Mark Sanderson - Robin Hood Yard

“Thus far and no further.” The bumptious beadle attempted to block his path.

“John Steadman, Daily News .”

“Sorry, sir. The Exchange is closed.”

“I can see that. Let me pass.”

He was tempted to knock off the beadle’s cocked hat. The old man – who had the power to arrest and detain him within the Exchange – waved his stick at him. Pop! Magnus set to work. It was always good to illustrate the risks a fearless reporter faced as he went about his business. The old soldier turned his attention to the photographer. As soon as he took his eyes off him, Johnny headed for the doors.

“Going somewhere?” The long arm of the law felt his collar. It wasn’t the first time – nor would it be the last.

“Yes.”

“No.” The constable let go of his collar but only to pluck the hairs on the back of his neck.

“Ouch! Fuck off, Watkiss.” They had met before. The Square Mile often felt as small as a bear pit or bullring. “Still a plain bogey, I see. You must miss Sergeant Turner.”

“Not as much as you.”

“He’ll be here in a minute.”

“Really?”

Johnny nodded. Several of his competitors were piling out of taxis. “Do me a favour – keep that lot out.”

“What’s in it for me?”

“I’ll put in a good word for you.”

“Go on then – and mind that you do.”

He pushed open the heavy swing doors and made a beeline for the man sitting on a bentwood chair in the middle of the empty courtyard. It was pleasantly warm beneath the glass canopy but a metallic tang hung in the air. The antique Turkish pavement was splotched with blood.

“It’s not mine – at least, most of it isn’t.” Leo Adler tried to get up but his legs gave way. A concerned minion dabbed at the cut on his forehead. “Let me be!”

“John Steadman, Daily News .”

The cop interviewing one of the gathered witnesses turned round but said nothing.

“How d’you do?” They didn’t shake hands. “Not fond of bankers, are you? I must say, I enjoyed your exposure of that wicked boy’s scam.”

A post-room worker had been removing foreign stamps from envelopes and selling them. As the recent pepper scandal had demonstrated – an attempt to corner the world market in white pepper had floundered because the perpetrators failed to realize that black pepper could be turned into white – there was no shortage of crooks in the City. However, it was generally those at the bottom who were caught. Those higher up the ladder remained at large. In Johnny’s eyes, anyone in pinstripes belonged behind bars.

“A reporter is only as good as his sources.”

“Much like a French chef!”

“What happened? Why aren’t you taking this seriously?”

“It’s nothing. A rough-looking gentleman sprayed me with blood then threw the bottle at me and scarpered. Fortunately, it didn’t smash. I saw stars for a minute but I’m right as rain now.”

“Red rain. Why blood?”

“No idea. Perhaps he was a communist protestor hell-bent on keeping the red flag flying. We’ll probably never know.”

“What did he look like?”

“As I said, rough. Not the type generally seen round here.”

The mayor-in-waiting gestured at the arcades that lined the court where commodities had been bought and sold for centuries. There were other exchanges nearby: the Corn Exchange in Mark Lane, the Baltic Shipping Exchange in St Mary Axe, the Metal Exchange in Whittington Avenue, the Wool Exchange in Coleman Street, the Rubber Exchange in Mincing Lane and, of course, the Stock Exchange in Threadneedle Street.

The motto of the City of London was Domine Dirige Nos – “Lord, guide us” – but it might as well have been Quid pro quo – “something for something” – or “anything for money”: timber, minerals, coffee, sex, information or access.

Magnus, the archetypal shutterbug, came beetling towards them. No doubt he’d slipped Watkiss a oncer to let him in. If Steadman’s profession was asking, Monroe’s was taking – usually without permission. Mouths opened in protest were more dramatic than thin-lipped smiles. Adler, though, was only too happy to oblige. No wonder he’d been elected Lord Mayor. His regular, tanned features represented the acceptable face of capitalism – even if he was Jewish.

Johnny had read interviews with the second Jew destined to become Lord Mayor of London. The first, David Salomons, had been elected in 1855. City folk, pragmatists par excellence, were less vocal in their anti-Semitism than some of the population. The size of a man’s fortune was more important than the size of his nose.

“You must have heard about the other attacks,” said Johnny. “They can hardly be a coincidence. This seems like the start of a hate campaign. It must be personal, anti-Semitic. You’re the only person to have been attacked.”

“I’ve just come from Rothschild’s in New Court.” St Swithin’s Lane was less than a minute’s walk away. “It won’t take long to clean up the mess.”

“Rothschild,” murmured Johnny. “Red shield.”

“What’s that?”

“Probably nothing. I was thinking aloud.”

“Come off it. Next you’ll be saying that murder spelled backwards is red rum .”

“Why would I? I like crosswords but no one’s been murdered – not here anyway. Are you sure you haven’t a clue as to who’s responsible?”

“If I had, they’d be under arrest already.”

Johnny believed him. After “The Silent Ceremony” at the Guildhall on 9 November – during which the outgoing mayor would hand over the sword, sceptre, seal and list of Corporations to him – Adler would be the Chief Magistrate of the City.

“Such publicity is bad for business,” he continued. “The sooner it stops, the better.”

“Why talk to me then?”

“Your opposition to the bowler-hat-and-brolly brigade is well known. If you say it’s nothing but a stunt, people will believe you. Outside the City I don’t have much clout.”

Johnny was flattered but not convinced.

“Adler. That’s a German name, isn’t it?”

“Yes. My grandparents were German, but both my parents were British. It means eagle.”

“Perfect for a high-flier.”

Adler’s laughter echoed round the Exchange.

“I need a drink. Care to join me? It’s almost midday.” He got to his feet and, this time, stayed upright. “Are we done now, Sergeant?”

“Yes, sir, if you’re sure you don’t want to go to Bart’s.”

“Quite sure. I’ve had worse bumps. Got a thick skull. Let me know when you catch the blighter.”

It was all right for some. Lesser mortals would have been obliged to make a statement at Snow Hill police station.

Adler, having dismissed his entourage with reassuring noises, led them out of an exit at the rear of the building and thus avoided the scrum waiting at the front. Johnny was delighted. Monroe went off to develop his prints while he and Adler crossed the road and entered the maze of alleys that zigzagged between Lombard Street and Cornhill. Thirty yards down Birchin Lane they turned left into Castle Court.

The George and Vulture was one of Mr Pickwick’s favourite haunts.

“He dined here with Sam Weller,” said Johnny.

“I don’t have time to read for pleasure.”

“But you do read the papers.”

“Lord Beaverbrook, Viscount Rothermere and their cronies are powerful men. It’s not called the press for nothing. If they want something, they can exert great pressure.”

“Even they can’t stop a world war though. They’re more concerned about their livelihoods – the supply of newsprint – than the lives of their readers.”

“Agreed,” said Adler. He sipped the fine claret. “There’ll be no shortage of news though.”