Stone's Fall

'I will do a good and proper job, or I will not do it at all. Please decide what you want of me.'

Dangerous, that. The desire, which comes upon me on occasion, to strike an attitude, put me in a risky position. Of course I wanted to do a decent job; but I also wanted the money although, after my editor's sombre remarks, I would have been quite happy to have the project brought to an end. The perfect reply (in my opinion) would have been had she told me that she wanted to pay me a huge amount of money to go away. Unfortunately, my upright, manly remarks had the opposite effect. She crumpled in front of me and began sobbing quietly, so through pure instinct I responded in a supportive and consolatory fashion, which of course made things even worse. I handed her a handkerchief, which, fortunately, was clean. Then I completely wrecked things by taking her hand and holding it firmly. She did not snatch it away.

'Let us go into the square and find a seat,' I suggested. 'It is a little public here on the pavement.'

I led her into the middle of Russell Square and the little stall near the centre that served office workers. There I bought two cups of tea and presented her with one. I thought it was probably one of the most exotic things she had done for years, she who never did anything in public, nor anything without servants. She looked a little doubtfully at the old cracked cup.

'Don't worry,' I assured her. 'It's quite safe.'

She sipped in silence, initially more to please me, but then with greater enthusiasm.

'I apologise for my rudeness,' she said after a while. 'And of course I behaved horribly to that poor woman. I will write and apologise. Please do not think badly of me. I am finding all of this so hard.'

I nodded in acknowledgement. 'I understand. I really do. But while we are both amiably disposed to one another, might I renew my request that you begin to tell me the truth?'

The flash in her eyes clearly demonstrated that, however much she might have been chastened, the situation was very far from permanent. I pressed on while there was still time.

'Mr Cort,' I said.

'What about him?'

'Henry Cort is in charge of government espionage. He has been described to me as the most powerful and dangerous man in the country.'

'Henry?' she said. 'Oh, I don't think . . .'

'You have known him for years, so you told me. I do not believe you could be unaware that there is more to him than meets the eye.'

She considered for a moment. 'I think you also have been less than open with me,' she replied. 'If I remember, I asked what your interest in Henry was, and you replied merely that someone had mentioned his name. I do not see why I should be open with you, if you dissimulate with me.'

A fair point. 'Very well. Let me summarise. Henry Cort visited the police within hours of your husband's death, and was quite possibly the man responsible for suppressing news of it for nearly three days. In the meantime, Barings Bank was brought in to support the price of the Rialto Investment Trust, which was your husband's financial instrument for controlling a large part of British industry.'

'I know what Rialto is.'

'Cort also used to work for Barings,' I continued. 'Barings, we now know, pays Signora Vincotti's annuity. I refuse to believe that an old friend, whom you have known for twenty years or more, would conceal all of this from you.'

She smiled quietly. 'Of course. You are quite correct. I didn't mention it because I did not know of his involvement when John died. Besides, Mr Cort and I are not close.'

'That means you do not like each other?'

'If you like.'

'Why not?'

'That is none of your business. John necessarily had dealings with him, but I insisted that they be conducted away from me.'

I brooded over this. It didn't help me at all. 'Why? I mean, what dealings?'

'John made weapons, the government bought them. Naturally they had common interests. Don't ask me more; I do not know.'

'How did you meet your husband? What was he like?'

She smiled, recalling a fond memory. 'He was the kindest man you could meet, the best I ever knew,' she began. 'That was not his reputation, perhaps, and I sense that it is not the opinion you have formed of him, but you are wrong. The man of money and power, and the man who shared my life, had little in common.'

She paused and looked across the square, at all the normal, poor people strolling to and fro, or hurrying across. Some looked as though they were taking a break from the reading desks of the British Museum, others came from the shops and offices of Holborn. I even hoped – again, this was a sign to which I should have given more attention – that perhaps an old colleague from Fleet Street might appear, and see me. See me with her, in fact.

'I met him on a train,' she went on, as this pleasant and dangerous fantasy flickered through my mind. 'On the Orient Express.'

'Is it true he had his own carriage?'