“Yes, sir.”
“There is a personal connection of some sort, I collect?”
“We have a boy at the school whose father, Mr Henry Frant, is one of the partners.”
Mr Rowsell wiped his pink, moist forehead with a gravy-spattered napkin. “Mr Frant is the youngest of the partners, I believe, but nowadays takes the leading part in the business.”
“I understand that Mr Wavenhoe himself is not well.”
“I remember your mentioning the circumstance. It is common knowledge that he is dying. They say in the City that it will be only a matter of weeks.”
I thought of Sophia Frant. “I’m sorry to hear it, sir.”
“Things were very different when Wavenhoe was young. It was his father who founded the bank. City people, of course, tended to steer clear of those West End accounts. The further West you go, I always say, the higher the profits but the higher the risk. Of course he was lucky to get Carswall. In a private partnership you can do nothing without capital.” He looked sternly at me. “Stephen Carswall may not be an agreeable man, but no one would deny he has capital. Shrewd, too. Sold his sugar plantations in the nineties, early enough to get a good price. Mind you, many men thought he was mad. But he could see the way the wind was blowing. Those damned Abolitionists, eh? Once you abolish the trade, it’s only a matter of time before the institution itself is under threat. When the institution goes, as it will, the entire economic foundation of the West Indies will be destroyed. But Carswall was ahead of the game there. That’s the beauty of banking: all you need is capital; none of the worry of land and other fixed property. They can’t abolish money, thank God. Though I wouldn’t put it past them to try.” He pushed the port towards me. “Where was I?”
“You were describing how Mr Carswall became Mr Wavenhoe’s partner, sir. Did he take an active part in the running of the bank?”
“He left that to Wavenhoe most of the time, as far as the City was concerned, at least. But what went on behind the scenes may have been another matter. Carswall has many friends in America, especially in the southern states, and they did a good deal of business over there. And they did very well in Canada, despite the late war.” Mr Rowsell was of course referring to that inconclusive and largely unnecessary squabble between Great Britain and the United States, not to the great war with France.
I said, “So they had a finger in every man’s pie?”
“Spread the risks, eh, increase the profits. It was Carswall who brought in young Frant. Not that he’s so young any more. You have met him?”
“Yes, sir. I was able to do him a small service, and he was most amiable. He is very much the gentleman, of course.”
“The family fell on evil times, which forced him into trade. As for his amiability, I hear a different story. Frant has ability, I don’t question that. It’s just that – your glass, sir, your glass is empty.”
Breathing heavily, Mr Rowsell refilled the glass so well that it overflowed. The diversion caused him to lose the thread of his discourse. He sipped his wine and stared with a frown at the polished mahogany.
“Is Mr Carswall married?” I asked after a moment or two.
“Married? Not now. There was a wife, I believe, but she died. Mind you –” He lowered his voice and leant towards me. “I’m not saying he hasn’t found consolation. Stephen Carswall used to have something of a reputation, if you get my drift.” He tapped his nose to make his drift even clearer. “He’s kin to George Wavenhoe. You knew they were cousins?”
I shook my head.
“Stephen Carswall’s mother was sister to George’s father. So they are first cousins.” He laughed and stabbed his forehead once more with the napkin. “Young Frant was a fly one. He came in as Carswall’s man, and what does he do but marry Sophia Marpool, old Wavenhoe’s niece? So there he is, with a connection to both partners. A love match, they say, but I wager that most of the love was on one side. Master Henry thinks he’s the heir apparent, the crown prince. But it’s ill luck to count your gains during the game, eh?”
Rowsell stood up, staggered to the door, opened it with difficulty, and bellowed for the servant to bring another bottle.
“Something went wrong? Something to do with Mr Carswall?”
“There was a host of reasons. First Carswall decided to withdraw his capital. He’d settled in the country, turned gentleman, wanted nothing to do with the bank. The story is that Wavenhoe was pressed to find the ready cash when it was needed. It was a large sum. Then Wavenhoe himself has not been well these last few years. He left more and more of the day-to-day conduct of business in the hands of Henry Frant. The City does not feel entirely easy with Frant. It is not just that he is a gentleman dabbling in trade. There are stories that he is fond of play, like his father before him. That was how the Frants lost their money.”
The maid brought another bottle. When it was opened, Rowsell recharged our glasses and drank deeply.
“It’s a matter of confidence, you see. All business must depend on it, and banking more than most. If you lose the esteem of those you do business with, you might as well shut up shop. No, my boy, to return to your own case, if you wish to keep your money safe, there is much to be said for the Consolidated Funds.” Mr Rowsell stared glassily at me and at last continued to speak, though slowly and with elaborate care of his consonants. “You will not become rich, but you will not become bankrupt, either.”
He stopped. He blinked rapidly. His mouth opened and closed several times but no sound came. He bowed like a great oak falling, stately even in ruin. His head hit the table, knocking over the glass. He began to snore.
As the weeks slipped by and the weather grew steadily colder, the friendship between Charlie Frant and Edgar Allan flourished. Like many schoolboy friendships it was partly a defensive alliance, a strategy for dealing with a world full of Morleys and Quirds. Though similar in looks, they were different in temperament. The American was a proud boy who would not take insults lightly, who when teased would fly at his tormentors. Charlie Frant was gentler, and well supplied with pocket money. If you offended one of them, you had a taste of Edgar Allan’s anger, which was formidable. If you pleased one or both of them, however, you were likely to be among the beneficiaries when Charlie Frant next paid a visit to the pastry-cook’s.
As for myself, I felt the life of the school settle around me like an old coat. But one part of my life was incomplete. I own that I dwelt overmuch in my daydreams during this period. When I was in this unsatisfactory state I no longer thought much of Fanny, the girl whose ghostly presence had lingered in my mind for years. Instead, I frequently encountered both Miss Carswall and her cousin Mrs Frant. Daydreams have this advantage over real life: one is not obliged to be constant.
There was nothing to warn me of the troubles that lay ahead. One evening, however, Mr Bransby summoned Dansey and myself to his private room.
“I have had a disturbing communication from Mrs Frant, gentlemen,” he said. “She writes that her son and young Allan have been accosted in the village by the ruffian who approached them before. The man’s effrontery beggars belief.”
“We have heard nothing about this from the boys, sir?” Dansey said.
Bransby shook his head. “He did not linger. And there was no unpleasantness. No, it seems that he simply came up to them in the High-street, gave them a half-sovereign apiece, told them to mind their book and walked away.”
“How extraordinary,”