Free Stone's Fall by Iain Pears Page A

little sketches, using photographs from newspapers in lieu of the real thing. It kept him busy and happy, and I still don’t know whether there was really any grain of seriousness about it. I think not, for although he was unrealistic, he was not totally insane. But the project took on a life of its own, and everything that happened in the world would be related back to it. He became a great supporter of the French monarchists, as he did not see how he could fit a republican president into a portrait of kings. He profoundly disapproved of Russian revolutionaries, and was outraged when the King of Portugal was assassinated, thus robbing him of a subject who had been noted (until his unfortunate death) for his handsome figure.
    The dream of glory swept over Brock like a wave as he contemplated his forthcoming knighthood when the project was shown at the Royal Academy. Then he came back to earth as Mulready collapsed into gales of giggles. The dinner came to its end on rather a poor note. Brock stumped off, Mulready began to feel a little guilty and Franklin watched impassively. Eventually we went upstairs to the little sitting room, kept for special occasions only. It was dark, chilly and thoroughly uncomfortable, but Franklin never allowed anyone into his room. He tossed the file from Seyd’s back towards me.
    “Did you read it?”
    “Of course I did. An accomplished summary, but little detail.”
    “So? Can you explain it all to me?”
    While Brock and Mulready were all gaiety even when discussing weighty matters, Franklin was all seriousness, even in his frivolity. He had no sense of humour whatsoever; it made him a good employee and a dull, though kindly, companion. At the dinner table he kept strictly to pronouncements of fact, on which he could be highly pedantic. Was the Battle of Waterloo in June or July of 1815? Mulready did not even care what year it was in; to Franklin it became a matter of the utmost importance, and if he could not pin it down he would become restless. Sooner or later he would disappear upstairs to check, and reassure himself that the world was still capable of being reduced to numerical order.
    The file of Seyd’s triggered an almighty outburst of this peculiar form of madness; in many cases, Franklin explained, it hinted but did not elaborate. It asserted but provided no evidence. It sketched out, but gave no background detail.
    “It is incomplete, I know,” I said, sorry that I had introduced the poor man to such a source of annoyance, but feeling at the same time that if his bloodhound-like desire to hunt down the detail could be properly harnessed it might prove highly useful. “Could you tell me what it’s all about?”
    I will not set it down word for word. That would be intolerable, and do little except highlight how little, even with his expert tutelage, I really understood at that stage. Ravenscliff, he said, was a new breed. Not an industrialist, not a banker, but a capitalist of the most modern sort…
    Here he had lost me. He began again. In the last few decades companies have sold themselves on the Stock Exchange. People buy shares in them; if a company is successful, its profits increase, more people want the shares, so the price rises.
    Easy. I nodded.
    In the day-to-day, he went on, settling into his stride now, the managers of a company—let us say a steel factory—run the business. There is also a board of directors which keeps an eye on the managers on behalf of the shareholders. As they own the business, the shareholders can tell the management what to do, if enough of them agree. Often there are so many shareholders and they are so scattered they can never agree on anything. And this is where Ravenscliff saw his opportunity.
    Back in the 1870s he realised that you do not have to own a company to control it. So, in 1878, he sold his torpedo company to Beswick, but, rather than being paid in cash, Beswick gave him shares instead. In fact, he ended up with nearly a