Stone's Fall (10 page)

“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 than 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 amongst 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 cheque book. 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 somethings 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 newspaperman, 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.