Stone's Fall (70 page)

“I don’t want—”

“What you want is of no importance, Mr. Stone. You do not know this city, nor how it works. I do. And it sounds to me as if you have caused enough trouble already. You will leave it to me to arrange matters as I see fit. Go and rest, and do nothing until I get back.”

I was left alone for the rest of the afternoon, until well in the evening. It was dark before the Marchesa got back. Under any other circumstances, I would have been taken aback by her sudden transformation from ethereal spiritualist to political manipulator, but nothing could surprise me anymore that day. Marangoni was with her. Cort was fine, he said. “He’s some burns, cuts, bruises and a broken collarbone, but that’s all. He was extraordinarily lucky.

“Physically, that is,” he continued. “As for his mental state—well, that is another matter. I’m afraid he has had a total breakdown. Not unexpected, but unfortunate, nonetheless. Well, we shall see how he is in a few days’ time. Luckily, he is in hospital, so he won’t bump into his wife…”

“What do you mean?”

“She was brought to me a few hours ago. I am beginning to resent being used as a convenient way of hushing up English scandals, you know.”

“Why?”

“For having set fire to her apartment block. With her child still in it. When they realised there was a blaze, all the occupants fled into the street in panic but no one thought to check Cort’s apartment. Drennan did, when he arrived, and he was nearly too late. He kicked in the door—very bravely, I must say, as the fire was a bad one—scooped up the infant and ran down the stairs with it. The child has a burn on his left arm, and Drennan has a bad cut on his cheek from flying glass. Apart from that they are both fine. But many people’s apartments and possessions have been destroyed. It’s a bad mess.”

At that moment I felt more grateful to Drennan than I could express. He had saved me, as well.

“What makes you think she started it?”

“She was seen doing it,” he said, “and she was later found at the railway station about to board a train to Switzerland. She had all her money, clothes, jewellery and passport with her. Everything but her child and her husband, in fact. And her reaction when she was told her son had been saved from a fire was not that of a loving mother. When I also told her that both her husband and you had had a narrow escape her response was so violent she had to be restrained.”

“So what happens to her?”

“That is out of my hands, of course. It will depend on what the authorities think appropriate.”

“They will regard it as a terrible misfortune,” the Marchesa said firmly.

“Will they?”

“Yes. You are a lucky man, Mr. Stone,” she continued, turning her attention to me. “You have friends with influence. Signor Ambrosian was most concerned about your mishap and will interest himself in the matter. The explosion was indeed an accident, apparently caused by the carelessness of Mr. Macintyre. As for Mrs. Cort, she must be dealt with in a manner which causes no embarrassment.”

“And that’s it?”

“Well, there is, of course, the question of Mr. Macintyre’s daughter, and Cort’s son. There, I don’t know. I suppose we must ask Mr. Longman what is to be done. That is his job.”

St. James’s Square,
London 15 March 1909
10 p.m.

Dear Cort,

You will find with this letter a bundle of papers which I wish you to keep entirely confidential. It will explain my current actions, as you, above all men, need to know. In the package you will find all the relevant documents concerning the battleships, and guidance as to how you should proceed over the coming months. You will also find a memoir which, to my mind, is of greater significance.

You will see from those pages how my rise to success began, and it will also tell you of my involvement with your mother, many long years ago. You will finally know the circumstances of your father’s breakdown and why you were abandoned. It was my doing; your mother was a terrible woman, I say this frankly. I have little sympathy for her. But if she was mad, then it was I who drew out that madness, and turned it from petty cruelty into something much more dangerous. Marangoni used to say that the madness of the degenerate was latent, and needed merely the right circumstances to awaken it. Perhaps so; perhaps such fury builds up over the generations until it bursts out like some festering sore. Perhaps I was merely the trigger, not the underlying cause. I do not know. I do not excuse myself with such arguments. Her punishment was harsh, but at the time I regarded it as a relief, a satisfactory solution to a problem which allowed me to forget all about it. I do not claim that I was better than she. Merely more fortunate.

Your father broke down completely after these events, and never properly recovered. He was always of an excessively sensitive temper, and the duties placed on him in Venice were too great. He was an easy target for someone like Louise, who not only tormented him but enjoyed his suffering. Drennan accompanied him back to England, and I ensured that he never wanted for anything in the financial way. It was little enough to do. He was a kind, gentle man, who deserved better. I also made the necessary arrangements to allow Mr. and Mrs. Longman to look after Esther Macintyre, and continued paying her an allowance when she married.

I did this because I knew that, although my title to Macintyre’s torpedo was perfectly legal, I had in reality all but stolen it by subterfuge. It was far more valuable than the sum I paid for it, and a more honest person would have admitted this fact and made greater amends. In my ambition, I did not make any such admission and I clung to a belief in my integrity, in the laws of business, instead. It is now time to give that illusion up. I have made provision for Signora Vincotti in my will, but I do not wish her to know the reason behind it.

Now I must proceed to more important matters, that is the other provision in my will, which I told you was merely to block undue inquisitiveness in case I died. That was not its origin, which lay more with a last conversation with your father just before he died. It was very important for him to see me that one last time, I do not know why. There was, I’m glad to say, no trace of the old bitterness in him, even though he was more than justified in hating me. Louise had told him she was going to have my child. She had told him this in their last conversation when her cruelty and taunting sent him mad with despair. It was her special way of goading him, a way to prove his weakness and failure, to demonstrate how completely I had taken her from him.

I did not take it seriously. She was a habitual liar, and prepared to say whatever she felt would have the greatest effect. But once he had told me, I could not let it rest. I began making enquiries.

It took a considerable time to get the asylum in Venice to respond, and I had to apply considerable pressure to break through the walls of confidentiality which surround such places. It would have been easy had Marangoni still been alive, but he died in 1889, at the age of only forty-eight. His files live on, however. He did as he was told, although with some resentment; Louise was declared insane, incarcerated without a hearing or charge, by administrative fiat. A simple solution to an awkward problem. As the Marchesa said, I had influential people on my side. Louise did not.

She was never released while he was alive, and was kept perpetually in that wing given over to the dangerous, the raving and the incurable. Such people are allowed no hearings and no appeal, and it sent her truly insane. But when he died, she won her freedom. She apparently gave no more sign of being dangerous, and the hospital was overcrowded. She never tried to contact me; I think she knew quite well what my response would have been had she done so.

Instead, she became a medium, Madame Boninska, and adopted what she remembered from the Marchesa as her only way of making a living. She travelled the Continent performing tricks of the far beyond, eking out a penurious living duping the foolish, mixing this in with a little blackmail and emotional torture. She was good at that. It was, if you like, her natural calling.

But there had been a child; for once she had told your father the truth, even though she did so out of cruelty and a desire to hurt. It was taken from her at birth, as is usual. She was never allowed to touch it or see it. Marangoni took care of everything. He knew her by then. He knew what she was capable of, and what being the child of such a creature might mean. It was tainted by bad blood, degenerate. The wrong circumstances could bring that out in the next generation and begin the cycle again. Only an entirely safe environment might counteract the tendency. Even then, I imagine, he was not hopeful.

So the child was hidden from its mother in the forests of bureaucracy with no name and no identity, no birth certificate, nothing. And he destroyed all records of where it had gone. Adopted? By a family, one in a town nearby? The records were silent, I was told. His successors told me the truth; I could sense it from their letter; they did not have to deny me knowledge, and did not have to lie. They simply did not know.

But Louise looked. This was clear from the record; she had left the asylum and the notes had recorded her intentions. Not you; she never once asked about you in the twenty-three years she spent in that place. In her eyes, you were your father’s child, not hers. But the other one, the one she gave birth to in the asylum, that one she wanted to find; that one was hers, she knew it; felt it in her blood.

As I had never heard from her again, I assumed she had not succeeded, or that the child was dead. But I found I wanted to know about this infant, my child, and she was the one person who might be able to tell me something. I became almost obsessive in a way that business never affected me. You know me there well enough; the greatest problems, the biggest projects, are things I take in my stride. Even disaster and failure make me lose no sleep.

This did; I became preoccupied, it played on my mind. Elizabeth saw it and worried, but I was too ashamed to tell her what concerned me. I know all about her life and what it was like, but she has never done a cruel thing. I did not want to acknowledge how much better a person she was than I.

So, all in secret, when I should have been concentrating on other things, I looked for Louise Cort, as my one chance of finding the truth. Eventually I got a lead from Germany, and instructed Xanthos to go and make sure it was really her; I would not go myself. The idea of seeing her once more frightened me. What did he say to her? What did she reply? I do not know; I have not seen him since; he always finds a reason to be out of the country, plotting away and thinking I am unaware of his ambitions.

But, whatever passed between them, it brought her to London and produced several whingeing letters asking for money. Threatening, hinting, but empty. She knew I wanted something, that was all. She did not know what. A few days ago, I went to see her, and again this afternoon.

She never knew the significance of what she told me. Any feeling of sympathy or remorse for her evaporated on meeting her again. She has spread nothing but cruelty in this world and now she is my end as well. She will have her final triumph. Mine is that she will never know what it was.

Oh, she was foul; rank, wheedling, disgusting. I could hardly bear to talk to her; could not sit down in the same room.

“Why don’t we talk over old times? You loved me once.”

No; I didn’t. I never did. Any more than she ever loved me. She never knew the meaning of the word and, until I met Elizabeth, neither did I. We deserved each other, I have no doubt, but neither your father nor Macintyre deserved either of us. They were better men than that.

She was too addled in her brain to know what I was asking; could not put the pieces together. All she wanted was money; she could have had it all, if she had given me a different answer. She got the money, much good would it do her. Oh, her lovely little child, so cruelly snatched from her mother’s arms. But a mother’s love is insatiable, she tracked it down, almost, had found the woman who had taken it away, persuaded her to talk. Such a long way they had sent it, so she would never suspect. She outwitted them, she was clever. But fate was cruel, she was defeated again. It had gone by the time she got there, walked out. It was working nearby, she went to see. The child had fled. Oh, she looked, certainly she looked, a child in trouble needs a mother’s love. But not a sign or a trace was there ever again.

And there were only a few more questions left to ask. I didn’t expect the answers to be anything but banal, uninteresting, a tidying up. I was perfectly calm, almost relaxed. Just a bit of unfinished business before I could leave. I almost didn’t bother to ask at all.

Was it a boy or a girl?

A girl.

Where was this?

Lausanne.

What was the name of the family?

Stauffer.

And her name? Elizabeth.

I was wrong. I thought that I had left Venice behind me when I travelled back to England with Macintyre’s machinery, but it has been with me all my life. I have now made my preparations; swiftly and inadequately, no doubt, but they will serve. I must carry out my plans before I weaken, and I have a change of heart. I am a coward physically, I know myself well. It will not be easy to take the necessary steps, all too easy to find some reason for changing my mind. But I must not weaken. This is the only entirely satisfactory end. Many people will be inconvenienced because of what I am about to do, but I do not care. Elizabeth would suffer if I acted differently, and that I could not bear.

I cannot remain with her. I cannot ever see her again, for fear that I would confess the terrible truth that I learned this afternoon. I cannot even say goodbye, nothing must suggest anything other than an accident. She would work to find out the truth. She is a very intelligent, determined woman, as you know. Despite my efforts to protect her, she might succeed.