Iain Pears - Stone's Fall

'Let's abandon that idea,' I said finally. But I had no other to replace it.

Stone pursed his lips. 'The only option is to write a letter, and get someone to take it. There I can help. That is, I can provide pen, paper, envelope and a trustworthy man.' He looked at his watch. 'Might just get the eleven o'clock train, I think. With luck you should have your letter delivered by Saturday lunchtime. If you can find someone to deliver it to.'

He looked at my despondent air. 'Marvels of modern technology,' he said. 'When I was young it still took nearly twenty-four hours to get from Paris to London.'

I sighed. 'No alternative, is there? Very well, then. I will write a letter.'

Stone nodded. 'Come back to my hotel and do it there. Xanthos will take it; you can hand it to him when you are finished.'

So that is what I did; I spent the next hour in Stone's apartment at the Hôtel du Louvre, carefully crafting a letter to Wilkinson, explaining exactly what I had discovered, what I suspected, and what I thought should be done about it. I was a bit hazy about the final part as, in truth, I could not see what might be done. Even if Xanthos was as efficient as Stone said, the timing would still be tight. Finding the owners of Barings, the directors of the Bank of England, would take time. Getting them all together, deciding on some course of action . . .

Stone evidently had the same thought. He, I suspected, was writing letters as well, and I thought I knew what was in them. He wanted to hit the market with sales orders first thing Monday morning, to unload as many of his stocks as possible before anyone else suspected what might be about to happen. I couldn't blame him, of course.

'And do not lose them, Xanthos,' Stone said as he handed over the letters to his secretary. 'It is vital that these reach Wilkinson and Bartoli as soon as possible.'

The secretary put the envelopes carefully in the inside pocket of his jacket.

'A promising young man,' Stone said. 'You need have no concerns. He is so eager to get on he would swim the Channel if it was necessary to do his job. A drink, Mr Cort?' I was quite exhausted; it had been a busy day. But I accepted nonetheless.

'An interesting business,' he said once the servant had served the drinks and withdrawn. 'It gives a whole new meaning to the idea of modern warfare. It is fascinating to think what might be the motives of the people involved.'

'They want to destroy London and the Empire.'

'Oh, yes, of course. But why? From what you tell me, it seems to be the French and the Russians acting together, after a fashion. Which is curious, is it not? The only republic in Europe and the Great Despot of the East? An unlikely pair, I think.'

I shrugged. 'The French hate us because of the Empire, the Germans because of the war, and the Russians because of their politics. Not that it matters. My interests are more short-term. How to stop it.'

'Maybe it cannot be stopped,' he replied mildly. 'While you were writing your letter, I was checking your figures. You are quite right. There is not enough gold, at the moment, to contain a run on the banks. Even if all the bankers were pulled together in one room, and all agreed to pool their reserves, there still would not be enough.'

We sat in silence for a while, considering the dreadful possibilities that lay ahead for next week. My feeling of failure was quite overwhelming. If I had only found out about this a few days earlier – even two days would have made all the difference – then the situation would have been entirely different. But I was wasting my time with minor nonsense – trying to find out the specifications, and the purpose, of a new French cruiser then being laid down at Brest, and more particularly being diverted by the problem of Elizabeth's diaries – and failed to see what was going on. I had thought it was an abstract problem, not something real and imminent.

'I wonder though . . .' I began.

'What do you wonder?'

'Well, I told you of my conversation with Netscher, did I not? The conversation that started all this off?'

Stone nodded.

'He sounded scornful of the idea. And he is an influential man.'

'A very fine one, as well,' Stone added. 'I have a great deal of time for him. As bankers go, he is one of the best. Although, as you realise, I do not have much time for them, on the whole.'

'So what if there are others like him? Who think that this is disruptive of the smooth ordering of world trade, an unwarranted intrusion of politics into the pure and pristine world of money.'

'Go on.'

'Who has the more influence? People like Netscher, or the people organising this?'

'As we don't know who is behind it . . .'

'What I mean is, are we seeing a faction fight here? Money against politics? Is this in fact a coherent policy, or a private venture? To put it another way, could this be reversed if we got to the right people?'

Stone considered. 'It would depend on the price, would it not? What would the French, the Russians, want? Besides, is this your job? Should you not go to the Embassy and let them deal with it?'

I had never even considered that, but it was easy enough to dismiss it. 'You know the Ambassador?'

Stone nodded.

'Do I need to say more then?'

He smiled. 'Not the most effective of men, I agree. Nonetheless, I think you should keep him informed.'

'I think I will go and see Netscher,' I said. 'It's not as if I will be divulging anything which isn't going to be common knowledge in a day or so. Besides, he might well know all about it. If he can be persuaded to help in some way . . .'

Stone stood. 'It is worth a try, I suppose. As you say, it can't do much harm now. Now, if you will excuse me, I have a dinner appointment.'

'Oh, I do beg your pardon!' I said. 'I have taken up too much of your time.'

'On the contrary; it has been most interesting. Ah . . .'

'Yes?'

'Well, you may need to contact me in the next few days. Should I not be here, then you might call at the Countess's house.'

He said it quite calmly, but I could quite plainly sense the awkwardness underlying his words. Stone was not a sophisticated man of the world; he was perfectly incapable of passing off such a statement in a matter-of-fact manner, however hard he tried.

Why do French bankers insist on living so far away? The richest had migrated out of Paris entirely, and congregated upriver in St-Germain-en-Laye, miles away. There they had their pocket châteaux, the huge grounds, the children, and the servants, all the space they needed, apart from the further estates they kept in the country, the vineyards in Bordeaux or in Burgundy. So much easier if they had congregated in the French equivalent of Mayfair or Belgravia, as English bankers did.

When I got up the next morning, after only a couple of hours' sleep, and took the tram to St-Germain, I had neither appointment nor guarantee of finding Netscher at home. I wasn't even certain I'd be able to get through the main gate to the house. But I managed, although I had to climb over a fence and wade through brambles to overcome the gate problem, then brave barking dogs, a virtual schoolroom of screaming children, three maids and a nanny – all belonging to Netscher fils – before I penetrated the main house, knocked and sat, looking very grumpy and feeling not unlike a travelling salesman, in the main hallway.

Netscher, however, was a gentleman; my unorthodox arrival and slightly weary appearance did not upset him one jot, even though it was Saturday. Instead, he had me shown into his office, disappeared to make his apologies to his family. Then he returned, announcing that he had asked for breakfast to be brought.

'You do not look like someone who is capable of surviving an encounter with my grandchildren,' he said with a smile.