Stone's Fall

CHAPTER 1

When I became involved in the life and death of John William Stone, First (and last) Baron Ravenscliff, I was working as a journalist. You note I do not say I was a journalist. Merely working as one. It is one of the better-kept secrets of the trade that you have to be quite serious if you wish to have any success. You spend long hours hanging around in pubs, waiting for something to happen, and when it does, it is often of no great interest. I specialised in court cases, and so lived my life around the Old Bailey, eating with my fellows, dozing with them during boring testimony, drinking with them as we awaited a verdict, then running back to the office to knock out some deathless prose.

Murders were the best: 'Railway Trunk Murderer to Hang.' 'Ealing Strangler Begs for Mercy.' They all had nicknames, the good ones, anyway. I made up many of them myself; I had a sort of facility for a snappy phrase. I even did what no other reporter did, which was occasionally to investigate a case myself. I spent a portion of my paper's money on policemen, who were as susceptible then to a small inducement – a drink, a meal, a present for their children – as they are now. I became adept at understanding how the police and murderers worked. Far too good at it, in the eyes of my grander colleagues, who thought me squalid. In my defence I can say that it was an interest shared with much of the newspaper-buying public, who loved nothing more than a good garrotting to read about. The best thing was a beautiful young woman, done to death in a particularly horrible way. Always a crowd pleaser, that.

And it was because of this small expertise of mine that I came across Lord Ravenscliff. Or his widow, from whom I received a letter one fine April morning, asking me to come and see her. This was about a fortnight after he died, although that event had rather passed me by at the time.

'Anyone know anything about Lady Elizabeth Ravenscliff?' I asked in the Duck, where I was breakfasting on a pint of beer and a sausage roll. It was fairly empty that morning; there had not been a decent trial for weeks and none in the offing either. Even the judges were complaining that the criminal classes seemed to have lost their appetite for work.

My enquiry was met with a communal grunt that signified a total lack of interest.

'Elizabeth, Lady Ravenscliff. Do get it right.' It was George Short who replied, an old man who was the very definition of a hack. He could turn his hand to anything, and was a better reporter blind drunk than any of his fellows – including me – sober. Give him some information and he would write it up. And if you didn't give him some information, he would make it up so perfectly the result was better than the truth. Which is, in fact, another rule of journalism. Fiction is generally better than reality, is usually more trustworthy, and always more believable.

George, who dressed so appallingly that he was once arrested for vagrancy, put down his pint – his fourth that morning, and it was only ten o'clock – and wiped his stubbly chin. Like the aristocracy, you can tell a reporter's status by his clothes and manners. The worse they are, the higher up they are, as only the lowly have to make a good impression. George had to impress no one. Everyone knew him, from judges down to the criminals themselves, and all called him George, and most would stand him a drink. At that stage I was more than a beginner, but less than an old hand – I had abandoned my dark suit and was now affecting tweeds and a pipe, aiming at the literary, raffish look which, I thought, quite suited me. Few agreed with my opinion, but I felt rather splendid when I looked at myself in the mirror of a morning.

'Very well. Elizabeth, Lady Ravenscliff, then. Who is she?' I replied.

'The wife of Lord Ravenscliff. Widow, rather.'

'And he was?'

'A baron,' said George, who sometimes took the rule about giving all relevant information a little too far. 'Given a peerage in 1902, as I recall. I don't know why, he probably bought it like they all do. John Stone was his name. Money man of some sort. Fell out of a window a couple of weeks back. Only an accident, unfortunately.'

'What sort of money man?'

'How should I know? He had money. What's it to you, anyway?'

I handed him the letter.

George tapped his pipe on the heel of his shoe and sniffed loudly. 'Not very informative,' he replied, handing it back. 'Can't be for your looks, or your talent, or your dress sense. Or your wit and charm. Maybe she needs a gardener?'

I made a face at him.

'Are you going to go?'

'Of course.'

'Don't expect much. And be on your guard. These people take a lot, and give nothing back.' It was the nearest I ever heard him come to a political opinion.

CHAPTER 2

I presented myself the next day at the address in St James's Square – an impressive town house of the sort occupied by the wealthy merchant and financial classes, although these were gradually moving out to leafier parts of town. I had found out all but nothing about Lady Ravenscliff herself, so filled the gap with imaginings. A dowager in her late sixties, dressed in the high fashion of thirty years ago when she was young and (I was prepared to bet) tolerably pretty. An air of geraniums about her – my grandmother used to grow them, and the particular heavy smell of the plant has always been associated in my mind with respectable old age. Or perhaps not; perhaps a little blowsy and crude, North Country made good, still socially insecure, a chip on her shoulder from having wealth but little position to go with it.

My thoughts were interrupted when I was ushered in to meet a woman I took to be a daughter or a companion. I guessed her age to be about forty or so, while Ravenscliff had been nearly seventy when he died.

'Good afternoon,' I said. 'My name is Matthew Braddock. I have an appointment with your – mother? Perhaps . . . ?'

She smiled in a vaguely perplexed way. 'I very much hope not, Mr Braddock,' she replied. 'Unless you are in contact with the spirit world, you can have no rendezvous with her.'

'I received a letter from Lady Ravenscliff . . .' I began.

'I am she,' she said in a soft voice, 'and I will take your confusion as a compliment. A slightly fumbled one, perhaps, but appreciated, nonetheless.'

She had enjoyed the little exchange; I could see her eyes dancing in her otherwise expressionless face, as though she was grateful for the first amusement she had had for many days. She was dressed in mourning, but made the black attire seem alluring; she was wearing what was then called a lampshade dress, with a jacket that fitted close around the neck, and a simple necklace of very large grey pearls which stood out against the black velvet of the clothes. I knew next to nothing of such things, only enough to realise that the clothes were the latest in what women considered fashionable. Certainly, even to an amateur like me, the general impression was all very striking. And only the colour suggested anything like mourning.

I sat down. Nobody likes appearing to be a fool, and I had not made a very good start. The fact that she was quite pleased with the way things were going did not help. Only later – very much later – did I consider that my inept beginnings might have had something to do with the lady herself, for she was beautiful, although if you considered her face there was no obvious reason to think so. It was not what you might call conventionally handsome; in fact, you might have almost concluded she was slightly odd looking. There was a distinct asymmetry to her features: her nose and mouth too big; her eyebrows too dark. But she was beautiful because she thought she was so, and so dressed and sat and moved in a fashion which elicited the appropriate response from those who saw her. I did not consciously notice this at the time, but it must have had some effect on me.

The best thing to do, I decided, was nothing. She had summoned me, so it was for her to begin. This allowed her to take control of the meeting, but that was no more than recognising reality. So I arranged myself as best I could and tried hard to conceal my discomfiture.

'I have spent much time recently reading the newspapers, Mr Braddock,' she began. 'What I am told are your innumerable contributions.'

'I am gratified, your ladyship.'

'It was not for your literary talent – although I have no doubt you are skilled in your chosen occupation. It is because I have need of someone with an ability to amass information and study it dispassionately. You seem to be just such a person.'

'Thank you.'

'Unfortunately, I also need someone who can be discreet, which I believe is not normally a characteristic of reporters.'

'We are professional gossips,' I said, cheerful again now I was on to a topic I knew about. 'I am paid to be indiscreet.'

'And if you are paid to be discreet?'

'Oh, in that case the sphinx will seem like a chatterbox in comparison.'

She waved her hand and thought a while. I had been offered no refreshment of any sort. 'I have a proposition for you. How much do you earn at the moment?'

This was an impolite question. By the standards of journalism I was paid adequately, although I knew that by the standards of Lady Ravenscliff it was probably a pitiful sum. Masculine pride does not like to be so easily damaged.

'Why do you want to know that?' I asked cautiously.

'Because in order to secure your services I will no doubt have to pay you somewhat more than you receive already. I wish to know how much more.'

I grunted. 'Well, if you must know, I am paid £125 a year.'

'Yes,' she said sweetly, 'you are.'

'I beg your pardon?'

'Naturally, I discovered this for myself. I wanted to see whether you would give me an accurate figure, or inflate it in the hope of getting more out of me. You have made a good start as an honest man.'

'And you have made a very poor start as a worthy employer.'

She acknowledged the reproof, although without any sign of remorse.

'That is true. But you will see in a moment why I am so cautious.'

'I am waiting.'

She frowned, which did not suit her naturally even complexion, and thought for a moment. 'Well,' she said eventually, 'I would like to offer you a job. It will pay £350 a year, plus any expenses you might incur, and continue for seven years, no matter how long you take to fulfil the task I will give you. This will be an inducement for you to accept the offer, and be discreet. Should you fail in the latter, then all payment will be suspended immediately.'

It took a few moments to absorb this. It was a phenomenal sum. I would easily be able to save a hundred a year, and so could look forward to perhaps another four years afterwards without having to worry about money. Eleven years of blessed security, in all. What could she possibly want that would justify that sum? Whatever it was, I intended to do it. As long as it didn't involve too long a gaol sentence.

'You are aware, perhaps, that my husband, Lord Ravenscliff, died a fortnight ago?'

I nodded.

'It was a terrible accident – I still cannot believe it. However, it happened. And I must now live as a widow.'

Not for long, though, I bet, I thought to myself as I composed my face into an expression of suitable sympathy.

'Please accept my condolences for your loss,' I said piously.

She treated the conventional remark with the solemnity it deserved, which is to say that she ignored it totally.

'As you no doubt know, death is not merely an emotional matter for those who are bereaved. The law demands attention as well.'

'The police are involved?'

She looked very queerly at me. 'Of course not,' she replied. 'I mean that there is a will to be read, estates to be settled, bequests to be made.'

'Oh. Yes. I'm sorry.'

She paused for a long while after that little exchange; perhaps the calm presentation was more difficult for her than it appeared.

'We were married for nearly twenty years, Mr Braddock. In that time we were as happy and content as a couple can be. I hope you can appreciate that.'

'I'm sure of it,' I replied, wondering what this was all about.

'So you can realise that when I was read his will, which gave a substantial legacy to his child, I was surprised.'

'Were you?' I asked cautiously.

'We had no children.'

'Ah.'

'And so I wish you to discover the identity of this child, so that the terms of his will can—'

'Just a moment,' I said in a rush, holding up my hand. The small amount of information she'd given me had already generated so many questions that I was having difficulties holding all of them in my head at the same time.

'Just a moment,' I repeated more calmly. 'Can we go through this a little more slowly? First of all, why are you telling me this? I mean, why me? You know nothing about me.'

'Oh, I do. You come recommended.'

'Really? By whom?'

'By your editor. We have known him for some time. He said you were a fine ferreter out of other people's secrets. He also told me you could be discreet and, incidentally, told me how much you are paid.'

'There must be someone better than me.'

'That is modest of you. And do not think I have not considered the matter carefully. In fact, there are few people capable of performing such a task. Lawyers occasionally employ such people, but none I know of. There are investigative agencies, but I do not feel inclined to trust someone who does not come personally recommended. Besides, they might well require more information than I can provide. I do not know whether this child is alive, when he or she was born, who the mother was. I do not even know in which country it might have been born. There is just one sentence in his will.'

'And that's it? Nothing else at all?'

'Nothing at all.'

'What did the will say, exactly?'

She paused for a moment, and then recited. '"Conscious of my failings in so many matters, and wishing to make amends for past ills, I direct that the sum of £250,000 be left to my child, whom I have never previously acknowledged." So you see, it is not a small matter.' She looked at me evenly as she spoke.

I gaped. Money wasn't my speciality, but I knew a gigantic fortune when I lost track of the noughts dancing in my head.

'That's some failing,' I commented. She replied with a frosty look. 'Sorry.'

'I wish to honour my husband's will to the letter, if it is possible. I need to inform this person of the bequest. I cannot do that until I know who he, or she, is.'

'You really have no more information?'

She shook her head. 'The will referred to some papers in his safe. There were none there. At least, nothing of any relevance. I have looked several times.'

'But if your husband conducted an – ah –'

I really did not know at all how to manage this conversation. Even with women of my own social class it would have been impossible to ask directly – your husband had a mistress? When? Where? Who? With a lady in the first flush of mourning it was completely beyond my capabilities.

Luckily, she decided to help me out. I rather wished she hadn't, as it made me even more uncomfortable. 'I do not believe my husband was in the habit of taking lovers,' she said calmly. 'Certainly not in the last decade or so. Before then I know of no one, and there is no reason why I should not have known had any such person existed.'

'Why is that?'

She smiled at me, again with a slightly mocking twinkle in her eye. 'You are trying to contain your shock, but not doing it very well. Let me simply say that I never doubted his love for me, nor he mine, even though he made it perfectly clear to me that I was free to do as I chose. Do you understand?'

'I think so.'

'He knew perfectly well that I would accept anything he wished to tell me about and so had no reason to conceal anything from me.'

'I see.'

I didn't of course; I didn't see at all. My morals were – and still are – those of my class and background, that is to say far more strict than those of people like the Ravenscliffs. It was an early lesson: the rich are a good deal tougher than most people. I suppose it is why they are rich.

'If you will excuse me for saying so, why did he make life so complicated for people? He must have known that it was going to be difficult to find this child.'

'It may be you will find an answer to that in your enquiries.'

She would never have made much of a living as a saleswoman in a department store, so it was perhaps as well that she was wealthy. Still, it would be an intriguing problem and, best of all, I got paid whatever the result: £350 a year was a powerful incentive. I was getting increasingly ill-humoured about the succession of bachelor lodging houses I had lived in for the past few years. I wasn't entirely certain whether I wanted domesticity and stability – wife, dog, house in the country. Or whether I wanted to flee abroad, and ride Arabian stallions across the desert, and sleep by flickering campfires at night. Either would do, as long as I could get away from the smell of boiled vegetables and furniture polish that hit me full in the face every time I returned home at night.

I was bored, and the presence of this beautiful woman with her extraordinary request and air of unfathomable wealth stirred up feelings I had long ignored. I wanted to do something different from hanging around the law courts and the pubs. This task she was offering me, and the money that went with it, were the only things likely to show up that could change my circumstances.

'You have become very thoughtful, Mr Braddock.'

'I was wondering how I would go about this task, if I decide to accept your offer.'

'You have decided to accept it,' she said gravely. From many people, there would have been a tone of contempt in the statement. She, on the other hand, managed to say it in a serene, almost friendly tone that was quite disarming.

'I suppose I have. Not without misgivings, though.'

'I'm sure those will pass.'

'I need, first of all, to discover everything I can about your husband's life. I will need to talk to his lawyer about the will. I don't know. Have you looked through his correspondence?'

She shook her head, tears suddenly welling up into her eyes. 'I can't face it yet,' she said. 'I'm sorry.'

I thought she was apologising for her laziness, then realised it was for the display of weakness she was showing me. Quite right. People like her weren't supposed to get emotional about a little thing like a husband dying. Should I have taken out a handkerchief and helped to dab her eyes? I would have enjoyed it; it would have required me to go and sit by her on the sofa, bring strength to her frailty. I changed the subject instead, and pretended I hadn't noticed.

'I imagine I will have to ensure that no one knows why I am asking these questions,' I said in a louder voice than necessary. 'I do not wish to cause you embarrassment.'

'It would cause me no embarrassment,' she replied, the absurdity of the idea bringing her back to her senses. 'But I suppose a general knowledge of your task might generate false claimants. I have already told a few people – your editor included – that I am thinking of commissioning a biography. It is the sentimental thing that a woman with much grief and money might do.'

'And as I am a reporter,' I said, cheerful once more to find myself back on home territory, 'I can ask indiscreet questions and seem merely as though I am fired by a love of the squalid and vulgar.'

'Precisely. You will fit the part very well, I'm sure. Now, I have made an appointment for you with Mr Joseph Bartoli, my husband's general manager. He has drawn up a contract for you.'

'And you?'

'I think you should come and see me every week to report progress. All Lord Ravenscliff's private correspondence is here, and you will have to read it as well, I imagine. You may ask any questions you have then. Although I do intend to travel to France in the near future. Much as I loved my husband and miss him, the conventions on mourning in this country I find very oppressive. But I know I would shock and scandalise if I acted inappropriately, so I must seek a little relief elsewhere.'

'You are not English.'

Another smile. 'My goodness, if that is how quick you are, we are not going to make much progress. No, I am not English. I am Hungarian by origin, although I lived in France until I married.'

'You have not the slightest trace of any foreign accent,' I said, feeling a little ruffled.

'Thank you. I have been in England for a long time. And I have never found languages difficult. Manners are a different matter, though. Those are more difficult to learn.'

She stood and shook my hand as I prepared to leave; she wore a soft, utterly feminine perfume which complemented perfectly the black clothes she wore. Her large grey eyes held mine as she said goodbye.

A drink. Either to celebrate or to recover, I wasn't sure, but I certainly needed assistance to think about the wave of change that had just swept over my life. In about forty-five minutes I had changed from being a jobbing reporter on £125 a year to someone earning nearly three times as much and able to do pretty much as I pleased. If that did not call for a celebration, I do not know what would, and there is a decent pub in Apple Tree Yard, just round the corner from St James's Square, which caters for the servants who work in the big houses, and the suppliers who keep those inhabitants in the style they require. Two drinks later, I was beginning to feel fairly grand. I would take a house, buy some new clothes. A decent pair of shoes. A new hat. Eat in hotel restaurants. Take a cab every now and then. Life would be very fine.

And I could do my appointed task with as much diligence as I chose. Lady Ravenscliff, it appeared, was still in shock over the loss of her husband and the discovery of his secret life. She had depended on him and looked up to him. Not surprising that she was now throwing his money around.

Why investigate at all? I wouldn't have done. If her husband hadn't troubled to find out who his wretched child was, why should his widow? It seemed to me like inflicting quite unnecessary self-punishment, but what did I know about the mentality of widows? Maybe it was just curiosity, being childless herself, to discover what a child of her husband would be like. Maybe she wanted to find out something about the woman who had succeeded where she had failed.

CHAPTER 3

The offices of Ravenscliff's general manager were in the City, at 15 Moorgate, an anonymous street of five- and six-storey buildings, all erected for commercial use in the past half century. There was nothing remarkable about the street or the people in it; the usual bustle of traders and agents, of young men with spotty faces, top hats, ill-fitting suits and shirts with stiff collars. It was a street of insurance brokers and stockbrokers and grain traders and metal dealers, those who imported and exported, sold before they bought and contrived to keep themselves and the Empire at whose centre they were in liquid funds. I had never liked it very much, this part of town; the City absorbs bright youths and knocks the spirit out of them. It has to; it is the inevitable result of poring over figures eleven hours a day, six days a week, in chilly offices where no talking is allowed and frivolity is punishable by dismissal.

The Stock Exchange is different; I was passing through once when some jobbers decided to set fire to the coat-tails of a grandee, who was billowing plumes of smoke for several minutes before he noticed. Fights with bread rolls arcing over the trading floor are a daily event, American Funds assaulting Foreign Railways. They work hideous hours for low pay, and lose their jobs easily even though they make their masters much money. It is not surprising that they have a tendency towards the infantile, for that is how they are treated. In the pubs and taverns of the City I had made many good friends amongst the jobbers and brokers, but among the bankers few, if any. They are different; they see themselves as gentlemen – not an accusation that could ever be hurled at a stockbroker.

I did not know what to expect of Mr Joseph Bartoli. This is not surprising, as he filled an unusual position, although the evolution of capitalism will throw up more of his type as industry becomes more complex. Ravenscliff (I later learned) had so many fingers in so many pies that it was difficult for him to keep track of them; nor could he involve himself in day-to-day operations as a mine owner or steel founder might be expected to do. For this he had managers in each enterprise. Mr Bartoli oversaw the managers, and informed Ravenscliff how each business was developing.

The offices he occupied, above a ships' chandler, were modest enough – one room for himself, one for clerks, of whom there were about a dozen, and one room for ranks of files and records, but he was so large that the room he had taken as his own was nearly filled by his presence. The little space left over was inhabited by a strange pixie-like character with bright eyes and a pointed goatee beard. Somewhere in his forties, medium height, slender, wearing a brown suit and carrying a pair of bright yellow leather gloves in one hand. He said almost nothing all the time I was there, and we were not introduced; rather, he sat on a seat in a corner reading a file, only occasionally looking up and smiling sympathetically at me. I wished I had been dealing with him, rather than with Bartoli. He seemed a much more agreeable fellow.

In contrast, Bartoli wore an orthodox black suit, but kept on scratching himself and running his finger around his collar as though it irked him. His vast belly fitted behind the desk with difficulty, and his red face and whiskers reminded me greatly of many of the regulars I often saw ranged alongside the bars of nearby pubs. His voice was loud and heavily accented, although it took me some time to realise what the accent was. Manchester-Italian, I decided after a while.

'Sit down,' he said, gesturing at an uncomfortable chair on the other side of the desk. 'You'll be Burdock.'

'Braddock,' I replied. 'Mr.'

'Yes, yes. Sit down.' He had the gestures of the foreigner; extravagant, and excessive, the sort of mannerisms which an Englishman distrusts. I took against Bartoli instantly. And (I must admit) against Ravenscliff, for putting such a man in a position to give orders. I was a great patriot then. I do not know whether I say so in pride or in sorrow.

He looked at me piercingly, as though sizing me up for some appointment and finding me wanting. 'I do not approve of what Lady Ravenscliff has decided to do,' he said eventually. 'I should tell you this frankly, as you might as well know now that you will get little encouragement from me.'

'What do you think she has asked me to do?' I asked, wondering whether he knew of the will.

'The biography of Lord Ravenscliff,' he said.

'Yes. Well, as you please. But I cannot see what your objection is.'

He snorted. 'You are a journalist.'

'Yes.'

'What do you know of business?'

'All but nothing.'

'That's what I thought. Ravenscliff was a businessman. Perhaps the greatest this country has ever known. To understand him, you have to understand business, industry, finance. Do you?'

'No. And until yesterday morning I'd never even heard of him. All I can say is that Lady Ravenscliff has asked me to do this job. I did not solicit it. If you want to know why she chose me, you must ask her. Like you, I could think of many people better able to do justice to the subject. But that was her decision and she offered such terms that I would have been mad to refuse. Perhaps I will do poorly; certainly I will unless I have the co-operation of those who knew him.'

He grunted and pulled a folder from his desk. At least I had not puffed myself up and claimed an expertise I did not possess.

'The payment is absurd,' he commented.

'I quite agree. But if someone offers you a higher price than you anticipated for one of your products do you bargain them down?'

He tossed it over. 'Sign, then,' he said.

'I think I should read it first.'

'You won't find anything unexpected. You are to write a biography of Lord Ravenscliff and will submit the finished manuscript to Her Ladyship for approval. You are forbidden to discuss anything which might be relevant to any of the companies listed in the appendix. Expenses will be paid at my discretion.'

I had never come across a contract with an appendix before, nor one so big, but then I had never been paid so much either.

'How do I get paid?' I asked as I read – more for form's sake than anything else. He had summed the contents up admirably.

'I will send a cheque to your address every week.'

'I do not have a bank account.'

'Then you'd better get one.'

I felt like asking him – where do I start? But knew that his already low opinion of me would fall even further. The paper paid me weekly in a brown envelope. By the time I had paid bed and board, what was left over usually remained – although only for a short while – in my pocket until it was handed over to publicans or music hall owners.

I had thought when I arrived at the office that Bartoli would give me all the information I needed on Ravenscliff's business, but in fact he told me nothing. He would answer questions, but first of all I would have to know what to ask. I would need to make specific requests before he would let me see any papers and even then – such was the hint – he might prove unco-operative.

'In that case,' I said cheerfully, 'I would like to know – if it is possible – everywhere he went.'

'When?'

'Throughout his career.'

'Are you mad?'

'No. I also want a list of everybody he knew, or met.'

Bartoli looked at me. 'Lord Ravenscliff must have encountered tens of thousands of people. He travelled incessantly, throughout Europe, the Empire and to the Americas.'

'Look,' I said patiently. 'I am meant to write a biography which people will want to read. I am going to need personal details. How did he start? Who were his friends and family? What is it like travelling around the world? This is the sort of thing people are interested in. Not how much money he made in one year or the next. No one cares about that.'

He annoyed me; he treated me with neither seriousness nor consideration. I have never liked being treated like that. My colleagues believe I am overly sensitive to slights, real or imagined. Perhaps so, but it is a tendency which has served me well over the years. Dislike and resentment are great stimulants. Bartoli had converted me from someone who thought solely about the amount of money he was paid into someone who would have been determined to do the job properly even if he hadn't been paid at all.

CHAPTER 4

I emerged from the office thinking it was time to start work, and there was one obvious place to begin. Seyd & Co was, by the standards of the City of London, a venerable institution. It had begun near half a century before to report on the credit-worthiness of traders wishing to borrow money from banks, and its investigations had gradually come to cover all aspects of finance. The more complex business became, the more obscure the origins of merchants, the greater the possibilities for duplicity and deception. And the more opportunities for companies like Seyd's to make money by shining light into the murkier recesses of man's greed.

For the most part – and officially – their business was to produce guides. The Birmingham Commercial List. California and Its Resources. All of which had to be bought by importers and exporters, dealers and merchants to avoid imposition by scoundrels. But very quietly and discreetly they did much more than that. By its nature, the City was full of rogues and thieves. But thieves have their codes of honour, and Seyd's winkled out those who did not follow the rules. Those who claimed financial backers who did not exist, who forgot to mention convictions for fraud in far-off countries. Who mentioned their assets, but not their debts. Whose word, in other words, was not their bond.

Once upon a time a company like Seyd was not necessary, for the city of money was a small place, and everyone knew their clients. Life was simple when bankers only accepted people they had dined with. They dealt with gentlemen, and there was nothing easier to know about than the extent of a gentleman's estate, or the solvency of his family. Now it is a gibbering Babel of unknowns. Is a man a penniless scoundrel or really one of the richest men in the Habsburg Empire? Does he really have a lucrative contract in Buenos Aires, or in reality should he be in gaol for having run from his creditors? How can one tell? Dissimulation is the first trick of banker and conman alike.

Seyd's discovered the truth. Not always, and not perfectly, but better than anyone else. I knew because I had on occasion done some work for them. I had been approached a few years previously to discover something of a man who was setting up as a company promoter in the north of England. He claimed to be able to bring seven cotton producers together to combine into one larger unit that could then be offered for sale. All he needed was some capital . . .

I had to take a day off work to travel north, but I got the truth out soon enough. Ernest Mason left the country a day before he could be arrested for fraud, but only because I tipped him off. He offered me money in return, but my conscience rebelled at being paid thrice for the same work. Once by my newspaper, as I wrote up the story of the fraudulent promotions, once by Seyd, who paid me for my report, and once by Mason. But undoubtedly many in the company's employ do so profit from their knowledge, and do worse. There is good money to be had in the City of London for those who really want it.

Wilf Cornford was too lazy ever to become rich. Had he possessed easy wealth by inheritance he would have been a scientist working out the various species and subspecies of the insect world. Instead, he catalogued the character and follies of homo economicus; it was his duty and his pleasure, and he was one of the few men I have ever met who could be considered truly happy. He could have been a power in the land, for all would have been afraid of him had they truly appreciated how much he knew. But he could not be bothered and, so he told me once, it would spoil his observations. All those people who gave him such an interesting time with their activities would begin to behave differently if they knew they were being watched.

It was he who first had the idea of hiring me for the occasional bit of investigation down in the police courts, and payment was occasionally some money, and more often a useful tip about a forthcoming arrest or scandal which his network of blabbermouths had passed on to him. On several occasions he had suggested I come to work for Seyd's properly, but I had never taken him up. I liked a more varied diet.

'Matthew,' he said in his even fashion when I knocked on his door and was admitted. 'Nice to see you again. We haven't seen you here for a long time.'

Wilf's way of speaking was as anonymous as his appearance. He was a portly fellow in his fifties, but not excessively so. He spoke with a measured neutrality, neither sounding like a toff, nor yet betraying any trace of his West Country origins, for his father had been a labourer in Dorset, and he had been sent as a child to serve in the house of the local gentry. There he had somehow learned to read and write, and when the family had brought him to London for the season some thirty-five years ago he had walked out one morning and never gone back. He found a job at a tallow chandler's writing up the books, for he had a fine script. Then he moved on to a corn broker, then a discount house, and finally to Seyd's.

'I was busy with the Mornington Crescent trial.'

He wrinkled his nose in disapproval. As well he might. This had not been a classic in the annals of British crime, and the only interesting aspect of the case had been the sheer stupidity of William Goulding, the murderer, who had kept the head of his unfortunate victim in a box under his bed, so when the police came calling – as they were bound to do, for the woman had lived in his house – even they could not have failed to notice the smell and the pool of dried blood which had dripped through the floorboards from the bedroom above and stained the parlour carpet. Goulding had not read the penny press, and so was possibly the only person left in England who did not know about the wonders of fingerprints for identifying even headless corpses. It was an open-and-shut case, but the trial took place in an otherwise quiet period, and the public does love its gore.

'I really don't know how you do your job,' he said. 'I would find it very dull.'

'In comparison to the account books you like to read?'

'Oh, yes. They are fascinating. If you know how to read them.'

'Which I don't. And that is one of the reasons I am here.'

'I was rather hoping you had come to give me information, not ask for it.'

'Do you know of a man called Ravenscliff?'

He stared at me for a minute, then very uncharacteristically leant back and laughed out loud. 'Well,' he said indulgently, 'yes. Yes, I think I can say I have heard of him.'

'I need to find out about him.'

'How many years do you have at your disposal?' He paused, and looked rather patronisingly at me. 'You could spend the rest of your life learning about him, and still never find out everything. Where are you starting from? How much do you know already?'

'Very little. I know he was rich, was some sort of financier and is dead. And that his wife wants me to write a biography of him.'

That got his attention. 'Really? Why you?'

I summarised my interview – leaving out the truly important bit – and threw in for good measure my brief interview with Bartoli.

'What a strange choice,' he said when I'd finished, staring up at the ceiling with a dreamy look in his eye, a bit like a cat that had just finished a particularly large bowl of cream.

'I'm glad you find it so,' I said, rather nettled. 'And if you could tell me what in particular . . .'

He let out a long sigh. 'It's difficult to know where to begin, really,' he said after a while. 'Are you really as ignorant as you say?'

'Pretty much.'

'You reporters never cease to amaze me. Do you never read your own newspaper?'

'Not if I can help it.'

'You should. You'd find it invaluable. And fascinating. But I forgot. You are a socialist. Dedicated to eradicating the ruling class and bringing in the New Jerusalem.'

I scowled. 'Most people live in poverty while the rich—.'

'Grind the faces of the poor. Yes, indeed they do. How they grind them, though, is of great importance and interest. Know thine enemy, young man. If you insist on thinking of them as your enemy. Although as you are now a fully paid-up servant of the worst of the grinders – or at least his widow – I have no doubt your views will have to undergo a certain modification. Had you been better informed you might have refused the money, and thus kept the purity of your soul intact.'

'What do you mean, the worst of them?'

'John Stone, First Baron Ravenscliff. Chairman of the Rialto Investment Trust, with holdings in the Gosport Torpedo Company, Gleeson's Steel, Beswick Shipyards, Northcote Rifle and Machine Gun. Chemical works. Explosives. Mines. Now even an aircraft company, although I doubt those will ever amount to much. You name it. Very secretive man. When he travelled on the Orient Express he had his own private coach that no one but he used. No one really knows what he owned or controlled.'

'Not even you?'

'Not even me. We did begin an investigation on behalf of a foreign client about a year ago, but stopped.'

'Why?'

'Ah, well. Why indeed? All I know is that one day I was called in by young Seyd – the son, that is, and you know how rarely he ever comes near the place – and asked if we were looking at Rialto. He took the papers and told us not to continue.'

'Does that often happen?'

'Never. Mr Seyd junior is not like his father, and is not known for his backbone. He prefers life in the country, saving souls and living off his dividends. But he's an amiable enough man, and never interferes. This was the first and last time.'

'So what caused this?'

Wilf shrugged. 'I cannot say. I don't know that a biography would interest many people, except me,' he went on with a slight sniff of disapproval. 'Ravenscliff was money. It's all he did. All he ever did. From the standpoint of someone like you, obsessed with the tawdry details of humanity's failings, he was an utter bore. You couldn't even justify a paragraph on him. Which was why his death was so little reported, I suppose. He got up in the morning. He worked. He went to bed. As far as I am aware, he was a faithful husband—'

'Was he?' I asked quickly, hoping that my interest wouldn't seem suspicious. Wilf, however, put it down to natural squalor.

'Yes, I fear so. He might have owned a brothel and have patronised it on a regular basis, of course, but it never came to my attention. What I mean is, that he never had any notable alliances, if you get my meaning. With People.'

Now, by 'People' Wilf meant the sort of folk he was interested in. The rich and the powerful – and, in this case, their wives and daughters. Shopgirls and women of that sort never came to his attention. 'People' had money. Everyone else was merely scenery.

'He had no time, and no interest in anything so frivolous, I believe. As far as I could discern the companies were collectively highly profitable. Do you know anything about his companies?'

I shook my head.

'Very well then. One thing you should keep in the back of your mind is this: why were you asked to write about a subject for which you are perfectly unsuited? Even if you were presented with a full set of accounts for a company, you wouldn't even be able to understand them. So why you? Why not someone who stands a chance of doing a decent job?'

That irritated me. 'Perhaps Lady Ravenscliff has a high opinion of my intelligence and ability to learn. But for £350 a year, why should I care?'

'Oh, you should. You should. These are tricky people, young man. The rich believe they are allowed anything, and they are right. Be careful of what you are getting involved in.'

He sounded just like George Short. Normally, Wilf spoke with the detachment of the scientific observer; now he was in earnest.

'You like me,' I said in astonishment. 'I am touched.'

'I see you as a little mouse trying to steal an egg from an eagle's nest, thinking it is so lucky to have found such a feast,' he said severely.

I thought about this for a second, then shrugged his warning aside. 'You still haven't told me where I might begin.'

'That depends,' he replied.

'On?'

'On what I get in return. I don't want to be too commercial here, but we deal in information and information has a price. You know that.'

'I thought you liked me.'

'Not that much.'

'I have promised to be absolutely discreet on the matter of Ravenscliff's companies. It's in my contract.'

'Good for you. But since when has discretion involved not telling me things? I will make sure nothing is ever traced back to you.'

'I can't break my word so swiftly.'

'You could promise to break it after a decent interval, then.'

'You know perfectly well what I mean.'

'I do. I don't want tittle-tattle. Mistresses, wild parties, Lady Ravenscliff's lovers . . .'

'She has lovers?'

'I would imagine so. Ravenscliff was hardly a romantic figure, and she, so I understand, is foreign. But I have no idea. I was merely saying that I am not interested in such things. I am interested in money, that is all.'

'I've noticed that. You must tell me why one day.'

'If you don't understand it will be pointless to try and explain. A bit like trying to explain Mozart to someone who is tone deaf.'

'But you are so poor yourself.'

'I am paid a perfectly decent salary. More than enough for my needs. That is not the point. Just because I cannot paint doesn't mean I do not like paintings. And before you draw obvious parallels, you do not have to admire a painter to admire his works. Ravenscliff, for example, was a magician with money; I admired his skill and invention. That does not mean I admired him personally.'

'So? Tell me.'

Wilf shook his head. 'We must have an agreement.'

I hesitated, then nodded. 'Very well. Anything that might interest Seyd & Co I might pass onto you. But I decide.'

'Fair enough. You wouldn't be able to keep it to yourself anyway. You are a reporter. And I strongly doubt that you will find out anything.'

'Thank you for your confidence. Now, tell me about Ravenscliff.'

'Certainly not. I'm very busy today. I will provide you with information. Some information. The rest is up to you. Besides, I already told you that our own labours were confiscated.'

'Then what's the point . . .'

'I prepared a summary of his career and current businesses – current as of about a year ago, that is. I must have forgotten to hand it over to young Seyd. Very forgetful of me. I will provide you with names. I will listen to your speculations and offer advice and tell you if I think you are going wrong. Which you will undoubtedly do.'

He levered himself out of his chair and opened a filing cabinet behind him. Pulled out a file and gave it to me.

It was only about five pages long. 'Is that it?' I asked incredulously.

Wilf looked offended. 'What did you expect? A novel? Every word counts. It is a distillation of years of knowledge. Our clients are financiers, not gentlemen of leisure with nothing better to do than settle down for a good long read. How many words do you need to describe one of your trials, in any case?'

I sniffed. 'I was expecting a bit more.'

'You'll survive the disappointment. Go and read it. Then, if you want my recommendation, go and read your own newspaper.'

CHAPTER 5

It was past five when I emerged, and a day of glorious weather. Not the sort of day to be working. Do not misunderstand me; I am a conscientious man. I work hard and have no trouble staying up all night or hanging around in the rain for hours when necessary. But sometimes the allure of life is irresistible. London, in all its glory on a spring evening, was everything that made work, however honest, seem very much a second-best option.

I loved London, and still do. I have now travelled to many cities, although at that stage in my life I had seen little, but have never come across anywhere which even remotely compares with it. Just looking up and down the street in which Seyd & Co was located provided enough material for a dozen novels. The beggar sitting, as he always did, by the jeweller's opposite, singing a song which was so execrable people gave him money to keep quiet. The delivery boys giggling to themselves over some joke. The bearded man in strange clothes walking quietly on the other side, keeping close to the wall. Perhaps he was the richest person in the street? Perhaps the poorest? The old man with a military cast to him, dignified and correct; a doorman or porter, whose best days passed some forty years previously when he breathed the air of India or Africa. But punctilious, with shoes shined and trouser creases pressed like razors.

The merchants and brokers and agencies and manufactories which could be found down the grimy little alleys and in the courtyards had not yet disgorged their occupants; they would stay as the light faded or until the work was done. Contracts were being drawn up, shipments prepared, cargoes checked over. Auctions of goods were under way in the hall over the road, which had drawn merchants in furs, just as earlier in the day the room had thronged with traders in wax or whale blubber or pig iron. The food stalls to feed the office boys and clerks were setting up; the smell of sausages and fish was just a faint tang in the air, although it would get stronger as the evening wore on. The odd pair walking together in conversation, one a huge African, dark as night, the other a pale-skinned, weedy-looking man with blond hair, Scandinavian, at a guess. Sailors probably, their ship docked a mile or so up river after a journey of thousands of miles to deliver its cargo of – what? Tea? Coffee? Animals? Guano? Ore? Precious jewels or dirty minerals?

Just one street. Multiply it by thousands and you have London, sprawling over the landscape, containing every vice and virtue, every language, every kindness and cruelty. It is incomprehensible, unpredictable and strange. Huge wealth and greater poverty, every disease you could imagine, and every pleasure. It had frightened me when I first arrived; it frightens me now. It is an unnatural place, as far from the Garden of Eden as you could imagine.

I had several things to do, and most of them needed the Duck. I had not eaten all day; I wanted to read Wilf's words of wisdom and I needed to resign from my job. The Duck offered food, a quiet table, and sooner or later it would offer the sight of my editor propped up against the bar, as he always was before he went in to oversee the production of the next morning's paper. Robert McEwen was a man of predictable habits. At five-thirty in the evening he would travel from Camden to the newspaper's offices. He would walk to the pub and stay for half an hour, rarely saying a word to a soul; under his arm would be a copy of that morning's paper. If he was in a good mood, it would remain there, untouched. If he felt we had been beaten in some particular he would pull the paper out impatiently, look at it, put it back, or rap it on the counter. The office kept a boy in the pub especially to watch him. 'He's rapping,' would come the report, and a collective groan would go up. He would stump in, glowering, and sooner or later would lose his temper. Someone would be shouted at. An office boy would be cuffed around the ear. A pile of paper would be thrown at someone's head.

Then the storm would pass and we could get down to business, and McEwen would become as he usually was: concentrated, moderate, reasonable and sensible. He could not be one without occasionally being the other, and the evening would pass until near three in the morning when he, and the paper, could be put to bed, duty done, the world informed, the presses rolling.

The Chronicle, to Robert McEwen, was not so much a newspaper, it was a mission. He considered it a moral force in the world. Most people – including the majority of those who wrote for it – thought it was just a newspaper. McEwen disagreed. He brought all the fervour of the lapsed Presbyterian to his task, and set about educating the public, and damning the powerful in error, with all the intensity of John Knox castigating sinners. The newspaper, it should be said, was a good one, but not noted for its sense of humour. Not for the Chronicle so much as a photograph, let alone the nonsense dreamt up by the Daily Mail, the cartoons, the competitions, or any of the other tricks devised to squeeze a halfpenny from the hands of the reading masses. My line of business he considered to verge on the frivolous, but crime is essentially a moral tale. Evil defeated, sin punished. Frequently, neither of these events happened and for the most part evil did very nicely indeed. But that too could point up a lesson.

Besides, McEwen had a weakness for a story, and the annals of the Bow Street Magistrates Court or the Old Bailey generated many a good one. I had even won his favour, or believed I had, for he was notorious for never encouraging anyone. His emotional range went from towering rage to silence, and silence was as near as he got to praise. My work generally passed without comment, but I had of late been asked to write editorials on the Liberal Government's policy towards the poor and on its latest measures to combat crime.

I thus existed in two worlds, for journalism is as class-conscious as any other part of society. Reporters are the manual labourers; most begin as clerks or office boys, or work on provincial papers before coming to London. They are trusted with facts, but not with their interpretation, which is the prerogative of the middle classes, the editorial writers, whose facility at opinion is assisted by their perfect ignorance of events. These grand fellows, who like to lard their editorials with quotations from Cicero, are paid very much more for doing very much less. Few even consider the idea of spending hours outside a courtroom waiting for a verdict, or camping out by a brazier at the dockyard gates to report on a strike.

It was like a betrayal to go into the leader office – they do not even share the same room with us, for fear of contamination – and sit with pen and paper to enlighten the nation on the deficiencies of the criminal justice bill, or complain about rampant drunkenness due to the efforts of brewers to profit by driving the poor ever deeper into despair. I enjoyed it, though, and thought I was quite adept as well, although as often as not McEwen would rewrite my efforts so that my words advocated the exact opposite of my real opinions.

'Not the policy of the paper,' he said gruffly when I looked upset.

'The paper supports public drunkenness?'

'It assumes that people are sensible enough to look after their own interests. You, although an advocate of the working classes, seem to think they are too stupid to run their own lives. Write me the same opinion without being condescending to the entire population and I will print it. Otherwise you will maintain the supremacy of free choice . . .'

'But you don't like choice when it comes to trade.'

He scowled at me. 'That is a matter of the Empire,' he replied.

And it was. This was the paper's Pole Star, the one consideration to which all other matters referred, which determined all the newspaper's policies. McEwen was an Imperialist, a man for whom the defence of Empire was the first, only and greatest duty. He held strongly that we faced two great challenges, the envy of Germany and the greed of America. Both would bring the world to ruin rather than permit the continued supremacy of Britain across the globe. Piece by piece his editorials had constructed a coherent policy with which to educate the public and berate the politicians. Imperial preference in trade, to construct a trading block around the world which would develop the dominions – Canada, Australia, New Zealand, South Africa – into equal partners. A naval policy which would construct fleets of battleships able to take on Germany and any other nation simultaneously. A policy to encourage the production of children. Outright opposition to all welfare for the British population on the grounds that it would diminish the appeal of emigration, and divert money from imperial defence. This, of course, brought him into collision with the current government.

But central to all was Germany, and particularly Kaiser Wilhelm, whom McEwen saw as a madman, determined to foment a war. Once restrained by loyalty to his great-aunt, Queen Victoria, since her death this had been replaced by bitter rivalry with King Edward. Great Britain must prepare for war, and hope we would not be too weakened by the contest to meet the subsequent challenge from the United States.

The last election had been a severe disappointment – all the firepower of the Chronicle had been brought to bear on the task of ensuring that the Empire was handed over to the wise guidance of the Conservatives. To no avail. They had been decimated in 1906, and three years on they had been outmanoeuvred again. The Liberals had announced a ship-building programme for the Royal Navy, without actually placing any orders, announced a rise in the old-age pension without actually increasing it, announced education reform and so many measures costing so much that no one knew how they would be paid for. They had even put up income tax, to 5 per cent. The Prime Minister, Asquith, and his chancellor, Lloyd George, could reduce the editorial pages of the Chronicle to virtual incoherence as McEwen contemplated the full range of their folly. In my opinion the newspaper had become so obsessed that it risked boring its readership to death. Not that anyone consulted me on the matter.

Curiously, my failure to please on the subject of public drunkenness did not mean I was sent back to the reporting room; I kept on writing my opinions, and McEwen kept on changing them, although less and less as I learned how to sneak a radical opinion into an orthodox mould. My finest moment, perhaps, was to convert the paper into a supporter of votes for women, which McEwen held to be against the will of the God he no longer believed in. In sheer irritation I wrote an intemperate, and somewhat frivolous, editorial pointing out that it was contradictory to suppose women were going to produce the next generation of imperialists without their having an interest in the Empire itself. It appeared the next day, word for word, not so much a comma changed.

I was certain that some terrible error had occurred, that my piece of paper had somehow been accidentally taken down to the printers and published by mistake. People had lost their jobs for much less than that. But no; the next evening, he nodded at me. And almost smiled.

'Why did you run that?' I asked.

'Because you were right,' he replied. 'And I thank you for correcting me on the matter.' He never mentioned the subject again. Except that any trial or demonstration by the suffragists I was now sent to deal with, and after a few weeks I realised I would rather spend my time with murderers, who were very much more interesting conversationalists. Besides, many of the women had read my editorial, considered my arguments unsound, and liked to explain, at length, where I had gone wrong. Moreover, their reputation for moral laxity and free love was entirely undeserved.

I bought myself a drink and a pie and waited for McEwen to show up, largely unable to concentrate on the papers Wilf had lent me. I was halfway through both when my editor walked in. He was the sort of person who was not noticed in a crowd, except when he wished to be. And yet he was invited everywhere, had an entrée into the houses of the great. How was this so? He never struck me as a fine talker, was not notably handsome, not well connected through his family. It took me years to grasp that McEwen listened. When someone talked to him, whoever they were, they felt he was giving them his full attention. It is a rare gift, and one I do not possess myself; I have a tendency to judge others before they have even opened their mouths. McEwen could ferret out the good and the interesting amongst dowagers and dockers alike, and persuade them to take him into their confidence.

And there he was, propped up against the bar, looking not at all like a man able to exchange witticisms with debutantes or discuss tariff reform with cabinet ministers. Rather, he looked like a newspaperman about to go into battle once again. Slightly wary, preoccupied, preparing for the struggle that attended the daily rebirth of a newspaper as it began its great cycle from formless idea to wrapping for fish and chips.

'Good evening, sir,' I said. He was always referred to in this manner; in the world of the newspaper he was lord of us all. The fact that he was a mere employee himself, answerable to the owners, never occurred to any of us. In fact, no one either knew – or particularly cared – who the owners were, as their presence was never felt.

'Braddock.' It was a greeting, no more or less friendly than his usual salutation.

'I was wondering if I could have a word with you, sir . . .'

He took the watch out of his waistcoat and looked at it, then nodded.

'I was asked to go and meet a Lady Ravenscliff today, sir . . .'

'Taking it?'

'I beg your pardon?'

'The job. Commission, whatever. Are you taking it?'

'It's a very good offer she has made. Extraordinary. I think I have to thank you . . .'

'Yes, you do. Good. I thought you'd go for it.'

'Might I ask why you suggested me?'

'Because it is a bit of a waste having you do crime stories. Good though they are, no doubt. But I think you need to spread your wings. You need to spend some time in the company of those people you dislike so much.'

'Why do you say that?' I tried to keep the hurt out of my voice, but did not succeed very well.

'You sympathise far too much with the people and lose sight of the facts. You write about a murder trial and are so caught up in the circumstances that you are quite capable of omitting the verdict.'

'I didn't realise I was so inadequate,' I said stiffly.

'Yes, you did,' he replied simply. 'You know it perfectly well. And please don't think I have a low opinion of you. You'd be a good leader writer. Will be, once you lose the rough edges.'

'You mean I didn't go to the right school, like those people you do give jobs to,' I said, more loudly than I intended.

'I did not recommend someone like that to Lady Ravenscliff,' he said evenly, 'so don't get resentful. I imagine she is paying you a fortune and you will gain inestimably from the experience as well. On top of that, there was something strange about Ravenscliff's death, and I want to know what. You were the best person I could think of to discover it.'

'I thought he fell out of a window.'

'So he did. Open window of his study on the second floor. He was working alone and his wife was out. Pacing up and down, tripped on a carpet.'

'So?'

'He hated heights. He was terrified of them, and deeply embarrassed by the fact. He never went near an open window if it was anywhere but on the ground floor, and used to insist that all windows were tightly shut.'

'And does Lady Ravenscliff share your worries? She never mentioned anything to me.'

He gave me a sidelong look, and I realised what he meant.

'You think . . . ?'

'All I know, Braddock, is that this is a matter of the utmost importance.'

He said it with such intensity that I didn't quite grasp his meaning. 'Why?'

'Because,' he said quietly, 'Ravenscliff owned the Chronicle. And I don't want it falling into the wrong hands. Find out for me, please, what his will said, where his assets go. Who is our new master.'

CHAPTER 6

I walked back to my lodgings, something I often did when I needed to think. It was more than six miles, from the City to Chelsea, and it took me well over an hour even though I walked at a fast pace all the way. The sight of the black-painted front door gave me none of the pleasure that the prospect of home should give a man. It was all that separated me from the boiled cabbage and wax polish, the smells that gather in an over-occupied house whose windows have not been opened for a quarter century. It was a dingy house, in a dingy street, in a dingy part of town. Nearly every second house, I believed, was occupied by widows who let out rooms to people like me. Opposite was one that functioned as a school for young ladies, turning them into operators of the typewriter, so they could push men out of their jobs as copyists and clerks. A few houses were owned by shopkeepers or clerks desperately clinging to respectability by their fingertips. All of human life, from a particular stratum of society, could be found in Paradise Walk, behind the grubby windows and cracking stucco. Paradise Walk! Never was a street more badly misnamed. I can only assume that the speculative builder who threw up the ill-built, utterly anonymous houses some half-century previously had possessed a strange sense of humour.

Even worse was that my window, second floor at the back, looked over the grand gardens and opulence of bohemian London. Successful artists had congregated in Tite Street, parallel to my own, but lived in a very different fashion. One garden in particular I could see, and used to gaze at the two children – a boy and a girl, dressed in white as they played in the sunshine – the lovely woman who was their mother, the portly father who was a member of the Academy. And dream of such an idyllic existence, so unlike my own childhood, which had contained no sunlight at all.

Not all journalists are editors, not all artists are members of the Academy. John Praxiteles Brock, my fellow lodger, was not then a success; his torment at having to look out every morning at the proof of unattainable glory in the next street was balanced by his desire to rub shoulders with the famous, who might assist him in his career. He would come home occasionally bubbling with excitement and pride: 'I said good morning to Sargent this morning!' or 'Henry MacAlpine was buying a pint of milk in front of me today!' Alas, it was rare that either said good morning in return. Perhaps his desperation frightened them; perhaps the fact that his father was a sculptor (hence his unfortunate middle name) of retrograde opinions and unpleasant temper put them off; perhaps they felt that youth has to fight on its own. Now he is more successful, Brock gives little encouragement to others, either.

I awoke the next morning with a formidable hunger, as I had eaten little, and walked much, the previous evening. So I dressed swiftly and went down to the eating room, where Mrs Morrison prepared breakfast for her boys every morning. She was the only reason I stayed in the house and I believe it was the same for the others who lodged with her. As a housekeeper she verged on the hopeless, as a cook she was very much worse. Her breakfasts tended towards the obscene, and she boiled her vegetables in the evening with such vigour that we were lucky if they were merely yellow when poured onto the plate in a pool of steaming water, there to mix with the grey, tough meat that she cooked in a fashion so personal that no one could ever really figure out how, exactly, she had reduced a once-living animal to such a sorry wreck. Philip Mulready, a man who wished to win fame through poetry (he later settled for a wealthy heiress instead) used on occasion to declaim verses in honour of the poor animal sacrificed on Mrs Morrison's altar. 'There thou liest, unhappy pig, so grey, so pale and wan . . .;' although, sensitive to our landlady's feelings, he made sure that she was in the kitchen when Calliope touched his forehead with inspiration.

She might well have missed the irony in any case. Mrs Morrison was a good woman, a widow doing her best to survive in a hard world, and if the food was vile and the mantelpiece thick with dust, she created a jolly, warm atmosphere. Not only that, she was prepared to mend our clothes, do our washing and leave us alone. All she required in return was a moderate rent and a little company now and again. A pound a week and some chat was little enough to pay.

Though a journalist (now, I remembered, a former journalist) I was not much of a gossip, alas; unlike Brock, who delighted in any excuse that kept him away from work. Mulready was also a conversationalist, although he liked to amuse himself by talking in a way so convoluted, and on subjects so obscure, that the poor woman rarely understood what he was going on about. Harry Franklin was her favourite; he worked in the City in some lowly capacity, but it was obvious he would not remain in servitude for long. He was a serious man, the sort any respectable mother would like to call her own. Every evening he retired to his room to study the mysteries of money; he intended to learn his business so thoroughly that no one could deny him the promotion he craved. He often returned late, working for his employers without charge and all alone, so that he could be on top of his job at all times.

He was an admirable fellow but (dare I say it) a little dull. He was easily shocked by Brock and Mulready, went to church every Sunday and spoke rarely at dinner. He missed little, though, and there was more to him than was obvious. I could occasionally see a faint shine in his eye as he listened to the exuberance of his fellow lodgers; sometimes see the effort that lay behind all that mortification of the soul and discipline of the body. And he lived with us, in Chelsea, not in Holloway or Hackney, where most of his sort congregated. Franklin considered himself a man apart; different, superior perhaps to his colleagues, and was desperate to match reality with his dreams.

It was not for me to decry his ambition; not for me to say that being the general manager of a provincial bank (presumably the sort of thing he aimed at – I seriously underestimated his ambition there) was a poor sort of thing to dream of at night, when those in the rooms above and below saw themselves as Michelangelo or Milton. His dream was as powerful as theirs and he pursued it with more determination and ability.

'I need your help,' I told him as he prepared to leave for work. He paused as he put on his bicycle clips. It was typical of his general approach to life that he pedalled right across London twice a day, because he would not pay the twopence for the omnibus. Besides, an omnibus meant depending on others and risking being late. Franklin did not like being dependent on others.

He looked at me cautiously and didn't answer.

'I'm being serious,' I assured him. 'I need to learn about money.'

He remained silent.

'Can I walk with you a little?'

He nodded and we went out together. He was a curious sight. Mrs Morrison had stitched him a large, stiff canvas bag to contain his top hat, which might have been blown off or become soiled as he cycled, and this he tied carefully to the back of his machine. Then he began to pull on two cloth leggings, which he tied around ankle and thigh to protect his trousers, and a form of scarf which went around his neck to defend his stiff white collar against the filth of the London streets.

'You do know that you look ridiculous in all that?'

'Yes,' he said equably, speaking for the first time. 'But my employers are sticklers for appearance. Many a lad has been sent home without pay for not being properly turned out. What do you want to know about money for? I thought you disapproved of it.'

Franklin had once heard me discoursing on the evils of capitalism, but had not seen fit to defend his god against the heresies I spoke.

'Have you heard of someone called Lord Ravenscliff?'

Instantly I could see a look of mingled surprise and curiosity pass over his face.

'I have been asked to write his biography. But I've been told that his life was money. Or that money was his life. One or the other.'

'Why on earth would anybody ask you . . . ?'

I was getting heartily sick of that question. 'I have no idea,' I said testily, 'but his widow decided I was the right person and is paying me for the job. I will happily pass some of my good fortune on to you if you will allow me to use you as a sort of reference dictionary for anything I do not understand. Which is nearly everything.'

He considered this. 'Very well,' he said briefly. 'I will happily oblige, when I have time. I will be free this evening after dinner, if you wish to begin then. What sort of thing do you want to know?'

'Everything. I mean, I know what a share is, more or less. But that's about it. It's not as if I have any money myself, so it's never been of much interest to me. Just a moment.'

I ran back inside and up to my room, grabbed the file from Seyd's and went back outside to the pavement. 'Here,' I said, thrusting it into Franklin's hand. 'This is meant to be a summary of Ravenscliff's business. Could you tell me what it's all about this evening?'

He stuffed it into the bag, along with his top hat and his white gloves, and pedalled off.

I went in to confront Mrs Morrison's bacon and open the post. I rarely got letters of any sort, so the envelope which awaited me, propped up against the toast rack, held an obvious interest, as it was thick, made of heavy cream paper and addressed in a flowery hand. London W was the postmark, and it evidently fascinated Mrs Morrison as well, as she referred to it as she poured my tea, made mention again as she brought me my plate and hovered with excitement as she waited for me to open it.

I could see no reason to deny her the pleasure, so opened it with a flourish using the butter knife as a letter opener. It was from a Mr Theodore Xanthos, of the Ritz Hotel, who referred to having met me the previous day. Careful thought suggested this must be the little elf I had encountered in Bartoli's office. He said that, as he had known Lord Ravenscliff for many years, he might be of assistance in my work, and would be glad to help if he could. As he travelled a great deal on business, he was not often in London, but if I wished to come to his hotel before next Friday, then he would be most pleased to talk to me.

That was useful. It was pleasant to think that someone wanted to help. I tucked the letter in my coat pocket, finished my breakfast, thanked Mrs Morrison fervently for the excellent repast, and walked out into the cool morning sun.

CHAPTER 7

Until that evening the day passed uneventfully. I went to Sloane Square, where I knew there was a bank, and asked to open an account. The Midland and County (a joint stock bank, I learned, as opposed to a private bank – these things become important when you study them) seemed quite enthusiastic when I mentioned the regular payments of £6 14s 8d that would be credited to my account every week. They were not so enthusiastic when I informed them that in fact I had absolutely nothing to give them at that moment, but dealt with the disappointment in a manly fashion. They gave me a book of cheques, with strict instructions not even to think of using one until I had deposited some money.

I went then to the Chelsea library to plunge into the world of money. Banking – joint stock, private, discount. Bills of exchange. Bills on London for forward delivery. Consols. Debentures. Issue at, below or above par. Yield. Dividend. First preference (or second preference) shares. Bonds, international, domestic, government or commercial. Clearly this capitalism was a more sophisticated beast than I had thought. I had considered it to be a means of theft that was more or less magical in its operation, but slowly realised it had its rules. Arcane and incomprehensible they might be, but rules nonetheless. Some people, at least, understood how it all worked. And what they could understand I could understand as well.

This determination was the sole result of my morning in the library. That and a headache, and the information that Mr Theodore Xanthos was, alas, only a salesman working for Ravenscliff's shipbuilding company. A pity. I had hoped he would have been more important than that, but it seemed he was only a minor figure whose enthusiasm to assist came from a desire for a mention in a book which would never get written anyway.

I walked down to the World's End for a sandwich and a pint, and returned to easier, more familiar matters in the afternoon. The death of Lord Ravenscliff. The obituaries. Journalism. Things I could grasp standing on my head. McEwen said start at the end and work back, and it was good advice, even without his own particular interest. I needed to know and understand the man; and a man's death is often very illuminating.

I summoned the papers – The Times and the Telegraph, as well as the financial papers as they always report on their own more fully – and read until my eyes popped out of my head and the library closed. I learned a little, but very far from enough.

The death first. Here the newspapers were singularly uninformative. Lord Ravenscliff had been discovered by a passer-by lying on the ground outside his house at two in the morning of 27 March 1909. He was still alive, but had died soon after. Death was due to head injuries sustained from a fall from a second-floor window. It was believed he had tripped on a carpet. He was sixty-eight years old.

The details were much as his wife and McEwen had related, and gave little else besides. The similarity between the various reports was striking. Evidently not a single one of the reporters had written the account himself. They all had a common source, who must have more or less dictated the report. More than that, the brief summary of events appeared in all the papers some three days after the death – that is on 30 March, an unusual delay in reporting the sudden and violent death of a peer, even if one of recent creation. Ordinarily events would have proceeded thus: Ravenscliff found, police summoned. Police go back to their station to report, man on desk informs journalist, who comes in for routine enquiries, as one does every morning. If it is not the stuff of which great scoops are made (and this would not have been considered such), he informs his colleagues in the pub at about eleven. All make whatever enquiries they see fit, and the first account appears in the evening, the rest the next morning.

In this case matters went along differently. The enquiring journalist was not told of Ravenscliff's death, either that day, or the day after. Why not? I decided that this would be my first enquiry. I had to start somewhere, and it piqued my interest. Besides, I had seven years; I was in no hurry.

It would give me something to do, and would place no great strain on my patience or intellect. I looked forward to it, for the rest of my time in the library was passed in much less interesting reading. Only the Financial Times gave Ravenscliff much of an obituary, and even there the details were sparse. Ravenscliff was born John William Stone in 1841, the son of a vicar in Shropshire. School, university. In 1868 he had set up the Gosport Torpedo Company. Then followed a blizzard of complicated dealings that made my head spin. Gosport Torpedo had been bought by Beswick Shipyard in Newcastle, which was listed on the Stock Exchange in 1878. Beswick then combined with the Gleeson's steelworks in 1885, then bought out the Yarnton chemical works, then the Salford railway factory, iron-ore mines in Yorkshire, and coal mines near Edinburgh. Then in 1890 he had put all his holdings into the Rialto Investment Trust and sold that on the Stock Exchange as well. The result, the obituarist told me, was an extraordinary construction which could begin by taking dust out of the earth and change it, bit by bit, into a fully operational and equipped battleship, without ever having to purchase a single object from an outside company. The entire combine was run with a legendary efficiency, so much so that it boasted that it could go from mine to battle on the high seas in less than twelve months.

Even more curious was the phrase 'among his business interests'.

The obituary dropped a similar hint later on: 'the most publicly known of his financial concerns . . .' What was the author leaving out? What was he not saying? What more was there? McEwen had said he owned the Chronicle; Wilf Cornford had mentioned hotels and banks. Is that what they meant?

As in most obituaries, the author said little about the man; they rarely do. But the reticence here was greater than usual. It mentioned that Ravenscliff left a wife, but did not say when they married. It said nothing at all about his life, nor where he lived. There were not even any of the usual phrases to give a slight hint: 'a natural raconteur' (loved the sound of his own voice); 'Noted for his generosity to friends' (profligate); 'a formidable enemy . . .' (a brute); 'a severe but fair employer . . .' (a slave-driver); 'devoted to the turf ' (never read a book in his life); 'a life-long bachelor' (vice); 'a collector of flowers' (this meant a great womaniser. Why it came to mean such a thing I do not know.)

More browsing through The Times Annual Index produced other articles of a general sort, but I could not face reading them that day. I had enough in my notebook at least to present a tolerably intelligent face to Franklin that evening, and I found the bombardment of names and share prices and capital ratios too bewildering to be contemplated on an empty stomach. So I took the bus back down to Fleet Street, where I went into the King and Keys for a pickled egg and a drink.

This was the Telegraph's pub, and a dingy little hole it was, with smelly gas lighting needed even on the brightest day as there were few windows to let in either light or fresh air. It stank of sweat, tobacco and sour beer. Why the Telegraph liked it I do not know, but there is no accounting for the loyalties and tastes of reporters. It just happens like that. On the positive side, Ma Bell the landlady was fat and amiable, always ready to extend credit or even lend money to regulars, and kept the place open all day and all night. It was for the Telegraph what a university common room was for dons, or the Reform Club for Liberal grandees. A place to call home. Also, I suspect that the squalor of the place was its main attraction, rather as some people form an affection for a mangy old cat because it is so revolting and unlovable.

Hozwicki was there, as I had hoped. Not an easy fellow, Stefan Hozwicki, but his appeal was his diligence. He was unpopular amongst his fellows, with a reputation for being somewhat superior. This was unwarranted; he was merely very antipathetic. It was near impossible to like him and few had tried. I had made some efforts – thinking when he had begun about eighteen months previously that I could show him the ropes, as others had done for me. Hozwicki did not want instruction, which he considered patronising, and in truth he was a good reporter. Alas, he had never realised that writing good stories is only a small part of the job. Standing around, complaining about editors, moaning about this, that and the next thing is far more important. Camaraderie is all.

By all means keep a scoop to yourself; that is expected. But do not hoard the unimportant. Most stories are picked up because a colleague tips you off, and expects to be tipped off in turn. Hozwicki saw all of life as a competition. He would never tell anyone anything. Instead of relying on, and contributing to, the pool of information offered up in the bar every morning, he went round all the police stations on his own. If he discovered something others had missed, however trivial, then he would keep it quiet. He was ambitious and was determined to make something of himself, no matter what others might think.

I do not know whether he would ever have achieved his ambitions; he died at the Front in 1915, the victim of his own diligence. When others became war reporters, he joined up, determined to show himself a true Englishman, despite his name and place of birth – which was, I believe, Poland. And while his fellows kept their heads down in their trenches, he volunteered for night-time scouting. His body was never found.

He greeted me with little warmth, but at least he didn't sidle off down the bar as I approached. 'I've been doing the Hill End murder all day,' he said. Conversation did not come naturally to him. He either spoke to communicate information, or he was silent. At least it spared me the burden of having to make light conversation in return. Hozwicki was the only reporter in London who would not be offended by directness.

'Did you write about Ravenscliff when he died?'

He grunted. Was I about to point out a mistake? Offer some supplementary information? Was an answer to his advantage or disadvantage? He could not yet tell.

'Yes,' he said.

'Tell me. It's an old dead story. You lose nothing. And might gain something in the future.'

His eyes narrowed. 'What?'

'Whatever I discover. Have you heard that I've resigned?'

He hadn't. I felt a little offended. As I say, we are a gossipy bunch.

I didn't flatter myself that my departure would have been high on the list of interesting anecdotes, mind, but I had expected word to have gone around a little more quickly.

'I have. So anything I find which might make a decent story will not be written up by me. Do you understand?'

He nodded.

'Good. I want to know why it took three days for Ravenscliff's death to appear in the papers.'

'Because the police didn't tell anyone before then.'

I frowned. 'But why not?'

'I imagine the family wanted it that way. They do that, these people. They ask the police, the police obey.'

Something to ask Ravenscliff's widow on our next meeting. 'How do you know this?'

Simple, in his account. He had gone to Bow Street police station, as he always did, at half-past nine in the morning. It was his last call of the day; he lived in the deepest East End and started with the City police stations at about five, working his way west on his bicycle round about the same time as I was heading east to work.

'Normally, they just turn the duty book round and let me look at the entries. Then I ask about anything which interests me, and they give me a summary. Simple enough. You know the routine.'

I nodded.

'Not that morning. It was the hairy beetroot on duty.'

It was a good enough description. Sergeant Wilkins weighed considerably over twenty stone, and had a complexion that ranged from deep red on his cheeks to purple at the end of his nose. Even standing up made him wheeze with effort, and going out on the beat was so far beyond his abilities that he had long since been confined to the desk by sympathetic colleagues. According to the regulations he should have been dismissed as unfit for duty, but the police always look after their own. Wilkins was a sort of saint, universally liked even by the criminals whose cases he processed day after day. The sort who looked as though each crime was a personal disappointment. Normally a more helpful and accommodating person could not be found.

But that day Wilkins had refused to let him see the book and merely read off a couple of entries. 'Nothing else today,' he said heartily. When a very loud, violent, singing drunk was dragged in by the feet a few minutes later, Wilkins had wheezed over to the door to see what was going on, and Hozwicki had quickly spun the book round to have a look. He only had a few seconds, but it was enough: '2.45: 379 to St James's Square. Body found. Refer to Mr Henry Cort FO.'

'Refer what?'

Hoswicki shrugged.

'Henry Cort?'

Another shrug.

'FO?'

He shrugged again. Annoying habit.

'So why no story?'

'I was curious, so I went to the morgue, and they confirmed it. A body had been brought from the Charing Cross Hospital, identified as Ravenscliff. I went back to the office, and started to write it up. Just a holding story, as I was going to get it to the desk then go out and get some more information. I also told the editor, so he could get the obituary ready.'

'And?'

'And nothing. I went back to St James's Square to start knocking on doors,' I wrinkled my nose here; Hozwicki was fond of this sort of vulgarity in reporting his stories, 'but before I could get anywhere one of the runners found me, and told me I was wanted back in the office.'

It happens; it had happened to me often. All newspapers then had their runners, a collection of lads who congregated in the main entrance waiting to earn a penny or two carrying messages. They were often remarkable boys, dirty and cheeky, but the best were exceptional and knew London like the backs of their hands. They would cross town at amazing speed, hanging on to the backs of buses, running; I even saw one going down Oxford Street on the roof of a taxi once, waving insolently to bystanders.

'So back I went,' Hozwicki continued, 'and was given a dressing down by the day editor. I was not to waste my time on the death of someone so stupid that he had fallen out of a window.'

He paused and looked at me. I didn't respond, so he went on. 'How did he know he had fallen out of a window, eh? Someone had talked to him about it.'

'Do you know who?'

'All I could find out was that a very proper-looking man had arrived in the office a couple of hours previously, and talked to him for about half an hour. Even my short account of Ravenscliff's death was then removed from the paper, and ten minutes after he left, the runner was sent off. The story was squashed, and when it did appear, it wasn't written by me.'

'Who did write it?'

He shook his head. 'Not someone who works for the Telegraph,' he said. 'I did ask the editor later, but he brushed it aside. "Sometimes you just do as you are told," he said. But I think he was referring to himself, as much as to me.'

I finished my beer and thought about that. I was sure that Hozwicki was telling me the truth; he seemed positively pleased to share his indignation. Obviously editors are wayward people; everyone knows that. They drop stories on a whim, or to do personal favours, or because of the owners. It happens all the time. But normally you can see why, even if you don't approve. Why sit on a fairly straightforward story?

'Wait a minute,' Hozwicki said, 'What do I get in return for this?'

'Nothing yet,' I said cheerfully. 'Except my thanks.'

He scowled.

'And my promise that when I have something to give in return, you will have it. Think of it as an investment,' I said. 'It may diminish to nothing; it may pay rich rewards in due course.'

I saluted him, and left, walking up the fug-filled steps into the open air of Fleet Street, so fresh after that dingy basement it made me feel dizzy for a few moments.

CHAPTER 8

I would have liked to have hopped onto an omnibus and gone straight to St James's Square to ask questions of Lady Ravenscliff. I had quite a few to put to her. But it was six o'clock and I had an appointment with Franklin. I was back in Chelsea by seven, and ready to go. Franklin, unfortunately, was a slow and methodical eater. Normally this did not bother me, but that evening the habit drove me to distraction.

Our evening routine was invariable. At around seven-thirty all four of Mrs Morrison's boys would assemble in the little dining room, dark and gloomy, lit only by spluttering gas light, and waited while the clank of pans rose to the climax that heralded the arrival of our evening feast. Conversation varied at these meals, sometimes animated, sometimes non-existent. Occasionally we would dine en grand seigneur, and dally over our tea afterwards. I could always win an audience by describing the latest murder; Brock would compete for attention with an account of a meeting with the artists he didn't really know. Mulready could clear the table by reciting some verse of an experimental hue. Only Franklin said little, for no one was really interested in the movements of the markets or the reception of a South American bond issue, even though the coupon might have been set substantially below par. He spoke a language far more foreign than criminals or artists or poets, one which few cared to learn.

Dinner that evening was a mutton chop apiece, potatoes and (a particular treat) Brussels sprouts rather than cabbage, although it was difficult to tell the difference by the time they were served. Next there was Tapioca pudding, which produced a chorus of applause from the artistic types, whose childish tastes were, perhaps, an essential part of their lives. The conversation was not animated. Brock wished to begin a discussion on whether there was going to be a war with Germany or not, and seemed to think that I, as a newspaper man, would have a special insight into the thinking of the Foreign Office on the subject.

His was not an abstract concern in the fate of nations, although as it turned out he was right to be interested. For the war was the making of him when it came. He became a war artist, and what he saw so changed the way he painted that it thrust him to the forefront of the new generation which came to prominence when it finished. The bleakness which made him unpalatable in those sunny days before the conflict started was perfectly attuned to the mood that prevailed during it, and gave him a clarity that eluded him when he lived with us in Chelsea.

No, he had come up with this project for a gigantic portrait of the crowned heads of Europe, a scheme for which he was so totally unsuited that I did not know whether to wonder at his impudence or at his lack of reality. He wished – he, John Praxiteles Brock – to summon every monarch, from Tsar Nicholas to the Kaiser, from King Edward to the Emperor of Austria, and every last kinglet of Scandinavia and the Balkans, to sit together to be painted by him. Presumably not in the dining room of 17 Paradise Walk, Chelsea.

It was a scheme so lunatic in conception that, naturally, we all encouraged him enthusiastically and he spent days doing 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 third of the total. Armed with this, he called a meeting which voted that he should become chairman.

And so it went on. Through careful experimentation, Ravenscliff discovered that really he needed no more than about 25 per cent of its shares in order to control an entire company. And why should the other shareholders object? The companies he ended up controlling performed well; they paid their dividends, the value of the shares constantly rose. And so Ravenscliff's power extended.

'Well, that's very fine. Everyone is happy, then,' I said. 'Not much for me to go on there. And, although I can see you find all this fascinating, it is difficult to see how it is going to be made so for the reader of his biography. Is that all the report contains? I must say I find it all a little disappointing.'

Franklin scowled. 'Personally I find it remarkable. But, as you say, few are interested. Fortunately, there is a little more for you.

'When he established the Gosport Torpedo Company in 1868, he had a great deal of difficulty persuading the Royal Navy to buy. Either it would not work, which made it useless, or it would work all too well, which meant that a small dinghy, in theory, could sink a battleship. Naturally this made the Navy reluctant to support him. So he gave the machines to them.'

'I thought the idea was to make a profit.'

'It is. But Ravenscliff realised that an order from the Royal Navy was the best advertisement in the world. What it had, every other navy wanted. Before he had delivered a single machine, he had gone around the world, talking of the British Admiralty's confidence in him. Naturally, everyone else determined to have them as well, even though the cost was formidable. Within five years, he had armed every enemy and potential enemy we had with the weaponry to sink our fleets.

'What could he do? That was his argument. He claimed he had been more than happy to give the Navy an exclusive right to purchase his machines, but they had refused. And, by the time the navies of the world realised that their ships needed more protection, Ravenscliff had taken control of Gleeson Steel, which made some of the best armour plating in the world, and the Beswick Shipyard, which could turn out brand-new warships. And so it went on. By 1902 every aspect of the production of ships and weapons was under Ravenscliff's control. His factories produced the engines, the ships, the guns, the shells. Earlier than most he saw the potential of steam turbines, so bought control of a company that explored for and extracted oil in Mesopotamia.'

'That was very clever of him.'

Franklin did not reply. 'Do you know what a trust is?'

I considered replying that whatever it was, in the world of finance it was likely to be a contradiction in terms. But I rested content with shaking my head instead.

'These were invented by the Scots, some twenty years ago. It is a company, quoted on the Stock Exchange, except that it doesn't do anything except own shares in other companies. Now what Ravenscliff did was put all his holdings – in Gleeson's, Gosport, Beswick and so on, into the Rialto Investment Trust, and sold shares in it, keeping only a controlling stake. Do you understand the implications of that?'

'No.'

'I am truly glad that in your daily life you have no contact with money whatsoever,' he said vehemently. 'You clearly have no instincts for it at all.'

'I am quite prepared to admit it,' I said.

'It is nothing to be proud of. Very well. Think of this. A quarter stake in the Trust means Ravenscliff controls it, correct?'

'If you say so.'

'I do. And the quarter stake the Trust holds in Beswick means it controls that. Correct?'

I nodded.

'So Ravenscliff controls Beswick with a quarter stake of a quarter stake. That is, six and one quarter per cent. The same goes for another dozen or so companies which make up the main holdings of the Trust. To put it another way, he controls companies capitalised at nearly seventy million pounds with a holding of a little more than four and a quarter million.'

Finally I understood, although the size of the figures astonished me. Four and a quarter million was such a vast amount of money it made my head spin. Seventy million was almost beyond comprehension. My landlady's house, I knew, had cost her two hundred pounds.

'So,' Franklin continued, 'your characterisation of Ravenscliff as "some sort of money man" needs to be revised a little. He was, in fact, the most powerful armaments manufacturer in the world. And also perhaps the most ingenious financier in the world as well.

'And,' Franklin went on, 'there is the founding mystery of his life, which might entertain your readers if you can solve it.'

I brightened up.

'Where did the Gosport Torpedo Company come from?'

'What do you mean?'

'Torpedoes are complicated things. Ravenscliff was a financier, not an engineer. But all of a sudden he pops up out of nowhere with a fully operational torpedo. Where did it come from?'

'Are you going to tell me?'

'I haven't a clue; nor, it seems, does your man at Seyd's. It's a cunning document, this. It goes on at great length about what it does know – which is little; and artfully buries what it doesn't, which is a great deal. It's only when you think about it that your realise this document is a confession of ignorance.'

That was the essence of my long conversation with Mr Franklin who, bless him, presented all his information in a way which was almost understandable. Even better, he clearly enjoyed it, and ended by saying that if I had any more questions, I should not hesitate . . .

I wouldn't. I now had some inkling of how little I knew, and how little everyone else knew. I wasn't alone, but no one else but me had the problem of finding anything out. Ravenscliff's way of life was intricate and veiled, almost deliberately so. He had successfully hidden the vastness of his wealth from the world, to the point where he scarcely figured in the public mind.

The thought also occurred to me that, if he could do that, how easy it would have been for him to hide a child where no one could find it.

CHAPTER 9

I wasn't really sure why it was, considering the task at hand, that I devoted myself to trying to understand Ravenscliff's manner of business. I reckoned it was important to know the sort of man I was dealing with, and so far I had learned little. Only his wife had referred to his character, and I assumed her testimony was unreliable. He must have had some friends, surely? Someone who knew and understood him. While the doings of the Rialto Investment Trust would offer little insight into his passions and emotions, they might at least lead to someone who had known him. So I hoped, anyway.

The following day I had a quick lunch with a friend who worked as a jobber at the Exchange; not a grand figure in that world, but one who was around all the time, and the jobber's bread and cheese depends on knowing even the least wisp of gossip. Fortunes are made, companies rise and fall on catching a muttered comment in a pub or club or tavern before anyone else hears of it. The firm which employed Leighton was moderately prosperous, so I understood, and so must do tolerably well in listening.

Not that Leighton looked like a man who spent his time closeted in dark rooms, listening to idle gossip. If there was anyone less obviously suited to the life he led, then I have never met him. Leighton gave the impression of one born to rule an empire, or at least explore it. It would have been more fitting to come across him a few miles from the source of the Nile than the Stock Exchange.

He was huge, and at one time had been a useful rugger player. He had a booming voice incapable of speaking quietly and was inevitably overheard in all that he said. He had prodigious energy, and once took a bet that he could leave the Exchange at six in the evening, walk all the way to Brighton and back, and be at his post (in foreign railways) at nine the next morning. Ninety miles in fifteen hours. Naturally, the betting was intense; some thousand pounds was wagered on the outcome, with Anderson's, Leighton's firm, making the book. More or less the whole of the City was there to see him off, and a large number cycled alongside him to make sure that there was no cheating. Even many of these gave up through tiredness or hunger, but Leighton marched on, large, red in the face and sweating profusely until the day cooled enough for him to become chilled. Through the night he walked, never stopping for a moment, even eating his dinner – two bottles of burgundy, three pheasant, and four dozen oysters – as he marched, a member of his firm driving an automobile alongside him laden with food, which was passed to him as required.

His return the next morning was rather like a Roman triumph. No work was done because of the excitement; the finances of the Empire were neglected until all was over. Even the Rothschild's men emerged from their great palace in New Court to be present at the conclusion, a frivolity never witnessed before or since.

He walked up the steps of the Exchange with fifteen minutes to spare, and was carried shoulder high by his comrades to his place on the floor with firecrackers being let off, bottles of champagne popping and the bread rolls flying. He had become a legend with a job for life, for who could ever dispense with the services of such a fine fellow? Of such things are careers and reputations made in the City of London.

Such was Leighton and, as I could be certain that anything I told him would be all around the Exchange within five minutes of our conversation finishing, I had to be careful about what I said. So I told him simply that I had been commissioned to write a biography, and that I was completely lost.

'Grieving wife, wanting a memorial, eh?' he boomed cheerfully. 'Why not? She's got the money, or will have soon enough. I can't say that it will be a book I'll buy, though.'

'Why not?'

'I've never heard an interesting story about the man. He came, he amassed money, he died. There! I've written it for you.'

'I think Lady Ravenscliff wants a little more than that. Did you ever meet him?'

'Once, but not to speak to. Not a very sociable man, you understand. But even he had to show up to the occasional reception and ball. Very handsome wife, I must say. Charming woman.'

'Do you know anything about her?'

'Hungarian countess, I think. Who knows anything about Hungarian countesses? I would guess she had not a penny to her name, but the name was something. Run-down old schloss somewhere in the Transylvanian mountains . . .'

'Are they in Hungary?'

'Who knows? Who cares? You get the picture though.'

'What about Ravenscliff?'

He pursed his lips. 'Perfectly polite, but a bit frightening. Didn't say much. Always had a look about him as if he wished he wasn't there. He rarely showed up to anything at all, and would often enough leave as soon as he could. His wife has little time for City society either, so I gather.'

'Not much of a figure, then?'

'Oh, Lord, yes. He was immensely powerful. That was why there was such a panic when he died.'

'Was there a panic? I didn't notice anything.'

'Well, you wouldn't, would you, because you don't pay attention to these things. But there was. Obviously there was.'

'Why obviously?'

'Because the instant reaction when someone like that drops out of a window is to think that maybe he jumped. And then you worry that his investments have gone all wobbly. So people start selling shares, just in case.'

'The Rialto Investment Trust,' I said proudly.

Leighton nodded. 'And the underlying investments. What if he had topped himself because Rialto was in Queer Street? It has happened before, it'll happen again. So the moment the rumour started spreading—'

'People started selling.'

'Right again. But, and this is the curious thing, they didn't fall much. Even before the stories were in circulation, buyers were coming into the market, picking up every share on offer and supporting the price. We did a roaring trade on behalf of the Consolidated Bank in Manchester. Don't know who they were buying for, though.'

'So?'

'If you offer something for sale, and no one wants it, then you drop the price until you find a taker, correct? No one will buy shares in a company which might be insolvent, so the quoted price can fall through the floor. If, on the other hand there is a buyer, then the price stabilises. No panic, the owners of the shares are reassured, and stop trying to unload them. Understand?'

I nodded.

'With Rialto, of course, the price has been very low lately.'

'Why of course?'

'Same with all the armaments companies,' he said reflectively. 'No orders. The government isn't buying. They've been going through hard times. Anyway, the point is, all of a sudden, there were buyers all over the place. The shares went up, can you credit it? The question is, who was buying? Somebody knew something, but I'm damned if I could find out what. And later Cazenove came into the market, acting for Barings. And the funny thing was, Barings seemed to be trading on their own account.'

'What does that mean?'

'Buying for themselves, not for a client. So I'm told. The thing is they weren't trying to make money. They were buying at full price. Whoever heard of a bank not trying to make money? Unless they were doing someone a favour.'

'This was when, exactly?'

'When Ravenscliff died.'

'No, I mean what day exactly? The day he died, or the day the news appeared in the papers.'

'There was nothing in the papers. That came two days later.'

'What would have happened if the news had come out immediately? A few hours after he died?'

'Heavy selling, with, presumably, no buyers primed to intervene. Collapse in the share price. Possibly forcing the Trust to sell off the shares it owned in other companies, leading to a general drop of the market.'

'Which is not good?'

Leighton sighed. 'Not really.'

I thought about this. It more or less explained the delay in reporting Ravenscliff's death; gave one possible explanation, at any rate. Keeping the news quiet meant that Ravenscliff's friends had time to prepare. All very well.

'Have you ever heard of a man called Henry Cort?'

Leighton looked puzzled for a moment, then shook his head. 'City man?'

'I don't know. Just a name I heard. Not important.'

I left him ordering another drink and a pork pie, and went to think. I was accumulating information, but so far it didn't add up to much. Ravenscliff died, assorted people of some considerable authority delayed the news becoming generally known; stockbrokers intervened to stop a run on Ravenscliff's company; the Foreign Office was, maybe, involved. Of all the information I had, this was the most curious. At least, that was the only thing I thought FO might mean. Everything else was the usual sort of thing (I believed) one might expect from the City.

I didn't sleep as well as usual that night; I felt that I was proceeding in an amateurish, haphazard fashion – a bit of information here, a bit there, without having any real sense of what I was doing. I was annoyed with myself, even though I had only been at work for a few days. I felt I should be more organised. More business-like, in honour of my subject. By the time I finally fell asleep, I had resolved to start again, at the beginning, and go back to question Lady Ravenscliff more thoroughly. She must have known him better than anyone.

I was aware that I was trying to do several things at once. I was, officially, meant to be writing a biography of a financier; I was supposed, unofficially, to be finding a child; and I was also meant, even more unofficially, to be examining Ravenscliff's death to find out what it meant for the Chronicle. I had to remember to keep in mind which one of these I was meant to be doing at any particular moment.

The next morning, I sent a note to Lady Ravenscliff requesting an interview, another to Mr Xanthos asking for the same, and then took myself off to visit the family solicitor.

I should have known that Ravenscliff would not have had a solicitor of the Dickensian type, who still existed in those days. Old clerk, brown wooden desks, glasses of sherry or port, and reassuring conversation surrounded by piles of carefully docketed folders and archival boxes. No; Ravenscliff liked efficiency and dynamism; his solicitor matched his tastes. Mr Henderson was a young man for his job, perhaps in his mid-thirties, and, in my opinion, somewhat bumptious. The sort who had done well at school, never broken any rules, been a favourite with his teachers. Someone who was going to do well in life, and who, as a result, never questioned whether it was worth doing. I didn't like him much, and he treated me with scant respect in return. The sherry decanter was not disturbed in its rest by my presence.

Still, I was the representative of his most valuable client, trying to do something which he was incapable of doing on his own. He formed trusts and conveyed things. Finding illegitimate children was quite outside his range. As our conversation progressed, I occasionally even felt a slight sense of unseemly interest, as though some long dormant imp buried deep in his well-run life was stirring a little. Perhaps he had really wanted to flick an ink pellet at a teacher, but had never dared.

'You know that for public purposes I am supposed to be writing a biography?'

He nodded.

'And you are also aware of the real reason for my presence?'

He nodded again.

'In that case, I can dispense with all the subtleties. What do you know of this business?'

He sighed in the manner of a man who prefers questions that require a yes or no answer. 'Very little more than is contained in the will. That there existed a child, that money was to be left to it, and that material identifying that child was to be found in his safe at home.'

'Which is not, in fact, to be found.'

'So it would seem. It makes the life of the executors of the will very difficult.'

'Why?'

'Because the estate cannot be easily settled until all claims on it are resolved. And that cannot be done while the matter of this child is extant. So the estate will remain in limbo until it is cleared up, one way or the other.'

'Do you know what it was, this material? Wouldn't it have been wise to leave it with you?'

'As it turned out, it would have been very much wiser,' he said evenly. 'I can only surmise that Lord Ravenscliff had a good reason for his decision.'

'What sort of good reason?'

'The obvious one would be that, when he made the will, he had not yet finished accumulating the material, and wished to add to it.'

'Tell me how the will was made. He came here . . .'

'He came here and said that he thought it best to make his will. He had realised he was not going to live for ever. Although, to be truthful, that was difficult to believe. He was in exceptional health, or appeared to be. His father lived until he was ninety.'

'He had not made a will before then? Is that usual for men of fortune?'

'Quite unusual, yes. But men like Lord Ravenscliff do not like to contemplate their mortality. He had given us a rudimentary testament, just enough to ensure he did not die intestate in case of an accident. In that all his possessions passed to his wife. This was a more complicated and complete version.'

'The details?'

'The bulk of his estate passed to his wife, there were legacies to other family members, servants and to his old college. Generous bequests, I might say. A legacy to a Mrs Esther Vincotti of Venice. Six months later he returned to add a codicil concerning this child.'

'And when he mentioned that, you didn't ask for details?'

'That is hardly my role.'

'Did he say anything about it?'

'No. He simply dictated his wishes.'

'You weren't curious?'

Henderson looked vaguely affronted at the suggestion. 'Many of my clients are wealthy men, and many have discreditable secrets in their lives. It is my job to look after their legal affairs, not their spiritual well-being.'

'So you are no wiser than anyone else?'

He inclined his head to indicate that, incredible though it might seem, that was the case.

'And he said nothing about this material identifying the child?'

'No.'

'What is your opinion? Are you allowed one?'

It didn't even make him cross. 'Yes, I think I can have an opinion on that,' he replied. 'I believe that whatever it is, it was to be found in his desk. And that someone removed it shortly after his surprising and unforeseen death. But I will make no further comment.'

He didn't need to, of course.

'The other legacies? What about them?'

'I know nothing of either of them, although naturally I have corresponded with the executor, a Michael Cardano, since the death.'

'Who's he?'

'He used to work for Rothschild's, I believe. More than that I do not know.'

'And he is capable of running a company?'

'I do not know. But he doesn't have to; the duties of an executor are very different. He is the son of an old associate of Lord Ravenscliff's. The father was ruined in 1894 and died in gaol.'

'I see. Tell me about this Italian woman.'

'We have sent Mrs Vincotti a telegram. She is due to arrive in London on Wednesday. At least, I hope she is.'

'Why? Does it matter?'

'Oh, good heavens yes. Especially with such sums as are involved in this case. Naturally we have to make sure that this is the woman that Lord Ravenscliff intended. Otherwise we would not be able to make the settlement; that would introduce another complication and we would have to look for two people, rather than only one.'

'How so?'

'His affairs cannot be settled until all the beneficiaries are contacted, so we can ensure that it contains enough for each to receive their proper due. For example, suppose someone dies and leaves £100 to one person, and the same to another, but there is only £120 pounds in the estate. What do we do? Obviously, if one of those people is dead, there is enough for the other person to receive the full amount. If both are alive, then there is not. That is when matters become complicated.'

'So this child . . .'

'Must be found, if the estate is to be wound up swiftly. Lord Ravenscliff left his wife a fixed amount, and a life interest in the residue, which devolves on various others on her death. Whether the legacy to the child is paid out is consequently a matter which affects all the other bequests.'

'So what is Lady Ravenscliff's financial position at the moment?'

'She is dependent on the goodwill of the executor and his willingness to make her an allowance out of the estate, which he in effect controls.'

'Did Lord Ravenscliff realise this?'

'I'm afraid I don't understand.'

'What I mean is, why would Ravenscliff have made his will in such a way that there was a possibility his wife would be left in such a situation? Did you tell him that there was such a possibility?'

'I advised him of all the consequences, yes.'

'And he went ahead. What conclusions do you draw from that?'

'That he considered it the best way of organising his affairs.'

'No. I mean, why did he consider . . .'

'I know what you mean. But while Lord Ravenscliff communicated his wishes, he did not tell me the reasoning that lay behind them.'

'And did you ever try to guess?'

'The obvious conclusion is that he thought that there would be no loose ends.'

'And do you think this Mrs Vincotti might be the child's mother?'

'That I could not say.'

'Did Lord Ravenscliff make any regular payments to people when he was alive? Not employees, or anyone like that, of course. To individuals with no known connection to his business?'

Henderson considered. 'Not using my services. He may have made separate arrangements, of course.'

'I see. Now, the Rialto Investment Trust. What is the state of that at the moment? And of his companies.'

'As you may know, Ravenscliff controlled a large number of companies through Rialto. And his holding in Rialto has passed for the time being into the hands of the executor.'

'Michael Cardano.'

'Precisely.'

'So what happens there? I mean, if the estate is not wound up?'

'In the day-to-day, the companies are run by expert management, and need no external guidance. But I imagine that the other shareholders will get together to protect their interests. Specifically, they may decide to reassure themselves that it is healthy. Naturally, the circumstances of His Lordship's death . . .'

'Produces questions. Quite. Is there any suggestion of that?'

'I am a family solicitor, Mr Braddock. You would have to ask others. However, from my limited experience of such matters, I would find it remarkable if there was not a move on the part of shareholders to do precisely that.'

'I see. But they would find nothing untoward, would they? I mean, there is no suggestion . . .'

' "Seek and ye shall find," ' he said with the faintest glimmer of a smile. 'No indvidual I have ever dealt with has been devoid of secrets. I doubt there is any company unencumbered by them either. But I know of nothing specific, if that is your meaning.'

'One more question. All of Ravenscliff's businesses are in a sort of limbo, is that right?'

'Yes.'

'Including the Chronicle?'

'Of course. The executor will decide whether it goes to Lady Ravenscliff, or whether it needs to be sold to raise the cash necessary for the bequests. Naturally, that will not be clear until we know how many bequests are to be made.'

McEwen would not be happy to hear that, I thought.

'So, let me get this clear. Lord Ravenscliff made his will about eighteen months ago, and there was no mention of a child. That bit was added six months later. Yes?'

Henderson nodded.

'Why? He must have known this child existed. Why not put it in when he made his will originally?'

'I do not know.'

And that was that with Mr Henderson. I took the the paltry gleanings he had given me and went for lunch. I needed a beer and a steak pie before visiting Lady Ravenscliff once more.

CHAPTER 10

I was apprehensive as I was conducted into a little sitting room in St James's Square. A different room, more cosy and intimate than the grand salon where we had met last time. A fire burned in the grate, making it pleasantly warm and suffused with a smell of apple wood. On the mantelpiece there were trinkets of all sorts – mirrors, pieces of framed needlework, little statues in bronze. A handsome blue porcelain bowl. The walls were lined with books. Evidently Ravenscliff was a great reader. And an accomplished one. These were not there for decorative purposes, as you see sometimes in great houses. These books were to be read. Had been read, in fact. Novels in French and English and German and Italian. Works of history and philosophy; medical journals, books of travel. The classics – in translation and the original languages. Dictionaries and reference books. I knew many of the English titles, and had heard of some of the others. Zola, Tolstoy, Darwin, Mill. Marx, I noted with curiosity. Know thine enemy. Books on sociology and psychology. Even a few on criminology. It was an impressive range. Lucky the man with the leisure and energy to read them all. Ravenscliff, of course, was not a man of leisure. Curious. It made me feel a little self-conscious about how much time I spent in pubs.

And on the far wall two paintings, the larger a portrait of Lady Ravenscliff, painted some twenty years ago, I guessed. I could see the appeal. She was one of those people painters must love; her left shoulder was facing the viewer and her head was turned so it faced out of the canvas. She wore a golden red dress, which showed off her long, elegant neck. There was no jewellery of any sort; she did not need any; her face and hair were quite enough. She had been, and still was, a lovely woman.

'Henner,' came a soft voice behind me.

I turned. Lady Ravenscliff was standing at the door with a faint smile on her face.

'Pardon?'

'Jean-Jacques Henner. He died a few years ago and I suppose his fame has faded, but he was one of the finest portraitists of his generation. That's me in 1890 before I grew old and wrinkled.'

'You are hardly that,' I muttered. I really didn't feel like paying compliments. In fact I never did, and I had had little practice.

'And this is John.' She pointed to the smaller portrait, tucked away in a corner of the room. 'He hated having his portrait taken. He only consented because I demanded it as a birthday present. He grumbled incessantly, and would only have this little thing done. It's so tiny you can barely see him.'

I looked. So that was Lord Ravenscliff. I peered intently, but it gave me no clues. He seemed nothing remarkable; there was no look of bestriding arrogance or pride; no hint of cruelty or kindness. It was just a face, that of a perfectly prosperous gentleman, looking calmly out with only a hint of weariness about having to waste his time to placate a demanding wife. He looked almost agreeable.

'May I say I'm surprised he found the time to read so much?' I said as I gestured at the shelves. 'I thought these men of business worked all the time.'

'He liked reading,' she said with a smile at my condescension. 'But this is my room. John's is upstairs. He preferred less well-upholstered surroundings. He did not like to get too comfortable when he was working.'

'Ah.'

'That's right. I can read.'

'I didn't mean—'

'Yes you did,' she said brightly.

I blushed.

'It doesn't matter. In this country it is quite usual for women of my position to regard reading a book as somehow inelegant. However, you must remember that I used to live in France, where it is not considered wholly inappropriate. But I have loved reading all my life. We must talk more about this some time. I always think it important to know what a man reads. Tell me, what do you think of this?'

She picked up the blue bowl and handed it to me casually. What was I to say? It was a blue bowl. With patterns on. Blue ones. I shrugged. She put it back.

'Well?' I said, I hope a little coldly. 'You wished to take your revenge by revealing my ignorance and you have succeeded. You might as well enlighten me.'

'Oh, it is nothing of importance,' she replied. 'And you are right. That was offensive. I apologise. Shall we begin again?'

'Very well.'

'So. Tell me, have you made any progress since we last met?'

'A little. I have talked to a few people and done some background reading. But I have to say that I have questions which must be answered before I proceed any further.' I did not like this. The meeting had not got off to a good start.

'Dear me,' she said with a smile. 'That does sound serious.'

'It is.'

'Well? Go on,' she prompted as I lapsed into silence. I had never done anything like this before, and I wasn't quite sure how I should phrase the questions. Thinking of what to say, and actually saying it now she was standing in front of me, were very different.

'Mr Braddock? Are you going to say something, or just stare at me all afternoon?'

'It's difficult to know where to begin . . .'

'At the beginning?'

'Don't make fun of me. What I need to know is whether you are being honest with me. All the evidence suggests you are not.'

'And what,' she said, definitely cooler now, 'have I said or done to make you think such a thing?'

'Were I a reporter once more, I would leap to one obvious conclusion,' I said, feeling better now that I had got under way. 'Your husband dies and you instantly go to his desk, remove whatever evidence there is about the identity of this child, and hide or destroy it. Then you call me in to look for something you know cannot be found, so that you can appear to be a dutiful and obedient widow, carrying out her husband's wishes. In due course, all the money which should have gone to this child comes to you.'

She looked evenly at me. 'In that case you are a very bad reporter. Someone with a flair for a story would also have considered the possibility that I discovered, one way or another, something about the provision in his will. That I was so overcome with jealousy that I not only did as you say, I also pushed my husband out of the window.'

Was she angry, or distressed? She held her jaw so tightly that I knew it was one or the other, but her self-control was so great it defeated any attempt to penetrate further.

'I have considered that possibility,' I replied.

'I see. So are you here to tell me you do not wish to continue in my employ? Or are you trying to discover a way of keeping the money, even though it comes from a murderess?'

She was quite calm as she spoke, which convinced me that she was furious with me; so furious that I doubted whether it was going to be my choice.

'I am trying to discover what happened. Which is the job you gave me. Part of it, anyway. I must say that I do not really think you are a murderess. But I need to get circumstances clear in my mind. You ask me to find this child, and the task would be easily accomplished if the evidence was where your husband said it was. Someone moved it. It might help considerably if I knew who.'

'So? Ask.' She had not forgiven me, nor entirely resumed her pose of calm, but I could see my remarks had mollified her a little.

'Did you move it?'

'No. Do you believe me?'

'Who did move it?'

'I don't know.'

'Who could have moved it?'

'I don't know that either. Or rather, I could give you a list of people who have been in the house long enough to occupy you for months. I imagine it would have been in the large drawer which contains a strongbox. It would have been locked. Only my husband had a key.'

'Forgive me for asking, but could I see this desk?'

'By all means.' She stood up and walked to the door. She was not the sort of woman whose clothes needed smoothing down, however long she had been sitting; they simply fell into place. That was expensive couture, I guessed. Or maybe she was simply one of those people who was like that. My own clothes looked rumpled even when they were fresh back from the laundry.

'Was your husband disturbed or preoccupied at all in his last few weeks or months?' I asked as we walked up the stairs. I walked beside her out of modesty, as the sight of her from behind was too enticing to be polite.

'Perhaps. He had been different, more distant for some time before his death. And in the last few days he was very preoccupied.'

'In what way?'

'I could see something in his eyes. Worry. I think it was a premonition.'

'About his death?'

'Yes. The human mind is a strange and complex thing, Mr Braddock. Sometimes it can see the future without realising it.'

'Did you ask what concerned him?' I said, steering the conversation away from this topic as fast as was seemly.

'Of course. But he simply said there was nothing which I should worry about. That all would be well. I never doubted it until he reassured me.'

'But you have no idea . . .'

'None. I assume it was something to do with his business affairs, because I can discover no other possible explanation. Although I saw less of him than usual.'

'Why was that?'

'He was working. He would be out late. Ordinarily, he would return in the early evening, and he rarely left the house again. He preferred to eat at home, then we would read together. Sometimes he would have work to attend to, but only in his office. Sometimes he would read his papers sitting by the fire, with me next to him. In the last few weeks he would go out again, sometimes coming back late at night. But he never told me why.'

'Do you know a man called Cort? Henry Cort?'

She gave no reaction, either of pleasure or anything else. 'I have known Mr Cort for more than twenty years,' she replied evenly. 'John also knew him for a long time.'

'Who is he?'

'He is . . . I don't know how to describe him, really. He was once a journalist, although I understand he gave that up long ago. He was a correspondent for The Times in Paris, which is where I came to know him.'

'So he was not an employee of your husband?'

'Oh, no. He has independent means. Why do you ask?'

'A name that came up,' I replied. I still didn't know what FO meant. Some religious order? 'Was your husband a Catholic?'

She smiled. 'His mother was, but John was brought up as an Anglican. His father was a vicar. But he was not a great churchgoer.'

'I see,' I replied.

'Here we are,' she said, opening a door on the second floor. 'This was his office. And where he fell.'

It was a room about eighteen feet square, the same size as the sitting room we had been in a few moments previously. And, presumably, directly above it. A simple but masculine room where the other had all the touches of a woman's hand. In this room brown dominated; the woodwork painted as mock oak, the curtains heavy velvet. A smell of tobacco hung in the air; heavy wooden filing cabinets filled one wall, and there were no paintings, only a few photographs in heavy silver frames. Family? Friends?

'All his family,' she replied. 'His parents, sisters and their children. He was fond of them all, but they rarely met after his mother died. She was a remarkable, if rather strange, woman. Foreign, like me. He got much of his drive from her, his kindness from his father. They all live in Shropshire, and rarely come to Town.'

'Would one have been close enough for him to have confessed an indiscretion?'

'I wrote and asked, but they said they knew nothing. By all means ask again, if you wish,' she replied. 'Now, this is his desk, and I had assumed that these documents would have been in this drawer.'

I saw that the whole left-hand pillar keeping the desk up was in fact one drawer, which, when opened, revealed a metal top. It was clearly immensely heavy, but slid out on hidden rollers underneath, which bore much of the weight.

'He had this built to his own requirements,' she explained. 'It was the sort of thing he liked to do.'

'He was a practical man?'

She laughed, thinking fondly. 'No, not a bit. He was the most impractical man I have ever known. I don't think I ever saw him do anything at all with his hands, besides eat, write and light his cigar. I meant he liked solving problems to his own satisfaction. Then he would get other people to turn his ideas into reality.'

I pulled at the lid on top of the strongbox; it came open easily. There were bundles of papers inside.

'Examine them if you wish,' she said. 'But you will find they are all deeds of our houses, and insurance policies and other domestic documents. I have looked carefully, but do so again if you want to.'

'Later, perhaps. Was the drawer locked or unlocked when you first came to see what was in here?'

'Locked. And the key was in John's pocket. At the morgue.'

'Is there another key?'

'I don't know.'

I stood and looked at the drawer for a few minutes, hands in my pockets, thinking. That was a waste of time; no blinding flash of inspiration came to me to solve the problem and make everyone's life easier. I even considered ridiculous possibilities, and lifted the carpet to see if a sheaf of papers was underneath. Lady Ravenscliff looked on impassively.

'I have searched thoroughly,' she commented.

I looked at her carefully. 'I know you have,' I said. And, for the first time, I really believed it. This was not a conclusion that would appeal to anyone with a fondness for tales of detection. Ask me why I concluded that she was telling me the truth, and I could give no satisfactory reason. Nothing had changed since I had walked the streets deciding that the exact opposite conclusion was the more likely. I merely wanted to believe her so much that my desire became reality. Instinct, guesswork, self-interest. Call it what you will. From that moment on I worked on the assumption that my employer was an honest and innocent woman.

She was not, however, particularly grateful for my faith. She scarcely seemed to notice it. Instead, she gestured at the window. 'This is where he fell,' she said quietly.

I walked over to the tall sash window in the wall opposite the desk. It was gigantic; some ten feet high as they are in buildings of this sort; stretching low and almost to the ground. The bottom of the frame was less than a foot from the floor, the top only a couple of feet from the ceiling. The two sashes were held shut by a highly polished brass clasp.

I tried to open it; it was stiff, but shifted eventually; the sash slid up only with difficulty and some noise. It was a long way to the ground, and looking out I could see that immediately underneath was a long stretch of thick, spiked, iron railings.

'How tall was your husband?'

'A few inches shorter than you,' she said.

'And not athletic, I assume?'

'Not in the slightest. He was not fat, but set no great store by exercise. Shortly before he died, he was wondering about installing one of these new elevators at the back of the house so he wouldn't have to walk up and down stairs.'

I smiled. 'Good for him. I was just wondering how he managed to fall out of this window. If he tripped on this carpet here, and stepped forward to regain his balance' – I performed the manoeuvre myself to show what I meant – 'then he should have cracked his head on the bottom sash. Certainly even the clumsiest of men should have been able to steady himself by grabbing the window frame.'

She was sitting in the little plush-velvet bucket chair by the fireplace now, her hands clasped together in her lap. 'I don't know,' she replied sadly. 'I didn't come up here until much later. I was out that evening, and did not get back until late. The police were waiting for me. They told me there had been an accident and I went directly to the hospital. He was already dead. I didn't come up here until late that day.'

'And the window was open?'

'No. One of the servants said he had closed it; it was raining and the water was coming in. And he tidied up the room as he does every morning.'

'And was it unusually disarranged?'

'That depends on what you mean by unusually. Once John was finished with a book or a newspaper – or anything, really – he would just drop it on the ground. I very much doubt he would have noticed even if the room was never tidied up. He lived in this house to please me, and because he thought it was the sort of house a man of his standing should live in. It isn't, of course; had we lived in such a place we would have bought something very much bigger. But he really had no taste for ostentation. We have another house in Paris, which was bought solely for my benefit. He was utterly uninterested in expensive living, although he did like good food and wine. And the sea. He always wanted to live by the sea, but had never managed it. We had planned to buy a house on the coast somewhere. The trouble was we couldn't agree where. I wanted Biarritz, he wanted Dorset. Curiously, he was a very simple man. You would have liked him, had you given him a chance.'

This sentence was added on so gently I almost missed it. 'You think I wouldn't have done?'

'I think you assume all rich men of business must be cruel and greedy by nature. Some are, no doubt. But in my experience they are no better or worse in general than any other class of man.'

'How many people were in the house at the time of the fall?'

'No more than twelve. My husband and the servants.'

'Everyone but your husband was asleep?'

'I imagine so. Although I have no doubt that some of the servants misbehave themselves when they are not watched. As long as they do their jobs, I do not interest myself in such things.'

Another one of those comments which took me slightly unawares.

'Why do you ask?'

'Because, squalid little reporter with an eye for a story that I am, I still cannot rid myself of the idea that your husband did not fall. I have heard he had a terrible fear of heights. Is that correct?'

She smiled. 'Yes, it was. It was what made me fall in love with him.'

'I'm sorry?'

'We were walking over a bridge in Paris, and he suddenly turned pale, and grabbed hold of me. I thought he was making an advance, but in fact he was simply feeling dizzy. It was the first time I realised he had any frailties. But he needed to pretend, so he did kiss me, merely to cover up his weakness. I teased him without mercy until he confessed, and he was as shamefaced as a schoolboy.'

She had such a sweet smile as she remembered this that it was almost a pity to bring her reminiscence to an end, but I did find her memories inappropriate. So I continued on remorselessly.

'So would he have walked up and down by an open window?'

'Not usually. But he did love his cigars, and he knew I hate the smell of cigar smoke. He was prepared to take grave risks, when necessary.'

'Then let me ask you directly: would anyone want to murder your husband?'

'Absurd,' she said promptly. 'In his life he was the kindest of men. In his business he had a reputation for fairness. He had rivals, no doubt. But not enemies. He was an easy-going employer to the servants who, in any case, naturally referred to me first of all. Besides, even the most violent and detestable men generally die in their beds.'

'But you know nothing of his business affairs.'

'That is not entirely true. We talked a great deal. Although rarely about the details. I was not greatly interested, and he thought of me as a sort of antidote to work. He was not obsessed with his work. Methodical is a better term.'

I shook my head. 'I wish I could say our conversation today has helped me,' I commented, 'but it has made me the more confused. I do not think I am giving you very good value for money at the moment.'

'You have a long way to go,' she said. 'I do not despair of you yet. What else confuses you?'

'The same question that has always worried me. Why are you bothering? Why do you want me to look for this child?'

'I told you; to respect my husband's wishes.'

'And I am not convinced. After all, he did not respect his own wishes enough to make the task easy.'

'It is all I can offer you. Have you some further unfavourable interpretation?'

'Ah . . .'

'You might as well say. You have already accused me of being a murderess, and on the whole I think I took that fairly well.'

'Henderson told me that the will cannot be settled until this matter is cleared up. So you are dependent on the generosity of the executor until then.'

'Oh, I see,' she said. 'So rather than respecting John's wishes, I am selfishly looking after my own. Is that what you are saying?'

'Well . . .'

'In that case I would hardly have hidden the papers. Besides, I did not come to this marriage a pauper. I have more than enough money, even if I receive nothing from John at all. There is no motive or reason for you at all there. Do you understand?'

'I have offended you. I apologise.'

'I would rather you say these things, than think them in secret. And I suppose they are reasonable. We rich people are cruel and heartless, are we not? Not like ordinary people. Not like you.'

'As I say, I apologise.'

'I will tell you when I accept your apology.'

She stood up. I was dismissed. Or maybe not. I did not know.

'Is there anything else?'

'No. Except – who is this other woman mentioned in his will? This Italian lady?

'Signora Vincotti? I don't know. I have never heard the name before. I assume, as I suppose you have already done, that she was his mistress.'

'Does that upset you?'

She looked gravely at me. 'Of course. I am distressed he did not trust me more.'

'Pardon?'

'He kept a secret from me. That wounds me. He must have known that I would not have caused a scene over such a trivial matter.'

'It seems he kept more than one secret,' I pointed out.

She looked at me stonily. 'Any more questions?'

'Yes. To leave that amount of money to this woman suggests she was not trivial.'

'That is true.'

'Are you not . . . curious, at the least?'

'I suppose I am. What do you suppose I should do about it?'

'If you wish, I could visit this lady on your behalf. I understand she arrives tomorrow and will stay at the Russell Hotel in Bloomsbury.'

She thought about that. 'I have a better idea. I will visit her myself. You may come with me.'

A vision of two jealous women rolling on the floor trying to scratch each other's eyes out floated before me. 'I don't think I would recommend that.'

'It is not for you to recommend anything. I will send a note this afternoon and make an appointment.'

That put me in my place. I could either go with her or not; it would not make any difference to her decision. I decided to go.

'And at the same time,' she said lightly, 'we may discover something that will put you out of a job.' Tears welled up in her eyes as she spoke, and I looked on, horrified at the thought that I might have to witness her embarrassment. She was a woman deceived, and had discovered it under the most terrible circumstances.

'I'm sorry,' I said. It was not a useful remark, and she paid it no attention.

'I had no children,' she said eventually. 'John said he didn't mind, that it was enough to have me. That I had brought him all the happiness in the world, and he wanted no more. I am a fool to be so distressed. Of course he had the right to do as he pleased; it made no difference to our life together, and does knowing really make any difference?'

'Yes?'

She nodded. 'I should have been able to do that for him. Not some other woman who was so unimportant he never even mentioned her existence. Now, if you will excuse me, I have some matters to attend to. My husband's papers are in those cabinets over there. You may look at whatever you wish. I have instructed the servants that you are to be allowed into the house at all times, whether I am here or not. You see, I have nothing to hide.'

And she left. I contemplated beginning on the daunting array of filing cabinets – which, I considered, would be most likely to contain something of use – but could not face it. The interview had left me disoriented, shaking almost.

CHAPTER 11

I was feeling increasingly out of my depth. Commenting on a murder case was one thing; unravelling someone like Lady Ravenscliff was another. So I went to the Ritz, to see my little elf. It was, I gathered, where Xanthos habitually stayed when in London; I learned that he maintained permanent rooms there, at gigantic cost. 'So he is some grandee, then?' I asked, slipping into reporterly mode. I was in the Lamb, just round the corner in Mason's Yard; it was where the Ritz went. I bought a round of drinks to reinforce the question. That's the good thing about hotels: servants of the variety who work for the Ravenscliffs have a sort of loyalty, and it is difficult to chisel information out of them. But people who work in hotels will tell you anything for a drink; they have no discretion at all.

'Must be,' was the collective reply. But no one really knew. He came, he went. In general he was never there for more than a fortnight at a time, but always wanted his rooms ready. No women had ever been spotted, but visitors and guests aplenty. The bills, though, were paid. That they knew, but there the limitations of their trade came into operation. Xanthos was rich. He was foreign – Greek, they reckoned. What did they care how a strange little Greek came to be able to afford a suite at the Ritz? I knew salesmen, they made good murderers. Lonely people, shuffling from boarding house to boarding house, washing their shirts overnight. No family, no friends; never in the same place long enough. They were the nomads of the industrial age, always wandering, always moving on. There was, no doubt, a camaraderie, a fraternity of such people, but it did not seem much of a life to me. And they did seem to commit murder – normally squalid, dirty little murders – more often than they should have done. Or maybe they were too miserable to take the necessary steps to avoid being caught.

Mr Xanthos was evidently a different species of salesman altogether, but the hotel people told me little in return for my money – only that he had been in London the week Ravenscliff had died, and had left shortly afterwards. That he came and went all the time, and had his mail forwarded when he was away for more than a month.

'Or if the letter says please forward,' someone chipped in. 'Like last autumn, when he went to Baden-Baden. To take the waters,' he said in a mock-posh accent.

'Or when he went to Rome last April and that trunk arrived for him. Do you remember the trouble that caused, shipping it off? And no thanks when he got back, either. It might have been a postcard we'd sent on, for all he cared.'

He was an interesting fellow, I thought, when he opened the door to his suite, and a curiously attractive one, short, dapper, unconventional, with a bright smile and quick, precise movements. Welcoming, friendly, quite unlike Bartoli.

'It is kind of you to see me,' I said. We were in his fabled rooms, and very splendid they were; grand enough to intimidate someone like me, who had never even been in the public area before, let alone in one of the most expensive of the hotel's apartments. There was a huge salon ornately decorated with rich red wallpaper and gallons of gold paint, what I assumed was a bedroom and bathroom next door, and a separate dining room. While I was there, there was a constant to-ing and fro-ing of people bringing food, messages, coal and logs for the fire; even his coffee was poured for him by someone else.

'On the contrary, I am very curious about you,' he replied. His eyes twinkled as he spoke, in a voice which was well modulated but overlaid with so many accents it was impossible to tell what the original might once have been. He nestled – almost snuggled – down in his armchair like someone protecting himself from a gale; I half-expected him to wrap himself up in a blanket as he spoke, or tuck his little legs underneath him.

'In that case the curiosity is mutual. If I may—'

'No,' he said, 'I will ask first. I invited you, and am providing the refreshments.' He paused for a considerable while as he leant forwards and poured two cups of tea. Lemon for him, milk and sugar for me. I'm a traditionalist.

'Very well. What do you want to know?'

'Just why dear Lady Ravenscliff chose you for this project? I am sure you know as well as I why that might excite some interest amongst those who knew her husband. And who, I may add, are protective of his memory.'

'There I cannot really help, I'm afraid. I had never met either of them before I was offered the task. And, as you no doubt gathered from my conversation with Mr Bartoli, I have no experience whatsoever in things financial.'

'And she knew so many people who were expert . . . Do you think she wanted someone who was not employed by her husband? An independent outsider? Could that be it?'

'Why would she want that? I flatter myself that what she wanted was someone who could tell a good story, make her husband's life interesting. There are few successful novels with bankers or industrialists as the hero. Fewer still that are written by bankers or industrialists.'

'That is true,' he replied. 'And a sad condemnation of the book-reading public it is. Perhaps you are right. Perhaps that is all it is.'

'You sound doubtful. Although I thank you for being less offensive than Mr Bartoli.'

The elf waved a hand. 'Oh, don't worry about him. He is just as rude to me. And everyone, in fact. It's his way. He is a very efficient man, the perfect doorkeeper for someone like John Stone. Although I imagine he is concerned about what is to become of him now. Lady Ravenscliff, I am sure, will not require his services. I assume she is the beneficiary of his will?'

Aha. I thought. So that's it. I smiled.

'I really couldn't say,' I said. 'I am hardly privy . . .'

'No, I suppose not. Still, you will have gathered that I am curious. And as you come to know more about his business you will understand why. How do you find Lady Ravenscliff?'

A question only the foreigner would ask. No Englishman would ever be so direct.

'I beg your pardon?'

'Have you fallen under her spell?'

'I'm not sure I . . .'

'She is a fascinating woman, I find. Beautiful, intelligent, accomplished, warm, witty.'

'Yes, indeed.'

'Did you know she was once one of the most famous women in France?'

'Really?'

He frowned. 'Your next-door neighbours have the strange habit of the salon. Women gather male admirers around them – the best attract the leading writers, politicians, diplomats, poets, you name it. It is in the salons that the elites of France are formed. Lady Ravenscliff is said to have been a great star. It is said she even had the King – your King – in her collection. Then she married John Stone, moved to England, and has lived a life of domesticity ever since. Odd, don't you think?'

'Love?'

'Maybe so.'

'You sound doubtful. Are you about to offer an explanation?'

'No,' he said, 'I was hoping that in the course of your researches you might. I would find the answer fascinating. It might be love, I suppose,' he said with a sigh as though he found the idea disappointing.

'I cannot give an explanation for something I did not know about. As for her spell, she is indeed charming and warm, though that is tempered by her distress, which makes her fragile.'

He smiled. 'She is formidably intelligent, and if you think her fragile then you have very poor judgement. She married one of the wealthiest men in the world, and was his equal in all respects. Her fragility and charm are her strengths. Everything about her is a strength, or can be made so.'

I stared curiously at him.

'But what are you, Mr Braddock? Are you one of her weapons as well?'

'I believe I am an employee, there to write a life of her husband.'

'No more than that?'

'No.'

I got the sense he did not believe me, but he decided not to pursue it.

'You do not seem to like her very much,' I observed.

'Like her?' he said, his eyes widening in surprise. 'I adore her. All men adore her. Just as much as most women hate her. Have you seen her in the company of another woman? I have known her for – what? Years, it must be. And I know her no better, understand her no better, than the first day I met her. She is charming, radiant, lovely. But have you ever seen her using her magic, when she is hypnotising, enthralling? Then, believe me, she is frightening. It is a rare man who can resist her.'

'Including her husband?'

'John?' He paused, and looked at me. 'You haven't got very far if you can ask such a question. Of course he could resist her. That was his appeal. He loved her devotedly because he wanted to. And she loved him because she could not control him. As I say, they were equals. They fought like cat and dog, you know. His anger was cold, hers volcanic. "My dear," he would say through gritted teeth, "your behaviour is quite unacceptable." And she would throw a plate at him. It went on for hours. I think they actually enjoyed it. It was a central part of their marriage. Neither had power over the other, and both were used to controlling others. Can you imagine the attraction of the only person you have ever met who will not do as you wish?'

'No,' I said shortly. 'And at the moment it is not at the top of my list of questions.'

Xanthos sighed. 'A pity. The book will be the poorer for it. It contains the essence of John Stone's nature.'

'I think she wants something more factual.'

'That may be so,' he said. 'So – go ahead. Ask me your questions.'

I hadn't come very well prepared, which was foolish. Normally, when I interviewed people, I made out in advance a little list of questions to give some form to the interview. This time I had nothing; so I asked randomly, snatching questions from my mind as they floated chaotically into view.

'I am struck,' I began, although it had not struck me until then, 'by the people I've met so far. Bartoli, an Italian. You, who I am told are Greek. Lady Ravenscliff, who is Hungarian.'

'And more than that,' he replied. 'The head of finance, for example, is a man called Caspar Neuberger.'

'German?'

'Oh, he'd be quite annoyed to be called just German,' he said with a faint smile. "I am Chewish, dear man! Chewish!" Try calling him a Prussian – he was born in Prussia – and see what sort of reaction you get. John used to refer to Caspar's military character just to see how long he would be able to control himself.'

'I stand corrected. But you know what I mean.'

'The corporation of mongrels and half-breeds. Yes, I do see. We are not a blue-blooded company. It is our great quality, and the reason why we have left all our competitors in the dust. John Stone had two great, remarkable, qualities, which you would do well to bear in mind. One was his gift for organisation. The other was his judgement of character. He wanted people who would do a good job with the minimum of supervision. He didn't care who they were, or where they came from. As he had no family to speak of, the board isn't stuffed with useless relations. As far as operations are concerned, Bartoli is a genius at seeing the evolution of the whole. Williams, the managing director, is a brilliant administrator but the son, I believe, of a bankrupt coal merchant. Caspar is extraordinary at finance, and I – sooner or later someone will tell you, so it might as well be me – am of mysterious but entirely unseemly origins. But it all works. John used to complain sometimes, saying it had all been organised too well, and there was nothing left for him to do. That the company no longer needed him.'

'And what exactly do you do?'

'Me? Oh, I'm just the salesman. The negotiator. Nothing more than that. People want to buy, I get the best price. I am easily the most disposable of them all. But, what I do, I do well. My reputation is, alas, different. Do you want to know what it is?'

'By all means.'

'I am the Angel of Death,' he said softly, and looked at me in such a way that for a moment I almost believed him. Then he brightened up and continued cheerfully, 'you wouldn't think it to look at me, but there we are. I am the sinister one, the worker in shadows, the man whose hidden hand is everywhere. John Stone's alter ego, who does the dirty work he could not do himself. No violence or turmoil happens anywhere on the planet without me being responsible for it somehow.' He smiled sweetly at me.

'Really?'

'Not at all. I am, as I say, merely a negotiator. But it is a fine reputation, you must admit. I do not discourage it much; it makes my life seem more interesting than it is, and perhaps even gives me a small advantage in negotiations. In fact, I do little more than travel around Europe, haggling over details of contracts.'

'You are not in England very much?'

'No. Sales to the Royal Navy and the army are done in a different way. I have nothing to do with it, and wouldn't be very effective anyway. The navy likes to deal with gentlemen and I, as you no doubt realise, am not a gentleman.'

'The obituaries referred time and again to the organisation of the companies. What's so special about that? Aren't all companies well organised?'

Xanthos laughed. 'Oh, no. You would not believe how some go about things. John Stone was remarkable: to create such an organisation, and keep control of it was a stupendous achievement. There are other factories, all over the world. Mines, wells, ships. All perfectly choreographed. And on top of that there is the money. The banks, the credit notes, the bills of exchange, the shareholdings, the loans, in many currencies and many countries. And everything has to be in the right place at the right moment, for the purpose of constructing these vast machines, some of which take nearly two years to complete. If people had any idea at all how remarkable this was, then the businessman would replace the priest and the poet and the scientist as the greatest figure of the age. But we are modest people,' he said with a smile, 'and do not desire fame.'

'But surely, someone orders a ship, you build it, get paid for it. Isn't it straightforward?'

He sighed. 'You don't understand governments do you? Or money. No. It is not straightforward. A government orders a battleship, say. Do they pay? No. Of course not. They pay a little, the rest when it is delivered. The greater part of the money you find yourself. That in itself is fabulously risky. Beswick's demands for capital are as great as that of many an entire country. The Government places an order, and we commit the capital. Then – they change their mind. No, Mr Braddock, it is not simple. Not simple at all.'

'I gather things are a bit difficult at the moment, is that right?'

He looked sternly at me. 'A bit difficult? We have been through terrible times in the last few years. Ever since the Liberals took power, orders from the Royal Navy have all but dried up, and they are our main customer. We – and Armstrongs and Vickers and Cammell Laird – have been hard put to keep going on occasion. Fortunately, Lord Ravenscliff was more than able to see us through hard times; we are in much better shape than our competitors.'

So much about Stone as a man of business. Why did everyone go on about that? Surely there must have been more to him that that?

'Did Lord Ravenscliff have close friends?'

'I have no idea.'

'Surely . . .'

'He was my employer. I liked and trusted him, and I believe that regard was mutual. But that is not friendship, if you understand me. That was a different world, one which I – and no business associate – ever penetrated. I know nothing about that side of him whatsoever. Whether he associated with princes or paupers, what he liked to do when he wasn't working. Whether he had any indiscretions . . .'

'You do not know.'

'I do not know. Nor have I ever been interested. And now, if you will excuse me, I have some letters to write. Still, it was pleasant to meet you. I have no doubt we will talk again.'

'I'm sure I will have many questions over the coming months.'

'I will gladly answer them all, if I can. As you may have discerned, I was a great admirer of John Stone.'

'He had no failings?'

'John Stone never did anything without a good reason, except fall in love and die. And perhaps these stand out as exceptions merely because we do not know what the reasons were, rather than because they did not exist. Do you count that as a failing, or not?'

CHAPTER 12

Interesting. I walked out of the Ritz and up Bond Street in a reflective mood, trying to unravel what I had been told, and what I had learned. The obvious interpretation, of course, was that Mr Xanthos truly believed I was writing a biography, in which business would loom large. He wanted to give me instruction about how to present the man. But that reference to indiscretions niggled me. Why would he have mentioned it at all?

And then there was the conspiratorial side. He was trying to draw me in, make me an insider, create feelings of loyalty, of belonging, by dropping exciting little titbits of information. And Lady Ravenscliff? A clear warning there, I thought. Don't be fooled, was the message.

But I could tease no more out of the conversation than that. Business had been tough, but everything was under control. Was that the point? To ram home the message that there was no business reason for Ravenscliff to drop out of a window, intentionally or otherwise? That I should look elsewhere if that was on my mind? But that would mean he knew I was not merely writing a biography, of course.

I hopped on a bus and relaxed. There is something about the clopping of the horses' hooves, the way the driver converses with his beast, the slight rolling of the carriage as it trundles along, which has always induced a sense of peace in me – when it is not crammed with noisy, spitting passengers, at any rate. I sat upstairs, even though it was chilly, and watched through gusts of pipe-smoke as the great houses of Portman Place, then the even greater establishments of Regent's Park, rolled by. I had never really considered that people actually lived in these places before; they had been as foreign to me as a palace or a prison – more so than prisons, even.

Now I was gaining entry to such places, and I watched with more interest the occasional flicker of domesticity that caught my eye. The servant sitting on a ledge, polishing the outside of a window. Another shaking a blanket to get the dust out. Some children, elaborately dressed, coming down a stairway from a great front door, accompanied by their nanny. The carts of tradesmen parked down the back alleys, so meat and fish and vegetables could be delivered through the rear entrance, unseen. I was allowed in through the front door of St James's Square, I thought. For the first time in my life, I felt superior to those people among whom I had originated. Then it occurred to me that in all probability I ranked in Lady Ravenscliff's mind equally with a governess.

The splendour of Regent's Park does not last long; it is little more than a few bricks thick, an insubstantial theatre set. Behind and beyond are the drabber dwellings of Camden. To the north, though, lies an area of comfortable detached villas built for the man of enough, but not too much, property. My former editor lived in just such a tree-lined street, the houses set back from the wide avenue, private in a way the greater mansions could never be. This was the sort of thing to which I aspired in my dreams; my imagination could take me no higher, but even on three hundred and fifty a year (for seven years) it was way beyond my means. Or was it? I had never even considered the possibility, but now it dawned on me that perhaps I could live in such a place – and the reality of my change in circumstances rushed over me in a wave of pride. I imagined myself at Heal's buying fashionable furniture with a wave of my chequebook. Engaging a servant. Marrying a desirable woman like – and here I paused, for as that piece of imagination passed through me, I saw the woman of my daydreams sitting on the sofa, looking up from her sewing and smiling as I came in, and she had the face of Lady Ravenscliff. The absurdity brought me back down to earth with a sharp and quite unpleasant crash, but I retained enough sense, at least, to smile ruefully at the tricks that the unbridled imagination can play.

The gallant cavalier who could, in his imagination, sweep the richest woman in the country off her feet, meanwhile, was hesitating outside the address of his old editor, wondering whether he dared knock on the door without arrangement. It was stupid, though, to come all that way and go away again, so after a brief hesitation I summoned enough courage to march up the little path and knock. Then announce myself to the serving girl who opened the door.

I was shown into McEwen's study and asked to wait. It was very much more my sort of place than the drab room from which Stone had controlled his empire. Big French windows opened onto the garden; fresh flowers gave a pleasant scent unspoiled by stale cigar smoke. An ancient, battered leather armchair sat on a slightly careworn carpet on which was stacked a pile of logs for the fire. It looked like a room much loved by its main occupant, and which gave back warmth and comfort in return. It was the room of a trustworthy man.

Who appeared through the door a few moments later, smiling and quite unoffended by my arrival. McEwen's familiar greeting – no longer, I thought, the greeting of editor for subordinate, of superior for employee – reassured me entirely and made me more open than I had intended to be.

'I thought you might show up at some stage,' he said cheerfully, 'but not quite so quickly. Have you made some great discovery you wish to tell me about? I hope it is something we can print, rather than being merely salacious. Have you discovered what is to become of us?'

'I'm afraid I have little but questions,' I replied, 'although I can tell you that the Chronicle will be in the hands of the executor until the will is settled, which may take some time.'

'Yes. I thought as much. Then it goes direct to Lady Ravenscliff, I imagine?'

'Maybe. It all seems quite complicated at the moment.'

McEwen was not used to employees – even former employees – being cagey with him. He frowned in displeasure, so I hurried on. 'I thought you could tell me in a few seconds things it might take me days to discover on my own. I have made little progress since I saw you. Except to become more confused.'

'In what areas?'

'Just about every single one. I have learned some things about his death, as you suggested I do. I have established that the companies were in good health. Unfortunately, I do not see how it assists me in any way.'

'I didn't think it would,' he said. 'I merely wished to satisfy my own curiosity on the matter.'

'Why?'

'Oh, call it the instincts of an old newspaper man, if you wish. What have you discovered?'

'Only that quite a lot of people became somewhat agitated the moment he dropped out of the window. There was a man called Cort, for example . . .'

McEwen's eyes narrowed, and he became more attentive.

'Cort?'

'Ah,' I said. 'You may remember him. Lady Ravenscliff said he worked as a journalist on The Times once. Did you know him?'

He stood up, and walked to the window, tapping his foot as he always did when thinking. Eventually he turned round and faced me.

'I'm very sorry, Braddock,' he said. 'I have been extremely foolish, and reckless on your behalf.'

'But why? What's the matter? Who is this man?'

'Indeed. How does he come into a routine biography commissioned by a grieving widow?'

He was looking at me shrewdly, and I could see that I would get nothing out of him without giving something in advance. He was genuinely worried and I was touched by his concern. But he was a newspaperman through and through, nonetheless. Information was food and drink to him.

'It's not a biography,' I said eventually. 'That's not what she wants me to do. She wants me to find out the identity of Ravenscliff's child.'

He raised an eyebrow. 'I see. And Cort?'

'Was one of the first at the scene of his death, and I think may have suppressed the news of it for three days.'

'Oh,' he said softly.

'Oh what?' I was fearful. It was based on nothing, just the way he had said it – apprehensive, almost alarmed; certainly surprised, even shocked. 'What's the matter? What is all this?'

'We received a request from the Government not to run the news immediately, as did every other newspaper. We agreed, as the health of Ravenscliff's businesses is a matter of national interest. Besides, we were assured it was merely to stop an unnecessary panic on the markets. I thought there might be more to it, hence my recommendation of you, so I might have a man on the inside, so to speak, but I never realised it might be that serious.' He stuffed his hands in his pockets and looked at the carpet as he did when thinking fast, then looked up at me once more. 'Write to her, and say you are sorry, but this job's not for you.'

'What? But it was your idea!'

'I know. But this is not idle journalism, hanging around the law courts and police stations. This is not the sort of thing you should get involved in.'

'You're being melodramatic. What on earth is bothering you?'

'What do you know about Henry Cort?'

'Very little,' I said firmly. 'There doesn't seem to be much to know. He was a journalist; he appears to be a gentleman of leisure of moderate means. He knew Lady Ravenscliff many years ago; and he was on the scene in some capacity shortly after Ravenscliff died. There was a reference to FO, but I don't know what it means. Certainly not the Foreign Office, as he is not listed. I looked,' I concluded lamely.

'Yes, well. As you say, you know very little.'

'So tell me more. You clearly know something.'

'Only if you promise to give due consideration to my recommendations.'

'I will,' I said stoutly. But I don't remember whether I meant it.

'Good. Henry Cort is possibly the most powerful man in the Empire . . .' He held up his hand, for he could see my look of incredulity. 'Please. If you want me to tell you, you must not keep interrupting. I briefly came across him, as you so rightly guessed, at The Times about twenty years ago. Supposedly he was a journalist, but he wrote little. Yet he was sent to Paris as a correspondent even though there was one there already. No one knew where he came from, why he was given the job, except that it was said he once worked for Barings, and that his appointment was engineered by Sir Henry Wilkinson, a name which, I am sure, means nothing to you whatsoever.'

'You are right. But it is not the first time that Barings has cropped up in the last week.'

He waved away my diligence with impatience.

'Until he died, Sir Henry Wilkinson was the head – so they said, at least – of the Imperial Secret Service. It is said – equally without anyone really knowing – that Henry Cort is his far more efficient replacement. It is said – again without a shred of evidence or detail – that he once single-handedly prevented a catastrophe which would have brought the Empire to ruin. That he has killed men, and ordered the deaths of others.'

I opened my mouth to express something, then thought better of it and shut it again.

'An enterprise which operates on the scale of the British Empire is beset by foes and dangers. We have been fending off war for several decades, and have succeeded quite well. But it is only a matter of time before our luck runs out. Who will we fight? How will we ensure the best advantage for ourselves? Who are our friends? How do we guard our diplomatic, industrial, military secrets? This – so it is said – is what occupies Henry Cort.'

'You are not serious about this?'

'I am.'

'You've not been reading too many yellow novels?'

'No.'

'But you know this. Presumably our enemies know it.'

'Presumably. But I do not know it for certain and, perhaps, neither do they. What Cort does, and how he does it, I do not know. There are stories, but nothing that I could ever pin down enough to print in a newspaper, for example. Not that I would be allowed to, even were I so unpatriotic as to consider it. Nor does it matter. What I am trying to tell you is that if Cort is involved in some way, then so is the interest of the entire Empire. And that is not something that a junior reporter of no great experience should be dabbling in.'

'Perhaps he's just a family friend.'

'Ravenscliff did not have family friends. Nor does Cort.'

'So what is going on?'

'I have no idea. And I suggest you do not try to find out. It will do you no good. Does Cort know about you?'

'I very much doubt it. That is, I don't see how he could.'

'I see. Have you noticed anyone following you?'

Now I was really getting alarmed. 'You're not serious?' I was repeating myself, I know, but it seemed justifiable.

'A couple of years ago,' he said, 'there was a German reporter in England, a correspondent for a Berlin newspaper. He asked questions about Mr Cort. He died a few months later. On a railway track just outside Swindon. The verdict was suicide.'

'Really?'

'The moral of the story is, do not interest yourself in Mr Cort. As you are English, he will no doubt be more indulgent towards you, as it is safe to assume you are not – or not yet – in the pay of our enemies . . .'

'Of course I'm not . . .'

'But you are, of course, in the pay of a woman who is, or was, a subject of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, which is in alliance with the German Empire . . .'

I gaped. I should have managed better, but I gaped. 'You're making this up,' I said reproachfully.

'I am merely pointing out that an excessively lucrative engagement for a spurious project might be interpreted in many different ways, some not to your advantage.'

'I am certainly not going to give up £350 a year because of the fantastical notions of some civil servant,' I said robustly. 'If anyone wishes to ask me what I am doing I will explain fully and openly. Naturally I will. But I am doing nothing inappropriate at all. And it is my right . . .'

'Of course. But your right as an Englishman can be misunderstood, and may be held to contradict your duty. So be careful. Are you still inclined to continue with this?'

I thought hard. He was a man I trusted; until that moment I had not realised how much I trusted him. But I could not entirely discount the money. And, uppermost in my mind there floated the image of Lady Ravenscliff, sitting on the settee in her sitting room, looking so vulnerable and needy, missing her husband so greatly, and placing herself in my hands. Asking my help. Me, of all the people in London.

'I may,' I said. 'But not until I am sure that your warnings are correct. I do not want to place myself in danger, obviously. Nor do I wish to meddle in things which are not my concern. But I have taken on a commission, and so far I can see no real reason not to fulfil it.'

He sighed, and looked frustrated and disappointed.

'I am not saying I am determined to continue. Merely that I wish to.'

'I thought that might be your attitude. I am sorry for it. I think you are making a mistake.'

I sat and considered. What McEwen had just said had made a deep impression. And yet, an old stubbornness was beginning to stir. Why should I be frightened off with just a word whispered in my ear? Why shouldn't I discover whatever I wanted to? I was breaking no law; in a way I was trying to discover if any had been broken. And I was being told that I should be afraid, and cautious. Englishmen should never be afraid or cautious; not of their own Government. I looked up defiantly.

'Who does Cort work for?'

'The Government.'

'I mean, which bit?'

'I have no idea. The Foreign Office, the War Office, the Home Office. All or none. It is in the nature of a task like this that it is ill-defined. You will not find any piece of paper saying what it is. I doubt he is even on the rolls of the Civil Service. We finally have a formal intelligence organisation, and he is not part of that, either.'

'Oh.'

'He will be paid, and his expenses met, out of miscellaneous funds, untraceable to any one department of state.'

'But one person cannot . . .'

'Oh, good heavens, there are more than Cort! All over Britain, throughout the Empire, all over Europe, there are his men, and his women, I gather, who watch our enemies and their doings. They watch troops, they watch politicians, they watch what sorts of weapons are being produced by factories. They watch ships in harbours, they watch the people watching us. I said we may eventually be at war; in truth it has already started. You've read the stories in the papers; about German spies in this country, about trained murderers waiting for the moment war breaks out to strike and cause havoc here, on the streets of London.'

'Hysterical nonsense.'

'Are you sure? Our enemies learn fast. They have watched the chaos a few anarchists with home-made bombs can cause. How easy it is to kill a king in Portugal, a president in France. To sow panic with a well-placed bomb in a restaurant. Do you think they do not realise what potent weapons are fear and confusion?'

Personally, I had always considered these mouthings in the newspapers to be simply a way of softening up the population so that repressive measures could be taken against the trade unions, and poor people who wished to strike in order to gain a living wage. It had never crossed my mind that someone like McEwen would actually take them seriously. Or that they might be true.

CHAPTER 13

The Russell Hotel in Bloomsbury was a fairly new building, having been completed only a few years previously. All terracotta, brick and marble, it presented a formidable appearance to the outside world, so much so that although I had walked past it on many occasions, I had never even thought of going inside. It was not for people like me, any more than the Ritz was, or drawing rooms in St James's Square. Nor yet was it for the very wealthy. In fact, it was difficult to work out who, exactly, was meant to use it: it was too far from the West End to be convenient for the people who congregated there, and not really properly sited for those who worked in the City. And most visitors to the British Museum were not the sort who could afford its lavish prices.

That was a problem for the management, not for me. When I arrived there I simply spent my time staring at the multicoloured marble columns, the carved ceilings, the glittering chandeliers. It must, I thought, be the sort of surroundings aristocrats were used to all the time. I confess I felt rather grand; I was beginning to get a taste for this sort of living, and after only a week or so. It was slightly worrying.

'Dreadful place,' Lady Ravenscliff remarked as she sat down opposite me, once she had announced herself and I had stood up to greet her. She was smiling, indeed she seemed energised by the outing. Her eyes were bright and larger than I had noticed before; she looked extraordinarily beautiful, as though she had made a special effort to intimidate the opposition. The idea of complimenting her never occurred to me.

'Don't you like it?'

'I find it somewhat ostentatious. It is designed to impress the impressionable. I suppose it does that very well.'

She noticed the way I had blushed. 'I'm sorry,' she said. 'You will find I am prone at times to be opinionated and insensitive. Please never take anything I say on such matters to be of any value at all. I was brought up with older, shabbier buildings which did not force you to admire them all the time.'

'I suppose you might say I was as well,' I replied. 'A little ostentation I find enjoyable.'

She smiled. 'So it is. I stand corrected. Let us bathe in this exuberant vulgarity while we wait. Could you inform Signora Vincotti of our presence?'

I did so, while she sat immobile, a dreamy smile coming over her face. I did not know her very well, but I guessed she was calming herself before what could well be an unpleasant interview.

And, ten minutes later, Esther Vincotti descended. Let me be direct and say there was no competition possible between the two women. One alert, intelligent, beautiful, elegant; the other stout, almost square in shape, with a ruddy though amiable complexion over which she clearly took no pains at all. Never had I seen any woman less likely to be connected in some way to a vastly wealthy man. She was aged around fifty and while her clothes were not poor, she manifestly had little notion of how to dress for effect. Her hair was grey and no attempt had been made to make it look at all stylish or well groomed. Her face seemed good natured, although it bore an expression which made it clear that, if Lady Ravenscliff was anxious at the coming interview, she was thoroughly frightened.

She sat down nervously once the introductions had been made – with me acting as the go-between, as neither of the two women seemed willing to start the proceedings off and Lady Ravenscliff had (she told me) prohibited Mr Henderson the solicitor from coming anywhere near the hotel until she had finished. Neither, however, had a look of hostility about them. Lady Ravenscliff had hardly moved a muscle, but I guessed was utterly perplexed by the idea that her husband might have dallied with such an utterly ordinary, maternal figure as this. As a result, she was hiding behind a mask of aristocratic grandeur which was both intimidating and (to me) exceptionally alluring.

'It is very good of you to come here, your ladyship. I am most honoured to meet you,' Signora Vincotti said after a while.' And I must thank you for arranging for me to stay in this splendid hotel. It is quite beyond what I am used to.'

'I do not think it is particularly good of me,' she replied. 'And I am afraid I must wait before I know whether I am equally honoured by meeting you. How well did you know my husband?'

Nothing like getting down to business fast, I thought. I had anticipated an interminable round of politenesses before the real subject was broached.

'I do not know him at all,' replied the other woman. She spoke with something of an Italian accent, but her English was much too good for her to have been anything other than English in origin. 'I am completely at a loss as to why I am here. All I know is that I received a telegram from a London solicitor telling me I had to come to London, that it was a matter of the utmost urgency. Then they sent me a railway ticket. First class. I am totally mystified and very worried. I am sure I have done nothing wrong.'

This was not the reply either of us had been expecting; Lady Ravenscliff registered something like incredulity, although she managed to keep her expression under control.

'You didn't know my husband?'

'I met him when I was a child, I believe, though I do not remember it.'

'Where, exactly?'

'In Venice, which is where my father lived. And where he died.'

'And this was Signor Vincotti?'

'No. That is my married name, although I am a widow now. Luigi died several years ago, leaving me with four children. But my father provided for me, and I have had a good life. His name was Macintyre. He was a travelling engineer. He died in an accident when I was eight, and I was brought up by a family there.'

'You are even more well-provided for now, it seems,' said Lady Ravenscliff. 'My husband has died, as you may know, and you are a beneficiary of his will.'

Signora Vincotti looked thoroughly surprised by this. 'That was very kind of him,' she said. 'Can you tell me why?'

I noticed she did not ask how much. I quite liked her for that.

'We were rather hoping that you might tell us.'

'I'm afraid I have no idea. None.'

'And you really never met him after your father died?'

'Never. Until that telegram arrived I had quite forgotten him. It was a great effort to recall him at all.'

'You speak very good English for someone brought up in a foreign country,' I commented.

'I was brought up by an English family. Mr Longman was the British Consul in Venice and lived there for many years, but died when I was twenty. As I had no connections to England at all apart from him and his wife, I stayed and eventually married. My husband was a civil engineer. With his salary, and my inheritance, we lived very well. Two of my daughters are married already. And of my two sons, one will be a lawyer, while the other intends to follow his father into engineering.'

'I congratulate you,' said Lady Ravenscliff. Was there something in the account of steady, modest, family life, of seeing children growing, and growing well, that she envied? Did it make her sad that she could never boast about her own children to others – oh, he's doing so well, we're so proud of him . . . ? Was she sad she could never look into the face of a child and see an echo of her husband reflected back at her?

'Do you not wish to know how much the bequest is?' I put in, as we seemed to be straying far from the point.

'I suppose I should; but I cannot see how it can be a great deal of money.'

'It depends on what you consider a great deal. It is £50,000.'

A total silence greeted this piece of information. Signora Vincotti grew deathly pale, almost as though she had just been told some devastating news. 'There must be some mistake,' she said eventually in a voice which was so quiet and so trembling it was difficult to make out.

'It seems not. I hope you will excuse our curiosity, but we are naturally interested in the reason for it. Lord Ravenscliff was an immensely wealthy man, but even by his standards this is a large sum.'

I was aware I was talking like a member of the Ravenscliff entourage, like some retainer. It made me uncomfortable in some ways, but I also noted a certain smugness in my mind as I spoke.

'I cannot help you at all, I really cannot,' she said, looking as though she might burst into tears at any moment.

'Was your father a rich man? Might they have been in business together?'

'I doubt it. I was always told he was very poor; quite unworldly. But not so unworldly that he did not provide for me.'

'And this inheritance. It was an annuity? It comes from an insurance company? A Venetian one? Italian?'

'No, no. An English bank.'

'Please do not take offence, but could you tell me how much this is for? It would help to gauge what sort of relationship your father might have had with Lord Ravenscliff.'

You see – I was also beginning to think like a man of money. Never before in my life would I have considered that income flow might help determine a man's relationships, but it was now beginning to come naturally, now I realised that, for some, it was the only thing which mattered.

'I receive a cheque four times a year from Barings Bank in London for £62.'

I calculated quickly, using my new-found financial sophistication. £62 a quarter was about £250 a year, which meant a capital sum of something around £6000. Hardly in Ravenscliff's league. His bequest meant that her income had just multiplied by eight. A fortune by English standards, and I guessed a vast fortune by Venetian.

'Signora Vincotti,' said Lady Ravenscliff. 'I would like to ask you an even more direct question. Please do not take offence, but it is essential that I know the answer.' She said it in a way which suggested she did not care one way or the other if the other woman did take offence. What was wrong with her? She really didn't have to try quite so hard to be rude.

Vincotti looked at her enquiringly.

'My husband travelled frequently to Venice. Sometimes I accompanied him, most times not. I have never really cared for Venice.' She paused for a moment. 'Let me put it bluntly. Was my husband the father of any of your children?'

Signora Vincotti stared in shock at the question, and I felt sure she was going to become angry, as she had every right to be. For a moment this was very nearly the case, but she was very much more intelligent than her thick-set, homely features suggested. She reached out and took Lady Ravenscliff's hand.

'Oh, I see,' she said gently. 'I see.'

Lady Ravenscliff snatched her hand away.

'Don't be annoyed with me, I mean no insult,' the Italian woman said softly. 'No. There is no possibility, no possibility at all, that your husband was the father of any of my children. None. If you saw them, and saw pictures of my husband as well, you would not have to take my word for it.'

'In that case, we need trespass on your time no longer,' Lady Ravenscliff said, standing up immediately. 'I am sure my lawyers will be in contact with you in due course. My thanks for your assistance.'

And with that she walked swiftly across the hotel lobby, leaving me – feeling thoroughly embarrassed by her appalling behaviour – to make amends as best as I could by saying goodbye in a more friendly fashion, and mutter about shock and grief. None of which was true.

Then I too hurried into the noise of Russell Square and found Lady Ravenscliff waiting for me, her face dark with anger.

'Appalling woman,' she said. 'How dare she patronise me? If her father was as vulgar as she . . . certainly there must be a physical resemblance. She looks like a bulldog in frills.'

'She conducted herself with a good deal more dignity than you did, even though she must have found the encounter very trying . . .'

'And it wasn't for me?' She turned around and confronted me for my mollifying remarks. 'You think everything was calm and easy for me? That discovering your dead husband has a child, having to deal with people like that—'

'I didn't mean—'

'You are not in my employ to see both sides of the argument, Braddock.'

'Mr Braddock. And in fact I am in your employ to do precisely that. You want me to discover the truth. Not to be partisan.'

'It's my money, and you are being paid. You will do as you are told.'

'I will do a good and proper job, or I will not do it at all. Please decide what you want of me.'

Dangerous, that. The desire, which comes upon me on occasion, to strike an attitude, put me in a risky position. Of course I wanted to do a decent job; but I also wanted the money although, after my editor's sombre remarks, I would have been quite happy to have the project brought to an end. The perfect reply (in my opinion) would have been had she told me that she wanted to pay me a huge amount of money to go away. Unfortunately, my upright, manly remarks had the opposite effect. She crumpled in front of me and began sobbing quietly, so through pure instinct I responded in a supportive and consolatory fashion, which of course made things even worse. I handed her a handkerchief, which, fortunately, was clean. Then I completely wrecked things by taking her hand and holding it firmly. She did not snatch it away.

'Let us go into the square and find a seat,' I suggested. 'It is a little public here on the pavement.'

I led her into the middle of Russell Square and the little stall near the centre that served office workers. There I bought two cups of tea and presented her with one. I thought it was probably one of the most exotic things she had done for years, she who never did anything in public, nor anything without servants. She looked a little doubtfully at the old cracked cup.

'Don't worry,' I assured her. 'It's quite safe.'

She sipped in silence, initially more to please me, but then with greater enthusiasm.

'I apologise for my rudeness,' she said after a while. 'And of course I behaved horribly to that poor woman. I will write and apologise. Please do not think badly of me. I am finding all of this so hard.'

I nodded in acknowledgement. 'I understand. I really do. But while we are both amiably disposed to one another, might I renew my request that you begin to tell me the truth?'

The flash in her eyes clearly demonstrated that, however much she might have been chastened, the situation was very far from permanent. I pressed on while there was still time.

'Mr Cort,' I said.

'What about him?'

'Henry Cort is in charge of government espionage. He has been described to me as the most powerful and dangerous man in the country.'

'Henry?' she said. 'Oh, I don't think . . .'

'You have known him for years, so you told me. I do not believe you could be unaware that there is more to him than meets the eye.'

She considered for a moment. 'I think you also have been less than open with me,' she replied. 'If I remember, I asked what your interest in Henry was, and you replied merely that someone had mentioned his name. I do not see why I should be open with you, if you dissimulate with me.'

A fair point. 'Very well. Let me summarise. Henry Cort visited the police within hours of your husband's death, and was quite possibly the man responsible for suppressing news of it for nearly three days. In the meantime, Barings Bank was brought in to support the price of the Rialto Investment Trust, which was your husband's financial instrument for controlling a large part of British industry.'

'I know what Rialto is.'

'Cort also used to work for Barings,' I continued. 'Barings, we now know, pays Signora Vincotti's annuity. I refuse to believe that an old friend, whom you have known for twenty years or more, would conceal all of this from you.'

She smiled quietly. 'Of course. You are quite correct. I didn't mention it because I did not know of his involvement when John died. Besides, Mr Cort and I are not close.'

'That means you do not like each other?'

'If you like.'

'Why not?'

'That is none of your business. John necessarily had dealings with him, but I insisted that they be conducted away from me.'

I brooded over this. It didn't help me at all. 'Why? I mean, what dealings?'

'John made weapons, the government bought them. Naturally they had common interests. Don't ask me more; I do not know.'

'How did you meet your husband? What was he like?'

She smiled, recalling a fond memory. 'He was the kindest man you could meet, the best I ever knew,' she began. 'That was not his reputation, perhaps, and I sense that it is not the opinion you have formed of him, but you are wrong. The man of money and power, and the man who shared my life, had little in common.'

She paused and looked across the square, at all the normal, poor people strolling to and fro, or hurrying across. Some looked as though they were taking a break from the reading desks of the British Museum, others came from the shops and offices of Holborn. I even hoped – again, this was a sign to which I should have given more attention – that perhaps an old colleague from Fleet Street might appear, and see me. See me with her, in fact.

'I met him on a train,' she went on, as this pleasant and dangerous fantasy flickered through my mind. 'On the Orient Express.'

'Is it true he had his own carriage?'

She laughed, more easily now. 'No, of course not. I've told you – he was a simple man in his tastes. He had his own compartment, of course. There is no particular pleasure in sharing with total strangers unless you have to. Ostentation would have been detrimental to his business; often on these trips he liked to travel as quietly as possible so as not to be noticed.'

Maybe she had really loved him; she smiled as memories flitted past, the very idea of her husband brought her pleasure, and the thought of his death caused her grief. I had anticipated a marriage of convenience and companionship at most. A rich man seeks a beautiful young woman in the same way that such people might desire a racehorse, or an expensive painting. Is that not true? And the beautiful young woman desires security and luxury. But they expect no gratification, and little affection; these (so I understood) they must find elsewhere. Perhaps this had been different.

'The thing about John, you see, is that he was quite simple in his affections as well. He thought of himself as a sophisticated man of the world, and in business matters no doubt he was. But he was not a man for gallantry, had no idea how to seduce, or flatter or be anything other than he was. I found his uncomplicated nature beguiling.'

She looked at me, and smiled. 'I can see I am surprising you,' she said. 'You think I would want an elegant man of sophistication. Handsome, athletic, worldly.'

'I suppose.'

'You know nothing, I'm afraid, Mr Braddock. Nothing of me, nothing of women at all.' She said it gently, as a matter of fact, but I still blushed hotly.

'Someone said that both of you met their match in the other.'

She laughed. 'Who on earth said that?'

'Mr Xanthos. Do you know him?'

She nodded. 'Not well. But we have met often.'

'So is his opinion true?'

'I would hardly claim to be John's match. What else did he tell you?'

'Oh, that you were once one of the most influential women in France, or something like that.'

Here she let out a burst of laughter, and almost choked on her tea. Her eyes sparkled with merriment as she put down her cup carefully and looked at me. 'Good heavens,' she said after a while. 'What an extraordinary idea. How on earth did he come up with that?'

'He said you ran a salon, or something.'

'And that made me the most influential woman in France?'

'Apparently.'

'Well, no,' she said, still smiling broadly. I think it was the first time I had seen her laugh, genuinely and without restraint. It transformed her. 'No, I'm afraid not. A young girl from Hungary would stand no chance whatsoever of establishing herself like that in Paris. Not if she was respectable.'

'Pardon?'

'Some of the most famous salonnières are – or were, I do not know what it is like now – courtesans. Very expensive ones, but still . . . I hope you do not think . . .'

'No, no. Of course not. I mean . . .' I was red in the face, blushing deeply; I could even feel the roots of my hair burning with embarrassment. She looked at me, enjoying my confusion, but then kindly looked away across the square until I recovered myself. I could see her mouth still twitching, though.

'Is Mr Bartoli being helpful?' she asked, to change the subject.

'Mr Bartoli does not approve of me. He has indicated he will give me as little assistance as possible.'

She raised an eyebrow. 'Let me deal with that,' was her only reply and I realised Mr Bartoli was not going to be happy about it.

'I asked about your husband's concerns.'

'I do not know what they were. Just that he had been quite busy in the months before his death; I reproached him for it, and said that he really should be working less hard at his age, not more. But he said that this was the way of business, and if something important came up, you could not postpone it simply because you were getting old. Besides, he always maintained that working kept him young, and I think there was something in that. His mind was absolutely undiminished, and he was in no way frail.'

'And this something important . . . ?'

'Tell me, Mr Braddock, why do you ask so many questions about my husband's death?'

'I think you know perfectly well,' I said. 'Those papers disappeared when he died. I have two ways forward. Either to look for the child, or to look for the papers which will do the work for me. As I am naturally lazy, I think I should exhaust the latter option first of all. Besides, I don't even know when this boy – or girl – was born, or even in what country. Clearly if it was last year that requires one approach. If it was ten or twenty years ago, then it is different. Do you really have no idea at all . . . ?'

'No,' she said softly and a little sadly. 'None whatsoever. I really do not.'

CHAPTER 14

I realise that I have said little about my own life in my account. Partly this is because I wish to tell the story of Lord Ravenscliff, but mainly because I have little enough to say. Life as a reporter involved long hours; often enough I failed even to get back to my lodgings for dinner, and I frequently had to be up and out before Mrs Morrison had even begun to prepare breakfast. Lunch and dinner were eaten in pubs or taverns; my circle of acquaintanceship, outside my fellow lodgers and reporters, was limited. I briefly attended a reading group of worthy socialists, who would get together to discuss texts on the evils of capitalism, but I missed so many of the meetings, and so rarely had the time to read the books we were meant to be talking about, that I gradually let this drop.

I had no family nearby; my parents lived in the Midlands and I was the only member of the family to leave the town of my birth. I think I was the first of innumerable generations to stray more than ten miles from the centre of Coventry. We were not close; my wish to try my luck in London was perfectly incomprehensible to them. So it had been to me; I did not know why I wanted to leave so much. All I knew was that, if I stayed, I would end up like my father, working as a clerk in an office, or like my brothers, spending their lives in the factories and workshops of that city because they did not dare to do anything else. I do not relish adventure, but that prospect so terrified me that I was willing to swallow my fears. When I left school I worked for a year or so on the local newspaper and convinced myself that I was good at it; better still, I convinced others for long enough to get a reference. Armed with this and five pounds given to me by my father – who understood better than I then realised why I did not wish to be like him – I caught the train to London.

It took two months and nearly all my money to get my first job, working on the social anouncements page of the Chronicle. I later moved to football, the obituaries and after nearly two years finally had my piece of luck. The crime reporter was more of a drunk than was average, and he was entirely unconscious on the pavement outside the Duck when the first of the Marylebone murders took place. I volunteered to stand in for him, and McEwen agreed. In my desperation – such chances come very infrequently – I nearly said, 'Let me go, Cox is drunk again.' That would have damned me. Instead, I robustly denied all knowledge of the poor man's whereabouts, and said that I was sure he was out on a story. I would fill in until he returned.

And so I did, as he never did return. McEwen did not need me to tell tales. He knew perfectly well what Cox was working on and his patience finally snapped.

I did a good job; a very good job, dare I say it, considering my inexperience. I was told to continue until a proper replacement was found, but one never was. Eventually editorial interest faded, and I continued as acting crime reporter for another year until someone remembered that I was not supposed to be doing the job at all. Then I was promoted, given a proper position, and told to keep going.

That had been five years previously. I had dreamed of being a reporter on a London newspaper and I was one. My ambitions for life should have been satisfied. But, however splendid a job may seem when one does not have it, it rarely stands up to close acquaintanceship. I was beginning to get bored with the life, and even to find murder most foul just a little tedious. But I had not yet fixed on a new goal to fire my ambitions once more. That, quite apart from the money, was why I had taken up Lady Ravenscliff's offer with so little hesitation.

As far as the matter of Ravenscliff was concerned, I needed to look through his office with care. Perhaps the papers were there after all. Perhaps some diary or letter would provide all the information I needed, and solve the matter in a few seconds. I doubted it; his widow wasn't so helpless that she couldn't find that herself, and she had good reason to look carefully. I knew already that most of the papers were financial in nature and that I could spend days looking at them, with every possibility that I would miss the vital clue even if it was there. So I decided to recruit Franklin.

This wasn't easy, not because he wasn't willing, but because he had so little time off from work. He was at the bank from eight in the morning to seven in the evening every day, six days a week. And on Sunday he spent much of his time in church. I thought initially this was calculated; Franklin attended a church frequented by the great bankers of the City and travelled a couple of miles to do his singing and praying when he could have walked a hundred yards round the corner to St Mary's, Chelsea. But that was attended only by shopkeepers and landladies. Eventually I realised I did him an injustice. Many people choose a church they find inspiring. Some go for ancient and beautiful buildings, some choose a church with fine music, some prefer an eloquent vicar who can deliver a good sermon. Franklin found that being enveloped in an aura of money incited religious awe in him. To sit around individuals who controlled tens of millions of pounds brought home to him the infinite possibilities of God's benevolence, and the intricacy of his Creation.

It sounds like a fundamental misunderstanding of Christianity. Eye of a needle, and all that. But it was Franklin's nature; he could do no other. Just as some people simply are incapable of loving a woman who is not beautiful, so Franklin could only think of the divine in terms of the endless flow of capital. His piety was no less for being so strange in origin, just as a man's love for a woman is no less passionate merely because it may require a decent inheritance to make it flower. He believed that the rich were better people than the poor, and that to be around them made him better as well. Wealth was both the indication of God's favour, and provided the means to carry out His wishes on earth.

Harry Franklin, you will understand, had no trouble whatsoever in reconciling God, Darwin and Mammon; indeed, each depended on the others. The survival of the fittest meant the triumph of the richest, which was part of His plan for mankind. Accumulation was divinely ordained, both a mark of God's favour and a way of earning more benevolence. True, Christ was a carpenter but, had He been living at the start of the twentieth century, Franklin was sure that the Messiah would have paid good attention to His stock levels, steadily expanded His business into the manufacture of fine furniture, while also investing in the latest methods of mass production by means of a stock market flotation to raise the additional capital. Then He would have brought in a manager to free Himself to go about His ministry.

Inevitably, I suppose, the idea of being allowed into the hallowed halls where once trod the feet of the supreme capitalist of the age gave him pause. In fact, the mere idea of Ravenscliff terrified him, and when he arrived at the house in St James's Square on the following Sunday morning he was more nervous than I had ever seen him. He seemed to shrink as we were let in, gazed around with reverence as we walked up the stairs, tiptoed past the doors which led to the reception rooms on the first floor, and said not a word until I had firmly shut the door to Ravenscliff's study.

'I don't want to disturb your reverie,' I remarked, 'but can we get started?'

He nodded, and looked anxiously at the chair – the very chair – on which the divine bottom had once rested as its owner perused his books. I made him sit on it, by the desk. Just to torment him a little.

'I will read the letters, if you take care of anything with numbers on it.'

'So what am I looking for?'

He had asked me this before. Several times, in fact. But so far I had avoided answering him. While I had Lady Ravenscliff's permission to use him, I was not allowed to tell him exactly what all this was about.

'I want you to look for interesting payments,' I said lamely. 'Nothing to do with his business interests, although you may look through that if you wish. I want to get an idea of how he spent his own money, in the hope that it will tell me what he was like. Did he buy paintings? Bet on horses? How much on wine? Did he give money to charities, or to hospitals or to friends? Did he have an expensive tailor? Bootmaker? A French chef? Paint me a financial portrait of the man. I need all the information I can get, as everyone I have talked to so far has given me nothing but generalities. I meanwhile will read through everything else, and see what there is.'

Franklin found the idea of columns of money reassuring, although the thought of prying into Ravenscliff's private papers made him apprehensive. As it did me. But somewhere in those huge piles of paper might lie the little nugget that would answer all my questions. I had searched the room again the previous day and still found nothing.

So we set to work, each in our different way. I worked like a reporter: spending ten minutes reading, then jumping up and staring out the window, humming to myself. Picking up this pile, then the next, more or less at random, hoping that luck would give me something of interest. Franklin, in contrast, worked like a banker; starting at the top of the first sheet, working his way steadily down through the pile, then on to the next. Number after number, column after column, file after file. He sat still and impassively, only his eyes flickering across the tallies, his pen occasionally jotting a brief note on a pad of paper before him. He made no noise; he seemed almost to be in a dream – and a happy dream at that.

'Well?' I asked after about an hour and a half when I could stand it no longer. 'Have you found anything? I haven't.'

Franklin held up a hand for quiet, and he continued reading, then jotted down another note. 'What did you say?'

'I said, what have you got so far?'

'I've only just started,' he began. 'You can't expect . . .'

'I don't. But I want a break. Do you have any idea how bad his handwriting was? Each word is a torture. I want a diversion for a few moments so my eyes can recover.'

'I'll look at them myself another time,' he offered. 'This stuff, in contrast, is fascinating. Absolutely fascinating. But I suspect of no earthly use to you at all.'

I groaned. The worst of both worlds. Franklin was going to tell me more about stock prices.

He did. I absented myself mentally from the room after a few minutes, as he waxed lyrical about debenture stocks and dividend payouts, and operations in the market.

'Not as sound as everyone thought, you see,' he concluded some time later. How long – ten minutes or an hour I could not say.

'What isn't?'

Franklin frowned. 'Have you been paying attention?'

'Of course,' I replied robustly. 'I've been hanging on every word. I'd just like a useful summary. I'm a journalist, remember. I don't like detail.'

'Very well. A summary. Ravenscliff's enterprises in England have been burning up cash. He has been sucking money out of the operation at a quite phenomenal rate for almost a year.'

I stared hopefully at him. This was more my line. I could understand this. Hand in the till to pay for wine, women and song. Gambling debts. Racehorses. Jump out of the window to avoid the shame of ruin. How very disappointing. 'How much?'

'About three million pounds.'

I looked at him aghast. That was a lot of racehorses. 'Are you sure?'

'Pretty sure. That is, I've looked back at the past seven years' accounts. They are very complicated, but he had a private set prepared every year, which summarised his total operations. I imagine no one else ever saw them. Without those, I doubt I could ever have noticed what he was up to. But these are quite clear. Do you want me to show you?' He brandished a thick folder of complicated looking papers in my direction.

'No. Just tell me.'

'Very well. If you take the amount of cash at the start of the year, add on the cash received, subtract the cost of operations and other expenses, then you get the amount of cash at the end of the year. Do you understand that?'

I nodded cautiously

'The official accounts use one figure. These,' again he waved the file in the air, 'use another which is very different. All the shareholders, except for Ravenscliff, who evidently knew better, believe that the businesses have considerably more money than, in fact, they do. Three million, as I say.'

'And that means?'

'That means that if anyone ever found out, then not only Rialto but all the companies it owns shares in would drop like a stone. If you'll forgive me.' Franklin seemed momentarily alarmed that he could be frivolous on such a subject, even accidentally. 'The companies are not bankrupt, but they are worth nowhere near as much as people think. Including these people.'

I looked. It was a list of names, with figures on them. The Prime Minister, the Chancellor, the Foreign Secretary. Their opposite numbers in the Conservative party. And many other MPs, judges and bishops.

'What are these numbers?'

'Their shareholdings in Rialto. Multiply by the price. The Prime Minister in the case of a total collapse would lose nearly £11,000. The Leader of the Opposition £8,000.'

'Enough reason to get Barings in to prop up the share price?'

'More than enough, I'd say.'

'So what do I do about this?'

'You keep your mouth firmly closed. If you must do something, try to find out if any of the people on this list have been selling their shares. I have savings of £75, and £35 of these are in the Rialto Investment Trust. I intend to sell them first thing on Monday morning. It has taken me four years to save that much, and I don't intend to lose it. I imagine anyone else who knew about this would have the same reaction.'

He looked protective as he thought of his nest egg. For my part, I had not a penny saved in the world, as yet. But I could imagine how I would feel at the prospect of losing the result of several years' parsimony.

'Where has this money gone, then?'

He shrugged. 'No idea.'

'There is nothing else to say? I can't imagine that such a quantity of money could just vanish.'

'I quite agree. But it's not here, or at least I haven't found it. I told you I wasn't finished. And there are some files missing. I only found this one because it was in the wrong place.'

'So what do I do?'

'If I were you? I'd forget I'd ever seen it. If you say so much as a word you will start a financial storm the like of which London has not seen for decades.'

I could see that he was enjoying this brush with the occult secrets of the mighty. I wasn't. I knew better than he realised what we were dealing with. He was right. I should leave this alone; forget all about it. But I was a reporter. I wanted to know what was going on; where that money had gone. The fact that it had nothing to do with Ravenscliff's child was irrelevant. I had completely forgotten about the little brat.

Franklin brought me back to myself. 'I must go,' he said. 'I have to go to church.'

How he could think of such a thing, when he had just discovered proof that all these people he liked to associate with in the pews were not quite what they seemed I did not know. But Franklin was not the sort who would allow one sinner to call into question his entire outlook on life. I suspected he would pray fervently that God would show him His favour by allowing him to get a good price for his Rialto Ordinaries the next morning.

I nodded. He left, but not without reminding me of his advice. 'One other thing,' he added as he opened the door. 'File three/twenty-three. Personal disbursements. Try that. Apart from anything else, it seems that his Lordship has been supporting the International Brotherhood of Socialists for the past year.'

I sat in Ravenscliff's study for the next hour in a reverie, occasionally emerging from my mood to study the notes Franklin had made. I did quite well. Not that I uncovered any significant new financial information, of course. That was quite beyond me. But I at least managed to understand it. And I discovered, by comparing handwriting, that the accounts detailing the true situation at Rialto had been prepared for Ravenscliff by Joseph Bartoli, his right-hand man. My simple solution to the problem – simply asking Bartoli what was going on – disappeared. If Bartoli was part of some elaborate fraud, he was hardly going to open up to me.

Eventually I put down the file, and took out file three/twenty-three. It was, as Franklin had said, Ravenscliff's personal expenses, and exactly the sort of documents I should have been studying. If there were any payments for illegitimate children they should be here, buried among the itemised notes for clothes, shoes, household expenses, food, servants' wages and so on. The lists went back to 1900, and there were many entries which were ambiguous. I realised after a while that detailed study would yield nothing: an entire schoolroom of bastards could easily have been hidden under the heading of 'miscellaneous expense' (1907; £734 17s 6d). All it established was that, by the standards of the wealthy (if, perhaps, no longer quite as wealthy as I had imagined) Ravenscliff was not at all extravagant. His greatest expense was his wife (1908; £2234 12s 6d) and he spent more on books than he did on clothes. The payments Franklin referred to were on a separate sheet on the top of the file. Easy enough to understand, they were headed 'Provisional list of payments to the International Brotherhood of Socialists'. No ambiguity there. And a list of dates and amounts. This was curious. It was a lot of money; nearly £400 in the past year. Nor did it occur in the more detailed sheets of expenses underneath it. And what on earth was someone like Ravenscliff doing giving money to a group who, one assumed, were dedicated to abolishing everything he stood for? Had he had a Damascene conversion? Did that explain the sucking of money out of his own companies? I went back to his appointments diary and there, jotted down for a few days after his death, was the entry, 'Xanthos – ibs.'

I did not like Ravenscliff by instinct, but I was beginning to find him fascinating. A book-reading, Socialist-sympathising, child-begetting capitalist fraud. Wilf Cornford at Seyd's had told me he was nothing but money; he was beginning to be very much more than that. Too much more, in fact.

'They told me you were still here,' came the voice of Lady Ravenscliff from the door. I looked up. It was getting dark in the room and I glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. Nearly eight o'clock. No wonder I felt uncomfortable. I was hungry. No more nor less than that. That was a relief.

'Working away,' I said cheerfully.

'And have you discovered anything?'

'Not on the main question, no,' I said, dragging my thoughts away from the disappearing millions and resolving to follow Franklin's advice. 'Merely some things which revive the nosy old journalist in me.'

I handed her the sheet of paper about the Brotherhood. She looked at it with a very prettily arched eyebrow, then her glance returned to me.

'Did your husband start going around calling for world revolution in his last months?' I asked. 'Tell the butler over the kedgeree that property was theft, and how he should throw off his chains?'

'Not to my knowledge. He rarely said anything over breakfast. He usually read The Times.'

'Then this is a bit of a curiosity, don't you think?'

She looked again at the piece of paper. 'It is. Have you ever heard of these people?'

'No,' I said, a little disingenuously. It was true, but these sorts of people had been talked about at my socialist reading group. If such an admission could have produced in her a look of alarm at my dangerous political associations, I might have mentioned it, but I suspected it would produce nothing more than contempt and even pity. Earnest men in scruffy clothes in a dingy room arguing about things they had no power to alter. Well, it was a bit like that.

'I imagine they are some sort of revolutionary group,' I said lamely.

'How very odd.' She tossed the paper aside, and changed the subject. 'I was wondering whether you have eaten? And if not whether you would care to do so? I am not in the mood for company, but do not wish to dine alone. You would do me a great kindness if you accepted.'

I looked up, my eyes caught hers and my world changed forever.

I was paralysed; literally, I could not move. Rather than simply looking at her eyes, I seemed to be peering deep into her soul. I felt as though I had been punched in the stomach. How can I put it? Lady Ravenscliff vanished from my mind to be replaced by Elizabeth; I can give no better account of the transformation in my mind. Her vulnerability and her pride were both part of it, I suppose, as were her beauty, and her voice, and the way she moved. A strand of dark-brown hair hanging down over her left eye made all the difference in the world, as did the slightest glimpse of a collarbone above the top of her dark dress.

Something happened to her as well, I believed, although I could not tell whether it was real, or simply a reflection of what was going on inside my head. I could not tell if I truly saw something, or glimpsed only what I wanted there to be. I looked away eventually, and had I been required to move just then I do not know if I would have managed to do so without trembling.

I had no idea what happened, or rather how it happened. I still do not. I was, naturally, aware that it was quite ridiculous. For me, a young man of twenty-five to become transfixed by a woman nearly twenty years older than I, a member of the aristocracy, my employer, and a recent widow still genuinely in mourning for her husband. A woman whose annual pin money was as much as I was likely to earn in the next decade. How much more ludicrous could anything be?

Then I became aware that, although I hoped that Elizabeth had noticed nothing, she too had fallen quite silent, and was looking away from me at the fire.

'You are tired,' I said, trying to be hearty but merely sounding nervous instead. 'It is kind of you to invite me, but I really must see what I can discover about this matter tomorrow.' I wanted to get out of that house, out of her presence as quickly as possible. It was all I could do not to bolt for the door.

She looked back at me and smiled wanly. 'Very well. I will dine alone. Will you come back with your discoveries?'

'Only if there is something to tell. I do not wish to waste your time.'

We rose, and I shook her hand. She did not look at me, nor I at her.

I was sweating when I got into the street although the air was cool. I felt as though I had just escaped from a furnace, or from some mortal danger. All the way home her face and her perfume and her smile, and those eyes, danced in my head and refused to obey my instructions that they should leave me alone. They were phantoms, nothing more. Again I slept badly that night.

CHAPTER 15

I will not describe the next day. Not because it wasn't interesting, but more because getting anything done was a supreme act of will when all I wanted to do was sit and stare and think thoughts I should never have allowed inside my mind. And at six o'clock, when I again entered the house, I knew the entire day had been spent killing time, waiting for the moment when I could see her again. And not wanting to, because anything which was likely to take place could only be a disappointment after the previous evening. Even though nothing whatsoever had happened then.

She received me, we talked about little of importance. There was an awkwardness in our conversation which I had not noticed before. I could not talk to her as an employee, someone doing a job for her, an expert at my task. But I dared not adopt any other tone and, in any case, was hardly experienced enough to do so.

After a particularly long pause during which the fire in the grate seemed to become of excessive importance to both of us – it was better than avoiding each other's gaze – she turned back to me once more.

'May I ask you a question?'

'Of course.'

'Did you wish to kiss me last night?'

I didn't know what to say. Tell the truth? That would alter things totally; I could never stand in front of her and talk to her in a normal way again. And I did not know, still, how she would reply. As I have said, the ways of the aristocracy, and of foreigners, and of women, were a mystery to me. I did not understand her in the slightest; I could not untangle what I thought from what I wanted to think. All I knew was that the sudden shortness of breath, the racing of my heart, had returned even more powerfully than the previous evening.

'Yes,' I said after a long pause. 'Very much.' There was another long silence. 'What would you have done if I had?'

She smiled, but only very faintly. 'I would have kissed you back,' she said. 'I am glad you did not.'

My heart fell. My small experience was limited to girls who either wanted to be kissed, or did not. Not women who wanted both at the same time. But I knew what she meant.

'Your ladyship . . .'

'I think, in the circumstances, you might call me Elizabeth,' she replied, 'if you wish to do so. And also I think it would be best to talk of it no more. We both know quite well that relations have changed between us. It is foolish not to recognise it, to some measure.'

But how had they changed? I wanted to ask. What am I meant to do? What do you want of me?

'You must think very badly of me; I am quite shocked by myself, although not as much as I should be. I am an immoral foreigner and blood will out. That does not mean I feel free to act on my desires.'

That was something, at least, although I did not know what. All sorts of explanations went through my head. This was a woman crazed by her loss who was defying fate by having such thoughts, by deliberately acting in such a fashion. Or, she was a woman who (so I assumed) had not made love to anyone for years, and was no longer in control of herself. I even considered that she might like me, that I was the only person who could offer her any sort of understanding. That I was the only person who knew anything of what she might feel. That was the most dangerous, insidious option.

'Matthew?'

She had said something. 'I'm sorry,' I said. 'I was a little distracted.'

'I said, please tell me of your discoveries.'

My discoveries? I wanted to say. Who on earth gives a hoot about my discoveries? All I wanted to do was tell her how I had wanted to take her in my arms, and run my fingers through her hair, and have her look at me like that again. Lost children, fraud, failing companies, what trivial nonsense was all this in comparison?

But it was her conversation, not mine. And she had a better notion of how to be sensible than I had. Where had she learned that? How do people gain an intuitive grasp of when to stop, when to go forward in such circumstances? Is it just from age and experience?

'Oh, them,' I said. 'Well, there's nothing exciting there. Except for a couple of things. Did you know that the Rialto Investment Trust is having its annual meeting soon?'

'I didn't.'

'Well, it is. I thought I would go along, just to get a sense of these people. From my limited experience of these things it won't be very interesting, but you never know. And you know Mrs Vincotti told us that her father had left her some money? A certain amount which came from Barings every month?'

She nodded.

'That wasn't an annuity. It was money sent by your husband. And from what she said, it has been paid every quarter for years. The records only go back ten years, but we can assume that he was responsible for payments right back to the beginning.'

She looked interested, then her face fell. 'But does this help?'

'Not obviously. Mrs Vincotti cannot be the person we are looking for. If he paid her money, he would hardly need to instruct his executors to launch a search for her. She cannot possibly be either the child or the mother of the child. I cannot explain the payments at all, except to say that they are not helpful. So I propose dropping the matter, unless something else suggests they are relevant.'

'It seems John had a less straightforward life than I thought,' she said. 'I didn't think he had any secrets from me. Now he is dead I am discovering nothing but.'

There was, of course, the greatest secret of all. All my instincts were to lay it in front of her; your husband was a cheat and a fraud. He was stealing money from his own companies on a vast scale. But how could I say that to a woman who had looked me in the eyes like that? Who had such hair? If I kept silent, it was not for the sake of the shareholders of Rialto.

'On the subject of the Brotherhood or whatever they're called,' I said, hurrying along, 'I've found out little. Except that it is obviously a group so small that it poses little danger to the onward march of world capitalism, and consists of people so fractious that they were thrown out of another group called the Union of Socialist Solidarity two years ago, for being disruptive. The Union of Socialist Solidarity, in turn, walked out of the International Organisation of Workers . . . well, you get the idea.'

'So how many of them are there?'

'Not many. I haven't found out much.'

'They don't sound very interesting either,' she said calmly. 'Are you sure there isn't some explanation consistent with his record as a capitalist exploiter of the masses?'

'Not that I can think of without more information.'

She shook her head. 'Don't concern yourself with this at the moment. It's not much money and does not seem to be relevant to your task. I think you should concentrate on that.'

'I just had this vision of his long-lost son turning up as a wild-eyed revolutionist.'

'In which case he would have known exactly who he was, no?'

'True.'

She turned to me, and took my hand. 'I need this business settled,' she said softly. 'It is beginning to prey on my mind. I have to start a new life, not spend my days tidying up the old one. Please help me. Promise you will concentrate on the important.'

Of course I would. Anything. Once more, as she held my hand and looked at me, I wanted to reach out for her. Once more I did not. But my resistance was already becoming enfeebled.

CHAPTER 16

I did not entirely ignore her request to concentrate on the lost child, but my enquiries went nowhere over the next week or so, and slowly. I did what you do in such circumstances; paid a young man at Births and Deaths to go through the registries, week by week and month by month, to see if any child had been registered naming Ravenscliff as father. The chances of this producing anything were small. Entries are named by the child's surname, and it was more than likely that this one would not have his father's name. I made enquiries of foreign journalists in London about how to go about finding children in France, Spain, Italy and other places, and wrote letters asking for assistance. Again, this was unlikely to produce results quickly, if at all, but I was determined to do a thorough job. After a week or so of this, the only possibility left was to write to every orphanage in Europe. This I decided to put off for as long as possible.

Then I returned to my interest in Ravenscliff's money. Not least because I was beginning to find the topic of money in general quite interesting. I had been working for Lady Ravenscliff for more than a month; my bank account now had £21 in it, and every week, my income so greatly exceeded my expenses that I even took to making out little columns of numbers, calculating how much I would have this time next year, or the year after that. Having money was very much more interesting than not having it. I almost began to understand (from a lowly point of view) what made someone like Ravenscliff tick. One thing had occurred to me, and that was that the start of Ravenscliff's attempt to siphon funds out of his companies had come around the time that Seyd's had begun an investigation into Rialto and suddenly dropped it. The owner, Young Seyd, had been responsible for that decision, Wilf had said, so it was reasonable to consider him for a while.

His father had trained him up for the business, but as Wilf had said, he had no taste for it. He was clever enough to leave well alone, and appoint good people who knew their jobs. Then he withdrew; his only connection was to attend the quarterly board meetings, collect his dividends and put his name to all those forms which require a chairman's signature. If I have conjured up the image of the typical second-generation owner, slowly dissipating his father's accumulated wealth in a life of indulgence and idle luxury, then the image is entirely incorrect. For Young Seyd had a secret life. He was a vicar in the Church of England, to which calling he had been inclined since his earliest youth. Only the authority of a very determined father had stopped him from being ordained as young as possible, and once that authority vanished Young Seyd had taken the cloth with almost unseemly haste. It was a strange mixture, pews and pulpits on the one hand and corporatised intelligence on the other, but he seemed to reconcile the two with little difficulty. Crockford's Clerical Directory supplied all the information I needed to find him. Young Seyd lived in Salisbury.

'I believe I am doing God's work in both,' he said with a smile once he had allowed me in – with some obvious hesitation, it must be said. 'Knowing their sins will be discovered helps to keep the men of wealth honest. It means that the poor will be treated more justly. And I must say that what I learned during my apprenticeship about the weaknesses of men, and the temptations of power, has prepared me well for life in the Church.'

I liked him; I had not expected to, as my opinion had been coloured in advance by Wilf's scarcely concealed disapproval. But Young Seyd – his father had now been dead for more than a decade but the name persisted – impressed me. More of an eighteenth-century vicar than a member of the newly reformed and muscular Church of England; not for him the business of evangelising workers or natives. No; Seyd was happy to let men be. If they came to him, well and good, but he did not believe he had any right to bother people unnecessarily. He christened, married and buried his parishioners; he read his books and he lived a quiet, contented life with his housekeeper, a cat and many friends.

And he kept a distant eye on the doings of his company. Which was why I had gone to Waterloo and taken a morning train to Salisbury.

Once I was in his house – a fine new villa in Manor Road, luxurious for a vicar but modest for the owner of a company – and he had some tea brought for me, I plunged straight into my tale. There seemed little point in dissimulating; to do so with such a decent man – he was perhaps in his early forties then and was just beginning to show the effects in his body of a life without want – was somehow unseemly. Also, in the train as I had watched the Wiltshire countryside pass in front of me, I had rehearsed all possible ways of broaching the subject without broaching it, if you understand me, and got nowhere. I could not discover any means of phrasing the questions which would get me the answers I wanted without being precise.

So I explained that I was writing a biography of Ravenscliff for his widow, although this was to be for private circulation only. I said that she was allowing me unparalleled access to all his papers. How some could not be found; how Wilf Cornford had mentioned the abortive investigation by Seyd's of a year or so previously . . .

At this the reverend gentleman began to look uneasy. But I continued anyway, saying that it was most important, and his wife's dearest wish, that I should have access to everything there was to know.

'It's important for my work, you understand. But it might also be important for the executors of his will, depending on what it contains, that is. These things seem to be terribly complicated.'

'Yes, yes. And thank heavens they are. Otherwise Seyd's would have nothing to do at all.'

'So you'll give me the report? I'm so grateful to you, and of course I will treat it in the strictest . . .'

The Reverend Seyd held up his hand. 'I am afraid that I cannot do that,' he said gently.

'Why not?'

'I was visited at my club in London by a man who explained that he would prefer this investigation to be discontinued.'

'And just because some total stranger . . .'

'You are also a total stranger,' he said. 'And the first was more persuasive than you are.'

'How so?'

He spread his hands in a gesture of resignation.

'And he worked for Ravenscliff?'

'I decided to do as he requested.'

'But what could he possibly say to make you do that? By what right . . . ?'

Again he did not reply.

'Do you still have this report?'

He shook his head. 'I gathered up all the papers and brought them all here. A fortnight later my house was burgled.'

'I see,' I said quietly. 'And you think Ravenscliff was responsible?'

'I do not know. Certainly it would be consistent with everything I knew about him. He was a terrible man, Mr Braddock. Utterly without principles or loyalties.'

The atmosphere was so heavy it felt oppressive. Seyd had alarmed me. But I was fascinated as well. And here, sitting in front of me with his dog-collar on was the first man to say something other than the standard line on Ravenscliff. Fair, decent, a wonderful husband, good employer. Kindly. A wizard with money. All that had been repeated endlessly. Finally, I had found someone with a different view – and he wasn't going to tell me why. I decided then and there I wasn't going to leave until he had.

'How far had the investigation progressed?'

'Not far. Not far enough for anyone in London to make sense of it. Not even Wilf Cornford. No one had yet put all the pieces together. Maybe they wouldn't have done, but I put them together, Mr Braddock,' he said defiantly.

'I thought you had no connection with that sort of thing?'

'Mr Cornford has a low opinion of my expertise. That is unwarranted. I spent many years at my father's side before his death, and I learned a very great deal about the way the modern company operates. He also taught me how to read balance sheets when most young children are playing games, or struggling over their Latin irregular verbs.'

'You must tell me what you found. You must.'

He shook his head.

'I am who I say I am,' I continued in the vague hope it would make some difference. 'A reporter, a writer. I want the truth, that is all.'

'Then you are an innocent. Or very brave.'

'I am neither. If you won't tell me, then at least answer some questions. Did your investigations deal with Ravenscliff sucking vast sums of money out of his companies and defrauding his shareholders?'

Seyd was deathly quiet, and looked at me carefully. 'Why do you say that?'

'Because he was,' I said recklessly. 'I discovered it. It had already started by the time you shut down your inquiry. Is that why? Is that what you discovered as well?'

Not the best way of playing, giving away your best cards with no guarantee of anything in exchange. Had Seyd been more like Ravenscliff, he would have smiled, snapped up the information and refused still to reply. Maybe he intended to, but instead he said nothing at all; he frowned, rubbed his hands together in a jerky, agitated movement, put some sugar in his tea, then, a few moments later, put some more in. Tasting the result brought him back.

'No,' he said. 'No, it wasn't. But it does explain why somebody wanted no investigation at that particular moment. Why was he doing this? Do you know?'

'You can't expect me to answer your questions if you don't answer mine, you know. That would be quite unfair.'

'I am trying to protect you.'

'So is everyone else I talk to. Very kind. But I don't want to be protected. I want to do a good job, which everyone else also seems to think I am incapable of doing.'

'Pride, eh?'

'If you want. Do you know, I was recommended for this job because my editor thinks I am a poor reporter.'

'Who's he?'

'McEwen, of the Chronicle.'

He looked interested at this, but I continued. 'And since then, every conversation has started: why you? Why you? Why you? I am heartily sick of it.'

'Spoken like a true twelve-year-old,' he said gently.

I glared.

'But McEwen is a good man. How very curious.' And he fell into a thoughtful mood, during which he poured some more tea into a clean cup.

'Do you consider yourself a patriot, Mr Braddock? A loyal Englishman?'

'Naturally,' I said, somewhat surprised. 'So much so that I never think about it.'

'Yes; few people do. No doubt that will change in the coming years. Mr McEwen does think of it. He is a good man, and a trustworthy one.'

'You know him?'

'Oh, yes.'

The change that had come over him had been slow but distinct. Apart from the ecclesiastical garb, there was nothing of the vicar left in him. The mild, slightly slow mannerisms had been replaced by a precision which momentarily shocked me.

'The investigation concerned lines of credit,' he began quietly. 'That is, the means by which Ravenscliff's gigantic operations are funded. The whole structure of his cash flow, credits, the loans he makes to others to buy his products. Where the money goes. Do you understand me so far?'

'He lends people money to buy his own goods?'

'What you see with Ravenscliff's operations is the material side. The factories, the goods. But there was also another side, the banks and the finance. Money flowed into the banks, was turned into goods, which were sold, and turned back into money again. No one truly understood it but him. No one can, I think. That is the main purpose. In the last two decades, Ravenscliff devised a financial structure so complex it is all but impossible to penetrate.'

'But I have read the accounts . . .'

'No. I do not know what you have seen, but you have seen only partial accounts. The profits or losses of one company mean nothing. Because they are part of a much greater whole which spreads throughout the world. Did you know that Ravenscliff controlled some six banks, in America and Europe? They were set up solely to organise financing for various deals. There are other accounts in other banks, dozens and dozens, under the control of the chief salesman, Xanthos, which exist solely to bribe foreign officials, buy presents, purchase favours.'

'I've met him,' I said.

'And no doubt found him a charming little fellow.'

'Ah, yes, I did. Are you going to tell me something different?'

'He is a crook. He pays bribes to whoever needs them. A pimp, who supplies prostitutes to willing civil servants when required. A thief, who steals the details of other companies' bids for contracts. A fraud, who falsifies details of his products' capabilities. Whatever is necessary to win an order, Mr Xanthos will do it. He's a trader from the bazaar, with an oriental regard for the truth. That was his value to Ravenscliff, who looked the other way, so he did not know how these orders came about. Ravenscliff took care of the big bribes. I could read it all, you know, they had a sort of signature, and I came to know the style of each of them by the end. Xanthos used several banks, mainly the Bank of Bruges in Belgium, but also one in Milan and others in Bucharest, Manchester, Lyon and Dusseldorf.'

'Are you sure?'

He did not answer. 'We started to unravel all this, thread by thread, but couldn't see the point of it. That was what was so puzzling. What was it all for? Why had he made everything so complicated? No one could discover it. Wilf Cornford wondered whether it was all the doing of Caspar Neuberger, the director of finance, who loves complexity for its own sake. But I wasn't satisfied, so I looked further.'

'I hope you are not going to stop telling me now.'

'I will tell you, if you truly wish.'

'I do.'

'You know what a submarine is?'

'Of course.'

'Beswick Shipyard developed one of the earliest that was in any way a practical weapon. The Americans were the first, but Beswick came soon after. For the most part, they were more of a danger to their own crew than to anyone else. But Beswick got a contract from the government to develop a new, radical design which could carry torpedoes – Beswick, as you may know, also owns the Gosport Torpedo Company and it was looking for new markets.

'The Royal Navy decided to buy some, and fund the development. The contract with the Government was that this should be entirely secret. And, above all, that there should be no sales, none at all, to foreign governments.'

'Not like the torpedo, then.'

'Precisely. They had learned their lesson. The Navy realised, even at that early stage, that this new vessel might become a formidable weapon. Ravenscliff gave his word. Six months later he was building a dockyard for the Russians, who were then our most bitter enemies, to build submarines, torpedoes and anything else they wanted. That was the moment his finances became opaque. And the reason: to conceal any sign of treason.'

I looked carefully at him. 'Are you serious? You don't mean to tell me that no one noticed? When was this?'

'At the start of the 1890s. Ravenscliff built up the Russian navy to the point that it could challenge the Royal Navy in the Black Sea. All this long before Britain and Russia became allies and when it was one of our most dangerous enemies. Did anyone notice? No. Nothing could be traced back to Ravenscliff at all. The money was raised through bond issues in Paris; the companies were registered in several different countries, with the shares owned by companies set up for the purpose, their owners in turn being hidden. There was not a single thing to suggest that Ravenscliff had anything to do with these factories.'

'So how did you discover it?'

'That is what we do. And, as is often the case, the weak spot was the human side of things. The expertise. You don't just build a factory, put in a bunch of illiterate peasants and start turning out complex weapons. You need people to train the workforce, to oversee things. Not many, the Russians already had many engineers. But they had little managerial expertise, and that was Ravenscliff's speciality. I found some of the people who had worked at the yard, and they all came from Beswick. Eventually, one – only one – told me the whole story.'

'And then you received a visitor.'

'As you say. And now you know the story as well, so you had better be careful. Ravenscliff was utterly single-minded. He is dead, but his spirit, as they say, lives on in people like Xanthos and Neuberger and Bartoli. He chose them and trained them. The company embodies his methods. It is alive, and can work without him. You might say he transferred his soul into it, so that he will live as long as his companies exist. It is the only form of immortality a man like that could expect, and more than he deserves.'

'Did you ever meet him?'

Seyd shook his head. 'Never. I got to know him through numbers. It is not a bad way of making an acquaintance. And safer.'

'What did your numbers tell you? You see, I am having trouble. What was it all for? I'm a simple man, myself. I dream of a house and a garden and a wife. I want enough money never to have to worry. I do not want to end up in the poor house, or a pauper's grave. Ravenscliff had all that, decades ago. What did he want?'

Seyd looked thoughtfully at the carpet. 'Well,' he said. 'Not money. I really think he had no great interest in money. That is often the case with these people. Not fame or position, either. He took the peerage with the greatest of reluctance and never sought any sort of public role. Few people had ever heard of him and he liked it like that.'

'What does that leave? Power?'

'No, I don't think so. I've no doubt it pleased his vanity, but not greatly. No, I believe his motivation was pleasure.'

'I beg your pardon?'

Seyd smiled. 'Pleasure, Mr Braddock. Not something usually associated with heavy industry or armaments, I know. But he seems to have approached what he did rather as an engineer approaches a problem, or an artist a picture. He took pleasure in creating something that was harmonious, integrated and balanced. He could have been an architect, I think. Or maybe he would have liked these new crosswords, where the delight lies solely in solving the puzzle. He liked taking an insuperable problem, and conquering it. I've no doubt he liked the admiration that generated, and certainly never refused any profits, but I suspect he would not have done it had he gained no delight from it. You might even call him an aesthete. The pleasure was in the mind. He set out to create the most perfect organisation the world has ever seen, and he succeeded.'

'Numbers tell you that?'

'They hint. The rest is guesswork and experience.'

'I think I am more confused than ever.'

'Maybe so. But it is the only explanation of Ravenscliff which answers. Now, you know what I know, in an abbreviated version. What are you going to do about it?'

'Knowing him through numbers, what do mine tell you?' I summarised what the single file had contained. Seyd listened attentively, frowning in concentration as I spoke.

'So he's burning up his cash, is he? Well, I would rule out fraud, if I were you.'

'Why?'

'He was too elegant a man to be fraudulent in that way. It is too crude for him.'

'So?'

'He was using the money for something.'

'What?'

'How should I know? You seem to have taken that task on yourself. Find out, if you want, and if you can.'

The interview was over. All reporters with a little experience know when there is no more information to be extracted and I knew that I had got as much out of Young Seyd as he was able, or willing, to give. I stood up. The vicar, out of politeness, stood as well. He did not urge me to stay, to sit down again.

I walked to the door, then turned. 'One question then, which you should not mind answering. The man who came to see you at your club. What was he like?'

Seyd considered, trying to find an objection, but coming up with nothing. 'He was in his late forties, fair hair, thinning on top. Medium build. No moustache or beard, a large, unusually large, mouth. Entirely unremarkable. I do not know who he was, and have never seen him again.'

CHAPTER 17

I got back to London at eight that evening, and went straight to the Ravenscliff residence. I had nothing particular to do there, no reason not to go home via a chop house or pub for a good night's sleep. The only reason I went to St James's Square rather than Chelsea was because I wanted to see her. I was almost aware of it.

I did not, of course, have a key, but I had been given free run of the house and could go in and out as I pleased. I noticed a slight hesitation when the door was opened, as though the servant thought it unbecoming for a young man to turn up to a house of mourning so late in the evening. She was probably right. I asked about her mistress and was told she had already retired for the evening, which made my heart fall. I then realised there was nothing I wished to do there; but I could hardly turn on my heel and leave, so I walked up the stairs to Ravenscliff's office to make a pretence of studying his papers.

I did nothing; instead I sat in the armchair by the empty fireplace, and thought about its owner. An aesthete and an ascetic, from Seyd's description, building his complex, incomprehensible organisation in such a way that almost no one in the world could appreciate it. Perhaps that would have spoiled it. Maybe the secrecy of what he was doing was the source of the pleasure. Or not. I didn't know. I was a long way out of my depth. In a matter of days, my orderly life had been reduced to a complete mess. Not so long ago all I had to do was get up, write about crime – generally committed by simple, straightforward people – and go back to bed again.

And what was the dominant thought in my mind? The eyes of a widow nearly twice my age. Her faint smell of perfume. The way she moved. The glimpse of skin above her expensive, hand-made dress. The softness of her voice. What she had said to me, what it implied. What it might lead to. What I hoped.

Awful, awful, awful. I groaned to myself as I thought about it. Truly, my £350 a year would be hard-earned if it went on like this. Ordinarily, I would have done as I had done so often before: made a list. Decided what the most important things were to get done, and then proceed singlemindedly to do them. I tried to dismiss the thoughts of Elizabeth from my mind and think once more of Lady Ravenscliff. To work out some practical means of getting this job done quickly, so I could be free to go back to the Chronicle, or some other paper which might have me.

But, once I did that, then the result was even more depressing. For the fact was that I had made no real progress at all. I looked blankly at the shelves of notes and files; I was sure there was something in there somewhere, but the idea of actually looking for it filled me with revulsion. I think I must have stayed there for about an hour; it was quiet and peaceful, and after a while it almost became comforting. There was a photograph of Ravenscliff on the mantelpiece; I took it out of its frame and looked at it for a long while, trying to fathom the character behind the face, before folding it and putting it in my pocket.

And eventually I was able to lever myself out of the chair and prepare to rejoin the world; to go home to sleep, and then to start afresh the next morning. It wasn't so bad. The worst that could happen would be failure. I'd still have my £350.

I was almost content as I went back down the grand staircase, walking slowly, looking at the pictures on the walls as I passed. I knew nothing of such things; they seemed perfectly pleasant decorations to me. But as I was passing the door to the sitting room, I heard a noise. Nothing exceptional, just a bump and a scrape. I knew it must be her and I hesitated; all my anxiety and irresolution flooded back.

A sensible person would have carried on down the stairs. Discipline and self-denial should have been called upon. A commonsensical realisation that the only way of returning to my mood of calm was to avoid the woman disturbing it as much as possible, keep her at arm's length, be polite and professional.

I didn't want to be or to do any of those things. I knocked, quietly and tentatively on the door, and then pressed my ear against it. Nothing. So what do you do now? I asked myself. Tiptoe away like some nervous schoolboy? That would be humiliating even if no one else knew about it. Is that how bold would-be lovers behave? Or open the door and walk in. I had a right. She had looked at me.

My heart was pounding, and I was almost breathless as I gripped the doorknob, turned and pushed. The room was dark, the curtains drawn, only a fire almost extinguished in the grate, and a candle. The expensive modern electrical lighting was not switched on. I thought I must have been mistaken, until I heard a voice, so quiet I could hardly make out the words.

'Who is it?'

It was her, but the voice sounded entirely different. Dull and without the musicality that normally made it so appealing. Slightly slurred, as though I had woken her up from a deep sleep.

'Oh, it's you,' she said as I stepped into the room and the light from the landing fell on my face enough for her to recognise me. 'Come and sit down. Shut the door, the light hurts my eyes.'

This was not what I had expected. Going into the room, so dark I could see only shades and shadows in the candlelight was disconcerting, even slightly frightening.

'Are you all right? You do not sound well.'

She laughed softly and looked up at me. For the first time, her hair was unpinned, and fell down over her shoulders in a rich dark mass. She wore some sort of thin gown which shimmered slightly as she moved, embroidered in reds and blues. Japanese motifs, very fashionable. She was extravagantly, impossibly beautiful. I caught my breath as I looked at her for her eyes were darker than usual, the pupils wide, almost as though she was terrified of something.

'What is the matter?'

She laid her head on the back of the settee, and pushed her hair back over her ear, but said nothing; just smiled.

'Please. Tell me.'

'It's nothing. A little medicine to calm my nerves. It is strong, and I haven't used it for many, many years.'

'Perhaps you need a doctor for a different prescription? I could summon one very quickly if you wish.'

She smiled again and looked at me with what might have been affection, or indulgence, or even sympathy.

'It is not the sort of medicine which needs a doctor, Matthew.'

She pulled back the sleeve of her robe, and I could see a broad red mark around her upper arm; below it there was wound, with a trickle of dried blood coming from it. She laughed again at my incomprehension.

'Oh, my God, I have employed the most innocent man in London,' she said. 'You poor dear boy. You really know nothing at all.'

I must have been looking horrified by this stage, so she became more serious herself. 'Morphine, Matthew,' she said soberly. 'The great releaser, the comforter of tormented souls.'

I would have been shocked, had I had the time to arrange my thoughts, but in fact I wasn't thinking anything at all at that moment. I just sat there, closer to her than I had ever been, my heart pounding.

'Do I frighten you? Or do you frighten yourself?' she asked, but not in a way which suggested she wanted a reply. 'Shall I tell you what you are thinking?'

No reply from me. I was so far out of my depth I knew that the faintest wriggle might cause me to sink and drown.

'You have been thinking of me, night and day. You dream of me, of wanting to take me into your arms and kiss me. That is what you would say, were you able to say anything at all. You are silent now, but in your mind some part of you is trying to turn it to your advantage. Perhaps this is your opportunity, perhaps I would not resist if you leaned forward and took me now. But you don't want merely to kiss me, of course. You want to make love to me; you dream of me becoming your mistress. You long to see me naked in front of you, wanting only to be possessed by you. Is that not true, dearest Matthew?'

Her voice was entirely even; there was nothing in its tone or expression to suggest whether she was enticing or mocking, or both. Perhaps was so drugged – I could hardly imagine her talking like this had she not been – she didn't even know herself. Either way, her words and actions paralysed me. Of course, everything she said was entirely true. But there was cruelty in her saying it.

'Are you lost for words, Matthew? Do you think that if you say something, it might be the wrong thing, and ruin a moment full of such wonderful possibilities? Are you so very timid and naïve with women that you do not know what to do next?' Then she put her hand round the back of my neck and pulled my head towards her, and whispered words into my ear such as I had never heard from the mouth of a woman before, even the very lowest. Hissing, almost serpent-like, her voice became, making me feel even more like a prey being immobilised.

So I took hold of her, and began to kiss her, becoming ever more rough as she not only did not resist, but responded. Only when my hands moved down to touch her body did she stiffen, then push me away and stood up. She walked over to the fireplace and looked into the mirror a few moments.

'I must ask you to leave,' she said, without even turning round.

'What?'

She gave me no answer. What had gone wrong? What had I done? I was sure I had made no terrible error. If I had been unduly forward, it was only on her provocation, and she knew it. So what had happened?

'It is late and I am tired.'

'No, you're not.'

'Get out.'

'Elizabeth . . .'

'Get out,' she screamed and wheeled round at me, her face ablaze, picking up the blue bowl from the mantelpiece. That bowl, the one she had used to humiliate me, to put me in my place. It served its purpose again, as it crashed into the wall behind me and shattered into a hundred pieces. She was terrifying. I was terrified. Then the fury drained from her face and she became calm again. It was as though I wasn't there, as if she was talking to herself. Perhaps it was the drug that was causing this whole thing. Maybe I had come under the influence of it as well, and this was all some nightmare.

'I must try and sleep tonight. I hope I can.' Then she started talking in French, and I understood not one word of what she was saying. Eventually I realised she had completely forgotten about me; didn't even realise I was there. I slipped out of the room and out of the house. I was shaking.

CHAPTER 18

By the morning I felt terrible, and had convinced myself I was completely to blame. She was a widow, still in shock. I had tried to take advantage of her. I had wanted to, in any case. The drugs repelled me; I knew they existed, of course; you couldn't be a crime reporter without coming across them, but to see a woman like her so reduced was a terrible thing. It made her all the more fascinating as well.

I was more obsessed than ever. Failure is more beguiling than success; all I could think of was what might have happened, and I relived the scene in my mind again and again, each time with a different outcome. I thought of it so much, and so intently, that I half-felt I was going mad as I tossed and turned on my uncomfortable bed, hoping desperately that sleep would come and relieve me. Eventually, I got up; it was still only half past five in the morning, and there was no one else up in the house. I tiptoed out – the last thing I wanted was to come across anyone else and have to talk – and walked out. I drank some tea at a stall in the King's Road, there to serve the delivery men on their rounds, but could not face the idea of eating anything.

At half-past seven I was in St James's Square, far too early to knock on the door, but with nothing else to do. I was determined to return and talk. But I had to wait; I walked round in circles, sometimes fast, sometimes dawdling. A passing policeman looked at me carefully. I went into St James's Piccadilly, but the air of holiness had no effect on me at all. I looked into the shop windows, sat in Piccadilly Circus, watching people pass by as they hurried to work. It was raining slightly and I was getting wet, but I didn't notice; I was only aware that I was damp and cold, but it might have been happening to someone else.

And eventually I decided that the time had come, and that I could properly knock on the door. It was twenty past eight.

'Good heavens, sir, whatever has happened? Has there been an accident?' It was one of the maids, a cheerful, plump girl with a country accent, who let me in. The sort who, in another life, I might have taken a shine to.

'No. Why do you ask?'

As I took off my coat, I turned slightly and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and knew precisely why she asked. I looked terrible. I had not shaved, my clothes were rumpled, my shirt collar dirty. I had bags under my eyes from exhaustion and there was an unhealthy grey pallor to my skin. I looked very much as if I'd been in an accident.

I panicked. I couldn't possibly put my carefully thought-out conversation into action looking like that. I wanted to seem calm, reasonable. Man of the world. And I looked like a tramp. That was why the policeman had been looking at me in such a professional way. 'I think I'd better leave . . .'

'Her Ladyship asked me to take you to the sitting room when you arrived,' said the maid. 'She said you were expected. Can you find your own way?'

I was being anticipated and out-thought at every step. So I was that predictable? She must have given that order before she even went to bed, so easy it was to read my mind. I felt a sudden surge of anger, but I did as I was told. I was perfectly free to leave. I could easily have said that I had changed my mind and walked out. I could easily have acted outside her plan and surprised her, regained the initiative by showing I was not so simple. But I desperately wanted to see her. I had absolutely to see her, otherwise I thought I might collapse. Certainly all the time in between would be merely wasted, an interval before I was again in the same room with her. It was the only thing that mattered.

So up I went and was brought coffee on a silver tray, with cream and sugar. And some toast, which I ate. The fire was lit and I dried myself. I tided up my clothes as best I could. Only the stubble on my chin reminded me of what I must look like.

Certainly Elizabeth did not when she came in. She shut the door, came over with her arms open and a smile on her face, and kissed me on the cheek.

'How wonderful to see you, Matthew. I am so glad you came.'

Wrong-footed again. I had anticipated the capricious cruelty of the night before; had considered the possibility of coldness and distance. Even an apologetic embarrassment. I had hoped that she too had had no sleep. I did not imagine that she would act like a society lady welcoming a friend. All my preparations, my pre-formed speeches collapsed uselessly.

'Your Ladyship,' I said stiffly. She looked at me with an affected air of pique and distress. She was entirely herself again. With the passing of the drug from her bloodstream, she was once again vivacious, lively, entirely in control of herself and the situation. She also looked as if she had slept well. Apparently that is one of the benefits of morphine, if it is taken carefully.

'Come and sit by me while you finish your breakfast. Are you well? You look a little haggard,' she added.

I sat in the armchair, feeling myself to be behaving rudely as I did so. She was pushing me into revealing myself as petulant and immature. I didn't like that.

'You're upset,' she said, this time seriously and gently. 'I suppose you must be.'

I remained silent.

'Will you forgive me? I know I behaved appallingly. Please believe me when I say that I intended no hurt. You are the very last person in the world I would wish to upset.'

'I suppose you are going to say you don't know what came over you. That it was all the fault of the . . . of the drugs,' I said stiffly.

'No. I wasn't going to say that at all,' she said sadly. She did not look at me. I could not have stood that. It was too crude a weapon for her to use, however effective it would have been.

'I had hoped you would have understood,' she said when it became clear I was not going to say anything at all. 'But you don't.'

'No.'

Now she did look at me, but not in the way she had done the night before. This time her gaze seemed wholly innocent and regretful. Still I did not dare meet it.

'You poor young man,' she continued. 'Does it sound condescending if I say that?'

'Of course it does.'

'It isn't. It is merely the truth. Shall I speak plainly, then? In an unladylike way? Shock you some more with the way I talk of subjects which you think I should be too refined to mention? I have seen the look on your face, you know. There is little you can hide from me, however skilled you may think yourself.'

I suppose I must have glowered at her, as eventually she continued.

'At the moment you are confused and angry. You wished to make love to me; I encouraged you then capriciously changed my mind. You thought you knew what was going on inside me, but in fact you understood nothing at all. Otherwise you would realise I was trying to protect you.'

'I do not need to be protected by you.' I said stiffly.

'Not by me. From me,' she corrected. 'Look at you. One small misunderstanding and you are a wreck. You have been obsessed with me all night. You haven't slept. You look like a tramp. Do you know how easy it would be to ruin you utterly?'

'I don't think—'

'That's because you do not know what you are talking about.' There was a long break as the maid came in with another tray of coffee. Elizabeth thanked the woman, and watched as the coffee was poured, talking to her as she waited. I, in contrast, said nothing at all, acutely aware that I was radiating misery from my chair. Eventually the maid left, and the door was shut. Elizabeth sipped her cup thoughtfully for a while, then put it down.

'Do you not think it strange that a widow, grieving for her recently lost husband, should behave in such a way? Or did you merely think that foreigners must be like that? Not at all proper like the English?

'I am angry, Matthew. And frightened. And last night I wished to take it out on someone. As I say, I am ashamed of myself. But not for any reason you might have imagined.'

'What do you mean?'

'John died in the stupidest way imaginable. He was careless, thoughtless. His moment of absent-mindedness means I have to spend the rest of my life without him. Obviously I knew that would happen eventually. He was much older than I was. But I wanted more time with him. The only person in the world I have ever truly cared for. Ever. I had a debt to repay. He fell out of a window and robbed me of my chance. I wanted to punish him, but I can't, of course. So I thought I'd pick on you.'

She stopped, and I opened my mouth to reply but realised I didn't know what to say.

'It's very easy. A glance here, a suggestive movement. A provocative question. And your sleep evaporates and you take on that look of tail-wagging devotion that I detest so much. John was dead, but I could easily replace him, although not with someone half as good as he was.

'Please don't think I thought all this through, that I was simply playing with your affections. I didn't know what I was doing. And then last night I came to my senses. Only just, though. Do you really think it would have been better had I allowed you to make love to me? It would only have postponed the rejection, and made it ten times worse when it came. It was vain and cruel of me. I apologise for that without reservation. But I do not apologise for saving you from the consequences of your naïveté. You are no match for me, Matthew. Only John has ever been that.'

'You have a high opinion of yourself.'

'No,' she said sadly. 'A very low one.'

'I don't understand a word you are talking about.'

'I suppose you don't. One day, when you are as old as I am . . .'

'You are beautiful.' The words rushed out of me; they sounded stupid.

She smiled. 'Once that would have pleased me,' she said. 'Words like that, truly meant, were like gold to me when I was young. Now I no longer care.'

'You loved him?'

'Yes,' she said. 'Very much.'

'Why?'

She sighed and looked across the square, at all those people whose lives were nothing like her own. She seemed almost interested in them.

'He was my comfort, my friend, my warmth. The fixed point of a turning world, always there.' She stopped and looked at me, almost mischievously. 'I have had lovers, you know, in the past decade or so. I do hope I have managed to shock you again.'

'I'm learning,' I replied.

'But I have never loved anyone else. Do you understand the difference?'

'I have had neither the money or the leisure to explore such subtleties.'

'Censorious. Well, perhaps you are right. But there is a big difference. I hope you discover what it is, one day. Because you will never truly love someone until you do.'

She fell silent again, a look of terrible sadness on her face. 'Do you believe me when I say I want you to find this child? Or do you think there is some other motive behind it?'

'I really don't know any more.'

'I do want it. When John died, it was a terrible shock. I suppose I still am in shock. I have lost him for ever. But when I read the will, do you know what my reaction was? Anger? Shame? Disillusionment?'

'Maybe. All of them?'

'None of them. I was happy. There was a piece of him still alive, somewhere. I dreamed of finding this child – I imagined a ten-year-old boy sometimes, sometimes a young woman about the same age as I was when I met John. I hoped there were many children, even. Getting to know them, bringing them to live with me. Having a family in this world. Because I have nothing now. Nothing of importance, just wealth beyond the dreams of avarice. It is all John's fault, you see.'

I looked puzzled.

'He taught me the pleasures of love and companionship, of trusting people and knowing them. Before that, when I was young, it was all just a game. Who you knew, how you made your way in the world. There was no time or space for real warmth. John gave me a world of affection, and I fell in love with that as much as I fell in love with him. Do you know the pleasure of doing nothing with someone, of simply sitting in the same room with them? Or of going for a walk where neither talks? He taught me that and now it is all gone. And the world is my reality again. I am frightened and alone, Matthew, more than a man like you can even imagine.'

'And you never had children?'

She shook her head gently. 'I fell pregnant, a year or so after we married. I was so happy, I couldn't believe it. I used to just sit and clutch myself, and cry with the joy of it. I thought my life would be complete.'

'What happened?.'

'It was born and they took it away from me.' She shook her head. 'The midwife wrapped it up, put it by the fire to keep it warm, and sat around to keep it company until it died. They didn't let me see it again. It's what they do, did you know that?'

I said nothing.

'The doctors told me that I couldn't have any more. That another pregnancy might kill me. So,' she said brightly, her eyes shining, 'that was my chance, you see. It took years to recover fully. John stayed with me every moment, every second, brought me back to myself. As close as I could get, anyway. I lost my dreams then and they never came back.'

'I will find this child for you,' I said. 'If it lives.'

'Do you doubt it?'

'Many children die young,' I said.

There was a very long pause. She sat silently, thoughtfully, and I realised that I was back – back in her power again, if you want to put it like that.

'Tell me,' I said after a while, 'what do you know about the state of your husband's companies at present?'

She was not interested. 'That his shareholdings are in the hands of the executor and will remain so until this is settled.'

'Precisely.' I took the buff folder out of the bag I had begun to carry around with me. 'Look at this.'

She did as instructed, but quickly, just long enough to register incomprehension.

'This indicates that a large amount of money has been removed from them. It also perhaps explains why the announcement of his death was delayed.'

'How so?'

'Have you seen the list of prominent shareholders? They'd lose a fortune if shares in Rialto declined. Half the politicians in the land have bought shares.'

She looked scornful. 'Bought?' She said with a snort. 'You don't think they bought them, do you?'

'How else . . .' Then I realised what she was saying.

'I know little of the details of John's business, but I know how the world works. These were gifts. Inducements. Bribes, if you want to be honest about it. They wanted rewards for giving him contracts; he obliged because he could remind them of his generosity, if necessary. And now, of course, I can do the same.'

Her eyes, very briefly, flashed with excitement; then they dulled again. 'I do not intend to,' she said. 'But you are right; it is a reason for Mr Cort to become so interested.'

'And the money?'

'That I do not know.'

'Do you realise the implications of this folder?'

'Perhaps. But maybe you should tell me.'

'It means that your inheritance will be very much less than you imagine. Indeed, if news of it comes out, the companies could collapse and you would be left with nothing at all.'

'I see.' She seemed to be taking it all very calmly. 'Is your knowledge of the law as good as your knowledge of finance?'

'They are both equally feeble, as you know. In this case, I am going on what your husband's solicitor told me.'

'So what should I do?'

'I don't think there is anything you can do.'

'Dear me, what a time this is,' she said with a smile. 'You tell me one day I am about to become the richest woman in the world, and the next tell me I am to be a pauper. No one can accuse you of precision.'

'There are many things I do not understand here. I will tell you them, if you wish. Then you have to take a decision. Do you want me to pursue them, or do you want me to concentrate on the original matter of the child?'

'Go ahead, then. Confuse me some more.'

'Was you husband interested in spiritualism?'

She stared at me. 'Spiritualism?'

'Yes. You know. Table-turning. Séances. Auras from the beyond. That sort of thing.'

This finally woke her up. She threw back her head and laughed. 'John? Table-turning? Of course he wasn't! He was the most practical, down-to-earth, materialistic person I have ever known. He had no interest or belief in such things. None at all. Why, he didn't even go to church.'

'Then why was he attending spiritualist meetings?'

'I'm sure he was not.'

'I'm sure he was. Listen.' I read out some notes I had taken from his appointment book.

'Madame Boninska?' she said when I was finished.

'Otherwise known as the witch-woman. She was found murdered two days after your husband died.'

I had silenced her, this time. She had nothing to say. She wanted to find it all amusing, but could not manage it.

'Why would your husband consult a medium? The obvious next question is whether there is any connection with her death. Or his?'

'Let me tell you a story,' she said. 'A long time ago, when I was young and beautiful, I lived in Paris. I lived a fine life, and often invited people for dinner. Friends and acquaintances. Politicians, writers, musicians. That is the origin of Xanthos's rather inflated notions of me. It amused me greatly, and when I encountered John I invited him. I wanted to show off, I suppose. Perhaps even make him jealous, although I had no notion that he was anything other than an acquaintance at the time. A pleasing man, a good companion. Someone with whom I felt comfortable.

'Anyway, he came, although not often. He didn't approve of idle conversation with artists, and gradually his scepticism made me feel it was a foolish way of spending my life as well. One evening he took me for dinner at a restaurant, with some of his business associates and some of mine. They didn't mix very well. A doctor began talking about hypnotism, which he practised on his patients, and mentioned spiritualism. Auras and emanations. He took it seriously and offered to take everyone to a séance with a medium who was then in the city. This was the time when Madame Blavatsky was causing such a stir, and there were many imitators of her around. Do you remember Blavatsky?'

'I read about her for background.'

'It is of no consequence. Some of the other guests were enthusiastic about the idea, and started talking about spirituality, and the poverty of the modern age, which had taken the poetry out of men's souls. I leave you to imagine the sort of thing.

'Nothing could provoke John more. He became quite angry, and the fact that I was willing to go to this séance made him angrier still. He always held that such things were the self-indulgent foolishness of the decadent, or the miserable superstition of the peasant. Man's future lay with the roar of a blast furnace, not with the rattling of a teacup. It appalled him that grown men were willing to countenance what he considered to be obvious charlatanry. It was the first time I had seen him angry, and I thought it strange he should become so agitated over something if he thought it so absurd. Of course, it wasn't really about that at all. It was about me. What I was, what he wanted me to be. We had our first fight, then and there. It was undignified, embarrassing, and convinced me he truly loved me.'

'Did you – do you – agree with him?'

'In my youth I was interested in all these things. It was a fashionable amusement, and I imagine it still is. In my case it was the same as playing bridge. Something to amuse a company of guests, where we could all act out our roles. Everyone acted as though they believed it, because they thought everyone else did believe it. Not that that matters. The point is, that John had nothing but scorn for any of that sort of thing, and he was not a man to change his mind.'

'So it is not possible that, say, he might have consulted a medium in the hope of discovering the identity of this child? Perhaps of talking to it, if he had known it was dead?'

'John, so overcome with grief at the loss of a child he had not cared about enough to discover, talking to shades through a charlatan? No. Not a chance in the world.'

'But he went.'

'So you tell me. If you can discover why, and it does not distract you from the main line of enquiry, then do so. Let it be another surprise to add to the ones I am already having to deal with. Is there anything else?'

'And the morphine?'

'That is none of your business.'

There was a chilly finality in her tone which brooked no objection. She made me feel like some sort of impertinent servant, and I think I reddened with embarrassment. She did not help me out and cover over my mistake. Instead she instantly reverted to a formality, a businesslike manner to indicate that I was being punished. I noticed that this was one of her many weapons in dealing with men; she would become intimate, friendly, imply a closeness, then pull back and revert to formality. Her grasp of language was flawless in that regard; she could hint at intimacy or distance, friendship or disapproval, in the mixture of tone and language and gesture. The slightest suggestion of disapproval and I was prepared to do anything to win back her favour. I do not think this was considered on her part; she could not help behaving in such a way.

I wasn't completely ready to be self-effacing, though. If she could be stiff, then so could I. 'You have instructed me to forget about your husband's payment of money to anarchists,' I continued. 'I suppose you know more than I do and think this is irrelevant as well. Please say what you want, and I will obey your wishes.'

'Oh, Matthew, I'm sorry,' she said beseechingly, instantly warm again. 'Please do not be angry with me, even if I am angry with you. You are a bringer of evil tidings, you know. You cannot expect me to be happy with what you tell me, and not feel resentful. It is not your fault my life has become a nightmare in the past few weeks, but it has. I ask you to be gentle with me.'

'You are not gentle with me.'

'I'm sorry if I have hurt you in any way. It was not my intention. Please believe that.'

I did not; but the very words, spoken gently and with warmth, made hope fill me once more, and undid all the good work I had done in convincing myself that our relationship was one of employer and employee, nothing more.

'Of course I do,' I said.

Reading this over, I seem like a fool. Perhaps I was; I have already explained that Elizabeth came from a world of which I knew nothing. I suppose it is evident that my disdain and suspicion were matched from the beginning by an equal fascination. Her whole way of life – the money, the servants, the clothes, the paintings, the leisure, the sheer plenty – was intoxicating to associate with. It was impossible to separate her from those surroundings, but I think she would have been every bit as intriguing had she been very much poorer. She was captivating: the moods, the flashes of anger and equal bursts of kindness; the way she moved from vulnerability to a steely determination; the sense of humour that could give way to sudden seriousness. Her unpredictability was hypnotic.

Even in the way she treated others, like Mrs Vincotti. It wasn't pleasant, but it made me sensible that she did not treat me like that. Not often, at least. It made me feel special. I basked in it because I needed it; it was a sensation I had never experienced before. And, when all was over, it was something precious I took away with me. She made people – men, let us be clear – feel better than they were, more capable, more handsome, more worthwhile. It was not fraudulent, a technique she had to bend others to her will so she might get what she wanted, although it was that as well. It was, I am convinced, quite genuine, a sort of generosity even though it was something that she used to her own advantage.

'One last thing, then. The money.'

'What about it?'

'It has obviously gone somewhere. It might be helpful to discover where, if that can be done. My friend Franklin . . .'

'No,' she said sharply. 'Absolutely not. You gave me your word that you would maintain a complete discretion and you must keep to that.'

'But this is a very specialised matter,' I tried to explain. 'Account books, high finance, that sort of thing. I know nothing about it, and it wasn't what you hired me for. If you had known you needed someone to ferret out the secrets of a balance sheet I have no doubt you would not have chosen me.'

'You are an intelligent man, Matthew. And we must make the best of what is available. I do not say it would not be helpful to have expert help. Merely that you must not breathe a word of this to anyone.'

Franklin, I thought to myself with a groan. Seyd. Both knew and understood even more than I did. I thought I could rely on both of them, but what if I was wrong? What if Franklin decided to show off at work? Maybe curry favour with his superiors. I think you should unload your holdings of Rialto Investment . . .

'I do not know how much Franklin grasped . . .' I said, splitting the difference between candour and dissimulation in an equitable fashion. I felt a little warm around the collar as I spoke, and she looked at me enquiringly. I hoped I was a better liar than I felt. I was sure that I could prevail on Franklin to keep quiet, after all.

'Anyone else?'

'And my editor hinted that some people consider you to be an agent for the Dual Alliance and are alarmed that much of the Empire's capacity for manufacturing weapons has fallen into your hands.'

'It hasn't,' she said shortly. 'At present it has fallen into the hands of the executor. Where it will stay until these matters are resolved.'

I looked at her curiously. 'Ah,' I said.

'Discover this child, Mr Braddock,' she said with a faint smile. 'And the thanks of the Kaiser will be yours.'

I looked at her aghast. She sighed with exasperation.

'A joke, Matthew. A joke.'

'Oh. Right. Good.'

CHAPTER 19

After I left Elizabeth, I went round the corner to the pub, to breathe in rancid air of normality and to order my thoughts. Please do not think that there was much chance of this. I will edit much from the account, and describe only those facts which concerned the matter of Lord Ravenscliff. In fact, they occupied my mind for only the smallest fraction of my time. The rest was taken up, almost obsessively, with my feelings for his wife. I will not dwell on them; anyone who has been in my situation will understand all too well; anyone who has not will be unable to imagine it. So I will instead pretend that, with clear head and reasoned thought, I applied myself to writing down in my little notebook, the facts and the theories.

One stood out; the circumstances which led to the impossibility of finding this child meant that control of Ravenscliff's business empire had fallen semi-permanently into the hands of the executor. And who was this Michael Cardano, exactly?

The more I thought about it, the more excited I got. What about Cort's intervention when Ravenscliff died? He had concealed the fact for three days, and with the time bought, had arranged for Barings Bank to intervene and prop up the share price. Had the price collapsed, the City would have wanted a full accounting, reassurance that the businesses were sound. And in such an atmosphere, it might easily have been discovered that they were not sound at all. Even worse, perhaps, regrettable information about the integrity of many senior politicians might also have been revealed. A crisis in Government, together with the collapse of the greatest manufacturer of weapons in the country: not an ideal preparation for a trial of strength against our greatest foe. It was easy to see how a man like Cort might have considered the theft of a folder of papers a small thing to avert such a calamity. And I assumed, from my limited knowledge of the subject through reading spy novels, that breaking into a house and stealing papers was simple enough.

That was one question answered to my satisfaction, although perhaps not completely. But there were many others. The big one, of course, was the money. I had not learned a great deal about finance from Franklin, but I knew that, if a large sum of money is extracted from a company, it has to go somewhere. Where did Ravenscliff's millions go? Then there were the lesser problems of the anarchists and the spiritualist. Why was Ravenscliff associating with people for whom, I assumed, he had nothing but contempt?

To that last question, I had no answer. But as I did not have the expertise even to begin tackling the first ones, I decided this would be the place to start. Someone like the witch-woman was very much in my line of business. I had covered the murder, after all. I closed my notebook, stuffed it in my pocket and drained my beer.

I still had my scribbled notes on the story, so I read them as the omnibus clattered towards Tottenham Court Road. The witch-woman had not been a particularly successful member of her trade, largely because of personality – I had not managed to get anyone to give an opinion as to the quality of her aura or the respectability of her spiritual intercessors. Although she went under the name of Madame Boninska, this was obviously a fake; all people claiming to be mediums adopted names like that and dropped heavy hints about gypsy blood and exotic lineage. It was expected; no one would ever believe that someone born in Tooting Bec would have much skill in dealing with the far-beyond. Her real name and age remained a mystery; the police doctors guessed she must have been at least in her sixties, although they freely said (off the record) that her bloated and ancient carcass was so raddled by the effects of drink that she could have been ten years younger or ten years older. Nor was her real identity ever discovered; all that was known was that she had arrived in England a few months before her death, and had previously plied her trade in parts of Germany and France, offering her services to the gullible who went to places like Baden-Baden or Vichy. They had little enough to do, were glad of the distraction, and she had made a decent living. There was a slight suspicion that she had also supplied more human intercessors for the comfort of male customers but that was never pinned down. Why she had abandoned the Continent for London was unknown.

But, abandon it she had, and had set up above a shop selling umbrellas, from which vantage point she began to make her living, giving personal appointments to solve problems, or group sessions for reasons which escaped me but seemed to be little more than light entertainment. On rare occasions she made house calls, but preferred to receive her clients in her room, which was decorated in dark colours, with aromatic candles burning all day and night and windows permanently shrouded in heavy curtains. The police investigation revealed why she did not like to perform elsewhere. She would have had to try and convince her customers without the benefit of all the little bits of trickery and stagecraft that were found stacked in the next room. The cupboards with fake doors; the bells with string, so they could tinkle mysteriously, controlled by unseen forces; the source of a mysterious purple light, which looked as though it had been bought from a theatre; the echo chambers so her assistant could make the noises of spiritual beings unseen by the rest.

The woman was a total fraud, in other words, and it was unfortunate that we reporters – who love a good tale of human foolishness – printed all this in cheerful detail before the police managed to interview her clients, as many of them refused to come forward out of simple embarrassment. If she had ever had an appointments book, it had vanished as well, as had the assistant, who, it emerged, had been a prostitute trying to improve herself.

All in all, then, a squalid business, as was her death. For she had been strangled with the velvet tie of the robe she wore when performing. The murderer had acted with force, and thoroughness; making sure of the matter by then crushing her skull with a heavy brass candlestick. There had been little struggle; the room was hardly disarranged at all. And it was unclear when the murder had taken place. There was a suggestion that the assistant, whose name was Mary, might have come back shortly afterwards – someone thought they had seen her in the street – but, if so, she had then fled rather than contact the police. Which was unfortunate, as the police never for a moment considered that she might have been responsible.

With her had gone the most valuable source of information, for she alone of the living might have known who had come that afternoon, at what time Madame Boninska had probably been killed and why. For nobody else had seen anything that day. And without her evidence there was no chance of solving the case. More alarmingly perhaps, I realised I had given Lady Ravenscliff some slightly inaccurate information: Madame Boninska had been found two days after her husband fell from his window, but the police doctors were not at all certain when she had actually been killed. The degree of uncertainty meant it could have been before Ravenscliff had dropped from the window, perhaps after. The police had concentrated their limited efforts on finding Mary, who was the only one who could enlighten them and, when they proved unsuccessful, had more or less given up. Their collective opinion was that she would turn up eventually, and they could reopen the case when she did. Until then, they had other things to worry about.

I had not been excessively diligent. Murders are rare, and it did have some of the exotic characteristics which turn a squalid death into an interesting story, but in general we follow the police lead unless there is good reason not to do so. In this case, the official reasoning seemed sound. The girl was crucial and there was not much to be done until she rematerialised. I wrote a sidebar on mediums and a piece on the fashion for the occult while I waited for some development, but could push it no further. If they couldn't find her, there wasn't much chance I could, and I did not have the leisure to try.

Now I did, and I also had a very much better reason to do so than a few column inches in the Chronicle. So I prepared to do all those reporterly things that I had omitted first time round.

The first thing was to talk to the neighbours. The police had already done that, and I had seen their notes one night in the pub, but I was now interested in different questions. They had asked if anyone had been seen arriving or leaving on the day of the murder. To which the answer had been no; no one in particular. But I was now interested in two days previously as well, when Ravenscliff's diary said he had an appointment. This wasn't likely to lead to much, but I wanted confirmation that he had gone there.

So I called in at the umbrella shop, as the proprietor had been the most useful of interviewees to the police, and I hoped he would prove the same for me. He was the only person, in fact, who had noticed anything at all, and had been the one who had discovered the body. It was rent day, and he had gone to collect. As the lady was too uninterested in the material things of this world to take the mundane matter of paying debts too seriously, he had refused to go away, kept on knocking and had eventually gone in. She apparently had something of a history of pretending to be out when he came to call, and she was three months in arrears.

Mr Philpot was the sort of man who had no first name. The sort whose wife addresses him as Mr Philpot after they have finished making love, if they ever do. He is the butt of jokes from his betters, who scorn his ilk for their respectability, and lack of imagination and utter dullness. The very epitome of the English lower middle classes; a shopkeeper, with standards to maintain and a small place in society to defend. I liked him; I have always liked the Philpots of this world, with their honesty and trustworthiness and decency. I even like their small-mindedness, for they are content with what is theirs, and proud of the little they have. Only if that is threatened do they become testy, but what group of mankind does not? They respect their betters, and fear those below them. They go to church and reverence the King, and sweep the pavement outside their shops every morning. All they want is to be left alone, and in return they provide the nation with all of its substance and solidity. If a factory worker kills his wife, or an aristocrat fathers a child, it is scarcely remarked upon; if a Philpot does so, it is a shock. Philpots are held to higher standards than most of mankind, and on the whole they live up to them.

So, I was predisposed to like Mr Philpot, in his neat waistcoat, with the armbands keeping the cuffs of his glistening white shirt out of harm's way. With his meticulous little moustache, and well-trimmed fingernails, and shining black shoes. And to like his shop, with its hundreds and hundreds of umbrellas, every single one of them black, with only the handles – each one pointing outwards like a row of grenadier guards on display – allowing just the slightest hint of flamboyance to brighten up the dark oak of the counters and floor. Philpot made me feel as though the world was in good hands. Until I met Elizabeth, I had taken it for granted that I should, eventually, marry the daughter of a Philpot, who would be as diligent in the home as her father was at work.

We talked for some time before I introduced the subject of his erstwhile tenant. It is always best to do so, if possible; to establish your credentials as a decent, upright man. I sympathised with his embarrassment, and consternation at suddenly finding his shop mentioned in the newspapers in connection with such a terrible event. The shame of the neighbours discovering that he had rented out his little flat to a charlatan and a prostitute. It might be that eventually he would live it down, but his good name had been tainted.

'And I only let her have the place out of the goodness of my heart,' he protested. 'I couldn't see anyone else renting her anything, and she pleaded with me not to throw her out when I discovered what she was up to. When I let her have it, I never dreamt for a moment there might be anything improper about her. She was an old woman. I felt sorry for her. I won't make that mistake again, let me tell you.'

'But you knew what she did? How she made her money?'

'Eventually I found out. And I told her she'd have to leave. I wasn't going to put up with that. And she agreed, said that in a short while she'd go. She just wanted to stay until the end of the month. Then she was going to look for something much better.'

'I thought you said she didn't even pay the rent on this place.'

'Nor did she. But she said she had friends who would look after her. I wish they'd looked after her while she was in my flat, that's all.'

'And who were these friends? Did you ever find out?'

'They didn't exist. It was just a story. She thought I was a proper fool; she'd have said anything to keep me quiet. And I did, more fool me.'

'What was she like?'

'Old.'

'I know that. I mean, did you like her when you first met her?'

'Why do you want to know? You come here, asking these questions, but you haven't said why. I've had enough trouble from all this . . .'

'I quite appreciate that, sir,' I said. 'And there is no sinister reason, I assure you. But I am helping a friend who became entangled with this woman. He is a trusting man, a bit like yourself, but very much more innocent. He fears that some of the things he said . . .'

Philpot nodded. Shame and embarrassment were things he understood all too well. 'Although I think that anyone who goes to someone like that . . .'

'I quite agree. I quite agree. And so does he, now. But, you see he lost his wife in a tragic accident, and has grieved ever since. She was all the world to him, and he never recovered. He allowed himself to think that maybe – just maybe – he might be able to have one last word with her.'

'Well, she would have seen him coming, that's for sure,' said Philpot, although not without sympathy. 'She would have had the money out of his pocket in two seconds, and told him anything he wanted to hear in return, I've no doubt.'

'Precisely,' I said. 'Exactly what happened. He feels deceived and angry. Until he saw the stories in the newspapers he believed he was talking to his dear departed, and contented himself that all was well with her. He felt happy for the first time in years.'

'Ah, these newspapers,' said Philpot, shaking his head. 'They should be ashamed of themselves.'

I agreed. 'And now,' I continued, 'all he wants is that people should not know of his foolishness, so he can grieve once more without being laughed at.'

That shook Philpot to the core. A good man, able to sympathise with others. To be laughed at was the worst humiliation of all. 'I see, I see,' he said. 'Yes, of course he would want that. Well, tell me your questions.'

'Well, what I'd like to know is if anyone saw him, coming and going to these – ah – séances. He is of average size, grey hair, well dressed, very distinguished-looking. Look; I have his photograph.'

I took out the photograph of Ravenscliff; Philpot looked, stroked his moustache with thumb and forefinger and thought for a moment. Then he nodded. 'I do remember him,' he said. 'He came a couple of times, as I recall. He was so much better dressed than most of the people who went up the stairs. Very handsome umbrella he had; German, with a hand-carved handle of mahogany.'

Since he obviously warmed to any subject that had an umbrella in it, I continued to press, in a gentle way.

'There you are! You noticed his umbrella. And that is one of the things that he asked me to look into. You see, the last time he came, he was so overcome by what he thought were his wife's words, that he rushed out and left his umbrella behind!'

'He didn't!'

'Yes. So he asked me, if at all possible, if I could recover it. He only took it with him because Madame Boninska said it would help summon the spirits if there was something she had touched in the room.'

Philpot understood immediately, and was shocked by the sacrilege. 'You must go and look,' he said immediately. 'I insist.'

'That is kind of you. I wanted to ask, but . . .'

'I understand perfectly. Poor man. Here, take these keys, and go and look for it . . .'

I went out of the shop door into the fresh air – or as fresh as the air near Tottenham Court Road ever became – and walked up the stairs in the little passage next door. The flat was oppressive, and dark and gloomy, and would have been even if a murder had not been committed there. I opened the curtains and then opened the windows as well. Everything was neat and tidy though the general appearance was thoroughly bizarre. Stuffed animals; prints on the wall of psychic events. Odd pieces of equipment and furniture. Lots of black velvet.

I wasn't interested in any of it. Immediately I started going through drawers, looking under beds and mattresses, down the sides of chairs, under furniture. Any scrap of paper, or notebook, or strongbox or photograph. Anything at all would do. An address book, old railway ticket, deed or document. There was nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Which was not right. Everybody accumulates something. Even an old bus ticket. But in this place there was not a single scrap. Which made me wonder. It had probably been the police, of course; I would have to check, but I had never come across a police investigation where they had taken everything away like that.

'Have you found it?'

'What?'

'The umbrella. Have you found it?' It was Philpot, poking his head reluctantly round the door.

'Oh. No, I'm afraid not. It's gone. I'm sorry to have been so long, but I found this room very oppressive. I think I looked everywhere twice because I couldn't keep my mind on things.'

Philpot found this sensitivity unbecoming and said nothing. I followed him down the stairs and into the street. 'Gloomy place,' I said. 'But it will be perfectly pleasant once it's cleaned up. Why not get a rag-and-bone man to come and take everything away? Open the windows for a week. Get in a painter. Everyone will forget soon enough about all this.'

Philpot was grateful for the reassurance, but shook his head. 'Not yet,' he said. 'I can't think of it yet. I'll take your advice soon enough, though.'

'And no news of the girl? What was her name?'

'Mary. No. Vanished, she has. I think I was more shocked to learn what she was than anything . . .' He lowered his voice and eyes as he thought about her.

'You never knew where she came from?'

'The police asked me. "Did she tell you where she lived?" No, she didn't. Of course, I knew where she came from, but they weren't interested. "Facts, Mr Philpot," they said. "Just keep to the facts."'

'So how do you know?'

'The way she talked, of course. She was brought up in Shoreditch. Now, I'm not saying she lived there . . .'

CHAPTER 20

It was time to summon the runners. I went back to the newspaper offices for the first time since I had resigned, and asked at the reception desk if the boys were about. Some of them were in Dragon Court, a mouldy, dank little square just over the road which was surrounded by seemingly abandoned buildings. Few of them had any glass left in the windows; the boys had broken most of it playing football or cricket, which is what they did when they were waiting for a job. Three of them were there; one was hopeless, a mournful character of small intelligence and no initiative whatsoever. Pale and pimply with an air of being underfed and neglected. Wearing clothes two sizes too big for him. One, Derrick, was reliable, and the cleverest grew up to become a highly successful cat-burglar.

'Listen, boys,' I said. 'I've got a job for you. Twice the usual rates, and a bonus of a guinea for the one who succeeds.' I had learned from Elizabeth that if you want instant obedience with no argument, you pay, and pay so handsomely it takes the breath away. None of these boys, I suspected, had ever even seen a guinea before. The very idea of one made them go quiet and reverential.

I told them what I wanted; told them the girl's name, told them she came from Shoreditch, told them about her occupation – these were not innocent little angels – and repeated the description I had got from the police. About twenty years of age, with light brown hair, blue eyes and of middling height. It wasn't much good, but at least it eliminated all the six-foot tall, orange-haired and red-eyed prostitutes in Shoreditch.

'Now, pay attention,' I said. 'This is important. If you come across this woman, don't frighten her. Let her know that no one means her any harm. There is no question of the police being involved in this. I might even be able to help her, if she needs it. But I want to talk to her, and will pay her a guinea as well. Got that?'

The urchins nodded. I told them to find me either at home or in the pub or at the Ravenscliff house if they came up with anything. That done, I went back to the King & Keys to find Hozwicki once more. This was a long shot – not finding Hozwicki, as I knew he'd be there, but the possibility of his knowing or telling me anything.

'What do you want? You haven't paid for the last bit of information I gave you.'

'True enough, but I would have thought an old comrade in arms . . .' I gave up. Normally in such circumstances all you have to do is stand a round or two of drinks and all is well, but this tactic I knew wouldn't work either.

'Believe me,' I said with as much sincerity as I could muster, 'if I could tell you something, I would. But I don't want to put you in danger.'

Hozwicki looked sceptical, but at least started paying attention. 'It is all far more complicated than you can imagine. I thought I was writing a biography for a grieving widow. Now, it seems, I am being pursued by a bunch of anarchist murderers. I don't want you to get into the same position.'

He looked at me. 'What are you talking about?'

'The Brotherhood of Socialists. Ever heard of them?'

Hozwicki glared at me. 'You think that just because I am Polish I know every revolutionary in the East End?'

'Hardly. I mean, there are so many of them, you can't know them all, can you? I just thought you might have come across the name.'

'So why are they after you?'

'I don't know.'

'But this has something to do with Ravenscliff?'

'I don't know.'

Hozwicki rubbed the end of his nose, and thought. 'Never heard of them,' he said finally.

'Yes, you have.'

'Yes, I have. But I'm not going to tell you anything.'

'Look, Stefan—'

'If they've got a grudge against you, then steer clear of them. Or get a gun. Do you have a gun?'

'Of course I haven't.'

'I'll give you the name of a man who can get one for you.'

'I don't want a gun.'

'Perhaps. But you may need one.'

'Who are these people?'

Hozwicki's good and bad sides were wrestling for control of his conscience, which put quite a strain on him. He did not answer for some time. In fact, he didn't really answer at all. Instead, he pulled out his notebook, tore off a sheet and scribbled on it. 'Here,' he said. 'I'm not going to help you. But go there and ask questions. That's all I'll do for you.'

Written on the sheet was an address. The Anarchist Club; 165 Jubilee Street.

For those who have forgotten what London was like before the war, or who never knew, the very idea of an Anarchist Club sounds absurd. Most people are more familiar with the Reform, or the Athenaeum, and when they think of clubs, they think of leather armchairs, port and cigars, with quiet waiters padding about bearing silver platters. The idea of anarchists enjoying such surroundings cannot help but bring a smile to the lips.

And yet there was such a club, although it was closed down when the war began and never reopened. More than that, it was a popular place. The East End was a seething mass of revolution in those days; wave after wave of immigrants had swept in, bringing Jews, nationalists and revolutionaries fleeing the authorities in Russia and elsewhere. It was a cause of great tension. On the one hand, it made Britain most unpopular in those countries which preferred to have their revolutionaries either dead or in gaol, rather than freely plotting evil. On the other, the mass of men seeking work annoyed our own labourers, who found their housing taken and their wages undercut. But government after government refused to do anything. The employers liked the cheap labour and I suspect the Foreign Office enjoyed tweaking the noses of autocratic governments abroad. So the authorities reached a sort of pact with the unwelcome guests. As long as they caused no trouble in England, they could plot to visit whatever mayhem they liked on their own country. Nonetheless, the authorities kept a firm eye on what was going on, as much as they could. I had learned from the police, however, that this wasn't very much. These Letts and Poles and Pan-Slavs and Russians and whoever not only spoke a wide variety of languages, often in obscure dialects, they also seemed to change name with bewildering rapidity. Several criminals were tried in court for offences using only nicknames – the elephant, fatty, the bricklayer – because the authorities had no idea who they were.

Now, the trouble with revolutionaries is, having got into the habit of opposing their own authorities, they end up opposing everything else as well. That is to say, no sooner had a party formed – to install, say, the principles of Marxist socialism, or anarchist freedom in liberated Lithuania – than it tended to split into two on the question of what, exactly, socialism or anarchism was. Or even what Lithuania was. So the Anarchist Club was formed; fraternal loathing was suspended while members were within its portals. There you could find speeches on all manner of subjects, as long as they were intense and impractical. As I approached it that evening – I took a bus from Fleet Street to Commercial Road, then walked up Jubilee Street to my destination – I tried to imagine Lord Ravenscliff, with his silk top hat and cashmere overcoat, rubbing shoulders with such people. I almost succeeded, but eventually gave up. It was too absurd.

The club smelled, but was no worse than most pubs; it was also a good deal quieter. Chilly though, and not very clean. Anarchists did not approve of housework; that was for their women and, on the whole, there were few women dedicated enough to cook, clean, listen to the rhetoric and foment revolution all at the same time. I guessed there were about thirty men in the large room and only four women. Everybody was dowdy and poor looking and, although some were dapper enough with waxed moustaches and strutting walks, most were subdued and moved with an air of caution. They did not give a very convincing imitation of murderous lunatics. All were foreign, I guessed many were Jews, and they seemed different from the unionists and syndicalists I had written about in my days of toil. Few had the true air of working men; they did not stand or move like men used to working with hand and body. They also looked very much worse fed, greyer of face.

'Can I help you?' A cautious voice, heavily accented; a small man, jacketless and collarless, stood beside me, looking at me cautiously. Not surprisingly. I was hardly dressed fashionably, but it was obvious from my healthy complexion and unpatched clothes that I was both English and not a natural member of this place.

'I was hoping to meet a friend,' I said. 'Stefan Hozwicki. Do you know him?'

'I do, but he isn't here,' the man replied, relaxing a little. It seemed Stefan's name was a sort of passport, a guarantee of my good intentions. Which was kind of him, although mysterious. If I did not exactly slip into the background here, I couldn't imagine Hozwicki doing so either.

'You've not been here before,' the man said. 'My name is Josef, by the way. Welcome.'

'Thank you. My name is Matthew Brad . . .'

He held up his hand. 'We do not have second names,' he said with a smile. 'It is uncomradely and also there are far too many people who do not wish to give them. So Matthew will do nicely.' His mouth twitched with amusement as he watched me try to look comradely.

I quite took to him. He was short, only about five foot four high, weedy and underfed, badly dressed and looked less than healthy. His hands twitched nervously all the time, as though he was trying to pull rings off his fingers, but the rest of him was totally still and calm. His eyes watched me through thick lenses, and they were kindly and a little sad.

'You have come for the talk?'

'Ah, yes. I suppose so. I'm not sure why I'm here, to tell the truth.'

'Comrade Stefan no doubt has his reasons.'

'I'm sure Comrade Stefan has,' I said, and was quite proud of myself for suppressing the twitch of amusement. It was only because I was quite touched; Hozwicki, as I have mentioned, was not exactly the most friendly of people. He trusted no one, and liked even fewer. To tell me to come here, where he must have realised I would hear him being referred to as Comrade Stefan – thus exposing him to ridicule if not worse if I ever repeated it in the King & Keys – was a gesture. Not exactly an open offer of friendship, but probably the closest to it I or anyone else would ever get. 'Who is the speaker, might I ask?'

'Ah,' he said. 'It is Comrade Kropotkin.'

The anarchist aristocrat. The Russian revolutionary. The Anarchist Prince. All titles dreamt up by the headline writers on the Daily Mail, who excelled at such things. He was an odd fellow, by all accounts; a genuine Russian prince who had turned to rural collectivism and revolution. He had been imprisoned in Russia, thrown out of Switzerland, France and America, and came to rest in a comfortable part of Brighton, where he went for long walks with his dog and was perfectly sweet to the neighbours when not advocating stringing them up from the nearest lamp post.

'And what is he talking about?'

'The evils of Darwinism.'

'Is it evil?'

'Comrade Kropotkin has argued in the past that Darwinism is but a reflection of capitalism because it emphasises competition and struggle over co-operation and co-existence. It justifies the exploitation of man by man, and strengthens the class ideology of the oppressors.'

'Excellent. So what will be new today?'

'That we must find out. If we can understand him. There are so many people of so many different nationalities here, with so many languages, that English is the only one everybody has a chance of understanding. I don't suppose you speak Serbo-Croat?'

'Not really.'

'A pity. I would have pressed you into service to give a running translation. Our Serbs are very bad at languages.'

'Who else – I mean, what other languages are represented?'

Josef screwed up his eyes to think. 'Well, there are Russians and Germans. Many Latvians and Lithuanians and Poles. A few Serbs. One Dane, although he comes only rarely. Many English, although for some reason few Irish, which I find strange as they are the most oppressed of all. Some Ukrainians and a few Belgians. The French tend to stay in France. And of course we have many, many people who speak only Yiddish.'

'A veritable Internationale,' I said, with what I hoped was a tone of approval. 'And how many policemen?'

He gave me an odd look, but realised full well that I was lighth-eartedly broaching a serious point. 'That is Serge, who hasn't arrived yet.'

'You aren't tempted to throw him out?'

'Oh, no. Obviously the police are going to infiltrate, so why bother? We do nothing here that is of great interest to them. It is not as if we hold open meetings on bomb-making.'

'Those are by invitation only?'

'Precisely,' he said with a twinkle in his eye. 'Seriously, the authorities here are stupid and coercive, but somewhat milder than their counterparts abroad. As long as we do not frighten them, they leave us alone, more or less. And nothing frightens authority more than not knowing what is going on. Then they fantasise about plots and evil, and react. So we show there is nothing to be afraid of.'

'And this Serge knows you know about him?'

'The subject has never come up, but I imagine so. Do you wish to meet him? You are a journalist, I take it.'

'How did you know that?'

'Because the moment you open your mouth you start asking questions. Because you clearly know nothing about anarchism and because you are a friend of Stefan, who is a journalist as well. You don't work for the Daily Mail, do you?'

'Certainly not,' I said, almost offended.

'That is good.'

'You don't mind me coming?'

'Oh, no. The more publicity the better. Comrade Kropotkin has written many articles for newspapers, here and abroad, showing the origins and nature of what we believe. He has just finished a long article for the Encyclopaedia Britannica. And now, if you will excuse me.'

The courteous anarchist moved off towards the stage. He walked with a limp, I noticed, and he looked as though moving was painful for him. He weaved an erratic course as he went, stopping frequently to greet people, pat them on the back, talk briefly with them. One woman he bowed to in an oddly old-world fashion. She was dressed simply, with a muffler around her head as though she had a cold, and a sprig of flowers in her hair. She briefly broke off her conversation with a large unshaven man to greet him, and half turned to respond with an unsmiling, cold nod of the head.

'These, eh?'

'What?' I turned, to see a grim man staring at me as though I had just advocated the abolition of taxes for land-owners. Powerful, intelligent, his eyes radiating annoyance at his feeble grasp of language.

He waved his arm. 'Chairs. They must organise.' He spoke with such a thick and indeterminate accent that it was difficult to realise his understanding of English grammar was rudimentary, as it was almost impossible to make out anything at all.

'What?' I repeated, almost panicking.

He picked up a chair, put it into my hand and propelled me roughly across the room until it was next to the one in a line, and made me put it down. Then he gestured to all the other chairs.

'Again.'

'Ah. Right.' He was not the sort of man who would brook any refusal. I half expected him to whip out a revolver and shoot me on the spot if I so much as looked reluctant. So I picked up another chair, and then another, and slowly set them out, row by row.

'Good. Very good.' A thunderous clap on the back and a broad smile signified my labours for the common good had met with approval. 'Drink.'

He thrust a bottle of beer at me, contrary to the 1892 Regulation of Drink Act, and scowled, or maybe it was a smile. Hard to tell. I smiled back, as best I could. I really didn't want a drink, but again I felt it unwise to refuse. We toasted each other, smiled again, indulged in another bout of backslapping, and then he drifted off.

'And you will be Comrade Matthew, the journalist friend of Comrade Stefan,' came a cold female voice behind me. It spoke with a heavy German accent, but was both grammatical and comprehensible.

I spun round. I opened my mouth to speak. Suave and sophisticated, able to deal with any eventuality. That was the way I wanted to be, and very definitely the way I wasn't. I couldn't say a word.

'Are you here to hear the speech? It is not often we get journalists here, so I imagine you are here to see Comrade Peter.' She spoke quietly, and was one of those who did not look at the person she was speaking to. Stared hard, rather, somewhere above my left shoulder, communicating a contempt which fully matched the harshness of her voice.

'Um.'

'Get a good seat. He mumbles.'

She tossed back her head, and swept a strand of loose hair from her eyes with one finger. I had watched her intensely; had memorised her every gesture, and that was something she did not do. It was as though she had taken on a different persona entirely. Almost as though she was a different person. I felt utterly confused. Surely it could not be so.

She was dressed in the manner of everyone else in the room; thin, old clothes, utterly unbecoming, with thick black boots. Buttoned up to the neck with a row of buttons, one of which was undone, one missing. Her face was severe and more serious, it looked as though it had been angry often. Her skin was pallid, old looking. Weary. The smile had no warmth in it at all.

No, I decided.

'And you are?'

'Call me Jenny,' she said flatly.

'Is it your real name?'

'What does that matter? With women names are ownership. Who your father was, who your husband is. We must choose our own names, you agree?'

'Absolutely. Just what I was thinking myself.'

'I do not approve of frivolity.'

'Sorry. Habit.'

'Divest yourself of this habit.' She had pronounced. She had finished. 'You will find the meeting instructive if you pay proper attention.'

She almost clicked her heels together, I swear, and then, very briefly, for a fraction of a fraction of a second as she turned away, I caught her eye. Grey. And I got that familiar shock, running through my system; the curdling feeling in my stomach, the outpouring of breath, the sudden speeding up of my heart.

Stefan or no Stefan, and despite the undoubted appeal of a many-houred talk from a Russian anarchist, I decided to leave and quickly. At least I managed not to run, but I made my way to the door, through the groups of people coming in the opposite direction, as quickly as I could. Josef stopped me just as I was about to regain my freedom. 'You are surely not leaving?'

'I must, I'm afraid, I . . .' I tried, but failed to think of some good reason. 'I've just remembered some work I have to do. Dreadfully sorry. Really looking forward to it.'

'Another time, then,' he said with no great interest. 'As you see the doors are always open. Even to journalists.'

'Thank you. That is kind, and I have found even the little I've seen interesting. Very interesting. Tell me, who is that woman over there?'

I nodded as discreetly as I could.

'Why do you want to know?'

'Oh, we talked, you see. And there are so few women here, I wondered.'

'If you want to find out, you should ask her yourself. Besides, I don't know a great deal about her. She's been coming occasionally for the last six months or so. It was the first thing she did when she got off the boat.'

'The boat?'

'Yes. She is German; had to leave because . . . well, that doesn't matter. But she's tough and committed. If you want to know more, ask her. But don't expect an answer.'

I didn't want to push the matter too far. So I left, grateful only that Hozwicki hadn't shown up. The last thing I needed was to have to come up with another excuse.

Kropotkin arrived only about ten minutes after I left; I saw him from my vantage point across the road. It was part of the training; part of the way I had trained myself, at any rate. The ability to wait. It is a skill possessed by very few people. Most get bored after only a few minutes, they become agitated and dream up dozens of good reasons why they are wasting their time, simply to justify giving up. I had learned, not exactly to like it, but more to let my mind drift, so that time seemed to pass more quickly. It had a peaceful aspect to it. It is a small talent, I know, but it is rare and one I am quite proud of. So I found a dark corner, in an alleyway running along the side of a grocer's shop on the other side of the road, which gave a clear view but which wasn't lit up by the gaslight. I pulled my coat more firmly around my neck. And I waited. And waited. I saw Stefan hurry in, along with several others; saw a carriage draw up and a tall man with a thick bushy beard get out. That, I thought, would be Kropotkin. Let us assume ten minutes to get started; then three hours of meeting, at least. I pulled my pocket watch out of my waistcoat and peered at it. It was eight o'clock. It was going to be a long evening.

It was. Almost interminable. Even my skilled placidity in these situations was only just sufficient to get me through. My mind fixed on this Jenny. It hammered away time and again at the whole business, and I could not make head nor tail of it. I was only sure of one thing. I had been lied to, once again.

So I waited, cold, very hungry and distraught. Nine o'clock; ten o'clock; half past ten. A few people drifted out from time to time; perhaps they did not find the Prince's words satisfying. Perhaps they had heard them before. Some hung around outside talking, others walked swiftly off. None interested me.

Eventually Jenny came out. Bundled up in a coat, with a hat on her head, but there was no mistaking her. She was with a man, the one who had told me to set out the chairs. He also had a hat, pulled down over his face. His right hand was in the pocket of his overcoat.

And he touched her. Stroked her back with his left hand in an unmistakable gesture of intimacy. And she responded, leaning her body against his. There was no mistake. I did not imagine it.

So I followed. A more hot-blooded person than I might have accosted them. 'Hello, Your Ladyship, fancy seeing you here!' But I decided that knowledge was a better revenge. I would discover everything, first of all.

So I tagged behind at a good distance, just keeping them in view, ducking into the shadows whenever the man paused to tie his shoelaces, or strike a match against a wall, or when they stopped on the pavement to talk. This they did often enough to make me realise they were afraid of being followed. Nobody stops that often. But I had learned from a master. George Short had cut his teeth as a runner before becoming a reporter. He knew all the tricks of how to follow without being seen and, I suspected, knew how to pick pockets and listen in to conversations in bars and restaurants as well. When I was getting going he taught me some of his skills. 'You never know when it might come in handy,' he'd said. 'These university graduates think it's all about a well-turned phrase. They wouldn't be able to get a story if it bit them on the leg.'

His skills had never been that useful before, but now I saw their point. It is a question of getting into the rhythm of the person you are following, watching them intently until you can predict what they are going to do; moving in harmony with them, so that you are already tucked away in the shadows before they have even begun to turn. Of knowing how far back to be. Of knowing how to walk light-footedly but naturally, so that you are unsuspected even if you are seen.

I followed them for a mile or so; down Jubilee Street, along Commercial Road, up Turner Street, then into Newark Street, a row of houses, rundown and poor. They stopped outside one of them which was all in darkness, and talked. I heard nothing, but I did not need to; he wanted her to come in; that was clear. She refused, initially, and my spirits rose a little. But then she took his hand, allowed him to lead her to the door and they vanished inside.

If I had been in a state of shocked disbelief before, it was nothing in comparison to how I felt now. I could describe my emotions for a very long time, but in fact they were very simple. I was jealous to the point of insanity. She was mine, I told myself. It was another one of her lies to add to the growing list. And such a man? Such people? Clearly, they weren't notes of her husband's payments to the Brotherhood that I had found in that folder; they were hers. He had discovered and was trying to find out what she was doing. This man was probably one of that group and she was paying him. My stomach turned over with disgust. I would expose her to the world. I would destroy her reputation so completely she would have to leave the country for ever. How to do it? Hozwicki, obviously; I'd promised him a story; it would be better than he dreamed of. Then Seyd's. I'd pull her husband's companies down until their worth would fit in my back pocket in small change.

The thought calmed me. My patience slowly returned, and I became thorough. When the man emerged, I followed him until he got back to what were evidently his lodgings, then took a bus back to the West End. I went into an early-morning café – it was by now four in the morning – and borrowed some paper and an envelope from the owner. I considered a long and violent denunciation, but such things are never effective; they make the writer seem hysterical. So instead I kept it short.

I delivered it by hand to her house, then took the bus back to Chelsea. It was still only six when I slipped quietly into the house, and no one was yet up, not even Mrs Morrison. I tiptoed up the stairs, avoiding the squeakiest of the treads, and collapsed on my bed. It was an eternity since I had slept properly, but I was afraid sleep would elude me now as well. I shouldn't have worried. I was still thinking this when my thoughts began to disintegrate and I plunged into oblivion.

CHAPTER 21

If I harboured the idea that this might be an end to it, then I could not have been more wrong. I slept until two in the afternoon, but was hardly refreshed when I finally surfaced. I did have a couple of moments' grace before the full recollection of the previous evening came back, but it was not much of a respite. I was dirty, unshaven, and my bones ached still from tiredness, so I went downstairs in search of hot water. There was no one around, which was unusual; normally at that time of day Mrs Morrison should be in the kitchen with her half-wit of a scullery maid, arguing over how to peel carrots. So I put a large pot on the hob myself, and yawned while it heated. On the kitchen table was a telegram, addressed to me. I knew the moment I saw it who it was from, and the surge of pleasure I felt should have warned me how feeble was my resolution of only a few hours previously. I considered tearing it in two and throwing it in the bin – I don't need her; that's all over – but couldn't quite manage to be so manfully confident. What if there was something in there to show I was wrong? So I dithered while the water boiled and the kitchen filled with steam, and eventually reached a compromise. I would open it, read it and then tear it up in righteous anger.

The first word was enough to turn all my steely resolution a little rusty. All sorts of stories flooded into my mind. A lost twin. Devoted sisters torn asunder, and now reunited. All nonsense. It could not possibly be so. Could it? The doubt was small, but enough because I wanted it to be so. I washed and shaved and dressed in clean clothes, and by the time I was ready to face the world I was decided. I would see her. Just in case. But I would make her wait, and use the time to find out some more. It was the first time she had wanted to see me more than the other way around, and I liked the feeling too much to lose it quickly.

I went back to Fleet Street. Hozwicki wasn't in the King & Keys so I went to the Telegraph, walked up the stairs to the newsroom, and found him, sitting alone in a corner with a typewriter. He was the only person in the entire place to use one; everyone else wrote their stories out by hand, and I noticed he kept on getting irritated glances from others in the room every time he pressed a key. It was a woman's machine, not for men.

'I need to talk to you.'

'I'm busy.'

'I don't care.'

I must have said it in an impressive fashion, as he stopped typing and looked up at me. 'So, talk.'

'Not here. I don't want your colleagues to learn about Comrade Stefan.'

I hadn't meant it to come out as a threat. But that was how he took it. He stared stonily at me.

'Come outside for a walk. It will only take five minutes.'

He considered for a second, then stood up and put on his coat. I could see he was angry; I imagine I would have been as well. From his point of view he had extended a hand of friendship, and I was using his gesture to blackmail him. I would have felt guilty about it, if I'd had the leisure to think straight.

'Well then? What do you want now?'

He stood on the pavement as the crowds of people parted to walk around us, and indicated he was going to go no further. We were just outside the Telegraph's doors.

'I didn't mean to threaten,' I said. 'I had no intention of saying anything. But I have to talk, and I don't have a great deal of time.'

'What happened yesterday? I heard you came, then left. Too boring for you?'

'It probably would have been, but I didn't find out. There was a woman there. She called herself Jenny. In her forties, German accent.'

He nodded.

'Tell me about her.'

'Why?'

'It doesn't matter.'

'Not unless . . .'

'No,' I interrupted. 'No games. Not today. No bargains, no you-scratch- my-back nonsense. I need to know now. I must know. Who is she?'

He looked at me carefully, then nodded. 'And you won't say why you want to know.'

'Not a single, solitary word. But you must tell me.'

He stared at the pavement for a few seconds, then turned on his heel, and walked off, turning up Wine Office Court, past the Cheshire Cheese, where there was no one around. Eventually he stopped and turned.

'Her name is Jenny Mannheim,' he said. 'But that's not her real name. She arrived from Hamburg about six months ago. It appears she was involved in a murder there and had to flee the country. When she got here, she contacted some groups of exiles, but has steered clear of the Germans. She doesn't want anyone to know she is here. She's afraid of the police, or of being murdered herself in revenge. She's a very tough woman, ruthless in argument and quite capable of being ruthless in action, I imagine. Her life is the struggle. It is all she cares about, and all she talks about. She is entirely cold and deeply unpleasant. So I'm afraid I cannot tell you much more. Even what I know did not come from her. I avoid her as much as possible. And so should you, if you've any sense.'

'So how do you know about her?'

'She approached these groups which – well, they don't trust many people. They're used to spies and informers and police agents trying to infiltrate them. They're careful. Naturally they wanted to make sure she was who she said.'

'How did they do that?'

'Easily enough. They wrote letters to comrades in Germany. They checked she was on the boat she said she was on. They used people in the police there to see if she's done what she said. She had. She's a nasty bit of work. Even by the standards of her type.'

'Quite pretty, though.'

'It would be interesting to see the reaction if you said that to her face.'

'She left yesterday with a man.' I gave a brief description, as best as I could. It wasn't necessary.

'Jan the Builder,' Hozwicki said flatly. 'That's what he's called. He sometimes works on building sites. Josef pointed him out to me once, and told me to beware of him. Again, no one knows his real name. And, since you no doubt already know, yes, he is a member – probably the leader – of the Brotherhood of Socialists.'

'And are they . . . ?'

Hozwicki looked at me. 'Dangerous people who you do not want to know. You remember the hold-up at Marston's brewery? The armed robbery at that Cheapside jeweller's about a year ago?'

He was referring to two violent, but unsuccessful, crimes. 'They were what are called expropriations, to fund the cause. Anarchism is split into two; those who think such things justifiable and necessary, and those who believe they ruin everything we are striving to achieve.'

'We?'

He nodded.

'So tell me more about these people.'

'Hard. It's not as if they advertise themselves. But there can't be many of them. Most are Lithuanian or Latvian, most would be executed or imprisoned if they went home. They hate Russia and all things Russian. And everyone else. They seem to have money. Presumably from robberies. More than that, I cannot tell you. I don't know. They are not interested in listening to speeches or theoretical discourses. They think that is bourgeois. They think violent action is the only true revolutionary activity. I think that if they could, they would happily murder Kropotkin as well as any other Russian.'

'What is all this to you, Stefan?' I asked. I was genuinely curious. 'Why are you part of all this rigmarole?'

He frowned as he turned to look at me. 'I'm Jewish and I'm Polish,' he said. 'Why do I need to say any more? I do not wish to kill anyone, Matthew. I want to set the world free, so mankind can realise its full potential and live in harmony. An aspiration you no doubt think is foolish, naïve and absurd.'

I shrugged. 'As aspirations go it is not a bad one. I am merely sceptical about its chances of success.'

'You are not alone. But compromise . . .' Here he turned with a smile playing over his mouth, which made quite a change. He had a pleasant smile. He really should have used it more often. 'Compromise is a weapon of oppression wielded by capitalists to ensure nothing ever changes.'

'Of course it is,' I said heartily. 'Damn good thing too.'

He grinned. 'And now we understand each other. I'm glad. I've always appreciated your efforts to be kind. Do not think I was unreceptive. But I grew up in a world of suspicion and it is not a habit I can abandon easily. You are a good man. For a lackey of the system.'

'I will take that as a compliment,' I said. 'And I in turn appreciate your willingness to talk to me. I will use the information – cautiously, shall we say. And one day I will give you a proper explanation.'

He nodded. 'If you know what is good for you, you'll steer clear of Jan the Builder and anyone associated with him.'

'We're old drinking mates,' I said.

'And whatever you do, don't start making eyes at Jenny Mannheim. She'd eat you for breakfast and pick her teeth with your bones.'

He nodded, and strode off to his work, leaving me pondering his last words. They had brought me back to the subject of my obsession.

I had forgotten about her for the time I was talking to him. Now she came flooding back to my mind. An associate of Jan the Builder. I had information, but no understanding. In fact, I was worse off than before. Every time I added a nugget of information to my paltry hoard, it made the rest seem the more confusing. So I now knew more about this band of anarchists; knew a small amount more about this woman I had encountered the previous day. But I still knew nothing about their connection with Ravenscliff. What was more I did not care; my obsession with Elizabeth had grown to the point that it was almost uncontrollable. I agonised over whether I would go and see her, as I had been asked to do.

I knew I would, sooner or later. I knew I would not be able to keep away. But I put up a fight. I did not embrace my fate eagerly or without resistance. Even as my feet took me down Fleet Street, past Charing Cross, up Haymarket and to Piccadilly Circus, I told myself I had not made up my mind. I could, at any moment, hop on to a bus and go home. I had free will. I would decide, in my own good time. I went through all the reasons for treating her command with the disdain it deserved, and they were overwhelming. Went through all the reasons for obeying her, and they were paltry. And still I walked on, hands in pockets, eyes looking down at the pavement, getting ever closer, with each step, to St James's Square.

I still told myself that I had not yet made up my mind as I stood on the doorstep, and as I rang the bell. And it was true. I had decided nothing. The only decision I could take was to walk in the other direction; indecision made me sleepwalk towards her, go through the door when it was opened by the housemaid, climb up the stairs to the little sitting room where she was waiting for me. Had my heart given way then, I would not have been surprised, and might not have been ungrateful. But it did not; and I walked in to see her sitting on the settee by the fire, a book on her lap, looking at me gravely. And I felt that familiar flood of emotion coursing through my being, as I knew that I was back, exactly where I needed to be.

'Sit down, Matthew,' she said softly, gesturing to the place beside her. With an immense effort of will, I sat in the armchair opposite, so I would not have to suffer her perfume, the sound of her clothes as she moved or the feeling that, with the slightest gesture, I could reach out and touch her. I was safe, immune there. She noticed, of course, and knew why I had done it: it was a gesture of weakness, not of defiance; she understood it all.

She continued to look gravely at me, but was not trying to fascinate; there was a seriousness in her glance which hinted at sympathy and understanding, although I knew all too well that I read far too much into such things, and always tried to give the best possible interpretation.

'You asked, so here I am,' I said.

'I wrote because I received this distressing message from you. I thought the least I could expect was some sort of explanation.'

'Do you really think you need one?'

'Of course. I was entirely perplexed by it.'

I searched her face intently, trying desperately to see through to the thoughts underneath. I knew that everything depended on what I said next. Why, I do not know. I was simply certain.

'Do you ever tell the truth?'

'Do you ever do as you are told? If you remember, I told you quite plainly that you should not give any attention to the anarchists. You agreed, promised, and immediately broke your promise. I think I have more of a right to be cross than you, as your misdeed was premeditated.'

'That was you, last night?' I asked, still somewhat incredulous.

'Yes. It is necessary,' she said, and instantly, her voice, her expression, her face were all transformed. It was eerie and frightening, like seeing a wax puppet melt and reconstitute itself as a different character. The changes were infinitely subtle, but the effect was total. The lines of the frown around the bridge of the nose, the set of the jaw, the slightly hooded look of the eyelids, the tilt of the head and the hunched-up, wearied pose of the shoulders. Fragments of movement changed her from a society lady of aristocratic bearing into a grim, hard-living, independent revolutionary from the East End. I still could not believe it, and even worse could not see how she did it.

Then, in a twinkling of the eye, the anarchist Jenny vanished, and Elizabeth reappeared, smiling mockingly at me. 'It is really not so difficult,' she said. 'I always had a talent for mimicry and acting. It was merely a question of studying, to get the clothes and the look and the opinions just so. And I have spoken German since birth. It is my first language.'

'I suppose it would be too much to ask for an explanation – an honest, truthful one – of what you were doing there?'

She considered. 'No. I think it might well be a good idea. Do you want the long version, which would indicate a willingness to forget about that unfortunate letter of yours? Or the short one?'

'The long one,' I said in a tone lightly tinged with reluctance.

She rang the little silver bell on the table, and asked for refreshments, then picked up my letter and tossed it onto the fire.

'I think I told you that John was preoccupied in the last few months of his life. One of the reasons was this. He always kept a careful eye on his businesses; it was his duty, he believed, to ensure that they were run well. Obviously, he could not watch everything. For this he had managers, on whom he relied to tell him what was happening and to implement his wishes. At the same time, he would often make visits to various plants and factories, to see for himself, so he could take the temperature, as he called it. He loved these trips. You think of him, no doubt, as a financier, a man who sat far away from everything, dealing with the abstractions of capital. He wasn't like that at all. What he liked was putting it into operation, in the shipyards and the foundries and the engineering plants. He liked to see how a decision on his part could galvanise thousands of people into action. He loved his factories and, although you would no doubt not believe it, he loved the people who worked in them. The engineers, the fitters, the builders, the skilled workmen. He valued them far more than the people of his own society. Jenny the anarchist hates him; he was the worst sort of capitalist because he believed it was more than mere exploitation. He was proud of paying more than his competitors, proud of providing decent accommodation for those he employed.

'Last October, he went up to the shipyard in Northumberland and stayed for nearly a week. He often did this; every year I think he spent about ten weeks away, going round one plant or another. Sometimes there was a good reason; a huge decision on investment, problems with a contract, or something like that. Other times there was no reason at all. He simply wanted to be there, and smell the smell, as he put it. He spent as much time on the factory floor as he did in the offices, spent time talking to the men, and stood, watching. He believed you could tell the health of a company by the way it looked and felt. You didn't need to see the books.'

'Did you ever go with him?'

'Not often. But then he didn't often come with me on my trips either. Each of us to our own particular universe. He was happy in his, I in mine. There were some things we could not share. And he needed to be without distractions. He would say that the factories would talk to him, and he had to listen. Sometimes, they would say one thing, the accounts another. Then he would become curious, and stay until he was satisfied. This time he came back perplexed. All had been well, he said. The yard was happy, the operations were smoothly run. They had recently finished a gigantic project to dig out new dock which involved dredging a large part of the river itself so ships could be launched more easily. The cost of Dreadnoughts is so astounding that I was always amazed by his ability to contemplate it. It didn't bother John at all. For him, large sums of money were just small sums, with more noughts on the end. Something was either a wise investment or not. Whether it was for one thousand pounds or one million did not alter the principle.

'All was well. He was satisfied. Apart from one small thing. One of the accounting clerks had been dismissed for peculation. A small amount of money, nothing more than twenty pounds, completely insignificant. But he had been a young man, full of promise, who had been earmarked by one of the managers as someone who could be trained up and given a great deal of responsibility in years to come. The manager felt to blame, that his assessment of the young man's character had been at fault. He had decided not to bring charges, but mentioned it to my husband.

'Most people in John's position, I am sure, would not have bothered about it. All companies mislay a certain amount of money; it is considered inevitable. John thought differently. He had spent years developing his organisation and wanted to achieve perfection. It did not matter to him whether it was twenty pounds or twenty thousand or even two shillings; it should not have been possible, and if twenty pounds could disappear, maybe twenty thousand could too.

'So he looked further and came to the conclusion that this was not the only time such a thing had happened, although he could not discover many details. But he did find out where they were going to, an address in East London which only a small amount of investigation revealed was occupied by this man known as Jan the Builder.

'What infuriated John was that he could not discover how these payments were being authorised. The man responsible clammed up and refused to say anything at all. So he decided to tackle the problem from the other end. And that was where I came in.'

'Yes,' I said. We had now got to the point – the only point, if truth be known, which interested me. Embezzlement and failures in accountancy procedures were all very well, but I was still fixated on the eyes of Jenny the Red, staring icily in a meeting hall. 'Why did you come in?'

'Perfectly simple. I offered, and he accepted my offer. Not willingly or readily, but I am quite persuasive. You find it all perplexing, no doubt. That is because you know nothing of me apart from what you see. You think of me as a pampered lady, used to gliding through a ball or a dinner party, but quite unfitted for real life. Too delicate and refined, shocked even at the vulgarity of a middle-class hotel. Is that correct?'

I tried to protest and say nothing of the sort but, in essence, it was an accurate summary.

'As I say, you know nothing of me. I have a long name of impeccable lineage but that covers a multitude of things. Hungarian aristocrats are not necessarily wealthy or pampered. I was neither. John could not send one of his people to get close to this group; they would have been spotted easily. These payments were coming from inside his companies, and so he felt unwilling to trust anyone connected with them. He needed someone who could be convincing, and whom he could trust. He did not for a moment think of using me.

'I decided to do it. I go to Baden for the waters every autumn – indulgent of me, I know, but I find it pleasant to talk German again – and when I was there I began to read about anarchism and Marxism and revolutionary politics – very interesting, by the way. Then I borrowed the identity of a German revolutionary whom the German police had executed in secret. An accidental fall down the stairs. It was convenient for them – and lucrative – to let it be known that she had been released and had gone into exile. Xanthos organised it for me; I suppose money changed hands in his usual fashion. I studied the clothes and the mannerisms, the way of talking. I went on to Hamburg, then travelled back on a tramp steamer to London. I arrived as Jenny the Red, brutal, uncompromising, more ardent than most men. I got to know these people and they slowly began to trust me in a way they would never have done a man, or someone English. No one John could have found would have been anywhere near as convincing.'

I gaped, at her story and the pride with which she told it. It was so astounding it was ridiculous. It was all very well to lay claim to a hard and poor childhood, with nothing but a book of genealogy to burn for winter warmth, but I still did not easily credit it.

'Your husband allowed you to do this?'

'No. He expressly forbade it.'

'So . . .'

'Nobody gives me orders, Mr Braddock,' she said, sounding not a little like Jenny the Red. 'Certainly not John. When I proposed the idea, it was only a light-hearted suggestion. His opposition made me determined to see if it could be done. We were quite often apart; an absence of a couple of months was quite simple. I was established in my new identity well before he even discovered that I had gone against his wishes and, as I had been successful and was determined to continue whatever he said, there wasn't a great deal he could do except accept my help.'

'But why did you want to?'

She shrugged. 'Because.'

'Because what?'

'I wanted to. Perhaps I was a little bored. I will get little sympathy from you if I say that the life I lead has its dull side.'

'None at all.'

'But it does, nonetheless. Most of the people I know are content to while away their lives playing bridge and going to house parties. I have little taste for such things, which is why I have to go to Paris or Italy for stimulation. John generally understood and let me come and go as I pleased. He let me do this for him, however reluctantly, because he trusted me and knew he could not stop me. I was never really able to do much to help him, beyond the things you do as a wife.'

I shook my head, to try and knock all the contradictory thoughts out of it so we could get on. So, Elizabeth, Lady Ravenscliff, née Countess Elizabeth Hadik-Barkoczy von Futak uns Szala, transformed herself into Jenny the Red, revolutionary anarchist of Frankfurt. Repeat that sentence and see how easily you believe it. Then you will grasp my difficulties.

'Let us say, just for a moment, that I find all this credible,' I said, 'which I don't. What did you discover?'

'I discovered, in brief,' she said, evidently amused, 'that Jan the Builder was part of this group which called itself the International Brotherhood of Socialists, who are, in fact, little more than criminals. Fanatical, of course; they are deeply embittered about the fate of their country, which doesn't exist at the moment. But they use their anger to justify whatever they want to do, and that includes murder, robbery and extortion. They are violent, suspicious and, for the most part not very intelligent. Only Jan is clever, but he is also the most violent of them all. He mixes his ardour with cunning and ruthlessness. He is quite a magnetic character. Women fall all over him.'

'Including Jenny?'

'That is not any of your business,' she said quietly. 'You will have to believe whatever you think is most likely.'

I blushed to the top of my ears with embarrassment. The woman had successfully thrown me into turmoil yet again. She could do it so easily, and there was nothing I could do to defend myself. I even think I must have derived some pleasure from being so tormented; certainly I put myself into that position often enough.

'What else?' I asked.

'I discovered that the money had been coming through regularly, that it was for a reason, and as long as it kept on arriving, they were content not to launch any expropriations. That is to say, they did not bother themselves with robbing jewellers' shops, or murdering people. They do, however, have a formidable stock of weapons. I have been to target practice with them on Romney Marshes.'

'Pheasant?' I said hopefully.

'No. People. Not real ones, though.'

'Don't sound so disappointed. Is this blackmail? Payments to stop them launching some operation against one of your husband's companies?'

'I have not yet found out. Only Jan knows and he will not say. I have tried to persuade him, but I risk his suspicion if I press too hard. That is why I still go, despite John's death. I believe I am getting close to discovering what all this is about, and having come so far, I will not give up now.'

I tried, but failed, to erase from my mind all thoughts of how she might try to persuade him. And I confess here – I am deeply ashamed – that I found those thoughts irresistible, exciting, rather than disgusting as they should be. Nor did I find I could reject them as absurd as easily as I should.

'That was my contribution, and John was burrowing into the finances to figure out who was sending the money. He had not told anyone else. That was his worry.'

'What do you mean?'

'He thought he had created a monster. That his companies had come to life, and were acting on their own. That they no longer responded to his orders, but followed their own instincts. That was why he told no one. He did not know who he could tell.'

'I think he may have discovered what it was all about,' I replied. 'He was due to have a meeting with Xanthos about it. But he died instead.'

'I only saw him briefly, for a few hours when he came back, and we didn't have time to talk very much. I was away for the weekend. At the Rothschilds' at Waddesdon. Charming people. Do you know them? They were not John's bankers, but they are such congenial company. You'd like them.'

She'd done it again. As fast as I settled into talking to one person, she shifted and became someone else. From the grieving widow, bored with English mores, to the critical, snobbish woman who had been so cruel to Mrs Vincotti, to Jenny the anarchist, to the lustful woman who had driven me to a pitch of frustration, and now to the society gadabout. Do you know Natty Rothschild, darling? Such a sweet man . . . Of course I didn't know the Rothschilds, and I was sure I wouldn't find them charming at all. I felt as though I was talking to an actress, who was playing several roles at the same time, all from different plays.

I glared at her; it was the best I could manage, as an explanation for the feelings behind it would have taken too long, and said too much. Besides, I'm sure she knew exactly what I was feeling.

'I think the obvious thing to do is to go to Northumberland myself and see if I can discover what he did. I will go tomorrow. It is something I can do well, and it will be pleasant to feel competent for once.'

'Do you want me to come as well?' she asked.

Great fantasies swept through my mind at the very idea and, for the first time, I was ready for them. I shook my head. 'No. Absolutely not.'

CHAPTER 22

I went the next evening, on the night sleeper to Newcastle, leaving from King's Cross at ten fifteen. I had never been on a sleeper before, and I found myself childishly excited by the adventure. Not only that, I went first class; money was no object so I thought I would indulge myself. My expenses were being met, and I now had (so the bank had informed me in a hand-written letter) £36 14s 6d in my account. I was tired, which perversely spoiled the occasion; I would gladly have stayed up all night in the crisp linen sheets, listening to the rattle of the wheels and seeing the sparks from the chimney fly past the window in the darkness like a private firework display. It was a two-berth compartment – I was not sufficiently used to my new status to buy myself a single – and my travelling companion was a solicitor from Berwick, a middle-aged man with a wife and four children, whose father, and father's father, had been solicitors in Berwick before him. We talked over the brandy that the Great Northern provided before bedtime, served on a mahogany tray brought round by the porter, and I found his conversation soothing and congenial.

He was a happy man, was Mr Jordan, who had created an entire universe of society in his little town on the edge of the country. On other occasions I might have found him dull, I suppose; his life of bridge and supper parties would never have suited me. But I took comfort in the fact that he liked it; and found my liking was tinged with longing. I feared for Mr Jordan; I felt that the anarchists and the Ravenscliffs would succeed in sweeping all away, sooner or later, and the world would be the poorer for its loss. And then I slept, the sort of sleep which is entirely perfect. It was glorious and I remember thinking as I was in the deepest part of my unconsciousness that if death bore any resemblance to this, then there was nothing to fear at all.

When I woke up, the sun was shining weakly, and the porter of the night before – freshly shaved and tidy – was gently prodding me. 'Morning tea, sir? Toast? Your newspaper? Hot water is on the shelf waiting for you. There's no hurry at all, sir, but if you could be up and about in an hour . . .'

My travelling companion had already gone, so I had the compartment to myself, and I made best use of it. The sleeping car had been uncoupled and pushed into a siding, where it was quiet except for the twittering of the birds and the occasional noise of a steam train passing. It was a lovely day, all the better for the fact that what I was doing there stayed out of my mind completely as I drank my tea, read the newspaper, shaved and dressed in the leisurely fashion I decided that men of means must always employ.

I tipped the porter generously then walked peacefully out of the station, and into the middle of Newcastle. The air seemed heavier; the smell of coal hung in the air in a way I had not noticed in the compartment. The buildings were black with decades of soot from the air, every single one of them, and the architecture was grim and foreboding. There was none of the bright stucco of west London, grimy though that often was, few trees, and even fewer people on the streets. Only the delivery men and a few people on bicycles were to be seen. Newcastle was a working town, a working man's town, and it was currently at work. I looked at the scene for a few moments, my bag in my hand, and decided there was no great rush. I was a man of business. That was why I was dressed in my best suit, my funeral and wedding suit, which I had changed into before I left. It was damnedly uncomfortable, but that served a purpose. It reminded me of my task and my role.

I behaved as I thought I should behave, and walked into the Royal Station Hotel just over the way and took a room for the night. Then spent the next hour unpacking and lying on the bed, wallowing in the opulence and comfort. I had never stayed in a hotel before. Not a proper hotel like this one. On the rare occasions I had travelled I had stayed in boarding houses which rented rooms by the night, the sorts of place which were always cheap, sometimes clean and generally run by people like my own landlady in London. This was altogether different, and I took my time to get used to the room and to the lobby, then spied out the restaurant. It wasn't that hard, I decided. If Elizabeth could pretend to be a German anarchist, I could masquerade as a member of the professional middle classes for a few hours.

Then I was ready. I asked for a cab to be summoned, and directed it to the Beswick plant, where I was to meet Mr Williams, the general manager. I will sketch over most of my conversations, as they were not of great significance. I had sent a telegram the day before, saying I had been retained by the executors of the Ravenscliff estate to sort out certain matters regarding the will. I let it be thought that I was a lawyer, as it would have been far too easy to discover my ignorance had I pretended to be anything else. Even with this disguise there were moments of awkwardness, as Mr Williams knew very much more about company law than I did. He was a grim, tight little man at first sight, and did not relish his time being wasted. Only as our conversation progressed did I realise there was very much more to him. He was an interesting character, in fact, and his initial caution derived principally from the fact that he detested people like me, or rather people like I was supposed to be. Londoners. Money men. Lawyers. With no understanding of industry and no sympathy for it. Williams had more in common with the artisans in his yards than he had with the bankers of the City, although both gave him grief. He was an intermediary, beset on all sides.

I won him over eventually. I confessed that I knew nothing of the City whatsoever, told him of my own antecedents surrounded by the bicycle shops of the Midlands, made myself out as much as possible to be more like him than the bankers of his imagination and experience. And eventually he relaxed, and began to talk more freely. 'Why are you here, exactly?'

I did my best to look a touch shamefaced. 'It is completely foolish,' I said. 'But the law requires that the executors confirm the existence of assets in the estate. That is, if the deceased leaves a pair of cufflinks to a friend, then the executor must confirm the existence of those cufflinks. I am here merely to confirm that this shipyard exists. I take it that it does? It is not a figment of the imagination? We are not making some error here?'

Mr Williams smiled. 'It does. And, as the law is a demanding beast, I will show it to you, if you wish.'

'I would like that very much,' I said with enthusiasm. 'I would be fascinated.'

He pulled out his watch and glanced at it, then sighed like a man who can see his day being wasted and stood up. 'Come along then. I normally do my rounds at lunchtime, but there is no reason why I should not vary my routine a little.'

'Your rounds?' I asked as we left the office, Williams having told his clerks where he was going. 'You sound like a surgeon.'

'It is the same idea, in some ways,' he replied. 'It is important to be seen, and to take the mood of the place. We have to do more and more of that, as so many of our people now join unions.'

'Does that annoy you?'

He shrugged. 'If I were them, I'd join a union,' he said, 'even though it makes my life more complicated. But I have always done this. His Lordship thinks – thought, I should say – that it is important.'

'Did you know him well?' I asked. 'I never met him. He sounds an interesting man.'

'He was very much more than that,' Williams said, 'but he will never be recognised as such. Actresses are better known than men of industry, even though the latter generate the wealth which keeps us from poverty.'

'So what was so great about him?'

Williams looked at me thoughtfully, then said, 'Come this way.'

He took me through a doorway, along a corridor, then up a flight of stairs, Then another, and another, and another. He flitted up nimbly enough, I puffed behind in the dark, wondering where we were going, until he reached another door, opened it and stepped out into the bright sunlight. 'This is what was so great about him,' he said as I stepped through.

It was breathtaking, a sight such as I had never seen before, never even imagined. I knew, all schoolboys knew, about British industry. How it led the world. We knew about the rise of the factory, and mass production. Of iron mills and cotton mills and railways. And daily we saw the results: Sheffield steel, railway engines from Carlisle, ships built in dozens of yards all around the country. We saw the iron girders of bridges, visited the Crystal Palace and knew all about the other marvels of the age. How such things came to be was rarely taught to people like me. They merely existed. I had only ever seen the outside of factories, and there were few enough of those in London, and certainly nothing of any great scale. Even in my home town the biggest employer, the Starley Meteor Works, only had a couple of hundred people.

I stared in utter amazement, and with emotions verging on awe. The yard was gigantic, so big you could not see the end of it, whichever way you turned, it was simply swallowed up in the haze of sunlight through smoke. A vast mass of machinery, cranes, yards, buildings, storage areas, assembly sheds, offices, stretching out before my eyes in every direction. Plumes of thick black smoke rose from a dozen chimneys, the clanking, thudding, scraping and screeching of machinery came from different parts of the scene. It seemed chaotic, even diabolical, the way the landscape had disappeared under the hand of man, but there was also something extraordinarily beautiful in the intricacy, the blocks of brick buildings set against the tin roofs and rusting girders and the dark brown of the river, faintly in view to the east. And there was not a tree, not a bird, not even a patch of grass, anywhere to be seen. Nature had been abolished.

'This is the Beswick Shipyard,' Williams said. 'The creation of Lord Ravenscliff, more than anyone else. It is only one part of his interests; he reproduced factories like this across the country, and across Europe, although this is by far the biggest. What you see is not a factory, it is a sequence of factories, each one carefully linked to the other parts, and this, in turn, is linked to the other sites across the continent. It is the most complex, elaborate structure that mankind has ever constructed.'

'And you run it all?' I asked, genuinely impressed.

'I run this plant.'

'How? I mean, how can one person have the slightest idea what is going on in that – chaos?'

He smiled. 'That is where Ravenscliff was a genius. He developed a way of controlling all this, and not just this, but all of his factories, so that any moment you can find out what is going on, where it is happening. So that chaos, as you call it, can be tamed and the hidden patterns and movements of men, and machinery and capital and raw material, can be forced to act in a way which is efficient and effective.'

'Elegant?' I suggested.

'That is not a word a businessman often uses, but yes, it is elegant, if you wish. Not many people can, or want to, understand it, but I would even say it has a sort of beauty to it, when it works well.'

'And the reason for of all this is . . .'

Mr Williams pointed, out to the east towards a dark grey shape. 'Can you see that there?'

'Vaguely. What is it?'

'That is HMS Anson. A Dreadnought, 23,000 tons. Three million different parts are needed for that ship to do its job. Every one must work perfectly. Every one has to be conceived, designed, fabricated and assembled into its correct place so that the ship will perform properly. It must sail in the tropics and in the Arctic. It must be able to fire its guns under all conditions. It must be ready for full speed at a few hours' notice, capable of sailing for months at a time with no repairs. And all of those pieces have to be gathered together and put in place on time, and within budget. That is the point of all this. Would you like to see it?'

Williams led me down the stairs and across a cobbled road to what seemed very like a cab stand. 'The plant is three miles long and two miles deep,' he said as we got in the back of a horse-drawn buggy that was waiting there. 'I can't waste my time walking around, so we have this system of carriages around the place. The horses are used to the noise.'

And we clattered off. It was like going through a city, but a very strange city, with no shops, few people walking about, and no women. Everyone was dressed in working overalls. Instead of houses, there were warehouses, vast and windowless; blocks of offices, equally grim in appearance, and other mysterious buildings which Mr Williams pointed out as we passed. 'That's Foundry No. 1,' he said, 'where the plate is made . . . the Gun Works, where the cannon are assembled . . .' And so we went on, the old horse clopping its way, with me in the back listening to Mr Williams's explanations, and veering wildly between elation at what man could achieve, and a certain feeling of gloom at the thought of the power of this vast organisation.

'And this,' Mr Williams said with the slightest quaver in his voice as we turned yet another corner, 'is the reason for all of it.'

Many people have seen a Dreadnought, far out to sea, or even in dock. They are impressive, breathtaking sights, even then. But only if you see one close up, out of the water, do you get any real sense of how enormous it is, for then all that is normally concealed, the gigantic bulk of the ship that is under the waterline, becomes visible. It went up, and up and up, until I thought its very top was lost in the clouds. From end to end it was so vast that the prow could not be seen at all; it disappeared in the haze of smoke pumped out by the factory chimneys. I had no idea how advanced the building work was; it looked as though it would take years before it was ready and even then I could not easily imagine how anyone expected such a thing actually to float, let alone move.

Mr Williams laughed when I asked. 'We launch in ten days' time,' he said. 'From laying down the keel to final fitting out should take twelve months. We are now eight months in and making good time, I'm glad to say. Every day we run over costs us £1,100 in lost profits. Well? What do you think?'

I shook my head. I truly believe it was one of the most remarkable moments of my life, to be confronted in this way with full proof of man's audacity and invention. How anyone even dared to contemplate building such a thing was quite beyond my powers to imagine. And then I saw the people, the army of tiny figures scurrying up and down the scaffolding, shouting at the cranemen as gigantic squares of armour plate were lifted up, the riveters methodically pounding rivet after rivet through the holes already made, the supervisors and the electricians and the plumbers taking a break after their labours. Many hundreds of men, machines ranging from the huge hydraulic cranes to the smallest of screwdrivers, all working together, all apparently knowing what they were to do and when they were to do it. All to produce this beast, which had started out on its long route to the high seas in a decision taken by Ravenscliff months or years before. He spoke, and it was done; thousands of men, millions of pounds reacted to his decision, and were still following his orders, even after his death.

What did I think? Nothing; I was overcome by the scale of it all, by the power one man had created. Now, for the first time, I could see why all the descriptions of him were superlatives. Powerful, frightening, a genius, a monster. I had heard or read all of these. They were all true. Only such a person would have dared.

'I'm afraid that I cannot offer you a tour of the ship itself,' Mr Williams said, interrupting my reverie. He was pleased by my reaction, I could see. I think I must have had a look of stunned amazement on my face; my silence was very much more eloquent than anything I might have said. 'It is dangerous when it is in such a state, and in fact there is little to see which would interest anyone but a specialist in naval architecture. I simply wanted you to see it up close. It is an impressive sight, don't you think?'

I nodded, but continued to gaze up and along to take in the vastness of the thing. It was dark; the hull had completely blotted out the sun, and the depths of the huge trench in the ground in which the ship was taking shape were cold, and windy and dark. I shivered.

'It does get cold. Sometimes it even starts to rain inside the dry dock, even though it is a fine enough day outside. The construction generates a lot of heat and vapour; that condenses against the sides and falls as rain. It is quite a problem sometimes. One of those little difficulties that even the most perceptive of planners cannot imagine in advance. I hope, by the way, you are convinced that this yard does actually exist now.'

I nodded. 'I think the executors might concede that one,' I said with a vague smile. 'And I must thank you for your time. It has been most generous of you.'

'Not at all. As you may have noticed, I am very proud of this place. It gives me great pleasure to show it off.'

'And your workers? Are they proud of it as well?'

'Oh, yes. I think so. They should be; they know they are the best in the world. And they are paid well. We cannot afford even one incompetent riveter or mechanic. They have to be paid well, and supervised very closely. When we launched Intrepid last year the whole city came to a halt so everyone could watch. They knew they'd done something remarkable. Come along.'

We walked back to the cab, and the horse walked wearily off once more, taking a different route this time. After a few minutes, Mr Williams asked the driver to stop. 'Please forgive me,' he said with a smile. 'I must just check with one of our people in here. Do come in, if you wish.'

I followed him into the entrance of a block of offices, which was attached to another giant building of such size that ordinarily it alone would have made one pause for thought. But I was almost getting used to them now. Another building the size of St Paul's. Oh, well. I wanted my lunch. Mr Williams led the way into the warren of offices, where dozens of clerks sat at rows of oak desks, each with his piles of paper. Then through more, where men with drawing boards were working. Mr Williams popped his head into one room, and called one of the men out.

'I have to see Mr Ashley for a few moments. Would you be so kind as to take Mr Braddock here to see our little arsenal?'

The young man, clearly pleased to have been chosen for such a task and to have attracted the attention of the most powerful man in the North-East, said he would be delighted. His name was Fredericks, he told me, as he led the way. He was a senior draughtsman, working on gun turrets. He had worked at Beswick for twelve years now, ever since he was fourteen. His father also worked here, in the yards. His brothers and uncles did as well.

'A family firm, then,' I said, more for something to say than anything else.

'I don't suppose there's a single family in Newcastle which doesn't have someone who works in the yard,' he replied. 'Here we are.'

He pulled open a heavy wooden door, and then followed me through. Again I was astonished, even though it took me some time to work out what I was looking at. Guns. But not ordinary guns, not like in museums, or put out for display at the Tower of London. These were more like tree trunks from some vast forest; twenty, thirty feet long, three feet thick, tapering meanly and menacingly towards the muzzle. And there were dozens and dozens of them, some long and almost elegant, others short and squat, lined up in rows on huge trestles.

'That's our biggest,' Fredericks said pointing to one of the longest, which lay in the middle of the building, shining dully from a protective layer of oil. 'The 12/45 mark 10. With the breech it weighs fifty-eight tons and it can throw an 850-pound shell nearly eleven miles and land within thirty feet of the target. If the people operating it know what they're about. Which I doubt they will.'

'And these are all for HMS Anson?'

'She'll take a dozen of them. Think of the effect of a single broadside. And these can fire once a minute. We think.'

'You think? I got the impression that everyone who worked here knew. I didn't think guessing was allowed.'

He looked a bit disconcerted by this. 'Well, you see, it's not the guns. We know they work. It's the gun control. The hydraulics. Anson will have an entirely new design. The trouble is . . .'

'You can't test it in advance too easily.'

He nodded. 'It's what I work on. I think it will be just fine. But if it isn't . . .'

'So, what are the other ones for? If twelve go on Anson, there must be another couple of dozen of those great big ones here.'

He shrugged. 'Who knows? It's not as if they tell us. But it's the same all over the yard. There's enough guns and plate and girders to build a battle fleet out of the spare parts, with more being made. But there are no more orders.'

'Who's they?'

'Scuttlebutt. Gossip. Talk in the pub. Who knows where these things come from? People are worrying about lay-offs, once Anson's finished.'

'What about foreign orders?'

He shook his head.

'Perhaps they're being kept secret.'

He laughed. 'You don't know shipyards, sir. There aren't any secrets from the workers. Do you think there is anything that affects our jobs we don't know about?'

I looked thoughtfully at the vast pieces of metal lined up in that gigantic, chilly room, and shivered. It was calm in there, peaceful almost; it was impossible to connect the atmosphere with what those things were for, or what they could do.

'Tell me,' I said, 'perhaps you can help. I am looking for a man called James Steptoe. He works here, I believe.'

Fredericks' expression changed instantly. 'No,' he said shortly. 'He doesn't. Not any more.'

'Are you sure? I am certain . . .'

'He used to work here. He was dismissed.'

'Oh? Why?'

'Theft.' He turned away, and I had to grab him by the arm.

'I wish to speak to him.'

'I don't. Nobody likes a thief.'

'Nonetheless, I must talk to him. Ah. Here comes Mr Williams. Perhaps he will be able to tell me . . .'

'33Wellington Street. That's where he lives,' he said hurriedly. 'Please . . .'

'Not a word,' I whispered back.

And then Mr Williams came within earshot and that was the end of the conversation, but in some ways it was the most interesting part yet of my visit. A pity I hadn't had more time with the young man, who seemed serious and observant.

'I'm surprised you let me in there,' I remarked as we went back to the cab. 'I mean, I read in the newspapers all about spies trying to steal secrets about guns and things.'

Mr Williams laughed. 'Oh, steal away, if you wish. There is nothing you have seen which is so very secret. What a gun looks like tells you nothing. It is how the metal is made, how the hydraulics work, how it is aimed. That's where the true secrets lie. And we are careful about that. Except for the gun-metal part.'

'Why?'

He winked, and bent towards me conspiratorially. 'Because the Germans already know.'

'How come?' I asked, eager to hear a tale of espionage.

'Because they invented the process. We stole it from them.' He leaned back his head and chuckled. 'They're the best in the world at that, the Germans. Very advanced.'

'So you have spies in Germany?'

'Oh, good heavens no. Lord Ravenscliff had shareholdings. That is very much better. He had a substantial shareholding in Krupp's, the German steel company. Not in his own name, of course; through an intermediary bank in Hamburg. They were able to obtain whatever he wanted. And Schneider in France.'

I was astonished. I didn't think it worked like that at all. 'But secret processes from here are not learned by the Germans by the same methods in reverse?'

Mr Williams looked shocked. 'Of course not. His Lordship was an Englishman, and a patriot.'

Fair enough, I thought. On the other hand, what about that tale Seyd had told me, about building submarines for the Russians? How patriotic was that?

'So tell me, Mr Braddock,' the manager said as we headed back to the factory gate, 'what did you find most impressive about Beswick? Anson, I imagine.'

I considered. 'Certainly it is a staggering sight,' I said. 'Quite beyond belief, really. It was worth the journey just to see it. But, oddly, I do not think that was the most impressive. I think the fact that this yard exists, and can produce such a thing more remarkable still. The idea that anyone can organise this anthill of a place is the most surprising.'

I had said the right thing. Williams almost glowed at my words.

'That was Lord Ravenscliff's genius, and why the greatest compliment to his skill is to say he will not be missed. Do not misunderstand me,' he said with a smile as I raised an eyebrow. 'It is what he wanted. To create an organisation so perfect it could run by itself, or rather with only the managers, each of whom knows their business. I believe he succeeded.'

'How so?'

'The job of any company is to make as much profit as possible. As long as that is the main aim of the managers, then there is no need to direct them. They will, collectively, take the right decisions.'

'And you will soon find out whether that is the case.'

We had arrived by the gate. A cab, one of several, was waiting patiently to take me back into the centre of Newcastle. Williams courteously held the door for me as I got in.

'Indeed. It will be very interesting. Have a safe journey back to London. I hope you have enjoyed yourself.'

CHAPTER 23

At eight o'clock, after a rapid meal, I left once more, this time walking away from the works and into the rows of houses to the west of the city centre. Mr James Steptoe lived somewhere in that rabbit warren. It was a dreary journey, into monotonous red-brick streets, each house exactly the same as the next, all built, I suspected, by the works and for the works. Each had a door and two windows facing the street. All the doors were green, all the windows brown. There were no trees, few patches of green, and surprisingly few pubs; I supposed that the works had intervened there as well and banned such places in order to keep its workforce sober and efficient. Or it was looking after its health, and acting responsibly. Take your pick.

But it was neat and well ordered, no doubt about that, and a few streets of newer houses showed signs of a different way of thinking. Curved porches, more fanciful roofs. Small enough, and mean enough, no doubt, but a place to live and be comfortable. There were churches and schools and shops, all laid out with thought and care. I had seen very much worse in the East End, which was a hellish, confused nightmare in comparison with this disciplined, uniform place which, if it was a barracks, at least allowed its occupants to pretend.

The road I was looking for was off a street, and off an avenue. All were named after imperial heroes and events of the not too distant past. I wondered how many of the inhabitants noticed after a while. Did it make their hearts swell with pride that they lived in Victoria Road? Did it make them work harder, or drink less for having a house in Khartoum Place? Were they better husbands and fathers because they walked to work along Mafeking Road, then into Gordon Street? Was Mr James Steptoe, I thought as I knocked on the door, a more respectable, patriotic Englishman for living at 33 Wellington Street?

Hard to tell. His mother, who answered the door, certainly looked respectable enough as she peered uncertainly at me. The trouble was, I could make out only a little of what she was saying; I supposed she was speaking English, but the accent was so thick she might almost have been another Serbo-Croatian anarchist. This was a problem I had not anticipated. Still, if I couldn't understand her, she seemed to understand me well enough, and invited me in, and showed me to the little parlour, kept for best. After a while James Steptoe came in, warily and cautiously; he was shaped rather like a bull, almost as broad as he was tall, with a thick neck emerging from his collarless shirt, and black hair covering his forearms where the sleeves had been rolled up. He had thick dark eyebrows, and a shadow of beard around his mouth. He looked like someone who played rugby, or worked down a mine rather than pushing pens and dockets.

I shook hands, and introduced myself.

'Are you the police?' A short sentence, gruffly spoken, but a great relief. I understood it. Mr Steptoe was bilingual.

'Certainly not. Why should I be?'

'I'm eating,' he said.

'I do apologise for disturbing you. I can either go away for a while, or wait, as you please. But I'm afraid I must talk to you this evening. I have to return to London tomorrow morning.'

He studied me carefully. 'Are you hungry?'

If I write out his words in normal speech, and say I could understand them, do not think that he spoke in a normal, or easily comprehensible fashion. He did not; my time with Mr Steptoe was a triumph of concentration and much of what the rest of his family said escaped me entirely. I said I had eaten, thank you, but could easily eat some more.

He nodded at this then led me down the little corridor into the kitchen. It was a bit like being presented at a court ball; eight faces examined me intently as I came in and stood, a little sheepishly, by the little stove. I felt like an interloper, a foreigner, a threatening presence.

'Father, this is Mr Braddock, from London. This is my mother,' – the old woman smiled severely – 'my sister Annie, my two brothers Jack and Arthur, Lily, my fiancée and Uncle Bill. Jack – move. Mr Braddock here wants your chair.'

'London?' said the father, who tended to speak in one-word sentences.

'That's right,' I said. 'I'm here to sort out a few legal matters with regard to Lord Ravenscliff's estate. I need to discuss a few matters with your son.'

'Everybody knows all about that,' said he. 'Don't think you have to hide anything from them. What else is there to say? I've been tried and found guilty, haven't I? Everyone knows. Or did he see the light and leave me some money?'

'I'm afraid not,' I said with a grin. 'And he didn't leave me any either, if that makes you feel any better.'

'So?'

'Lord Ravenscliff believed that you were innocent of the accusations made against you.'

This caused a stir. 'He could have bloody well told me,' said Steptoe junior.

'As far as I understand, he came to his conclusion about three days before he died. He had no opportunity to tell you.'

There were looks all around the table, half pleased, half resentful that I should have the power to affect their lives in such a fashion.

'Now, there is a problem,' I continued. 'While Lord Ravenscliff may have been convinced, he did not put down in writing his reasons. So I have the task of redoing all his work. In other words, to find out what was happening. So I need from you a full account. When it is complete, Lady Ravenscliff will write to Mr Williams at the plant, you will get your job back and, I am sure, be paid in full for the wages you have lost.'

It was a handsome offer, and one which I was not entitled to make. But it did the trick nicely. From then on they were falling over themselves to tell me whatever I wanted to know.

'So, please tell me the precise circumstances of this accusation.' Lawyerly, I thought.

'It was all lies,' said the mother defiantly. 'Jimmy'd never . . .'

'Yes, Mother, it seems we're all agreed on that,' he said patiently. He thought for a while, then glanced around at his family with a slight smile, and asked his mother to make another pot of tea. As she filled the kettle from a big bowl of water near the back door and put it on the hob, he began.

'I'm a book-keeper, you know,' he said. 'My dad here didn't like it, because he's a shipbuilder, a boilermaker, and didn't like the idea of me working in a suit. He reckoned I'd get grand ideas, and get above myself. But I was clever at school. I always got high marks in arithmetic and spelling, and my hand was good, copperplate when I wanted. My teacher liked me, and put in a word with the yard, and got me taken on in the offices. I began there about eight years ago, and learned the business of book-keeping. I went on courses even, to improve myself, and did well. I was promoted, and paid more, and I didn't get above myself, I don't think.'

His father scowled amiably, as though to concede the point.

'Anyway, my job was to make payments out for bills that came in. Not the big ones, you understand. Miscellaneous and sundries is my department, and there's no rhyme nor reason to a lot of it. So, when I got in this bill for twenty-five pounds, I paid it, cash in an envelope, posted to the address on the docket. A couple of weeks later, all that remained was a twenty-five-pound deficit, and enough evidence that I must have been the one to have taken it; all the other pieces of paper had vanished. I was asked to explain. No one believed me, and I was fired, and told I was lucky I wasn't going to gaol.

'I was that upset I could have cried. I did, in fact. I couldn't believe it had happened to me, and even wondered whether I had made some mistake. But there couldn't have been. There were only two possible explanations – either I'd stolen the money, or the request for payment had been real. I knew I hadn't stolen anything, so that meant the dockets must have been removed. I don't make mistakes, you see. But I was in a right way; there was no chance now of ever getting another job again, not in Newcastle. Pretty soon everyone would hear something, that's the way it works. I was going to go to live with my second cousin in Liverpool, start again, and hope no one would find anything out. I was even acting as though I was guilty. Only this lot,' he gestured at the people sitting round the table, who nodded,'stood by me. Not even the union would help. They didn't help thieves, they told me. Not worth their time; they had enough to do with deserving cases.'

He snorted bitterly as he sipped his tea. His father looked uncomfortable.

'And then I got this short letter, asking me – ordering me, more like – to come to the Royal. No signature, nothing. I almost didn't go, but I thought – why not? I was wondering, you see, what it was about, and I had nothing else to do. So I went, and knocked on the door, and there was His Lord . . . Ravenscliff, I mean. All alone.

'I was terrified, I don't mind telling you. Just the room was frightening enough; I'd never seen the like before, even grander than the music hall, with its velvet curtains and golden furniture. And Ravenscliff . . .'

He paused to shift uncomfortably in his chair, and stirred some more sugar into his cup. 'You never met him, you say? If you had I would have to say no more. He was a frightening man. Bulky, not fat, and he never moved much. Didn't have to; just looked at you, and that was enough. Didn't speak loud either; he made you listen to him. Did nothing to make you comfortable or at ease. Just told me to sit, and then looked at me, for ages. Didn't move a muscle all the while, and me getting hotter under the collar, and more and more upset.

'"I didn't do it," I blurted out when I could stand no more. "And if you want to put the police on me, then go ahead . . ."

'"Have I said anything about the police?"

'"So why am I here?"

'"Well, not for the police," he said quietly. "I could have you arrested and thrown into gaol without even leaving London, you know. You are here because I want to ask you questions."

'"What sort of questions?"

'"Not why you did it. That is of no interest to me at all. How you did it does concern me, though. The controls should be proof against people like you, and they weren't. So, in return for your freedom, I want to know how you did it."

'So I sat down again. "Will you, for the last time, listen to what I am saying? I didn't do anything. I did not steal anything. Not a penny. Not even half a penny." '

'That's right,' his mother interrupted, nodding her head in approval. 'And when he told me that, I was so proud of him . . .'

'Ravenscliff stared at me, with no expression on his face at all. I couldn't tell what he was thinking. That was frightening, you know. Normally, you say something, and you know how well it's gone down. Not with him. You couldn't tell a thing.

'"Prove it," he said.

' "I can't," I said bitterly. "That's the trouble." And I told him what had happened. Everything I've told you, and more. He nodded as I spoke; it was clear he knew the procedures perfectly well. Then he asked me questions.

'"Every bill is stamped with a number, which runs in sequence. If one was removed, it should have been obvious. The same goes for payment slips."

'"I know," I said. "I can only think that it was stamped with a duplicate number, so that if it was removed, then there would be no gap. That would mean that someone deliberately made out a fake bill, then removed it. And not me, either."

'"Why not you?"

'"Because I wouldn't have paid it myself, would I? I would have made up a bill, got hold of the stamp and numbered it with a duplicate number, and then slipped it into someone else's pile for payment. At the end of the day, after the money had been sent out, it would have been easy enough to go to the files, find the bill and remove it. Then gone to the address and picked up the money."

' "That is a convincing explanation, Mr Steptoe," he said. "But it means you are accusing one of the people who work with you in your office."

' "No," I said quickly, because I didn't want to accuse anyone. "Lots of people come in and out all day."

'"I see." Ravenscliff walked to the window and stared out of it. I was confused, a bit, but I didn't feel as though I should ask. But still, I wondered. This was a rich man, fretting about twenty-five pounds. Look after the pennies, and the pounds will look after themselves, but this seemed stupid.

'And then he told me to go. Didn't say anything more. Just dismissed me like some footman. I decided then and there to prove it. I'd been sitting at home feeling sorry for myself, but he made me mad. I wasn't going to be labelled a thief, not by him and not by anyone. I came home, and talked it over with my dad. He told me I had to try. And we talked to my cousin, another cousin, not the one in Liverpool, who works nights. He talked it over with . . .'

'Does anyone in Newcastle not know about this?' I interrupted.

He looked surprised. 'I didn't tell a soul. Only my family. Of course I told them. They had a right to know. It affects them as much as it does me, you know. To have a thief in the family . . . ? But they stuck with me. Of course I told them.'

'I see. I'm sorry. Go on.'

'Anyway, it was all organised. I'd go in with my uncle and cousin on the night shift and go to the office. It was easy enough to get a key from one of the watchmen, who's a son-in-law of my Aunt Betty. Then I'd settle down and start going through the books, and leave with the shift when it went off in the morning.'

'And?' I prompted.

'And it took ages. I went through every slip of paper, going back months, and then compared those to the shift books, showing who was on duty. Every single one. I couldn't afford to miss anything.'

I nodded. I knew how he felt. I wondered if the Ravenscliffs made a habit of somehow getting total strangers to do their hard work for them. Elizabeth had done the same with me, after all.

'Eventually, I had it. Six payments, of between twenty-one and thirty-four pounds each, none with matching dockets. That told me that whoever was doing this knew how the office worked. Because anything over thirty-five has to be countersigned by the chief clerk. Whoever was doing this knew not to be too greedy.'

'But you didn't find out where the money was going?'

'Not exactly.'

'Not exactly?'

He held up his hand to ask for patience. 'I asked second cousin Henry . . .'

I groaned.

'. . . who also works in the office, to keep a look out, and eventually the chance came along. Henry couldn't take the thing, obviously, but he did copy it out, with the address for payment.'

'Can you remember what the address was?'

'Of course. The one I told Lord Ravenscliff. 15 Newark Street, London, E.'

The house I had seen Jan the Builder going into.

Steptoe had got up, and vanished. He returned a few moments later with an envelope.

I looked at the piece of paper inside. It was a bill, for £27 13s 6d, in respect of miscellaneous goods supplied. Dated 15 January 1909, with a number in the top right-hand corner, which Steptoe explained was the invoice number on the file, and which was duplicated on another, legitimate bill. At the bottom was a note. 'c. pay B ham 3752.' I asked what that was.

'That's another way of tracking money,' he explained. 'This indicates that the money was ultimately to be drawn from a bank account belonging to a different part of the organisation.'

'I see. So this means . . .'

'Cash payment drawn on Bank of Hamburg account no 3752.'

I thought. So this young man had discovered that payments were being made frequently to this bunch of anarchists in London, using a loophole in Ravenscliff's pride and joy, the organisational structure he had set up over the years. It was being done by someone who understood it well, perhaps even better than Ravenscliff did.

'Who was responsible for this? Do you know?'

The young man nodded. 'I do.'

'And you told the company?'

'I did not.'

'Why?'

'Because it's not my job to betray my workmates to the bosses. I was happy to clear my own name, but not at the cost of blackening someone else's.'

All around the table nodded in agreement. I had quite forgotten they were there, but evidently what Steptoe had said had been discussed by them. This was a family decision, not his alone. So I nodded in approval as well, as though it was exactly the decision I thought he should have taken. In fact, it probably was.

'I can tell you who was behind it all, though.'

I looked at him. 'Well, let me take a guess, then. Obviously not one of your workmates. So, you are about to tell me it was one of the bosses themselves. Otherwise you wouldn't say a word. Correct?'

He grinned at me, in a fetchingly boyish fashion. 'That's right,' he said with some satisfaction. 'He told me everything, once I'd figured it out. He was brought in one day, about six months ago and told that he had to do this. Slip fake invoices into the piles and remove them afterwards. Naturally, he asked why, although he didn't expect to get a reply.'

'Why not?'

'Because we're expected to do as we're told. Not understand the reasoning for it. He expected that he'd be told off, and told that he was just to do it, not wonder what it was all about. What business of his was it? Instead, he got a long explanation.'

'And who was this from?'

'Mr Xanthos, who's a boss. Very high up, he is.'

'I see. Go on, then.'

'Anyway, Mr Xanthos said that people think selling things like battleships and guns is easy. It isn't, says he. You have to persuade people. And that involves things that people had best not know about. Like helping to make up their minds with little presents. Doing the necessary.'

'And that's what these payments were?'

'That's what he said. Little presents to people with influence, which would bring in the orders, and guarantee jobs right along Tyneside for years. Of course, it wasn't a good idea for people to know about this. It had to be done secretly. And it had to be kept quiet if anyone found out about it.'

'So this friend of yours went away, thinking he was helping the company to bend the rules a little to secure jobs. And that it was all being done with the company's approval?'

'That's right. But Xanthos had told him that no one was to know. Mr Williams and all the others didn't want to know and wouldn't thank him for saying anything. He only told me when I asked him a question in the pub. Difficult that was; I'm not welcome in pubs any more. Not ones used by the factory. That was a week or so before the accident.'

'What accident was that?'

'Bad thing. Shouldn't have happened, poor kid. But he was going through one of the steel yards at the end of the day, and there was a slip, so it seems. A post holding the girders in place gave way, and they came tumbling down across the floor. He was in the way. Never stood a chance.'

'And this was?'

'About three weeks ago. They had the funeral, and a lovely thing it was. The company paid and gave money to his mother, because he was her only support. And so they should have, but many wouldn't have. They'd have said it was his own fault, that he shouldn't have been there.'

There was a moment's silence as he finished. 'Are there many accidents? In the yards, I mean?'

The father shrugged. 'Some, of course. It's only to be expected. Two or three a year. Mostly it's people's own fault.'

'This man, the one who died, he's not going to be telling anyone else about these payments now, is he? Did he tell anyone else except you?'

Steptoe shook his head. 'No. He was too frightened of losing his job. And who could he tell? I only got it out of him because he felt bad about what had happened to me.'

'So if he hadn't told you, then no one would ever have been able to find out about this? And if the accident had happened only a little bit earlier . . .'

Steptoe nodded.

'Have you told anyone else? Apart from your entire family, that is?'

He grinned. 'Not even them. Not all of them.'

'May I suggest that you keep it that way? I do not want you to have a pile of girders falling on you as well.'

The smile faded. 'What do you mean?'

'The only other person to know anything about this was Lord Ravenscliff, and he fell out of a window.'

I stood up, and dusted the cake crumbs from my lap. 'Thank you, Mr Steptoe, and thank you all, ladies and gentlemen,' I said, bowing to the entire table. 'It was most kind of you to talk to me and feed me such excellent cake. Now, is there anything I can do for you?'

'I want my job back.'

'I will talk to Lady Ravenscliff,' I said, 'and get her to intervene. Do not worry on that score. In the meantime, please write down your account in careful, meticulous detail, and send it to me. I will suggest to her that she offer you payment for your services. That seems only fair.'

CHAPTER 24

The annual meeting of the Rialto Investment Trust was to be held on the morning after I returned at eleven. I had only been to such an event once before, and it had been deadly and interminably dull. A South African mining company, that had been, and I had been sent because the poor soul who normally attended such things was off sick. Ever since the Boer War, South African mining companies had a claim to be news, in the way that the doings of most coal mines or cotton companies were not. So I went, with strict instructions not to fall asleep. 'Just spell the name of the chairman right and remember – profits for this year and last, dividend for this year and last. That's all anyone is ever interested in.'

So I went and did as I was told, sitting alone – the real shareholders avoided me as though I had a strange smell and I didn't get any of the tea and biscuits either – and took down everything I was told to take down. I still maintain it wasn't my fault that I missed a share issue to raise more capital. Even had I been awake, I would not then have understood what they were talking about.

But now I considered myself almost an expert in all matters financial. Words and phrases like scrip issue and debenture stock could trip from my tongue with the same facility that grievous bodily harm or assault and battery had done only a few weeks before. And, just to be on the safe side, I persuaded Wilf Cornford to come along as an interpreter. I was there with a notebook pretending to be a reporter once more; how Wilf got in I do not know. Apart from us there were about ten other journalists – itself notable as such meetings normally only attracted one or two – and at least a hundred shareholders. This, said Wilf, was unprecedented. Something, he said, was up.

And so it was, although while it was going on it was about as thrilling as a committee meeting at a town council, all motions to amend and comments from the floor so densely wrapped up in convoluted phrases that their import was somewhat lost. The nominal chairman of the event was Mr Cardano, the executor of Ravenscliff's will. He did a good enough job, I thought; he made a brief, and entirely empty speech about Ravenscliff's great qualities and abilities – which I noted was met with suspicious silence – before passing matters over to Bartoli, who sat on his left looking studiously neutral. This gentleman then rattled through the annual accounts at such speed that he was back in his chair only a few moments later. The only bit I properly appreciated was his closing sentence – 'and in view of the excellent year and good prospects for the coming year, we recommend an increase of dividend of 25 per cent, to four shillings and a penny per every one pound nominal.' He sat down to a smattering of applause.

There then followed questions – although not from the journalists, who were not allowed to speak, an unnatural state which made them chatter amongst themselves to indicate their discomfort. When would the Ravenscliff estate be wound up? Very soon, promised Mr Cardano. Could the executor reassure investors about the state of Rialto's finances? Absolutely yes: the figures were there for all to see; reassurance was surely unnecessary. And what about the companies Rialto invested in? On that he could not reply, but application must be made to those companies. However, their published accounts suggested they were all doing splendidly. And so it went on; there were votes on this, and votes on that. Hands were raised and lowered again. Cardano periodically muttered words like 'Carried' or 'Not carried'. Wilf squiggled in his seat. And finally there was a motion to adjourn and everyone stood up.

I tried to sidle up to Cardano at the end, but he was surrounded by other members of the board almost like an emperor being shielded by a praetorian guard, and no journalist got near. Only one man approached; he got to a few feet away, and Cardano looked at him – how did I do? was clearly on his face. This man nodded, and Cardano relaxed, and left the room.

An important figure, then, but who was he? I kept him in sight as he stood, being buffeted by those making their way to the door. Not remarkable really: middle-aged; slim, short dark hair thinning on the top; of average size. A clear, open face, clean-shaven, a vague smile on a generous, well-proportioned mouth. He turned, and nodded a brief bow as a stout man, about seventy, with a round face and white toothbrush moustache looking like a retired lieutenant-colonel in a county regiment tapped him on the shoulder. I could not hear the conversation, but I grasped enough. 'Good to see you, Cort,' said the ex-officer in a booming voice. Then they moved out of earshot. I would have loved to have heard more, but it was enough: I had a face for the name. I now knew what the mysterious Henry Cort looked like. He didn't look so frightening to me.

Then I was dragged off by Wilf, who seemed properly agitated, and said – in a quite unprecedented display of emotion – that he needed a drink. I could not imagine him drinking at all, let alone needing one, but who was I to refuse?

'Well!' he said, when we were settled into our chairs in a pub round the corner, usually frequented by Schroder's people after hours but now empty. 'That was a battle to remember!'

I frowned, bemused. 'What was?'

'The meeting, boy! I've never witnessed anything like it!'

'Were we both in the same room?'

He stared. 'Did you not see what was going on?'

'I saw enough to make me drop off my chair with boredom, if that's what you mean.'

'Oh, for heaven's sake!'

'Well? What? What did I miss?'

'The ambush, man! The counter-attack! The routing of the forces of dissent! Didn't you understand anything?'

I shook my head.

Wilf sighed sorrowfully. 'You are really not up to this, you know.'

'Just tell me,' I snapped.

'Oh, very well. You noticed, I hope, that the board bought off the shareholders by bunging money at them?'

'The dividend?'

'Precisely. It was clear from the accounts that they should only really increase the pay-out by about 10 per cent. But they increased it by 25 per cent, and they will have to go heavily into reserves to do it. The idea, I'm sure, was to keep the shareholders quiet until the money is paid out in about six weeks' time. That dealt with some of them, and it was clever; cut the ground from under the enemy from the start. But they kept on coming.'

'Did they? How?'

'What do you think all those motions and proposals and questions were about?'

'I've no idea whatsoever.'

'A number of shareholders are suspicious, and others want to take control of the trust. They banded together; there must have been meetings all over the City for the last week. I'm sure they did a deal they thought would hold. Vote in new management, then have a good look at the books. Then, perhaps, dissolve the Trust and pay out the money. I don't know. It doesn't matter, because they were defeated.'

'Really?'

'Yes. They were. That Cardano is not daft; takes after his father, no doubt. But clearly there were other discussions going on as well. The 25 per cent he controls as executor, and other groups of votes, blocked every motion, and voted instead to postpone all decisions until the Ravenscliff estate is settled. Quite a lot of the shareholders were voting against their own best interests, if you ask me.'

'And you are going to tell me you don't know why. I know you are.'

'Precisely. But I will find out, so help me. And I can tell you who, or at least a bit of who. It was Barings, for one. I couldn't quite figure it out, but they seem to have amassed a stake of about 5 per cent. That's a guess, of course. I will be able to confirm that in a few days. I didn't know they had any. They handled the flotation but I assumed they had long since sold any shares.'

'They bought some the day after Ravenscliff died,' I said, feeling quite proud that I knew something Wilf did not. And gratified by his look of interest as a result.

'How do you know it was Barings?' I persisted.

'Oh, well, it was a show of strength, wasn't it? Tom Baring himself came along to cast the votes. So keep your noses out, you're wasting your time. That was the message.'

'Which one was he?'

'About seventy, receding hair, the one with an orchid in his buttonhole.'

'The retired major talking to Cort?'

'Who's Cort?'

'Nothing. It's not important. This Tom Baring, who is he, exactly?'

'One of the Baring clan. Extraordinary man. I know what you mean about being a retired major. He looks the part. But he is one of the country's great experts on Chinese porcelain. Not that I care about that, of course.'

'Of course. So he's a big cheese?'

'One of the directors; it's not a family partnership any more, of course. It's been a company ever since the disaster twenty years ago, but the family still has huge influence. The thing about Tom Baring is that he's lazy. Very good, very effective when he can be roused, but he can't be roused very often. For him to come here is a powerful message. Barings thinks this is important enough for him to abandon his porcelain, get up to London and appear. He only does that when it's really vital.'

'The stuff of dinner conversations for years,' I commented.

'It is. So don't be frivolous. People will be trying to figure all this out for a long time.'

'So what do you think it means?'

'I have no idea. Only that, for the time being, Barings is behind Rialto and wants everyone to know. But there is obviously more to it than that. Someone was trying to launch a coup. Much of the lead was taken by a man from Anderson's . . .'

'Who were also buying Rialto shares shortly after Ravenscliff died,' I put in. Again, Wilf looked impressed. I was rather pleased with myself.

'But who are Anderson's fronting for, eh?' he asked.

'What about the man they proposed as chairman?'

Wilf looked contemptuous. 'A nothing. A face, that's all. No, my friend, it is someone else. And he won't escape me for long. You wait and see.'

He drummed his fingers on the table. A strange light was glimmering in his eyes as he took an enormous swig at his glass. 'Barings wishes to make it clear it is convinced there is nothing wrong with Rialto. But perhaps it is only doing this because it knows full well that there is something very wrong indeed, and it is prepared to risk losing its stake to keep it hidden. What motive could a bank have for being prepared to lose money? Eh? Tell me that.'

'The prospect of losing even more money?'

He rubbed his hands together. 'Ah, this will be fun.'

Well, I thought, I'll let him get on with it. I didn't want to share the crown jewels of my knowledge with him. But I knew, so I thought, what it was all about. In fact, it was obvious. Any proper investigation of Rialto would throw up the fact that the accounts were fictitious, that millions had been siphoned off the underlying companies. But – and it was a fairly sizeable but – what was the point? Wasn't it just postponing the inevitable?

I wandered home, thinking I would have a quiet hour before dinner. A whole evening when I did not have to think about money or aristocrats at all. I almost felt pleasure as I turned the key in the lock of Paradise Walk, and breathed in the foul air of the entrance.

But not for long. Mrs Morrison shot into the hall the moment she heard the door, and bore down on me with a severe, distressed look, quite unlike her normal air of amiability.

'Mr Braddock,' she began, 'I am most upset. Most upset. How you could be so disrespectful, I do not know. I am very disappointed in you. I'm afraid I must ask you to leave my house.'

'What?' I said in shock, pausing as I took my coat off. 'What on earth is the matter?'

'I have always given my boys complete freedom, and expect them to respect this house. To invite unsuitable people is unacceptable.'

'Mrs Morrison, what are you talking about?'

'That woman.'

'What woman?'

'The one in the parlour.'

Lady Ravenscliff, I thought, but the surge of pleasure was quickly tempered by feeling of dismay that she should see the circumstances in which I lived. The meanness, the shabbiness. I looked around, at the brown painted wood, the dingy wallpaper, the cheap prints on the wall, at Mrs Morrison herself, and almost blushed.

'I am sorry she came here,' I said fervently. 'But have no fears. She is entirely respectable. Certainly not unsuitable in any way.'

'She's a trollop,' she said, hesitating a moment before she used the word, and then deciding it was justified. 'Don't pretend to me, Mr Braddock. I know one when I see one, and she is. I won't have it.'

I had rather expected Mrs Morrison to be overcome with the flusters at the idea of having a real Lady in the house, and my relief that Elizabeth had not got the tea and cakes routine was only matched by my dismay that she should be characterised in such a way. Had she been a trollop, she would have been far beyond my purse, even at £350 a year.

'But Mrs Morrison, she is my employer.'

Now she stared at me in blank astonishment. We had reached an impasse, with neither understanding what the other was going on about, until a noise of movement resolved the matter. The girl coming through the door of the parlour was no lady. In fact, Mrs Morrison's characterisation seemed pretty judicious. She was about twenty, I guessed, garishly and shabbily dressed, and moved with an air of cheeky insolence mingled with caution and suspicion. Why I say that, I do not know; but that was my impression.

'Who the hell are you?' I asked incredulously.

'Well, you asked for me, didn't you?'

'No.'

'I was told you'd pay me a guinea.'

A guinea? For her? I wasn't that desperate. I could see why Mrs Morrison was so angry with me. Women was the one thing she did not allow. Certainly not one like that.

'I can assure you I . . .' and then an idea came into my head. 'Who said I'd pay you a guinea?'

'Jimmy.'

'Who's Jimmy?'

'Never met him before. He's a kid.'

And the penny dropped. 'Is your name Mary?'

'Course it is.'

I breathed a sigh. 'Go back in there and wait for me, please.'

I all but pushed her back into the parlour, shut the door, then turned to Mrs Morrison.

'I apologise from the bottom of my heart, Mrs Morrison. I cannot say sorry fervently enough. This woman is not what she appears, believe me. She is a very important witness, absolutely crucial to my work at the moment. I have been looking high and low for her, and I must talk to her before she takes fright and runs away. Let me do this, and I will explain fully afterwards. Please?'

She was uncertain enough to win me time, so I hurried into the room and closed the door. Mary was standing in front of the dead fire, gripping her little handbag as though it was some vital defence. I stood and looked at her. She wasn't bad looking, I realised, in an underfed, pinched sort of fashion. Many a man would . . . I drove the thought from my mind, and told her to sit down. I took over the place by the fireplace so I could look down on her.

'So you were the assistant of Madam Boninska,' I said. 'You know the police are after you?'

She nodded.

'Don't worry; I won't tell them. Although I should say they do not have the slightest thought that you killed her. They want you as a witness, nothing more.'

'They always want more,' she said. She had a dull, flat and entirely unattractive voice, which went well with the vaguely blank look in her eyes. 'And they don't pay as well as you do.'

'How much I pay will depend on how much you tell me,' I said. 'So don't get any ideas just yet. Were you there when this woman was killed? Did you see who did it?'

'No,' she replied. 'I didn't see anything. I was out. I came back and found her, and thought, they'll blame me for this, so I ran for it.'

'Quite understandable,' I commented. 'But do you know who did it?'

She shook her head. 'She had no enemies in the world,' she said. 'She was a lovely woman.' She looked at me like a bird eyeing a worm. 'A guinea.'

I did in fact have the money in my room, but was loath to let it go to her. Then I sighed, ran quickly up the stairs then returned and counted the money out onto the table. 'Don't touch,' I said as she leaned forward. 'What was she like?'

'A cow,' she said. 'A mean, vicious cow. I hated her. I almost danced for joy when I saw her lying on the floor. She was always drunk, she smelled, and she had a way of talking to you. Made you feel like dirt. I hated her.'

'Don't you have to be charming to clients in that line of business? Fortune-telling, I mean?'

'Oh, yes. For a bit. She could crawl as well as anyone when she wanted. Until she got hold of them, then she'd drop all that. When she was squeezing money out of them, there was no more of that.'

'What do you mean?'

'She'd get people to these séances and get them to tell all their secrets, thinking they were talking to spirits. Then she'd say, you don't want your wife, or your partner, or your parents, to hear about that, do you . . . ?'

'Give me an example.'

'One woman came, she twisted her into saying she'd had a friend. You know. She was married, you see. And the mistress got this woman's jewels, her rings, all her money off her. She killed herself, eventually, because when she was bled dry the mistress wrote a dirty little letter to the husband. I had to deliver it. She showed me the notice in the paper, she pinned it on the wall, like it was some great achievement. She was proud of it.'

'And you?'

She shrugged. 'What do I care?'

'More than you admit. Never mind. I want to ask you about a man who came to see her. This man.'

I showed her the photograph of Ravenscliff.

'Yes, I remember him.' I felt a surge of excitement rush through me at the words.

'Tell me everything. The money on the table depends on it.'

'He wasn't a client,' she said after thinking about it for a while. 'Not for the table-turning and such. Normally she got all dressed up for that, put on her special clothes and started talking in this voice – trying to be mysterious and spooky. You know. This was different. They talked.'

'Do you know what about?'

'No. But she wanted money off him.'

'Did she get it?'

'Not the time I was there. He was angry about something, that I heard. "Unless you tell me there'll be nothing for you."'

'And you don't know what he meant?'

She shook her head.

Not very helpful. 'This Madame Boninska. What do you know about her?'

'Not much. I mean, she didn't exactly tell me anything, did she? She treated me like dirt. She either looked down on everyone or tried to pull them down. You should have heard the things she said about the people who came to see her. So nice and sympathetic she was to them until she'd got her claws into them. Then they learned more about her.'

'Go on.'

'Don't know really. She wasn't Russian. Not a foreigner at all. But she'd been abroad for a long time. That she told me. At the Russian Court, high places in Germany, so she said. They all loved Madame Boninska.'

'So why did she come back to England?'

'I reckon everyone else had tumbled to her and she hadn't anywhere else to go. But she reckoned she'd hit a gold mine here. She was going to make her fortune. She was going to get her due, that's what she said. Then she did, of course. Someone killed her. And if that wasn't her due, I don't know what was.'

'You have no idea . . . ?'

'I've told you – she told me nothing. I was a servant. That's all. I think I preferred the street. But I hung on just in case she was telling the truth. Just in case she was going to get hold of some money.'

'There was no money in the flat when the police found the body.'

She shrugged. I couldn't blame her.

'How much did you steal?' I asked quietly.

'Nothing.'

She was clearly lying, so I smiled at her. 'Back wages?'

'If you like.'

'This gold mine. Was it anything to do with this man, do you think?'

Another shrug. I did wish she'd stop it. She managed to give the impression she couldn't care about anything in the world. Which might be true, of course. 'I think so. She was excited enough after he went.'

'This money you didn't steal. Was there anything else in the drawer?'

'Some papers, didn't look. Nothing important.'

'Did you take those?'

'No.'

They'd gone as well. I had been beaten at every turn. Every time I did something, thought of something, someone had been there before me. All I had established for my money was that Ravenscliff wasn't interested in the spirit world, but I had guessed that anyway. That this woman had known something, but I had no idea what it was. Maybe she had learned something in Russia, or in Germany. What could she possibly know that was important to a man like Ravenscliff?

'How well did they know each other? Were they friendly? Distant? Like strangers?'

'Him, you could almost see him holding his nose when he talked to her. Wouldn't shake her hand or anything like that. No; he wanted something, and then he'd never want to see her again.'

'Did he get it?'

'Don't know. All I heard was her muttering to herself. 'Why? Why? Why that?' Over and over again.'

'It's too much to hope that you know what she was talking about?'

She shook her head. I sighed. 'Tell me,' I said, very dispirited, 'do you recognise any of these people?'

I showed her a picture of Lady Ravenscliff. She shook her head. Then I offered the group photograph of the Beswick board, and she looked and shrugged again.

CHAPTER 25

It turned into an eventful evening in Paradise Walk, perhaps the oddest the little house had ever known. I had just managed to persuade Mrs Morrison that the reputation of her house really wasn't under any serious threat when the doorbell rang, a fact unprecedented and unimaginable. Respectable people do not ring the doorbell, unannounced, at eight o'clock. Respectable people do not have unexpected visitors at eight o'clock. The very sound caused consternation and excitement.

Even more the visitor. It was Wilf Cornford, who had a look of beatific pleasure on his face, except when he looked at me. Then he frowned in disapproval.

'I do believe you have not been keeping to your side of the bargain, young man,' he said sternly. 'I assumed that you would tell me things of importance. And I find, or at least I suspect, that you have not been.'

'Why is that?'

'Because I have been talking to a sales manager from Churchill's, the machine-tool people. And he told me that Gleeson's had ordered, near eighteen months ago, three new lathes, the sort used to bore gun barrels.'

'So?'

'And then I dropped into a pub in Moorgate, and talked to a broker who deals in such things, who told me quite categorically that Gleeson's had not sold off its old lathes. In fact, that the lathes it already possessed were exactly the same as the new ones.'

'Is this interesting?'

'Why would Gleeson's need eight lathes? For boring guns for battleships, when it has no orders for battleships?'

'I am truly not dissimulating when I say I haven't got a clue.'

'I want a little bit more information from you, if you please. What else have you found out that you haven't told me?'

I thought for a while, then decided to take the plunge. 'I have discovered that a couple of million has been sucked out of Ravenscliff's companies in the past eighteen months, and that the shipyard is awash with spare parts.' I described the scene as best I could. 'Also that every politician in the land has shares in Rialto. And, if you want minor details, that Ravenscliff had discovered some hole in his management structure that he couldn't understand, and that the estate is tied up because of a bequest to a child who is probably dead.'

Wilf leaned back and sighed with contentment. 'Ah, yes,' he said. 'A great man, even in his fall.'

'Pardon?'

'Had you told me all of this when you started, I could have put all the pieces together very much faster, you know.'

'I didn't want the pieces put together at all,' I said crossly. 'My job was to find this child, not investigate his companies. I couldn't give a hoot about Beswick or Rialto. Anyway, what pieces have you put together?'

'Ravenscliff was a gambler. He took the biggest gamble of his life and was losing. I wonder how much longer he could have kept it going.'

'Could you just tell me what you are talking about?'

'Don't you realise? He was building himself a battle fleet.'

'What?'

'Obviously. He had no new orders, profits dwindling, shipbuilders everywhere are in despair. And yet he was ordering new lathes, new armour plate, the factories are bursting with parts. What do you think these are all for? How many spare guns do you think anyone needs? Three maybe. No, my friend, he was building ships. He committed five, six million pounds, and didn't stand a chance of getting it back. It was simply a question of how long he would manage to keep going before everything came crashing down. What is remarkable is that the likes of Barings are still pretending there's nothing wrong.'

'You are sure that he'd lost his bet?'

'Did you not read the last Budget?'

'No.'

'The Government has spent so much money on old-age pensions that there is nothing left at all. The only thing that could possibly change the situation is if a war broke out, and that doesn't seem likely at the moment.'

'But Ravenscliff was a clever man.'

'The cleverest.'

'And he wasn't worried. If you were him, and you were in that situation, what would you do?'

'Nothing. Nothing I could do. Except jump out of a window maybe.'

'Or keep going and hope for a war.'

He stared at me. 'That's absurd,' he said. 'There must be another explanation. Besides, how does it explain the shareholders' meeting?'

'I was merely repeating what you said, not advancing my own opinion, you know. What about the shareholders' meeting?'

'I have discovered who was behind the attempted coup d'état.'

'I do very much hope you are going to tell me.'

'Theodore Xanthos.' He looked dreadfully smug as he said it.

'But he's just a salesman,' I said scornfully.

Wilf was now the one to adopt a looked of superior condescension. 'Just a salesman? Xanthos is responsible for about half of Rialto's sales. Eleven million a year. For the last twelve years.'

'So?'

'He gets a commission of one and three-quarter per cent. Figure it out.'

I shut my eyes and tried to use my newly learned financial skills. 'That's about . . . Heavens! That more than two million pounds!'

'So, not just a salesman, eh? Admittedly, he has to pay all his own bribes out of that . . .'

'Really?'

'Of course. You wouldn't want them traced back to the company, would you?'

'I suppose not.' The comment, however, made me think.

'No. But even if he's been spending at the rate of £50,000 a year . . .'

'In bribes?' I said incredulously.

'Oh, yes. At least that,' Wilf said airily. 'It's quite normal.'

I shook my head. It wasn't my idea of normal. 'The point is, Xanthos often operates through a bank in Manchester, which was where the payments to Anderson's to buy the Rialto shares came from. A few favours called in, and they confirmed it. Which means that Xanthos was trying to take control of Rialto.'

'How does this fit in with anything?'

Wilf was standing now and reaching for his hat. 'My dear boy, I have no idea. I was hoping you could tell me that.'

CHAPTER 26

I arrived to see Elizabeth the next morning. There was nobody around, so I let myself in and went up to the little sitting room to wait for her. And got a shock when I walked in. Sitting on the settee was Theodore Xanthos.

'Mr Braddock,' he said amiably as I entered. 'What a pleasant surprise.'

'I'm surprised to see you, as well,' I replied. 'Have you come to visit Lady Ravenscliff?'

'Ah, yes, but I fear we will both be disappointed. I have just been told she has gone.'

'Really?'

'Yes, quite gone. To Cowes, so I am told. For the week. She and John went every year. It was one of Lord Ravenscliff's great pastimes. He loved the sea. Which I always found curious.'

'Why?'

'Well, he was not one of nature's sportsmen, you know. Nor a great romantic. The lure of the elements did not burn brightly in him. We once crossed the Alps together in a train and I do not think he looked up once. All that scenery, that magnificence and grandeur, and he never once took his nose out of his book. The sea, on the other hand, had a very strange effect on him.'

'In what way?'

'It hypnotised him, almost. Something about it. You English and your sea. Very peculiar. Now we Greeks are quite immune, you know, even though we were a seafaring nation while your ancestors were still grubbing around in forests.'

'When did she leave?'

'Early this morning, I believe. I imagine all her bags went yesterday.'

'And she comes back?'

'I don't know. Last year they spent a week there, then travelled to France for a month.'

'A month?'

'Then he came back here and she went to take the waters in Germany.'

'Baden-Baden.'

'Yes, I believe so.' He paused and looked puckish. 'Aha! You are wondering how you will do without her for such a long time. I told you, you know. I tried to warn you. But she is quite irresistible.'

'I wished to consult her on a matter of importance . . .'

'And so did I! So did I! But here we are, abandoned and forlorn. Ah, well. We must make the best of it. Have some of this excellent coffee. I didn't want it, but Lady Ravenscliff has her servants so well trained that the wishes of visitors are quite irrelevant.'

He gestured to the tray on the table, then poured, delicately and without spilling a drop.

'How are your researches? I gather you have been to Newcastle. Were you impressed?'

I looked at him. 'How did you know that?'

'Good heavens, Mr Braddock! How can you even ask such a thing? Lady Ravenscliff begins to act in a very unusual fashion, hires someone who is quite unsuited for the task she gives him, and you expect someone like me not to be curious? Of course I have tried to find out everything I can about you. It's not as if you are very good at hiding your tracks.'

'I didn't realise I was supposed to.'

'Of course you didn't!'

'I found Newcastle very interesting.'

'And Mr Steptoe? Was he interesting as well? Poor man.'

The shock of the question quite threw me. Naturally it did; I was perfectly unprepared for it, and in any case was hardly trained in dissimulation. It was not really necessary as a journalist. I was clever enough to know that Xanthos was trying to frighten me, clever enough to acknowledge to myself that he was succeeding, and above all, quick enough to realise that my best response was not to play on his terms. I looked enquiringly.

'Terrible accident, so I hear. Run down in the street by a horse and cart. Went right over him, broke his back. Dead, poor fellow.'

He smiled sadly. I stared, horrified.

'I do wish Elizabeth was a little more generous with the cake,' he said, waving at an empty platter. 'I've eaten it all. I hope you don't mind. A curious way of writing a biography, when you haven't even written a letter to his family in Shropshire.'

I concentrated on my coffee, trying to stop my hands from trembling. 'My editor advised me that, when researching someone's life, it is best to start at the end and go back to the beginning. I always take his advice.'

'Have you ever travelled, Mr Braddock?'

'Not really.'

'You must. It broadens the mind. And it is good for the health.'

'And staying here isn't?'

'Violent place, London. Street crime. Innocent people attacked and murdered, just for their wallets, not even for that. It happens all the time.'

'Not so very often,' I said. 'You forget, I was a crime reporter.'

'So you were. I mention it only because I need a contract taken to Buenos Aires for signature. A trustworthy person to take it would be well paid.'

'Really?'

'Seven hundred pounds. The boat leaves from Southampton in a few days' time.'

'Otherwise I will meet the same fate as Mr Steptoe?'

'A strange thing to say, but I suppose it is a risk we all face. Good heavens, is that the time? I must run.' He stood up, brushed non-existent crumbs from his jacket, straightened his tie and looked at himself in the mirror.

'Where is the bowl?'

'What bowl?'

He gestured at the mantelpiece.

'Oh, that. It got broken.'

He stared at me.

'It was just a pot.'

He paused, then recovered. 'Of course.' He took an envelope out of his pocket and placed it on the table, then left. It was addressed to me. It contained a cheque for £700, drawn on the Bank of Bruges in London, and a ticket for the Manitoba, sailing from Southampton in two days' time.

CHAPTER 27

It goes without saying, I imagine, that I was agitated, disturbed and very frightened. This was all so far outside my experience that I had not the slightest idea what to do. Xanthos had given me money and said that if I did not take it, he would kill me. Or have me killed. Not in so many words, but even I could grasp his meaning. Poor Mr Steptoe was already dead. So was someone else at the works. So was Ravenscliff. And with such people dying who was I to think I was safe?

I needed time and I needed somewhere I could put aside the nagging feeling I had that I was being watched and followed. This wasn't madness on my part; I used all of George Short's skills in reverse and discovered it was true. Two people, in fact; for the first time I wondered how long they had been behind me without my even noticing. They tailed after me all the way down Piccadilly, but I led the way into my territory, not theirs, into a land where I knew every little alleyway and many of the people on the streets. Every step made me feel safer, less alone. They weren't that good, and this made me feel stronger and less helpless. I went down the Strand, carelessly, as if I had not noticed them, then into Fleet Street and into the Duck – always nearly empty at that time of day, so I could be sure I would not be surprised. I bought a drink, which I needed badly, and settled into a quiet corner. Peace. I needed that as much as a whisky.

Both in combination slowly had their effect. I calmed down, then became positively angry. How dare he? Not a sensible response, as it was obvious that he dared only too readily, but it brought me back to myself, and put to a temporary rest the quivering, frightened and somewhat shameful creature which had taken over my mind. Xanthos had threatened me, damn him. Why then? He could have said the same at any stage over the past month or so. Was it because his scheme at the shareholders' meeting had gone awry and he was planning another way of getting what he wanted? And where was Elizabeth? Had she really gone to Cowes, or was she . . . ? The thought struck horror into my mind. He was trying to take control of Ravenscliff's companies, and she was Ravenscliff's heir . . .

Curiously, it was the thought of the little Greek sitting so calmly on her settee which made my mind up. I would like to say it was courage, or patriotism or chivalry or some other manly virtue which aroused me, but it was not. It was the feeling of being supplanted, of having the image in my mind spoilt, which fired my determination. I would be damned if I was going to Southampton, at least to get on a boat to South America. I was all alone; so be it. I could not go home, so I wrote a letter to McEwen in the pub, and left it with the barman to give to him when he came in. It set out, as fully as I could, everything I knew, and left it to him to decide what to do about it. Then I sent a message for the runners. For five shillings each, they agreed to follow the followers, and also make sure they were distracted while I left the pub by the back entrance. One, I believe, was hit in the face by a large stone, sending him to hospital. The other had his wallet stolen, the lad involved dancing down the street, waving it above his head and tossing the contents on the ground until the pursuit got too close and he was obliged to show how fast he could run.

By which time I was far away, threading my way through dark alleys and back streets down to the river. Then west, but not home; I dared not go there. Instead I went to Whiteley's department store in Bayswater, bought a suitcase and some clothes (what a wonderful thing it is to have money), then to Waterloo Station and caught the 1.45 to Southampton. By this time I felt almost comfortable in my new role. I knew what I was doing, and why I was doing it, for the first time in weeks. I was also completely certain that I was not being followed, as the runner I'd paid to tag behind me signalled that all was well.

Having money and being preoccupied by a higher purpose did not mean I was immune to the pressures of the English class system, though. Merely being able to afford a first-class ticket does not entitle you to be in a first-class seat, or at least does not mean you will feel comfortable there. I endured it for half an hour, until we passed Woking, then I stood up and marched down to the scruffier, but altogether more comfortable, depths of second. The English Ruling Classes on holiday are terrifying, not least because they are not on holiday; they go to Cowes (and, I imagine, to Henley and Ascot) with the same steely determination that Grenadiers march into enemy fire. They are on display; they are working; the only work they do, in fact. Looking elegant, saying the right things, being with the right people, is as vital for them as getting my punctuation correct is for me, or connecting up a pipe correctly is for a plumber; except that plumbers and journalists are more forgiving. One slip, and the Ruling Classes are doomed, it seems.

No wonder they talked with such a nervous twitter; no wonder they spent much of their time nervously glancing at their reflection in the window as the drab suburbs of south London drifted past. A family of five; a mother, three daughters (two of marriageable age) and a son, who would have benefited from being put into old clothes and running around the streets throwing stones through windows. Poor child; he was so well behaved it was almost unendurable to be in the same compartment as him.

Now second class was a very different thing, and I spotted two hacks from The Times, feet on the seats, in a compartment filled with smoke. I felt at home and safe and secure the moment I sat down beside them, even though (in the normal course of things) they were not my sort of journalist. Gumble was a war man, so I couldn't really see what he was doing there. Jackson had been crime, but had vanished about six months ago. He seemed almost embarrassed to see me, and it took some time to discover why.

Eventually, after much questioning, he sighed, took out his notebook and handed it over for me to read.

'Whatever be her opinions as to its intrinsic joys, the woman who accepts a yachting invitation must see that she has dresses suitable for the occasion,' I read. I looked up at him, and he grimaced apologetically. 'One of the new designs for Cowes is carried out in nattier blue marquisette over satin. Closely pleated in accordion fashion to give the narrow straight effect in a pleasing manner. An upturned collar of lace and tiny round-cut chemisette . . .'

'You poor fellow!' I exclaimed and he nodded gloomily. 'What on earth did you do?'

'Missed the verdict in the Osborne murder,' he said. 'Six months in fashion to teach me the error of my ways.'

I read on. 'There was a day when serges were the only materials utilised for yachting dresses, but the weather during this week should make it possible to wear linens, tussores, shantungs and foulards . . .'

'I don't even know what it means.'

'Nor do I,' he replied, taking back the notebook and stuffing it into his pocket once more. 'It's all in the dressmakers' handouts. No idea what they're on about at all.'

I turned to Gumble. 'You're not in the doghouse as well, are you?'

'Afraid so. I was in Afghanistan, doing really well, I thought.'

'But there isn't a war in Afghanistan, is there?'

'There's always a war in Afghanistan. Anyway, it's a long story. If you think Jackson's got troubles, what do you think of this?'

He also got out his notebook, and I again read. 'Their Majesties' dinner party included the Crown Prince and Crown Princess of Sweden, the Princess Victoria and Princess Victoria Patricia of Connaught, the Commander-in-Chief at Portsmouth, the Duchess of Teck and Elizabeth, Lady Ravenscliff. This morning they joined their yacht for Divine Service. The Service was conducted by Rear-Admiral Sir Colin Keppel A.D.C. In attendance were . . .'

'Bloody hell,' I said.

'I know. Two years dodging bullets in the Khyber Pass . . .'

'No. I mean Lady Ravenscliff.'

'Why are you interested in her? You're right, of course. Her in mourning. She's such a fixture, I suppose they couldn't do without her. Don't know what is happening to standards. But do I care? I do not.'

'You don't happen to know where she will be in Cowes?'

'Is she going? Very inappropriate. She might well be a guest on the Victoria and Albert, of course.'

My heart sank. I thought that finding her would be simply a matter of going to her hotel and knocking on the door. But if she was half a mile out to sea, on the royal yacht, it was going to be more difficult than I had anticipated.

'Do you know,' he went on, 'I think you're the first person ever to be interested in this rubbish?'

I gave him back his notebook. I hadn't realised she moved in such grand circles. Who would have thought it? 'So you're just going to the Isle of Wight to do this?'

'Ah! No. I hope to write something interesting about the Tsar. If I can only get something, then I win fame and favour. What about you? Didn't I hear that you'd been fired?'

'I resigned. And I am going . . . In fact, that's a bit complicated.'

'Where are you staying?'

I shrugged. 'No idea. I thought I'd book into a hotel . . .'

They looked at each other, then laughed. 'I hope you like sleeping on park benches then,' Jackson said, 'if you can find one unoccupied.'

'I'd not thought of that.'

'You can bunk with us. We're at the George. As long as you have no revolting personal habits . . .'

'None. And thanks.'

'You're welcome. You sleep on the floor and pay half the costs. We get the receipt.'

Fair enough. The Times was more generous than other papers over expenses. The rest of the journey was almost pleasant. I was given a swift grounding in Cowes Week by my two new companions – the only thing left out was anything to do with boats, as The Times that year had decided not to bother sending anyone who knew about racing. Too expensive. They even offered me work as a stringer to take care of some of them – the 65 foot handicap or (better still) the King's Cup. They didn't suppose I wanted to try my hand at Mrs Godfrey Baring's bal masqué, did I? I declined the boats, never having been on one and not having the slightest idea how you would even tell who had won, but astonished them by accepting the ball. If Elizabeth was there, if she was still alive, it was the sort of thing she'd attend.

Cowes was crammed, and the Solent was like Piccadilly Circus on a busy Friday evening. The little ferry which took us and our luggage over from the mainland had to weave its way through hundreds of yachts – big and small, one-masted and three-masted, long and sleek and modern, old and rather run down – as well as what seemed like most of the Royal Navy lying a mile offshore for review. On shore it was even worse; the ferry was so full it looked as though it might sink at any moment, and we were hurled out onto dry land into a crowd of people – women with parasols, arm in arm, men in white ducks and blazers, holidaymakers in boaters, small children, nannies and servants. Jackson led the way to the George, a small hotel next to a printing shop, very expensive and less than luxurious. A small room with three people in it was, apparently, quite luxurious for the time of year and, even though we could scarcely all fit inside, we hoisted our bags onto the beds, then retired to the bar. Three pints of Osborne pale later, we felt quite recovered and ready for battle. I had almost forgotten why I was there. I was no longer afraid. Not for the moment, anyway.

Jackson and Gumble at least knew what they were meant to be doing; Jackson positioned himself to take notes on what the likes of Mrs Algernon Dunwether considered appropriate for her mid-afternoon wear – it seems that the wealthier women were obliged to change clothes up to six times a day, which was why houses close to the centre fetched such a premium – while Gumble wandered off to the offices of the Cowes Gazette to get the daily line-up of what those with titles would be up to all evening.

I, by contrast, was at a loss; I had vaguely imagined I would simply run into Lady Ravenscliff walking along the promenade, but clearly this was not going to be the case. So while I thought it over I strolled up the Esplanade to Egypt House, a large, modern pile of imitation Tudor brickwork that the Barings had taken for the week. This I stared at for a while, then looked out over the Solent to where the Victoria and Albert was anchored, then walked back into the town centre. I asked one of the boatmen from the royal yacht, but he hadn't got a clue who was staying on the bloody ship and who was I to ask anyway.

Frustrating, although I found that a laziness slowly crept upon me even though there was enough on my mind to make me alert and nervous. I had only ever been to the seaside properly a couple of times, Sunday trips to Southend to waste time and money. Even there – not the most elegant of places – I discovered that the motion of the sea had a decided tendency to make me sleepy and stupid; it has always had that effect on me, and still does. Perhaps I had more in common with Ravenscliff than I realised. And so did the beer, of course, and by the time I got back to the George – not really very far – I was as dull as it was possible to be. I forced myself to keep on walking, as I knew that if I lay down I'd fall asleep for hours, and kept on going until I hit water again, an inlet which divides Cowes in two. There is no bridge, just a strange contraption which looks like a floating wooden shed that is pulled this way and that across the water by chains, ferrying passengers from one bank to the other.

I perched myself on a bollard, watching the people – girls and boys in sailor suits, men who worked in the boatyards, women coming over, some from grand houses, others more modest, after their shopping, going home to cook dinner, or have it cooked for them. And then I woke up with a start, and pulled my hat down over my head, hunched my shoulders to avoid being noticed by the man who had walked up the ramp and turned to stare back as the wooden gates – which looked as though they had been borrowed from a farmyard – swung shut.

It was him. There was no mistake, could be none; he was dressed differently, looking now like a bank clerk on holiday, in a dark suit and starched white collar. He had shaved, oiled his hair to look the part. But he still looked like a labourer, could never really pass as English. Still had the immobile features, the lack of expression in his eyes, which glanced around cautiously every moment, rather than staring ahead stupidly as I am sure mine had been until that moment. Jan the Builder took out a cigarette and lit it as the ferry floated off into midstream, but didn't seem to notice anything strange about me.

I did my best not to look too attentive as the ferry stopped on the other side and all the passengers got off, to be replaced once more by new ones. Tried to keep my eyes on him as it came back over and at last I could get on board myself. But it was a waste of time. Ten minutes (and twopence) later, I reached the far bank and he had vanished. I walked quickly up the main road out of town, doubled back down side streets dotted with seaside villas of greater or lesser grandeur, turned left and right for more than an hour, but nothing. If the jolt in my chest when I saw him hadn't been so extreme and painful, I would have concluded it had been a mistake. But it was not. I was sure it was not.

I have read many adventure stories in my time, and many of the problems in them seem to arise from the fact that the main protagonists never think of going straight off to confide in the police when they come upon some dastardly deed. Instead, they keep their information to themselves, and all sorts of trouble results. Of course they always manfully sort everything out in the end; but often I wonder how much easier it would all have been had the authorities been kept properly informed in advance.

Besides, I had no desire to sort it all out myself, manfully or not. So I went back to town and straight to the police station. And there I realised why the strapping heroes of fiction do not spend their precious time on such activities. The authorities, on the whole, are not interested. Had I been reporting a stray dog, or the theft of an umbrella, or the loss of a pocket book, then I have no doubt that Constable Armstrong would have snapped into action as quickly as you like. Instead, he looked at me as though I was the problem, sucked his teeth thoughtfully, and frowned in a manner which suggested very strongly that he considered me to be someone who needed humouring.

'I suppose even anarchists must have holidays,' he said in a jocular fashion. 'Must be hard work, all that overthrowing, and all.'

'This is not a joke.'

'Very well. Tell me what's bothering you.'

And so, I did, but by the time the policeman had realised that I had only heard at secondhand that Jan the Builder was an anarchist revolutionary; didn't know his real name; only heard at secondhand that he had a gun; didn't know for certain he had one on him; only saw him at a considerable distance; had only seen him once before; and couldn't swear that he wasn't on holiday, he began to lose patience.

'We're not going to get martial law declared on the basis of that, are we, sir?' he commented.

I scowled, and stumped out.

CHAPTER 28

'What on earth do you think you're doing dressed up like that?' Jackson asked.

I looked aggrieved. It was past eight o'clock, I hadn't eaten, and I was almost ready to go.

'You asked me to do this ball, didn't you?'

He stared at me, then burst out laughing. 'You're meant to report on it. Not go to it, you idiot. You don't seriously think they'll let you in, do you? You're supposed to stand by the gate and get a list of the guests as they arrive. Not trip the light fantastic with the Duchess of Devonshire.'

'Oh.'

I looked at myself in the mirror. I had been rather proud of my appearance. I was dressed as a fisherman, having rapidly bribed an old man in the port to let me have his oilskins and hat. To this, I had attached lots of flies and bits and bobs of the sort that fishermen use, so I thought. And I had a large wicker basket with a plaster lobster in it which I'd bought from a shop which sold tourist trinkets.

'Besides,' Jackson said scornfully, 'it's a bal masqué, not a fancy-dress party.'

I stared at him; I think he heard me deflating. 'There's a difference?'

'This sort of ball, the men dress as usual. The women wear masks. That's why it's called a masked ball.'

'I have to go,' I said. 'Even if I have to break in. I have to find Lady Ravenscliff.'

'Why?'

'She's . . . It doesn't matter. I need to find her.'

'I doubt you'll find her at a ball. She's meant to be in mourning.'

'She dined with the King.'

'That's different. That is allowed, just. But a ball? It would be a scandal. It's bad enough that she came here at all. If she did.'

'I mean, if everyone's masked . . . She's the sort who would slip in. Someone there will know where she is. I've got to go. Just in case.'

'Not as the representative of The Times, you're not. It's more than my job's worth.'

I must have been looking properly desperate, because he dropped the scornful jocular tone and looked at me shrewdly. 'You're about the same size as Gumble. Take his clothes, then.'

'Won't he need them?'

'Yes.'

He opened the wardrobe door and started pulling out clothes. 'You'd better hurry. He'll be very annoyed when he finds out.'

So an hour later, as the evening was just tipping over into darkness, I was walking up Egypt Hill, a road that led away from the promenade and skirted the gardens of the Baring house. I had thought of trying to talk my way in, but gave up the idea; journalists can do much – get into courtrooms, police stations, people's houses – by sheer brass neck, but gatecrashing a society party, I thought, might need practice. So, drawing on the wisdom of George Short once more – never be direct if you can be devious – I kept an eye on the wall until I came across a place with a suitable tree that had branches hanging down across the stonework. Half a minute later I was in the garden, adjusting my bow tie, dusting down Gumble's suit and walking, more boldly than I felt, up to the house itself.

Nobody gave me a moment's attention. It worked perfectly; I was given a glass of champagne by a passing waiter, and strolled into the main reception room – already full of people and heady with the smell of perfume – where I leaned against a wall and watched to get my bearings and work out precisely how I should behave. Remember: such an event was as foreign to me as an Esquimaux wedding party; I needed to tread carefully. And I felt ridiculous. Evening dress was not my normal wear; I'd been more comfortable in the fisherman's oilskin. The fact that most of the women were far more ridiculous looking than I could ever dream of being was no consolation. Why they ever consented to such absurdities, how it was considered the height of fashion, eluded me. Had they possessed the stylishness of Elizabeth Ravenscliff, they might have succeeded. But most looked like plump middle-aged Englishwomen in a mask. Not for the first time, I was glad that I lived in the world of pubs and press rooms. Besides, how did society operate? Was it permissible just to go up to someone and start talking? Would I cause a scandal if I engaged some young girl in conversation?

Having achieved my aim of getting into the party, I realised that I hadn't thought too much about what I was meant to do next. I wanted to see Elizabeth, to warn her, to talk to her. But how to find her, even if she was there? All the women were in masks, and although I reckoned I could count on her to be more beautifully turned out than anyone else in the room, it was impossible to tell which one she might be. Some of the masks were tiny and did nothing to disguise the identity of the wearer, but a fair number were very large. All I could do was wander around, hoping she would notice me. If she was there, she didn't. Or maybe she was, but didn't want to acknowledge me. I was rapidly beginning to think this had been a bad idea.

'Glad you could come,' said a hearty voice beside me as I retired to the wall again and tried to be as visible as possible. I had attracted the wrong person. A tall, grey-haired man with a bristling moustache and a red face – mainly from a collar two sizes too small for him, so the fat of his neck hung down over it – was standing beside me, looking vaguely hopeful. He seemed bored with the whole thing, and desperate for any reason not to have to compliment some absurdity in frills.

'Good evening, sir,' I said, then remembered who he was. 'I'm pleased to see you again.'

Tom Baring peered at me, uncertainly, a look of vague panic passing across his face. He knew me; had met me; had forgotten who I was. Such were his thoughts, I knew. Nothing quite like embarrassment for making someone try harder.

'A meeting at Barings last year,' I said vaguely. 'We didn't meet properly.'

'Ah, yes. I remember,' he said, surprisingly convincingly in the circumstances.

'Family duties, you know . . .'

He looked a bit more interested. I had a family that had duties.

'In fact, the only interest in the meeting was the possibility that I might have been able to ask your advice. About a piece of porcelain.' A fairly desperate way of winning his confidence and establishing a connection, but the best I could do. And it seemed to work. He brightened immediately.

'Oh, well. Only too glad. Ask away, please do.'

'It is a dish of some sort. I was given it. It's Chinese.'

'Really?'

'Well, it is meant to be,' I continued with perfectly genuine vagueness. 'I was given it as a present, you see, and I wouldn't trust any old dealer to tell me truthfully what it is. I'd be too easily deceived, I'm afraid. I was wondering if you could tell me of an honest one.'

'No such thing,' he said cheerfully. 'They're all rogues and scoundrels. Now I will certainly tell you the truth. Unless it's really valuable, in which case I'll tell you it's worthless and offer to take it off your hands.' He laughed heartily. 'Tell me about it.'

'About nine inches across. With blue foliage – bamboo and fruits, that sort of thing.'

'Markings? Any stamps?'

'I believe so,' I said, straining to remember.

'Hmm. Not much help. From your description it could be 1430s, or made last year and sold in any teashop. I'd have to look at it. Where did it come from?'

'I was given it. It used to be on the mantelpiece in Lady Ravenscliff's sitting room.' To say she had given it to me was stretching a point, perhaps.

He raised an eyebrow. 'Not the Ostrokoff bowl?'

'I think that's the one.'

'Good God, man! It's one of the loveliest pieces of Ming porcelain in the world. The whole world.' He looked at me with new interest and no little curiosity. 'I have asked to buy it on many an occasion, but have always been turned down.'

'I've been using it to eat my breakfast.'

Baring gave a shudder. 'My dear boy! The first time I saw it I almost fainted. He gave it to you? Do you have any idea what it is worth? What on earth did you do for Ravenscliff?'

'That, I'm afraid, I am not at liberty to say.'

'Oh. Well, quite correct. Quite correct,' he said, still quite breathless and flustered. The thought of my boiled eggs had so rattled him that he was no longer in full command of his faculties. For my part, the memory of it flying past my shoulder and smashing into the wall came flooding back to me. An extravagant gesture. I almost felt flattered.

'Well – I shouldn't. But – well, battleships.'

'Oh, you mean Ravenscliff's private navy?'

I smiled, and tried to look nonchalant about the whole thing.

'I suppose you know about that?'

'Of course. I had to be brought in over moving the money around. I was very doubtful, I must say but, as you may know, we owe Ravenscliff a great deal.'

'Just so.'

'What exactly do you do . . . ?'

I looked cautious. 'I keep an eye on things. Quietly, if you see what I mean. Did, at least, for Lord Ravenscliff. Until he died.'

'Yes, indeed. Great loss. Very awkward as well. Bad timing.'

'Ah, yes.'

'Damnable Government, dithering like that. Although Ravenscliff was remarkably sanguine. All will be well, he said. Don't worry. He knew exactly how to persuade them to take the plunge . . . Then he dies. Typical of the man that he foresaw even that possibility, though. When we heard I must say we rather panicked. If the shareholders found out what's been going on . . .'

'Difficult,' I said sympathetically.

'Can you imagine? Telling our shareholders that the bond they thought was for a South African gold mine was in fact for a private battle fleet? I'd be picking oakum in Reading gaol by now. But at least I'd be in good company.' He laughed. I joined in, perhaps a little too heartily.

'Yet here you are.'

'Here I am, as you say. Thanks to Ravenscliff putting some nonsense in his will so no one can look at the books for a bit. It has bought us time. Although not much. I'm damnably worried about it.'

'So is his widow, I understand,' I said.

'Ah, yes. I suspect she may know more than she should. There was little Ravenscliff didn't tell her.'

'How is that?'

'Well, I don't know exactly what he said, of course, but I hear that she has hired some man to find this child. Which, of course, has the effect of making its existence all the more real. The more he bumbles around, asking questions, the better it is.'

Oh, God. I thought.

'Are you all right?' Baring asked.

'No,' I said. 'I've had a bit of a stomach ache all day. Would you think me terribly rude if I excused myself?'

'I'm so sorry. By all means.'

'Is Lady Ravenscliff here, by the way?'

'Of course not,' he said. 'She's in mourning. Not even in Cowes.'

'Really? I was told she was staying on the royal yacht.'

'Certainly not. I was there for tea this afternoon. No, I imagine she is still in London. I know she is no respecter of convention, but even she would not . . .'

I didn't really care one way or the other. I turned round and walked out of the ballroom, as slowly as I could manage, got to the big French windows which opened on to the garden and, when I was out of sight, broke into a run, heading for the wall where I'd come in as quickly as I could.

And there I sat, for an hour or more, half-listening to the sound of the orchestra, the occasional footfall as a couple walked past, or the men came out for a cigar, the women for some fresh air, but not really interested in any of it.

Everyone had been right. I had been chosen because of my complete unsuitability. My job really had been to confuse matters. The child did not exist, had never existed; it was a safety net, designed to protect Ravenscliff's companies should he die before this great undertaking was completed. The Government wanted battleships, but dared not order them. Barings and Ravenscliff put up the money, and gambled they would change their minds. Of course it had to be secret; the slightest whisper could bring the Government down and Ravenscliff's empire . . .

And did I care one jot? No. I had comforted her in her distress, sympathised with her loss, worked desperately to find the information she wanted, come to her with my little discoveries, been deceived by the look of gratitude in her eyes when I assured her that all would be well. And when I began to find out more than I should, Xanthos turns up to give me a good fright. Dear God, but I hated the lot of them. Let them fight it out between them.

I got up finally, stiff and cold even though the night was warm, and crawled over the wall into the freedom of the normal, ordinary, mundane world, where people tell the truth and mean what they say. Where honesty counts, and affection is real. Back into my own world, in fact, where I felt comfortable and at home. It was my own fault, really. I should have listened.

I've mentioned that I tend to sleep well, most of the time. The great gift did not desert me that night, fortunately. Even though Jackson snored abominably, and the floor was hard, I fell asleep by two o'clock, and slept as though all the world was well. In the morning I had to work to bring back the memories of the night before, but found when I did so that I was free of them. So I had been made a fool of. Used, manipulated, deceived. Not the first time, and not the last. And at least I had figured it out for myself. Even the thoughts of revenge which had flickered through my mind the night before held no more attraction. Yes, I could have told my two snoring companions everything. But I couldn't really be bothered and, besides, what good would it serve? I could destroy Ravenscliff's companies, but they would only be replaced by others just the same.

And it was a lovely, fine morning, of the sort when it was good to be alive. I even took Gumble's complaints about having stolen his clothes, and Jackson's insistence on keeping my plaster lobster as a souvenir, in good part. I was resolved to think no more of the matter. I would spend Elizabeth Ravenscliff's money, I would think no more of battleships – let alone of mediums, anarchists or any other rubbish. None of it was my business. I did not care. I would become a journalist once more, and go back to my old life, somewhat richer than I had been to begin with. What possible reason did I have to complain, anyway? I was paid well, and if it was to make a fool of myself, so be it. I was a well-paid fool, at least. And that evening, I decided, I would go to Southampton, and I would get on a boat and I would go to South America, having posted Xanthos's cheque off to my bank first of all. More money. If they wanted to give it away, why should I turn down the offer? I'd earned it.

I bought my two colleagues breakfast – a good breakfast, the best that Cowes could provide, with lashings of bacon, black pudding, eggs, fried bread, fried tomatoes, tea, toast and marmalade, the works, and then decided that, as Jackson was going on the press jaunt to the Sandrart, I would go with him. I now had nothing better to do. I was a free man, unemployed, my own master.

Oh, yes. The Tsar of all the Russias. Nicholas II. You would have thought, no doubt, that having such a grand gentleman in town would have caused a stir. It was not every day, after all, that the world's greatest autocrat, the last true absolute monarch in Europe, dropped into a small town off the south coast. In fact, he hadn't. He hadn't even put a foot on shore. The only evidence of his presence was the shape of the imperial yacht, the Sandrart, about half a mile off shore, anchored a few hundred yards from the Victoria and Albert and with a collection of navy gunboats posted around doing guard duty. As a sop to the journalists, who wanted something to put in their daily bulletins, there was to be a tour of the yacht. I had expected that Gumble would come along as well, but he turned his nose up at the idea. 'You don't think that the Tsar is going to be on board with a lot of smelly journalists tramping all over the place, do you? Either the entire family will take refuge on the V and A, or they'll come on shore. And I may have fallen low in the estimation of my editors, but I am damned if I am going to spend my time looking at imperial curtains. I am going to walk up to Osborne. If he's on land, he'll be there.'

So Jackson and I went; I merely curious, Jackson trying to pretend he wasn't. The main thing I discovered from the morning was that I have a tendency to sea-sickness in very small boats – we were rowed out in the yacht's cutter, which was fine until we were about a hundred yards offshore. Then it wasn't; my only consolation was that half of the press corps – well, about four of us, out of ten or so – also began smiling bravely.

Nor was it worth it; Gumble was quite correct in thinking that the Imperial family would make themselves scarce; not even an imperial nanny remained on board. All we had was a bunch of Russian sailors, whose outright hostility to His Majesty's loyal press was palpable. We were escorted round the apartments at military speed; nothing was pointed out or explained, no questions were taken, no photographs allowed. All I got from the experience was a sense of wonder at how unnautical it all was – the state apartments were decorated like any house you might have found in Mayfair thirty years ago, with padded chairs, chandeliers and even a fireplace in the corner. Only the disconcerting rocking motion reminded you that you were on a boat – sorry, a yacht – at all.

And then we were put back into the cutter and rowed back to the shore. Not even a glass of vodka, but Jeremiah Hopkins did at least take his revenge by vomiting in the bottom of the boat just before we arrived back on land. 'Compliments of the Daily Mail,' he muttered as he stepped over his donation to get off. 'A messy business, the freedom of the press,' he added as he straightened up and walked unsteadily towards the nearest pub.

For my part, I didn't think that was the best solution to the problem of my stomach; steady land and fresh air seemed a better idea, so I decided to walk to Osborne to find Gumble; he had been correct in his judgements so far; he might be right now. I walked to the ferry, crossed over and strolled up York Avenue to the main gate. I was not alone; clearly news of some event had got around.

'The royal family and the imperial family,' said one woman in tones of hushed awe when I found myself walking beside her. 'They'll be coming out when they've finished their visit. They'll drive down to the Esplanade before going back on board their yachts. Isn't that wonderful and thoughtful of them?'

We walked in step, this reverential matriarch and I, strolling together like two old friends in the warm sunshine of the early afternoon. She told me – how she had found out so much information from her kitchen I do not know, she should have been a reporter – that the two royal families had crossed to Osborne's private landing stage by boat, but intended to show themselves to the town before returning. Two monarchs, two consorts and a bag of children would be on display; I could not really see the attraction of just watching people drive by, but I was clearly in a minority on that one; when we arrived there was already a crowd of a few hundred, mainly townspeople by the look of them, lining the wooded path which ran from the road to the grand entrance gate.

Gumble was there also, looking extremely displeased with the situation. His request to go inside had been flatly turned down, there would be no interview and he had to stand there like some common shop assistant, with not the slightest chance of coming up with anything worth writing about at all.

I commiserated. 'But there wasn't much chance he would have said anything interesting anyway,' I concluded.

'Not the point. I wanted an interview. What he said was irrelevant,' he replied.

'You could always make it up,' I suggested.

'Well, in fact, that's what got me in trouble in the first place,' he said reluctantly. 'I quoted Habibullah Khan on the reforms he was introducing in Afghanistan. Unfortunately, he was out of the country at the time and had just reversed them all, so he complained . . .'

'Bad luck,' I said.

'Yes. So no making things up for a while. I do wish they'd get a move on. I want my lunch . . .'

I had stopped listening. I was staring over at the other line of spectators, a blur of expectant faces, all patiently waiting. Except for one, who came into sharp focus as I looked, then looked again. A poorly dressed woman, with a cheap hat pulled down over her face, clutching a handbag. I knew she had seen me. I could see that my face had registered, that she was hoping I had not seen her; she took a step back, and disappeared behind a burly man and a couple of squawking children who were waving little flags on sticks.

'Oh, my goodness,' I said, and looked up and down the row of people, to see if I could catch sight of her again. Nothing. But I did see PC Armstrong, my sceptical constable of the day before.

'Still hunting anarchists, are we sir?' he said cheerfully when I walked up to him – this was a long time ago; there were no barriers or controls on people then.

'Constable . . .'

'Is he here, then?'

'Not that I've seen, but . . .'

'Well, let me know and we'll deal with him,' he said complacently.

'I'm certain he is, though.'

Armstrong looked sceptical but ever so slightly worried. 'Why?'

'I've seen someone he knows.' I pointed, and he called over other policeman on duty. Both then strolled over and began walking up and down, looking out for anyone they considered suspicious.

They had seen nothing and found no one by the time the great gates swung open, and a murmur of expectation swept through the crowd. In the distance a line of three black automobiles, Rolls-Royces, came slowly down the driveway; the canvas tops were open, so they wouldn't obscure the view. As they turned the bend, I could see that the leading car had two men in the back, resplendent in uniform; the second had two women. They were wearing hats, tied over their heads with scarves.

'Constable, stop the cars, for God's sake!' I said as I ran up to him. 'Close the gate!'

Armstrong panicked. He could control the crowds as long as all was well, but wasn't capable of doing anything other than watch people, and tell himself that everything was fine. 'Don't worry,' he said. 'Don't worry, don't worry . . .' and his lips kept moving even when he stopped speaking, as though he was reciting a prayer.

And it was too late, anyway. The big black machine was coming through the gate, slowing down so that the crowds could applaud, and see. And to allow the cars behind to catch up and make a proper procession of it. I was looking up and down the line of faces, desperate to see Elizabeth, convinced that something dreadful was about to happen. It was the way she was clutching her handbag which worried me most; all I could see in my mind was her hands, the knuckles white, as she held tightly onto that cheap canvas bag, held it up over her stomach, so she could put her hand into it . . .

The cars were now going at no more than two miles an hour, the flags were waving, the people were cheering. The King-Emperor of Great Britain and the Indias sat on the right, looking bored. The Tsar of all the Russias was by his side, gazing at the crowd with the air of someone who found all this populace slightly distasteful, and then I realised my mistake. I saw a man, a big burly man, wearing a suit like a bank clerk, step forward some ten yards away from me, his hand underneath his jacket. I shouted, and he turned to look at me, then dismissed me from his thoughts. I was ten yards from him, he was only ten yards from the car, but it was getting closer all the time, and I was just standing there, speechless and immobile.

But a man can run faster than a slow-moving car. Much faster, when he is terrified. I began to run, and the closer I got, the better I could see. I could see his hand pulling out from under his jacket, saw the black thing in it, got closer still and saw the barrel. And I saw it being lifted, and pointing just as I got close enough to leap, heard the explosion as I fell, then another one as I collapsed on the ground. And I felt the most incredible, unbelievable pain, which blotted out almost everything else, except for the one last image as I looked up from the dust and gravel, and saw Elizabeth standing over me, gun in her hand, a look of wildness in her eyes.

CHAPTER 29

I have read much nonsense over the years about being shot; the main things being firstly that it doesn't hurt, and secondly that the noise sounds more like a faint popping, rather than a loud bang. Rubbish. Firstly, the noise of the gun going off sounded like the crack of doom; I was sure my eardrums had burst. Secondly it hurt like the very devil, and from the very moment that the bullet entered my shoulder. And then it hurt more, until I lost consciousness, and hurt still more when I woke up again in hospital. In my case, at least, it was also untrue that I could remember nothing, wondered where I was and what had happened. I remembered perfectly well, thank you very much. Then I went back to sleep.

It was morning, I guessed, when I woke up again, and I stared at the ceiling, gathering my thoughts, before showing any sign that I was conscious. But I got an unpleasant surprise when I turned my head to look around. Sitting beside me, reading a newspaper was the small, almost dainty, figure of the man I knew to be Henry Cort, a cup of tea on a small table by his side.

'Mr Braddock,' he said with the faintest of smiles. 'And how are you?'

'I don't know,' I said.

'Ah. Then let me tell you. You have been shot.'

'I know that.'

'I suppose you do. Not too seriously, I'm glad to say, although it made a nasty wound and you have lost a lot of blood. If it hadn't been for your friend Mr Gumble, who knows something about bullet wounds from his time in Afghanistan, you would have bled to death, probably. However, the doctors tell me you will recover perfectly well, in time.'

'She shot me.'

'Yes. Yes, so it seems.'

'What happened?'

'Why don't you read this? It's the dispatch penned by Mr Gumble for The Times, and so we know it must be of the highest accuracy.'

He gave me the morning paper, then summoned a nurse to help me sit up enough to be able to read it. This took a very long time, but at least it gave me an opportunity to get back to my senses. The pain helped as well – it wasn't that bad, but it reminded me I was still alive. I was given some water, and tucked into bed properly and fussed over quite charmingly. All of that took about half an hour, during which time Cort sat quite impassively, doing nothing and managing not to look bored. Then, when I was feeling tolerably human again, he once more handed me the newspaper.

'Feminist outrage at Cowes,' I read. I looked at him.

'Terrible, these women, eh?' he said.

I frowned, and read some more.

Cowes – An outrage was offered to our Royal Visitors today by a suffragist in what is regarded here as a childish and unseemly exhibition. An attempt to embarrass the people of this country by the parading of supposed grievances in front of visitors is considered another blow which women suffragists have dealt to their own cause. Miss Muriel Williamson let off firecrackers close to the Royal Party as they were leaving Osborne House, having paid their respects in the death Chamber of our late Queen, in a manner deliberately designed to alarm. The fact that it could well have been a much more serious matter gives considerable cause for concern. Miss Williamson, who we understand has only lately been released from an asylum . . .

'He should be ashamed of himself,' I said weakly.

'Oh, he is,' Cort said. 'He really is. He took some persuading to write that.'

'And why did he?'

'Because I was able to convince him that a near assassination of the Tsar on English soil would not be good for our standing in the world.

And, of course, the prospect of a foreign posting, on the strong recommendation of the Foreign Office . . .'

'Why did Elizabeth shoot me?'

'Another interesting question,' Cort said thoughtfully. 'She says you got in the way. You hurled yourself heroically on the assassin, but not quickly enough to prevent him from bringing his gun to bear on his target. She decided it was too risky to be squeamish, so shot you both, just to be on the safe side. She killed Jan the builder, so you may consider yourself fortunate. The question I have not yet managed to settle in my mind, though, is who is responsible for all this.'

'Don't you know?' I was lying down again, staring at the ceiling, so heard his words without being able to see his face. It was curious; it was more like a conversation with myself. And as long as I talked to myself, as quietly as I liked, I found it easy enough to speak. Cort picked up his chair and moved closer to the bed.

'I was working on the assumption,' he said, 'that Ravenscliff had organised it in order to make the need for his battleships a little more pressing. But if so, why did his wife stop it – and in such a dramatic fashion? And so we come to you.'

'Me? It has nothing to do with me at all.'

'Of course not! No. I was merely hoping you might be able to shed a little light on matters.'

'Why don't you ask Lady Ravenscliff?'

'Well, as she has recently shot two people, I'm not sure her word is so very reliable. Even more difficult, of course, is the fact that she claims she has been acting under the belief that I was responsible for it all.'

'Why?'

'She has a long memory,' he said cryptically. 'It is of no importance. But there you are, you see. She thinks I was responsible, I think she was. You, on the other hand – the victim, the innocent bystander, so to speak – may be considered objective. So am I right that John Stone really was behind it all and wanted the blame to fall on the Germans?'

'Why do you think that?'

Cort shrugged. 'John Stone felt betrayed. He had been persuaded to launch a private venture building battleships and was facing severe difficulties because the Government would not place the orders he had been promised. He therefore decided to organise an international crisis which would generate the orders he needed.'

'Who persuaded him to build the ships?'

'A group of concerned citizens. Influential ones, I might say, who felt that the Government's naval policy was disastrously misguided.'

'But the Government was elected . . . Oh, never mind.' It was true. I really didn't care.

'As I was saying,' he continued, 'I hoped you might provide some nugget of information which would allow me . . .'

That did it. A nugget. It was all anyone expected of me. Some fragment, the significance of which I did not even realise. Only someone like Cort would understand its importance. I was too dim-witted to grasp it myself.

'It was nothing to do with Ravenscliff,' I said, still quietly but deliberately so now, speaking softly to make him bend ever closer so he could hear me.

'Are you sure?'

'Yes. It looks like it was, I know. The Tsar dies, the assassins are arrested or killed, their homes are raided by the police and – surprise surprise – they find documents indicating that they had been paid by the Bank of Hamburg. An outrageous plot by the Germans, just the sort of thing you would expect of such barbarians.

'The Russians would be outraged and would declare a war of revenge. The French would follow, and the British might join in. Whatever the result, Ravenscliff would benefit. He owned shares in all the major armaments companies, and controlled many of them. He would also sell his battleships at a good price.

'But, if anyone had looked closer, they would have spotted Ravenscliff's hand behind it all. The Bank of Hamburg was his personal bank in Germany. The payments were authorised by the Beswick Shipyard. He would have come under heavy suspicion.

'Would it have made any difference? Could the Government possibly have admitted that one of their citizens had done such a thing? Or would they have buried the information?'

'Are you asking me?' Cort said. 'Or is that rhetoric?'

'I'm asking.'

'Publicly I imagine it would have been covered over. I can't imagine any government admitting something like that. Certainly, that would have been my recommendation. Privately, however, I think not.'

'Precisely. Ever so quietly, Ravenscliff would have been removed. What would it have been? Falling under a train? A heart attack?'

Cort shrugged.

I continued. 'The trouble is that Ravenscliff died before this scheme took place, and he was not behaving like someone hatching a dastardly plot to embroil the Continent in war. Far from it; he was trying desperately to find out what was going on. He had learned that there was something strange taking place inside his company; honest young men were turning into thieves; payments were being made without authorisation. But that could not happen. Everything had to be authorised. Which meant that someone, someone fairly senior, must be authorising them. But he did not know who. All he knew was that it wasn't him.'

I stopped here and tried to turn, but could not. Cort lifted my head, and helped me sip some water from a glass on the little table beside the bed. He did it surprisingly gently. It made me feel safe. A dangerous feeling.

'So, instead of the usual means a man like him had of dealing with such matters, he turned to the only person he knew he could trust absolutely: his wife. She tried to find out the truth, and did so, up to a point. She established the money was going to Jan the Builder but until the very last moment, did not know why. It was a close-run thing.

'When Ravenscliff died, there was a battle for control of Rialto. On the one hand, Barings was buying up shares – was it you who organised this?'

He nodded.

'On the other, so was someone else. Theodore Xanthos tried to take advantage of his employer's death, and was thwarted only by Barings and you. Then he tried to organise a shareholders' revolt, but was blocked again, because the estate was in limbo. Ravenscliff had tangled up his will to buy time in case of his death – something which he must have foreseen, or at least considered as a possibility.

'Xanthos also tried to distract Ravenscliff by attacking the one thing he held more dear than his companies. He lit upon the witch-woman in Germany and brought her over to England. She, I think, was attempting to blackmail Lady Ravenscliff. She told me she had had affairs; the witch-woman was the sort who would find out about them.'

Cort smiled appreciatively. At least, I think that's what it was.

'Did you kill her?' I asked.

'Me?' Cort asked. 'Why do you ask that?'

'You took all her papers. That was you, wasn't it?'

'That's true. I didn't want anything to fall into the hands of someone like you by accident. But there was nothing of interest. You have a very odd notion about me, Mr Braddock. I think you must have been listening to Lady Ravenscliff too much.'

'Nobody likes you very much.'

'I am wounded,' he said, and almost looked as though he meant it.

'Why did you threaten poor Mr Seyd?'

He looked displeased. 'Poor Mr Seyd, as you call him, has been in the pay of Germany for years,' he said. 'You don't think he started investigating Rialto by chance, do you?'

I stared blankly at him.

'So who did kill her?'

He shrugged. 'I have learned over the years to concentrate on essentials. I suggest you do the same.' He had a quiet, gentle voice, I thought. Entirely reasonable.

'But you did steal Ravenscliff's papers?'

'I have them.' He didn't seem inclined to elaborate.

'Anyway,' I continued, trying to digest this, 'in my opinion, this had nothing to do with Ravenscliff. He was arrogant enough not to doubt his own judgement. He could not believe any decision of his could go wrong. He was supremely confident that this gamble of his would work. There is no sign that he was worried on that score at all.

'But he was coming to grips with the one thing he feared more than anything. His companies had come alive; he had created a monster, and it was acting in its own interests, no longer taking orders. Its job was to maximise its profits; Xanthos saw a way to make them astronomically large and enrich himself at the same time. And when Ravenscliff threatened to stop it, I believe his own invention killed him. I doubt that Xanthos personally pushed him out of the window. But I am fairly certain that he was responsible for it; he threatened to kill me a few days ago. A man called Steptoe was killed by him a few days ago; another employee at Beswick died as well. I don't know if he was acting in concert with other managers. Bartoli, Jenkins, Neuberger, may all be part of it, or they may have been even less aware of what was taking place than Ravenscliff himself. I don't really care. That's your job.'

'And that is your understanding of what has taken place?'

'Yes. Ravenscliff was much too clever to channel money for an assassination through his own companies. He was a master of the art of hiding much larger sums. You were meant to trace the money. Heavens, even I managed it.'

'Interesting. I had assumed Xanthos was operating on Ravenscliff's instructions. Are you sure he was not?'

'He would hardly have had to spend so much time finding out what Xanthos was doing if he already knew. And Lady Ravenscliff would have been nowhere near Cowes yesterday. I mean, in the matter of assassinations, why not let the professionals get on with it?'

He thought this one over. 'In that case I think I may owe Lady Ravenscliff an apology. She must think very poorly of me. Thank you, Mr Braddock. You have been most informative. I wish I'd talked to you earlier. You must forgive me; I assumed that you must have had some hidden role. Certainly you did seem to go out of your way to draw attention to yourself.'

'I thought I was being discreet.'

'Yes, well. There we must differ.'

He stood up and folded his newspaper. 'I do hope you recover properly, and with good speed. But I'm afraid I must leave; I have a great deal to do; giving Lady Ravenscliff her freedom, of course, being somewhere near the top of the list.'

And he quietly left me alone to my thoughts, which were in some turmoil after what I had just said. I beat the mattress with my fist in frustration, so hard that my shoulder opened up again and I had to be rebandaged by the nurses, who scolded me, then gave me some nasty-tasting medicine which made me drowsy once more.

When I woke up again it was night, and she was there. Heavens but she was beautiful, so delicate, and lovely, sitting and looking out of the window so I could study her for a long time; the only time I had caught her unaware that she was being looked at. I could see what she was really like when no one else was watching.

There was nothing; she merely sat, waiting, totally immobile, with no expression on her face, no movement at all. Just perfection, no more and no less; a work of art so exquisite that it was breathtaking. I had never encountered a woman so lovely, and in all the years afterwards never met anyone who came close.

And when I moved, she turned and smiled. I felt a glow spread through me. Just to be the recipient of such warmth and concern made me feel better.

'Matthew, how are you? I've been so worried for you. I cannot apologise enough.'

'I should think not,' I said with an attempt at a smile. 'You did shoot me.'

'I have been in agonies about it. Terrible thing. Terrible. But you are still with us – and so is the Tsar.'

'When did you know he was the target?'

'Not until Jan stepped forward. He'd told me to come with him, that this was important. We stayed in a boarding house for a night. He was unusually terse and ill-humoured. But wouldn't say anything. I tried my best, but he became threatening. So I had no choice. I just had to stay with him. I knew something was going to happen, and I began to worry about what it might be. It was only when he stepped out that I was certain and knew what I had to do. About the same time that you realised as well. I'm sorry I shot you, but you would have been no match for him. He would have murdered the Tsar, even with you hanging on to him. I couldn't take the risk.'

'I quite understand,' I said gallantly. 'And what is a little bullet wound in comparison to a European war?'

'And I owe my freedom to you as well. Mr Cort told me what you had said.'

'Yes,' I replied. 'That's the bit that's puzzling me.'

'Why?'

'I am normally a truthful person,' I said evenly. 'I've only started telling lies since I met you.'

She frowned in slight dismay and confusion; just a little enough to make the bridge of her nose wrinkle attractively before she smiled again.

'I was looking at you when you shot me, you see. The expression in your eyes. I really don't think you were trying to miss me.'

'Of course I was,' she said a little petulantly. 'I was petrified, that's all. You read far too much into my eyes.'

'They are the most beautiful eyes I have ever seen. I have tried often to get you to look at me, just to have that feeling of excitement that it causes in my stomach. When I close mine, I can see them. I dream of them. I know them well.'

'But why would I want to shoot you? I mean, really shoot you. You know.'

'How often do you take the waters at Baden-Baden?'

She looked momentarily confused, then replied. 'Every year. I go in the autumn. I have done for many years now. Why do you ask that?'

'And Mr Xanthos? He is an enthusiastic water-taker as well?'

'No,' she said, 'I'm sure he is not.'

'But you were both there last autumn?'

'Yes.'

'Strange that an arms salesman should go to a place like that. Unless he was visiting someone. Like you.'

She raised an eyebrow. Her face, so very expressive it was, was turning cold.

'And when you were both there you came to the attention of Madame Boninska, otherwise known as the witch-woman. A nasty bit of work, who made a tidy living out of blackmail. She knew a gold mine when she saw one. She followed you back to England, and decided to try a little blackmail. How long did you pay up before you refused?'

'Matthew, you are talking such nonsense. Have these nurses been putting something into your tea?'

'Morphine, maybe?' I said, with a quite nasty tone. 'Drink some. You know more about that sort of thing than I do.'

That stopped her attempt at good humour, so I continued. 'She wrote to your husband, who went to see her. There she gave him the details. That his beloved wife was having an affair with another man. His own employee was betraying him. Not only planning to take his company away from him, but to take his wife as well.

'Lord Ravenscliff was not a man to go down without a fight. He had already amended his will so that everything would fall into the hands of an administrator should he die. I am fairly certain that, if he had had his meeting with Xanthos the next day, Xanthos would have been dismissed. And then he would have thrown you out as well. I have heard enough to know that he was thorough and ruthless. When he acted, he moved fast and decisively. And he hated disloyalty above all.

'But you were his equal, so Xanthos told me, and he was right. You moved fast. One swift move, and he was out the window. Did you put your arms around him and tell him how much you loved him before you gave him a little push? Or was it some melodrama, opening the window and threatening to throw yourself out, until he came to stop you and made the mistake of turning his back on you?'

'Before that, you had offered – what a loving gesture! – to find out what Xanthos was up to. Persuaded your husband he could trust no one else. That put you in the perfect position to relay Xanthos's instructions to Jan the Builder. You weren't doing this nonsense to find out what he was planning. The Tsar would be murdered, war would break out and Ravenscliff would get the blame – but quietly, no publicity. Xanthos would take over his companies. Then you and he would marry . . .'

She hit me, so hard that I was dizzy with the pain and my nose began to bleed profusely. And when I say hit, I don't mean some dainty slap about the face, such as an irate female might deliver. I mean punched, with her fist. And, having hit me, she hit me again, even harder. Then stood over me, eyes blazing with cold fury, teeth clenched. She stood over me, breathing hard. I really thought I was about to die.

Instead, she marched to the door, pulled it open and turned round.

'How dare you talk to me like that?' she spat. 'Who do you think you are?'

I couldn't talk. I gasped through the bedsheet, which I was having to use as an impromptu bandage. The pain was so great it even overwhelmed the pain of my wound. It occurred to me that saying what I had, all alone in a room with her, had not been the cleverest thing to do. Being punched on the nose was getting off quite lightly, really. Others had not been so lucky.

'You have come to your conclusions. I will not argue against them. I told you I loved my husband. You disregard all of that. And now you are going to run to Henry Cort?'

I shook my head.

'Why not? Why not? That is what a good Englishman should do, isn't it?'

I shook my head again.

'Why not?'

'Because you're all as bad as each other. I don't want anything to do with any of you. I've had enough.'

I half-expected a cold, sneering contempt, icy disdain. It wasn't there. She gave me one last look, one of those dark hypnotic glances she did so well, and I almost failed to notice the way she turned away swiftly so I could not see her face, almost as if to hide tears. She was always a good actor.

I never saw Elizabeth again, in any of her guises. She left Cowes that day, I was told, and soon enough closed down her house in St James's Square and crossed to the Continent, where she lived for the rest of her life. Ravenscliff's will was settled and, as he had calculated, by the time his ships were nearing completion, the Government was persuaded that they were needed. He had been right all along; the battleships were in place in August 1914, and joined the Grand Fleet at Scapa Flow, guarding the North Sea against the German threat across the water. I am sure I was not alone in thinking that the cause of the war had a certain familiar style to it.

If so, then no responsibility for events in Sarajevo attached to Theodore Xanthos. Ravenscliff's companies prospered during the war, but did so without the salesman's assistance, as he met a tragic end, falling under the wheels of an Underground train at Oxford Circus late one Friday evening a month or so after I got back from Cowes. It was, as his only obituary mentioned, singularly unfortunate, as it was probably the only time Xanthos had ever even been in an Underground station. The other managers continued in their jobs, so I assumed they had been given a clean bill of health.

When I was well enough – my landlady loved my invalid status and fed me little but beef tea and seed cake for a month – I decided to go travelling at long last. The bank in Sloane Square wrote me an almost reverential letter to say that the sum of £2,380 had been deposited in my account, and that they would be pleased – in fact they were positively salivating – to hear my instructions. They also cashed the cheque from Mr Xanthos.

I felt I had earned every penny, so I kept it all. I travelled the world for a few years, visiting the marvels of the Empire I had read about but never dreamed I would see with my own eyes. I wrote a book of travel memoirs which was politely enough received, and was turned down for military service in 1914 on the grounds of my injury. I was briefly hurt to my patriotic heart by this, but as the news of the war rolled in, I was hard put to suppress the feeling that being shot by Lady Ravenscliff was in fact the luckiest thing that had ever happened to me. Then I went back to work as a journalist, covering campaigns in Africa and later in the Near East. Later, after my marriage and the birth of my first son, and as I had a pleasant-enough voice, I became a pioneer of radio news, a job which brought me a small measure of fame, and which was the reason I was accosted at her funeral nearly half a century later.

Thus my story; even then, at the moment I last cast eyes on that captivating woman, I knew I had only grasped part of what had transpired. I did not feel inclined to revisit the matter, though. People like Cort and the Ravenscliffs had taken up enough of my energies and nearly killed me, although I was not so foolish as to forget that the encounter had transformed my life, and for the better. I was a free man afterwards, my horizons lifted, my ambitions transformed. But the more I travelled, the more able I was to forget about them all. And I succeeded for very many years, until I was accosted at a funeral, and a large package, meticulously wrapped in brown paper, with the address of Henderson, Lansbury, Fenton, 58 The Strand, was delivered to my door.