'That is true,' he conceded. 'Though with the Pope locked in the Vatican by Italian troops, and priests being expelled from schools across Europe, and the teaching of the Church being challenged by historians and linguists and scientists across the world, I do not find that you greatly strengthen your argument. I doubt I will live long enough to see the last church close its doors forever; but you may.'
The old man piqued my interest. I wondered for a moment whether he had even come that evening specifically to have that conversation with me, but eventually dismissed the notion. My secret life was unassailable, I was sure. No one connected me – the associate of aristocrats and princes, the dilettante journalist for
Could such an attempt succeed? Not in the way that M. Netscher said, of course; he was exaggerating there. But it was certainly true that inflicting severe damage on the City of London would be more harmful than defeating England's army, were it ever so foolish as to join battle with any other than half-armed natives. Every week, hundreds of millions of pounds flowed through London, its banks and discount houses, clearing houses and depositories. The whole world raised its loans through the City. The decision of a banker could determine the outcome of a war, or whether that war would take place. Wars were fought on credit; cut off the credit and the army must stop dead in its tracks as surely as if it had run out of food or ammunition.
Attacking the reputation of the City could be relatively inexpensive and have no consequences if it failed. But how could it be done? I could not see it. 'If it can be imagined, it can be achieved.' Was anyone doing the imagining? I thought about it for several days, then realised that mere thinking would accomplish nothing. I had to do some work.
Discovering anything by examining the career of M. Netscher was fruitless, it turned out: he had been around for such a long time that he knew absolutely everyone, and heard everything. There was no simple solution there; so I had to go back over the last few years and discover who his enemies and rivals were; this also produced nothing of any great interest. Such musings came over the following days, however; and that particular evening ended without anything else of interest. I did, however, write a short report on the conversation and send it to Wilkinson – I was a good bureaucrat already, and realised the importance passing on responsibility for things I could do nothing about.
Thursday evening became part of my life, something I looked forward to and enjoyed, partly for the conversation, but more for Elizabeth, whose presence I came to find oddly comforting. I took pleasure in watching her in what was now her natural habitat, so to speak, the way she could conduct a gathering like a maestro, discreetly and without ever imposing herself. I watched with something close to affection as she relaxed ever more into her role, became more sure of herself, more adept at her profession. In general I quite forgot what exactly that profession was. It was impossible to think of her as anything other than that which she wished to be.
One evening, though, the salon ended differently. She had been quiet, unusually reserved all evening; her admirers appeared to feel they had been given short weight. Ordinarily, she would have risen to the challenge, drawn them out, calmed them down, flattered and reassured; this evening she seemed strained and almost ill at ease, almost as though she wished they would go away.
And eventually they all did, except for me; she signalled quietly that she wished me to remain, so I held back until we were alone, the door shut to the world outside. I wondered for a moment whether the evening was going to turn into a night of excitement, but it rapidly became clear that she had – for her – a greater intimacy in mind.
'I am afraid I feel ashamed of myself,' she said, once we moved into the little salon, which she kept for herself alone. 'When I said I would not help you in your work, I did not dream that I might need help. And now I do.'
'I, in contrast, am delighted. How can I be of service?'
'My diaries have disappeared. And so has Simon.'
'You keep a diary?' The face of Arnsley Drennan swam back into my mind at that moment, his sneering, mocking face as he congratulated me at least on not being stupid enough to keep a diary.
