Stone's Fall

Mr Xanthos was evidently a different species of salesman altogether, but the hotel people told me little in return for my money – only that he had been in London the week Ravenscliff had died, and had left shortly afterwards. That he came and went all the time, and had his mail forwarded when he was away for more than a month.

'Or if the letter says please forward,' someone chipped in. 'Like last autumn, when he went to Baden-Baden. To take the waters,' he said in a mock-posh accent.

'Or when he went to Rome last April and that trunk arrived for him. Do you remember the trouble that caused, shipping it off? And no thanks when he got back, either. It might have been a postcard we'd sent on, for all he cared.'

He was an interesting fellow, I thought, when he opened the door to his suite, and a curiously attractive one, short, dapper, unconventional, with a bright smile and quick, precise movements. Welcoming, friendly, quite unlike Bartoli.

'It is kind of you to see me,' I said. We were in his fabled rooms, and very splendid they were; grand enough to intimidate someone like me, who had never even been in the public area before, let alone in one of the most expensive of the hotel's apartments. There was a huge salon ornately decorated with rich red wallpaper and gallons of gold paint, what I assumed was a bedroom and bathroom next door, and a separate dining room. While I was there, there was a constant to-ing and fro-ing of people bringing food, messages, coal and logs for the fire; even his coffee was poured for him by someone else.

'On the contrary, I am very curious about you,' he replied. His eyes twinkled as he spoke, in a voice which was well modulated but overlaid with so many accents it was impossible to tell what the original might once have been. He nestled – almost snuggled – down in his armchair like someone protecting himself from a gale; I half-expected him to wrap himself up in a blanket as he spoke, or tuck his little legs underneath him.

'In that case the curiosity is mutual. If I may—'

'No,' he said, 'I will ask first. I invited you, and am providing the refreshments.' He paused for a considerable while as he leant forwards and poured two cups of tea. Lemon for him, milk and sugar for me. I'm a traditionalist.

'Very well. What do you want to know?'

'Just why dear Lady Ravenscliff chose you for this project? I am sure you know as well as I why that might excite some interest amongst those who knew her husband. And who, I may add, are protective of his memory.'

'There I cannot really help, I'm afraid. I had never met either of them before I was offered the task. And, as you no doubt gathered from my conversation with Mr Bartoli, I have no experience whatsoever in things financial.'

'And she knew so many people who were expert . . . Do you think she wanted someone who was not employed by her husband? An independent outsider? Could that be it?'

'Why would she want that? I flatter myself that what she wanted was someone who could tell a good story, make her husband's life interesting. There are few successful novels with bankers or industrialists as the hero. Fewer still that are written by bankers or industrialists.'

'That is true,' he replied. 'And a sad condemnation of the book-reading public it is. Perhaps you are right. Perhaps that is all it is.'

'You sound doubtful. Although I thank you for being less offensive than Mr Bartoli.'

The elf waved a hand. 'Oh, don't worry about him. He is just as rude to me. And everyone, in fact. It's his way. He is a very efficient man, the perfect doorkeeper for someone like John Stone. Although I imagine he is concerned about what is to become of him now. Lady Ravenscliff, I am sure, will not require his services. I assume she is the beneficiary of his will?'

Aha. I thought. So that's it. I smiled.

'I really couldn't say,' I said. 'I am hardly privy . . .'

'No, I suppose not. Still, you will have gathered that I am curious. And as you come to know more about his business you will understand why. How do you find Lady Ravenscliff?'

A question only the foreigner would ask. No Englishman would ever be so direct.

'I beg your pardon?'

'Have you fallen under her spell?'

'I'm not sure I . . .'

'She is a fascinating woman, I find. Beautiful, intelligent, accomplished, warm, witty.'

'Yes, indeed.'

'Did you know she was once one of the most famous women in France?'

'Really?'

He frowned. 'Your next-door neighbours have the strange habit of the salon. Women gather male admirers around them – the best attract the leading writers, politicians, diplomats, poets, you name it. It is in the salons that the elites of France are formed. Lady Ravenscliff is said to have been a great star. It is said she even had the King – your King – in her collection. Then she married John Stone, moved to England, and has lived a life of domesticity ever since. Odd, don't you think?'

'Love?'

'Maybe so.'

'You sound doubtful. Are you about to offer an explanation?'