Stone's Fall

'A good enough use for it. When I knew her she was married to Lord Ravenscliff. That was more than forty years ago, though.'

I paused. Whitely looked blank. 'Have you heard of Ravenscliff?' I enquired.

'No,' he said. 'Should I have?'

I thought, then shook my head. 'Maybe not. He was an industrialist, but most of his companies disappeared in the Depression. Some closed, others were bought up. Vickers took over a few, I remember. The lone and level sands stretch far away, you know.'

'Pardon?'

'Nothing.' I breathed in the thick air of cigarette smoke and damp, then attracted the waiter's eye and called for more drinks. It seemed a good idea. Whitely was not cheering me up at all. It was quiet; not many people around, and the waiters were prepared to work hard for the few customers they had. One of them almost smiled, but managed to restrain himself.

'Tell me about her,' I said when our glasses were refilled once more. 'I hadn't seen her for many years. I only discovered she was dead by chance.'

'Not much to say. She lived in an apartment just up the road here, went to church, did good works, and outlived her friends. She read a great deal, and loved going to the cinema. I understand she had a weakness for Humphrey Bogart films. Her English was excellent, for a Frenchwoman.'

'She lived in England when I knew her. Hungarian by birth, though.'

'Apart from that there's nothing to say is there?'

'I suppose not. A quiet and blameless life. What were you going to write to me about?'

'Hmm? Oh, that. Well, Mr Henderson, you know, our senior partner. He died a year ago and we've been clearing out his papers. There was a package for you.'

'For me? What is it? Gold? Jewels? Dollar bills? Swiss watches? I could use some of those. We prospective old-age pensioners . . .'

'I couldn't say what's in it. It's sealed. It was part of the estate of Mr Henry Cort . . .'

'Good heavens.'

'You knew him, I assume?'

'We met many years ago.'

'As I say, part of the Cort estate. Curious thing is that it carried instructions that you were to be given it only on Madame Robillard's death. Which was very exciting for us. There isn't much excitement in a solicitor's office, let me tell you. Hence my intention to write to you. Do you know what is in it?'

'I have absolutely no idea. I scarcely knew Cort at all, and certainly haven't even cast eyes on him for more than thirty years. I came across him when I was writing a biography of Madame Robillard's first husband. That's how I knew her as well.'

'I hope it was a great success.'

'Unfortunately not. I never even finished it. The reaction of most publishers was about as enthusiastic as your own was when I mentioned his name.'

'My apologies.'

'It was a long time ago. I went back to being a journalist, then joined the BBC when it started up. When did Cort die?' Curious how, the older you get, the more important other people's deaths become.

'Nineteen forty-four.'

'When I get back, send me your package. If it's valuable, I'll be glad to get it. But I doubt it will be. As far as I remember, Cort didn't like me very much. I certainly didn't like him.'

And then we ran out of things to say to each other, as strangers of different generations do. I paid and began my old man's routine of wrapping myself up, coat, hat, scarf, gloves, pulling everything tight to keep out the bitterness of the weather. Whitely pulled on a thin, threadbare coat. Army demob, by the look of it. But he didn't seem half as cold as I was at the thought of going outside.

'Are you going to the cemetery?'

'That would be the death of me. She would not have expected it and probably would have thought me sentimental. And I have a train at four. When I get back I will dig out my old notes to see how much I actually remember, and how much I merely think I remember.'

I took my train from the Gare de Lyon that afternoon, and the cold of Paris faded, along with thoughts of Madame Robillard, formerly Elizabeth, Lady Ravenscliff, as I went south to the greater warmth of a Mediterranean spring.

She remained in the back of my mind wherever I went, whatever I saw, until I returned to my little house in Hampstead to dig out my old notes. Then I went to visit Mr Whitely.

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.