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Monday morning
Cedric had walked into his office just before seven that morning, and immediately began to pace up and down the room while he waited for the phone to ring. But no one called until eight. It was Abe Cohen.
“I managed to get rid of the lot, Mr. Hardcastle,” said Cohen. “The last few flew in Hong Kong. Frankly, no one can fathom why the price is so low.”
“What was the final price?” asked Cedric.
“One pound and eight shillings.”
“Couldn’t be better, Abe. Ross was right, you’re simply the best.”
“Thank you, sir. I only hope there was some purpose in you losing all that money.” And before Cedric could reply, added, “I’m off to get some sleep.”
Cedric checked his watch. The stock market would open for business in forty-five minutes. There was a quiet knock on the door, and Sebastian walked in carrying a tray of coffee and biscuits. He sat down on the other side of the chairman’s desk.
“How did you get on?” asked Cedric.
“I’ve rung fourteen of the leading stock brokers to let them know that if any Barrington’s shares come on the
market, we’re buyers.”
“Good,” said Cedric, looking at his watch once again. “As Ross hasn’t rung, we must still be in with a chance.” He took a sip of coffee, glancing at his watch every few moments.
When nine began to strike on a hundred different clocks throughout the Square Mile, Cedric rose and acknowledged the City’s anthem. Sebastian remained seated, staring at the phone, willing it to ring. At three minutes past nine, someone obeyed his command. Cedric grabbed the receiver, juggled with it and nearly dropped it on the floor.
“It’s Capels on the line, sir,” said his secretary. “Shall I put them through?”
“Immediately.”
“Good morning, Mr. Hardcastle. It’s David Alexander of Capels. I know we’re not your usual broker, but the grapevine has it that you’re looking to buy Barrington’s, so I thought I’d let you know that we have a large sale order with instructions from our client to sell at spot price when the market opened this morning. I wondered if you were still interested.”
“I could be,” said Cedric, hoping he sounded calm.
“However, there is a caveat attached to the sale of these shares,” said Alexander.
“And what might that be?” asked Cedric, knowing only too well what it was.
“We are not authorized to sell to anyone who represents either the Barrington or the Clifton family.”
“My client is from Lincolnshire, and I can assure you, he has no past or present connection with either of those families.”
“Then I am happy to make a trade, sir.”
Cedric felt like a teenager trying to close his first deal. “And what is the spot price, Mr. Alexander?” he asked, relieved that the broker from Capels couldn’t see the sweat pouring down his forehead.
“One pound and nine shillings. They’re a shilling up since the market opened.”
“How many shares are you offering?”
“We have one million two hundred thousand on our books, sir.”
“I’ll take the lot.”
“Did I hear you correctly, sir?”
“You most certainly did.”
“Then that is a buy order for one million two hundred thousand Barrington’s Shipping shares at one pound and nine shillings. Do you accept the transaction, sir?”
