London - Edward Rutherfurd [504]
Just before closing time, a stout, elderly country gentleman, wrapped in a brown greatcoat, appeared in the misty doorway and asked, in some doubt, “Is this Meredith’s?” Being assured that it was, he advanced to the counter. “The name’s Grimsdyke,” he said. “From Cumberland. I’d like to make a withdrawal.”
“By God,” Meredith murmured, “that old gentleman was one of my first depositors! I’d almost forgotten what he looks like. He must have travelled all night.”
“Certainly, sir,” said the clerk obligingly. “How much?”
“Twenty thousand pounds.”
There was really no need to take out so much, Meredith had calmly assured him, the bank was perfectly sound. But the old gentleman had not come all the way from the north of England to change his mind now. He took it all, and made the clerks carry it to his carriage. When the door was closed Meredith called Eugene over. “Strike a balance, Mr Penny,” he said quietly, “and bring it to me in the parlour.”
“We can’t get through another day,” Meredith concluded as he and Eugene looked over the books. “These three” – he pointed to the names that had troubled Penny several years before – “all owe us too much, and any of them could go under. I truly don’t know if we’re solvent or not. As for withdrawals: I can get hold of another five thousand in cash, but some time tomorrow that will probably be gone and we’ll have to close our doors.”
“Would the Bank of England tide us over?”
“They’ve yet to show willing. We’re too small for them to bother about, anyway.” They were both silent.
“There’s the Earl of St James,” Eugene said at last.
“I can’t.” Meredith winced. “He’s done so much for me already. Besides, he already told me he’ll never bail me out.” He sighed. “I can’t go to him, Penny.”
“Let me go then,” said Eugene.
“Trust the old devil to be out of London,” Eugene muttered, as the coach bowled along that evening. The earl had gone down to Brighton. Accordingly Penny had hired a post-chaise and set out on the turnpike for the seaside resort, fifty miles away to the south. “At least,” he chuckled grimly, “it gets me out of the fog.” With luck, he estimated, he might get there before the earl had retired to bed. The only thing that embarrassed him a little was that he had had no time to change his clothes, and the person with whom the earl was staying in Brighton happened to be the king.
It was after ten o’clock when Eugene, after much explanation to doormen, lackeys and persons of importance, found himself alone in a gorgeously decorated ante-room with the Earl of St James. Although the old man had clearly drunk a number of glasses of champagne, it was remarkable how suddenly his eyes had become hard as Eugene explained his reason for being there.
“I said I wouldn’t bail him out. He knows that.”
“He does, my lord. I begged him to let me come.”
“You?” St James stared at him. “You’re one of his clerks, and you come to see me? Here?”
“Mr Meredith entrusts me with business.”
“You’ve certainly got a nerve,” St James said, without rancour.
“A steady nerve is all the bank needs,” Penny said quickly. “If you’d just tide us over.”
The old man paused. Then, suddenly, he turned his eyes fully on Penny, and they were as sharp as those of any bookmaker at the races. “Is the bank solvent?”
“Yes, my lord.” He looked him straight in the eye. He said it with total conviction although he knew it was a lie. But he was doing it for Meredith.
“I’ll lend him ten thousand at 10 per cent,” St James said abruptly. “I’ll come to London tomorrow. Will that do?”
Eugene Penny took the mail coach before dawn and was in the City by mid-morning. The fog had cleared. The streets were busy. When he told Meredith the news, the banker was so overcome he could only shake his hand. But, as soon as he found his voice, he had to explain. “I’m afraid though, it’s probably too late . . . We’ve two thousand left. Money’s been leaving at a thousand an hour. By noon, it’ll be over. I’ve tried everywhere but I can’t get another penny. I can’t just close