Stone's Fall

She continued to look gravely at me, but was not trying to fascinate; there was a seriousness in her glance which hinted at sympathy and understanding, although I knew all too well that I read far too much into such things, and always tried to give the best possible interpretation.

'You asked, so here I am,' I said.

'I wrote because I received this distressing message from you. I thought the least I could expect was some sort of explanation.'

'Do you really think you need one?'

'Of course. I was entirely perplexed by it.'

I searched her face intently, trying desperately to see through to the thoughts underneath. I knew that everything depended on what I said next. Why, I do not know. I was simply certain.

'Do you ever tell the truth?'

'Do you ever do as you are told? If you remember, I told you quite plainly that you should not give any attention to the anarchists. You agreed, promised, and immediately broke your promise. I think I have more of a right to be cross than you, as your misdeed was premeditated.'

'That was you, last night?' I asked, still somewhat incredulous.

'Yes. It is necessary,' she said, and instantly, her voice, her expression, her face were all transformed. It was eerie and frightening, like seeing a wax puppet melt and reconstitute itself as a different character. The changes were infinitely subtle, but the effect was total. The lines of the frown around the bridge of the nose, the set of the jaw, the slightly hooded look of the eyelids, the tilt of the head and the hunched-up, wearied pose of the shoulders. Fragments of movement changed her from a society lady of aristocratic bearing into a grim, hard-living, independent revolutionary from the East End. I still could not believe it, and even worse could not see how she did it.

Then, in a twinkling of the eye, the anarchist Jenny vanished, and Elizabeth reappeared, smiling mockingly at me. 'It is really not so difficult,' she said. 'I always had a talent for mimicry and acting. It was merely a question of studying, to get the clothes and the look and the opinions just so. And I have spoken German since birth. It is my first language.'

'I suppose it would be too much to ask for an explanation – an honest, truthful one – of what you were doing there?'

She considered. 'No. I think it might well be a good idea. Do you want the long version, which would indicate a willingness to forget about that unfortunate letter of yours? Or the short one?'

'The long one,' I said in a tone lightly tinged with reluctance.

She rang the little silver bell on the table, and asked for refreshments, then picked up my letter and tossed it onto the fire.

'I think I told you that John was preoccupied in the last few months of his life. One of the reasons was this. He always kept a careful eye on his businesses; it was his duty, he believed, to ensure that they were run well. Obviously, he could not watch everything. For this he had managers, on whom he relied to tell him what was happening and to implement his wishes. At the same time, he would often make visits to various plants and factories, to see for himself, so he could take the temperature, as he called it. He loved these trips. You think of him, no doubt, as a financier, a man who sat far away from everything, dealing with the abstractions of capital. He wasn't like that at all. What he liked was putting it into operation, in the shipyards and the foundries and the engineering plants. He liked to see how a decision on his part could galvanise thousands of people into action. He loved his factories and, although you would no doubt not believe it, he loved the people who worked in them. The engineers, the fitters, the builders, the skilled workmen. He valued them far more than the people of his own society. Jenny the anarchist hates him; he was the worst sort of capitalist because he believed it was more than mere exploitation. He was proud of paying more than his competitors, proud of providing decent accommodation for those he employed.

'Last October, he went up to the shipyard in Northumberland and stayed for nearly a week. He often did this; every year I think he spent about ten weeks away, going round one plant or another. Sometimes there was a good reason; a huge decision on investment, problems with a contract, or something like that. Other times there was no reason at all. He simply wanted to be there, and smell the smell, as he put it. He spent as much time on the factory floor as he did in the offices, spent time talking to the men, and stood, watching. He believed you could tell the health of a company by the way it looked and felt. You didn't need to see the books.'

'Did you ever go with him?'