George Smythe never admitted that it was the mention of coronations that persuaded him. But it did. He shook Mr Killick by the hand, gave him his card, and set off to find Anastasia and bring the rest of the stolen haul.
The door of Mr Killick’s shop remained closed for the rest of the day.
Richard Wagstaff Gilbert. Richard Wagstaff Gilbert. Johnny Fitzgerald said the name over and over to himself as he began his latest assignment for his friend Powerscourt. It had a certain ring to it. Johnny placed a couple of advertisements in the local newspapers asking for information about the gentleman in connection with a will from Brazil. There were people, Johnny knew, who placed great store in information received from these advertisements in the press, but neither he nor Powerscourt had much faith in them.
Instead he headed for a place his companion in arms would not naturally have associated with him, the financial district of London or, to be more precise, the wilder shores of the City of London. Lady Lucy had indeed been correct in her discoveries about lovers in Warwickshire. Lady Caroline Milne was the lady with whom Johnny was romantically inclined. She was also involved in trying to sort out the financial affairs of her late husband, Sebastian, a man quick over the hedges and fences of hunting country and equally quick, apparently, where money was concerned. Lady Caroline had told Johnny about her problems.
‘Honestly, darling, I wonder if you could help me. There are all these papers in a locked drawer in Sebastian’s study. I’ve had them opened and the solicitors took one look at them and said they were not qualified to give a judgement. Such investments, said the chief legal man, who’s seventy if he’s a day, are unknown in these parts. He gave it as his opinion that such transactions are seldom seen in Warwickshire. Honestly, darling, what’s the old goat there for if he can’t tell me what they mean? I’ve tried to read the wretched things, of course I’ve tried, but they’re simply too boring to read. Could you take it on, Johnny? I’d be so grateful.’
Johnny might not have admitted it to himself, but he would have done virtually anything for Lady Caroline. He discovered that the late Master of the Harbury Hunt was a man permanently short of cash. Rather than selling a few thousand acres, he had dabbled in those investments always to be found in centres of finance, the ones that promise to bring forth a higher return, more ample rewards, than conventional stocks and shares. Well might William Burke and his fellows advise against anything offered at too high an interest rate, to Colonel Sebastian Milne and his ilk, high interest rate were the words they wanted to hear more than anything else in the world.
Most of Johnny’s funds had prospered and grown in the care of William Burke. But he had a secret portfolio of his own. Johnny Fitzgerald liked investing in things he knew about. He had a considerable holding in the stock of the German camera and binocular company whose products he employed on his bird-watching missions. The same with a firm of American clothing manufacturers, whose garments kept Johnny warm in all conditions. Careful not to put all his eggs in foreign baskets, he also had shares in a couple of English breweries whose beer he liked. He told himself that Burke would feel the beer holdings balanced out the foreigners.
This morning Johnny was on his way to see the principal investment adviser to the late Colonel Sebastian Milne, a man called Sweetie Robinson, whose offices were close to, but not in, Chancery Lane. Johnny had had many dealings with him already over the financial affairs of the late Colonel. Cynics — and there were many, it has to be said — claimed that Sweetie felt he would be protected by the proximity of all these lawyers, silks and briefs available for hire like taxis at the great London railway stations. Of the origins of the name Sweetie there were many theories, the favourite being that he owned stock in all the sweet manufacturers in the capital, so much did he like their products. The other was that it was a term of affection bestowed on him by one of the many wives and mistresses who had graced his life, the endearment being passed down, as it were, through the female line.
‘Johnny Fitzgerald,’ Sweetie bawled as Johnny sat down in his office, ‘how good to see you! I’ve got some papers for you by the way, don’t let me forget them, about our mutual friend the late Colonel. Don’t suppose the widow will like them, for they show a bundle of losses. Never mind, Johnny, I’m sure you’ll be able to offer other forms of consolation!’
With that he guffawed and blew a vast cloud of smoke from his cigar. ‘Now then,’ Sweetie went on, what brings you to this lawyers’ conclave today, my friend?’
‘I want some advice, Sweetie, and I can’t think of a better spot to get it than here.’
‘I’m sure you’ve come to the right place,’ said Sweetie, pausing to wave at a couple of silks on their way to glory in court. ‘What do you need in the way of investments? I’ve had a couple of dodgy ones pass through here in recent days, I should say: mining for gold in the Peloponnese, on the grounds that there was so much gold about that the Spartans must have had a source for it. And — ’ Sweetie helped himself to a humbug from the bowl in front of him — ‘what about this: advertisements for a fund to investigate turning water into wine. Man said if some uneducated carpenter’s son could manage it at a wedding in the Middle East, surely it could not be beyond the wit of man to reproduce it here and now in the West End of London. Shares start at five pounds a pop. Few takers so far, I’m told.’
‘Did the man offer the reverse?’
‘I’m not with you, Johnny. Explain yourself, man.’
‘Why, if they learnt how to turn water into wine, they could surely turn wine into water by the opposite process?’
Johnny was appalled at the thought of these alchemists being let loose in the vineyards of Burgundy or Bordeaux. It would be the end of the world as he had known it.
‘Don’t think there’ll be many takers, as I said.’
‘Well, that’s a relief,’ said Johnny, pleased that the vineyards of Europe had been reprieved. ‘I want to ask you about a man called Richard Wagstaff Gilbert. What do you know of the fellow?’
Sweetie laughed and helped himself to a replacement humbug. ‘Richard Wagstaff Gilbert, or Waggers as he’s known in the less respectable parts of the Square Mile. I knew his past would come up and nip him in the leg one of these days. What’s he been up to that I haven’t heard about?’
‘I’m afraid the trumpets aren’t sounding for him just yet on the other side,’ said Johnny, eyeing the humbugs suspiciously. ‘It’s just that I need to know what sort of man he is, how he makes his money, that sort of thing.’
Sweetie turned in his chair and looked out of his window. No cavalcade of lawyers could be seen to offer reassurance.
‘Waggers, I’ll tell you the thing about Waggers, as he’s known in these parts. You know how some blackguards are often referred to as two-faced bastards, or even ruder words than bastards. Well, Waggers has at least four faces, probably even more that I don’t know about. The surface Waggers — what you get when you open the parcel, if you like — is deep into investment trusts. He believes — and there are many who would agree with him — that these collective vehicles, these umbrella companies, holding a wide variety of stock in different parts of the world, are the way forward. There is no more tireless promoter of them than Waggers.
‘Dig a little deeper and you find Waggers the promoter, Waggers the back-room boy, if you like; a man operating, almost in the darkness, to promote certain new issues. I know for a fact that he has been pushing the mining in the Peloponnesian venture. But — and this is the curious thing — he never invests himself. Not a sou or a mark or a franc or a rouble or even a dollar leaves his coffers for these attractive new ventures.’