CHAPTER 24
The annual meeting of the Rialto Investment Trust was to be held on the morning after I returned at eleven. I had only been to such an event once before, and it had been deadly and interminably dull. A South African mining company, that had been, and I had been sent because the poor soul who normally attended such things was off sick. Ever since the Boer War, South African mining companies had a claim to be news, in the way that the doings of most coal mines or cotton companies were not. So I went, with strict instructions not to fall asleep. “Just spell the name of the chairman right and remember—profits for this year and last, dividend for this year and last. That’s all anyone is ever interested in.”
So I went and did as I was told, sitting alone—the real shareholders avoided me as though I had a strange smell and I didn’t get any of the tea and biscuits either—and took down everything I was told to take down. I still maintain it wasn’t my fault that I missed a share issue to raise more capital. Even had I been awake, I would not then have understood what they were talking about.
But now I considered myself almost an expert in all matters financial. Words and phrases like “scrip issue” and “debenture stock” could trip from my tongue with the same facility that “grievous bodily harm” or “assault and battery” had done only a few weeks before. And, just to be on the safe side, I persuaded Wilf Cornford to come along as an interpreter. I was there with a notebook pretending to be a reporter once more; how Wilf got in I do not know. Apart from us there were about ten other journalists—itself notable as such meetings normally only attracted one or two—and at least a hundred shareholders. This, said Wilf, was unprecedented. Something, he said, was up.
And so it was, although while it was going on it was about as thrilling as a committee meeting at a town council, all motions to amend and comments from the floor so densely wrapped up in convoluted phrases that their import was somewhat lost. The nominal chairman of the event was Mr. Cardano, the executor of Ravenscliff ’s will. He did a good enough job, I thought; he made a brief and entirely empty speech about Ravenscliff ’s great qualities and abilities—which I noted was met with suspicious silence—before passing matters over to Bartoli, who sat on his left looking studiously neutral. This gentleman then rattled through the annual accounts at such speed that he was back in his chair only a few moments later. The only bit I properly appreciated was his closing sentence—“and in view of the excellent year and good prospects for the coming year, we recommend an increase of dividend of 25 per cent, to four shillings and a penny per every one pound nominal.” He sat down to a smattering of applause.
There then followed questions—although not from the journalists, who were not allowed to speak, an unnatural state which made them chatter amongst themselves to indicate their discomfort. When would the Ravenscliff estate be wound up? Very soon, promised Mr. Cardano. Could the executor reassure investors about the state of Rialto’s finances? Absolutely yes: the figures were there for all to see; reassurance was surely unnecessary. And what about the companies Rialto invested in? On that he could not reply, but application must be made to those companies. However, their published accounts suggested they were all doing splendidly. And so it went on; there were votes on this, and votes on that. Hands were raised and lowered again. Cardano periodically muttered words like “Carried” or “Not carried.” Wilf squiggled in his seat. And finally there was a motion to adjourn and everyone stood up.
I tried to sidle up to Cardano at the end, but he was surrounded by other members of the board almost like an emperor being shielded by a praetorian guard, and no journalist got near. Only one man approached; he got to a few feet away, and Cardano looked at him—how did I do? was clearly on his face. This man nodded, and Cardano relaxed, and left the room.
An important figure, then, but who was he? I kept him in sight as he stood, being buffeted by those making their way to the door. Not remarkable really: middle-aged; slim, short dark hair thinning on the top; of average size. A clear, open face, clean-shaven, a vague smile on a generous, well-proportioned mouth. He turned, and nodded a brief bow as a stout man, about seventy, with a round face and white toothbrush moustache looking like a retired lieutenant colonel in a county regiment tapped him on the shoulder. I could not hear the conversation, but I grasped enough. “Good to see you, Cort,” said the ex-officer in a booming voice. Then they moved out of earshot. I would have loved to have heard more, but it was enough: I had a face for the name. I now knew what the mysterious Henry Cort looked like. He didn’t look so frightening to me.
Then I was dragged off by Wilf, who seemed properly agitated, and said—in a quite unprecedented display of emotion—that he needed a drink. I could not imagine him drinking at all, let alone needing one, but who was I to refuse?
“Well!” he said, when we were settled into our chairs in a pub round the corner, usually frequented by Schroder’s people after hours but now empty. “That was a battle to remember!”
I frowned, bemused. “What was?”
“The meeting, boy! I’ve never witnessed anything like it!”
“Were we both in the same room?”
He stared. “Did you not see what was going on?”
“I saw enough to make me drop off my chair with boredom, if that’s what you mean.”
“Oh, for heavens sake!”
“Well? What? What did I miss?”
“The ambush, man! The counterattack! The routing of the forces of dissent! Didn’t you understand anything?”
I shook my head.
Wilf sighed sorrowfully. “You are really not up to this, you know.”
“Just tell me,” I snapped.
“Oh, very well. You noticed, I hope, that the board bought off the shareholders by bunging money at them?”
“The dividend?”
“Precisely. It was clear from the accounts that they should only really increase the payout by about 10 per cent. But they increased it by 25 per cent, and they will have to go heavily into reserves to do it. The idea, I’m sure, was to keep the shareholders quiet until the money is paid out in about six weeks’ time. That dealt with some of them, and it was clever; cut the ground from under the enemy from the start. But they kept on coming.”
“Did they? How?”
“What do you think all those motions and proposals and questions were about?”
“I’ve no idea whatsoever.”
“A number of shareholders are suspicious, and others want to take control of the Trust. They banded together; there must have been meetings all over the City for the last week. I’m sure they did a deal they thought would hold. Vote in new management, then have a good look at the books. Then, perhaps, dissolve the Trust and pay out the money. I don’t know. It doesn’t matter, because they were defeated.”
“Really?”
“Yes. They were. That Cardano is not daft; takes after his father, no doubt. But clearly there were other discussions going on as well. The 25 per cent he controls as executor, and other groups of votes, blocked every motion, and voted instead to postpone all decisions until the Ravenscliff estate is settled. Quite a lot of the shareholders were voting against their own best interests, if you ask me.”
“And you are going to tell me you don’t know why. I know you are.”
“Precisely. But I will find out, so help me. And I can tell you who, or at least a bit of who. It was Barings, for one. I couldn’t quite figure it out, but they seem to have amassed a stake of about 5 per cent. That’s a guess, of course. I will be able to confirm that in a few days. I didn’t know they had any. They handled the flotation but I assumed they had long since sold any shares.”
“They bought some the day after Ravenscliff died,” I said, feeling quite proud that I knew something Wilf did not. And gratified by his look of interest as a result.
“How do you know it was Barings?” I persisted.
“Oh, well, it was a show of strength, wasn’t it? Tom Baring himself came along to cast the votes. S
o keep your noses out, you’re wasting your time. That was the message.”
“Which one was he?”
“About seventy, receding hair, the one with an orchid in his button hole.”
“The retired major talking to Cort?”
“Who’s Cort?”
“Nothing. It’s not important. This Tom Baring, who is he, exactly?”
“One of the Baring clan. Extraordinary man. I know what you mean about being a retired major. He looks the part. But he is one of the country’s great experts on Chinese porcelain. Not that I care about that, of course.”
“Of course. So he’s a big cheese?”
“One of directors; it’s not a family partnership anymore, of course. It’s been a company ever since the disaster twenty years ago, but the family still has huge influence. The thing about Tom Baring is that he’s lazy. Very good, very effective when he can be roused, but he can’t be roused very often. For him to come here is a powerful message. Barings thinks this is important enough for him to abandon his porcelain, get up to London and appear. He only does that when it’s really vital.”
“The stuff of dinner conversations for years,” I commented.
“It is. So don’t be frivolous. People will be trying to figure all this out for a long time.”
“So what do you think it means?”
“I have no idea. Only that, for the time being, Barings is behind Rialto and wants everyone to know. But there is obviously more to it than that. Someone was trying to launch a coup. Much of the lead was taken by a man from Anderson’s…”
“Who were also buying Rialto shares shortly after Ravenscliff died,” I put in. Again, Wilf looked impressed. I was rather pleased with myself.
“But who are Anderson’s fronting for, eh?” he asked.
“What about the man they proposed as chairman?”
Wilf looked contemptuous. “A nothing. A face, that’s all. No, my friend, it is someone else. And he won’t escape me for long. You wait and see.”
He drummed his fingers on the table. A strange light was glimmering in his eyes as he took an enormous swig at his glass. “Barings wishes to make it clear it is convinced there is nothing wrong with Rialto. But perhaps it is only doing this because it knows full well that there is something very wrong indeed, and it is prepared to risk losing its stake to keep it hidden. What motive could a bank have for being prepared to lose money? Eh? Tell me that.”
“The prospect of losing even more money?”
He rubbed his hands together. “Ah, this will be fun.”
Well, I thought, I’ll let him get on with it. I didn’t want to share the crown jewels of my knowledge with him. But I knew, so I thought, what it was all about. In fact, it was obvious. Any proper investigation of Rialto would throw up the fact that the accounts were fictitious, that millions had been siphoned off the underlying companies. But—and it was a fairly sizeable but—what was the point? Wasn’t it just postponing the in evitable?
I wandered home, thinking I would have a quiet hour before dinner. A whole evening when I did not have to think about money or aristocrats at all. I almost felt pleasure as I turned the key in the lock of Paradise Walk, and breathed in the foul air of the entrance.
But not for long. Mrs. Morrison shot into the hall the moment she heard the door, and bore down on me with a severe, distressed look, quite unlike her normal air of amiability.
“Mr. Braddock,” she began, “I am most upset. Most upset. How you could be so disrespectful, I do not know. I am very disappointed in you. I’m afraid I must ask you to leave my house.”
“What?” I said in shock, pausing as I took my coat off. “What on earth is the matter?”
“I have always given my boys complete freedom, and expect them to respect this house. To invite unsuitable people is unacceptable.”
“Mrs. Morrison, what are you talking about?”
“That woman.”
“What woman?”
“The one in the parlour.”
Lady Ravenscliff, I thought, but the surge of pleasure was quickly tempered by feelings of dismay that she should see the circumstances in which I lived. The meanness, the shabbiness. I looked around, at the brown painted wood, the dingy wallpaper, the cheap prints on the wall, at Mrs. Morrison herself, and almost blushed.
“I am sorry she came here,” I said fervently. “But have no fears. She is entirely respectable. Certainly not unsuitable in any way.”
“She’s a trollop,” she said, hesitating a moment before she used the word, and then deciding it was justified. “Don’t pretend to me, Mr. Braddock. I know one when I see one, and she is. I won’t have it.”
I had rather expected Mrs. Morrison to be overcome with the flusters at the idea of having a real lady in the house, and my relief that Elizabeth had not got the tea and cakes routine was only matched by my dismay that she should be characterised in such a way. Had she been a trollop, she would have been far beyond my purse, even at £350 a year.
“But Mrs. Morrison, she is my employer.”
Now she stared at me in blank astonishment. We had reached an impasse, with neither understanding what the other was going on about, until a noise of movement resolved the matter. The girl coming through the door of the parlour was no lady. In fact, Mrs. Morrison’s characterisation seemed pretty judicious. She was about twenty, I guessed, garishly and shabbily dressed, and moved with an air of cheeky insolence mingled with caution and suspicion. Why I say that, I do not know; but that was my impression.
“Who the hell are you?” I asked incredulously.
“Well, you asked for me, didn’t you?”
“No.”
“I was told you’d pay me a guinea.”
A guinea? For her? I wasn’t that desperate. I could see why Mrs. Morrison was so angry with me. Women were the one thing she did not allow. Certainly not one like that.
“I can assure you I…” And then an idea came into my head. “Who said I’d pay you a guinea?”
“Jimmy.”
“Who’s Jimmy?”
“Never met him before. He’s a kid.”
Finally, I understood. “Is your name Mary?”
“Course it is.”
I breathed a sigh. “Go back in there and wait for me, please.”
I all but pushed her back into the parlour, shut the door, then turned to Mrs. Morrison.
“I apologise from the bottom of my heart, Mrs. Morrison. I cannot say sorry fervently enough. This woman is not what she appears, believe me. She is a very important witness, absolutely crucial to my work at the moment. I have been looking high and low for her, and I must talk to her before she takes fright and runs away. Let me do this, and I will explain fully afterwards. Please?”
She was uncertain enough to win me time, so I hurried into the room and closed the door. Mary was standing in front of the dead fire, gripping her little handbag as though it was some vital defence. I stood and looked at her. She wasn’t bad looking, I realised, in an underfed, pinched sort of fashion. Many a man would… I drove the thought from my mind, and told her to sit down. I took over the place by the fireplace so I could look down on her.
“So you were the assistant of Madam Boninska,” I said. “You know the police are after you?”
She nodded.
“Don’t worry; I won’t tell them. Although I should say they do not have the slightest thought that you killed her. They want you as a witness, nothing more.”
“They always want more,” she said. She had a dull, flat and entirely unattractive voice, which went well with the vaguely blank look in her eyes. “And they don’t pay as well as you do.”
“How much I pay will depend on how much you tell me,” I said. “So don’t get any ideas just yet. Were you there when this woman was killed? Did you see who did it?”
“No,” she replied. “I didn’t see anything. I was out. I came back and found her, and thought, They’ll blame me for this, so I ran for it.”
“Quite understandab
le,” I commented. “But do you know who did it?”
She shook her head. “She had no enemies in the world,” she said. “She was a lovely woman.” She looked at me like a bird eyeing a worm. “A guinea.”
I did in fact have the money in my room, but was loathe to let it go to her. Then I sighed, ran quickly up the stairs then returned and counted the money out onto the table. “Don’t touch,” I said as she leaned forward. “What was she like?”
“A cow,” she said. “A mean, vicious cow. I hated her. I almost danced for joy when I saw her lying on the floor. She was always drunk, she smelled, and she had a way of talking to you. Made you feel like dirt. I hated her.”
“Don’t you have to be charming to clients in that line of business? Fortune-telling, I mean?”
“Oh, yes. For a bit. She could crawl as well as anyone when she wanted. Until she got hold of them, then she’d drop all that. When she was squeezing money out of them, there was no more of that.”
“What do you mean?”
“She’d get people to these seances and get them to tell all their secrets, thinking they were talking to spirits. Then she’d say, you don’t want your wife, or your partner, or your parents, to hear about that, do you…?”
“Give me an example.”
“One woman came, she twisted her into saying she’d had a friend. You know. She was married, you see. And the mistress got this woman’s jewels, her rings, all her money off her. She killed herself, eventually, because when she was bled dry the mistress wrote a dirty little letter to the husband. I had to deliver it. She showed me the notice in the paper, she pinned it on the wall, like it was some great achievement. She was proud of it.”
“And you?”
She shrugged. “What do I care?”
“More than you admit. Never mind. I want to ask you about a man who came to see her. This man.”
I showed her the photograph of Ravenscliff.
“Yes, I remember him.” I felt a surge of excitement rush through me at the words.
“Tell me everything. The money on the table depends on it.”
“He wasn’t a client,” she said after thinking about it for a while. “Not for the table-turning and such. Normally she got all dressed up for that, put on her special clothes and started talking in this voice—trying to be mysterious and spooky. You know. This was different. They talked.”