Stone's Fall (25 page)

I did my best not to look too attentive as the ferry stopped on the other side and all the passengers got off, to be replaced once more by new ones. Tried to keep my eyes on him as it came back over and at last I could get on board myself. But it was a waste of time. Ten minutes (and twopence) later, I reached the far bank and he had vanished. I walked quickly up the main road out of town, doubled back down side streets dotted with seaside villas of greater or lesser grandeur, turned left and right for more than an hour, but nothing. If the jolt in my chest when I saw him hadn’t been so extreme and painful, I would have concluded it had been a mistake. But it was not. I was sure it was not.

I have read many adventure stories in my time, and many of the problems in them seem to arise from the fact that the main protagonists never think of going straight off to confide in the police when they come upon some dastardly deed. Instead, they keep their information to themselves, and all sorts of trouble results. Of course they always manfully sort everything out in the end; but often I wonder how much easier it would all have been had the authorities been kept properly informed in advance.

Besides, I had no desire to sort it all out myself, manfully or not. So I went back to town and straight to the police station. And there I realised why the strapping heroes of fiction do not spend their precious time on such activities. The authorities, on the whole, are not interested. Had I been reporting a stray dog, or the theft of an umbrella, or the loss of a pocket book, then I have no doubt that Constable Armstrong would have snapped into action as quickl
y
as you like. Instead, he looked at me as though I was the problem, sucked his teeth thoughtfully, and frowned in a manner which suggested very strongly that he considered me to be someone who needed humouring.

“I suppose even anarchists must have holidays,” he said in a jocular fashion. “Must be hard work, all that overthrowing, and all.”

“This is not a joke.”

“Very well. Tell me what’s bothering you.”

And so I did, but by the time the policeman had realised that I had only heard at secondhand that Jan the Builder was an anarchist revolutionary; didn’t know his real name; only heard at secondhand that he had a gun; didn’t know for certain he had one on him; only saw him at a considerable distance; had only seen him once before; and couldn’t swear that he wasn’t on holiday, he began to lose patience.

“We’re not going to get martial law declared on the basis of that, are we, sir?” he commented.

I scowled, and stumped out.

CHAPTER
28

“What on earth do you think you’re doing dressed up like that?” Jackson asked.

I looked aggrieved. It was past eight o’clock, I hadn’t eaten, and I was almost ready to go.

“You asked me to do this ball, didn’t you?”

He stared at me, then burst out laughing. “You’re meant to report on it. Not go to it, you idiot. You don’t seriously think they’ll let you in, do you? You’re supposed to stand by the gate and get a list of the guests as they arrive. Not trip the light fantastic with the Duchess of Devonshire.”

“Oh.”

I looked at myself in the mirror. I had been rather proud of my appearance. I was dressed as a fisherman, having rapidly bribed an old man in the port to let me have his oilskins and hat. To this, I had attached lots of flies and bits and bobs of the sort that fishermen use, so I thought. And I had a large wicker basket with a plaster lobster in it which I’d bought from a shop which sold tourist trinkets.

“Besides,” Jackson said scornfully, “it’s a
bal masqué,
not a fancy-dress party.”

I stared at him; I think he heard me deflating. “There’s a difference?”

“This sort of ball, the men dress as usual. The women wear masks. That’s why it’s called a masked ball.”

“I have to go,” I said. “Even if I have to break in. I have to find Lady Ravenscliff.”

“Why?”

“She’s… It doesn’t matter. I need to find her.”

“I doubt you’ll find her at a ball. She’s meant to be in mourning.”

“She dined with the King.”

“That’s different. That is allowed, just. But a ball? It would be a scandal. It’s bad enough that she came here at all. If she did.”

“I mean, if everyone’s masked… She’s the sort who would slip in. Someone there will know where she is. I’ve got to go. Just in case.”

“Not as the representative of
The Times,
you’re not. It’s more than my job’s worth.”

I must have been looking properly desperate, because he dropped the scornful jocular tone and looked at me shrewdly. “You’re about the same size as Gumble. Take his clothes, then.”

“Won’t he need them?”

“Yes.”

He opened the wardrobe door and started pulling out clothes. “You’d better hurry. He’ll be very annoyed when he finds out.”

S
o an hour later, as the evening was just tipping over into darkness, I was walking up Egypt Hill, a road that led away from the promenade and skirted the gardens of the Baring house. I had thought of trying to talk my way in, but gave up the idea; journalists can do much—get into courtrooms, police stations, people’s houses—by sheer brass neck, but gatecrashing a society party, I thought, might need practise. So, drawing on the wisdom of George Short once more—never be direct if you can be devious—I kept an eye on the wall until I came across a place with a suitable tree that had branches hanging down across the stonework. Half a minute later I was in the garden, adjusting my bow tie, dusting down Gumble’s suit and walking, more boldly than I felt, up to the house itself.

Nobody gave me a moment’s attention. It worked perfectly; I was given a glass of champagne by a passing waiter, and strolled into the main reception room—already full of people and heady with the smell of perfume—where I leaned against a wall and watched to get my bearings and work out precisely how I should behave. Remember: such an event was as foreign to me as an Esquimaux wedding party; I needed to tread carefully. And I felt ridiculous. Evening dress was not my normal wear; I’d been more comfortable in the fisherman’s oilskin. The fact that most of the women were far more ridiculous-looking than I could ever dream of being was no consolation. Why they ever consented to such absurdities, how it was considered the height of fashion, eluded me. Had they possessed the stylishness of Elizabeth Ravenscliff, they might have succeeded. But most looked like plump middle-aged Englishwomen in masks. Not for the first time, I was glad that I lived in the world of pubs and press rooms. Besides, how did society operate? Was it permissible just to go up to someone and start talking? Would I cause a scandal if I engaged some young girl in conversation?

Having achieved my aim of getting into the party, I realised that I hadn’t thought too much about what I was meant to do next. I wanted to see Elizabeth, to warn her, to talk to her. But how to find her, even if she was there? All the women were in masks, and although I reckoned I could count on her to be more beautifully turned out than anyone else in the room, it was impossible to tell which one she might be. Some of the masks were tiny and did nothing to disguise the identity of the wearer, but a fair number were very large. All I could do was wander around, hoping she would notice me. If she was there, she didn’t. Or maybe she was, but didn’t want to acknowledge me. I was rapidly beginning to think this had been a bad idea.

“Glad you could come,” said a hearty voice besides me as I retired to the wall again and tried to be as visible as possible. I had attracted the wrong person. A tall, grey-haired man with a bristling moustache and a red face—mainly from a collar two sizes two small for him, so the fat of his neck hung down over it—was standing beside me, looking vaguely hopeful. He seemed bored with the whole thing, and desperate for any reason not to have to compliment some absurdity in frills.

“Good evening, sir,” I said, then remembered who he was. “I’m pleased to see you again.”

Tom Baring peered at me, uncertainly, a look of vague panic passing across his face. He knew me; had met me; had forgotten who I was. Such were his thoughts, I knew. Nothing quite like embarrassment for making someone try harder.

“A meeting at Barings last year,” I said vaguely. “We didn’t meet properly.”

“Ah, yes. I remember,” he said, surprisingly convincingly in the circumstances.

“Family duties, you know…”

He looked a bit more interested. I had a family that had duties.

“In fact, the only interest in the meeting was the possibility that I might have been able to ask your advice. About a piece of porcelain.” A fairly desperate way of winning his confidence and establishing a connection, but the best I could do. And it seemed to work. He brightened immediately.

“Oh, well. Only too glad. Ask away, please do.”

“It is a dish of some sort. I was given it. It’s Chinese.”

“Really?”

“Well, it is meant to be,” I continued with perfectly genuine vagueness. “I was given it as a present, you see, and I wouldn’t trust any old dealer to tell me truthfully what it is. I’d be too easily deceived, I’m afraid. I was wondering if you could tell me of an honest one.”

“No such thing,” he said cheerfully. “They’re all rogues and scoundrels. Now I will certainly tell you the truth. Unless it’s really valuable, in which case I’ll tell you it’s worthless and offer to take it off your hands.” He laughed heartily. “Tell me about it.”

“About nine inches across. With blue foliage—bamboo and fruits, that sort of thing.”

“Markings? Any stamps?”

“I believe so,” I said, straining to remember.

“Hmm. Not much help. From your description it could be 1430s, or made last year and sold in any teashop. I’d have to look at it. Where did it come from?”

“I was given it. It used to be on the mantelpiece in Lady Ravenscliff ’s sitting room.” To say she had given it to me was stretching a point, perhaps.

He raised an eyebrow. “Not the Ostrokoff bowl?”

“I think that’s the one.”

“Good God, man! It’s one of the loveliest pieces of Ming porcelain in the world. The whole world.” He looked at me with new interest and no little curiosity. “I have asked to buy it on many an occasion, but have always been turned down.”

“I’ve been using it to eat my breakfast.”

Baring gave a shudder. “My dear boy! The first time I saw it I almost fainted. He
gave
it to you? Do you have any idea what it is worth? What on earth did you do for Ravenscliff?”

“That, I’m afraid, I am not at liberty to say.”

“Oh. Well, quite correct. Quite correct,” he said, still quite breathless and flustered. The thought of my boiled eggs had so rattled him that he was no longer in full command of his faculties. For my part, the memory of it flying past my shoulder and smashing into the wall came flooding back to me. An extravagant gesture. I almost felt flattered.

“Well—I shouldn’t. But—well, battleships.”

“Oh, you mean Ravenscliff ’s private navy?”

I smiled, and tried to look nonchalant about the whole thing.

“I suppose you know about that?”

“Of course. I had to be brought in over moving the money around. I was very doubtful, I must say, but, as you may know, we owe Ravenscliff a great deal.”

“Just so.”

“What exactly do you do…?”

I looked cautious. “I keep an eye on things. Quietly, if you see what I mean. Did, at least, for Lord Ravenscliff. Until he died.”

“Yes, indeed. Great loss. Very awkward as well. Bad timing.”

“Ah, yes.”

“Damnable Government, dithering like that. Although Ravenscliff was remarkably sanguine. All will be well, he said. Don’t worry. He knew exactly how to persuade them to take the plunge… Then he dies. Typical of the man that he foresaw even that possibility, though. When we heard I must say we rather panicked. If the shareholders found out what’s been going on…”

“Difficult,” I said sympathetically.

“Can you imagine? Telling our shareholders that the bond they thought was for a South African gold mine was in fact for a private battle fleet? I’d be picking oakum in Reading gaol by now. But at least I’d be in good company.” He laughed. I joined in, perhaps a little too heartily.

“Yet here you are.”

“Here I am, as you say. Thanks to Ravenscliff putting some nonsense in his will so no one can look at the books for a bit. It has bought us time. Although not much. I’m damnably worried about it.”

“So is his widow, I understand,” I said.

“Ah, yes. I suspect she may know more than she should. There was little Ravenscliff didn’t tell her.”

“How is that?”

“Well, I don’t know exactly what he said, of course, but I hear that she has hired some man to find this child. Which, of course, has the effect of making its existence all the more real. The more he bumbles around, asking questions, the better it is.”

Oh, God, I thought.

“Are you all right?” Baring asked.

“No,” I said. “I’ve had a bit of a stomachache all day. Would you think me terribly rude if I excused myself?”

“I’m so sorry. By all means.”

“Is Lady Ravenscliff here, by the way?”

“Of course not,” he said. “She’s in mourning. Not even in Cowes.”

“Really? I was told she was staying on the royal yacht.”

“Certainly not. I was there for tea this afternoon. No, I imagine she is still in London. I know she is no respecter of convention, but even she would not…”

I didn’t really care one way or the other. I turned round and walked out of the ballroom, as slowly as I could manage, got to the big French windows which opened on to the garden and, when I was out of sight, broke into a run, heading for the wall where I’d come in as quickly as I could.

And there I sat, for an hour or more, half-listening to the sound of the orchestra, the occasional footfall as a couple walked past, or the men came out for a cigar, the women for some fresh air, but not really interested in any of it.

Everyone had been right. I had been chosen because of my complete unsuitability. My job really had been to confuse matters. The child did not exist, had never existed; it was a safety net, designed to protect Ravenscliff ’s companies should he die before this great undertaking was completed. The Government wanted battleships, but dared not order them. Barings and Ravenscliff put up the money, and gambled they would change their minds. Of course it had to be secret; the slightest whisper could bring the Government down and Ravenscliff ’s empire…

And did I care one jot? No. I had comforted her in her distress, sympathised with her loss, worked desperately to find the information she wanted, come to her with my little discoveries, been deceived by the look of gratitude in her eyes when I assured her that all would be well. And when I began to find out more than I should, Xanthos turns up to give me a good fright. Dear God, but I hated the lot of them. Let them fight it out between them.

I got up finally, stiff and cold even though the night was warm, and crawled over the wall into the freedom of the normal, ordinary, mundane world, where people tell the truth and mean what they say. Where honesty counts, and affection is real. Back into my own world, in fact, where I felt comfortable and at home. It was my own fault, really. I should have listened.

I’ve mentioned that I tend to sleep well, most of the time. The great gift did not desert me that night, fortunately. Even though Jackson snored abominably, and the floor was hard, I fell asleep by two o’clock, and slept as though all the world was well. In the morning I had to work to bring back the memories of the night before, but found when I did so that I was free of them. So I had been made a fool of. Used, manipulated, deceived. Not the first time, and not the last. And at least I had figured it out for myself. Even the thoughts of revenge which had flickered through my mind the night before held no more attraction. Yes, I could have told my two snoring companions everything. But I couldn’t really be bothered and, besides, what good would it serve? I could destroy Ravenscliff ’s companies, but they would only be replaced by others just the same.

And it was a lovely, fine morning, of the sort when it was good to be alive. I even took Gumble’s complaints about having stolen his clothes, and Jackson’s insistence on keeping my plaster lobster as a souvenir, in good part. I was resolved to think no more of the matter. I would spend Elizabeth Ravenscliff ’s money, I would think no more of battleships—let alone of mediums, anarchists or any other rubbish. None of it was my business. I did not care. I would become a journalist once more, and go back to my old life, somewhat richer than I had been to begin with. What possible reason did I have to complain, anyway? I was paid well, and if it was to make a fool of myself, so be it. I was a well-paid fool, at least. And that evening, I decided, I would go to Southampton, and I would get on a boat and I would go to South America, having posted Xanthos’s cheque off to my bank first of all. More money. If they wanted to give it away, why should I turn down the offer? I’d earned it.