William Burke was waiting for him in his office, a small room with high windows looking out over Cheapside.
‘Francis,’ the financier said, ‘you look worried. I got your wire. I think I have the answers you required about the capital and shareholding of Harrison’s Bank.’
‘Thank you so much,’ said Powerscourt, sipping a cup of tea. ‘What is the position?’
‘It is difficult to be certain,’ said Burke the banker. ‘These private banks are extremely secretive about their financial arrangements.’
‘They’re bloody secretive about all their bloody arrangements, William,’ Powerscourt butted in. ‘I only wish they weren’t.’
Burke looked closely at his brother-in-law. His normal irony and detachment seemed to have deserted him this afternoon.
‘The Harrisons all had identical arrangements about their share of the bank’s capital,’ Burke went on. ‘I have inspected the wills of the earlier ones who have passed away. Each time the entire capital of the deceased passes directly to the next family member. That way the capital of the bank remains intact.’
‘Do you mean, William, that Old Mr Harrison’s share went straight to Mr Frederick and his share goes direct to Mr Charles? So is he now in sole charge of the bank and its monies?’
‘He is certainly the biggest shareholder by far,’ said Burke, ‘but he is not the only one. There are, you will be relieved to hear, no female relatives with any holdings. There is only one other person with a share in the bank and that is the chief clerk, a man called Williamson, who is now a partner. If my guess is accurate, he controls less than a tenth of the bank’s capital.’
‘So can Mr Charles now do what he wants with the bank?’ asked Powerscourt.
‘No, he cannot,’ said Burke firmly. ‘There is a clause in the original agreements, drawn up by the lawyers, which says that all the partners must be in agreement before any important decisions are taken.’
‘What would happen if Williamson died, William?’ Powerscourt spoke very softly, anxious about being overheard. ‘Suppose he fell into the river, or his yacht capsized, or his house burnt down?’
‘Then, Francis,’ William Burke also lowered his voice, ‘I understand his share would pass to the surviving member of the family. And then Mr Charles could do exactly as he wanted with the bank. Exactly what he wanted.’
William Burke rose from his seat and opened the window on his left.
‘Look down there, Francis.’ Five floors down the great exodus was beginning. The dark coats of the City were hastening to the buses and the train stations and the underground railway. There was a faint but regular tapping sound, the result, Powerscourt realized, of so many umbrella tips hitting the ground at the same time.
‘These people work with money every day of their lives. They buy it. They sell it. They trade with it. They sell shares of it to each other. They dream, almost every one of them, of being richer this evening than they were this morning. That dream sustains them as they go home to Muswell Hill or Putney or they ride the trains to Staines and Epsom. No doubt Charles Harrison has had that dream too. It is only a guess, Francis, but he must be worth well over a million pounds sterling.’
Even Burke hasn’t got that much, Powerscourt knew, looking at his friend. He could tell by the faint note of envy that crept into his voice.
‘Let me introduce you to one of my young men, one of my brightest young men, Francis.’
Burke disappeared briefly and could be heard issuing his instructions outside.
‘You remember you asked me if I could place somebody inside Harrison’s Bank, Francis? And I said I could not do that? Well, I thought about it and I asked Mr Clarke, Mr James Clarke, from our offices here, to befriend a young man of his own age in Harrison’s Bank. I believe he has done that.’
There was a knock at the door, a firm knock as if Mr James Clarke was not intimidated by what he might find on the other side.
‘Let me introduce Lord Francis Powerscourt, James.’ Burke ushered the young man to a chair. ‘Lord Powerscourt may shortly be joining as us a non-executive director. He has particular interests in Harrison’s Bank.’
Powerscourt smiled to himself at the prospect of joining his brother-in-law’s bank. Maybe he would become really rich through this new association. He could buy himself a yacht, or the Blackwater library.
‘I have made friends with a young man called Richard Martin,’ said Clarke. ‘He has worked as a clerk at Harrison’s Bank for some time. His father died three or four years ago. I believe he supports his mother. And he has a sweetheart called Sophie, though I think he has few hopes of her.’
‘Why is that, Mr Clarke?’ asked Powerscourt.
‘She’s a suffragist, Lord Powerscourt. She campaigns for votes for women, all that sort of thing.’
‘I see,’ said Burke, who thought it would be a disaster if women were given the vote. He would trust his own wife, he knew, with any question of domestic comfort or the education of his children but he did not want her deciding the Government of the country. It would be chaos, administration by whim and instinct rather than sober judgement.
‘What does he say about his bank?’ asked Powerscourt.
‘Well, he is very discreet, as all young bankers should be, isn’t that right, Mr Burke?’ Clarke appealed to his superior.
‘Absolutely, James, absolutely. It is one of the first things you all learn here.’
‘But he is worried, sir,’ Clarke went on, ‘I know he is worried. I think he fears that something terrible may happen to the bank and that he may lose his position and not be able to support his mother.’
‘Could I make a suggestion, William?’ Powerscourt was appealing to his brother-in-law. Clarke had never heard his director referred to as William before. All the young clerks were convinced that Burke’s Christian name was Ezekiel. ‘In my capacity as a prospective non-executive director, you understand,’ Burke and Powerscourt smiled at each other, ‘I think you should tell this young man that there may be openings for him here with Mr Burke in this bank. In case anything should go wrong at Harrison’s, you understand. Maybe he could come here for a possible interview so Mr Burke could form a view as to his potential. But for the moment, it is desperately important that he stays where he is. There have been strange goings on there as you know. I could produce you a letter from very high authorities asking for your co-operation in this matter. I cannot tell you how important it is that he stays in position at Harrison’s Bank. Maybe he can perform some service in the future.’
James Clarke looked sombre at the mention of higher authority. Surely the word of William, not Ezekiel, Burke was word enough?
‘Could I ask one thing, sir?’ he said, looking solemnly at Powerscourt. ‘Are you anxious that things should happen quickly? Richard Martin’s interview with Mr Burke here, I mean. I do not wish to be seen to put pressure on him.’
‘You must form your own judgement on that,’ Powerscourt replied. ‘Speed is important, yes. But I would not want to lose this young man, as it were. You must decide when the best moment is.’
‘Very good, sir.’ James Clarke left them, heavy with new responsibilities.
Powerscourt too took his farewells, saying he had to call on the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police. He thought as he went of Johnny Fitzgerald’s message in its Latin code about the arms and money being sent to Ireland. How had he heard it? Where had he heard it? Was it accurate? And he remembered checking a map of Ireland the night before. He could find no place called Blackstones, as mentioned in the message. But there was a place called Greystones, south of Dublin. It was a just a few miles from his old home.
17
British agents used to meet their informants in Dublin in a strange variety of places, walking by the docks on Sunday afternoons, in empty train compartments, in the side chapels of the empty Protestant churches, even in cemeteries where the British would appear with bunches of improbable flowers to mourn the deaths of their adversaries. Fergus Finn was going to meet his contact in the wide open spaces of the Phoenix Park. It was quiet on weekday mornings and they could talk beneath the trees without being seen.