The Holy Lance - Chapter 4 Part 3

Two hours later, disgorged near Victoria station, Simon joined the fag end of the rush hour on the District line, getting off four stops later at Temple. Originally the site of the Templar knights’ headquarters in London, it had long since been colonised by barristers, some of whom brushed past him on their way to the Royal Courts of Justice, just a few hundred yards from the station.

At the end of the lane leading from the tube station, Simon turned right on to Fleet Street, named for the ancient river than still ran just a few feet below, watching camera crews setting up outside the court opposite. Doubtless some important trial was due to finish today, the winners to come bounding down the steps, exhorting their victorious virtue while the losers sulked off to consider the cost of an appeal.

Carrying on past an array of book, watch and wine shops - an insight into the consuming passions of the natives of this quarter - Simon reached a non-descript sandstone building set slightly off the street by a row of iron railings. At the steps, a doorman in coat and top hat stood, his military bearing, reminiscent of the Oxford porters, subtly warning off those with mischief in mind. Suspended just above the door was a small gilt model of an old fashioned bottle.

“Can I help you sir?” It was obvious that Simon did not really belong here. The jeans and collarless shirt spoke neither of a career in the law, not of any great wealth, but plucking up his courage, he replied.

“Just come to check on the account”, trying and probably failing to project the kind of confidence the doorman was doubtless used to.

“Very good sir. Through the door to your right please. As you know, sir” The last comment served to remind Simon that he was a stranger here, one of those subtle British ways of keeping people in their place.

Passing through the hallway, lined, if it could be believed, with a collection of ancient muskets, Simon passed into the banking hall of C. Hoare and Co. Founded in 1672, the original Hoare, Richard, had been a Goldsmith who had used a golden bottle as his emblem. Discovering that banking was more lucrative than goldsmithing, he had moved into that trade and established his premises on the current location in 1690. The bank remained in the hands of his descendants to this day, the last private bank in England.

Little had changed since those days in Simon’s view as he glanced around the banking hall. Almost circular, tellers worked behind an iron screen which reached from their desks almost to the ceiling. Plexiglass, as used in most banks was too common, too twentieth century for this institution. At the end of the counter was a desk manned by another ex-soldier, this time wearing a black coat and grey stripped trousers.

Rounding the circular feature which dominated the middle of the marble floor, an old post-box he discovered from the other side, Simon approached the desk. “I’d like to check on my account, please”.

“Who is your manager, sir?” The clerk asked.

“Not entirely sure, you see, I rather came to have this account by accident. Well, not an accident, more an inheritance.”

Spectacles slipping slightly further down his nose, the clerk was obviously not unfamiliar with strange requests. “Do you have the number then sir?”

Producing a post-it note on which he had scribbled the code, Simon handed it over.

“Take a seat sir, let me sort this out for you”

Simon sat in an old leather chair, next to a table of newspapers which, he could swear, had been ironed. Not sure whether to read them or whether that would be considered vulgar, he contented himself with studying the life-size portrait opposite, doubtless some Victorian banker, his black coat and high white collar projecting an image of unimpeachable rectitude.

“Come with me,sir” the clerk was back and led Simon through a pair of doors, turned left and took him down a long corridor lined with thick old books.

“First time in the bank sir?”

Simon nodded.

“These are the archives sir. The bank’s so old, there’s 300 years of history here. Bank statements from everyone who was anyone. Samuel Pepys, Lord Byron, all of them. They were all customers, and all their statements are kept in these books. We get a lot of historians come here sir, looking for information on these old people. Funny bunch historians”

Simon nodded. Historians were a funny bunch, some of them got up in the middle of the night to decipher a code which led them to a bank straight from the 19th century.

“Course, we don’t have any statements for our most famous customer, sir”

“Who was that?”

“The dad in Mary Poppins, he worked here. Very proud of that the bank is. It’s our claim to fame.” Simon could think of other plausible claims, like knowing the extent of Lord Byron’s overdraft, but he chose to keep silent.

The clerk stopped at a door and knocked. On hearing no response, he entered, taking Simon into a small,tastefully furnished room, with Victorian prints of Greece on the wall. The window looked out on to a small courtyard, the flower beds bare, but a little fountain trickling quietly in the background. “Mr Brown will be with you shortly.”

Left to his own devices, Simon looked at the prints and then moved to the window, marvelling at the hidden garden, just yards from one of London’s busiest and smelliest streets.

A knock on the door. A small, slightly plump man in his forties appeared, carrying a box. Wearing a suit, he had the air of someone who spent most of his day acceding to the requests of others, no matter how unreasonable.

“Mr?”

“Dr actually. Simon Pelham.” Simon rarely used his title, but felt the need of every advantage he could muster.

“Dr Pelham, David Brown” as in “nose” thought Simon.

“First time in the bank, sir?” Simon nodded.

“I thought so. We are an old institution and being an old institution, we do things a bit differently to other places. Your account is a numbered one, as you no doubt know.” Simon didn’t but was not going to give Mr Brown any satisfaction.

“Most banks in Britain don’t do them anymore, but we do, for our most select clients.” Simon was struggling to imagine Jonathan, greying hair askew, being any sort of client in this reserved, formal bank, let alone a select one. “Can you give me the number again?”

Simon handed over the post-it again which Mr Brown checked off against a large card he was carrying.

“Very good sir. According to the instructions on the account, I am to open this box and leave you now. If you need anything, please dial 9 and ask for me.” He indicated a telephone on the desk. “Have a very good day.”

He placed the box on the desk, unlocked it with a small key hanging from a long chain and, with an almost imperceptible bow, withdrew.

The box was about a foot long, by nine inches wide. Covered in dark blue leather, it could only have been 150 years old. Plucking up his courage, Simon reached out to open the box.
Not have been sure what to expect, he was slightly disappointed to see that rather than containing bundles of notes, neatly tied together, jewels, share certificates or even a gun, the only contents were a small piece of card and a ring.

Picking up the latter, Simon saw it was a signet ring. Odd, Jonathan had never worn one, so why the mystery about this one. Looking at it more closely, he saw the odd design, a bird - was it an eagle, with a stick in its talons. No, it was a spear, but still, an eagle with a spear in its talons, what was that doing there? Presumably it meant something to someone, but what?

Reaching for the card, Simon immediately recognised the quality. An ivory shade, the thickness of the card signalled that this was no mere handout from some corporate middle manager. Turning it over, Simon saw the embossed copper-plate writing was a steely shade of blue and read the name on it.

Dr Fleicher, Kunsthistorisches Museum, Wien.