Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less

David’s new acquaintance talked of his visits to the States, flattering him by remarking how much he had always liked the Americans. After some time, David was able quietly to ask the head waiter who the Englishman was.

“He’s Lord Brigsley, the eldest son of the Earl of Louth, sir.”

What do you know, thought David, lords look like anyone else, especially when they’ve had a few drinks. Lord Brigsley was tapping David’s glass.

“Would you care for another?”

“Thank you very much, my lord,” said David.

“Don’t bother with all that nonsense. The name’s James. What are you doing in London?”

“I work for an oil company. You probably know my Chairman, Lord Hunnisett. I’ve never met him myself, to tell you the truth.”

“Sweet old buffer,” said James. “His son and I were at Harrow together. If you’re in oil, perhaps you can tell me what to do with my Shell and B.P. shares.”

“Hold on to them,” said David. “It’s sensible to remain in any commodities, especially oil, as long as the British Government doesn’t get greedy and try to take control of the assets themselves.”

Another double whiskey arrived. David was beginning to feel just slightly tipsy.

“What about your own company?” inquired James.

“We’re rather small,” said David. “But our shares have gone up more than any other oil company in the last three months. Even so, I suspect they’ve nowhere near reached their zenith.”

“Why?” demanded James.

David glanced round and lowered his voice to a confidential whisper.

“Well, I expect you realize that if you make an oil strike in a big company it can only put the percentage of your profits up by a tiny amount. But if you make a strike in a small company, naturally that profit will be reflected as a considerably larger percentage of the whole.”

“Are you telling me you’ve made a strike?”

“Perhaps I shouldn’t have said that,” said David. “I’d be obliged if you’d treat that remark in confidence.”

David could not remember how he arrived home or who put him to bed, and he appeared rather late in the office the next morning.

“I am sorry, Bernie, I overslept after a very good evening with Richard at Annabel’s.”

“Doesn’t matter a bit. Glad you enjoyed yourself.”

“I hope I wasn’t indiscreet, but I told some lord, whose name I can’t even remember, that he ought to invest in the company. I may have been a little too enthusiastic.”

“Don’t worry, David, we’re not going to let anyone down and you need the rest. You’ve been working your ass off.”

James Brigsley left his London flat in Chelsea and took a taxi to his bank, Williams & Glyn’s. James was an extrovert by nature and at Harrow his only real love had been acting; but when he had left school, his father had refused to allow him to go on the stage and insisted that he complete his education at Christ Church, Oxford, where again he took a greater interest in the Dramatic Society than in gaining a degree in his chosen subject of Politics, Philosophy and Economics. James had never mentioned to anyone since leaving Oxford the class of degree he managed to secure, but for better or worse the fourth-class Honours degree was later abolished. After Oxford he joined the Grenadier Guards, which gave him considerable scope for his histrionic talents. This was indeed to be James’s introduction to society life in London, and he succeeded as well as a personable, rich young viscount might be expected to do in the circumstances.

When he had completed his two years in the Guards, the earl gave him a 250-acre farm in Hampshire to occupy his time, but James did not care for the coarser country life. He left the running of the farm to a manager and once again concentrated on his social life in London. He would dearly have liked to go on the stage, but he knew the old man still considered Mrs. Worthington’s daughter’s ambition an improper one for a future peer of the realm. The fifth earl didn’t think a great deal of his eldest son one way and another, and James did not find it easy to persuade his father that he was shrewder than he was given credit for. Perhaps the inside information David Kesler had let slip after a few drinks would give him the opportunity to prove his old dad wrong.

In Williams & Glyn’s fine old building in Birchin Lane, James was ushered into the manager’s office.

“I should like to borrow some money against my farm in Hampshire,” said Lord Brigsley.

Philip Izard, the manager, knew Lord Brigsley well and was also acquainted with his father. Although he had respect for the earl’s judgment, he did not have a great deal of time for the young lord. Nevertheless, it was not for him to query a customer’s request, especially when the customer’s family was one of the longest-standing in the bank’s history.

“Yes, my lord, what sum do you have in mind?”

“Well, it seems that farmland in Hampshire is worth about £1,000 an acre and is still climbing. Why don’t we say £150,000? I should then like to invest the money in shares.”

“Will you agree to leave the deeds with the bank as security?” inquired Izard.