The Mysteries of London Volume 1

by Reynolds, George W. M.

  “I understand you, sir,” said the count: “and in order to meet your convenience, I am ready to receive the securities you mention, payable at early dates, instead of specie.”

  “Oh! well—that alters the question,” cried Mr. Greenwood, an idea apparently striking him at that moment. “I am acquainted with one of the richest bankers in London—intimately acquainted with him:—would you have any objection for him to take my place in respect to you, and become the holder of your capital—say for a period of six months?”

  “Who is the banker?” asked the count.

  “James Tomlinson,” answered the financier.

  “I know the name well. Are you serious in your proposal?”

  “Call upon me to-morrow at twelve o’clock, and we will proceed together to Mr. Tomlinson’s banking house in the city. I will have the whole affair arranged for you in the course of an hour after our arrival at his establishment.”

  “I rely upon your word, Mr. Greenwood,” returned the count.

  The financier then took his departure.

  CHAPTER LIV.

  THE BANKER.

  THE native of London is as proud of the City as if it were his own property. He can afford to be called a cockney for having been born within the sound of Bow bells, for there are merchant-princes, and the peers and monopolists of the commerce of the world, who bear the nickname as well as he.

  And well may the Londoner be proud of his city in numerous respects. It is the richest and the most powerful that the world has ever seen! The dingy back parlours in Lombard Street, the upstairs business rooms in Cheapside, and the warehouses with shutters half up the windows in Wood Street and its neighbourhood, are the mysterious places in which the springs of the finance and trade of a mighty empire are set in motion? Half a dozen men in the City can command in an hour more wealth than either Rome or Babylon had to boast of at the respective periods of their greatest prosperity. And neither Rome nor Babylon possessed drapers who cleared their fifty thousand a-year by selling gowns and shawls, nor sugar-bakers with a million in hard cash, nor grocers with a plum in each hand, nor brewers to whom the rise or fall of one halfpenny per pot in the price of beer makes a difference of forty thousand pounds per annum! Rome, Babylon, Thebes, and Carthage, could all have been purchased by the East India Company—with perhaps a mortgage upon the India Docks!

  But the reader must not imagine that all which glitters is gold. Amongst the most splendid establishments in London, and those most wealthy in appearance, there are some in a hopeless state of insolvency. To one of these we shall now introduce those who may choose to accompany us thither.

  The well-known banking-house of James Tomlinson was situated in Lombard Street. The establishment was not extensive; nor were there a great many clerks, because it did little agency business for country banks, but was chiefly a house of deposit. It enjoyed a high reputation, and was considered as safe as the presumed wealth, integrity, and experience of its proprietor were likely to render it. It was moreover believed that the father of James Tomlinson was a sleeping partner; and as the old gentleman had retired from the business of oilman with an immense fortune, the bank was presumed to possess every guarantee of stability. It had existed for upwards of sixty years, having been founded and most successfully carried on by an uncle of James Tomlinson. James himself had originally entered the establishment as a clerk, whence he rose to be a partner, and finally found himself at the head of the concern at his uncle’s death.

  James Tomlinson was not an extravagant man; but he was not possessed of the ability and experience for which the world gave him credit. In the year 1826, and at the age of forty, he found himself at the head of a flourishing and respectable establishment. He was indeed the sole proprietor, for his father was in reality totally unconnected with it as a partner. James was intimately acquainted with the mechanical routine of the bank business; but he was deficient in those powers of combination and faculties of foresight which were necessary to enable him to lay out to the best advantage the moneys deposited in his hands. With good intentions, he lacked talent. He was an excellent head clerk or junior partner; but he was totally unfitted for supreme management. Thus was it that in two or three years he experienced serious reverses; and, although he carefully concealed the failure of his operations from all human eyes, the very safety of his establishment was seriously compromised. The French Revolution of 1830 ruined a Paris house to which Tomlinson had advanced a considerable sum; and this blow consummated the insolvency of his bank.

  He was then compelled to make a confidant of his cashier, an old and faithful servant of his uncle, and of frugal habits, and kind but eccentric disposition. Michael Martin was this individual’s name. He was of very repulsive appearance, stooping in his gait, blear-eyed, and dirty in person. He took vast quantities of snuff; but as much lodged upon his shirt-frill and waistcoat as was thrust up his nose. Thus his linen was invariably filthy in the extreme. His dress was a suit of seedy black; and the right thigh of his trousers was brown and grimy with the marks of snuff—for upon that part of his attire did he invariably wipe his finger and thumb after taking a pinch of his brown rappee.

  Such was the individual whom Tomlinson took into his confidence, when the affairs of the bank grew desperate. Old Martin was as close and reserved as if he were both deaf and dumb; and he was moreover possessed of a peculiar craftiness and cunning which admirably fitted him for the part that he was now to enact. Although it was next to impossible to retrieve the affairs of the bank, so great was the deficiency, still Michael Martin assured his master that it was quite probable that they might be enabled to carry on the establishment for a length of time—perhaps even many years, the chances that the draughts upon the bank would not equal the deposits being in their favour.

  Thus was this insolvent and ruined establishment carried on, with seeming respectability and success, by the perseverance of Tomlinson, and the skill and craft of old Martin.

  We shall now introduce our readers into the parlour of the bank, at ten o’clock in the morning after the incidents related in the preceding chapter.

  James Tomlinson had just arrived, and was standing before the fire, glancing over the City Article of The Times. He was a fine, tall, good-looking man, plainly dressed, and without the slightest affectation either in manner or attire. The bluntness and apparent straightforwardness of his character had won and secured him many friends amongst a class of men who regard frankness of disposition and plainness of demeanour as qualities indicative of solidity of position and regular habits of business. Then he was always at his post—always to be seen; and hence unlimited confidence was placed in him!

  Having glanced over the newspaper which he held in his hand, he rang the bell. A clerk responded to the summons.

  “Is Mr. Martin come yet?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Tell him to step this way.”

  The clerk withdrew; and the old cashier entered the room, the door of which he carefully closed.

  “Good morning, Michael,” said the banker. “What news?”

  “Worse and worse,” answered the old man, with a species of savage grunt. “We have had a sad time of it for the last three months.”

  “For the last seven or eight years, you may say,” observed Tomlinson, with a sigh; and then his countenance suddenly wore an expression of ineffable despair—as evanescent as it was poignant.

  “At first the work was easy enough,” said Michael: “a little combination and tact enabled us to struggle on; but latterly the concern has fallen into so desperate a condition, that I really fear when I come in the morning that it will never last through the day.”

  “My God! my God! what a life!” exclaimed Tomlinson. “And there are hundreds and thousands who pass up the street every day, and who say within themselves. ‘How I wish I was James Tomlinson!�
�� Heavens! I would that I were a beggar in the street—a sweeper of a crossing—a pauper in a workhouse——”

  “Come—this is folly,” interrupted the old cashier, impatiently. “We must go on to the end.”

  “What is the state of your book this morning?” demanded the banker, putting the question with evident alarm—almost amounting to horror.

  “Three thousand four hundred pounds, eighteen shillings, in specie—sixteen hundred and thirty-five in notes,” answered the cashier.

  “Is that all!” ejaculated Tomlinson. “And this morning we have to pay Greenwood the two thousand pounds he lent me six weeks ago.”

  “We can’t part with the money,” said the cashier rudely. “Greenwood knows the circumstances of the bank, and must give time.”

  “You know what Greenwood is, Michael,” exclaimed the banker. “If we are not punctual with him, he will never lend us another shilling; and what should we have done without him on several occasions?”

  “I know all that. But look at the interest he makes you pay,” muttered the cashier.

  “And look at the risk he runs,” added the banker.

  “He finds it worth his while. I calculated the other day that we paid him three thousand pounds last year for interest only: we can’t go on much longer at that rate.”

  “I had almost said that the sooner it ends the better,” cried Tomlinson. “What low trickery—what meanness—what abominable craft, have we been compelled to resort to! Oh! if that affair with the Treasury three years ago had only turned up well—if we could have secured the operation, we should have retrieved all our losses, enormous as they are—we should have built up the fortunes of the establishment upon a more solid foundation than ever!”

  “That was indeed a misfortune,” observed the cashier, taking a huge pinch of snuff.

  “And how the Chancellor of the Exchequer obtained his information about me—at the eleventh hour—after all previous inquiries were known to be satisfactory,” continued Tomlinson, “I never could conjecture. At that time the secret was confined to you and me, and my father, to whom I communicated it, you remember, in that letter which I wrote to him soliciting the fifty thousand pounds.”

  “Which sum saved the bank at that period,” observed Michael.

  “Never shall I forget the day when I called at the Treasury for the decision of the government relative to my proposal,” returned Tomlinson. “The functionary who received me, said in so pointed a manner, ‘Mr. Tomlinson, you have not dealt candidly with us relative to your true position; your secret is known to us; but rest assured that, although we decline any negotiation with you, we will not betray you.’ This announcement came upon me like a thunder-stroke: I was literally paralysed. The functionary added with a sort of triumphant and yet mysterious smile, ‘There is not a secret connected with the true position of any individual of any consequence in the City which escapes our knowledge. The government, sir, is omniscient!’ God alone can divine the sources of this intimate acquaintance with things locked up, as it were, in one’s own bosom!” added the banker, thoughtfully.

  “And this is not the only case in which such secrets have been discovered by the government,” said the old cashier, again regaling his nose with a copious pinch of snuff.

  “Yes, I myself have heard of other instances,” observed the banker, with a shudder. “I have known great firms expend large sums of money to obtain particular information from Paris, Frankfort, and Madrid, by means of couriers; and this information has been despatched by letter to their agents at Liverpool and Manchester, and elsewhere, to answer certain commercial or financial purposes. Well, that information has been known to government within a few hours, and the government broker has bought or sold stock accordingly!”

  “But how could the government obtain that information?” demanded Martin. “Some treachery——”

  “No—impossible! The government has gleaned its knowledge when every human precaution against treachery and fraud was adopted. Look at my own case!” continued Tomlinson. “You, my father, and myself alone, knew my secret. On you I can reckon as a man can reckon upon his own self: my father was incapable of betraying me; and I of course should not have divulged my own ruin. And yet the secret became known to the government. I shudder, Michael—oh! I shudder when I think that we dwell in a country which vaunts its freedom, yet where there exists the secret, dark, and mysterious element of the most hideous despotism!”

  At this moment a clerk entered, and informed the cashier that he was wanted in the public office.

  As soon as Michael had disappeared, the banker walked up and down his parlour, a prey to the most maddening reflections. There were but five thousand pounds left in the safe; two thousand were to be paid to Greenwood; and every minute a cheque, or two or three cheques might be presented, which would crush the bank at one blow.

  “One hundred and eighty thousand pounds of liability,” murmured Tomlinson to himself, “and five thousand pounds to meet it!”

  Ah! little thought those who passed by the banking-house at that moment, what heart-felt, horrible tortures were endured by the master of the establishment in his own parlour!

  At length Martin returned.

  His countenance never revealed any emotions; but he took snuff wholesale—and that was a fearful omen.

  “Well?” said Tomlinson, in a hoarse and hollow voice.

  “Alderman Phipps just drawn for twelve hundred pounds, and Colonel Brown for eight hundred,” replied the cashier.

  “Two thousand gone in a minute!” ejaculated the banker.

  “Shall I pay any more?” asked the cashier.

  “Yes—pay, pay up to the last farthing!” answered Tomlinson. “An accident—a chance may save us, as oftentimes before! And yet methinks, Michael, that we never stood so near the verge of ruin as we do to-day.”

  “Never,” said the old man coldly.

  “And is there no expedient by which we can raise a few thousands, or even a few hundreds, for immediate wants?”

  “None that I know of,” returned Martin, taking more snuff.

  At that moment Mr. Greenwood was announced, and Michael withdrew from the parlour.

  “You have called for your two thousand pounds?” said the banker, after the usual interchange of civilities.

  “Yes: I require that sum particularly this morning, replied the financier; “for I am pledged to pay fifteen thousand at twelve o’clock to Count Alteroni.”

  “This is very unfortunate,” observed Tomlinson. “I am literally in this position—take the money, and I must stop payment the next moment.”

  “That is disagreeable, no doubt,” said Greenwood; “but the count is urgent, and I cannot put him off.”

  “My God!” cried Tomlinson; “what can I do? Greenwood—my good friend—I know you are rich—I know you can raise any amount you choose: pray do not push me this morning.”

  “What am I to do, my dear fellow?” said the financier: “I must satisfy this count—and I really cannot manage without the two thousand. I could let you have them again in a fortnight.”

  “A fortnight!” ejaculated the banker, clenching his fists; “to-morrow it might be too late. Can you suggest no plan? can you devise no scheme? Let me keep these two thousand pounds for six weeks longer—a month longer; and ask me—ask me what you will! I am desperate—I will do anything you bid me!”

  “Tell me how I can satisfy this ravenous Italian,” said Greenwood, “and I will let you keep the money for six months.”

  “You say you have to settle with this count for fifteen thousand pounds?” inquired the banker.

  Greenwood nodded an affirmative.

  “And does he require it all in hard cash?”

  “No—he will take the security of any respon
sible person, or apparently responsible person,” added the financier, with a significant smile, “payable in six months.”

  Tomlinson appeared to reflect profoundly.

  His reverie was interrupted by the entrance of old Martin, taking snuff more vehemently than ever.

  The cashier whispered something in the banker’s ear, and then again retired.

  “Seven hundred and fifty more gone!” cried Tomlinson; “and now, Greenwood, there remains in the safe but a fraction more than your two thousand pounds. Dictate your own terms!”

  This was precisely the point to which the financier was anxious to arrive.

  “Listen,” he said, playing with his watch-chain. “This Count Alteroni will accept of you as his debtor instead of me. Take the responsibility off me on to your own shoulders, and I make you a present of the two thousand pounds!”

  “What!” ejaculated Tomlinson; “incur a liability of fifteen thousand to this count! Greenwood, you never can be serious?”

  “I never was more serious in my life,” returned the financier coolly. “If you fail before the six months have elapsed, fifteen thousand more or less on your books will be nothing: if you contrive to carry on the establishment until the expiration of that period, I will help you out of the dilemma.”

  “You are not reasonable—you are anxious to crush me at once!” cried Tomlinson. “Well, be it so, Mr. Greenwood! Take your two thousand pounds——”

  “And leave you to put up a notice on your doors—eh?” said Greenwood, still playing with his watch-chain.