Stone's Fall (2 page)

London, 1909

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. Moneyman of some sort. Fell out of a window a couple of weeks back. Only an accident, unfortunately.”

“What sort of moneyman?”

“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 awhile. 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.”