Chapter 13 #2
Sheffield nodded. “In the past, letters of credit or large amounts of currency were usually issued to members of the aristocracy by banks who had served their families for several generations. It was a small world, where everyone involved tended to know each other. But now, a great many new business and manufacturing enterprises are being created by talented members of the middle class. The days of doing deals with a handshake are over. The sheer scale of commerce is growing at a rapid pace. Money and financial documents must be made to a standard design—one that cannot be duplicated by a counterfeiter.”
“Well said, sir.” Ainsley regarded the earl over the rim of his glass. “I do hope your presence here with Mr. Sheffield tonight indicates that you are reconsidering being part of our endeavor, milord.”
“Perhaps,” replied the earl, earning a quick half smile from his friend. “Though I don’t think that I possess any sort of expertise that would help the committee to make an informed decision.”
“My understanding is that you’re considered one of the leading scientific minds in the field of metallurgy,” replied Ainsley.
“It is my field of study,” acknowledged Wrexford. “But I’m not sure it has much to do with the printing of banknotes.”
“Do I take it that you’re not familiar with the name Jacob Perkins?”
“I am not,” answered the earl.
“Nor am I,” added Sheffield.
“He is an American inventor—”
“Wait!” Sheffield made a face. “Now that you mention it, wasn’t it the mention of that name which provoked Ibbetson to fly into a rage?”
“Alas, yes,” said Ainsley. “Word from America is that Perkins is involved in some innovative experiments in metallurgy that involve steel instead of the traditional copper for printing plates.” He blew out his breath.
“Please don’t ask me for details, for I have none.
The only thing I can add is that he’s supposedly working how to alter its hardness. ”
“Indeed?” Wrexford couldn’t help but be intrigued. “I’m not sure what that would accomplish …” Hs voice trailed off as he lapsed into thought.
“Unfortunately, we may never know,” said Ainsley with a sigh of regret.
“Perkins has earned kudos for printing currency for the state of Massachusetts—word is, he has also invented a new type of printing press to go along with his new type of plates—and some of us have heard that he’s been considering coming to England for some time. ”
He released a small sigh. “Indeed, I and a colleague of mine at the Bank of England started a correspondence with him this past year, encouraging him to come set up shop in London. However, in one of our recent committee meetings, Sir Joseph has made it clear that he is adamantly opposed to allowing an American to work on British currency.”
“Sir Joseph is a leading luminary in our scientific community and a gentleman whom we all revere and respect,” murmured Sheffield. “But his light was brightest in the past century. We need to look ahead and put old prejudices behind us.”
“I couldn’t agree more.” Ainsley took a meditative sip of his wine, but before he could continue, Lord Bethany, the secretary of the Royal Society, mounted the dais set at the far end of the reception room and rang a silver handbell for silence.
“Thank you all for coming,” he intoned, after taking his place at the podium.
“Regretfully, Sir Joseph cannot be with us this evening due to a slight indisposition. But he asked me to announce his decision concerning a new appointment to take up the duties of our esteemed colleague who recently passed away.”
Bethany took a moment to adjust his spectacles.
“As you all know, Lord Langdon was tasked with evaluating the new technologies submitted to the Royal Society for printing banknotes that can’t be counterfeited.
Given the importance of the committee’s ultimate decision on the future stability of our nation, Sir Joseph has decided to assume leadership of the committee himself, though he will choose an assistant to help with the day-to-day logistics. ”
A murmured reaction rippled through the crowd, though Wrexford couldn’t discern the general sentiment. He looked to Ainsley, but the fellow’s expression gave nothing away.
“I suppose it’s an understandable decision,” said Sheffield. “Though it seems to me that a younger member with more experience in engineering innovations might have been a more practical choice. Sir Joseph’s expertise in botany and the natural world is unquestioned, but …”
He cleared his throat. “But as someone who has yet to attend a meeting of the committee, I am clearly out of my depth.”
Wrexford saw an opportunity to do a little probing. “I can’t help but wonder at why Sir Joseph appointed Lord Langdon to head the committee in the first place. Did he have any experience in the issue of counterfeiting? One would have thought that would be important.”
A pause. “I seem to recall that there was a grave concern around the turn of the century about the quality of all the various banknotes being issued by the private banks around the country.”
Ainsley’s mouth twitched in sardonic humor. “Indeed, London’s satirical artists lambasted our paper money and letters of credit, calling them filthy rags.” A curt laugh. “With good reason.”
“Speaking of which, isn’t the Bank of England trying to convince the government that there ought to be a single standard paper currency for the nation, rather than allowing private banks to issue their own banknotes?” asked Sheffield.
“That seems to make great sense,” observed the earl. “The world is changing at whirlwind speed, and financial transactions are becoming more complex on so many levels. The ways of the past simply won’t work on such a grand scale.”
“Yes, changes need to be made,” agreed Ainsley.
“The public must have confidence in our money, so we can’t afford to fail in convincing them that the system works.
” He looked out over the crowd of learned gentleman, his gaze turning shuttered.
“As for your question about Lord Langdon, my sense is that he was asked to oversee picking a winner for the Inimitable Banknote Competition because of his experience on various high-level government committees. He was close to several members of the Privy Council, who trusted his discretion and his efficiency at managing the—shall we say—forceful opinions of powerful gentlemen and getting them to come to a consensus.”
“Did he, perchance, have anything to do investigating the counterfeiting scandal of ten years ago?” queried Wrexford
“You mean the Lisbon Conspiracy?” Ainsley’s expression seemed to tighten. “Ye heavens, what makes you ask that?”
“I simply wish to have a clearer picture of your committee’s present challenges,” replied the earl. “I’ve heard some talk hinting that some of the conspirators involved in the scandal might have eluded the authorities.”
“Wherever you heard such spurious rumors, be assured they are utterly false, milord.” A flush of anger—or was it some other emotion—had darkened Ainsley’s patrician cheekbones.
“I know for a fact that the Bank of England is absolutely certain that all the villains answered for their crimes by dancing the hangman’s jig. ”
“You know rumors,” murmured Sheffield. “They have a way of taking on a life of their own.”
“Indeed,” Ainsley composed himself enough to flash an apologetic smile. “That’s why it’s important to be vigilant and quash them before they can spread and stir up unnecessary trouble.”
Wrexford maintained a tactful silence. But he noted that Sheffield’s newfound friend hadn’t answered his question.
“Now, if you will excuse me,” said Ainsley, “I must go speak to Mr. Winchester.”
“Perhaps Bradley would be of more help in providing information on Langdon,” suggested Sheffield after Ainsley had moved off.
He indicated a white-haired gentleman with a beaked nose standing by the refreshment table “For the last several years, he played whist with Langdon every Thursday night at White’s. ”
The earl nodded, though he had little expectation that the elderly scholar would be forthcoming with anything useful. But as he turned, he felt a slight tug on his sleeve.
“If you wish to know more about Langdon’s activities at the time of the Lisbon Conspiracy,” came a low murmur, “I would suggest that you speak with a man named Henry Sykes.”
As Wrexford paused to look around, Philip Stoneham, one of his chemistry colleagues at Royal Institution, dropped his voice another notch.
“He served as the foreman for Matthew Boulton’s Soho House factory in Birmingham and now lives in London.
He can usually be found every night at the Crown and Mitre Tavern on Giltspur Street, just south of St. Bartholo mew’s Hospital. ”