of Threadneedle Street before, though I’d passed down the street itself on several occasions. Barker holds accounts in various banks across London, but generally uses a branch of Cox and Company within Craig’s Court. I better understood why he had an account at the Bank of England when I read a plaque inside that said the establishment was founded in 1694 by a Scotsman, William Paterson. My employer prefers old established companies with which to do business, and sends his money north of Hadrian’s Wall whenever possible.
I wasn’t prepared for the vaulting marble ceilings or the cavernous echo of footsteps and voices therein. One could be excused for mistaking the bank for part of a cathedral or royal palace. In the hush of those grand walls, I was painfully aware that I had just chained three police constables to a bridge. I stood beside my employer, trying to look professional and businesslike, but inside, my nerves were ajangle.
Cyrus Barker wrote a cheque while I surveyed the room. We crossed to a long counter manned by tellers, hard-faced men with most of the color drained out of them, who looked as if they had not smiled once in their entire lives. The Guv set the paper down in front of one of them, a man so desiccated he would not have been out of place among the mummies in the British Museum. He scrutinized the slip of paper distastefully, but then I expected that. Barker’s handwriting is nearly illegible.
“I’ll be right back, sir,” the teller said. “I must get this amount approved.” He turned and passed into the room behind.
The Guv’s hand opened on the counter, as if to tap on it, and then closed again, willing patience. I cleared my throat and looked about. Everything appeared normal. People walked about sedately, discussing loans and rates. Men filled out forms, and conferred in corners. Money was accruing, and an empire was being financed.
The Guv grunted something in a low voice that I could not understand.
“I beg your pardon?” I asked, a knot suddenly forming in my stomach.
“I said, run!”
I turned and dashed toward the door just as two burly men came around the far end of the desk and gave chase. As we ran, Barker pulled a handful of sharpened coins from his pocket, which he uses to stop anything short of a bull elephant. There was a clang as he banked them off the hard marble floor behind us. One man took a coin in the shoulder. The other one received a deep cut in the cheek. The last I heard before breaking out into Threadneedle Street again was the sound of one of them falling with a groan.
From there it was only a short distance to London Bridge and the relative safety of Lambeth on the other side. Barker and I first attempted a straight line to the bridge via Gracechurch Street, but at one point, he diverted me into Lombard. It was none too soon, as a squad of constables trotted by, heading north toward the bank. The Guv pulled me into a shop that sold general sundries, looking about momentarily at domestic items that had no meaning in our lives: hairpins, bolts of fabric, and combs. After a minute or two, he pulled me out again, and we skirted a tailor’s shop. The third business along the row was a coffeehouse, and as he opened the door, I was momentarily treated to the aroma of freshly brewing beans. However, it was all I was treated to, as we crossed the main room and passed through the kitchen, whose help stared at us without even so much as a protest. We exited into a sooty alley which led into King William’s Street before finally coming to ground in an evil-smelling barber shop.
“We need our hair cut,” Barker stated.
“Not my hair!” I protested.
“Especially your hair, lad. It distinguishes you.”
The shop was worlds apart from Truefitt’s of Old Bond Street, our customary barbers. It looked like it hadn’t been cleaned since the Worshipful Company of Barbers was first organized in 1308. The shaving mugs were cracked, the floor filthy, and the
I wasn’t prepared for the vaulting marble ceilings or the cavernous echo of footsteps and voices therein. One could be excused for mistaking the bank for part of a cathedral or royal palace. In the hush of those grand walls, I was painfully aware that I had just chained three police constables to a bridge. I stood beside my employer, trying to look professional and businesslike, but inside, my nerves were ajangle.
Cyrus Barker wrote a cheque while I surveyed the room. We crossed to a long counter manned by tellers, hard-faced men with most of the color drained out of them, who looked as if they had not smiled once in their entire lives. The Guv set the paper down in front of one of them, a man so desiccated he would not have been out of place among the mummies in the British Museum. He scrutinized the slip of paper distastefully, but then I expected that. Barker’s handwriting is nearly illegible.
“I’ll be right back, sir,” the teller said. “I must get this amount approved.” He turned and passed into the room behind.
The Guv’s hand opened on the counter, as if to tap on it, and then closed again, willing patience. I cleared my throat and looked about. Everything appeared normal. People walked about sedately, discussing loans and rates. Men filled out forms, and conferred in corners. Money was accruing, and an empire was being financed.
The Guv grunted something in a low voice that I could not understand.
“I beg your pardon?” I asked, a knot suddenly forming in my stomach.
“I said, run!”
I turned and dashed toward the door just as two burly men came around the far end of the desk and gave chase. As we ran, Barker pulled a handful of sharpened coins from his pocket, which he uses to stop anything short of a bull elephant. There was a clang as he banked them off the hard marble floor behind us. One man took a coin in the shoulder. The other one received a deep cut in the cheek. The last I heard before breaking out into Threadneedle Street again was the sound of one of them falling with a groan.
From there it was only a short distance to London Bridge and the relative safety of Lambeth on the other side. Barker and I first attempted a straight line to the bridge via Gracechurch Street, but at one point, he diverted me into Lombard. It was none too soon, as a squad of constables trotted by, heading north toward the bank. The Guv pulled me into a shop that sold general sundries, looking about momentarily at domestic items that had no meaning in our lives: hairpins, bolts of fabric, and combs. After a minute or two, he pulled me out again, and we skirted a tailor’s shop. The third business along the row was a coffeehouse, and as he opened the door, I was momentarily treated to the aroma of freshly brewing beans. However, it was all I was treated to, as we crossed the main room and passed through the kitchen, whose help stared at us without even so much as a protest. We exited into a sooty alley which led into King William’s Street before finally coming to ground in an evil-smelling barber shop.
“We need our hair cut,” Barker stated.
“Not my hair!” I protested.
“Especially your hair, lad. It distinguishes you.”
The shop was worlds apart from Truefitt’s of Old Bond Street, our customary barbers. It looked like it hadn’t been cleaned since the Worshipful Company of Barbers was first organized in 1308. The shaving mugs were cracked, the floor filthy, and the
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