Stone's Fall

'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.