‘That body in the river was Old Mr Harrison.’
‘Impossible!’
‘It’s true! The police identified him this morning!’
‘There must be something wrong with the house! People don’t get murdered if business is in good hands!’
‘How much money do we have with Harrison’s? Can we get it back?’
‘Harrison’s are bankrupt.’
‘Harrison’s are finished. It’s going to be the biggest scandal since Barings! Withdraw!’
Even in the City there is a little respect for the dead. Men felt that maybe they should wait a while before sorting out their positions. Old Mr Harrison had been a widely respected man. His good reputation held the vultures off for a little while. They decided not to act at half-past twelve. They would wait until three.
The Governor of the Bank of England was a small plump man with a neatly trimmed beard. He was not, strictly speaking, a banker at all. Junius Berry had made his name and his fortune as a successful tea merchant. He had been on the Council of the Bank of England before being elevated to the Governorship a year before.
His position was a curious one. No formal powers attached to his office. No Act of Parliament defined and circumscribed his position and his function. Legally, he had no functions at all. He was a schoolmaster without a cane, a policeman without a uniform, a judge with no prisons to incarcerate those he sentenced. But he could cajole. He could whisper. If circumstances made it necessary, he could even wink. He could let things be known. He could bring people together. In a word he had authority, acknowledged sometimes reluctantly, sometimes petulantly by the unruly tribe he moved among. Keep on the good side of the Governor, and it would do you no harm, men said. Cross the Bank of England and it could break you.
Something of these thoughts about his position crossed Junius Berry’s mind late that morning. He grasped the importance of Harrison’s note instantly. He could call on the bank tomorrow or the next day, but he suspected Harrison might find that too late. He could call now, but that would be too soon. Very well. He checked his engagements for the day. He was due at lunch with the Council of Foreign Bond Holders very shortly. On his way back, at half-past two, he would call on Frederick Harrison.
As he ate his lobster, the Governor was told, as his predecessors had been told many times before, that conditions in the market were bad, that many of the foreign governments appeared to have little intention of paying the interest, let alone repaying the capital, on their borrowings; that the situation was so severe in some quarters that gentlemen living and working in the City of London were liable to lose their fortunes; that pressure must be brought to bear on the Prime Minister and the Cabinet to send in the Royal Navy to make the foreigners see sense, and, if that proved impossible, to seize some assets in the countries concerned to ensure that gentlemen living and working in the City of London could continue to do so in the manner to which they had become accustomed.
The Governor listened gravely. Like his predecessors, he promised to take serious account of their concerns. Like his predecessors, he did absolutely nothing. ‘It’s always the same,’ Junius Berry said to himself as he walked to Harrison’s Bank. ‘They feel they have to protect their backs in case things should go wrong and some wretched government abroad defaults on its debt. They can tell their members that they raised the matter with the Governor – what more could they do? It’s a ritual dance, a quadrille, played out at least once a year.’
At half-past two precisely the Governor arrived at Harrison’s Bank. At two thirty-one Richard Martin, trembling with the responsibility of ushering such an Olympian figure up the stairs, showed him into the partners’ room. At two forty-five, the Governor and Frederick Harrison shook hands on the doorstep, pausing for polite conversation for a couple of minutes so the passers-by could spread the word around the City. ‘Very friendly exchange of views.’ ‘Most affable meeting.’ ‘Can’t be anything wrong with Harrison’s if the Governor himself pays a call.’
And so the vultures rose once more into the City sky, circling above the Thames and the Monument in search of other prey.
6
A ripple of excitement and satisfaction flowed through the clerks in Harrison’s Bank. The Governor had called! He had stayed for a full eighteen minutes! For they had counted the seconds as diligently as they counted the figures in the house’s ledgers. The senior clerk let them have their moment of glory and then called them back to business.
In the partners’ room, Frederick Harrison was holding a meeting with his other two partners, the former senior clerk Mr Williamson, and his nephew Charles Harrison. ‘I am not satisfied with these policemen,’ he said, standing in front of his ornate fireplace. ‘I do not believe they will be able to find out how my father died. You did not see them,’ he went on, glancing at his colleagues in turn. ‘A miserable-looking pair. An inspector called Burroughs whose clothes didn’t fit, and a sergeant called Cork who looked as if he was just out of school. Burroughs and Cork, they sound like a firm of undertakers in Clerkenwell.’
Like many in his profession, Frederick Harrison set great store by appearances. He believed firmly in the divine right of the upper classes. He did not think that these two policemen were fit to make inquiries about his family. He felt that their proper place in any Harrison household would be downstairs in the servants’ hall or supervising the gardens.
‘What are you going to do, Uncle?’ asked Charles Harrison, trying to conceal a smile. He thought his uncle was a most terrible snob but he would never dare to say so in public. Charles Harrison was a tall slim man in his middle thirties. He had an oval face with grey eyes that turned to black when he was angry. But the most remarkable thing about him was his redness. He had red hair. He had bushy reddish-brown eyebrows that met above his nose. He had a reddish brown moustache and a reddish brown beard trimmed to a sharp point. At school his colouring gave rise to the unremarkable nickname of Foxy and there was indeed something vulpine about Charles Harrison. He looked like a predator, but a predator who would not be captured however many hounds and huntsmen set off in pursuit.
‘I am going to find a private investigator to look into matters,’ said Frederick Harrison. ‘Of course the police must continue what they are doing, plodding about the countryside no doubt, frightening the servants at Blackwater, writing things down in their little notebooks. But I am going to find somebody better qualified for the post. I shall go to my clubs and make inquiries. In fact,’ and he moved away from the fire towards the stand which held his coat and umbrella, ‘I am going to start right away.’
Frederick Harrison asked three people he trusted to search for his investigator. One was a well-known banker with political connections. One was a landowner and MP in the Conservative interest. One – the most surprising choice – was the editor of a weekly newspaper whom he had known as a young man.
They, in their turn, made their inquiries. By the time they all reported, exactly one week later, an extraordinary variety of people had been consulted: two retired generals, one former Prime Minister, four Cabinet Ministers and a number of senior civil servants with connections in the world of law and order right across the country. The most original consultations were made by the newspaper editor. As well as two Cabinet Ministers he had asked the governors of two prisons, known to be packed with the most serious criminals, to take discreet soundings of their inmates.
Frederick Harrison summarized their findings in a memorandum which he gave to his two colleagues in a special partners’ meeting at the bank.