Stone's Fall

She smiled at me, again with a slightly mocking twinkle in her eye. 'You are trying to contain your shock, but not doing it very well. Let me simply say that I never doubted his love for me, nor he mine, even though he made it perfectly clear to me that I was free to do as I chose. Do you understand?'

'I think so.'

'He knew perfectly well that I would accept anything he wished to tell me about and so had no reason to conceal anything from me.'

'I see.'

I didn't of course; I didn't see at all. My morals were – and still are – those of my class and background, that is to say far more strict than those of people like the Ravenscliffs. It was an early lesson: the rich are a good deal tougher than most people. I suppose it is why they are rich.

'If you will excuse me for saying so, why did he make life so complicated for people? He must have known that it was going to be difficult to find this child.'

'It may be you will find an answer to that in your enquiries.'

She would never have made much of a living as a saleswoman in a department store, so it was perhaps as well that she was wealthy. Still, it would be an intriguing problem and, best of all, I got paid whatever the result: £350 a year was a powerful incentive. I was getting increasingly ill-humoured about the succession of bachelor lodging houses I had lived in for the past few years. I wasn't entirely certain whether I wanted domesticity and stability – wife, dog, house in the country. Or whether I wanted to flee abroad, and ride Arabian stallions across the desert, and sleep by flickering campfires at night. Either would do, as long as I could get away from the smell of boiled vegetables and furniture polish that hit me full in the face every time I returned home at night.

I was bored, and the presence of this beautiful woman with her extraordinary request and air of unfathomable wealth stirred up feelings I had long ignored. I wanted to do something different from hanging around the law courts and the pubs. This task she was offering me, and the money that went with it, were the only things likely to show up that could change my circumstances.

'You have become very thoughtful, Mr Braddock.'

'I was wondering how I would go about this task, if I decide to accept your offer.'

'You have decided to accept it,' she said gravely. From many people, there would have been a tone of contempt in the statement. She, on the other hand, managed to say it in a serene, almost friendly tone that was quite disarming.

'I suppose I have. Not without misgivings, though.'

'I'm sure those will pass.'

'I need, first of all, to discover everything I can about your husband's life. I will need to talk to his lawyer about the will. I don't know. Have you looked through his correspondence?'

She shook her head, tears suddenly welling up into her eyes. 'I can't face it yet,' she said. 'I'm sorry.'

I thought she was apologising for her laziness, then realised it was for the display of weakness she was showing me. Quite right. People like her weren't supposed to get emotional about a little thing like a husband dying. Should I have taken out a handkerchief and helped to dab her eyes? I would have enjoyed it; it would have required me to go and sit by her on the sofa, bring strength to her frailty. I changed the subject instead, and pretended I hadn't noticed.

'I imagine I will have to ensure that no one knows why I am asking these questions,' I said in a louder voice than necessary. 'I do not wish to cause you embarrassment.'

'It would cause me no embarrassment,' she replied, the absurdity of the idea bringing her back to her senses. 'But I suppose a general knowledge of your task might generate false claimants. I have already told a few people – your editor included – that I am thinking of commissioning a biography. It is the sentimental thing that a woman with much grief and money might do.'

'And as I am a reporter,' I said, cheerful once more to find myself back on home territory, 'I can ask indiscreet questions and seem merely as though I am fired by a love of the squalid and vulgar.'

'Precisely. You will fit the part very well, I'm sure. Now, I have made an appointment for you with Mr Joseph Bartoli, my husband's general manager. He has drawn up a contract for you.'

'And you?'

'I think you should come and see me every week to report progress. All Lord Ravenscliff's private correspondence is here, and you will have to read it as well, I imagine. You may ask any questions you have then. Although I do intend to travel to France in the near future. Much as I loved my husband and miss him, the conventions on mourning in this country I find very oppressive. But I know I would shock and scandalise if I acted inappropriately, so I must seek a little relief elsewhere.'

'You are not English.'

Another smile. 'My goodness, if that is how quick you are, we are not going to make much progress. No, I am not English. I am Hungarian by origin, although I lived in France until I married.'