Not a Penny More Not a Penny Less Read online

  “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.

  “Yes, of course. What difference does it make to me where they are?”

  “Then I am sure we will find it acceptable to advance you a loan of £150,000 at 2 percent above base rate.”

  James was not at all sure what base rate was, but he knew that Williams & Glyn’s were as competitive as everyone else in such matters and that their reputation was beyond dispute.

  “Thank you,” said James. “Please acquire for me 35,000 shares in a company called Prospecta Oil.”

  “Have you checked carefully into this company, my lord?” inquired Izard.

  “Yes, of course I have,” said Lord Brigsley, very sharply. He was not in awe of the bank-managerial class.

  In Boston, Harvey Metcalfe was briefed over the telephone by Silverman of the meeting in Annabel’s between David Kesler and a nameless peer who seemed to have more money than sense. Harvey released 40,000 shares onto the market at £4.80. Williams & Glyn’s acquired 35,000 of them and, once again, the remainder was taken up by small investors. The shares rose a little. Harvey Metcalfe was now left with only 30,000 shares of his own, and over the next four days he was able to dispose of them all. It had taken him fourteen weeks to off-load his entire stock in Prospecta Oil at a profit of just over $6 million.

  On Friday morning, the shares stood at £4.90 and Kesler had, in all innocence, occasioned four large investments: Harvey Metcalfe studied them in detail before putting through a call to Jörg Birrer.

  Stephen Bradley had bought 40,000 shares at $6.10

  Dr. Robin Oakley had bought 35,000 shares at $7.23

  Jean-Pierre Lamanns had bought 25,000 shares at $7.80

  James Brigsley had bought 35,000 shares at $8.80

  David Kesler himself had bought 500 shares at $7.25.

  Among them they had purchased 135,500 shares at a cost of just over $1 million. They had also kept the price rising, giving Harvey the chance to off-load all his own stock onto a natural market.

  Harvey Metcalfe had done it again. His name was not on the letterhead and now he possessed no shares. Nobody would be able to place any blame on him. He had done nothing illegal; even the geologist’s report contained enough ifs and buts to pass in a court of law. As for David Kesler, Harvey could not be blamed for his youthful overenthusiasm. He had never even met the man. Harvey Metcalfe opened a bottle of Krug Privée Cuvée 1964, imported from Hedges and Butler of London. He sipped it slowly, then lit a Romeo y Julieta Churchill, and settled back for a mild celebration.

  David, Stephen, Robin, Jean-Pierre and James celebrated at the weekend as well. Why not? Their shares were at £4.90 and David had assured them all that they would reach £10. On Saturday morning David ordered his first bespoke suit from Aquascutum, Stephen tuttutted his way through the end-of-vacation examination papers he had set his freshmen students, Robin attended his sons’ prep school Sports Day, Jean-Pierre reframed a Renoir, and James Brigsley went shooting, convinced that at last he had one in the eye for his father.

  Chapter Three

  DAVID ARRIVED AT the office at 9 A.M. on Monday to find that the front door was locke