Bellman & Black (24 page)

Today it was Fox he was meeting with. He saw him frequently when he was in London to go over forthcoming work, timetables, problems. The main business at present was doors.

A minute before their meeting was due to start, Bellman saw Fox come away from the site. He strode toward the office with an energetic gait he had copied, without realizing it, from Bellman.

“Come in! How is it all coming along? Will you be ready by the fifteenth of May?”

Bellman always began like this.

“All will be ready on the fifteenth of May. Rest assured. The design for the oak entrance doors are with Mr. Deakin. He is giving the job to his very best man. The side and back doors are in hand with his team.”

Bellman nodded. “It’s the internal doors I want to instruct on today. I want you to think of the emporium as a theater. The customers must not be distracted by any sense of what is happening offstage. You have already noted the cork lining to the corridors?”

“It is in the warehouse now. The doors to be lined on the other side with cork too? We left that undecided.”

“It will be quieter than baize. Do it. There is more to be considered than noise, though. Stock is to be replenished as invisibly as possible. Staff must be allowed to enter and exit the shop floor with the utmost discretion. The doors between the staff passageways and the shop floor are not to appear as doors at all, but must seem to the naked eye as part of the paneling. The way I see it, the edges of each door will be concealed in the shadowed part of the relief, so that the wall will appear unbroken.”

“Handles?”

Bellman shook his head. “A ball latch that will answer to pressure from either side. A member of the staff must come and go noiselessly and invisibly.”

Fox nodded as he noted these instructions in a calfskin book he had got from the same supplier as Bellman’s. The pencil he wrote with was one that Bellman had given him.

“Consider it done.”

“You will be sure to have the building complete for the fifteenth of May?”

Fox smiled. “I will have it done for the fourteenth if you wish it.”

Bellman stared. “Can you?”

Fox had spoken lightly. It was only a joke. He had forgotten that Bellman had no sense of humor. But being young and ambitious and liking a challenge, he couldn’t help answering, “Of course.”

After lunch they spent half an hour in a brougham before arriving at a courtyard, then a room fragrant with cedar and pine, and carpeted with curls cut from the heads of babies, that were crisp underfoot. On the wall, a rack of gouges and chisels, meticulously arranged. The carver, with bone white hair shorn to his skull, bent over his work with intent concentration.

“Best in London,” Fox murmured and then, louder, as the man looked up to greet them, “Mr. Geoffroys. This is Mr. Bellman. Come to see how things are progressing.”

Mr. Geoffroys returned the gouge to its place.

“Two of the large elements are complete.” He invited them with a gesture to walk to the back of the workshop, where two forms rested against the wall. Taller than a man, the elaborate
B
shapes were exact twins.

Bellman and Fox ran fingers along the curves of the
B
s, admiring the smoothness of the carving, the grace of the flourishes, the closeness of the joints.

“Once it’s plated these joins will be quite invisible,” Mr. Geoffroys told Bellman. “And see here”—carved trains of ivy leaves and fine wooden lilies—“these will fit together like so, to make the garland.”

Bellman could not have been more satisfied. It was fine workmanship, the letters had grandeur, once silvered they would be even more impressive; the floral garland would be exquisite.

“It looks nearly finished . . . What is it that remains to be done?”

“The
and
.”

“The end?” Bellman was puzzled.

“And. Ampersand, I believe you call it. Come and see.”

They moved back to the work area. The block of wood that Mr. Geoffroys was working on was clamped. Roughly hewn at the edges and the base, marked out lightly in pencil, it was starting to take shape at the top. The carver selected a gouge and applied it to the wood. Standing on a platform to be at the right height, he shifted his weight to one foot, leaned into the tool with meticulous control. The movement came
not from his arm but from his whole body it seemed, and a shaving of wood pared away like a curl of butter. He repeated the movement with tiny modifications, over and over, and the curve took shape.

Ampersand. The sign that denoted a commercial relationship. The figure that bound
B
to
B.
The connection. The tie.

A sudden and unexpected thread of doubt wormed into Bellman’s thoughts. He put his head on one side and looked again. Was that really right?

“You don’t think that’s going to be too . . .”

Fox looked alarmed. “Too . . . ?”

Mr. Geoffroys stopped his carving, and both he and Fox watched Bellman.

What was it? Bellman’s chest constricted and his mouth was dry. Was he too hot?

Because his employer didn’t speak, Fox broke in. “If it’s wrong it can be redone. Let’s see . . .” He had the original design with him. He unfolded it and spread it flat. He compared it with the sketches and measurements given to the carver. “All is as planned—the ampersand equivalent in height to the initials—of course if, seeing it in reality, it seems out of proportion . . . At present it is incomplete, so it gives an impression of solidity that will be alleviated once it is finished. And the gilding will lighten the effect again. It will be less—er—wooden.”

“Yes. Less . . . Yes.”

There was a moment of uncertainty. Mr. Geoffroys looked at Fox, who looked at Bellman, who looked at the ampersand appearing out of a block of oak.

Complete, it would be less solid. Gilded, it would appear lighter.

Bellman pulled at his collar and swallowed uncomfortably.

“Of course, if it troubles you, it can be redone. It might even be possible to reuse some of the completed—”

“No. Go ahead. It’s all right.”

They turned to leave.

“Ready middle of next week, then?” Fox asked Mr. Geoffroys.

Mr. Geoffroys nodded as they took their leave and said something Bellman didn’t quite catch.

“An inn,” Bellman instructed their driver.

“It’s the wood dust,” Fox agreed. “It does make the throat unbearably dry. You didn’t catch what Geoffroys said, I think?”

“What? No.”

“He said, ‘Good-bye, Mr. Black.’ Funny, eh? Suppose that happens all the time.”

Fox found Bellman unusually silent over their drink at the inn and on the way back to Regent Street. He appeared to be brooding over some intractable problem. It was quite unlike him to be abstracted or indecisive or at a loss. His characteristic resolve and energy had melted from his face, and the expression revealed was almost unrecognizable as Bellman’s. What was it? Fear? Anguish? Despair?

“All right?” he asked, uncertainly.

Bellman did not respond. Eyes fixed in the middle distance, he gave every impression of being miles away, so Fox was taken aback when all of a sudden Bellman started to speak.

“Fell into conversation with a fellow. Couple of years back, now. Barely knew the fellow, never been introduced. He’s the one that put me onto it. The mourning goods business. Spotted the opportunity as it were.”

He locked eyes with Fox, who said, “And?”

Bellman frowned and scratched his head. “It raises questions. Doesn’t it? If he should turn up, wanting . . .”

“A share of the business?”

“For instance.”

Fox thought about it. He was no lawyer, but he’d signed a few contracts in his time. “Just a conversation, you say? You hadn’t met with a view to talking business?”

“No! No! Pure chance we even met.”

“He didn’t set out his terms and conditions? Ask you to sign anything?”

Bellman shook his head.

“Well then, he hasn’t got a leg to stand on, has he?”

“You think so?”

“Of course! Having ideas is one thing, but putting them into action is quite another. What’s he done since for you?”

“Nothing. Haven’t seen him.”

Well, then. A lawyer would laugh it out of court. Who’s to say it wasn’t your idea anyway? You were in the production business already. Had the contacts. The investment. You’re the one who’s been putting the hours in.”

Bellman grimaced. “If it was his idea, though . . .”

“Ideas! I have a hundred every day. Worth nothing till someone puts a bit of time and effort into it.” Something struck him. “Any witnesses to this conversation?”

“Not a soul there but us.”

“Don’t give it another thought, then. If he turns up with his begging bowl you can either give him a slap-up dinner and a bottle of brandy or send him off with a flea in his ear, depending on how amenable he seems. If he wants to fight you in court, let him. What’s to stop you denying the conversation ever happened?”

Bellman seemed half convinced. “I’ve told you, though.”

Fox winked at him. “I haven’t heard a word you’ve said this last ten minutes.”

Back at Regent Street, the slowing of the carriage and the opening of the door onto the clamor of the construction site roused Bellman. He jumped from the carriage with all his old vigor and brought his hands together in a booming clap.

“So. How many joiners do we have on-site today? Twenty? Let’s see how that mahogany is looking.”

Well, thought Fox. He’s forgotten about it now. On to the next thing.

T
hat night, at three in the morning, an ampersand coiled ropelike round Bellman’s neck, knotting itself tightly and squeezing the breath out of him. When his eyes opened to his bedroom in London he was gasping and his heart was beating as if it were really his dying minute.

Send him off with a flea in his ear
 . . .
Deny the conversation ever happened
 . . . God in heaven, had he really allowed himself to entertain thoughts like this? What if Black were to overhear a discussion of that sort? What if he found out that Bellman was thinking about ways of breaking their partnership?

What kind of partnership was it he had entered into? Black was on his side, surely? Otherwise he would have chosen some other person to share his idea with. They had an understanding, he was certain of it. Bellman was the active partner: it was he who went out into the world, wrote the letters, held the meetings, engaged contractors, negotiated terms, paid the invoices; later, it would be he who engaged seamstresses and shopgirls, recruited clerks, set up the systems, dealt with the haberdashers, took charge of the day-to-day running of the business.

Black was—how to describe it? Black had done none of the work, Fox was right about that. He had not put up the money. He seemed content to let Bellman get on with things. When you studied the thing objectively, it was hard to see what Black’s role in the venture was at all, he admitted to himself. Except that it
had
been his idea in the first place,
and a damned fine one too. The haberdashers had not hesitated to come in with him. The bank needed no persuasion to lend large sums.

He frowned. His memory of the night in the churchyard was obstinately refusing to come into focus, yet he retained from it the acute sense that Black was not a man to be fobbed off with a bottle of whiskey. Merely picturing the scene—You’ve done me a great service my friend! Here, let me offer you this bottle as an expression of my gratitude!—made him feel uncomfortable. As for the idea of court, denying Black his rights . . . He seemed to see Black’s eye, bearing witness against him, staring at him implacably from the dock. It cut through time and space and the wall of the room he slept in, pinned him to his mattress in fear. He was amiable and jovial all right, but at the same time, wasn’t he powerful? Menacing, even?

But what did Black want?

Bellman got out of bed. He would draft a contract here, now, tonight. Whenever the man appeared—for he would appear—he could open a drawer, pull out the paper, and say to him, “Where have you been, Black, my good fellow? Better late than never, eh? This contract has been waiting for you all along, and I have made you a wealthy man.” That should do it.

He sat at his desk in a nightshirt and started to write. It was a fairly standard contract, and goodness knows he had drafted and signed enough of them in his time to know what he was doing. He could leave a space to fill in the exact percentage later, once he’d done some calculations, but the main thing was to get the terms and conditions clearly set out.

For some reason, when he was a few lines in, he found the whole thing rather unsatisfactory. On paper the words seemed inadequate, beside the point. They lacked their usual solidity.

Perhaps he should get a lawyer to look it over . . .

The thought of setting out the difficulty before a lawyer drew him up short. It had been peculiar, the way it had all come about, certainly.
The whole situation was unorthodox. When he’d put the thing before Fox he had been able to leave certain things vague, unexplained. That wouldn’t do for a lawyer. It would be—Bellman winced—awkward.