The Taste of Innocence (22 page)

Malcolm nodded. “I spent some time chatting with Cynster the other week. Everyone knows of the Cynster funds, of course, and they have been hugely successful over time. That, however, is the long-term approach, and while one can hardly criticize, there is a lack of…excitement, I suppose. Of real involvement with the frontiers of new business.”

“Exactly.” Charlie grinned. “The long-term is sure, but hellishly dry. While ever-increasing figures in ledgers are always nice to see, they rarely inspire victorious delight.”

They paused while the main course of roast beef was laid before them. They picked up their knives and forks; silence reigned for some minutes, then Charlie asked, “Tell me, how did you get involved with the railways?”

That was clearly a question Malcolm had frequently been asked. “I was lucky. I was about in ’20 when Stephenson was doing the rounds trying to drum up backers for the Stockton-Darlington. While there was a lot of interest in the concept, most preferred to sit on the sidelines until there was some evidence the business would work. At the time, I had the cash and, of course, it was only a short stretch, the trial as it were. So I bought in. There was only a handful of us, and once the line opened and the proof was there to see, that small group became the first port of call as potential backers for every new line. Out of that, I went into the Liverpool-Manchester, and I’ve bought into the extension to London, too.”

“So you’ve done well out of your investments in the railways.” Charlie patted his lips with his napkin, then pushed aside his plate.

“Yes.” Malcolm frowned. “But I haven’t taken positions in any of the other—so very many other—projects currently proposed.”

“Oh? Why?”

“There’s too damned many of them for a start. Everyone’s jumped on the bandwagon, and proposals are being floated for every conceivable connection. There’s commercial sense in joining London with Manchester and Liverpool. I’m less sure of the wisdom, in terms of solid and quick returns, in the Newcastle-Carlisle, yet they’ve started laying track. And I know the London-Bristol is in the wind, and that makes commercial sense, but—and this is the problem with so many proposals being touted these days—when will it be running, when will the returns eventuate and will they be sufficient to cover the time taken between investment and the first flow of returns?”

Charlie understood. “You’re saying the time frame has blown out.”

Malcolm nodded. “Consider Stockton-Darlington. We paid in early ’21, they started immediately, and the first stock rolled in ’25, with a defined and ready market to run to capacity, more or less indefinitely. A relatively short span of time for a very sound return. The Liverpool-Manchester took from ’27 to ’30. Again a reasonable time for a solid return. The extension to London, however, will take many more years to complete. Since I realized that, I’ve been much more careful and, frankly, none of the proposals currently doing the rounds will see any return for…it might be more than a decade.”

Sitting back, Malcolm met Charlie’s eyes. “That’s not the sort of project I’m comfortable with.” He held up one hand. “Don’t mistake me—I’m sure most of these railways will eventually be built. But the time in the capital phase is no longer in an investor’s favor.”

He paused, as if considering, then added, “In addition to that, too many of these proposals are being floated by the same small set of senior investors. They need others to buy in to make the projects fly, but they themselves are too financially stretched to allow each project to proceed at the proposed pace. I wouldn’t be surprised if over the next decade a number of syndicates founder.”

Eyes narrowed, Charlie said, “So it’s a case of trying to do too much, too quickly, and with too little overall available capital—at least capital available for such distant returns.”

Malcolm nodded. “There’s also precious little attention being given to the difficulties of construction that some proposals face. Yet another reason to steer clear of railways, at least in terms of investing.”

Charlie’s brows rose. “Indeed!”

The meal completed, they pushed back their chairs and rose. After settling with the innkeeper, they walked out onto the pavement. Charlie turned to Malcolm. “Thank you for your insights—they were fascinating.”

“Not at all.” Malcolm offered his hand; Charlie gripped it. “It was a plea sure to talk to someone with similar interests.”

Charlie felt the same. “We must get together again sometime, and explore our mutual interests further.”

Malcolm inclined his head and they parted, both well pleased.

Charlie looked down at the harbor. The wind had risen, whipping the waves to whitecaps. Not good sailing weather. And the last time he’d been out, he’d had Sarah with him…

Turning on his heel, he headed for the inn yard. Better he drive himself home, and then find something else to occupy his mind.

The wedding preparations proceeded apace under his mother’s and Lord Conningham’s direction; there was little for Charlie to do—indeed everyone was of the opinion he should simply stay out of the way. Consequently, two evenings later, after spending the day driving about the county with Jason, Juliet, and Henry, he was hiding in the library reading the day’s news sheets, quietly desperate to find some topic of sufficient interest to see him through the evening, when Crisp, his butler, entered to announce, “Mr. Adair has called, my lord.”

Charlie blinked, sat up, and laid aside the news sheet. “Show him in, Crisp.”

Curiosity stirring, he wondered what Barnaby was doing in the neighborhood, and at such an hour. Something had to be afoot.

One glance at Barnaby as he came through the door confirmed that. His expression was serious, his blond curls rumpled, his cravat rather limp; he was still the same well-dressed and handsome gentleman of the haut ton, but he appeared distinctly travel worn.

Rising, Charlie met him, shaking his hand and clapping him on the shoulder before waving him to the armchairs before the blazing fire. “Sit and get warm.” Barnaby’s hands were chilled. “Have you dined?”

Barnaby shook his head. “I drove directly from town.”

Charlie raised his brows. “You’re staying, I take it?”

Sinking into an armchair, Barnaby’s lips twitched. “If you have room.”

With a grin—the Park was huge—Charlie turned to Crisp and gave orders for a substantial supper for Barnaby, and for a room to be prepared. Crisp departed. Charlie strolled to the tantalus. “Brandy?”

“Please.” Barnaby leaned back in the chair. “It’s bitter out there.”

Charlie glanced at Barnaby. More than the weather was affecting his friend. His face was uncharacteristically grim and set, as if it had been that way, unrelieved, for days.

Strolling over to deliver a tumbler of French brandy, Charlie then crossed to the other armchair and sat. He sipped, taking in the strain in Barnaby’s face. It eased as he, too, sipped the fiery liquid. Charlie leaned back. “So—what’s up?”

“Dark doings, of an especially exercising sort.”

Charlie waited. Eventually Barnaby went on, “The pater and the other commissioners have asked for my help—official, but on the quiet—to investigate, and if at all possible bring to justice whoever’s behind a particularly nasty series of cases of land profiteering.”

Barnaby’s father was one of the peers overseeing the recently instituted metropolitan police force. Charlie frowned. “Series of cases?”

Barnaby sipped and nodded. “That’s part of the nastiness. That individual cases of minor profiteering might occur from time to time would surprise no one, and indeed it’s no crime, but these cases—and I’ll explain in a moment why they’re different—have been happening up and down the country for years. Literally for about a decade. Everyone’s horrified that the villains have been so active, and for so long, all apparently in perfect safety, but because the cases have been so geographically spread, no one realized.”

He paused to sip again. “Until recently, there was no central authority to whom such crimes would be reported.” He humphed. “Mind you, the first week and more of my time has gone in hieing up and down the country, dragging full accounts of all the known cases from magistrates and sheriffs and lord lieutenants.”

Barnaby sighed. Leaning back, he closed his eyes. “I stopped in Newmarket on my way back to town and stayed with Dillon and Pris. When he heard what I was about, Dillon called Demon in and we sat down and put together all I’ve learned. It’s clear the situation is both serious and very difficult to pursue. We tossed around various avenues, and in the end we agreed that the best bet was to come to you and Gabriel.”

Charlie’s frown deepened. “I haven’t heard any tales of land profiteering hereabouts, or elsewhere, and I’m sure Gabriel hasn’t, either.”

Wearily Barnaby waved his glass. “That’s one of the neat things about profiteering—no one ever learns about it until long after the deed is done. If then. Even with these particular cases, it was only because some of these new railway companies have senior investors in common, and said senior investors have been deuced unhappy, not to say apoplectic, over the extortionary prices their companies have been and are being forced to pay for certain parcels of land, that they approached the police with a list of properties their companies have paid huge sums for, wanting the matter looked into—and then the pater called me in.”

“Ah.” Cynical understanding colored Charlie’s tone. “I see.” Many of those senior investors were peers and similarly wealthy individuals, the sort the authorities would wish to placate. “So the bit are biting back?”

“So to speak.” Barnaby paused, then continued, “From Newmarket I went to London, and consulted with the pater and our old friend Inspector Stokes. The long and short of that was that they thought our best bet lay with you and Gabriel, too.”

Charlie’s brows rose high. “I don’t see why, yet, but you have my complete attention.”

Barnaby grinned fleetingly. “First, why these cases are different.” He broke off as Crisp returned with a loaded tray.

Charlie sipped his brandy and waited while the tray was set up on a small table before Barnaby, and his ravenous friend started eating.

Without prompting, the instant the door shut behind Crisp, Barnaby continued between mouthfuls of roast beef. “Every case in this series involves a particular, very specific parcel of land. In every case, that parcel of land has been critical for the completion of a canal link, or a new toll road, or in recent years, one of the new railways.”

“Critical how?”

Barnaby chewed, then swallowed, his gaze on his plate. “The cases with the railways are the easiest to explain. Steam locomotives can’t handle steep gradients. When the track needs to climb or fall steeply, then they must ascend or descend slowly through a series of curves to keep the gradients low. The land around those steeper points is critical for the construction of the track. Often there is no alternative path. There are other places that are critical, too—like a natural pass between high hills. Tunnels and bridges can sometimes be used, but are significantly more expensive. And in the cases I’m investigating, regardless of all options, there hasn’t been any alternative but to buy the land.”

“So the land is being chosen—targeted if you will—by someone who knows a good deal about the construction of canals, toll roads, and railways.”

Barnaby nodded. “More, whoever they are they’ve also had knowledge of the routes of future canals, toll roads, and railways long before they’ve been announced. These cases involve land bought literally years ahead of any announcement of proposed routes, even of any private proposal being canvassed.”

Charlie raised his brows. “Guesswork?”

“Damn good guessing if that were so, but I don’t think it can be. Every case I’ve uncovered has been…well, if I were a villain, I’d say it was a jewel, perfectly chosen for the purpose of profiteering. Every case—I can’t believe anyone could guess that well.”

“How many cases?”

“Twenty-three so far.”

“You said these were a series of cases. I’m assuming they follow the customary pattern—locals unaware of potential increase in land value are presented with an offer for their acres that seems too good to refuse. They accept and ride happily to the bank, and then sometime later—years later in these cases—the new owner sells to the development company at a hugely inflated price, in these cases verging on the extortionary.” When Barnaby nodded, Charlie asked, “What’s your reason for imagining these twenty-three cases are the work of one villain?”

“Or villains.” Barnaby’s grimness returned in full mea sure. “The persuasion.”

Charlie blinked. “Persuasion? To sell?”

Barnaby nodded. “It always starts innocently—an offer for the land made through a local solicitor. If the owners accept—and remember most would and then there’s no crime—then all passes off smoothly. The original owners don’t make the money they might have, and the development companies end up paying through the nose for land they might have had much cheaper, but, at least up to now, that’s been considered a risk of the business.

“However, in sixteen of the twenty-three cases reported by our senior investors, the original owners refused that first offer, and a subsequent increased offer, too. That’s when the persuasion started. Initially, it was mild—like cows straying if it’s a farm, or fences down. You know the sort of thing. Anonymous irritations, but they built. And then came another, slightly increased offer.”