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Authors: Lloyd Shepherd
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of ticket porters. One was sent to my premises on Lime Street to inform me of
your descent on East India House.’
‘It is fortunate for all of us that you were home.’
‘My home is elsewhere. I am always to be found at my business premises on a working day.’
‘I would expect nothing more of a pillar of the City such as yourself. And what is your relationship with the Company?’
‘With this Company?’
‘Yes. With the Honourable East India Company.’
‘I am a Proprietor, sir.’
‘With how many votes?’
‘Am I being interrogated, Harriott?’
‘No indeed. But your interest in this matter is worthy of quantification, is it not?’
‘I fail to see the relevance of your question.’
‘Do you? Is that the same as refusing to answer it?’
The two old men were now barely inches from each other, the one tall and frigid, looking down upon the other, who was outraged but maintained a brittle politeness.
‘I hold four votes,’ said Burroughs, finally.
‘Indeed? An influential man within the Company, then. A highly influential man.’ Harriott picked his hat up from the bench behind him. ‘And as such a senior fellow, I assume
you are in full knowledge of the location of our meetings with the representatives of your Company?’
‘My Company?’
‘My apologies.
The
Company.’
Burroughs sneered unpleasantly. It was the first expression of emotion on his face, and he looked as if a horse had just voided its bowels all over his foot. He turned without further comment,
and began to walk up the corridor.
‘After you, Horton,’ said Harriott, as angry as Horton had ever seen him. ‘Let us follow the Proprietor.’
Two men awaited them in a wood-lined room filled with exceptional furniture. One of them greeted Harriott with real warmth, explaining to the others that he and Harriott served
together in India. Horton assumed this was Robert Ferguson, the man Harriott had demanded to see when they arrived. Ferguson did not introduce himself to Horton, and Harriott made no effort to
introduce Horton to the room.
If this was Ferguson, the years had been kinder to him than they had to Harriott; the Company man was elegantly dressed, straight-backed and vigorous, while Harriott dropped down into a leather
chair with audible relief as soon as he had shaken his former comrade’s hand.
Ferguson introduced the other man in the room, a rake-thin fellow who held his hands in front of him like a country vicar.
‘This is Elijah Putnam, senior clerk to our committee on private trade.’
‘Private trade?’ asked Horton. All eyes turned to him.
‘Gentlemen, this is my senior investigating constable, Charles Horton,’ said Harriott. ‘He has my complete faith. You can assume he speaks for me in all things.’
No one asked why, if that was the case, Harriott had not introduced his constable sooner. And no one asked what in God’s name a
senior investigating constable
was. Even Horton had
never heard the words before. The eyes of the other men assessed him as if he were a bag of indigo, and then looked back to Harriott.
‘We have a number of directors’ committees in the Company,’ said Putnam. He was a man of indeterminate age, the very model of the City clerk. His hands were held in front of
him, and his head bobbed up and down as he spoke, like a nervous heron with a story to tell. ‘My committee is one of them. Benjamin Johnson was a clerk working to me.’
‘And what is “private trade”?’ asked Horton again, aware that his questions would annoy. Their eyes shifted back to him.
‘It is the trade conducted by the Company’s own officers and masters, with the permission of the Company,’ said Harriott, impatiently. ‘Now, Ferguson – you know why
we are here?’
‘Of course we know. We read the newspapers. They are full of this matter this morning. A terrible business.’
‘These Wapping officers are here to ask some general questions only,’ said Burroughs, the alderman.
your descent on East India House.’
‘It is fortunate for all of us that you were home.’
‘My home is elsewhere. I am always to be found at my business premises on a working day.’
‘I would expect nothing more of a pillar of the City such as yourself. And what is your relationship with the Company?’
‘With this Company?’
‘Yes. With the Honourable East India Company.’
‘I am a Proprietor, sir.’
‘With how many votes?’
‘Am I being interrogated, Harriott?’
‘No indeed. But your interest in this matter is worthy of quantification, is it not?’
‘I fail to see the relevance of your question.’
‘Do you? Is that the same as refusing to answer it?’
The two old men were now barely inches from each other, the one tall and frigid, looking down upon the other, who was outraged but maintained a brittle politeness.
‘I hold four votes,’ said Burroughs, finally.
‘Indeed? An influential man within the Company, then. A highly influential man.’ Harriott picked his hat up from the bench behind him. ‘And as such a senior fellow, I assume
you are in full knowledge of the location of our meetings with the representatives of your Company?’
‘My Company?’
‘My apologies.
The
Company.’
Burroughs sneered unpleasantly. It was the first expression of emotion on his face, and he looked as if a horse had just voided its bowels all over his foot. He turned without further comment,
and began to walk up the corridor.
‘After you, Horton,’ said Harriott, as angry as Horton had ever seen him. ‘Let us follow the Proprietor.’
Two men awaited them in a wood-lined room filled with exceptional furniture. One of them greeted Harriott with real warmth, explaining to the others that he and Harriott served
together in India. Horton assumed this was Robert Ferguson, the man Harriott had demanded to see when they arrived. Ferguson did not introduce himself to Horton, and Harriott made no effort to
introduce Horton to the room.
If this was Ferguson, the years had been kinder to him than they had to Harriott; the Company man was elegantly dressed, straight-backed and vigorous, while Harriott dropped down into a leather
chair with audible relief as soon as he had shaken his former comrade’s hand.
Ferguson introduced the other man in the room, a rake-thin fellow who held his hands in front of him like a country vicar.
‘This is Elijah Putnam, senior clerk to our committee on private trade.’
‘Private trade?’ asked Horton. All eyes turned to him.
‘Gentlemen, this is my senior investigating constable, Charles Horton,’ said Harriott. ‘He has my complete faith. You can assume he speaks for me in all things.’
No one asked why, if that was the case, Harriott had not introduced his constable sooner. And no one asked what in God’s name a
senior investigating constable
was. Even Horton had
never heard the words before. The eyes of the other men assessed him as if he were a bag of indigo, and then looked back to Harriott.
‘We have a number of directors’ committees in the Company,’ said Putnam. He was a man of indeterminate age, the very model of the City clerk. His hands were held in front of
him, and his head bobbed up and down as he spoke, like a nervous heron with a story to tell. ‘My committee is one of them. Benjamin Johnson was a clerk working to me.’
‘And what is “private trade”?’ asked Horton again, aware that his questions would annoy. Their eyes shifted back to him.
‘It is the trade conducted by the Company’s own officers and masters, with the permission of the Company,’ said Harriott, impatiently. ‘Now, Ferguson – you know why
we are here?’
‘Of course we know. We read the newspapers. They are full of this matter this morning. A terrible business.’
‘These Wapping officers are here to ask some general questions only,’ said Burroughs, the alderman.
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