Stone's Fall

'Eventually I found out. And I told her she'd have to leave. I wasn't going to put up with that. And she agreed, said that in a short while she'd go. She just wanted to stay until the end of the month. Then she was going to look for something much better.'

'I thought you said she didn't even pay the rent on this place.'

'Nor did she. But she said she had friends who would look after her. I wish they'd looked after her while she was in my flat, that's all.'

'And who were these friends? Did you ever find out?'

'They didn't exist. It was just a story. She thought I was a proper fool; she'd have said anything to keep me quiet. And I did, more fool me.'

'What was she like?'

'Old.'

'I know that. I mean, did you like her when you first met her?'

'Why do you want to know? You come here, asking these questions, but you haven't said why. I've had enough trouble from all this . . .'

'I quite appreciate that, sir,' I said. 'And there is no sinister reason, I assure you. But I am helping a friend who became entangled with this woman. He is a trusting man, a bit like yourself, but very much more innocent. He fears that some of the things he said . . .'

Philpot nodded. Shame and embarrassment were things he understood all too well. 'Although I think that anyone who goes to someone like that . . .'

'I quite agree. I quite agree. And so does he, now. But, you see he lost his wife in a tragic accident, and has grieved ever since. She was all the world to him, and he never recovered. He allowed himself to think that maybe – just maybe – he might be able to have one last word with her.'

'Well, she would have seen him coming, that's for sure,' said Philpot, although not without sympathy. 'She would have had the money out of his pocket in two seconds, and told him anything he wanted to hear in return, I've no doubt.'

'Precisely,' I said. 'Exactly what happened. He feels deceived and angry. Until he saw the stories in the newspapers he believed he was talking to his dear departed, and contented himself that all was well with her. He felt happy for the first time in years.'

'Ah, these newspapers,' said Philpot, shaking his head. 'They should be ashamed of themselves.'

I agreed. 'And now,' I continued, 'all he wants is that people should not know of his foolishness, so he can grieve once more without being laughed at.'

That shook Philpot to the core. A good man, able to sympathise with others. To be laughed at was the worst humiliation of all. 'I see, I see,' he said. 'Yes, of course he would want that. Well, tell me your questions.'

'Well, what I'd like to know is if anyone saw him, coming and going to these – ah – séances. He is of average size, grey hair, well dressed, very distinguished-looking. Look; I have his photograph.'

I took out the photograph of Ravenscliff; Philpot looked, stroked his moustache with thumb and forefinger and thought for a moment. Then he nodded. 'I do remember him,' he said. 'He came a couple of times, as I recall. He was so much better dressed than most of the people who went up the stairs. Very handsome umbrella he had; German, with a hand-carved handle of mahogany.'

Since he obviously warmed to any subject that had an umbrella in it, I continued to press, in a gentle way.

'There you are! You noticed his umbrella. And that is one of the things that he asked me to look into. You see, the last time he came, he was so overcome by what he thought were his wife's words, that he rushed out and left his umbrella behind!'

'He didn't!'

'Yes. So he asked me, if at all possible, if I could recover it. He only took it with him because Madame Boninska said it would help summon the spirits if there was something she had touched in the room.'

Philpot understood immediately, and was shocked by the sacrilege. 'You must go and look,' he said immediately. 'I insist.'

'That is kind of you. I wanted to ask, but . . .'

'I understand perfectly. Poor man. Here, take these keys, and go and look for it . . .'

I went out of the shop door into the fresh air – or as fresh as the air near Tottenham Court Road ever became – and walked up the stairs in the little passage next door. The flat was oppressive, and dark and gloomy, and would have been even if a murder had not been committed there. I opened the curtains and then opened the windows as well. Everything was neat and tidy though the general appearance was thoroughly bizarre. Stuffed animals; prints on the wall of psychic events. Odd pieces of equipment and furniture. Lots of black velvet.

I wasn't interested in any of it. Immediately I started going through drawers, looking under beds and mattresses, down the sides of chairs, under furniture. Any scrap of paper, or notebook, or strongbox or photograph. Anything at all would do. An address book, old railway ticket, deed or document. There was nothing. Absolutely nothing.