sign it over to me.”
“Why should you require I sign it to you? If it is worth one hundred and fifty pounds, then that is its value. How can my signature vest it with value?”
“But it is not one hundred and fifty pounds in the way that this coin
“There you have the problem,” my uncle said. “For money in England is being replaced with the promise of money. We in business have long valued banknotes and paper money, because they allow for large sums to be conveyed with ease and relative safety. They have allowed for the flourishing of international commerce we see today. Yet for many men, there is something most unsettling about the replacement of value with the promise of value.”
“I do not see why this causes unease. If I am the merchant and can buy what I will with this banknote, or if I can easily convert it to gold, where is the harm?”
“The harm,” my uncle said, “is in whom this system makes powerful. If value is no longer vested in gold, but in the promise of gold, then the men who make the promises hold ultimate power, no? If money and gold are one and the same, then gold defines value, but if money and paper are the same, then value is based upon nothing at all.”
“Yet if we value paper and it buys us what we need, it becomes as good as silver.”
“But can you not imagine, Benjamin, how these changes frighten men? They no longer know where value lies or how to conceive of their own worth when it changes from hour to hour. To hide your gold plate under your floorboards is lunacy in this age, for to let metal molder when it could be breeding more metal is to lose money. Yet to play the funds is to risk it as well, and many fortunes have been made and lost in speculating upon the funds. Speculation could not take place, you understand, without stock-jobbers such as your father was, but even those who have grown vastly rich upon the market turn and look at men like your father with hatred and disdain—for jobbers like Samuel have become emblems of these changes that make men so uneasy. Those who have lost money, you might imagine, hate jobbers even more. There is a sense, you see, that finance is but a game, the rules and the outcome of which have been preset by men operating in secret. These men profit from the fortunes and misfortunes of others—and they cannot lose because they themselves dictate the values of the market. That, at any rate, is what is believed.”
“Absurd,” I said. “How can those who buy and sell stocks dictate their values?”
“First you must understand that in order for stock-jobbers to make money, the prices of the funds must fluctuate. Otherwise there can be no buying and selling at a profit.”
“If the prices of government issues are fixed,” I inquired, “why do the prices fluctuate?”
My uncle smiled. “Because the price is fixed with money, and money is worth more at some times than at others. If there is a bad harvest and food is scarce, then one shilling buys less than if food is plentiful. Similarly, if there is war, and trade is inhibited, then many goods are scarce and more expensive, so money is worth less. The threat of war or famine, or the promise of bounty or peace, all affect the prices of the funds.”
I nodded, pleased with myself for understanding this concept.
“Now, let us say that I am a corrupt stock-jobber,” my uncle mused, delighted with this game, “and I have a government fund that I want to sell that is valued at one twenty-five—that is, 125 percent of its original value. Let us further say that there are rumors of a conflict between Prussia and France. The outcome of such a conflict will almost certainly affect prices here, for a victory on the part of Prussia defeats a mutual enemy, while a victory on the part of France strengthens our enemy and makes war more likely—and if there is war, then money buys less.”
“I understand,” I said.
“Our corrupt jobber believes that France will win and that the prices of government issues will fall, so he wishes to sell. What does he do? He plants false rumors that the Prussians cannot but win—that is, he convinces others of the opposite of what he believes to be true. He has writings to this effect appear in the newspapers. Suddenly ’Change Alley is full of bulls who wish to buy all they can. Our friend sells at one thirty-five, and when the Prussians actually lose the battle, the price of the issue drops, the jobber has sold at an unreasonable rate, those who purchased when the price was elevated now suffer a great loss.”
“Surely you do not suggest that men truly practice such schemes, or that my father did?”
“Bah.” He waved his hand. “Do jobbers manipulate rumors to alter stock prices in their favor? Some do and some don’t. If so, it is the province of well-placed men who have the ear of governments. Directors at the Bank of England and so forth. These men do have control over what is valuable and what is not, and that is indeed a great deal of power.”
“But did my father resort to such deceptions?” I asked pointedly.
He showed his palms to the ceiling. “I never meddled with his business. He managed his affairs as he thought best.”
I ignored the fact that my uncle had maneuvered out of answering a question. It was no matter; I knew the answer but too well—that is, I knew of at least one incident, from when I was a boy, when my father had cheated another man. When I had learned of that cheat, though I was but a child, I could not understand how he might have deceived other men—he had no ability to charm or cajole as my uncle did. Perhaps his bland impatience had been misunderstood as earnestness.
“Even if he did not engage in any manipulations,” I continued, “he would sell when he suspected prices would soon fall. Is that not deceitful?”
“He never
“Yet when he was right, and prices fell, men cried dishonesty.”
“Inevitably. It is the way of things when one loses, is it not?”
“Then,” I said with some agitation, “you think every man my father ever did business with should be suspected? That seems like a great number of men. Is there perhaps a record of some of the men with whom he dealt most recently?”
My uncle shook his head. “Not that I have been able to discover.”
“And can you think of no one in particular—a great enemy who might have delighted in the destruction of my father?”
My uncle shook his head vigorously, as though trying to dispel an unpleasant thought. “I cannot. As I say, your father was hated by many men, men who feared the new financial mechanisms. But a great enemy? I think not. It is Herbert Fenn, this coachman, who ran him down. That is where your inquiry must begin.” He slammed his fist into his palm.
Sensing that my uncle had no more to tell me, I rose and thanked him for his assistance. “I shall, naturally, keep you informed of my progress.”
“And I shall continue to look for anything that may be of use.”
My uncle and I shook hands warmly, perhaps a bit too warmly for my comfort, for he looked at me with something like paternal affection, and I could only choke back the urge to tell him that I was not his son, and his son was most certainly not to be found within me.
After a formal farewell to my aunt and to Miriam, I left the house and made my way to the High Street, where I procured a hackney to take me to my home.
I was pleased that I had acquired so much information, even if I was not sure how I would now proceed. One thing was certain, however. In the time since I had first spoken to Mr. Balfour, I had come around to his way of thinking. Perhaps it was the conversation I had had in Adelman’s coach, or perhaps it was my understanding of the depth of confusion produced by the financial markets that my father had understood so well. I could not say why precisely it had happened, but I realized that I now acted with the belief that my father’s death had been a murder.
There remained in my mind, however, one question that I could not set aside. It was on the matter of my father’s enemies. I could not understand why my uncle had lied to me so boldly.
