Stone's Fall Page 8

  He didn’t need to, of course.

  “The other legacies? What about them?”

  “I know nothing of either of them, although naturally I have corresponded with the executor, a Michael Cardano, since the death.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “He used to work for Rothschild’s, I believe. More than that I do not know.”

  “And he is capable of running a company?”

  “I do not know. But he doesn’t have to; the duties of an executor are very different. He is the son of an old associate of Lord Ravenscliff ’s. The father was ruined in 1894 and died in gaol.”

  “I see. Tell me about this Italian woman.”

  “We have sent Mrs. Vincotti a telegram. She is due to arrive in London on Wednesday. At least, I hope she is.”

  “Why? Does it matter?”

  “Oh, good heavens yes. Especially with such sums as are involved in this case. Naturally we have to make sure that this is the woman that Lord Ravenscliff intended. Otherwise we would not be able to make the settlement; that would introduce another complication and we would have to look for two people, rather than only one.”

  “How so?”

  “His affairs cannot be settled until all the beneficiaries are contacted, so we can ensure that it contains enough for each to receive their proper due. For example, suppose someone dies and leaves £100 to one person, and the same to another, but there is only £120 in the estate. What do we do? Obviously, if one of those people is dead, there is enough for the other person to receive the full amount. If both are alive, then there is not. That is when matters become complicated.”

  “So this child…”

  “Must be found, if the estate is to be wound up swiftly. Lord Ravenscliff left his wife a fixed amount, and a life interest in the residue, which devolves on various others on her death. Whether the legacy to the child is paid out is consequently a matter which affects all the other bequests.”

  “So what is Lady Ravenscliff ’s financial position at the moment?”

  “She is dependent on the goodwill of the executor and his willingness to make her an allowance out of the estate, which he in effect controls.”

  “Did Lord Ravenscliff realise this?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  “What I mean is, why would Ravenscliff have made his will in such a way that there was a possibility his wife would be left in such a situation? Did you tell him that there was such a possibility?”

  “I advised him of all the consequences, yes.”

  “And he went ahead. What conclusions do you draw from that?”

  “That he considered it the best way of organising his affairs.”

  “No. I mean, why did he consider—”

  “I know what you mean. But while Lord Ravenscliff communicated his wishes, he did not tell me the reasoning that lay behind them.”

  “And did you ever try to guess?”

  “The obvious conclusion is that he thought that there would be no loose ends.”

  “And do you think this Mrs. Vincotti might be the child’s mother?”

  “That I could not say.”

  “Did Lord Ravenscliff make any regular payments to people when he was alive? Not employees, or anyone like that, of course. To individuals with no known connection to his business?”

  Henderson considered. “Not using my services. He may have made separate arrangements, of course.”

  “I see. Now, the Rialto Investment Trust. What is the state of that at the moment? And of his companies.”

  “As you may know, Ravenscliff controlled a large number of companies through Rialto. And his holding in Rialto has passed for the time being into the hands of the executor.”

  “Michael Cardano.”

  “Precisely.”

  “So what happens there? I mean, if the estate is not wound up?”

  “In the day-to-day, the companies are run by expert management, and need no external guidance. But I imagine that the other shareholders will get together to protect their interests. Specifically, they may decide to reassure themselves that it is healthy. Naturally, the circumstances of His Lordship’s death…”

  “Produces questions. Quite. Is there any suggestion of that?”

  “I am a family solicitor, Mr. Braddock. You would have to ask others. However, from my limited experience of such matters, I would find it remarkable if there was not a move on the part of shareholders to do precisely that.”

  “I see. But they would find nothing untoward, would they? I mean, there is no suggestion…”

  “‘Seek and ye shall find,’” he said with the faintest glimmer of a smile. “No individual I have ever dealt with has been devoid of secrets. I doubt there is any company unencumbered by them either. But I know of nothing specific, if that is your meaning.”

  “One more question. All of Ravenscliff ’s businesses are in a sort of limbo, is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Including the Chronicle?”

  “Of course. The executor will decide whether it goes to Lady Ravenscliff, or whether it needs to be sold to raise the cash necessary for the bequests. Naturally, that will not be clear until we know how many bequests are to be made.”

  McEwen would not be happy to hear that, I thought.

  “So, let me get this clear. Lord Ravenscliff made his will about eighteen months ago, and there was no mention of a child. That bit was added six months later. Yes?”

  Henderson nodded.

  “Why? He must have known this child existed. Why not put it in when he made his will originally?”

  “I do not know.”

  And that was that with Mr. Henderson. I took the paltry gleanings he had given me and went for lunch. I needed a beer and a steak pie before visiting Lady Ravenscliff once more.

  CHAPTER 10

  I was apprehensive as I was conducted into a little sitting room in St. James’s Square. A different room, more cosy and intimate than the grand salon where we had met last time. A fire burned in the grate, making it pleasantly warm and suffused with a smell of apple wood. On the mantelpiece there were trinkets of all sorts—mirrors, pieces of framed needlework, little statues in bronze. A handsome blue porcelain bowl. The walls were lined with books. Evidently Ravenscliff was a great reader. And an accomplished one. These were not there for decorative purposes, as you see sometimes in great houses. These books were to be read. Had been read, in fact. Novels in French and English and German and Italian. Works of history and philosophy; medical journals, books of travel. The classics—in translation and the original languages. Dictionaries and reference books. I knew many of the English titles, and had heard of some of the others. Zola, Tolstoy, Darwin, Mill. Marx, I noted with curiosity. Know thine enemy. Books on sociology and psychology. Even a few on criminology. It was an impressive range. Lucky the man with the leisure and energy to read them all. Ravenscliff, of course was not a man of leisure. Curious. It made me feel a little self-conscious about how much time I spent in pubs.

  And on the far wall two paintings, the larger a portrait of Lady Ravenscliff, painted some twenty years ago, I guessed. I could see the appeal. She was one of those people painters must love; her left shoulder was facing the viewer and her head was turned so it faced out of the canvas. She wore a golden red dress, which showed off her long, elegant neck. There was no jewellery of any sort; she did not need any; her face and hair were quite enough. She had been, and still was, a lovely woman.

  “Henner,” came a soft voice behind me.

  I turned. Lady Ravenscliff was standing at the door with a faint smile on her face.

  “Pardon?”

  “Jean-Jacques Henner. He died a few years ago and I suppose his fame has faded, but he was one of the finest portraitists of his generation. That’s me in 1890 before I grew old and wrinkled.”

  “You are hardly that,” I muttered. I really didn’t feel like paying compliments. In fact I never did, and I had had little practise.

&
nbsp; “And this is John.” She pointed to the smaller portrait, tucked away in a corner of the room. “He hated having his portrait taken. He only consented because I demanded it as a birthday present. He grumbled incessantly, and would only have this little thing done. It’s so tiny you can barely see him.”

  I looked. So that was Lord Ravenscliff. I looked intently, but it gave me no clues. He seemed nothing remarkable; there was no look of bestriding arrogance or pride; no hint of cruelty or kindness. It was just a face, that of a perfectly prosperous gentleman, looking calmly out with only a hint of weariness about having to waste his time to placate a demanding wife. He looked almost agreeable.

  “May I say I’m surprised he found the time to read so much?” I said as I gestured at the shelves. “I thought these men of business worked all the time.”

  “He liked reading,” she said with a smile at my condescension. “But this is my room. John’s is upstairs. He preferred less well-upholstered surroundings. He did not like to get too comfortable when he was working.”

  “Ah.”

  “That’s right. I can read.”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “Yes you did,” she said brightly.

  I blushed.

  “It doesn’t matter. In this country it is quite usual for women of my position to regard reading a book as somehow inelegant. However, you must remember that I used to live in France, where it is not considered wholly inappropriate. But I have loved reading all my life. We must talk more about this some time. I always think it important to know what a man reads. Tell me, what do you think of this?”

  She picked up the blue bowl and handed it to me casually. What was I to say? It was a blue bowl. With patterns on. Blue ones. I shrugged. She put it back.

  “Well?” I said, I hope a little coldly. “You wished to take your revenge by revealing my ignorance and you have succeeded. You might as well enlighten me.”

  “Oh, it is nothing of importance,” she replied. “And you are right. That was offensive. I apologise. Shall we begin again?”

  “Very well.”

  “So. Tell me, have you made any progress since we last met?”

  “A little. I have talked to a few people and done some background reading. But I have to say that I have questions which must be answered before I proceed any further.” I did not like this. The meeting had not got off to a good start.

  “Dear me,” she said with a smile. “That does sound serious.”

  “It is.”

  “Well? Go on,” she prompted as I lapsed into silence. I had never done anything like this before, and I wasn’t quite sure how I should phrase the questions. Thinking of what to say, and actually saying it now she was standing in front of me, were very different.

  “Mr. Braddock? Are you going to say something, or just stare at me all afternoon?”

  “It’s difficult to know where to begin…”

  “At the beginning?”

  “Don’t make fun of me. What I need to know is whether you are being honest with me. All the evidence suggests you are not.”

  “And what,” she said, definitely cooler now, “have I said or done to make you think such a thing?”

  “Were I a reporter once more, I would leap to one obvious conclusion,” I said, feeling better now that I had got under way. “Your husband dies and you instantly go to his desk, remove whatever evidence there is about the identity of this child, and hide or destroy it. Then you call me in to look for something you know cannot be found, so that you can appear to be a dutiful and obedient widow, carrying out her husband’s wishes. In due course, all the money which should have gone to this child comes to you.”

  She looked evenly at me. “In that case you are a very bad reporter. Someone with a flair for a story would also have considered the possibility that I discovered, one way or another, something about the provision in his will. That I was so overcome with jealousy that I not only did as you say, I also pushed my husband out of the window.”

  Was she angry, or distressed? She held her jaw so tightly that I knew it was one or the other, but her self-control was so great it defeated any attempt to penetrate further.

  “I have considered that possibility,” I replied.

  “I see. So are you here to tell me you do not wish to continue in my employ? Or are you trying to discover a way of keeping the money, even though it comes from a murderess?”

  She was quite calm as she spoke, which convinced me that she was furious with me; so furious that I doubted whether it was going to be my choice.

  “I am trying to discover what happened. Which is the job you gave me. Part of it, anyway. I must say that I do not really think you are a murderess. But I need to get circumstances clear in my mind. You ask me to find this child, and the task would be easily accomplished if the evidence was where your husband said it was. Someone moved it. It might help considerably if I knew who.”

  “So? Ask.” She had not forgiven me, nor entirely resumed her pose of calm, but I could see my remarks had mollified her a little.

  “Did you move it?”

  “No. Do you believe me?”

  “Who did move it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Who could have moved it?”

  “I don’t know that either. Or rather, I could give you a list of people who have been in the house long enough to occupy you for months. I imagine it would have been in the large drawer which contains a strongbox. It would have been locked. Only my husband had a key.”

  “Forgive me for asking, but could I see this desk?”

  “By all means.” She stood up and walked to the door. She was not the sort of woman whose clothes needed smoothing down, however long she had been sitting; they simply fell into place. That was expensive couture, I guessed. Or maybe she was simply one of those people who was like that. My own clothes looked rumpled even when they were fresh back from the laundry.

  “Was your husband disturbed or preoccupied at all in his last few weeks or months?” I asked as we walked up the stairs. I walked beside her out of modesty, as the sight of her from behind was too enticing to be polite.

  “Perhaps. He had been different, more distant for some time before his death. And in the last few days he was very preoccupied.”

  “In what way?”

  “I could see something in his eyes. Worry. I think it was a premonition.”

  “About his death?”

  “Yes. The human mind is a strange and complex thing, Mr. Braddock. Sometimes it can see the future without realising it.”

  “Did you ask what concerned him?” I said, steering the conversation away from this topic as fast as was seemly.

  “Of course. But he simply said there was nothing which I should worry about. That all would be well. I never doubted it until he reassured me.”

  “But you have no idea—”

  “None. I assume it was something to do with his business affairs, because I can discover no other possible explanation. Although I saw less of him than usual.”

  “Why was that?”

  “He was working. He would be out late. Ordinarily, he would return in the early evening, and he rarely left the house again. He preferred to eat at home, then we would read together. Sometimes he would have work to attend to, but only in his office. Sometimes he would read his papers sitting by the fire, with me next to him. In the last few weeks he would go out again, sometimes coming back late at night. But he never told me why.”

  “Do you know a man called Cort? Henry Cort?”

  She gave no reaction, either of pleasure or anything else. “I have known Mr. Cort for more than twenty years,” she replied evenly. “John also knew him for a long time.”

  “Who is he?”

  “He is… I don’t know how to describe him, really. He was once a journalist, although I understand he gave that up long ago. He was a correspondent for The Times in Paris, which is where I came to know him.”

  “So he was not an employee of your hus
band?”

  “Oh, no. He has independent means. Why do you ask?”

  “A name that came up,” I replied. I still didn’t know what FO meant. Some religious order? “Was your husband a Catholic?”

  She smiled. “His mother was, but John was brought up as an Anglican. His father was a vicar. But he was not a great churchgoer.”

  “I see,” I replied.

  “Here we are,” she said, opening a door on the second floor. “This was his office. And where he fell.”

  It was a room about eighteen feet square, the same size as the sitting room we had been in a few moments previously. And, presumably, directly above it. A simple but masculine room where the other had all the touches of a woman’s hand. In this room brown dominated; the woodwork painted as mock oak, the curtains heavy velvet. A smell of tobacco hung in the air; heavy wooden filing cabinets filled one wall, and there were no paintings, only a few photographs in heavy silver frames. Family? Friends?

  “All his family,” she replied. “His parents, sisters and their children. He was fond of them all, but they rarely met after his mother died. She was a remarkable, if rather strange, woman. Foreign, like me. He got much of his drive from her, his kindness from his father. They all live in Shropshire, and rarely come to town.”

  “Would one have been close enough for him to have confessed an indiscretion?”

  “I wrote and asked, but they said they knew nothing. By all means ask again, if you wish,” she replied. “Now, this is his desk, and I had assumed that these documents would have been in this drawer.”

  I saw that the whole left-hand pillar keeping the desk up was in fact one drawer, which, when opened, revealed a metal top. It was clearly immensely heavy, but slid out on hidden rollers underneath, which bore much of the weight.

  “He had this built to his own requirements,” she explained. “It was the sort of thing he liked to do.”

  “He was a practical man?”

  She laughed, thinking fondly. “No, not a bit. He was the most impractical man I have ever known. I don’t think I ever saw him do anything at all with his hands, besides eat, write and light his cigar. I meant he liked solving problems to his own satisfaction. Then he would get other people to turn his ideas into reality.”