‘It was underwritten, by a variety of other financial institutions,’ said Powerscourt. ‘William Burke is trying to find out who they are. Some of them may go under as well.’
Rosebery stared into his glass as if financial rescue might be found in the crystal.
‘It is impossible, Francis, to underestimate the seriousness of the situation. It is like a dagger pointed at the success of the Jubilee itself. Barings, as you well know, were saved by the Bank of England going round with their begging bowl and by the fact that enough of the money people felt it was in their interest to bail them out. But they might not feel that with Harrison’s. When that discount house Overend and Gurney went down forty years ago nobody lifted a finger to save them. Nobody liked them. And, Francis, think of this. It is almost as bad for the Jubilee if they are rescued or if they fail. You mentioned the newspapermen. The ambassadors and other representatives of the world’s powers will be here as well. Think what they will make of the week before the Great Imperial Pageant if our own papers are full of crisis and collapse in the City of London. Think of the national humiliation if we have a second banking disaster in seven years. Think of the flight of business out of London to New York and Paris, all of them wringing their hands as they go, of course, but going all the same. The Jubilee will not be a celebration of the greatness of Victoria’s Empire, it will be a funeral, the beginning of the end of Rule Britannia.’
Rosebery sprang from his chair and headed for the door.
‘I must see the Prime Minister at once. You’d better come too, Francis. Maybe the Government can save the day. But I doubt it. I very much doubt it.’
27
There were over two hundred passengers on the Dublin to Liverpool boat. It had been a rough passage. Many of them had not slept, walking round the decks all night until dawn greeted them over the dull grey coast of England. Pale-faced and tired, they carried themselves and their luggage down the gangplank and off to the waiting trains.
At the bottom of the gangplank were two burly constables, and behind them two agents from Dominic Knox’s secret intelligence department in the Irish Office. The policemen changed. The secret agents did not. They had watched thousands and thousands of Irish travellers take their first steps on to English soil. Some of them they stopped. Always they were female, usually between twenty and thirty years old. ‘They’ll be young. They may well be pretty,’ their chief had told the two agents. ‘They will certainly look as innocent as newborn babes. For God’s sake, don’t miss them.’
Siobhan McKenna had attached herself to a large family with children ranging from four to seventeen. She hoped she wouldn’t be noticed in that company. But something different about her clothes, slightly superior to the dress of her companions, made her stand out to the watching eyes below. As the family came down, dragging the youngest reluctantly by the hand, the first agent tapped the police sergeant on the shoulder.
‘That girl, there, with the black hair.’
‘Excuse me, miss,’ said the policeman, ‘these gentlemen here would like to ask you a few questions.’
The senior agent drew the girl away from the rest of the passengers. His companion stayed at his post, scanning every new arrival as they left the boat.
‘May I ask where you are going, miss?’ said the agent.
‘I’m going to London,’ replied the girl, smiling brightly at the agent. Smile at them, flirt with them, charm them, she remembered Michael Byrne’s instructions on handling questions from the police.
‘And what is the purpose of your visit, miss?’
‘I’m going for an interview for a job at a school,’ said Siobhan McKenna, tossing her curls in the way that usually worked with the young men of Dublin.
‘Do you have any papers to back that up, miss?’ The agent gave nothing away. But he could feel his heart racing as he closed in on his prey.
‘I have a letter here from the Convent of Our Lady of Sorrows in Kensington,’ she said, taking a letter from her bag and handing it over with a smile.
Sister Ursula was delighted to hear from Miss McKenna. She looked forward to seeing her for an interview on Monday morning at eleven o’clock. She provided instructions on the easiest way to reach the school.
‘Thank you very much, Miss McKenna,’ said the agent. ‘Have a good journey now, and the best of luck with the interview.’
The girl thought she was going to faint with the relief of it all. As she set off for the train to London she was too elated to look behind her. Twenty yards behind, the other agent was following her every step.
‘I don’t want the messengers,’ Knox had told his agents, ‘I want to know where they are going, who they are going to see. We don’t want the minnows in the pond, we want the bloody sharks because at present we don’t know who they are. But the minnows can lead us to them. Then we will strike.’
The Prime Minister saw Rosebery and Powerscourt in the upstairs drawing room in 10 Downing Street. He had grown old in office. He had also expanded from fifteen stone at the start of his administration to over seventeen stone at the time of the Jubilee. He blamed the lack of time for exercise. The Prime Minister, unlike many of his opponents, did not believe that the function of politics was to make the world a better place, to be constantly bringing schemes for improvement in the nation’s life. He believed that change was almost always bad, that it should, wherever possible, be resisted, that when necessary some small concessions might have to be made for the purposes of winning elections, but that was all.
‘I presume your business must be urgent, Rosebery,’ said the Prime Minister. ‘Lord Powerscourt, good day to you. I can give you gentlemen fifteen minutes before I have to meet a delegation of ministers from the Empire. New Zealand today, I think. There are so many of them who have to be seen.’
Rosebery sketched out the nature of their business. It took him just over six minutes. The Prime Minister made one note of only a few words on a piece of paper in front of him. Reading it upside down Powerscourt could see that it said: ‘Monday, four million pounds + + +.’
‘That is the crux of the problem, Prime Minister,’ Rosebery concluded. ‘The Chancellor of the Exchequer is out of town. Mr William Burke, a leading City financier who knows the situation, is talking to the Governor of the Bank of England this afternoon. Time is very short.’
The Prime Minister looked at them gravely, stroking the long black beard that flowed down on to his chest.
‘Thank you, Rosebery. Let me try to sum up the difficulties we face.’ Outside the windows they heard a series of carriages arriving. The New Zealanders had come early.
‘It is not and cannot be the business of Government to bail out financial concerns whose imprudence or wickedness has left them unable to meet their obligations. I do not need to tell you, Rosebery, the outcry that would erupt in the House of Commons if members felt that taxpayers’ money was being used for these purposes.’
There was a knock on the door.
‘The New Zealand delegation is waiting for you, Prime Minister,’ said the private secretary.
‘They’re early, for God’s sake,’ growled the Prime Minister. ‘I shall be with them in five or ten minutes. Give them some tea, show them round the bloody building, just give me a little time.’
The private secretary backed quickly out of the room.
‘In one way this business is very like Barings,’ the Prime Minister went on. ‘I myself played a little part in the resolution of that crisis. But this time there is a difference. Barings was saved by a rescue package put together in the full glare of publicity. The newspapers were full of it for weeks. We cannot afford any publicity at all at the present time, not one word, not one paragraph. The effect would be devastating.’ The Prime Minister nodded towards the presence of the invisible New Zealand delegation who could be heard clattering around the building.