might have been too.” He sighed. “Or anybody, for that matter.”
McConnell smiled. “There is great pleasure in true work, Charles. At times I almost think of returning to it full-time.” He was flushed now with excitement, not cold.
Lenox paused. “It makes me happy to hear you say that,” he said quietly.
“But at any rate, I must be off. Thanks ever so much for the tea—and for all the interesting pursuits of the case, sad as it is.” McConnell stood, shook hands, and went quickly on his way.
Lenox ran his fingertips over the glass and began to ponder, but at that moment the front door opened again—it seemed to be off its hinges, practically, it had opened and closed so often that day—and Lenox went into the front hall to see who had come now.
Chapter 42
It was Edmund.
“Charles! I’ve just seen McConnell.”
“Yes, he was here.”
“Charles, I’ve never had such a thrilling day in all my life!”
Lenox laughed. “Yes, I can see,” he said.
Edmund was still clad in the rumpled clothes and brownish hat that Lenox had given him, and his face was still scuffed with ash here and there, which concealed his identity very well, as he said cheerfully, and he had rolled in some trash so he would smell dreadful.
But where you could see his face, his cheeks were bright pink and he was plainly beaming.
“I’ve missed my vocation, Charles! I would have made an excellent detective.”
“You make an excellent panhandler, as well. What did you discover?”
Edmund waved his hand. “Nothing, nothing. I mean to go back after the session this evening. But the sheer excitement of it! Eluding Exeter! And Barnard went straight past and didn’t even look at me!”
“You mean to go back? I really don’t wish to put you to so much trouble, Edmund.”
“Trouble! I would rather Parliament burned to the ground than give up the evening I have planned. Yes, a quick bite—perhaps a sandwich—and then out to patrol the area. Oh, Charles, you should see how I explain myself to the police who try to remove me! I wouldn’t trade it for all the money in the funds!”
And then it happened: All the loose strings came into Lenox’s hand, and he felt with all the force of his mind, which had never fallen so short as in the past few days, that he had it. The minute puzzle pieces he had collected so carefully at last fit together. “You’ve given it to me, my dear brother!” he shouted. “Yes, it just may work! I would kiss you, if you didn’t smell so awful!”
Sir Edmund’s face fell.
“Why, what’s the matter?”
“Oh, nothing, nothing!” Sir Edmund said. “I’m very pleased, Charles. What did I say?”
“Oh, a trifle—never mind it.”
“So I shan’t have to go back out? What excellent news, Charles. It was beastly cold.”
Lenox understood immediately. “Oh, no, Edmund,” he said. “You must by all means go out this evening. I apologize for your discomfort, but I must impose upon you. It is vital that you continue your work.”
“Vital? Are you sure?”
“Oh, absolutely. The cold can’t be helped. I myself have boots that seem to be made of paper—but no, we must go forward.”
“Very well,” said Sir Edmund.
“And now I shall go,” said Lenox, gathering together his effects.
“Good, good, excellent. May I take a bath, though, do you think? Your house is closer to Whitehall.”
“By all means, Edmund. And remember, I’m counting on your help.”
Very solemnly, the baronet said, “Oh, yes, indeed. I certainly shan’t fail you.”
A moment later Lenox’s carriage rattled down Hampden Lane and out into the West End of London, along the snowy streets, through a dense afternoon fog that reached up to the starless sky above.
Shortly thereafter he knocked on the door of his friend Lord Cabot, with whom he had shared a pleasant evening at the Travelers the evening after Prue Smith’s death. He walked into his friend’s study behind the butler.
“Cabot,” he said, without bothering to say hello. “You know the keeper of the records, don’t you?”
“Why, Lenox—well, yes, I do. The son of Colonel Waring, my oldest friend.”
“Will he do you a favor?”
“Yes, of course: anything legal.”
“Without delay?”
“Yes, of course. But why the rush, Lenox? Are you quite well?” Lord Cabot was very fixed in his habits and thought of Lenox, who moved in the fashionable world and had his detective work besides, as a positive dervish.
“Yes, very well—arisen out of the murky fog, I daresay. Come with me?”
After a moment’s cajoling, Lord Cabot assented, and then took his time preparing to go outdoors; in truth, he had planned to stay inside all day and further catalog his collection of Chinese pottery, his main passion. The catalog was badly outdated, poorly compiled, and neglected many fascinating recent additions; so he told an impatient Lenox, who in quieter moments had listened with great interest on the subject.
Soon he finished his lecture and then took a long time finding his cloak and searching for his hat, all to Lenox’s silent frustration. But at last they went out to Lenox’s carriage and began to drive toward the Thames, near the Cleopatra Needle, where the Hall of Records was.
This large building was made of the old white Roman stone, with marble columns, and had a series of steel doors in front. They went into one of these and asked for Colonel Waring’s son, who was named Morgan. He was an agreeable young man of thirty or so, already risen to a prominent position and, so Lord Cabot had assured Lenox on the ride, destined for great things. Young Mr. Waring said that Lenox could certainly look through the records. Soon Lord Cabot had bid his goodbyes, and Lenox had at his fingertips the financial records of the entire market for the last century, which had been kept in earnest after the “South Sea Bubble.”
The Bubble was the only reason any of this existed, and for that he was thankful. Lenox remembered his grandfather telling him of
But people quickly forgot that the agreement permitted very few ships and, picturing the mining of huge untapped gold deposits in Chile and Peru, not to mention other as yet unknown opportunities, they began to invest their money heavily. Almost instantly the company was worth millions of pounds, despite the fact that it didn’t even own a ship and had no goals it knew to be attainable. The delusion of the people investing in the South Sea Company had been unbelievable: merely a hope and a wish, spurred on by other people’s certainty and greed.
Then, in September of 1720, the bottom of the stock fell out. A few people sold at the top, but nearly everyone else sold at the bottom because there was so little demand and, of course, no regulation of the price. Poor families were ruined and sank to destitution. Rich families saw their worth drop severely. The malaise lasted years, and the terror of investing lasted generations. Nearly every financial rule of the modern day came from that single company’s missteps, as well as the conservative market of Queen Victoria’s reign.
Lenox thought of all this in passing and thanked his lucky stars that there were papers to go through. A young clerk named Throckmortin was assigned to help him. The lad seemed very censorious at first of the interruption to his usual schedule, but only until young Morgan Waring told him to look sharp, because he was taking a special interest in Lenox’s progress.
The room in which the records were stored was dark, with only a few small high windows, and though it was clean there was a smell of mustiness in the air. It was a large room, as well, brimming from floor to high ceiling
