David Dickinson - Death and the Jubilee

‘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 Wurtemburg. 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 . . .’

William Burke left his sentence hanging in the air.

‘Two deaths in the same family in a year and a half. One body never found, another one floating by London Bridge.’ Powerscourt looked sombre. ‘And the young man, Charles Harrison, now, you say, a rising force in Harrison’s City. The old man was his great-uncle, and his four uncles ran the two banks between them. Is that right?’

Burke nodded.

‘Why did he join the City bank rather than the private bank, William?’

Burke tapped some ash into his fireplace.

‘They say he is very ambitious, that he wanted a larger stage to play on than the safe quarters of private banking. I believe he had a miserable childhood. His mother ran off with a Polish count, his father drank himself to death and Charles was shuffled round the other members of his family. I’ve heard that none of them ever wanted him, but they felt they had to bring him up.’

Burke looked at his watch suddenly as if he wanted to retire.

‘One last thing, Francis,’ he said, looking carefully at his brother-in-law. ‘I was asked if you were the man to investigate.’ Burke remembered the hasty conversation on the steps of the Royal Exchange. ‘I said that as your brother-in-law I couldn’t possibly make any recommendations. But speaking off the record I said you were the most brilliant man in England for this kind of work. Pray God I haven’t sent you into some terrible danger.’

‘I am concerned with one aspect of the Curse of the House of Harrison.’ Powerscourt was thinking fast, planning already the moves he might make in this investigation. ‘Let us suppose, just for the sake of argument, that the death of Willi was not an accident. Whatever the motive, the murderer has not got what he wants. So now Old Mr Harrison goes to join his son in the bankers’ heaven, an Elysian Field of profitable loans and successful arbitrage, perhaps. But what if the murderer has still not got what he wanted, William? What happens then?’