Sarah Caudwell - The Sibyl in Her Grave

“My dear Selena,” I said, “it’s most kind of you to think of it. I suppose there’s a snag of some kind?”

“Well, the snag is that the Bank goes to a good deal of trouble to make sure you don’t. It operates, as my client likes to put it, on the basis of a need-to-know system. So buying ice cream for the office boy or chocolates for somebody’s secretary, or even dinner at the Savoy for a senior executive, won’t do you any good, because they won’t have the information you need. My client, until a week ago, believed these systems to be entirely effective, and lived, in that belief, a happy and contented man. But then …”

“But then?” said Julia, perceiving some further encouragement to be expected.

“But then one of the Bank’s computer people, having nothing better to do and some exciting new software to play with, decided to do an analysis of the takeovers which the Bank had been involved in over the past two years. And the results were rather disturbing, because they showed that in at least eight cases there had been a significant increase, immediately before the bid was announced, in the buying of shares in the target company.”

“Phew,” said Julia. “And no one had noticed? Not the Stock Exchange or the Department of Trade or anyone?”

“Well, not so far. It’s really rather a lesson in the value of moderation. You see, if you look at each case separately, the amounts involved weren’t enough to set any alarm bells ringing — never more than one hundred thousand pounds. It’s only when you notice that it’s happened several times to the same bank—”

“Once may be a misfortune, twice looks like carelessness, and eight times—”

“Really must be insider dealing — which of course is not only most improper but a criminal offence. And the only people who knew about all eight takeovers, apart from my client himself and his personal assistant, who has been with him for twenty years and can be trusted, he says, absolutely, are his two potential successors. That is to say — A and B.”

The discovery placed her client in the most painful dilemma. Could he leave the Bank, at the conclusion of a long and honourable career, in hands which might be guilty of such a crime against the laws of England and commercial honour? Unthinkable. Equally so to instigate any official enquiry by the Stock Exchange, which might well of itself prove ruinous to the Bank’s reputation and interests. The only solution to his problem was to identify the person responsible; but in this Selena had been unable to assist him.

“And I suppose one might say that it’s unreasonable of him to expect me to. But you see, he first came to me about a fairly minor matter that I happened to be able to help with and he was evidently rather impressed. Since then he’s behaved as if asking my advice is an infallible solution to every problem, which is the sort of attitude one likes to see in one’s clients and has had a very invigorating effect on my bank balance. So I don’t want him to be disillusioned with me.”

“So far as I recall,” said Julia, “the specialities mentioned under your name in the Law List do not include clairvoyancy You are, it is generally agreed, unrivalled in our generation in your knowledge of the Companies Acts, but you are not Madame Louisa.”

“No,” said Selena. “Who is Madame Louisa?”

“Madame Louisa writes the astrology column in the Daily Scuttle and has amazing gifts. She predicted this morning, I remember, that you might have frustrations in the workplace.”

“I would say,” said Selena, “that her gift is for understatement. What did she say about you?”

“That I might feel anxious about a business transaction, perhaps involving a relative, and that legal advice would be helpful. That too turns out to be an amazingly accurate prediction, though I’m hoping that in this case the advice in question will be my own.” Julia related the disagreement between her aunt and the unhelpful young man from the Revenue.

“But Julia,” said Selena, looking puzzled, and with the diffidence of one perhaps trespassing on a friend’s area of expertise, “what about the individual exemption? Aren’t the first six thousand pounds of capital gains in a fiscal year exempt from tax?”

“Yes, of course,” said Julia. “That’s why people so often forget that capital gains tax exists — the gains of the small private investor are usually covered by the exemption.”

“But then—”

“The claim to tax is on the gains over six thousand pounds. Unfortunately, all the gains were realised in the same financial year.”

“On an initial investment of fifteen hundred pounds?”

“Yes, about that.”

“But Julia, that means that the gains over the year must have been of the order of one thousand percent.”

“Yes,” said Julia. “Yes, when you look at it like that, it’s rather impressive, isn’t it?”

“Over the same period,” said Selena, “the most successful of the investment trusts made gains of just under thirty percent. How on earth did she do it?”

“Just a minute, I’ll show you the list of the shares she bought.” After a relatively brief search among the papers on her desk, Julia found what she seemed to be looking for and handed it to Selena. “But she obviously didn’t tell the man from the Revenue that she was investing on behalf of herself and two other people. If she’d told him that, I don’t see how he could dispute that they’re entitled to three exemptions. So as long as Maurice and Griselda haven’t incurred any other chargeable gains, and as long as the chap from the Revenue doesn’t try to say—”

Selena was looking at the sheet of paper in her hand with an expression of perplexity, one would almost have said of dismay.

“Julia, are you quite sure this is the list your aunt sent you?”

“Yes,” said Julia. “Why shouldn’t it be?”

“Earlier this afternoon, my client handed me a list of the companies which appeared to have been the subject of insider dealing. And all the names on her list are also on his.”

2

IN THE CAFÉwhere I breakfasted on the following Tuesday, on my way to the Public Record Office, someone had left a copy of that day’s edition of the Daily Scuttle , open at the City page. A photograph at once caught my eye: I could not fail to recognise the cherubic features of the gentleman I had last seen on the floor of the Clerks’ Room, in the involuntary embrace of the young carpenter. I made haste to read the accompanying text.

Sir Robert Renfrew, the Chairman of Renfrews’ Bank, is pictured here making his speech of thanks at a dinner held last night in the Guildhall by the Worshipful Company of Thimble and Buttonhook Makers at which he was the guest of honour.

Sir Robert, who is sixty-seven, had been widely expected to use the occasion to drop a broad hint or two as to the identity of his probable successor, a subject on which there has been considerable speculation in the City. Instead, however, he seemed at pains to make it clear that such speculation is premature: he mentioned that he was in excellent health and emphasised that he was enjoying his job more than ever.

Renfrews’ is still a family bank, something of an anachronism in the era of multinational giants. Since its foundation early in the nineteenth century the chairman has always been either a Renfrew or an Albany, the two families being closely linked by marriage. Traditionalists, who include some of the bank’s most valued and prestigious clients, hope that Sir Robert’s successor will be the present deputy chairman Edgar Albany, fifty-one, educated at Eton and Cambridge and a direct descendant of the bank’s founder.