“But you were on to something. I rarely read the financial news. Perhaps I even think myself above it, if I’m to be honest—the City and all of that. A huge mistake, which I only caught by the grace of God. I shall read the financial papers thoroughly from now on. Graham, make me do it if I start to slack, would you?”
“Yes, sir,” said Graham, his eyebrows a little raised, a small smile on his lips.
“The Pacific Trust—well, I shan’t bore you with details. It is a company that has been extremely successful, and its shareholders have received steady dividends while the price of shares tripled. But there are very
“Here Soames comes in. Suffice it to say that he sat on the board and represented, about a month ago, the swing vote in a decision that had to do with the basic fate of the company. There was a pile of revenue sitting in the bank: would they release it to shareholders or would they reinvest it? If they were to release it, an investment of eighteen thousand pounds would have become a clear 180,000 pounds, not counting dividends already received. However, the company would essentially have dissolved, and the shares would be worth almost nothing. Still, many shareholders favored this.
“If they reinvested it, the second option, the Pacific Trust would become nearly the most valuable company in England. An investment of eighteen thousand pounds would have yielded a payoff of the original eighteen thousand, as a large one-time dividend, while shareholders maintained their shares, which would have instantly become more valuable and presumably grown and grown. But no further income would be available to the shareholders for, say, twenty or thirty years.
“Virtually every outside observer favored the second option,saying that in the long term the generated wealth would exceed even the alluring 180,000 pounds. Virtually all shareholders favored the former. Soames’s vote was, as I say, decisive; the company decided for the payout of eighteen thousand pounds and the solidification of the Pacific’s status—the choice that led to long-term stability.
“It was a good deal either way, really. By Soames’s vote, an investor received his original investment back and still owned the shares, which would become infinitely more valuable in the long term. Eventually, most shareholders accepted this fact. Two who didn’t were Claude and Eustace.”
“What?” said Edmund and Lady Jane, nearly at the same time.
“They had taken the twenty thousand pounds from their uncle and invested it in the Pacific. I spent all afternoon searching through the Pacific files and at last found what I thought I would, a certificate of joint ownership. They invested the money together four years ago—jointly, which the company permits. They did not, as they had said, invest in the four percents and an American company, respectively. And where there’s a lie, there’s motive.”
“How did they know so much about money?” Lady Jane asked. “Did their uncle help them?”
“I suspect it was Eustace who prompted the action. Claude would not be averse to speculation, or so he strikes me, and Eustace seems deeply interested, I think, in living the life of a gentleman. Smart, too. He hates the feeling of inequality that was instilled in him by his rich uncle. So does Claude. One hundred thousand pounds each from the Pacific Trust would have ensured that neither of them would be forced to work again, and given each of them a clear five thousand pounds a year for life, which is very handsome for anybody, you’ll admit.
“But if they had received ten thousand pounds each, with no guarantee of more for a few decades, they would have been in a bind. Most men in England could live their whole lives on that sum. But not two young gentleman with a taste for luxury in London, when certain young noblemen live from quarterly payment to quarterly payment on seven thousand a year.”
“The Marchmain boys on even more,” Lady Jane murmured.
“Precisely. Such a sum would by no means guarantee either of them a life of certain ease. A good amount of money—but not one that would have allowed them to shoot, to own a string of horses, to travel, to live in London and the country, and to marry above their station. Titled ladies, say. Which was, I suspect, what both of them wanted.”
“They must have discovered how Soames would vote when he went to protect the mint, poor chap,” Edmund said.
“I think you’re right. They would have followed the vote closely—and they would also have known, as I learned from
“What happened then, we know. They planned to murder Soames, under the favorable condition of a ball, which adds confusion to any incident, and with the false lead of the valuable object in Barnard’s house, which would divert any detective. Prue Smith, who served upstairs, must have been in the hall near midmorning, when the servants were eating and the other people in the house were out, before everyone gathered for lunch. I imagine she had nipped upstairs to visit Claude. Claude and Eustace thought they were alone; somehow discovered they weren’t; placated Prue Smith, cajoled, browbeat, I don’t know, but in one way or another convinced her not to tell. Now that I consider it, I think they must have told her they were only imagining something out loud that they would never do. She would have wanted to believe in Claude. She shouldn’t have, of course, but I think she did.
“I believe that’s all. I think there’s little danger that the two young men will leave town. They think, particularly with Exeter bumbling around, that they’re off scot-free. After all, they both have alibis. But indeed we know that their alibis don’t hold up—and Edmund’s experience tonight proves it conclusively; just why I sent you, dear brother.”
Both Lady Jane and Sir Edmund had a few small questions, which Lenox answered or made his best guess to answer. Finally, when they were satisfied, the detective stood up.
“Will you please send notes to Inspector Exeter and Dr. Mc-Connell, asking them to stop by this evening?” he asked Graham.
“I shall send for them immediately, sir.”
Chapter 45
Soon thereafter, Edmund went upstairs and took a hot bath, while Lenox showed Lady Jane a new map he had ordered: Persia. He would travel south, from Isfahan to Shiraz, he told her. She laughed and pointed out that it was a long trip and something would always detain him, but he stubbornly refused to acknowledge the fact. He said he would hire a guide, and he and Graham would take the mountain train, which was new and quick. He asked if she would like to come, and she said no, thank you, but that she was eager for the day when they went to Italy together, which they had long vowed to do. It was where she had gone on her honeymoon.
“Oh, Charles—Venice! Did you ever go?”
“No,” he said. “Only Rome.”
“It’s wonderful. And Florence, Siena—how vividly I remember it!”
He smiled as he listened to her tell him about the places she had gone when she was young and married, but really he was thinking about something else entirely: how he thought her more beautiful now than he had even at her wedding, when she had been only twenty and radiant.
Soon Edmund came down, looking significantly cleaner and happier. He looked at the map of Persia, too, and commented that perhaps his brother would actually go this time.
There was a knock on the door just after Lenox carefully folded the map and put it back in the old umbrella stand. He met Graham at the door and offered to open it himself, expecting McConnell or Exeter.
Instead, covered in a thin layer of snow, eyes bloodshot, Claude Barnard stood on his doorstep.
“Mr. Lenox? May I have a word?”
“Why, yes,” Lenox said, taken entirely aback. “Graham, please show Mr. Barnard into the back parlor. I’ll join you momentarily,” he said to Claude.
He quickly went back to the library. “Claude Barnard is here,” he said, giving them no time to respond. “Jane, you stay here, or go home if you’d rather. Edmund, you come stand by the door to the back parlor, if you please. In
