Chapter 161: The Crown’s Jewels (5)
Chapter 161: The Crown’s Jewels (5)
— Ding, ding, ding.
“Ugh… my back. At this rate, I feel like it might break.”
“Tsk. My back’s not the problem. My neck feels like it’s getting stiffer and stiffer.”
12:30 p.m.
When the bell announcing lunchtime rang three times in succession, the employees of the London Stock Exchange all rose from their seats and began stretching and twisting their bodies to relieve their stiff muscles.
After arriving early in the morning and hunching over desks until now, wrestling with sheets of paper filled with numbers, there was simply no way for one’s body not to grow sore.
On top of that, the employers seemed to absolutely hate the sight of the people they hired doing nothing. The lunch break they allowed was extremely tight.
Even if one wanted to properly enjoy an appetizer, main course, and dessert, failing to return to one’s seat by the designated time would earn disapproving looks—and in the worst cases, even a deduction in pay. There were more than enough reasons for the employees to move this quickly.
If not for the newly opened “Isak Convenience Meal” shops that had appeared across London over the past few months—apparently invented by a man in his thirties named Florence or Florance, or something like that (whoever he was, he must surely be a genius)—some of the slower eaters would probably still be going hungry most days.
Even so, one could not relax too much. If you arrived too late, the ingredients sometimes ran out.
That was right. No salaried man in the City of London wanted to miss the chance to enjoy freshly roasted meat and freshly baked bread together for the cheap price of ten pence.
Because of that, Edward, who worked at a trading counter in the stock exchange, wrapped his right wrist several times with a strip of linen cloth and hurried out of the building.
In this cursed age—where neither computers nor even typewriters yet existed—everything from small matters like ordering goods to major tasks like preparing reports had to be written by hand.
As a result, chronic tendonitis was a fashionable disease shared by every employee at the stock exchange.
Edward slipped his aching right wrist into his trouser pocket and began walking along the road beside the exchange. It was the route leading to Isak Convenience Meal.
“Huh? There are more people than usual today.”
When Edward reached the end of the road, he looked at the line of people standing in front of the shop and spoke with disappointment. He had come out the moment lunch began, yet the line seemed twice as long as usual.
A creeping thought began to rise in his mind—he might end up skipping lunch today.
In the end, Edward pulled the hand he had been carefully keeping in his pocket and started running.
“Huff, huff. Here! One Isak Convenience Meal, please!”
As he spoke, Edward wiped the sweat running down his sideburns with his left hand.
Perhaps because he had poured every ounce of strength into the single goal of eating a meal, Edward managed to place his order before the ingredients ran out. How could he not feel happy?
“Here you go. That will be ten pence.”
When the employee handed him the convenience meal wrapped in newspaper, Edward quickly pressed several ten-pence coins into the employee’s hand and immediately took a bite.
“Haaah…”
As expected, a meal break in the middle of exhausting work was pure happiness.
After retracing his steps and returning near his workplace at the stock exchange, Edward did what he always did and entered a nearby café.
“One cup of coffee, please.”
“Ah, I’ll prepare it right away.”
The errand boy working at the café noticed the Isak Convenience Meal in Edward’s hand and gave him a seat.
Edward sat comfortably in the seat the boy indicated. Despite the cold weather at the end of December, the café remained warm thanks to the firewood burning inside. Edward lifted the half-eaten convenience meal back to his mouth.
He did not know why, but Isak Convenience Meal and the café he had entered seemed to share some sort of connection.
If you bought coffee from this café and took it to Isak Convenience Meal, they slightly reduced the price you had to pay. Conversely, if you brought an Isak Convenience Meal into this café, the coffee price would be discounted.
As a consumer, it was excellent. But for Edward, who worked as an intermediary buying and selling stocks, he could not quite understand why the shop owners conducted business that way.
“Well, I suppose I don’t really need to know.”
Edward tore off a small piece of the convenience meal, dipped it lightly into the coffee the errand boy had brought, and put it in his mouth.
“Did you eat well?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Good. Let’s start getting ready again.”
Edward nodded at his superior’s words and walked back to his desk.
He organized the documents he had received during the morning and prepared to record the transactions that had piled up during lunch.
Damn it. He had spent the entire morning rushing around without even time to breathe, yet why did the work never seem to decrease no matter how much he did?
Edward let out a long sigh, untied the linen cloth wrapped around his right wrist, and tied it tightly again.
— Ding, ding, ding.
The bell rang. It meant work should begin.
Edward removed the wooden block that had been covering the counter window, pulled out the documents, and spoke toward the person standing beyond the counter.
“What transaction would you like to—, huh?”
Edward found himself stammering.
The person who should have been standing beyond the counter was nowhere to be seen.
“W-what?”
Since joining the London Stock Exchange, Edward had never encountered such a situation even once. He could only blink his eyes in confusion.
As Edward stood there with his mouth hanging open like a fool, a small, timid voice came from below the counter.
“Um… mister. Down here. Down here.”
“…?”
Edward stood up and leaned forward far enough to see the entire area beyond the counter.
Only then did he notice a small child below the counter, fidgeting with his hands while looking up at him.
The child was simply too short to be seen over the counter designed for adults.
But why would such a tiny child come to the stock exchange? Had he gotten lost?
Suppressing his bewilderment, Edward spoke kindly.
“Little one, what brings you here? Did you lose your parents nearby?”
“N-no!”
The child shook his head vigorously, cheeks red from the cold. It was not a mild denial.
“Then… did you lose your way?”
“No!”
Again, the child shouted while shaking his head.
“Uh… then why did you come here?”
At Edward’s question, the child fidgeted with his hands and spoke in a small voice.
“P-please give me one share of the Ireland Cotton Manufacturing Company.”
“…What?”
Edward could not hide his astonishment this time. The child looked only five or six years old. Who would not be shocked hearing such a child say he wanted to buy stock?
But the child did not care whether Edward was surprised or not and shouted once more.
“Please sell me one share of Ireland Cotton Manufacturing Company stock!”
City of London.
Royal Bank, Baring.
Chairman’s office.
“…What?”
A man in his fifties who had been pouring whiskey into a glass resealed the bottle and spoke.
“What nonsense are you talking about? Street children knocking on the doors of the stock exchange?”
Sir Francis Baring, 1st Baronet—head of the Baring family that controlled the City of London, chairman of the Royal Bank, and senior director of the East India Company—spoke with disbelief at his secretary’s report.
“Perhaps the cod you ate for dinner last night had gone bad. How could children who live day to day possibly walk through the center of the City of London?”
Shoeshine boys, day laborers, newspaper boys and girls buying stocks at the London Stock Exchange.
It was such an absurd story that Francis Baring suspected his secretary might be suffering from food poisoning.
“B-but it’s actually happening right now, sir! This information just came from the London Stock Exchange to our bank!”
The secretary insisted with an aggrieved expression, as though begging him to believe.
“…Have our friends in the Whig Party said anything?”
Baring lowered his head in silence for a moment before speaking again.
“No, sir. We sent a messenger to the Earl of Shelburne (William Petty, 2nd Earl of Shelburne — Whig Party member and former Speaker of the House of Lords), but they also seem unaware.”
“Hmm. The Whigs are not the sort of friends who would lie to us. If they say they do not know, then they truly do not know.”
For decades, Baring and other advocates of free trade and the free market had supported the Whig Party in every possible way. As a result, the Whigs and the Baring family maintained an extremely close relationship.
The Whigs would never do something like this. After all, I myself once served as a member of Parliament under the Whig banner, and even worked in the Treasury for a time. Come to think of it, in those days I siphoned off quite a bit while leading national projects. Ah, memories.
Indeed, no matter how he thought about it, there was no reason for the Whig Party and Edmund Burke to carry out something like this without even giving him a hint.
That left only one suspect.
Francis Baring gently swirled the half-filled glass of whiskey in his hand and spoke.
“It seems William Pitt and the Tory Party are plotting something again…”
“If it’s the Tories, the suspicion is certainly reasonable.”
Prime Minister William Pitt did not like Baring, who openly supported the Whigs. In fact, “dislike” would be putting it mildly—he probably hated him.
But what connection could there possibly be between buying up stocks using children and trying to check me?
“Something feels wrong.”
What scheme are you plotting this time, Pitt?
Something continued to weigh uncomfortably on Francis’s chest.
Even so, Francis Baring did not act rashly.
When you cannot read the opponent’s move and have no clear idea what you yourself should do, there is only one thing to maintain—calm.
He could not afford to squander the opportunity to control India—the jewel of the crown—over mere political maneuvering.
Having survived countless storms in the financial world, Francis addressed his secretary.
“Check whether the communication lines with Amsterdam in the Netherlands, Boston in America, and Egypt are functioning properly. And tell the executives to refrain from any conspicuous activity for the time being.”
For now, they would lie low. Whatever attack the opponent planned, it would fail if they were given no opportunity to strike.
“When you say executives, which companies do you mean, sir?”
“Baring Bank, the East India Company, and Hope & Co. in Amsterdam—everywhere we hold shares.”
Francis continued,
“And go to Westminster immediately. Rumors are fine. Gather any information you can.”
“Yes, sir.”
The secretary nodded and hurried out of the chairman’s office.