by Carol Hedges
“Trust me, Langland,” Boxworth grins, showing a row of grey tombstone teeth, “once the public sees the brochures and hears about the opportunities for making money, nothing will stop them. We’ll have to hold them back, I can tell you right now. The Boxland Joint Stock Railway Company is going to make us both very, very wealthy men. Your name fronting it, my business ability building it, we can’t lose!
“But this time, there’ll be no … little difficulties, eh?” Boxworth continues, puffing cigar smoke rings at the painted ceiling. “No last minute hiccups. No third parties poking their noses in. No midnight escapades. I tell you straight, Langland, you’ll be on your own if there are, coz I’m not going to save your reputation again. Pulled your irons out of the fire last time and a pretty risky operation it was. Once was quite enough.”
The Honourable MP sits a little more upright. “I can assure you, Boxworth, nothing of that sort will happen again this time.” he says stiffly.
“Good show,” the speculator nods. He tosses back the last of his brandy, then levers himself out of his seat. “Right then, I’ll be off. Thanks for the dinner, Langland. Appreciated, as always, and I’ll see you tomorrow morning at the meeting.”
He rolls towards the door, waving a fat hand as he departs. Langland watches him, anger hardening his face. Bad enough that he has to deal with this man, but that he should threaten him ~ him? It is not to be tolerated. Without his patronage and liberal string-pulling, Boxworth would be nothing. A small-time speculative builder living in a dingy backstreet, instead of a fine new house in Chalk Farm. That was the trouble with the lower classes. You give them the benefit of your patronage, you haul them out of the gutter they are squatting in, you do them innumerable favours, you make them what they are today, and as a result, they decide they are now as good as you.
Langland sits on, brooding. Eventually, he stubs out the cigar and calls for his hat and stick. He has no committee meetings scheduled, nor is he down to speak in the House. He has one important appointment he must keep, though. It is said you can’t con a con man. Langland is about to test that theory out to its fullest extent. He hauls his watch out of his waistcoat pocket and asks the doorman to whistle him up a cab.
A short while later, the Honourable Thomas Langland, MP arrives back at his parliamentary office. Instructing the clerk, whose name he still cannot remember, that he is expecting a visitor and when the man arrives, he is to be shown straight through, he then busies himself with re-arranging the letters on his desk, none of which will be read, as he has far better things to focus on than the woes and worries of his constituents.
Eventually, the visitor is announced. Langland rises from behind the desk, his face wreathed in a smile of welcome. He settles the visitor in one of the chairs, calls for coffee (which is refused), then returns to his own seat, resting his chin on his hands and waits, expectantly. It is a technique he has honed over the years. Always wait for the prey to actually enter the trap before striking.
Arthur Harbinger (for it is he) clears his throat importantly, and removes his gloves, placing them carefully on the arm of his chair. Then he opens his briefcase and takes out a brochure. “Well, Langland, I have studied the information you so kindly sent me,” he says, “and I am extremely impressed by your proposal, I have to say. I have always taken an interest in the growth of the railway business. Those who got in right at the start have made fortunes, have they not?”
Langland agrees. They have indeed. He, amongst them.
“So, I am honoured to be invited to be an early investor in your new enterprise,” Harbinger goes on. “How many shares are you offering?”
Langland pretends to consider this carefully. “We have received many inquiries already,” he says, studying the far wall intently. “A new railway company is always of great interest, as you say, and despite trying to keep the news private, alas, it has leaked out, as these things do. There will be a public meeting held tomorrow, as you know, at which people of independent financial means can come, listen to the proposal, and then invest as they see fit.
“I am, however, in the fortunate position of being able to offer you a chance to secure your partnership in the enterprise before we go public. I consider you a valued friend. I think a total of two hundred and sixty shares would insure you a good stake in the enterprise ~ maybe even a seat on the board? Perhaps you might like to attend our inaugural company meeting tomorrow? What say you? Are you with us?”
The number has been carefully chosen before the visit ~ not too large, not too small. Langland waits for the bait to be taken. He does not have to wait long.
“I am with you every step of the way, or should I say, every inch of track?” Harbinger laughs, leaning eagerly forward in his seat. “Now, let us get down to brass tacks. I am keen to have as much of a stake in the Boxland Joint Stock Railway Company as I possibly can.”
And it is as easy as that.
Sometime later, Arthur Harbinger emerges into the sunshine, having agreed the sum that will guarantee him a major share in the Boxland Joint Stock Railway Company and give him a seat on the board as one of the directors. It is a great deal more money than he intended to part with. He feels lightheaded with excitement. He is on the board of a brand-new railway company! His name will appear at the head of any correspondence. He will attend shareholders’ meetings and pocket dividends galore. One in the eye for his little brother, he thinks. He cannot wait to parade his good fortune in front of him.
Harbinger walks to the nearest cab stand and directs the driver to take him to his bank. He is going to have to arrange to borrow some money, on a very temporary basis of course, to fund his contribution to the proposed enterprise, as he does not currently have nearly enough in his bank account to back the cheque. A short-term bridging-loan. But he will be able to pay it back, he reminds himself, just as soon as his wretched Aunt Euphemia shuffles off to the next life.
Meanwhile, Thomas Langland makes a careful note of the conversation that has just taken place, and places it in the Boxland folder on his desk, for future reference. No paperwork has changed hands, of course; the deal has been done on a handshake between two gentlemen, whose word is as good as their bond. Especially when one of them is an Honourable Member of Parliament.
Let us now follow Arthur Harbinger as he makes his way to Carson & Stevens private bank in Threadneedle Street. It is one of many private banking concerns in the City of London. He enters the impressive portals. Here are sombre-suited clerks behind wooden partitions, their heads bent over their day-books as they add and subtract, cast-up accounts and weigh out gold and silver, which they transfer with their small brass shovels over the counter to their waiting customers.
Harbinger is approached by one of the senior clerks, who conducts him into the dark-panelled inner sanctum, where Mr Carson, a noble-featured man with silver hair, who is clad in an old-fashioned black frock coat and spotless white cravat, rises from behind his desk and welcomes him with a warm smile and an extended hand of ritual greeting, for both men are members of the same Lodge. Harbinger has banked here since the bank itself was formed, thus Carson & Stevens are the beneficiaries of many years of reputable business transactions. And a few slightly less reputable.
“Please be seated, Mr Harbinger,” Carson says. “How are things in the great world of insurance?”
“Oh, fine, as always,” Harbinger says, carefully smoothing out the creases in his trousers. “So profitable, in fact, that I have come to request a small short-term loan to invest in an enterprise that I expect to make me a very healthy profit.”
The banker steeples his fingers under his chiselled chin and leans forward, an inquiring expression upon his face.
“I have recently become a shareholder in the Boxland Joint Stock Railway Company,” Harbinger says. “Here is a copy of the brochure. You will see that an MP of impeachable pedigree and integrity is one of the joint founders of the company.”
“I do see that, and I congratulate you.”
Harbinger l
ooks down modestly. “Thank you. Now, here is my quandary. I have pledged an initial sum of forty thousand pound against the success of the enterprise. If the bank could see its way to advancing me the money, it would secure the immediate future of the company and enable us to move forward at pace. I would, naturally, use my own contacts to make sure that the bank increased its customers and investors as a result. I flatter myself that I am not without influence in various fields of business and elsewhere. And I am on the cusp of acquiring a large amount of money from the Will of a close relative.”
“It is a very large sum of money indeed, Mr Harbinger. Let me study the brochure,” the banker says. “In my position as head of this bank, every business-like precaution has to be taken. I have my own shareholders’ interests to consider.”
“Of course. Please take as long as you wish. I am entirely at your disposal,” Harbinger says, staring at the opposite wall with an expression of polite concern. He is pretty sure this is a formality. The money will be forthcoming. The opportunity is too enticingly tempting. “We, the shareholders of the company, will repay you with whatever rate you think right to charge,” he adds.
The banker reads. The clock ticks. Harbinger allows his mind to dwell upon the glorious future and how he intends to spend it. After a decent interval, the banker raises his head and nods. Harbinger rises, effusively expressing his gratitude. They shake hands again. Then the banker calls for his cashier and orders him to pay over forty thousand-pound notes.
Harbinger walks out of the bank, the banknotes folded and hidden, and turns his footsteps towards the West End. Warm rain is steadily falling. He hails a cab and tells the driver to take him to his Club. It is time to celebrate. Beyond the cab’s windows, the streets glitter with rain. If he half-closes his eyes, he sees not raindrops but golden guineas tumbling from the sky.
****
Next morning, bright and early, a police sergeant from Marylebone Police Office arrives at the Excelsior Hotel to take some more details from the Harbinger family. Contrary to hopes and expectations, Harriet has still not turned up, but on the positive side, there have been no bodies found overnight that answer to her description.
As his wife remains prostrate with grief, Sherborne is forced to deal with the sergeant alone. Woodenly, he supplies the details requested, realising, as his memory strains to answer the officer, that he is barely able to recall such details as the colour of his daughter’s eyes or whether she had any distinguishing marks on her body. Let alone what she was wearing when she went missing. Clothes, he presumes, but that is about as far as he can go.
It is as if Harriet has lived amongst them, but almost invisibly. And now she has gone, leaving only a feeling of anger that her foolish and reckless actions have caused him so many problems. His anger grows exponentially when the door to the hotel’s smoking room unexpectedly opens to admit his brother Arthur, whose eyes widen in astonishment upon seeing a uniformed policeman in close consultation with his younger brother.
“Hulloo … what is up?” he asks, approaching them.
Sherborne hastily closes down the interview, promising the police officer he will await any news. As soon as the sergeant has left, Arthur drags over an armchair and sits down, leaning forward, his lean features alight with interest.
“Well, well, brother Sherborne ~ this is a sight I did not expect to see. I came hoping to hear you had come up with a plan to thwart our little sister and secure our inheritance. And now I find you being questioned by the constabulary. What crime have you committed, eh? I hope it has nothing to do with our aunt ~ don’t tell me you have made use of her pillow!”
Sherborne clenches his teeth in annoyance. “Harriet has gone missing,” he tells Arthur. “I told Charlotte from the start that it was a mistake to bring her to London. I said she’d be better off staying in the house with the governess, but she whined and wheedled. Said she wanted to make sure the blasted parrot didn’t come to any harm. And now she’s disappeared from the hotel, and God knows where she’s gone.”
Arthur Harbinger stares at him, a pitying expression on his face. Just as he did when they were youngsters, and his brother had done something idiotic, for which he would suffer later on, when it was related, in great detail, to their father. As it always was.
“Oh, I think we can do better than the Deity,” Arthur smiles thinly. “You mentioned the parrot? Use your brain, little brother. Where is the bird? Yes ~ I see you follow me. The girl has gone around to our aunt’s house to play with it.”
Sherborne stares at him. “She has?”
“Of course. If you don’t believe me, go there yourself. You said she and the old fool got on like a house on fire? That’s where you’ll find her.”
Sherborne leaps to his feet. “Damn it ~ you could be right,” he exclaims. “I’ll get my hat and fetch her straight back here. And then won’t she be in trouble!”
Arthur Harbinger waves his hand at the vacated chair. “Sit ye back down, Sherborne. Not so fast. Take a breath and THINK, for once in your life. Who’s coming to pay a morning call on the old nuisance, maybe even today? Sister Wilhelmina. Now, we have both been told we are not welcome when she visits, but if we had someone already in the house who could report back to us, wouldn’t that be a good thing?”
Sherborne’s mouth drops open. “You are right again. Why didn’t I think of it?”
Because you are a very stupid man and I am always superior to you, Arthur thinks, but doesn’t say. “Listen to me now: I propose calling off the hunt. Tell the police to stop looking. We know where the girl is. In a few days, you can call round, ‘distraught’ and collect her. Then she can tell us what went on at the meeting.”
Sherborne’s face is that of a small boy who has suddenly realised it is his birthday. “But this is wonderful! Harriet is bound to be introduced to Wilhelmina and allowed to sit in the corner while the adults talk.”
“Exactly. You have it in one.”
Sherborne claps his long bony hands together. “I shall go and tell Charlotte at once,” he says. “You have put my mind at rest. Thank you, Arthur.”
“Just let me know when you have collected the girl from the house. I’d like to hear what she has to say.”
“I shall. I certainly shall,” Sherborne’s face is wreathed in a smile.
“Well, as you no longer have to come up with a plan, thanks to the precipitate but fortunate actions of the girl, I shall be on my way. I have a very important meeting to attend in my new role as the director of a railway company.” He pauses long enough to allow the words to sink in and to see the envy in his brother’s face, before turning his back on him and walking briskly away.
Arthur Harbinger heads for the George Hotel. Of course, what he didn’t say to his brother was that he might be quite wrong, and the girl could be lying in some sordid alleyway with her throat cut. But then, his brother has two other children, so one less would hardly matter, in the great scheme of things.
****
The inaugural meeting of the Boxland Joint Stock Railway Company is about to get under way. Here is Thomas Langland, MP, clad in his expensive hand-tailored suit, his shiniest beaver hat and linen so white and starched that it dazzles the eye. He sits on a raised dais in the large meeting room of the George Hotel. Next to him (if we are going down the social scale), sits the brand-new chief shareholder Arthur Harbinger, who, a short while earlier, has handed over his contribution to the proposed enterprise, and at the far end (in so many ways) sits Wm. Boxworth in his loudest check suit, a paisley cravat and unmatching striped waistcoat. He puffs away at a big cigar and smiles in a reptilian fashion.
At the back of the room, hotel staff in black and white uniforms discreetly arrange cups, bring in urns and set out china plates, because if you are going to extract money from the great British public, it is always a good idea to include free tea and biscuits. Along one side of the room are tables, behind which sit smartly dressed young clerks with ledgers and cash boxes, ready to sign up prospective s
hareholders and relieve them of their money. The whole set-up looks very professional and business-like, except that the clerks are rented, and being paid by the hour, and after today, will never be seen again.
Meanwhile, prospective punters are lining up outside the hotel, jostling for space with anti-railway protestors carrying placards with slogans such as: ‘Trains Kill!’, ‘SAVE THE HORSE & CARRIAGE’, and ‘Railways are the Spawn of Satan’, though nobody is taking any notice of them. The prospect of buying shares in another great British railway enterprise is all they are focused upon. The crowd is abuzz as the doors open and they stream in to find their seats.
Once all are seated, and the excess has been placed in an overflow area at the back, Langland rises to his feet. An expectant hush descends, except for one deaf old lady who continues talking loudly to her companion, until shushed by those around her.
Langland favours the audience with a winning smile ~ the one that got him elected to a safe parliamentary seat and will probably keep him sitting there until the end of his political career, from whence he will transfer seamlessly to a seat on the board of some city bank. When he is sure all eyes are fixed upon him, he welcomes everybody, introduces himself (modestly) and his two fellow directors.
He reminds his listeners of the greatness of the land to which they all belong, the innumerable benefits, the fantastic achievements in science, in engineering, in industry. How proud he is to call himself a British citizen, part of the greatest country on earth, respected and revered all over the world, with an Empire that reflects back the light of sovereignty and democracy.
It is, with a few tweaks here and there, the maiden speech he gave when he was first elected many years ago. Not that they know this, of course. Langland speaks of the wonders of the modern railway, and delicately hints at the fortunes made by those who bought shares in the early companies. He reminds the audience that Queen Victoria herself has bought shares in a railway company, managing, without saying it directly, to hint that it might be this one.
