‘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.
‘You will see that we have three candidates to choose from,’ he said, sounding as if they were discussing a prospective new partner for the bank.
‘Candidate A – I have left the names until later in case any of you has heard of any of these people – operates mainly in the North of England. He has been involved in a number
of cases involving commercial fraud and has saved his clients considerable sums of money. There is no suggestion that he has made any investigations involving murder but he is very well spoken of,
a man who knows business and commerce well, even if he has seen them with a jaundiced eye.’
He looked up at his two colleagues. Williamson, the former senior clerk, was scratching his nose, a sure sign that he was concentrating hard.
‘Candidate B,’ Frederick Harrison went on, ‘has been involved in the investigation of a number of serious crimes, including robbery and murder. He has usually managed to secure
the return of stolen jewellery or paintings to their rightful owners. My informants believe that he has been involved with one murder, if not more. But he is said to be eager to publicize his
successes to advertise for more business in the future.’
‘Is he a full-time investigator who earns his crust through the payments made by his clients?’ asked Williamson incredulously.
‘He is, Williamson. Such is the proliferation of crime in these times that it is apparently perfectly possible for a man to make a very respectable living in this field.’
‘Who would have thought it,’ said Williamson, shaking his head, ‘who would have thought it?’
‘Candidate C is a former officer in Army Intelligence in India. He has been involved in a number of murders and serious crimes in London and the Home Counties. He has friends in high
places. He is said to be a man of great discretion and very considerable professional ability. But he has no knowledge of banking.’
The discussion took its course. Williamson was very firmly against Candidate B.
‘If we are going to employ a man who will trumpet his mission about the place, it would never do. Discretion, we must have discretion.’
Charles Harrison was equally firmly against Candidate A.
‘This fellow may know his way around the mills of Yorkshire and the cotton towns of Lancashire,’ he said dismissively, ‘but surely he would never do in the City.’
‘We do not know, or at least we do not know until somebody begins their investigations, that the murder had anything to do with the City,’ said his uncle, browsing through the
letters of his informants.
‘If we employ Candidate C, won’t we have to spend our time explaining our business to him?’ said Williamson, who seemed to favour hiring nobody at all. ‘That could waste
a lot of the bank’s valuable time.’
‘Let me tell you what I think,’ said Frederick Harrison, eager to sum up before the meeting degenerated into discussions about trivia. I believe Candidate A lacks the right
experience for our purposes. I believe Candidate B may be a competent investigator, but his love of publicity makes him totally unsuitable. I believe we must choose Candidate C – and that, I
should tell you, is also the verdict of the vast majority of opinions canvassed.’
Frederick Harrison did not say that the hardened criminals in Her Majesty’s prisons, to a man, had said that the investigator they would most fear was Candidate C. Frederick Harrison did
throw one name into the ring: ‘Lord Rosebery says he is the best man in the kingdom for this sort of work.’
The name of a former Prime Minister, a man connected through marriage with some of the great princes of the City, a man known to have very considerable investments of his own, had great
influence with Williamson.
‘Rosebery said so, did he now,’ he muttered to himself ‘Rosebery.’
Frederick Harrison chose his moment.
‘Could I ask you, gentlemen, to concur with me in the choice of Candidate C?’
All agreed, Williamson nodding furiously, Charles Harrison looking suddenly apprehensive.
‘Might I ask, Uncle,’ he said quietly, ‘if we could now know the name of Candidate C?’
‘Of course,’ Frederick Harrison smiled. ‘I am going to write to him directly. I shall ask him to call on us at ten o’clock tomorrow morning. Candidate C, gentlemen, is
Lord Francis Powerscourt.’
At half-past ten that evening Lord Francis Powerscourt was taking tea with his sister Mary in Berkeley Square.
‘William will be back any moment, Francis,’ she said. ‘You must be very anxious to see him tonight.’ She peered at her brother as if she suspected he might be in some
sort of money trouble. You could never tell with Francis. ‘Lucy and the children are well?’
‘Splendid, splendid, thank you,’ said Powerscourt. ‘I should tell you,’ he smiled broadly at his sister as if he had been reading her mind, ‘I need to consult
William on a matter of business, something to do with my work.’
Mary looked slightly disappointed. There was a banging of the front door, sounds of a coat and hat being hung up and a William Burke in evening dress burst into the room.
‘Good evening, my dear. Francis, how nice to see you. Even at this hour. I think I know why you have called. Mary, will you excuse us?’
Safely ensconced in his comfortable study, William Burke helped himself to a large cigar.
‘People have been asking about you, Francis, all over the City and elsewhere too, I believe.’ He began the lengthy process of lighting his cigar.
‘Did you discover who they were, William?’
‘I did not. But I can make a pretty good guess. Have you recently had any dealings with Harrison’s Bank?’
‘I think you are in the wrong profession, William,’ said Powerscourt, laughing. ‘This very evening I received a note asking me to call on Harrison’s Bank at ten
o’clock tomorrow morning. I came to ask you for a quick description of the bank, the nature of its business and what you know of the partners in the house.’
Burke paused and took a long draw on his cigar, looking directly at Powerscourt as he did so. Above the fireplace portraits of Mary and his children stared down from their frames, reminding him
even in here of his family obligations.
‘Right, Francis. I will try to give you the broad picture. Harrison’s Bank. I think we should begin with Bismarck. Don’t look so surprised. Just consider the number of
different states in Germany before unification in the 1870s – big ones like Prussia, lots and lots of smaller ones like Hanover and Hesse, Coburg and Würtemburg. In the old Germany
Frankfurt was full of small banking houses doing good business managing their rulers’ money and dealing in foreign exchange and so on between these little principalities. Once they were
united and once they had a single currency, the opportunities for bankers decreased. Some moved to Berlin. Some moved to Vienna, some to New York. But a number came to London. Like the Harrisons
– they still have family connections with banks in Germany, I believe, but their principal centre is now London.’
Burke paused, deciding where to go next.
‘There had been German banks in London before this, of course, so it wasn’t virgin territory for them. Some backed the winner in the Napoleonic Wars and found richer pickings with
the conquerors. Old Mr Harrison, as he was known, the headless man in the river, brought them here and established them as a considerable force in the City.’
‘Do they still have links with Germany?’ asked Powerscourt.
‘They do,’ Burke replied. ‘Like most of the German houses in the City the sons are educated in Germany. Often they begin their careers in Frankfurt or Berlin or Hamburg before
coming back to London. And the German ethos is still strong.’
‘What do you mean by that?’ asked Powerscourt.
‘They work much harder than we do for a start. Most of the clerks in the houses in the City work forty to fifty hours a week. The German ones work sixty or even seventy hours and they are
all expected to be fluent in a couple of other languages as well.’
‘What is their particular speciality, William?’
‘Forgive me,’ said Burke, annoyed with himself suddenly. ‘I am not making the position clear.’ He tapped on his cigar as if collecting his thoughts. Powerscourt
waited.
‘There are in fact two Harrison’s Banks. Harrison’s City – I forget the full name – deals in the City of London, acceptances, issuing loans, the normal sort of
thing. Harrison’s Private is in the West End and looks after the money of the wealthy, like Adams or Coutts. They do a lot of work with charities too, I believe.’
‘Why did they break into two?’ asked Powerscourt.
‘I think there’s a perfectly innocent explanation for that. In Germany the two banking functions, a city bank and a private bank, could have been combined into one. In London we do
things differently. Mr Lothar Harrison – he must be a cousin of the Frederick who runs Harrison’s City – lives in Eastbourne and another cousin called Leopold lives in Cornwall,
just across the bay from Plymouth, in a place called Cawsand. They run the private bank.’
‘Do you think,’ said Powerscourt, ‘that the split could have anything to do with the murder, William?’
‘That’s definitely your department, Francis,’ said Burke. ‘I just stick with the money.’
Powerscourt laughed. ‘You stick with the money, please. But tell me more about Harrison’s City.’
‘They deal in most of the traditional banking areas of London. They are strong on foreign loans and have been very successful in that field. They run a profitable arbitrage business too,
said to be making them a mint of money.’
‘Arbitrage? What, pray, is Arbitrage?’ Powerscourt felt like a new boy at school with only a week to learn all the rules.
‘Sorry, Francis, I should have explained. Arbitrage depends on exploiting tiny price differentials in different markets. It could only be done with the telegraph sending constantly updated
information. Let me put it at its simplest. Suppose you see that Ohio and Continental Railroad stock can be bought for one hundred pounds in New York and sold for one hundred and one and a
fifteenth in London. There is your opportunity. If you are prepared to invest considerable sums into these transactions, you can make a lot of money.’
Powerscourt groaned inwardly at his ignorance of the intricate workings of the City of London. Maybe he would have to come to regular tutorials with his brother-in-law.
‘But there is one fact, I think,’ Burke went on, ‘more important than all of these. I had forgotten it until yesterday when these people inquiring about you reminded me of
it.’
Burke rose from his chair and paced about his study. His house was very quiet now, wife and children retired to the upper floors.
‘Death is no stranger to the House of Harrison, Francis. You could almost say they were cursed. The family tree goes like this. Carl Harrison, Old Mr Harrison of Harrison’s City, the
man found floating by London Bridge, had two brothers and one sister. One brother died in Frankfurt, I believe. His two sons, Leopold and Lothar, as I said, now run the private bank here in London.
The other brother had nothing to do with the bank but his grandson Charles is now a rising force in Harrison’s City. Carl Harrison had two sons, Willi and Frederick. Willi was the elder son.
He built up Harrison’s City after his father retired. The younger brother Frederick played a minor role in the bank’s affairs. They say he did not have the drive of his
brother.’
Powerscourt suspected that the Harrison family tree was going to be almost as complicated as Lady Lucy’s.
‘What happened to Willi?’ Powerscourt suddenly wondered if there might be two strange deaths waiting for him the next morning.
‘Willi was drowned. Or at least everybody presumes he was drowned. He went sailing off Cowes in his little yacht about eighteen months ago. Willi was a very experienced sailor. But he
never came back. The boat was never found. The body was never found. Some of the sailing experts in the City said it was impossible, that Willi and his little boat had disappeared like that. Some
men suspected foul play. But there was never any evidence . . .’