Sacred Hunger - Barry Unsworth [192]
He had spoken with indignation, real or assumed. But there was nothing assumed about the unsteadiness of his hands when he set down his cup. ‘Not to have agreed then would have cost me my place, it would have branded me as unpatriotic,’ he said.
‘If you will forgive me,’ Kemp said, in the same level tones, ‘the duties would have been kept down in any case, even without your support. As you are aware, we have fifty-three members of the House of Commons voting in our interest directly, as well as some others, whom we both know, whose pockets are affected one way or another. We are strong enough to turn the balance in parliament on any West India business. It is not for the conduct of bills in the House that we need your interest. You know that well, I think, Sir William. We need your voice behind the scenes, in the Council, your urgent –’
At this moment the valet entered with garments draped over one arm, holding a long stick with a half a dozen wigs on it before him like a lance.
‘Ah, Bindman,’ Templeton said, grateful for the diversion. ‘Let us see, now.’
‘I thought the claret-coloured suit, sir, with the silver stitching,’ the valet said, after a brief bow to Kemp, ‘and a silver wig to go with it; a dull-toned wig will not do well with silver threaded on wine-colour, especially seeing that the suit is satin and has a high shine to it.’
He had spoken as he was obviously accustomed to speak, in high-pitched, intimate tones, as if there were no one else present. He took some gliding steps into the bedchamber and laid the clothes on the bed. ‘This one?’ he said returning, lifting one of the wigs delicately from the stick. He had produced from his pocket a little powder-bellows.
‘Wait, you rogue,’ Templeton said. ‘Why do you always hurry me so?’
‘I would have this interview in private,’ Kemp said coldly. ‘I cannot speak to you while this fellow capers about with wigs.’
Dignity required some delay in response to this. Templeton had commenced already to unfasten the high turban. He continued to do so, glancing at Kemp through the glass. Typical of the low-born fellow to be rendered uneasy by the presence of servants. Son of a provincial bankrupt. The times were bad that could throw up such creatures into positions of power. Templeton had his own sources of information and there was a file on Kemp in his office at the Ministry.
He took in the careless, lounging posture of his visitor, a carelessness at odds with the tight lips, the insolent intensity of the eyes. A man who had come from nothing and nowhere. It was a career meteoric even in these times of opportunity for the clever and unscrupulous. He had begun as an employee of the firm of Thomas Fletcher, which carried on an extensive trade with Jamaica, dealing on the London Exchange in sugar grown on its own plantations and imported in its own ships. He had made himself useful to his employers in a number of ways, some of them on the edge of legality and some beyond. Templeton knew something of these last, though not enough to be useful. Kemp had been twice to Jamaica to increase the firm’s holdings by bribing or intimidating local officials to sign foreclosure orders on small tenants who had fallen into arrears. These services and others more nebulous had brought him to a full partnership in five years. He had married sugar too, in the person of the daughter of Sir Hugo Jarrold, whose merchant bank had been founded on his connections in the West India trade. Elizabeth Jarrold had neither looks nor elegance but had made up for both by the fortune she had brought, said to be eighty thousand pounds. Kemp’s present wealth could only be guessed at; but the most important fact about him from Templeton’s point of view was that he had lately become Vice-President of the West India Association and could thus speak for the entire faction …
The turban was removed now and Templeton’s long, nearly naked head stood revealed. ‘Bindman is discretion itself,’ he said at last. ‘He has been with me these five years.’
‘He has been with me no more