matters – the clearing of the vaults and the repair work – as entirely separate tasks for now. It will be difficult to know just how much time we’ll need to complete the work until the vaults are completely emptied. We may discover further rot or areas of structural instability that are presently concealed.”
The Directors frowned as one. “Oh.”
“I shall need a copy of the original plans for the storage vaults, as well as details of any alterations that have been carried out.”
The youngest of the gentlemen, who was still James’s senior by two decades or so, presented him with a card. “I shall have those delivered, by secure guard, to your office this afternoon. Please communicate directly with me should you require anything further along those lines.”
James thanked him. “As we’re contemplating such a significant expansion, you will perhaps also consider if you’d like to include gas lighting in the new and rebuilt vaults. We shall have to address the question of air exchange, which means it’s quite straightforward to lay a gas line at the same time.” There was a brief pause in the group’s mutterings and throat-clearings, during which James’s keen ears picked up a faint but distinct rustling noise. Naturally. “It sounds as though I must also mention the rather impolite matter of vermin. Is there currently an infestation of any sort at the Bank?”
Blank expressions. Confusion. Then, gradually, the dawn of understanding. Affront. Horror. Denial. Here? At such an august institution?
James smiled and held up his hands to quell their sputtering. “Forgive me, gentlemen. I shall investigate the matter if and when we find it necessary.” He made a mental note to engage a rat catcher.
Mr Bentley stepped forward from the group, eyeing him warily. “Quite. Er. Hem. Is there anything else you wish to see in the vaults, Mr Easton?” The man’s long nose twitched, and James found it difficult not to stare at the mole that decorated its tip.
James knew a dismissal when he heard one. He was roughly one-third this man’s age, an upstart child in the eyes of the Court of Directors. He wondered again who’d chosen him for this task. Certainly not one of these fellows. He permitted himself to be escorted from the building, confirmed that the necessary plans and renderings would be delivered to his offices as promised and stood for a while in the late-afternoon drizzle of Threadneedle Street, contemplating the Bank’s unwelcoming façade.
As George had gloated, it was a perfect job: logistically complex, technically demanding and handsomely paid. Already, James was itching to begin. It was the sort of project that could become entirely absorbing, that would force him to stretch and learn daily. In fact, it was too perfect. Beneath his thrumming anticipation, James remained conscious of a steady, cold trickle of suspicion: was he being set up?
He shivered, and the hairs rose on the back of his neck. This Bank job had been too straightforwardly laid at his feet. To begin with, what sort of financial institution failed to force its suppliers to compete for business? He knew that the First Commissioner of Works, whom he’d favourably impressed during that business at St George’s Tower, had a great deal of influence within government. However, the Bank of England was probably outside his jurisdiction. George had suggested that the First Commissioner might be the brother-in-law of the Bank’s Governor, or somesuch, but was it sufficient to believe in such a high degree of coincidence?
Then again, coincidence seemed as likely in life as it did on stage. It had ensured that on three previous occasions, against all probability and logic, he’d met up with Mary Quinn and worked with her on jobs that redefined the irregular. He saw, each day, how small coincidences had immense consequences. It was well within the realm of the possible.
He simply had to persuade himself that such was the case this
The Directors frowned as one. “Oh.”
“I shall need a copy of the original plans for the storage vaults, as well as details of any alterations that have been carried out.”
The youngest of the gentlemen, who was still James’s senior by two decades or so, presented him with a card. “I shall have those delivered, by secure guard, to your office this afternoon. Please communicate directly with me should you require anything further along those lines.”
James thanked him. “As we’re contemplating such a significant expansion, you will perhaps also consider if you’d like to include gas lighting in the new and rebuilt vaults. We shall have to address the question of air exchange, which means it’s quite straightforward to lay a gas line at the same time.” There was a brief pause in the group’s mutterings and throat-clearings, during which James’s keen ears picked up a faint but distinct rustling noise. Naturally. “It sounds as though I must also mention the rather impolite matter of vermin. Is there currently an infestation of any sort at the Bank?”
Blank expressions. Confusion. Then, gradually, the dawn of understanding. Affront. Horror. Denial. Here? At such an august institution?
James smiled and held up his hands to quell their sputtering. “Forgive me, gentlemen. I shall investigate the matter if and when we find it necessary.” He made a mental note to engage a rat catcher.
Mr Bentley stepped forward from the group, eyeing him warily. “Quite. Er. Hem. Is there anything else you wish to see in the vaults, Mr Easton?” The man’s long nose twitched, and James found it difficult not to stare at the mole that decorated its tip.
James knew a dismissal when he heard one. He was roughly one-third this man’s age, an upstart child in the eyes of the Court of Directors. He wondered again who’d chosen him for this task. Certainly not one of these fellows. He permitted himself to be escorted from the building, confirmed that the necessary plans and renderings would be delivered to his offices as promised and stood for a while in the late-afternoon drizzle of Threadneedle Street, contemplating the Bank’s unwelcoming façade.
As George had gloated, it was a perfect job: logistically complex, technically demanding and handsomely paid. Already, James was itching to begin. It was the sort of project that could become entirely absorbing, that would force him to stretch and learn daily. In fact, it was too perfect. Beneath his thrumming anticipation, James remained conscious of a steady, cold trickle of suspicion: was he being set up?
He shivered, and the hairs rose on the back of his neck. This Bank job had been too straightforwardly laid at his feet. To begin with, what sort of financial institution failed to force its suppliers to compete for business? He knew that the First Commissioner of Works, whom he’d favourably impressed during that business at St George’s Tower, had a great deal of influence within government. However, the Bank of England was probably outside his jurisdiction. George had suggested that the First Commissioner might be the brother-in-law of the Bank’s Governor, or somesuch, but was it sufficient to believe in such a high degree of coincidence?
Then again, coincidence seemed as likely in life as it did on stage. It had ensured that on three previous occasions, against all probability and logic, he’d met up with Mary Quinn and worked with her on jobs that redefined the irregular. He saw, each day, how small coincidences had immense consequences. It was well within the realm of the possible.
He simply had to persuade himself that such was the case this
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