by Ken Follett
Wondering if the books were just for show, he glanced at several while he was waiting. Some might have been chosen for their fine bindings, he thought, but others were well thumbed, and several languages were represented. Greenbourne's learning was genuine.
The old man appeared fifteen minutes later, and apologized for keeping Hugh waiting. "A domestic problem detained me," he said with clipped Prussian courtesy. His family had never been Prussian; they had copied the manners of upper-class Germans then retained them through a hundred years of living in England. He held himself as straight as ever, but Hugh thought he looked tired and worried. Greenbourne did not say what the domestic problem was and Hugh did not ask.
"You know that Cordovan bonds have crashed this afternoon," Hugh said.
"Yes."
"And you probably heard that my bank has closed its doors as a result."
"Yes. I am very sorry."
"It's twenty-four years since the last time an English bank failed."
"That was Overend and Gurney. I remember it well."
"So do I. My father went broke and hanged himself in his office in Leadenhall Street."
Greenbourne was embarrassed. "I am most terribly sorry, Pilaster. That dreadful fact had slipped my mind."
"A lot of firms went down in that crisis. But much worse will happen tomorrow." Hugh leaned forward on his stool and began his big pitch. "In the last quarter of a century the business done in the City has increased tenfold. And because banking has become so sophisticated and complex, we are all more closely intertwined than ever. Some of the people whose money we have lost will be unable to pay their debts, so they will go bust too--and so on. Next week dozens of banks will fail, hundreds of businesses will be forced to close, and thousands upon thousands of people will suddenly find themselves destitute--unless we take action to prevent it."
"Action?" said Greenbourne with more than a hint of irritation. "What action can be taken? Your only remedy is to pay your debts; you cannot do so; therefore you are helpless."
"Alone, yes, I'm helpless. But I am hoping that the banking community will do something."
"Do you propose to ask other bankers to pay your debts? Why should they?" He was getting ready to be angry.
"You'll agree, surely, that it would be better for all of us if Pilasters' creditors could be paid in full."
"Obviously."
"Suppose a syndicate of bankers were formed to take over both the assets and the liabilities of Pilasters. The syndicate would guarantee to pay any creditor on demand. At the same time, it would begin to liquidate Pilasters' assets in an orderly fashion."
Suddenly Greenbourne was interested, and his irritability vanished as he considered this novel proposal. "I see. If the members of the syndicate were sufficiently respected and prestigious, their guarantee might be enough to reassure everyone, and creditors might not demand their cash immediately. With luck, the flow of money coming in from the sale of assets might cover the payments to creditors."
"And a dreadful crisis would be averted."
Greenbourne shook his head. "But in the end, the members of the syndicate would lose money, for Pilasters' liabilities are greater than its assets."
"Not necessarily."
"How so?"
"We have more than two million pounds' worth of Cordova bonds which are today valued at nothing. However, our other assets are substantial. A lot depends on how much we can raise by the sale of the partners' houses, and so on; but I estimate that even today the shortfall is only a million pounds."
"So the syndicate must expect to lose a million."
"Perhaps. But Cordova bonds may not be worthless forever. The rebels may be defeated. Or the new government may resume interest payments. At some point the price of Cordova bonds will rise."
"Possibly."
"If the bonds came up to just half their previous level, the syndicate would break even. And if they did better than that, the syndicate would actually make a profit."
Greenbourne shook his head. "It might work, but for those Santamaria harbor bonds. That Cordovan Minister, Miranda, strikes me as an out-and-out thief; and his father is apparently the leader of the rebels. My guess is that the whole two million pounds has gone to pay for guns and ammunition. In which case investors will never see a penny."
The old boy was as sharp as always, Hugh thought: he had exactly the same fear. "I'm afraid you may be right. All the same there's a chance. And if you allow a financial panic you're sure to lose money in other ways."
"It's an ingenious plan. You always were the cleverest of your family, young Pilaster."
"But the plan depends on you."
"Ah."
"If you agree to head the syndicate, the City will follow your lead. If you refuse to be part of it, the syndicate will not have the prestige to reassure creditors."
"I see that." Greenbourne was not the man for false modesty.
"Will you do it?" Hugh held his breath.
The old man was silent for several seconds, thinking, then he said firmly: "No, I won't."
Hugh slumped in his chair. It was his last shot and it had failed. He felt a great weariness descend on him, as if his life were over and he were a tired old man.
Greenbourne said: "All my life I have been cautious. Where other men see high profits, I see high risks, and I resist the temptation. Your uncle Joseph was not like me. He would take the risk--and he pocketed the profits. His son Edward was worse. I say nothing about you: you have only just taken over. But the Pilasters must pay the price for their years of high profits. I didn't take those profits--why should I pay your debts? If I spend money to rescue you now, the foolish investor will be rewarded and the careful one will suffer. And if banking were run that way, why should anyone be cautious? We might as well all take risks, for there is no risk when failed banks can always be rescued. But there is always risk. Banking cannot be run your way. There will always be crashes. They are necessary to remind good and bad investors that risk is real."
Hugh had wondered, before coming here, whether to tell the old man that Micky Miranda had murdered Solly. Now he considered it again, but he came to the same conclusion: it would shock and distress the old man but it would do nothing to persuade him to rescue Pilasters.
He was casting about for something to say, some last attempt to change Greenbourne's mind, when the butler came in and said: "Pardon me, Mr. Greenbourne, but you asked to be called the moment the detective arrived."
Greenbourne stood up immediately, looking agitated, but his courtesy would not let him rush out without an explanation. "I'm sorry, Pilaster, but I must leave you. My granddaughter Rebecca has ... disappeared ... and we are all distraught."
"I'm so sorry to hear that," Hugh said. He knew Solly's sister Kate, and he had a vague memory of her daughter, a pretty dark-haired girl. "I hope you find her safe and well."
"We don't believe she has suffered violence--in fact we're quite sure she has only run off with a boy. But that's bad enough. Please excuse me."
"By all means."
The old man went out, leaving Hugh amid the ruins of his hopes.
3
MAISIE SOMETIMES WONDERED if there was something infectious about going into labor. It often happened, in a ward full of women nine months pregnant, that days would go by without incident, but as soon as one started labor the others would follow within hours.
It had been like that today. It had started at four o'clock in the morning and they had been delivering babies ever since. The midwives and nurses did most of the work, but when they were overstretched Maisie and Rachel had to leave their pens and ledgers and scurry around with towels and blankets.
By seven o'clock, however, it was all over, and they were enjoying a cup of tea in Maisie's office with Rachel's lover, Maisie's brother Dan, when Hugh Pilaster came in. "I bring very bad news, I'm afraid," he said right away.
Maisie was pouring tea but his tone of voice shocked her and she stopped. Looking hard at his face she
saw that he was grief-stricken, and she thought someone must have died. "Hugh, what has happened?"
"I think you keep all the hospital's money in an account at my bank, don't you?"
If it was only money, Maisie thought, the news could not be that bad.
Rachel answered Hugh's question. "Yes. My father handles the money, but he has kept his own private account with you ever since he became the bank's lawyer, and I suppose he found it convenient to do the same with the hospital's account."
"And he invested your money in Cordova bonds."
"Did he?"
Maisie said: "What's wrong, Hugh? For goodness' sake tell us!"
"The bank has failed."
Maisie's eyes filled with tears, not for herself but for him. "Oh, Hugh!" she cried. She knew how much he was hurting. For him this was almost like the death of a loved one, for he had invested all his hopes and dreams in the bank. She wished she could take some of the pain into herself, to ease his suffering.
Dan said: "Good God. There will be a panic."
"All your money has gone," Hugh said. "You'll probably have to close the hospital. I can't tell you how sorry I am."
Rachel was white with shock. "That's not possible!" she said. "How can our money be gone?"
Dan answered her. "The bank can't pay its debts," he said bitterly. "That's what bankruptcy means, it means you owe people money and you can't pay them."
In a flash of recollection Maisie saw her father, a quarter of a century earlier looking much as Dan did today, saying exactly the same thing about bankruptcy. Dan had spent much of his life trying to protect ordinary people from the effects of these financial crises--but so far he had achieved nothing. "Perhaps now they'll pass your Banking Bill," she said to him.
Rachel said to Hugh: "But what have you done with our money?"
Hugh sighed. "Essentially this happened because of something Edward did while he was Senior Partner. It was a mistake, a huge mistake, and he lost a lot of money, more than a million pounds. I've been trying to hold everything together since then, but today my luck ran out."
"I just didn't know this could happen!" said Rachel.
Hugh said: "You should get some of your money back but not for a year or more."
Dan put his arm around Rachel but she would not be consoled. "And what is going to happen to all the wretched women who come here for help?"
Hugh looked so wounded that Maisie wanted to tell Rachel to shut up. "I would gladly give you the money out of my own pocket," he said. "But I've lost everything too."
"Surely something can be done?" she persisted.
"I did try. I've just come from Ben Greenbourne's house. I asked him to rescue the bank and pay the creditors, but he refused. He has troubles of his own, poor man: apparently his granddaughter Rebecca has run off with her boyfriend. Anyway, without his support nothing can be done."
Rachel stood up. "I think I'd better go and see my father."
"I must go to the House of Commons," Dan said.
They went out.
Maisie's heart was full. She was dismayed at the prospect of closing the hospital, and rocked by the sudden destruction of all she had worked for; but most of all she ached for Hugh. She recalled, as if it were yesterday, the night seventeen years ago, after the Goodwood races, when Hugh had told her his life story; and she could hear now the agony in his voice when he told her that his father had gone bankrupt and taken his own life. He had said then that he was going to be the cleverest, most conservative and richest banker in the world one day--as if he believed that would ease the pain of his loss. And perhaps it would have. But instead he had suffered the same fate as his father.
Their eyes met across the room. Maisie read a silent appeal in his look. Slowly she got up and went to him. Standing beside his chair, she took his head in her hands and cradled it on her bosom, stroking his hair. Tentatively he put his arm around her waist, touching her gingerly at first, then hugging her to him hard. And then, at last, he began to cry.
When Hugh had gone Maisie made a tour of the wards. Now she saw everything with new eyes: the walls they had painted themselves, the beds they had bought in junk shops, the pretty curtains Rachel's mother had sewn. She remembered the superhuman efforts that had been required of her and Rachel to get the hospital opened: their battles with the medical establishment and the local council, the tireless charm they had used on the respectable householders and censorious clergy of the neighborhood, the sheer dogged persistence that had enabled them to pull through. She consoled herself with the thought that they had, after all, been victorious, and the hospital had been open for eleven years and had given comfort to hundreds of women. But she had wanted to make a permanent change. She had seen this as the first of dozens of Female Hospitals all over the country. In that she had failed.
She spoke to each of the women who had given birth today. The only one she was worried about was Miss Nobody. She was a slight figure and her baby had been very small. Maisie guessed she had been starving herself to help conceal her pregnancy from her family. Maisie was always astonished that girls managed to do this--she herself had ballooned when pregnant and could not have hidden it after five months--but she knew from experience that it happened all the time.
She sat down on the edge of Miss Nobody's bed. The new mother was nursing her child, a girl. "Isn't she beautiful?" she said.
Maisie nodded. "She's got black hair, just like yours."
"My mother has the same hair."
Maisie reached out and stroked the tiny head. Like all babies, this one looked like Solly. In fact--
Maisie was jolted by a sudden revelation.
"Oh my God, I know who you are," she said.
The girl stared at her.
"You're Ben Greenbourne's granddaughter Rebecca, aren't you? You kept your pregnancy secret as long as you could, then ran away to have the baby."
The girl's eyes widened. "How did you know? You haven't seen me since I was two years old!"
"But I knew your mother so well. I was married to her brother, after all." Kate had not been as snobbish as the rest of the Greenbournes and had been kind to Maisie when the rest were not around. "And I remember when you were born. You had black hair, just like your daughter."
Rebecca was scared. "Promise you won't tell them?"
"I promise I won't do anything without your consent. But I think you ought to send word to your family. Your grandfather is distraught."
"He's the one I'm frightened of."
Maisie nodded. "I can understand why. He's a hardhearted old curmudgeon, as I know from personal experience. But if you let me talk to him I think I can make him see sense."
"Would you?" said Rebecca in a voice full of youthful optimism. "Would you do that?"
"Of course," Maisie said. "But I won't tell him where you are unless he promises to be kind."
Rebecca looked down. Her baby's eyes had closed and she had stopped sucking. "She's asleep," Rebecca said.
Maisie smiled. "Have you chosen a name for her yet?"
"Oh, yes," Rebecca said. "I'm going to call her Maisie."
Ben Greenbourne's face was wet with tears as he came out of the ward. "I've left her with Kate for a while," he said in a choked voice. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed ineffectually at his cheeks. Maisie had never seen her father-in-law lose his self-possession. He made a rather pathetic sight, but she felt it would do him a lot of good.
"Come to my room," she said. "I'll make you a cup of tea."
"Thank you."
She led him to her room and told him to sit down. He was the second man to weep in that chair this evening, she thought.
"All those young women," the old man said. "Are they all in the same position as Rebecca?"
"Not all," Maisie said. "Some are widows. Some have been abandoned by their husbands. Quite a lot have run away from men who beat them. A woman will suffer a lot of pain, and stay with a husband even if he injures her; but when she gets pregnant she wor
ries that his blows will damage the child, and that's when she leaves. But most of our women are like Rebecca, girls who have simply made a stupid mistake."
"I didn't think life had much more to teach me," he said. "Now I find I have been foolish and ignorant."
Maisie handed him a cup of tea. "Thank you," he said. "You're very kind. I was never kind to you."
"We all make mistakes," she said briskly.
"What a good thing you are here," he said to her. "Otherwise where would these poor girls go?"
"They would have their babies in ditches and alleyways," Maisie said.
"To think that might have happened to Rebecca."
"Unfortunately the hospital has to close," Maisie said.
"Why is that?"
She looked him in the eye. "All our money was in Pilasters Bank," she said. "Now we are penniless."
"Is that so?" he said, and he looked very thoughtful.
Hugh undressed for bed but he felt far from sleepy, so he sat up in his dressing gown, staring into the fire, brooding. He went over and over the bank's situation in his mind, but he could think of no way to ameliorate it. Yet he could not stop thinking.
At midnight he heard a loud, determined knocking at the front door. He went downstairs in his nightclothes to answer it. There was a carriage at the curb and a liveried footman on the doorstep. The man said: "I beg pardon for knocking so late, sir, but the message is urgent." He handed over an envelope and left.
As Hugh closed the door his butler came down the stairs. "Is everything all right, sir?" he said worriedly.
"Just a message," Hugh said. "You can go back to bed."
"Thank you, sir."
Hugh opened the envelope and saw the neat, old-fashioned writing of a fussy elderly man. The words made his heart leap with joy.
12, Piccadilly
London, S.W.
November 23rd, 1890
Dear Pilaster,
On further reflection I have decided to consent to your proposal. Yours, etc.
B. Greenbourne.
He looked up from the letter and grinned at the empty hall. "Well, I'll be blowed," he said delightedly. "I wonder what made the old man change his mind?"