Page 108 of The Time for Love
Tuesday, November 17, 1863
Lombard Street, London
Martin stood under the weak glow of the third streetlamp on the southern side of Lombard Street and wondered, yet again, at the choice of meeting place. November in London was inevitably a season of fogs, and tonight was no exception. Thick mist coiled around each streetlamp, shrouding what, during the day, was a busy, bustling city street.
Indeed, even at nearly eight o’clock at night, Lombard Street was far from deserted, but human activity was largely confined to the pools of light spilling from the doors of the three public houses strung along the opposite side of the street.
Martin leaned against the wall of the shop before which the stipulated streetlamp rose. He was in London with Sophy, staying at his house in Arlington Street while they considered several businesses to add to their growing portfolio of steel-based industries, as well as finalizing several long-term orders for Carmichael Steelworks.
All was going well on that front. Indeed, their combined interests seemed ever-expanding, and his steel-plating factory was already under construction.
When he’d first received the message that had brought him to Lombard Street, he’d debated whether or not to show it to Sophy, but in the end, he had. Like him, she’d puzzled over what it might mean, and when he’d decided to meet with Blackwell—too eaten by curiosity not to learn the answer—although she’d been concerned, ultimately, she’d placed her faith in him to know what he was doing.
His hands sunk in his greatcoat pockets, he ran his fingertips along the comforting, cool weight of the pair of derringer pistols he’d brought along as insurance. Figgs, Roland, and Tunstall were hanging back somewhere in the shadows. He hadn’t spotted them, which made it unlikely that Blackwell and whoever he brought with him would, either.
All Blackwell’s missive had contained was a simple request for a meeting to discuss business matters, along with the time and place.
Despite the hour, Lombard Street, in the center of the City, just a block from the Bank of England, did not feature as a likely haunt for villains. Martin couldn’t decide whether Blackwell had chosen a street with which Martin had to be familiar to reassure Martin or to lull him into a false sense of security.
He and his men had taken up their positions early. The bells of nearby St. Paul’s started tolling for the hour. Their finalbongwas fading when a large, tall, slightly hunched figure wearing a familiar black overcoat turned onto the street at the western end. Striding along the southern pavement, Cornelius Blackwell approached.
Martin straightened away from the wall and waited.
Blackwell halted a yard away and nodded. “Mr. Cynster. Thank you for meeting with me.” Blackwell faintly smiled. “I didn’t know if you would.”
Martin returned the nod. “Blackwell. I have to confess I’m curious as to what business we might have to discuss.”
To Martin’s surprise, Blackwell looked faintly embarrassed. “Yes, well.” Blackwell turned to view the other side of the street. “I chose this place hoping to avoid any impression that I represented a threat.” He gestured up and down the street. “Given the weather, I suggest we go in and find a table. Take your pick.”
Martin studied the man for a second, then looked across the street. Two of the three public houses were large and likely crowded; they were certainly noisy. The one to the right was smaller and, while bright and cheery and reasonably patronized, had the look of a family establishment. He nodded that way. “Let’s try that one.”
Together, he and Blackwell crossed the street. At the door, Martin stood back and waved Blackwell through. The moment gave Martin a chance to glance back along the street. He spotted Figgs sliding from the shadows and Tunstall walking openly that way.
Martin turned to the door and followed Blackwell inside.
They found a table in the far corner of the taproom and settled facing each other over pints of ale.
Blackwell took a sip, then setting the glass down in front of him, with his gaze on the frothy head, said, “I didn’t ask you here to talk about your business—any of your businesses, not even that new one in Sheffield.” Blackwell raised his pale gaze and met Martin’s eyes. “I wanted to ask your advice about mine.”
Martin blinked, then he took a slow sip of his ale. Lowering the glass, he said, “You want to ask my advice about slum estates?”
“No.” Blackwell’s lips compressed, then as if forcing the words out, he said, “I’ve given that game away.”
Martin fought to smother his surprise and didn’t entirely succeed. “Really?”
“Yes, really.” Somewhat testily, Blackwell glanced around, clearly wanting to make sure no one there overheard. “After our…encounter in Sheffield, I got to thinking. I’ve money now—lots of it. I told you what level of rents I used to squeeze from the tenants, so you can guess how much I’ve stashed away. And I spoke with Walter Murchison before I left and heard what he was doing, moving on as it were, and I thought, well, what am I going to do with all my money? Just mindlessly doing the same thing over and over again and still not getting what I want… It doesn’t make sense. I see that now.”
He met Martin’s eyes again, and there was determination in Blackwell’s gaze.
“So I came back here and thought about it, and I decided to get out. To stop being a landlord. I got my solicitors in and had them work out what I could do. Long story short, I gave all the tenants their leases, free and clear, for however long they want. No further charges. I told my lads that I was getting out of the business. I thought they’d tell me I was going soft and leave to work for some other gaffer, but they didn’t. When I told them what I was doing, giving the leases away…well, turns out the heavy handing hadn’t been to their taste for some time. They thought letting go was the right thing to do—a good thing to do. For us all.”
Blackwell shook his head as if still perplexed by the vagaries of human nature. “Anyway, so now I have all this money sitting in the bank. More than enough for me to see out my life. But the lads…they’ve been like sons to me, and they need work. So I need to start up some business that will give them all jobs and make enough money in some legitimate way so that they won’t see it as charity.”
Martin studied Blackwell as the man took a long pull of his ale. As he lowered the glass again, Martin asked, “So where do I come in?”
Blackwell stared at the glass. “I’ve spent the last weeks looking into you. When I met you in Sheffield, I knew straightaway you weren’t like the others in that room, not even like the others who walked in later.” Blackwell raised his gaze and narrowed his eyes on Martin. “There’s an edge to you. I thought right away that despite your name, you weren’t the average ton gentleman. And you aren’t, are you? You’ve been to America and done all sorts of things there, and you learned how to manage a business, how to grow a business, without relying on your name. Without getting any help at all from your station.”
Blackwell looked down and waved. “Those others were entitled. They grew up in the business and had it handed to them, or were first in and so made the rules. You…” He paused, then looked at Martin again. “You know how to establish a business when you have no advantages to use as levers.”
