your money and give us a hand with the washing-up, instead.”
Mary nearly laughed until she realized the woman was in earnest. “Do you always find your barmaids off the street?” she asked.
“You’re a decent sort, I can tell. And we could do with a girl to help us out,” said Mrs Bridges. “Someone neat, what minds her Ps and Qs, and you’re not hard on the eyes, which always helps.” She gave Mary a swift once-over. “Eight shillings a week, with your room and board. Start tomorrow.”
Mary half-smiled. “You’re kind, Mrs Bridges, but I’ve my own work to get on with.”
“What d’you do, then?”
“I sell gingerbread,” said Mary, surprising herself. Even as she uttered the words, however, she realized how ideal such a cover would be. She could wander the length and breadth of Newgate, mingling freely with the crowds. She could come and go as she pleased. Gingerbread was lightweight, too: she needed nothing more than a covered basket and a few pennyworth of spiced dough from a bakeshop.
The landlady sighed with regret. “That’s cold, hard work, in the streets. You’d be better off here, in the pub.”
Mary begged to differ. Pub work would keep her tethered to one spot. And with the offer of room and board, she’d find herself working eighteen-hour days. Nevertheless, she said politely, “If I change my mind, I’ll come and find you.”
“Come and find me anyway, dearie,” said Mrs Bridges, getting up and starting to polish the pumps again. “We all need a sit-down and a gossip, now and again.”
Mary smiled and made her way back into Newgate, fortified both by brandy and a sense of purpose. The street scene was as squalid and raucous as ever, the high wooden gibbet still a scar against the low grey sky. This was her London: brutal, coarse, dangerous. It was a part of her history. It had moulded her character. But she would not allow it to shape her destiny.
Six
Late morning, the same day
Threadneedle Street, the City of London
J ames Easton had a fairly good imagination. Even so, the best description he could find for the underground vaults of the Bank of England was “unimaginable”. The rows upon rows of gold bars stored within, stacked like so many cakes of soap on simple metal shelves, gave the place a surreal, childish quality. One wanted to laugh and scratch off the gold paint to show that they were, in fact, ordinary and unprecious lead. Even so, how much would such a vast quantity of lead be worth? Transfixed by the sheer scale of things, James automatically began a calculation, but abandoned it a moment later.
“How do you intend to manage your assets during the period of construction?” he asked the party of five men, members of the Court of Directors of the Bank of England, who were showing him around.
“Eh?” said an older man named Bentley who seemed, unofficially, in charge of the committee. “How d’you mean?”
“Will you move the gold to a separate storage facility while the work is underway?”
“Yes,” said Mr Bentley with a fussy nod. He spoke with his upper lip perpetually curled, so that his “yes” sounded like “yis”. “Yes, unfortunate and risky as the task will indubitably be, that is essential. We simply haven’t enough extra space to redistribute the gold.” He coughed and glanced doubtfully at James over his pince-nez. “Not to mention the security risk of having workmen down here on a daily basis, with the gold close by.”
James wasn’t offended. His labourers were all carefully vetted, but there was no need to expose them to temptation. Different men had different breaking points. “I must advise you that the removal and storage of such precious cargo is new to me. While I am willing to undertake the work, you may wish to organize that yourselves.”
Mr Bentley looked vaguely surprised. “Your point is noted. We shall, er … hem. We shall have to discuss that amongst ourselves.”
“Very well. Let us treat the two
Mary nearly laughed until she realized the woman was in earnest. “Do you always find your barmaids off the street?” she asked.
“You’re a decent sort, I can tell. And we could do with a girl to help us out,” said Mrs Bridges. “Someone neat, what minds her Ps and Qs, and you’re not hard on the eyes, which always helps.” She gave Mary a swift once-over. “Eight shillings a week, with your room and board. Start tomorrow.”
Mary half-smiled. “You’re kind, Mrs Bridges, but I’ve my own work to get on with.”
“What d’you do, then?”
“I sell gingerbread,” said Mary, surprising herself. Even as she uttered the words, however, she realized how ideal such a cover would be. She could wander the length and breadth of Newgate, mingling freely with the crowds. She could come and go as she pleased. Gingerbread was lightweight, too: she needed nothing more than a covered basket and a few pennyworth of spiced dough from a bakeshop.
The landlady sighed with regret. “That’s cold, hard work, in the streets. You’d be better off here, in the pub.”
Mary begged to differ. Pub work would keep her tethered to one spot. And with the offer of room and board, she’d find herself working eighteen-hour days. Nevertheless, she said politely, “If I change my mind, I’ll come and find you.”
“Come and find me anyway, dearie,” said Mrs Bridges, getting up and starting to polish the pumps again. “We all need a sit-down and a gossip, now and again.”
Mary smiled and made her way back into Newgate, fortified both by brandy and a sense of purpose. The street scene was as squalid and raucous as ever, the high wooden gibbet still a scar against the low grey sky. This was her London: brutal, coarse, dangerous. It was a part of her history. It had moulded her character. But she would not allow it to shape her destiny.
Six
Late morning, the same day
Threadneedle Street, the City of London
J ames Easton had a fairly good imagination. Even so, the best description he could find for the underground vaults of the Bank of England was “unimaginable”. The rows upon rows of gold bars stored within, stacked like so many cakes of soap on simple metal shelves, gave the place a surreal, childish quality. One wanted to laugh and scratch off the gold paint to show that they were, in fact, ordinary and unprecious lead. Even so, how much would such a vast quantity of lead be worth? Transfixed by the sheer scale of things, James automatically began a calculation, but abandoned it a moment later.
“How do you intend to manage your assets during the period of construction?” he asked the party of five men, members of the Court of Directors of the Bank of England, who were showing him around.
“Eh?” said an older man named Bentley who seemed, unofficially, in charge of the committee. “How d’you mean?”
“Will you move the gold to a separate storage facility while the work is underway?”
“Yes,” said Mr Bentley with a fussy nod. He spoke with his upper lip perpetually curled, so that his “yes” sounded like “yis”. “Yes, unfortunate and risky as the task will indubitably be, that is essential. We simply haven’t enough extra space to redistribute the gold.” He coughed and glanced doubtfully at James over his pince-nez. “Not to mention the security risk of having workmen down here on a daily basis, with the gold close by.”
James wasn’t offended. His labourers were all carefully vetted, but there was no need to expose them to temptation. Different men had different breaking points. “I must advise you that the removal and storage of such precious cargo is new to me. While I am willing to undertake the work, you may wish to organize that yourselves.”
Mr Bentley looked vaguely surprised. “Your point is noted. We shall, er … hem. We shall have to discuss that amongst ourselves.”
“Very well. Let us treat the two
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