have thought, of any consequence except to women with a train of daughters to marry and an appetite for high-sounding titles and a great fortune. Am I mistaken? Pray tell me what you know about him.’
‘The titles, the fortune and no doubt the amiability are as genuine as his important friends in this country; but I think this appearance of harmless foolishness is assumed: though it may have been genuine enough some years ago, before let us say 1805. He is the only surviving son, begotten with enormous difficulty, after endless pilgrimages and offerings to countless altars, of a grandee, as wealthy as only a Spanish grandee and former viceroy can be, and devoted to him. His elder brother was killed at Trafalgar: Diego became the heir and I am told that he matured to an extraordinary extent. As far as service was concerned he preferred foreign affairs; but being extremely impatient of superior authority or restraint he induced his father to arrange for the creation of yet another branch of Spanish intelligence, with himself at the head. He is chiefly concerned with the naval side, his people having been traditionally sea-borne rather than horse-borne; but almost from the start he has been obsessed by the problem of double-agents…’
‘Who is not?’ asked Blame, who had been listening with the closest possible attention.
‘Who indeed? Early in his career he was given my friend Bernard as one of his chief assistants. . .’ Sir Joseph nodded with intense satisfaction’. . . and between them they seized a good many people in French pay, who, in the usual fashion, were persuaded to name others, so that the French connection was virtually abolished. Of our men Diaz only caught Wailer – the result of a very gross indiscretion – and Waller would not talk: nor, obviously, did Bernard produce any
others. He speaks of don Diego as a man with remarkable intuitive powers, naturally secretive but singularly winning when he chooses, persevering, hard-working and dogged to the last degree in his pursuit, but apt to launch into spectacular adventures without always weighing the possible cost. Though even the cautious Bernard admits that the burglaries he organized in Paris yielded astonishing results.’
‘Oh, oh,’ murmured Blame, aware that the crisis was at hand.
‘Will you look at these names?’ asked Stephen, handing him a slip of paper.
Blame ran through the list, muttering ‘Matthews, Foreign Office; Harper, Treasury; Wooton…’ Then quite loud, ‘But Carrington, Edmunds and Harris – these are our people.’
‘They are all men of standing?’
‘Yes. Some of high standing.’
‘They have all been unwise enough to play cards or billi ards with don Diego. They all owe him more money, sometimes much more money, than they can easily repay. They all tell him what ministers, what important officials, like you, carry papers home. Don Diego’s respectable lawyers in London, like his respectable lawyers in Paris, gave him the names of people, of concerns, dealing with private inquiries, with the collection – sometimes the forcible collection – of debts, and with the gathering of evidence, usually of marital infidelity. These people, if not directly criminal, are in touch with criminals who, if told what to look for, and if guaranteed their price, will nearly always bring the required objects or documents. On occasion don Diego goes with them: he justifies it by saying that only he can choose the essential papers. Perhaps so, but Bernard says it excites him, and he has known him to put on quite extravagant disguises.’
‘So did poor Cummings,’ said Blame.
‘He may do so on Friday, when they mean to visit you,’ said Stephen.
‘What joy! Oh what joy!’ cried Blame. ‘Let us instantly
put the names of half the Spanish cabinet and all their top intelligence people on our pay-roll.’
Stephen uttered his rare discordant creaking laugh and said, ‘It is tempting, sure: but think of the possibilities of holding him, caught in the act, seen by undeniable witnesses, in possession of stolen property obtained by breaking and entering a dwelling-house by night. It is capital, without benefit of clergy: and he has no diplomatic immunity whatsoever. Tyburn tree, with perhaps the indulgence of a silken halter, is all he can
expect. From the extreme embarrassment of his government, from his family’s anguish –
to say nothing of his own uneasiness – what concessions may we not expect?’
‘My heart beats so that I can hardly speak,’ said Sir Joseph, whose face had flushed from deep red to purple. ‘Tell me, my most valued friend and colleague, how this is to be accomplished?’
‘Why, by means of your good Pratt the thief-taker – the
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excellent intelligent Pratt who did so much for us when poor Aubrey was taken up for rigging the Stock Exchange, the best of allies. He quite certainly knows these “private inquirers” and their even less presentable associates – he was born and bred in Newgate, you recall – and once he is clear on the moral side and his own immunity he will arrange matters according to local custom and local rates, which he knows to the last half-crown.
This may cost an elegant penny.’
‘It could not possibly cost too much,’ said Blame, and laying his hand on Stephen’s knee,
‘Of course you are perfectly right about Pratt. Why did I not think of him before?’
Sir Joseph Blame’s library, where he worked at night on official papers and where he kept those he often referred to in an elegant mahogany cupboard, with files arranged alphabetically, had two looking-glasses at the far end: rather long looking-glasses in black frames; and the bottom inch or so of their back was unsilvered. They did not really suit the room, being rather modern and even flash, but this did
not worry the bearded man busy with the lock on the mahogany cupboard, by the desk.
He had never been in the room before – he had never seen the mirrors, nor the specimen-cases with their wealth of beetles, nor the perfectly enormous bear that stood against the wall with one paw out to receive a hat or an umbrella, under a stuffed platypus, to the left of the desk.