The Blighted Cliffs (29 page)

'If
you are minded to escape this doom, do not think that you may appeal
to your mother's credulous goodwill this time. The only path of
salvation open to you is to cleanse your name - which, though I do
not carry, I feel I bear like a martyr his cross - of the stink and
opprobrium you have drawn down upon it.

'I
remain, &c...'

Such
was my shock at this onslaught that it was some moments before I
realized I had, unthinkingly, taken another deep gulp of the
execrable coffee.

A
brisk walk along the sea-front to the docks and several doses of
chill air forced down my throat by a blustering wind restored my
spirits a little. Only a few figures straggled about the streets,
most of them moving at a strange, oblique angle to counter the
gusting breeze. It was too late for the fishermen, I supposed, and
too early for many others to be out.

Not
aboard
Orestes
,
though: her decks swarmed with activity, and already they were
lifting out the fractured stump of the mast in a tangle of lines and
rigging. Crawley, as usual, was in the thick of it.

'Keep
clear, Mr Jerrold,' he bellowed as I approached. 'You'll find more
than a headache if you fell yourself with this.'

As
if to illustrate his words, the men on the tackle let the masthead
drop several feet closer. It jerked in the breeze, bucking like an
animal on its tether.

'Am
I required here, sir?'

Between
the rattle of commands and the pulse of the wind, it was hard to hold
any conversation at all.

'What's
that?'

Crawle
y
was scowling, but I was immediately forgotten as the mast suddenly
lurched around, sending the men around it tumbling to the deck.

'Belay
that, belay that!' Crawley shouted frantically. 'Mr Ducker, get men
on the lines now!'

When
it seemed the rogue spar had been tamed, I tried again.

'Excuse
me, sir, am I--'

Crawley
spun around, his face creased with anger. 'Blast it, Mr Jerrold, but
if you are to be nothing but a damned nuisance then kindly remove
yourself from interrupting our labours.' Without further comment, he
turned his back on me.

I
was shocked, as much by the fact that he had been moved to such
language as by the fact that he had directed it at me. In front of
the men, too. Clearly the insults he had suffered at the meeting the
previous night, and the prospect of an evening toasting Davenant's
health, still weighed on him. At least, I hoped so. I could not but
wonder whether I had committed some grievous, unwitting sin that had
given offence.

Across
the harbour a large white belfry surmounted the tall walls of
Mazard's Bank. I had seen it only from the landward side before, on
the evening when Mrs Pring's recollection had taken me there; now I
could see six-foot-high letters painted on the brickwork proclaiming
the name with commercial enthusiasm. It reminded me that the trail of
Laminak's and Vitos's last movements had ended there; it also
reminded me of Nevell's tales on
Orestes
'
deck. If vast profits were being amassed from the trade in
contraband, then the smugglers would need a reliable banker. And they
could hardly have failed to consider Mazard, such, I reflected as I
looked up at those giant letters, was the power of his advertising.

Leaving
Crawley thrashing about on the deck, I wandered round the harbour,
crossed the little bridge over the stinking pent, and came up against
the bank's stern frontage. At first I thought it was closed again,
for my initial push on the door yielded nothing; it was only when I
essayed a second heave, uncharitable thoughts about bankers' hours
uppermost in my mind, that the heavy oak reluctantly swung inwards,
admitting me to the gloom of the sanctum.

A
doorman stopped me almost immediately. Why he did not stand outside,
where he might have been of some aid opening that lump of a door, I
did not enquire, for his build did not invite an examination of his
methods.

'May
I assist you, sir?' he asked with solicitous menace. 'Do you have
business with the bank?'

'Lieutenant
Martin Jerrold of his Majesty's navy,' I told him curtly, my
sharpness pricked by his vague resemblance to Stubb the constable.
'And my business here is his Majesty's business.' After a fashion.

The
doorman's bulk curtained off everything behind him, but there must
have been someone within for I heard an irritable voice calling over
his shoulder, 'Show the man in, Belson.'

He
stepped back, admitting me to the room beyond. It was small, much
smaller than the faqade of the building would have suggested, and
possessed of none of the gilded indulgences common in such
institutions. It was a wise economy, for ornamental flourishes would
have been thoroughly wasted on a room with no windows and only a
quartet of stuttering oil lamps hanging on chains from the ceiling.
By their meagre light I could see a long table set opposite me;
behind it I fancied there sat a stiff figure, the only other living
creature there. He might have had spindly fingers, a beaked nose and
calculating eyes, but such a description would rest more on my
conception of how a bank clerk should look than on any features I
actually observed through the murk. His voice, though, would have
fitted such a portrait handsomely.

'Lieutenant
Jerrold? George Fichet. How may I be of service? If you wish to
deposit your prize money - perhaps from le
Thermidor
?
- I am afraid that we deal only with agents.' He spoke deliberately,
and terribly slowly; so much so that listening became a trial, and I
soon longed to close his sentences for him.

'My
seven pounds a month sadly leave me without the capital to make a
deposit,' I said, trying to affect good cheer. 'I have come, on the
King's business, to make enquiries of those who do. In
particular.
'

But
Fichet was holding up a hand in protest. 'Mr Jerrold,' he reproved
me. 'We are a bank, not a newspaper. The business of our clients is
always in the strictest confidence.'

'Even
when they're dead?'

The
stiff back flinched not at all. 'Even when they are dead. There are
wills. Estates. Descendants. Widows. All must be protected.'

'Of
course. But if the client was murdered, then it may be in the
interests of his estate to uncover the truth behind his death. Even
if it requires sifting through his financial records.'

Fiche
t
tutted. 'Perhaps. Upon a personal instruction from the client.'

'He's
dead,' I repeated, swallowing my exasperation.

'His
descendants, then, or his executors.' He was implacable.

'But
if there were no descendants,' I pressed, 'and if there were
implications, strong implications, that he had been involved in
illegal activities, then you would naturally be keen to seek out the
truth of the matter.'

I
exaggerated, of course: no banker ever wants to find out exactly how
his customers earn the riches to make their deposits, for it might
tarnish his reputation. Worse, he could be forced to give the money
back. I guessed that just such considerations exercised Fichet's
grinding thoughts during the ensuing pause.

'Naturally,'
he said at last. 'And naturally we take great care whom we choose to
have bank with us.' I wondered if by 'great care' he meant the ogre
on the door. 'But without permission from the man's descendants - or,
at the very extreme, a request from the magistrate - we can do
nothing for you. You, after all, are not known here. You yourself
could be a criminal.' He blew air through his nose - I think it was
an attempt at laughter.

I
wondered whether he was alluding to the accusations against me.
Probably, I decided. He had after all known all about the
Thermidor
.

'I
could be a criminal, but I am not. I am an officer of his Majesty
and--'

'The
two are not mutually exclusive, you know.' Again the snort.

'And
I demand you extend me your co-operation.' He had me riled now.
'Beginning with any information you may hold on two gentlemen named
Messrs Vitos and Laminak.'

I
believe I could have spent the rest of the day grappling with his
obstructions, and with no window to mark the passing hours perhaps I
would have stayed all night as well, but at that moment there came
the tinkling of a bell from within the woodwork behind him, bright
tones like warm sunlight in that sombre room.

They
made far more of an impact on Mr Fichet than anything I had yet said.
With a hasty apology, he leaped to his feet and retreated to the far
wall where an unseen door swung silently open, casting a slab of
yellow light over the floor. Whether it had been deliberately
concealed in the woodwork, or merely masked by the gloom, I could not
tell, but Fichet vanished through it into a corridor beyond. A cough
behind me, a sly reminder of the doorman's continued presence,
discouraged me from following him on my own initiative. Instead I
stood there, wondering what new intrigues this presaged.

I
was not long with my thoughts, for Fichet quickly reappeared.

'Mr
Mazard delivers his compliments,' he said, his eyes raised like a
schoolboy reciting his text. 'In a matter so important as assisting
the King's officer, he feels it would be remiss of him to do
otherwise than pay you his personal, most assiduous attention. He
requests your presence in his private office, where he may speak
plainly without agitating our other clients.'

Who
those other clients might be I could not guess; certainly they were
nowhere in evidence in that room. But Fichet, clearly agitated
himself, had already placed a bony hand on my shoulder and was
steering me around his desk and towards the open doorway. I moved
hastily, for there was something dead in his touch that I was
suddenly anxious to escape.

'You
will find his office at the head of the stairs on your right,' Fichet
added as I stepped into the passage.

The
walls were painted in a rich, glossy cream, reflecting back the light
of the candles that lined its alcoves and filling the space with a
warm, mellifluous light which dizzied me after the murk of the main
morn. Following Fichet's instructions, I made for the stairs, which
rose in a steeply curving spiral a little way down the corridor.
Moving through this silent, inner sanctum, I felt my breath begin to
quicken; the beating of my heart seemed unusually prominent. Nor were
my apprehensions eased when I heard the sturdy click of the door
closing behind me. Looking back, I could only just discern the two
grooves in the smooth wall where it had been. There did not appear to
be any handle on my side.

'Jesus,'
I muttered quietly, for I did not have the courage to break the
stillness surrounding me. But what did I have to fear? This man was
one of the premier financiers in Dover, a bastion of society and a
valued voice in the town's counsels. Even if that spoke more of his
wealth than his morality, surely it lifted him above the sort of man
who would do injury to a naval officer.