Stone's Fall Read online

  “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?” “No,” he said, “I was hoping that in the course of your researches you might. I would find the answer fascinating. It might be love, I suppose,” he said with a sigh as though he found the idea disappointing.

  “I cannot give an explanation for something I did not know about. As for her spell, she is indeed charming and warm, though that is tempered by her distress, which makes her fragile.”

  He smiled. “She is formidably intelligent, and if you think her fragile then you have very poor judgement. She married one of the wealthiest men in the world, and was his equal in all respects. Her fragility and charm are her strengths. Everything about her is a strength, or can be made so.”

  I stared curiously at him.

  “But what are you, Mr. Braddock? Are you one of her weapons as well?”

  “I believe I am an employee, there to write a life of her husband.”

  “No more than that?”

  “No.”

  I got the sense he did not believe me, but he decided not to pursue it.

  “You do not seem to like her very much,” I observed.

  “Like her?” he said, his eyes widening in surprise. “I adore her. All men adore her. Just as much as most women hate her. Have you seen her in the company of another woman? I have known her for—what? Years, it must be. And I know her no better, understand her no better, than the first day I met her. She is charming, radiant, lovely. But have you ever seen her using her magic, when she is hypnotising, enthralling? Then, believe me, she is frightening. It is a rare man who can resist her.”

  “Including her husband?”

  “John?” He paused, and looked at me. “You haven’t got very far if you can ask such a question. Of course he could resist her. That was his appeal. He loved her devotedly because he wanted to. And she loved him because she could not control him. As I say, they were equals. They fought like cat and dog, you know. His anger was cold, hers volcanic. ‘My dear,’ he would say through gritted teeth, ‘your behaviour is quite unacceptable.’ And she would throw a plate at him. It went on for hours. I think they actually enjoyed it. It was a central part of their marriage. Neither had power over the other, and both were used to controlling others. Can you imagine the attraction of the only person you have ever met who will not do as you wish?”

  “No,” I said shortly. “And at the moment it is not at the top of my list of questions.”

  Xanthos sighed. “A pity. The book will be the poorer for it. It contains the essence of John Stone’s nature.”

  “I think she wants something more factual.”

  “That may be so,” he said. “So—go ahead. Ask me your questions.”

  I hadn’t come very well prepared, which was foolish. Normally, when I interviewed people, I made out in advance a little list of questions to give some form to the interview. This time I had nothing; so I asked randomly, snatching questions from my mind as they floated chaotically into view.

  “I am struck,” I began, although it had not struck me until then, “by the people I’ve met so far. Bartoli, an Italian. You, who I am told are Greek. Lady Ravenscliff, who is Hungarian.”

  “And more than that,” he replied. “The head of finance, for example, is a man called Caspar Neuberger.”

  “German?”

  “Oh, he’d be quite annoyed to be called just German,” he said with a faint smile. ‘I am Chewish, dear man! Chewish!’ Try calling him a Prussian—he was born in Prussia—and see what sort of reaction you get. John used to refer to Caspar’s military character just to see how long he would be able to control himself.”

  “I stand corrected. But you know what I mean.”

  “The corporation of mongrels and half-breeds. Yes, I do see. We are not a blue-blooded company. It is our great quality, and the reason why we have left all our competitors in the dust. John Stone had two great, remarkable qualities, which you would do well to bear in mind. One was his gift for organisation. The other was his judgment of character. He wanted people who would do a good job with the minimum of supervision. He didn’t care who they were, or where they came from. As he had no family to speak of, the board isn’t stuffed with useless relations. As far as operations are concerned, Bartoli is a genius at seeing the evolution of the whole. Williams, the managing director, is a brilliant administrator but the son, I believe, of a bankrupt coal merchant. Caspar is extraordinary at finance, and I—sooner or later someone will tell you, so it might as well be me—am of mysterious but entirely unseemly origins. But it all works. John used to complain sometimes, saying it had all been organised too well, and there was nothing left for him to do. That the company no longer needed him.”

  “And what exactly do you do?”

  “Me? Oh, I’m just the salesman. The negotiator. Nothing more than that. People want to buy, I get the best price. I am easily the most disposable of them all. But, what I do, I do well. My reputation is, alas, different. Do you want to know what it is?”

  “By all means.”

  “I am the Angel of Death,” he said softly, and looked at me in such a way that for a moment I almost believed him. Then he brightened up and continued cheerfully, “You wouldn’t think it to look at me, but there we are. I am the sinister one, the worker in shadows, the man whose hidden hand is everywhere. John Stone’s alter ego, who does the dirty work he could not do himself. No violence or turmoil happens anywhere on the planet without me being responsible for it somehow.” He smiled sweetly at me.

  “Really?”

  “Not at all. I am, as I say, merely a negotiator. But it is a fine reputation, you must admit. I do not discourage it much; it makes my life seem more interesting than it is, and perhaps even gives me a small advantage in negotiations. In fact, I do little more than travel around Europe, haggling over details of contracts.”

  “You are not in England very much?”

  “No. Sales to the Royal Navy and the army are done in a different way. I have nothing to do with it, and wouldn’t be very effective anyway. The navy likes to deal with gentlemen and I, as you no doubt realise, am not a gentleman.”

  “The obituaries referred time and again to the organisation of the companies. What’s so special about that? Aren’t all companies well organised?”

  Xanthos laughed. “Oh, no. You would not believe how some go about things. John Stone was remarkable: to create such an organisation, and keeping control of it was a stupendous achievement. There are other factories, all over the world. Mines, wells, ships. All perfectly choreographed. And on top of that there is the money. The banks, the credit notes, the bills of exchange, the shareholdings, the loans, in many currencies and many countries. And everything has to be in the right place at the right moment, for the purpose of constructing these vast machines, some of which take nearly two years to complete. If people had any idea at all how remarkable this was, then the businessman would replace the priest and the poet and the scientist as the greatest figures of the age. But we are modest people,” he said with a smile, “and do not desire fame.”

  “But surely, s
omeone orders a ship, you build it, get paid for it. Isn’t it straightforward?”

  He sighed. “You don’t understand governments, do you? Or money. No. It is not straightforward. A government orders a battleship, say. Do they pay? No. Of course not. They pay a little, the rest when it is delivered. The greater part of the money you find yourself. That in itself is fabulously risky. Beswick’s demands for capital are as great as that of many an entire country. The Government places an order, and we commit the capital. Then—they change their mind. No, Mr. Braddock, it is not simple. Not simple at all.”

  “I gather things are a bit difficult at the moment, is that right?”

  He looked sternly at me. “A bit difficult? We have been through terrible times in the last few years. Ever since the Liberals took power, orders from the Royal Navy have all but dried up, and they are our main customer. We—and Armstrongs and Vickers and Cammell Laird—have been hard put to keep going on occasion. Fortunately, Lord Ravenscliff was more than able to see us through hard times; we are in much better shape than our competitors.”

  So much about Stone as a man of business. Why did everyone go on about that? Surely there must have been more to him than that?

  “Did Lord Ravenscliff have close friends?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Surely…”

  “He was my employer. I liked and trusted him, and I believe that regard was mutual. But that is not friendship, if you understand me. That was a different world, one which I—and no business associate—ever penetrated. I know nothing about that side of him whatsoever. Whether he associated with princes or paupers, what he liked to do when he wasn’t working. Whether he had any indiscretions…”

  “You do not know.”

  “I do not know. Nor have I ever been interested. And now, if you will excuse me, I have some letters to write. Still, it was pleasant to meet you. I have no doubt we will talk again.”

  “I’m sure I will have many questions over the coming months.”

  “I will gladly answer them all, if I can. As you may have discerned, I was a great admirer of John Stone.”

  “He had no failings?”

  “John Stone never did anything without a good reason, except fall in love and die. And perhaps these stand out as exceptions merely because we do not know what the reasons were, rather than because they did not exist. Do you count that as a failing, or not?”

  CHAPTER 12

  Interesting. I walked out of the Ritz and up Bond Street in a reflective mood, trying to unravel what I had been told, and what I had learned. The obvious interpretation, of course, was that Mr. Xanthos truly believed I was writing a biography, in which business would loom large. He wanted to give me instruction about how to present the man. But that reference to indiscretions niggled me. Why would he have mentioned it at all?

  And then there was the conspiratorial side. He was trying to draw me in, make me an insider, create feelings of loyalty, of belonging, by dropping exciting little titbits of information. And Lady Ravenscliff? A clear warning there, I thought. Don’t be fooled, was the message.

  But I could tease no more out of the conversation than that. Business had been tough, but everything was under control. Was that the point? To ram home the message that there was no business reason for Ravenscliff to drop out of a window, intentionally or otherwise? That I should look elsewhere if that was on my mind? But that would mean he knew I was not merely writing a biography, of course.

  I hopped on a bus and relaxed. There is something about the clopping of the horses’ hooves, the way the driver converses with his beast, the slight rolling of the carriage as it trundles along which has always induced a sense of peace in me—when it is not crammed with noisy, spitting passengers, at any rate. I sat upstairs, even though it was chilly, and watched through gusts of pipe smoke as the great houses of Portman Place, then the even greater establishments of Regent’s Park, rolled by. I had never really considered that people actually lived in these places before; they had been as foreign to me as a palace or a prison—more so than prisons, even.

  Now I was gaining entry to such places, and I watched with more interest the occasional flicker of domesticity that caught my eye. The servant sitting on a ledge, polishing the outside of a window. Another shaking a blanket to get the dust out. Some children, elaborately dressed, coming down a stairway from a great front door, accompanied by their nanny. The carts of tradesmen parked down the back alleys, so meat and fish and vegetables could be delivered through the rear entrance, unseen. I was allowed in through the front door of St. James’s Square, I thought. For the first time in my life, I felt superior to those people amongst whom I had originated. Then it occurred to me that in all probability I ranked in Lady Ravenscliff ’s mind equally with a governess.

  The splendour of Regent’s Park does not last long; it is little more than a few bricks thick, an insubstantial theatre set. Behind and beyond are the drabber dwellings of Camden. To the north, though, lies an area of comfortable detached villas built for the man of enough, but not too much, property. My former editor lived in just such a tree-lined street, the houses set back from the wide avenue, private in a way the greater mansions could never be. This was the sort of thing to which I aspired in my dreams; my imagination could take me no higher, but even on three hundred and fifty a year (for seven years) it was way beyond my means. Or was it? I had never even considered the possibility, but now it dawned on me that perhaps I could live in such a place—and the reality of my change in circumstances rushed over me in a wave of pride. I imagined myself at Heal’s buying fashionable furniture with a wave of my cheque book. Engaging a servant. Marrying a desirable woman like—and here I paused, for as that piece of imagination passed through me, I saw the woman of my daydreams sitting on the sofa, looking up from her sewing and smiling as I came in, and she had the face of Lady Ravenscliff. The absurdity brought me back down to earth with a sharp and quite unpleasant crash, but I retained enough sense, at least, to smile ruefully at the tricks that the unbridled imagination can play.

  The gallant cavalier who could, in his imagination, sweep the richest woman in the country off her feet, meanwhile, was hesitating outside the address of his old editor, wondering whether he dared knock on the door without arrangement. It was stupid, though, to come all that way and go away again, so after a brief hesitation I summoned enough courage to march up the little path and knock. Then announce myself to the serving girl who opened the door.

  I was shown into McEwen’s study and asked to wait. It was very much more my sort of place than the drab room from which Stone had controlled his empire. Big French windows opened onto the garden; fresh flowers gave a pleasant scent unspoiled by stale cigar smoke. An ancient, battered leather armchair sat on a slightly careworn carpet on which was stacked a pile of logs for the fire. It looked like a room much loved by its main occupant, and which gave back warmth and comfort in return. It was the room of a trustworthy man.

  Who appeared through the door a few moments later, smiling and quite unoffended by my arrival. McEwen’s familiar greeting—no longer, I thought, the greeting of editor for subordinate, of superior for employee—reassured me entirely and made me more open than I had intended to be.

  “I thought you might show up at some stage,” he said cheerfully, “but not quite so quickly. Have you made some great discovery you wish to tell me about? I hope it is something we can print, rather than being merely salacious. Have you discovered what is to become of us?”

  “I’m afraid I have little but questions,” I replied, “although I can tell you that the Chronicle will be in the hands of the executor until the will is settled, which may take some time.”

  “Yes. I thought as much. Then it goes direct to Lady Ravenscliff, I imagine?”

  “Maybe. It all seems quite complicated at the moment.”

  McEwen was not used to employees—even former employees—being cagey with him. He frowned in displeasure, so I hurried on. “I thought you cou
ld tell me in a few seconds things it might take me days to discover on my own. I have made little progress since I saw you. Except to become more confused.”

  “In what areas?”

  “Just about every single one. I have learned somethings about his death, as you suggested I do. I have established that the companies were in good health. Unfortunately, I do not see how it assists me in any way.”

  “I didn’t think it would,” he said. “I merely wished to satisfy my own curiosity on the matter.”

  “Why?”

  “Oh, call it the instincts of an old newspaperman, if you wish. What have you discovered?”

  “Only that quite a lot of people became somewhat agitated the moment he dropped out of the window. There was a man called Cort, for example…”

  McEwen’s eyes narrowed, and he became more attentive.

  “Cort?”

  “Ah,” I said. “You may remember him. Lady Ravenscliff said he worked as a journalist on The Times once. Did you know him?”

  He stood up, and walked to the window, tapping his foot as he always did when thinking. Eventually he turned round and faced me.

  “I’m very sorry, Braddock,” he said. “I have been extremely foolish, and reckless on your behalf.”

  “But why? What’s the matter? Who is this man?”

  “Indeed. How does he come into a routine biography commissioned by a grieving widow?”

  He was looking at me shrewdly, and I could see that I would get nothing out of him without giving something in advance. He was genuinely worried and I was touched by his concern. But he was a newspaperman through and through, nonetheless. Information was food and drink to him.

  “It’s not a biography,” I said eventually. “That’s not what she wants me to do. She wants me to find out the identity of Ravenscliff ’s child.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “I see. And Cort?”

  “Was one of the first at the scene of his death, and I think may have suppressed the news of it for three days.”