Page 52 of Murder at Somerset House (A Wrexford & Sloane Mystery #9)
W rexford sat back in dismay after he finished poring over the latest report from Horse Guards concerning the military situation in Europe. Things, he conceded, were not looking good.
A week had passed, May had given way to June … and still no reinforcements had arrived in Brussels.
“Where the devil is von Blücher?” he added under his breath. Nobody seemed to know, and without the Prussian general and his army as allies, Wellington would have little chance of defeating Napoleon’s seasoned veterans with the motley assortment of troops currently under his command.
Fisting his hands in frustration—a part of him was sorely tempted to head for Brussels and join forces with his former commander—the earl marched into the adjoining library to consult a portfolio of oversized maps that included one of France and the United Kingdom of the Netherlands.
Paris … Wrexford traced a finger northward. Valenciennes, Mons, Brussels …
His blood began to pound in his ears, as loud as the cadence of military drums. Napoleon’s forces were only a three-day march from Wellington’s headquarters. And God only knew whether they were already on the move.
“Geography does not seem to favor the duke,” he muttered. Nor does the devil-cursed bickering among Britain’s so-called Allies , Wrexford added to himself as he glanced up at the clock.
Be that as it may, it was time to head off to the Foreign Office and confront Fogg.
He paused at his workroom desk before heading to the corridor to gather the page of questions he had composed—
“What the devil …” Paper crackled as he unfolded the note that had been left atop it and read over the contents.
An oath slipped from his lips. And then another.
“Charlotte may have unshakeable faith in you,” he muttered, scowling at von Münch’s elegant copperplate script.
“But as far as I can see, you always seem to hare off on your own escapades just when your help is most needed.” A sigh.
“If I am going to catch the culprits, it appears I will have to do so on my own.”
Raven found Ricardo in one of the secluded nooks of the Stock Exchange and passed over his last batch of slips from the day’s trading. Seeing his mentor’s pensive look, he looked around and then whispered, “May I ask how we’re doing against the bear raid, sir?”
“The tide may be showing signs of turning,” answered Ricardo.
“I, and the jobbers who follow me, have been offering to buy consols at slowly ascending prices. And this has begun to really squeeze the short sellers—keep in mind that they eventually have to buy consols themselves to cover what they have previously sold short.”
Before Raven could react, he forged on. “ But it has required significant funds from me and the others to make these stabilizing purchases. Some of the other jobbers are stretched. A number of them likely borrowed significantly to fund their pur chases. If the consol prices begin to fall, these loans will be called in and all will be lost.”
Ricardo paused, as if to catch his breath.
“I am going to have to find some new investors who might be willing to commit to this … stabilization effort. It’s the only way to keep the necessary pressure on the short sellers.
Any such investor must not only have resources but also be exceedingly discreet.
I’ve explained why disclosure here could do us in.
And given the amounts of capital potentially involved, multiple investors will certainly be required, which compounds the problem considerably. ”
He paused again. “Also, my sense is that the short sellers are straining hard to find more consols to borrow in order to keep up the raid. And that’s a very good sign for us.
However, I’m a bit worried that a few of my fellow jobbers, concerned about their own positions, are lending out consols to the short sellers that they originally purchased from the short sellers in the first place. ”
“Doing what ?”
Seeing Raven’s bewildered look, Ricardo gave a mirthless chuckle.
“Yes, the Stock Exchange and its byzantine practices can be terribly confusing. But don’t worry about those complexities.
The point is that we’re tightening the vise on the short sellers and Gaudin is beginning to realize that he underestimated our ability to see him coming. ”
A grim smile. “The next few days will decide which of us will triumph.”
“Ah, you’re back!” called Charlotte from the parlor, as she heard Wrexford cross the entrance hall and enter the corridor. “Alison has something to share with you.”
“Perhaps it can wait,” he called. “Griffin is with me, and we have some urgent matters to discuss.”
“All the more reason to hear what she has to say,” she replied. “This may have some bearing on what you’re investigating.” A pause. “And I’m sure Griffin would welcome some tea and a platter of Mac’s fresh-baked muffins.”
“Very well.” The earl appeared in the doorway and heaved an exaggerated sigh. “He would never forgive me if I refused him the chance to fill his breadbox at my expense.”
Charlotte smiled at the Runner. “I’ll have Mac bring you a slice of steak and kidney pie as well.”
“Thank you, milady. That would be most welcome.”
“Enough about food!” The dowager rapped her cane on the carpet. “I have some interesting information to feed you.”
“We’re listening,” said the earl.
“Charlotte mentioned the incident in Westminster Abbey and your suspicions about Elias Fogg. So I did a careful check of his family tree.” Alison flashed a cat-in-the-creampot smile.
“And his second cousin, who was raised by Fogg’s family after the death of his parents during a local influenza epidemic, is the Archdeacon of the Abbey. ”
“Well, I’ll be damned,” said Wrexford.
“I think,” murmured Griffin, “that I should make you an honorary Bow Street Runner, Lady Peake.”
The dowager edged forward in her chair. “Are you going to rush off and apprehend the scoundrel now?”
“According to the Foreign Office, Fogg took an extended leave yesterday in order to visit a very sick relative in the north,” said Wrexford. “Griffin and I were just about to discuss whether we have grounds to bring him in for questioning.”
“But based on your information, milady, I and several of my men will immediately head north in pursuit.”
“Fogg may not have gone north,” pointed out Charlotte.
“True,” responded Wrexford. “Which is why I will turn my attention back to tracking down Le Loup. My guess is he and his co-conspirator are still here in London—and are more dangerous than ever as we don’t know what they are after.”
In answer to Ricardo’s urgent summons several days later—he had finally received word that the government was about ready to request bids and see if any of the financier groups would float the massive loan needed for the campaign against Napoleon—Cordelia and Raven hurried up the stairs to the Nicholas Lane office, where they found him pacing up and down in front of the windows overlooking the river.
“I have just heard that the loan needed will be unprecedented—around ￡35 million,” he announced, after gesturing for them to be seated at the table.
“Good Lord, that’s an astronomical sum,” exclaimed Cordelia, as she opened her portfolio and took out a sheaf of papers and some pencils.
“Indeed.” He, too, took a chair. “As you know, when the government requires annual loans of this magnitude, instead of selling bonds directly to the public it sets up a competitive bidding process among a few—hopefully at least four or five—syndicates of prominent financiers and institutions. Every syndicate forms its own list of subscribers, often hundreds of people or companies who want to buy a share of the loan. Now, this usually works well—the government gets its money right away and the winning syndicate makes a profit over time. However, in 1812, due to the perilous times, no syndicate was prepared to bid.”
Ricardo made a face. “The situation now is even more fraught. I already know several of my peers who have decided not to participate.”
“Assuming there are some willing syndicates, how does the bidding actually work?” asked Cordelia.
“The syndicates all bid on a security called the Omnium, which is just a name for a basket of three or four types of consols,” replied their mentor. “In effect, whichever consortium is prepared to offer the highest price for the amount of the Omnium offered by the government wins the bid.”
He took a document from his coat pocket and slid it across the table. “The exact nature of the bidding process and the way a bid must be formulated is actually a good bit more sophisticated than that, but I’ve set out the details here for you to study carefully.”
Ricardo drummed his fingertips on the table for a moment.
“Now, in order for me to contemplate making a bid, I need your help in assessing the current trading patterns of the consols to be included in this year’s Omnium as well as their likely trading price after the newly issued consols are added to the market.
” A pause. “There are also various other timing, tax, and possible discount matters, which I have outlined for you.”
He then slid another piece of paper—it was filled with detailed script and numbers—toward Cordelia.
She skimmed over the contents and turned pale as a ghost.
“If this was a purely straightforward matter,” said Ricardo with a wry twitch of his lips, “then everyone would bid.”
She forced an answering smile. “Quite right, sir.” To Raven she added, “Well, we had better sharpen our pencils and get to work.”
The mood in the city had grown more and more fraught as another week slipped by.
News from across the Channel was confusing.
Nobody seemed to know where Napoleon and his Armée du Nord were.
Rumors and speculations swirled, twisting and twining with the truth until it was impossible to separate one from the other.