Stone's Fall

I bought myself a drink and a pie and waited for McEwen to show up, largely unable to concentrate on the papers Wilf had lent me. I was halfway through both when my editor walked in. He was the sort of person who was not noticed in a crowd, except when he wished to be. And yet he was invited everywhere, had an entrée into the houses of the great. How was this so? He never struck me as a fine talker, was not notably handsome, not well connected through his family. It took me years to grasp that McEwen listened. When someone talked to him, whoever they were, they felt he was giving them his full attention. It is a rare gift, and one I do not possess myself; I have a tendency to judge others before they have even opened their mouths. McEwen could ferret out the good and the interesting amongst dowagers and dockers alike, and persuade them to take him into their confidence.

And there he was, propped up against the bar, looking not at all like a man able to exchange witticisms with debutantes or discuss tariff reform with cabinet ministers. Rather, he looked like a newspaperman about to go into battle once again. Slightly wary, preoccupied, preparing for the struggle that attended the daily rebirth of a newspaper as it began its great cycle from formless idea to wrapping for fish and chips.

'Good evening, sir,' I said. He was always referred to in this manner; in the world of the newspaper he was lord of us all. The fact that he was a mere employee himself, answerable to the owners, never occurred to any of us. In fact, no one either knew – or particularly cared – who the owners were, as their presence was never felt.

'Braddock.' It was a greeting, no more or less friendly than his usual salutation.

'I was wondering if I could have a word with you, sir . . .'

He took the watch out of his waistcoat and looked at it, then nodded.

'I was asked to go and meet a Lady Ravenscliff today, sir . . .'

'Taking it?'

'I beg your pardon?'

'The job. Commission, whatever. Are you taking it?'

'It's a very good offer she has made. Extraordinary. I think I have to thank you . . .'

'Yes, you do. Good. I thought you'd go for it.'

'Might I ask why you suggested me?'

'Because it is a bit of a waste having you do crime stories. Good though they are, no doubt. But I think you need to spread your wings. You need to spend some time in the company of those people you dislike so much.'

'Why do you say that?' I tried to keep the hurt out of my voice, but did not succeed very well.

'You sympathise far too much with the people and lose sight of the facts. You write about a murder trial and are so caught up in the circumstances that you are quite capable of omitting the verdict.'

'I didn't realise I was so inadequate,' I said stiffly.

'Yes, you did,' he replied simply. 'You know it perfectly well. And please don't think I have a low opinion of you. You'd be a good leader writer. Will be, once you lose the rough edges.'

'You mean I didn't go to the right school, like those people you do give jobs to,' I said, more loudly than I intended.

'I did not recommend someone like that to Lady Ravenscliff,' he said evenly, 'so don't get resentful. I imagine she is paying you a fortune and you will gain inestimably from the experience as well. On top of that, there was something strange about Ravenscliff's death, and I want to know what. You were the best person I could think of to discover it.'

'I thought he fell out of a window.'

'So he did. Open window of his study on the second floor. He was working alone and his wife was out. Pacing up and down, tripped on a carpet.'

'So?'

'He hated heights. He was terrified of them, and deeply embarrassed by the fact. He never went near an open window if it was anywhere but on the ground floor, and used to insist that all windows were tightly shut.'

'And does Lady Ravenscliff share your worries? She never mentioned anything to me.'

He gave me a sidelong look, and I realised what he meant.

'You think . . . ?'

'All I know, Braddock, is that this is a matter of the utmost importance.'

He said it with such intensity that I didn't quite grasp his meaning. 'Why?'

'Because,' he said quietly, 'Ravenscliff owned the Chronicle. And I don't want it falling into the wrong hands. Find out for me, please, what his will said, where his assets go. Who is our new master.'

CHAPTER 6