Fremojo: Dark Desire is the first in a Gothic Horror trilogy that explores a romance between two star-crossed supernatural lovers spanning a period of 75 years during the Victorian era.
Forced to confront the unseen forces that rule their two lives and set against a backdrop of the world’s first global financial meltdowns, our reluctant hero must battle to save himself, his family wealth and ultimately defeat the Druid power of the Underworld and it’s master - the sinister Karl Merdok.
Only then can our wastrel hero find his true love.
Nick Gibson’s written work has been published regularly in national newspapers and magazines in a dozen countries. A reporter for a top US radio news network for five years, he moved on to write material for TV and radio and his work including broadcast documentaries and network entertainment series have been enjoyed by over 100 million worldwide. Co-author of two non-fiction books detailing the work of UK Special Forces and a life-long student of Edgar Allen Poe, Dark Desire is the author’s first work of Gothic fiction.
Copyright
Nick Gibson has asserted his right under appropriate national and international copyright law including, but not confined to, the UK Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988, to be identified as the author of this original work.
The author retains all legal, moral, intellectual and physical rights relating to this work. No part of this work other than brief extracts for review purposes may be used, stored or distributed in any form and by any means for any purpose other than that covered and protected by the terms directly associated with this purchase, without the written consent of the author and/or those licensed to act on the author’s behalf.
The information in this book is distributed on an “as is” basis, without warranty. Although every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this work, neither the author nor the publisher shall have any liability to any person or entity with respect to any loss or damage caused or alleged to be caused directly or indirectly by the information contained in this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
ISBN: 9781483528472
The ancient Romans had a saying:
‘Money does not smell’
People may not like the way it was made,
the person who made it - or where it comes from.
But they will always like, always want
and always take, the money.
Chapter One
The seaport town of Lapore slumbers in no bed of innocence, the midnight solitude broken by pagan rhythms carried upon the wind from a remote valley beyond.
Above the town a Palace is illuminated in silhouette as flashes of cobalt lightning fly out from a pulsating source of energy in the distance. A blood red full moon rises on the horizon, the Palace framed inside the rising celestial orb.
Inside the Palace the Sultan sleeps, amid much faded former opulence. Lying next to his bed is the accoutrement of addiction and a well-used opium pipe. In his slumber he is troubled and sweating.
The Sultan suddenly awakes, terrified, his wide eyes emitting a swirling blue mist inside which the naked beauty of Merengi - Princess de Luna, writhes in exquisite pleasure.
As Merengi’s young body arches in erotic climax, the Sultan’s terrified eyes are consumed by raging fire that explodes to reveal a pair of savage reptilian eyes and an evil looking clawed hand.
From the boiling flames comes a sinister roaring scream that echoes across the night...
In the sleeping town of Grasston the sound is carried upon an ethereal wind that sweeps down alleyways and across Victorian rooftops before it falls as mist around Barons Bank, an imposing Gothic building silhouetted in the light of a full moon.
From inside the Bank come the lights and sounds of an elite social gathering. It is England, April 1836 and the great and good of local and commercial society are celebrating a charity event to support the recently established Fair Trade Foundation.
A fine carriage clatters out of the swirling ground mist and pulls up at the Bank. Inside the carriage are 20yr-old Roquefortes LeBaron, a handsome but dissolute banking heir, and his girlfriend Lotus Morelove, a young and alluring beauty.
Roquefortes is dressed in frock coat with deep green high collar, his coat lining a chaotic paisley pattern of clashing colours. He wears a purple waistcoat with purple handkerchief, an outfit that betrays a strong desire to be different. With one hand he pushes back his unruly shoulder-length hair, with the other he takes a sip from a bottle of Laudanum then opens the door and stumbles out of the carriage.
As Lotus joins him he unsteadily regains his balance and declares with a slight stammer: “What g-greater f-freedom than with the one you love”. He glances inside at the guests, adding: “Alas, without the absence of society”.
He ignores the plight of a beggar woman in the street and, with a smile and a studiously exaggerated gait he leads Lotus through the front door and into the grand foyer of Barons Bank where they join the formally dressed society gathering.
Roquefortes is greeted by Giles Neath, one of his wastrel friends, who declares: “Why, ’tis surely the world’s greatest illusionist”. Another voice adds wryly: “...Or drunken fool”.
As Roquefortes leads Lotus through the gathering some guests turn their back and whisper disapprovingly: “Wastrel... Turns his back on duty... a scandal”. One woman sighs: “So much money, so little ambition”. Another adds: “Of no consequence, with one so handsome”. On this they all agree.
People gather around Roquefortes as, with great charm, he performs an amusing sleight of hand magic trick, ending with a flourish as his audience applauds. But Roquefortes is pensive, and clearly suffering a burden. An old gentleman is unimpressed and declares: “Heir to a great banking fortune – reduced to mere cheap tricks. Is this the only fruit of a once-great dynasty?”
Roquefortes: “No, but a m-manifestation of my still great...” he glances around the room, “...disappointment”.
As the old man sniffs and walks away, Roquefortes snaps: “Do not judge me, sir, upon the altar of my g-great family... burden”. He pulls a book from his jacket and holds it up, adding: “Better you judge my good reading of... this!” The book is titled ‘The Magician’s Craft’.
Lotus approaches and hugs his arm, saying: “What’s wrong?”
Roquefortes: “There is nothing wrong with me,” he notices a fortune-teller booth: “...that g-good fortune cannot cure”.
As Roquefortes steers Lotus across the room to the booth, she frowns: “A fortune-teller? Are you sure?”
Roquefortes grins: “Wait here”. Pulling aside the red curtain of the booth, he steps inside. A swirling cloud of fire battles to escape from a crystal ball gripped in the hands of the Fortune-Teller, who says: “Let us away into the world of unseen forces.” She frowns darkly then slumps back into her chair. “You will hold the future in your hands ... face great responsibility...”
“Damn all – n-not you as well!” Roquefortes declares as he sat down. “It is indeed the unseen forces, of parents and society that would have me a s-slave – to duty, an arranged marriage and God knows what! - Some crone harridan telling me what to do”.
The fortune-teller bristled, saying sharply: “So, what is it that you most desire?”
Roquefortes, eagerly: “To be an acclaimed magician upon the s-stage”. He adds softly: “I seek my own path, not a life determined by others”.
The Fortune-teller frowns: “You expect much, yet refuse the expectations of others”.
Roquefortes declares: “Expectations? M-more rather, demands. Some would have me a leader, a husband - some, a wastrel and fool. Yet I am none of these things. I shall be my own man”.
The Fortune-teller says: “Very well. I can see that you possess powerful emotions. You are sensitive. You look to creative expression as a way to be understood and appreciated for yourself. You are certainly unique in the way you express yourself with clothes, and the unorthodox way you approach life”.
Roquefortes replies sarcastically: “And this I didn’t know already? What of my future?”
The Fortune-teller peers into the crystal ball in the centre of the table, saying: “Your world shall be thus, a matter of time, events - and wisdom”.
Roquefortes snaps: “I need not wisdom. I need a drink”.
In Victorian England a small elite remain in total control of society. Across the country the ruling class consists of no more than three hundred families.
Charles LeBaron, of French aristocratic ancestry, is a member of this elite. But he is no feudal Lord. He has strong personal convictions and clear moral values, as he explains to the guests gathered around him. “I try to be fair and moderate in all things. Ethics and justice are sound values, added to a duty of responsibility and personal integrity”.
Across Britain the Anglican Church remains powerful across society with high ranking churchmen holding office in the House of Lords. Throughout the country the power of the Church continues to rule in rural areas. Each day millions live out their lives by the laws - and even the minutes and hours - of the Church. But in cities across England dissent is rampant. A growing number of people now stand against the church and how it employs its power. One complacent gentleman declares: “Damn all non-conformists. Traditional values of faith and service is what made this great country”.
Another, disenting voice, says: “The Church demands obedience, submissiveness and resignation in order to make people more malleable and believing. It claims sole and universal piety yet seeks only to appease the will of the elite and cares little, if at all, about the condition of the lower classes”.
The gentleman says with distain: “The cities are filled with Puritans and others that have turned their back on the church, while in the countryside people are bewitched by magic and paganism”.
A Woman adds: “I’ve heard that Druids have found two miracle trees that can cure all kinds of pain. Hundreds have made pilgrimages seeking a cure from two Beech trees in Serbia. ‘Tis well known that some parts of the world hold magical powers”.
The gentleman replies: “Such stories are exaggerations of bizarre things far removed from the testimony of people’s own eyes and ears. In short: unbelievable”.
Charles LeBaron raises an eyebrow: “Just because it is hard to believe does that make, even the possibility, untrue?”
The Woman demands: “But what of new values? The idea of the self-made man? A belief that, if they work hard enough, all men can become wealthy”.
The Gentleman scoffs: “Curse the very idea”.
Charles LeBaron frowns: “Sir - ‘tis an idea that can make, or break, an empire”.
Sarah LeBaron whispers to her husband Charles: “Look, over there - that dreadful girl Lotus Morelove. She is nothing but an Adventurer seeking to marry for money above her station”.
Lotus stands alone, ignoring the disdainful glances of well-to-do guests that surround her. A Young Boy of teenage years approaches Lotus offering a tray of drinks, saying: “For the master and a mistress of such... standing”.
Lotus laughs: “I have no wealth or status. But, I am rich - in the love of my family and...” seeing Roquefortes approach she breaks into a smile then turns to the Boy but he is gone as Roquefortes joins her. Lotus sees Sarah glaring at her from across the room and says: “These people will never accept me. See the way they regard me”.
Roquefortes assures her: “True love is not bound by occupation or social standing”.
“Good fortune?” She asks. Roquefortes shrugs his shoulders.
“Your parents - have you still not told them?” Lotus asks with concern.
Roquefortes: “They should know by now”.
Lotus urges: “You cannot hide from this. If you are true then you must be true. Tell them”.
Roquefortes sighs: “I have tried but my p-parents ignore me. People surround me b-but to all extent I’m like an orphan. I have everything I n-need but don’t want – and everything I could w-want but can’t have... including you.”
Lotus melts contented into Roquefortes’ arms: “Soon we shall be together ... always”.
Roquefortes: “Arrangements are being made”. He turns away saying: “But in the meantime...” and he takes a sip from his bottle of laudanum.
Lotus frowns: “Is love not enough? Is life so cruel that...?”
Roquefortes, softly: “’Tis nothing. With all p-pressures of expectation, it helps is all”.
Lotus is sympathetic: “I understand. Maybe, with time...”
Roquefortes quickly changes the subject: “But I forget you in all my inattention. May I bring you some refreshment?” He walks off to find some drinks and upon finding a waiter he says bluntly: “Wine. Give me two of those glasses”.
The Waiter replies in a deadpan tone: “Fruit juice, sir”.
Roquefortes squints through blurred eyes, saying adamantly: “Don’t be ridiculous. I can see it is wine”.
The Waiter offers a glass and Roquefortes takes a sip, then winces: “Yuk!! Get me some wine... and hurry, damn you”.
Giles Neath appears beside him, dressed in bright purple waistcoat and garish accessories he asks lecherously: “How goes it with Lotus - does she...?”
Roquefortes frowns: “I have t-too much r-respect for her honour to...” Neath cut him off, laughing: “Then let us away, to find little respect – and no honour!”
Lance Merdok is an arrogant strutting Young Turk. Everything about Lance - from his dandy clothes to his callous behaviour and blatant ambition - is focussed solely on his own prestige. He delights in showing off, on this occasion in a mock Scottish accent: “Eh? See you. Didja hear ‘boot Shakespeare’s pal? Eh? The wee Scottish alcoholic - I drink, care for a dram?”
The Cronies gathered around the young rake laugh indulgently as he adds: “It proves that all art is theft and, like everything we have is always taken from...” seeing Roquefortes approach he sneers: “Ah! Just when you need one... the peasants!” The Cronies gathered around Lance break into cruel laughter.
Roquefortes, carrying two drinks, studiously ignores the insult and is making his way across the room to Lotus when an alluring young woman accosts him, saying slyly: “The most eligible bachelor – and still unwed”. She runs a painted fingernail down his cheek, adding: “Perhaps I...” He slides from her unwanted clutches and she frowns in defeat.
Mead, a drunken town burgher, grabs Roquefortes and pulls him aside seeking favour. “When your father and I were small children we swam together in the river. Now he ignores me”. He pleads: “You must help. Can you arrange for such closeness again?”
Roquefortes pulls himself away from the clawing drunk, saying: “Please. I possess no such power to aid you”, then he walks away muttering in frustration: “Always everyone else. Will I ever be my own man?”
“Not with a name like... muck-fart”, Lance Merdok sneers with derision.
As Roquefortes put down his two drinks on a table Lotus steps forward and grabs his arm, saying: “His name... is Roofert”.
Lance mocks: “His n-name is an affront to all the g-great p-promise of the new world”.
Lotus snaps defensively: “He’s twice the man you’ll ever be”.
Lance says darkly: “Not by the time we get through with him”.
Roquefortes, seeking to end the conflict, says: “That’s enough. You’re d-drunk”.
Lance explodes: “Step outside. Come on!”
Roquefortes refuses to rise to the challenge: ’’I’m n-not going to fight you”.
Lance makes to lunge at Roquefortes but he is held back. “Not here”, his Cronies advise.
Roquefortes, seeking to diffuse the situation, pulls a slapstick magic trick that goes hopelessly wrong and all around laugh at him.
Lance Merdok leers at Lotus. “’Tis time you set your sights higher lest you discover more... appropriate company’. He leans forward and whispers something in her ear.
Lotus squirmed, seeking to hide her disgust.
A Crony smirks: “Why Merdok, you are incorrigible!”
Another, Anthony Sharp, eyes Lotus up and down dismissively: “He would mount mud, should it provide him some low relief’’.
The Cronies laugh as Lance struts away, only to suddenly turn and snarl: “You know your trouble LeBaron? Your f-family is weak, its’ time has p-passed, so best make way... for the future”. He strides off, arrogantly barging other people out his way.
As Roquefortes leads Lotus away she hugs his arm: “I like the way you speak. I think it’s sweet”.
Roquefortes scowls: “Sweet? It’s a d-damn curse”.
Across the room Lance and his cronies burst into laughter, clearly enjoying themselves at someone else’s expense. Lance needs to be admired in order to feel worthy and he tries to earn this admiration by doing whatever it takes to be successful. Lance is popular among his cronies who are content to bask in his energy and the reflected glory of his family status for he, too, is an heir to a fortune, albeit of a more nefarious kind.
“My family, already made of great wealth through slavery and the opium trade, shall soon hold power over Barons Bank and I shall rise to great office within this establishment”, he boasts; to much toasting and praise from his Cronies.
Lance may be an arrogant bully but he also possesses a dark charisma that draws young women and like-minded souls to his company and he revels in their attention. He embodies the image of youthful success promoted by Victorian culture. Lance declares: “I am worth the effort it takes to be the best. Without success and status a man has no value – he’s a nobody”.
Lotus, sensing that Roquefortes will not be the best of company tonight, wants to leave. He sees her outside and into his carriage, telling the Groom: “Take the lady home”, then he returns inside to join the noisy gathering.
Together with his wastrel friend Giles Neath, he gets quietly loaded on laudanum. Neath is impeccably and beautifully dressed, sporting a Lavender waistcoat and a Lavender handkerchief. “My dear friend”, he urges, “you must ignore that which is low and sordid and seek to exist on a higher plane. The likes of Lance Merdok have no breeding, no interest in culture or the mysteries of life – as do we. You and me both seek riches that can only be found by a different path”.
Roquefortes raises his glass in salute, declaring: “A toast... to noble difference”. He is easily carried along when Neath declares: “Enough. Let us away... to respect and honour...”.
Roquefortes frowns as Neath adds: “The bawdies at the Inn”.
Roquefortes grins: “Now that.... is me!”
Arriving at the Coaching Inn with Neath Roquefortes catches sight of the two young women that regularly ply their trade inside and, what seemed like a good idea thirty minutes ago suddenly no longer seems so appealing. Squinting through drunken eyes he declares: “Oh no – this is definitely not me”.
Neath frowns: “Which one?”
“B-both of them” Roquefortes replies, as he walks unsteadily to a table.
Neath laughs: “You can have both, if you so desire”.
Roquefortes slumps down into a chair, sulking: “I like them not and, I suspect, they shall not like me”.
“Does it really matter?” Neath asks: “’Tis but pleasure”.
Roquefortes is adamant: “I refuse to invest any thought or action in either present or a future that is not of my choosing. So, I live one hour and one day at a time - pursuing such activities that may offer fun or enlightenment”.
Neath, seeking to rouse his friend out of his cups, decides it best to change the subject, declaring: “So, what say you of the latest art? I for one can’t be doing with this new school of nonsense – all haystacks, fields and peasants. Art should be... a picture, not an exercise in sentimentality”.
Roquefortes is at once effusive: “You are completely wrong. Feelings are everything. The way we consider ourselves and the world around us is what makes us who we are”.
Neath, reaching for a drink, says: “Pah! You’re a hopeless romantic...”
Roquefortes grins: “I can’t help it - it’s how I feel”.
Neath adds, “... who can’t take his drink - you’re a gallon behind, my friend”. Neath encourages his friend to consort with one of the two women. But Roquefortes squirms: “Oh no. I really don’t think she’s me...”
Neath waves a dismissive hand: “Who cares? It’ll be fun”.
Roquefortes sighs: “I don’t know. It’s got to be more than just...” Neath grins: “A good time? Go on, man. But if conscience dictates and you really don’t like it... try the other one!”
At the grand Barons Bank ball, Karl Merdok, head of the Bank’s Board of Directors, is holding court in one corner of the room with fellow Board members Charles Mason and Eduardo Ramirziz and a group of well-to-do gentlemen, one of whom says: “It is four years since the Abolition of slavery in the British Empire. A full ban, mind – yet to many’s good fortune the Act still allows for slave ownership”.
An American of ungainly demeanour and pinched, weathered features, Merdok declares: “It is bad enough that we lose twenty of every one hundred merchant ships that set sail due to to storms and poor navigation. That we should now lose many millions by the terms of this Act is a disgrace. ‘Tis nothing but a crime against enterprise and competition”.
The anti-slavery movement is pitted against powerful economic interests that claim their businesses will be destroyed if they are not permitted to exploit slave labour. Since the Act was passed slave owners and their merchant backers have been fighting the British government for compensation.
Merdok adds with some satisfaction: “However, there is some recourse, gentlemen. It was announced this week that plantation owners in the Caribbean are to receive twenty million pounds by way of compensation”.
An elderly upstanding Gentleman says in disgust: “Compensation? What profit from such human suffering?”
Merdok takes issue, saying: “It’s not about money, sir, it’s about values... of the elite, of industrialism, of improvement - and morality”.
The Gentleman urges: “What price morality, sir? That you have an abundance of the first three - and none of the last - would doubtless account for your many...”, he snifs with distain, “...acheivements”.
Merdok sneers. “Acheivements? You do me a discredit, Sir. I believe you mean – overwhelming success!”
The Gentleman, by now red in the face, declares:”And what price success, that enslaves millions, dis-enfranchises mmany more and condemns the common man to poverty?”
Charles Mason will have none of it, saying: “Shame on you”.
Ramiriz, too, believes it’s an opinion too far, adding: “It is clear that you know nothing of commerce or the world of business”.
Merdok leans forward to the Gentleman saying quietly, with sinister intent: “Guard your toungue Sir, lest one day it should cut your throat”.
***************
Chapter Two
A cold morning mist blankets the deserted town of Grasston, smoke from chimneys rising vertically into the clear spring sky as a fine carriage clatters through the narrow streets. The carriage passes a strange looking Totem in the window of a Curiosity Shoppe.
Inside the carriage 35 year-old Charles LeBaron is immaculately dressed in formal dark grey frock coat, starched wing collar and silk tie with a diamond and ruby pin. He is head of the family-owned Barons Bank, an 800-year old financial dynasty with major dealings in every corner of the globe. The crow’s feet and lines on his face reveal the pressure of his position.
Across the country, long-held beliefs and old certainties are evaporating. The world is changing fast and the anxious LeBaron, struggling to contain the ambitions of his bank Board of Directors, knows he must soon confront this rising wind of change.
LeBaron is reading the morning newspaper - HMS Beagle and Charles Darwin have reached Sydney in Australia; ‘Sketches by Boz’, a collection of essays by Charles Dickens has been well received while in America Samuel Colt has unveiled the world’s first revolving barrel multi shot pistol, the 34-calibre ‘Texas’ model.
Turning to pages inside, LeBaron’s face turns to thunder. He slaps down the paper, reaches into his bespoke carriage case and pulls out some personalized notepaper and a pencil.
Returning to the newspaper he makes notes, underlining parts of the report: ‘growing talk in financial circles suggests a Boardroom revolt and possible take-over of the family-run Barons Bank. Charles Le Baron has power of executive with one voting share, but there are five more voting shares that have never been cast in a hundred years. Now the race is on to find the missing shareholders, for whoever owns the most shares will control the bank’.
At the Coaching Inn, Roquefortes awakes in a hung-over and dissolute state to discover a naked girl - a stranger - lying unconscious next to him. He grins, slides out of bed and walks unsteadily over to the dressing table where he splashes his face with water, then pushes his unruly hair back off his face.
He slumps down in a chair and takes a long look at the pale and ragged face with its blood-shot eyes that stares back at him in the mirror. In a bottom corner of the mirror he sees the alluring curves of the young girl under the bed sheets.
She stirs. Then, turning over to reveal her smooth naked body, opens her eyes.
Roquefortes turns with a smirk, asking hopefully: “Did we...?”
The girl winces, then turns her back to cover herself saying: “You must be joking!”
Roquefortes reluctantly tears his eyes away from the girl’s half-hidden nakedness and with quiet resignation arranges his tie and collar before smoothing down his unruly hair. Closing the door behind him, he walks unsteadily down the back stairs and out of the Coaching Inn to face the morning. He walks unsteadily to the Inn Stables to arrange a horse ride home, telling the Blacksmith: “Prepare the animal, while I take breakfast”.
The grand foyer of Barons Bank is overseen by Jeremiah Snoot an uptight and anxious-looking man dressed in a formal grey frock coat, grey trousers and grey waistcoat. While quick to serve, his quiet persona spells caution and compromise. He is diligent in his dealings with customers and staff and works hard, often without reward. Snoot likes order and for life at the Bank to run on an even keel.
He watches as Charles LeBaron’s wife Alicia walks into the foyer, playing host to a well-heeled charity sponsor. She points out large cabinets containing many honours and awards gained over time for the building of roads, bridges, railways, schools and hospitals and for charitable good works, most recent being an award dated January 1836.
Alicia leBaron wears a Green dress that reflects her gentle and sincere nature. She is refined, community-minded - and patient in her dealings with the wealthy Sponsor.
As she leads the gentleman through the foyer she explains: “Barons Merchant Bank has been a pillar of the noble establishment for eight hundred years. Originally from France, the family’s arms and money helped to bankroll William the Conqueror’s invasion of Britain in 1066, a crusade in 1202 and voyages of discovery to the new world in 1541. The family acquired and merged with smaller concerns and was fully incorporated as a merchant trading and investment company in 1826. Since then the bank has reached far and wide with three hundred branches and ownership, control and interest in mining, engineering, factories, railways and all manner of new discoveries for the benefit of society”.
Roquefortes strides into the tearoom a little unsteady on his feet, orders breakfast then slumps down wearily at a table. A young Waitress approaches with a smile: “Good morning sir”.
Roquefortes, drowsy from the effect of last nights’ carousing, growls: “What’s good about it? Just the same damn thing, all over again”.
The Waitress, tidying the table, says cheerfully: “Oh. Surely not sir.”
Roquefortes takes the Magician’s Craft book from his pocket, lays it on the table and flops back into his chair. He glances around the tearoom taking in the customers and their morning routine, and he sighs: “Life is but a blind ritual. Where is my escape?”
The Waitress, seeing the magic book, frowns: “Read the Bible, sir, for it...”
Roquefortes snaps: “Enough! It shall make you a slave of all thought – and daily toil”.
He waves her away, his attention drawn to a newspaper on the table and its headline – ‘Barons Bank in Takeover?’ He picks it up and begins to read, ’The Board of Barons Bank is expected soon to launch a hostile take-over bid to remove family control’.
Roquefortes sneers: “They’re welcome to it”, and he turns to other news – ‘a workhouse in Norfolk is burned down in protest at harsh new conditions introduced by the Poor Law Amendment Act... the first steam railway has opened between London and Greenwich... the Reverend Watts of Lambeth complains that modernism is destroying British life and that every new scientific discovery further erodes Christian belief...’
“Hah! And about bloody time,” Roquefortes mutters to himself. He quickly turns to the back of the paper, seeking reviews of the latest entertainments at the Lyceum and Old Vic theatres in London, but finds nothing to satisfy his curiosity and he complains aloud: “Nothing but damn melodrama’s. Where is the magic of the stage that might enlighten and entertain?” He looks around the room seeking agreement from others, but sees only the disapproving frowns of the morning diners. He turns to the Society page and news of the latest fortunes being made in commerce and industry – ‘Mister Sovereign Evers, Chairman of the Empire Trading Company will this week announce record profits from the export of Opium from India to China that have increased this past year to six hundred tons...’
Roquefortes throws the paper aside with a scowl: “Others prosper in their chosen field, why can’t I be blessed with good fortune and...” as his breakfast arrives at the table he is suddenly drawn to the feminine presence of the waitress – and he eyes her up and down.
The Waitress blushes and, with a quick curtsy, says: “Young Sir must know all of good fortune and benefits, being of such high station”.
Roquefortes turns to his breakfast with a sigh: “Not for much longer, I fear, should my father’s wish be granted”.
******
Charles LeBaron’s fine carriage pulls up outside Barons Bank. The Groom steps down and opens the monogrammed door. Charles LeBaron sweeps into the grand foyer every inch the man in charge.
Chairman of Barons, he is superior in tone and manner and is quick to delegate routine tasks to Snoot as he greets his wife Alicia and the sponsor.
“A pleasure to meet you, Sir. We are pleased to welcome such a distinguished supporter of fair trade and good works. My good wife’s forthcoming charity event will attract the leading members of society and money raised will do much to further our cause”.
He leads his wife and the sponsor into a side room to continue their meeting, then gestures for Snoot to follow him up the grand staircase into his office, where he slaps the newspaper down on his big desk, and demands: “What the devil is this? Do you know how much damage this will cause? Loss of confidence, speculation... Do you have any idea how much it will cost the bank? Merdok and the Board go too far”.
Charles opens a drawer and pulls out his diary, then proceeds to work his way down a list of the day’s many priorities, saying: “Snoot, Bring me the articles of association; all recent correspondence with our lawyers – and the current balance sheet. I fear it’s going to be a very long day”.
Snoot says with concern: “You were here ‘til ten o’clock last night, Sir – and every night before. I fear for your health”.
LeBaron frowns: “And I fear for the bank. I have a duty to many people and I shall not be found wanting in my responsibility. What the Board are seeking to do goes against all rules and procedures – and I don’t like it. Things must be done right – even if they be wrong”.
Snoot places a pile of documents on LeBaron’s desk, saying: “Can you not negotiate with Merdok and the Board?”
“No!” LeBaron is adamant. “Should they succeed in their outrageous ambition they will undo the good work of this fine institution, and all for the sake of naked profit. It cannot be – their speculation has gone far enough”.
Snoot: agrees “Aye Sir. It’s certainly getting out of control. There are now more than 800 banks in England...there is too much money in circulation and too much speculation - a practice that is invariably followed by a bad odour”.
Le Baron says: “The Romans had a saying, Pecunia non olet - Money does not smell. People may not like the way it was made, the person who made it or where it comes from but they will always like, and will always take, the money”.
But money does smell – it emits a powerful, rancorous odour that attracts all manner of foul creatures from far and near.
At the Merdok House, Karl Merdok and his wife Sarah are finishing breakfast.
Attired in a blue-green dress, she is attractive, poised and knowledgeable and carries herself with an air of refinement. The décor of the house reveals she has excellent taste. “Damn...” she says, struggling to open a parcel that arrived in the morning post.
“Here, let me help you,” Karl offers in patronising tone, but despite rising frustration, she says: “Thank you. But I can do it myself”.
He laughs at her efforts, saying: “Clearly, you cannot”.
“Yes, I can, “ she replies firmly. “I am no feeble woman and do not think otherwise. Best look to your own failings, husband – and those born of all the world’s creation!”
An American in his early forties, Karl Merdok is Head of the Board of Executives at Barons Bank. He wears a dark blue suit, well dressed but inelegant in general attire, his demeanour reveals him to be exacting, discriminating and detached. His face is pinched and craggy with hard features, his eyes that of both predator and prey. A cold and uncompromising alpha male, Merdok is a closed personality that gives nothing away. He is reading a newspaper, focussed on reports of the money markets in America.
Sarah lays aside the open parcel, saying: “There is much talk of financial crisis that could strike in America. Is the Bank much exposed?” Her husband does not respond.
She sighs: “Lance has been causing trouble in town again. He is selfish and arrogant and this time has gone too far. His behaviour creates a scandal among polite society”.
Merdok replies testily: “Yes, yes. He is all of these things. But he is also strong and ambitious. We shall need his... devotion”. He looks up from the newspaper. “And what of our daughter, is she now every much... as you?”
“She returns soon from finishing school ... and yes - but more so”. She frowns then lets out a sigh of resigned jealousy that only an ageing trophy wife and mother can know.
Merdok’s face breaks into the hint of a smile. He rises from the table with his newspaper and walks silently over to the door, each step betraying a slight limp in his right leg.
As Merdok leaves the house Sergeant Krewel greets him. Merdok is Captain of the Militia and, along with his son Lance, uses this power to control the populace and quell rising dissent among workers drawn from the land to work in the factories. As Merdok climbs into his carriage he says: “Come down hard Sergeant. These low people must learn to respect my authority”.
Krewel, concerned: “Is this legal - what of the magistrate?”
Merdok snaps: “I shall determine the law in such matters and I shall not be swayed by the magistrate or any individual circumstance”. As Merdok’s carriage pulls away, Sergeant Krewel frowns and slowly shakes his head.
******
At the Coaching Inn, Lance Merdok is slumped at a table, his fine clothes creased and much the worse for the previous night’s carousing. Despite the early hour he is drunk and surly, making crude advances upon the two resident strumpets, who’re having none it. Indeed, one of the young women has no choice but to scold him, saying: “Young sir - and know you well - ‘tis improper to say ‘leg’ in mixed company”, she turns to her companion seeking agreement, saying with feigned grace: “We prefer ‘limb’, in its place”.
Lance smirks: “Well get your pretty ‘limbs’ over here and they can take their place...” he points to his lap, “Right here!” The two women sniff at the crudity and turn their backs.
A Young Boy of teenage years walks out of the kitchen carrying a tray of drinks and, as he passes the two women they rustle his hair indulgently, saying: “Aaahh - what a pretty lad...” much to the boy’s embarrassment.
The Landlord says ruefully: “His family is threatened by the Militia with eviction, what with bank’s ‘n all - there’s no work, see? I took him in so least he can eat and earn a few coins”.
The Boy nervously approaches Lance’s table with the tray of drinks. Lance scowls darkly and the boy, in fright, spills some drink onto the table.
“Fool!!” Lance leans forward, grabs the front of the Boy’s shirt and pulls him close to his face, looking directly into the boy’s eyes with a fearful gaze before roughly pushing him back onto the floor.
As the terrified Boy flees back to the kitchen Lance turns to his drink, muttering: “Run pretty boy, lest I lay hands on you again.”