Stone's Fall

Though a journalist (now, I remembered, a former journalist) I was not much of a gossip, alas; unlike Brock, who delighted in any excuse that kept him away from work. Mulready was also a conversationalist, although he liked to amuse himself by talking in a way so convoluted, and on subjects so obscure, that the poor woman rarely understood what he was going on about. Harry Franklin was her favourite; he worked in the City in some lowly capacity, but it was obvious he would not remain in servitude for long. He was a serious man, the sort any respectable mother would like to call her own. Every evening he retired to his room to study the mysteries of money; he intended to learn his business so thoroughly that no one could deny him the promotion he craved. He often returned late, working for his employers without charge and all alone, so that he could be on top of his job at all times.

He was an admirable fellow but (dare I say it) a little dull. He was easily shocked by Brock and Mulready, went to church every Sunday and spoke rarely at dinner. He missed little, though, and there was more to him than was obvious. I could occasionally see a faint shine in his eye as he listened to the exuberance of his fellow lodgers; sometimes see the effort that lay behind all that mortification of the soul and discipline of the body. And he lived with us, in Chelsea, not in Holloway or Hackney, where most of his sort congregated. Franklin considered himself a man apart; different, superior perhaps to his colleagues, and was desperate to match reality with his dreams.

It was not for me to decry his ambition; not for me to say that being the general manager of a provincial bank (presumably the sort of thing he aimed at – I seriously underestimated his ambition there) was a poor sort of thing to dream of at night, when those in the rooms above and below saw themselves as Michelangelo or Milton. His dream was as powerful as theirs and he pursued it with more determination and ability.

'I need your help,' I told him as he prepared to leave for work. He paused as he put on his bicycle clips. It was typical of his general approach to life that he pedalled right across London twice a day, because he would not pay the twopence for the omnibus. Besides, an omnibus meant depending on others and risking being late. Franklin did not like being dependent on others.

He looked at me cautiously and didn't answer.

'I'm being serious,' I assured him. 'I need to learn about money.'

He remained silent.

'Can I walk with you a little?'

He nodded and we went out together. He was a curious sight. Mrs Morrison had stitched him a large, stiff canvas bag to contain his top hat, which might have been blown off or become soiled as he cycled, and this he tied carefully to the back of his machine. Then he began to pull on two cloth leggings, which he tied around ankle and thigh to protect his trousers, and a form of scarf which went around his neck to defend his stiff white collar against the filth of the London streets.

'You do know that you look ridiculous in all that?'

'Yes,' he said equably, speaking for the first time. 'But my employers are sticklers for appearance. Many a lad has been sent home without pay for not being properly turned out. What do you want to know about money for? I thought you disapproved of it.'

Franklin had once heard me discoursing on the evils of capitalism, but had not seen fit to defend his god against the heresies I spoke.

'Have you heard of someone called Lord Ravenscliff?'

Instantly I could see a look of mingled surprise and curiosity pass over his face.

'I have been asked to write his biography. But I've been told that his life was money. Or that money was his life. One or the other.'

'Why on earth would anybody ask you . . . ?'

I was getting heartily sick of that question. 'I have no idea,' I said testily, 'but his widow decided I was the right person and is paying me for the job. I will happily pass some of my good fortune on to you if you will allow me to use you as a sort of reference dictionary for anything I do not understand. Which is nearly everything.'

He considered this. 'Very well,' he said briefly. 'I will happily oblige, when I have time. I will be free this evening after dinner, if you wish to begin then. What sort of thing do you want to know?'

'Everything. I mean, I know what a share is, more or less. But that's about it. It's not as if I have any money myself, so it's never been of much interest to me. Just a moment.'

I ran back inside and up to my room, grabbed the file from Seyd's and went back outside to the pavement. 'Here,' I said, thrusting it into Franklin's hand. 'This is meant to be a summary of Ravenscliff's business. Could you tell me what it's all about this evening?'

He stuffed it into the bag, along with his top hat and his white gloves, and pedalled off.