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O n Monday morning at the French embassy, Raoul didn’t have to bring up the topic of the Suez Canal deal and the implications of Nathan Walpert’s murder. It was all that anyone wanted to talk about, and his colleagues, and even those from other departments, wanted to hear his opinion.

He arrived early, as was his practice. He thought it set a good standard for the men who had previously been his colleagues, and now worked under him. He had inherited a small office with a richly patterned Oriental carpet and floral wall coverings, which was too fussy for his taste. But he was reluctant to ask for changes for fear that his own supervisors would think him arrogant.

He opened the heavy damask drape over the window that looked out over Knightsbridge. The winter sun was weak, the trees across from him denuded of their leaves. He settled in the leather-upholstered chair behind his large mahogany desk and arranged the papers he had carried home with him: contracts he had reviewed and missives from Paris. He liked his desk to be neat and well-organized.

The bookcase along one wall was lined with leather-bound volumes in French and English—trade regulations and other laws, for the most part, as well as several atlases and dictionaries of foreign languages. He had placed several mementos of his life in France there, including a tiny wooden wine barrel to remind him of the vineyards where his father worked.

His staff filtered in, taking their desks in the high-ceilinged room outside his office. Each desk had a small gas lamp to supplement the recently-installed electric lighting. A painting of Adolphe Thiers,the first President of theFrench Third Republic, hung on the rear wall, as if to oversee their work.

Each morning at ten o’clock, a waitress in a uniform pushed a tea cart through the office, providing coffee or tea and small pastries to those who wished to partake. Raoul stepped out of his office and took a cup and saucer, as well as a plate with two madeleines, over to the desk where his colleague Alexandre worked. He had the most direct contact with bankers.

“What is the news this morning?” he asked.

“Everyone I spoke with is frightened,” Alexandre said. He had already gotten his coffee, though he had taken two shortbread biscuits with his.

“Frightened of what?”

“Did you not hear? Nathan Walpert was murdered!”

Though Raoul knew exactly who Walpert was, he wanted to know what Alexandre knew. “Who was he?”

Alexandre shook his head. “You are the head of this department. You should be aware of all these things. Walpert was one of the bankers involved in the deal for Britain to acquire shares in the Suez Canal.”

Raoul leaned against Alexandre’s mahogany desk, which was smaller and less ornate than his own. Such small details made a bureaucracy work, he thought.

“I certainly know about that. But why would someone murder a banker?”

Alexandre lowered his voice. “That is what everyone is talking about at Rothschild’s,” he said. “Did Walpert know something? Was he in collusion with some partner to the deal?”

Raoul said nothing, just nodded.

“And those on the other floors of this building are worried about repercussions from the British. That perhaps there might be an uproar of anti-French sentiment that would put us all at risk.”

Their other colleague Gabriel joined the conversation, carrying his own coffee cup. “The rumor among bankers is that Walpert was heavily in debt.”

“How did you hear that?” Raoul asked. Behind him he saw Gabriel’s desk, cluttered with papers, quills and ink, as well as no fewer than three open books.

“I had a drink last week after work with Hugo Malherbe,” Gabriel said. He looked studiously down at his coffee, as if he was afraid it would flow away before he could finish drinking it.

Hugo had worked with them until his part was discovered in a scandal organized by their former boss, Georges Morvan. He had been dismissed from the diplomatic service, but hired as a banker with Credit Lyonnaise, a French bank with offices in London.

“What did he have to say?” Raoul asked.

“Walpert was killed outside a notorious gambling hall in New Cross,” Gabriel said.

Raoul knew that but wanted clarification. “Do you mean the boxing ring?”

“ Bien sur ,” Gabriel said. “Everyone who goes there bets on the outcome of the fights. Some win, some lose. Walpert was one of the losers. Hugo says there may be a chance that he stole from the bank to pay his debts.”

“And that Rothschild arranged his death?” Raoul scoffed. “Banks do not operate that way. More likely Walpert would have been prosecuted and sent to the poorhouse.”

“But what if he stole money that was intended for the Suez Canal?” Gabriel persisted. “That could cause a diplomatic incident. Better to remove Walpert quickly.”

Raoul shuddered at his colleague’s dark imagination.

Later that day, he reviewed the afternoon’s post with Alexandre and Gabriel. The three of them were young and handsome, good dancers, and in possession of the appropriate formal wear to attend soirées and dinner parties. The embassy considered it appropriate to support charitable affairs, especially those with a connection to the French community, and at least once a week one or more of them were drafted to dine and dance.

“Here is an interesting invitation,” Alexandre said, holding up a piece of heavy card paper. “A dinner in support of the Soup Kitchen for the Jewish Poor at Spitalfields.”

“Why should we be invited to such an event?” Gabriel asked.

“The chief sponsor of the facility is a French Jewess named Rebecca Curiel,” Alexandre said. “Wife of the boxer who has been arrested for the murder of Mr. Walpert.”

“How do you know that?” Raoul asked.

“One of my schoolmates at the Ecole Supérieure de Commerce de Paris was a Jewish fellow, who has come to work here in London for Credit Foncier. I see him on occasion, and I know he and his mortgage bank are one of the organization’s donors.”

“Interesting,” Raoul said.

“My friend has mentioned to me that in the past Mrs. Curiel has funded a great deal of the soup kitchen’s efforts from her own purse, or her husband’s winnings in the boxing arena. However the need has grown greater with the influx of all these German and Russian Jews, so she must be looking for additional sources of funds.”

“It is a charity, run by a Frenchwoman,” Raoul said. “I suggest that we request the office to purchase tickets for us.”

“You don’t intend us to socialize with Jews!” Gabriel said, scandalized.

“They do not bite, as far as I know,” Raoul said. “And Alexandre here went to college with one of them. I see no reason to refuse support to a French-affiliated charity simply because of who it serves.”

“My friend is quite a pleasant fellow,” Alexandre said. “I can see if he will be attending this dinner, and arrange to be seated with him.”

“You may count me out,” Gabriel said.

“I for one am interested in this charity, and in meeting your friend, Alexandre,” Raoul said. “Please make the arrangements. And now let us continue to review the correspondence.”

As they went through further letters and requests, Raoul kept part of his mind on Rebecca Curiel. If her charity was struggling for funds, what might she do to secure them? Agree to make an accusation against her husband?