by Iain Pears
“As I say, I apologise. However, I need to send a telegram to Wilkinson which will not be read by anyone else. I would like to use your telegraph system.”
“Well, certainly. I am happy to oblige,” he said. “Do I take it you want to send it now, this very minute?”
“This very minute,” I replied, “or at least as soon as possible. I do not think it can wait until tomorrow.”
“And are you able to tell me what this is about? I will of course assist you in any case, but you will understand that you have excited my curiosity.”
“I believe I can. In fact, I think it might be a good idea. To make sure that I am not making a fool of myself. It is about Barings.”
And so I settled down and told him about the statement by Steinberg at his dinner, my meeting with Hubert at the racecourse, and the conclusions I had drawn from studying the movements of bullion out of the Bank of England.
“So you believe this is a concerted attempt against London?”
“I believe it is, although of that I have no proof. Certainly it would be a remarkable coincidence if it is not. At the moment, it doesn’t matter. What does matter is that on Thursday it will become clear that the Barings bond issue has failed; people will wonder if it has enough money to cover its liabilities—correctly, as it certainly does not. There will be a run to gold, at Barings and at every other institution in the City. The Bank of England will be unable to supply the gold requested; Barings will collapse, and the Bank will have to suspend convertibility. I leave it to you to figure out the consequences.”
Stone stroked his chin, and considered. “That’s easy enough. Bank rates will rocket, institutions will founder, savers will be ruined, companies starved of funds, trade will be crippled. The possible effects could go on and on. Impressive.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I was talking abstractly. One cannot help but admire a fine piece of work, well executed. But, as you say, it does not matter whether this is planned or not. The question is whether anything can be done to stop it. For example, what difference will it make if Wilkinson—and through him, I presume the Bank of England, the Government and Barings—knows what is about to take place?”
“If they are prepared, they can, at least, call in all the gold they can find from the other banks. That might be enough to stop the panic growing.”
Stone shook his head. “I very much doubt that. If you are correct, many foreign institutions in London will have their requests to withdraw bullion already written waiting to be delivered. To start the panic off with a vengeance. I mean, it is certainly worth a try, should the authorities so decide, but I doubt it will work. Hmm.”
“What?”
“I’m sorry,” he said with a faint smile. “I was just calculating my own exposure. What a pity you did not find this out yesterday. Then I could have exited the markets in time. Now, it seems, I will have to go down with everyone else; my fate tied to the demise of that fool Revelstoke. What a very great nuisance. Still, I suppose if I order my people to sell first thing on Monday morning…”
“But that will merely add to the panic,” I said, incredulously.
Stone looked at me in surprise. “Maybe so,” he said, “but I do not see why I should be ruined because of Lord Revelstoke’s overweening ambition and lack of judgement.”
I stared at him. I knew full well that Stone’s gentle manner merely disguised the activities of one of the more ruthless of operators. But I never expected him to be quite so unpatriotic.
“Do not concern yourself,” he said, as though he read my thoughts. “Self-preservation and patriotism are not entirely incompatible. I will not be ruined by this. On the other hand, I will render whatever assistance I can. I am more than aware—more than you, probably—how damaging all this might prove to be. It is not in my interest for the financial machinery of the Empire to be ruined. Quite the contrary. I depend on the markets for money, on shippers for orders, on the Government having healthy tax receipts for military commissions. And I depend on Britain’s reputation to give my companies the advantage in foreign markets. For these reasons, I will help, if I can.”
He stood up. “And we can begin by going to the offices and sending your telegram. I will have to come with you. Can you work a telegraph machine?”
I nodded. “I think so.”
“Good. It will go to my office in London, and will then have to be delivered by hand. Do not worry yourself; Bartoli, my man there, is entirely loyal and discreet, and I will instruct him that he is to deliver it himself and speak of it to no one. He will do as he is told.”
It would have to do. We walked out and called for our coats. As we were getting ready, Elizabeth came down the stairs.
“You are going?” she asked, with evident disappointment.
“I am afraid so, Countess,” Stone replied. “Mr. Cort is a persuasive man, and I can deny him nothing, even at the cost of losing your company.”
“But you will come back?”
“I would be delighted.”
She didn’t invite me, I noticed, a little annoyed at being so obviously left out. I pulled on my coat, and Stone walked out the door. Then she took hold of my arm.
“Any news?” she said quietly.
“I need to talk to you.”
“Come back as soon as you can.”
Stone, naturally, had his own carriage; no hire cab for him. Very comfortable, well insulated from the sounds and draughts of the outside world.
“Charming woman, the Countess,” I said, for no other reason than to see how he reacted.
“She is,” he replied.
“Delightful company,” I added.
“She is.”
“And remarkably well read.”
Stone peered at me. “Do not be nosy, Mr. Cort.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, smiling at him. “But I consider her a friend.”
“I think I might try one of these new automobiles,” he said as we clopped along. “Have you ever been in one?”
I gave up, and shook my head.
“They smell, they are slow and they are unreliable,” he went on. “I believe they may have a great future. It is shameful that our Government has thrown away any possibility of Britain being a leading manufacturer of them. We considered starting production—on a small scale, of course—but abandoned the idea.”
“Why?”
“No market. Nor will there be until the Government allows them to go at more than four miles an hour. In France, in Italy, they already travel at twenty miles an hour. They are making huge progress and we have to sit and watch. Who wants to travel at four miles an hour when a horse will take you faster? We cannot make things that people will not buy.”
“Get the law changed.”
He snorted. “Not so simple. People seem to think that businesses snap their fingers, and the Government does as it is told. Unfortunately it is not like that. And the more governments have to win votes from people who do not think or understand anything at all, the worse it becomes.”
“Maybe they are afraid that people will get killed.”
“They are afraid voters will get killed. And so they will. But hundreds are trampled by horses every year as well, and they don’t limit their speed.”
He fell silent for some while as the carriage made its way along the streets of Paris.
“You may be interested to know,” he said quietly after a while, “that I have asked the Countess von Futak to marry me.”
“Good… I mean, congratulations, sir,” I said with total astonishment. “Has she—?”
“She has asked for a week to consider her reply. It is a woman’s privilege, I believe, and I am sure she must consider the fact that for her it would be something of a social descent. Anyway, here we are.”
I imagined Elizabeth’s dinner being cooked by her chef, and wondered what I was going to eat that evening. Nothing as grand, I thought. I still hadn’t had the opportunity to tell her that Simon was no longer a problem for her. Nor that
, in fact, her problems were now very much greater. Stone had just astonished me, but he clearly was already regretting his confidence and did not want to return to the subject. Poor man, I thought. I was certain I knew what her answer would be. At least she was being kind in pretending to consider the offer, rather than burst out laughing. But she had little to laugh about, at the moment. John Stone’s offer would not last long if he knew what was in those diaries, and unless I could find Drennan, he soon would.
Stone opened the door and led the way in. And switched on the lights. Of course he had offices with electricity. He liked everything modern. Even the desks the clerks worked at were sleek and new and designed with efficiency in mind.
“Through here,” he said, and led the way through one room, then through another and finally into a little cubicle containing the telegraph machine. “Don’t ask me how it works, I’ve never used it. It’s the latest machine, though, and I believe you tap on that,” he pointed to a key, “and then press all sorts of buttons there,” he pointed to a bank of switches and cables rising up in a vast, technological cliff above the desk, “to make it go.”
“Oh, God,” I said. “I don’t think this is going to work very well.” I had never seen a machine like it before. I had not a clue how to operate it. I pressed a button tentatively. Nothing happened. “Who normally sits here?”
Stone shrugged. “I’ve no idea,” he said. “Aren’t you meant to be able to do this sort of thing?”
“Let’s abandon that idea,” I said finally. But I had no other to replace it.
Stone pursed his lips. “The only option is to write a letter, and get someone to take it. There I can help. That is, I can provide pen, paper, envelope and a trustworthy man.” He looked at his watch. “Might just get the eleven o’clock train, I think. With luck you should have your letter delivered by Saturday lunchtime. If you can find someone to deliver it to.”
He looked at my despondent air. “Marvels of modern technology,” he said. “When I was young it still took nearly twenty-four hours to get from Paris to London.”
I sighed. “No alternative, is there? Very well, then. I will write a letter.”
Stone nodded. “Come back to my hotel and do it there. Xanthos will take it; you can hand it to him when you are finished.”
So that is what I did; I spent the next hour in Stone’s apartment at the Hôtel du Louvre, carefully crafting a letter to Wilkinson, explaining exactly what I had discovered, what I suspected, and what I thought should be done about it. I was a bit hazy about the final part as, in truth, I could not see what might be done. Even if Xanthos was as efficient as Stone said, the timing would still be tight. Finding the owners of Barings, the directors of the Bank of England, would take time. Getting them all together, deciding on some course of action…
Stone evidently had the same thought. He, I suspected, was writing letters as well, and I thought I knew what was in them. He wanted to hit the market with sales orders first thing Monday morning, to unload as many of his stocks as possible before anyone else suspected what might be about to happen. I couldn’t blame him, of course.
“And do not lose them, Xanthos,” Stone said as he handed over the letters to his secretary. “It is vital that these reach Wilkinson and Bartoli as soon as possible.”
The secretary put the envelopes carefully in the inside pocket of his jacket.
“A promising young man,” Stone said. “You need have no concerns. He is so eager to get on he would swim the Channel if it was necessary to do his job. A drink, Mr. Cort?” I was quite exhausted; it had been a busy day. But I accepted nonetheless.
“An interesting business,” he said once the servant had served the drinks and withdrawn. “It gives a whole new meaning to the idea of modern warfare. It is fascinating to think what might be the motives of the people involved.”
“They want to destroy London and the Empire.”
“Oh, yes, of course. But why? From what you tell me, it seems to be the French and the Russians acting together, after a fashion. Which is curious, is it not? The only republic in Europe and the Great Despot of the East? An unlikely pair, I think.”
I shrugged. “The French hate us because of the Empire, the Germans because of the war, and the Russians because of their politics. Not that it matters. My interests are more short-term. How to stop it.”
“Maybe it cannot be stopped,” he replied mildly. “While you were writing your letter, I was checking your figures. You are quite right. There is not enough gold, at the moment, to contain a run on the banks. Even if all the bankers were pulled together in one room, and all agreed to pool their reserves, there still would not be enough.”
We sat in silence for a while, considering the dreadful possibilities that lay ahead for next week. My feeling of failure was quite overwhelming. If I had only found out about this a few days earlier—even two days would have made all the difference—then the situation would have been entirely different. But I was wasting my time with minor nonsense—trying to find out the specifications, and the purpose, of a new French cruiser then being laid down at Brest, and more particularly being diverted by the problem of Elizabeth’s diaries—and failed to see what was going on. I had thought it was an abstract problem, not something real and imminent.
“I wonder though…” I began.
“What do you wonder?”
“Well, I told you of my conversation with Netscher, did I not? The conversation that started all this off?”
Stone nodded.
“He sounded scornful of the idea. And he is an influential man.”
“A very fine one, as well,” Stone added. “I have a great deal of time for him. As bankers go, he is one of the best. Although, as you realise, I do not have much time for them, on the whole.”
“So what if there are others like him? Who think that this is disruptive of the smooth ordering of world trade, an unwarranted intrusion of politics into the pure and pristine world of money?”
“Go on.”
“Who has the more influence? People like Netscher, or the people organising this?”
“As we don’t know who is behind it…”
“What I mean is, are we seeing a faction fight here? Money against politics? Is this in fact a coherent policy, or a private venture? To put it another way, could this be reversed if we got to the right people?”
Stone considered. “It would depend on the price, would it not? What would the French, the Russians, want? Besides, is this your job? Should you not go to the Embassy and let them deal with it?”
I had never even considered that, but it was easy enough to dismiss it. “You know the Ambassador?”
Stone nodded.
“Do I need to say more then?”
He smiled. “Not the most effective of men, I agree. Nonetheless, I think you should keep him informed.”
“I think I will go and see Netscher,” I said. “It’s not as if I will be divulging anything which isn’t going to be common knowledge in a day or so. Besides, he might well know all about it. If he can be persuaded to help in some way…”
Stone stood. “It is worth a try, I suppose. As you say, it can’t do much harm now. Now, if you will excuse me, I have a dinner appointment.”
“Oh, I do beg your pardon!” I said. “I have taken up too much of your time.”
“On the contrary; it has been most interesting. Ah…”
“Yes?”
“Well, you may need to contact me in the next few days. Should I not be here, then you might call at the Countess’s house.”
He said it quite calmly, but I could quite plainly sense the awkwardness underlying his words. Stone was not a sophisticated man of the world; he was perfectly incapable of passing off such a statement in a matter-of-fact manner, however hard he tried.
CHAPTER 16
Why do French bankers insist on living so far away? The richest had migrated out of Paris entirely, and congregated upriver in St.-Germainen-Laye, miles away. There they had the
ir pocket châteaux, the huge grounds, the children, and the servants, all the space they needed, apart from the further estates they kept in the country, the vineyards in Bordeaux or in Burgundy. So much easier if they had congregated in the French equivalent of Mayfair or Belgravia, as English bankers did.
When I got up the next morning, after only a couple of hours’ sleep, and took the tram to St.-Germain, I had neither an appointment nor a guarantee of finding Netscher at home. I wasn’t even certain I’d be able to get through the main gate to the house. But I managed, although I had to climb over a fence and wade through brambles to overcome the gate problem, then brave barking dogs, a virtual schoolroom of screaming children, three maids and a nanny—all belonging to Netscher fils—before I penetrated the main house, knocked and sat, looking very grumpy and feeling not unlike a travelling salesman, in the main hallway.
Netscher, however, was a gentleman; my unorthodox arrival and slightly weary appearance did not upset him one jot, even though it was Saturday. Instead, he had me shown into his office, and disappeared to make his apologies to his family. Then he returned, announcing that he had asked for breakfast to be brought.
“You do not look like someone who is capable of surviving an encounter with my grandchildren,” he said with a smile.
“That is kind. And I apologise for my arrival. But I believe it is important. Do you remember the conversation we had a while back at the Countess von Futak’s salon?”
“About—?”
“About the vulnerability of the City of London.”
“Ah, yes. I remember it well. You seemed quite sceptical, I recall.”
“Are you aware of what is happening? About to happen, I should say.”
“I have heard that Barings may experience difficulties in finding subscribers to an Argentinian loan it has been proposing. Is that what you mean?”
“Yes. And you realise the consequences?”
He nodded.
“Is that what you were referring to at the salon?”
He looked at me carefully, clearly weighing what to say next. That was enough, of course, but not enough to continue the conversation.