Stone's Fall (9 page)

I tried to open it; it was stiff, but shifted eventually; the sash slid up only with difficulty and some noise. It was a long way to the ground, and looking out I could see that immediately underneath was a long stretch of thick, spiked, iron railings.

“How tall was your husband?”

“A few inches shorter than you,” she said.

“And not athletic, I assume?”

“Not in the slightest. He was not fat, but set no great store by exercise. Shortly before he died, he was wondering about installing one of these new elevators at the back of the house so he wouldn’t have to walk up and down stairs.”

I smiled. “Good for him. I was just wondering how he managed to fall out of this window. If he tripped on this carpet here, and stepped forward to regain his balance”—I performed the manoeuvre myself to show what I meant—“then he should have cracked his head on the bottom sash. Certainly even the clumsiest of men should have been able to steady himself by grabbing the window frame.”

She was sitting in the little plush-velvet bucket chair by the fireplace now, her hands clasped together in her lap. “I don’t know,” she replied sadly. “I didn’t come up here until much later. I was out that evening, and did not get back until late. The police were waiting for me. They told me there had been an accident and I went directly to the hospital. He was already dead. I didn’t come up here until late that day.”

“And the window was open?”

“No. One of the servants said he had closed it; it was raining and the water was coming in. And he tidied up the room as he does every morning.”

“And was it unusually disarranged?”

“That depends on what you mean by unusually. Once John was finished with a book or a newspaper—or anything, really—he would just drop it on the ground. I very much doubt he would have noticed even if the room was never tidied up. He lived in this house to please me, and because he thought it was the sort of house a man of his standing should live in. It isn’t, of course; had we lived in such a place we would have bought something very much bigger. But he really had no taste for ostentation. We have another house in Paris, which was bought solely for my benefit. He was utterly uninterested in expensive living, although he did like good food and wine. And the sea. He always wanted to live by the sea, but had never managed it. We had planned to buy a house on the coast somewhere. The trouble was we couldn’t agree where. I wanted Biarritz, he wanted Dorset. Curiously, he was a very simple man. You would have liked him, had you given him a chance.”

This sentence was added on so gently I almost missed it. “You think I wouldn’t have done?”

“I think you assume all rich men of business must be cruel and greedy by nature. Some are, no doubt. But in my experience they are no better or worse in general than any other class of man.”

“How many people were in the house at the time of the fall?”

“No more than twelve. My husband and the servants.”

“Everyone but your husband was asleep?”

“I imagine so. Although I have no doubt that some of the servants misbehave themselves when they are not watched. As long as they do their jobs, I do not interest myself in such things.”

Another one of those comments which took me slightly unawares.

“Why do you ask?”

“Because, squalid little reporter with an eye for a story that I am, I still cannot rid myself of the idea that your husband did not fall. I have heard he had a terrible fear of heights. Is that correct?”

She smiled. “Yes, it was. It was what made me fall in love with him.”

“I’m sorry?”

“We were walking over a bridge in Paris, and he suddenly turned pale, and grabbed hold of me. I thought he was making an advance, but in fact he was simply feeling dizzy. It was the first time I realised he had any frailties. But he needed to pretend, so he did kiss me, merely to cover up his weakness. I teased him without mercy until he confessed, and he was as shamefaced as a schoolboy.”

She had such a sweet smile as she remembered this that it was almost a pity to bring her reminiscence to an end, but I did find her memories inappropriate. So I continued on remorselessly.

“So would he have walked up and down by an open window?”

“Not usually. But he did love his cigars, and he knew I hate the smell of cigar smoke. He was prepared to take grave risks, when necessary.”

“Then let me ask you directly: would anyone want to murder your husband?”

“Absurd,” she said promptly. “In his life he was the kindest of men. In his business he had a reputation for fairness. He had rivals, no doubt. But not enemies. He was an easygoing employer to the servants who, in any case, naturally referred to me first of all. Besides, even the most violent and detestable men generally die in their beds.”

“But you know nothing of his business affairs.”

“That is not entirely true. We talked a great deal. Although rarely about the details. I was not greatly interested, and he thought of me as a sort of antidote to work. He was not obsessed with his work. Methodical is a better term.”

I shook my head. “I wish I could say our conversation today has helped me,” I commented, “but it has made me the more confused. I do not think I am giving you very good value for money at the moment.”

“You have a long way to go,” she said. “I do not despair of you yet. What else confuses you?”

“The same question that has always worried me. Why are you bothering? Why do you want me to look for this child?”

“I told you; to respect my husband’s wishes.”

“And I am not convinced. After all, he did not respect his own wishes enough to make the task easy.”

“It is all I can offer you. Have you some further unfavourable interpretation?”

“Ah…”

“You might as well say. You have already accused me of being a murderess, and on the whole I think I took that fairly well.”

“Henderson told me that the will cannot be settled until this matter is cleared up. So you are dependent on the generosity of the executor until then.”

“Oh, I see,” she said. “So rather than respecting John’s wishes, I am selfishly looking after my own. Is that what you are saying?”

“Well…”

“In that case I would hardly have hidden the papers. Besides, I did not come to this marriage a pauper. I have more than enough money, even if I receive nothing from John at all. There is no motive or reason for you at all there. Do you understand?”

“I have offended you. I apologise.”

“I would rather you say these things, than think them in secret. And I suppose they are reasonable. We rich people are cruel and heartless, are we not? Not like ordinary people. Not like you.”

“As I say, I apologise.”

“I will tell you when I accept your apology.”

She stood up. I was dismissed. Or maybe not. I did not know.

“Is there anything else?”

“No. Except—who is this other woman mentioned in his will? This Italian lady?”

“Signora Vincotti? I don’t know. I have never heard the name before. I assume, as I suppose you have already done, that she was his mistress.”

“Does that upset you?”

She looked gravely at me. “Of course. I am distressed he did not trust me more.”

“Pardon?”

“He kept a secret from me. That wounds me. He must have known that I would not have caused a scene over such a trivial matter.”

“It seems he kept more than one secret,” I pointed out.

She looked at me stonily. “Any more questions?”

“Yes. To leave that amount of money to this woman suggests she was not trivial.”

“That is true.”

“Are you not… curious, at the least?”

“I suppose I am. What do you suppose I should do about it?”

“If you wish, I could visit this lady on your behalf. I understand she arrives tomorrow and will stay at the Russell Hotel in Bloomsbury.”

She thought about that. “I have a better idea. I will visit her myself. You may come with me.”

A vision of two jealous women rolling on the floor trying to scratch each other’s eyes out floated before me. “I don’t think I would recommend that.”

“It is not for you to recommend anything. I will send a note this afternoon and make an appointment.”

That put me in my place. I could either go with her or not; it would not make any difference to her decision. I decided to go.

“And at the same time,” she said lightly, “we may discover something that will put you out of a job.” Tears welled up in her eyes as she spoke, and I looked on, horrified at the thought that I might have to witness her embarrassment. She was a woman deceived, and had discovered it under the most terrible circumstances.

“I’m sorry,” I said. It was not a useful remark, and she paid it no attention.

“I had no children,” she said eventually. “John said he didn’t mind, that it was enough to have me. That I had brought him all the happiness in the world, and he wanted no more. I am a fool to be so distressed. Of course he had the right to do as he pleased; it made no difference to our life together, and does knowing really make any difference?”

“Yes?”

She nodded. “I should have been able to do that for him. Not some other woman who was so unimportant he never even mentioned her existence. Now, if you will excuse me, I have some matters to attend to. My husband’s papers are in those cabinets over there. You may look at whatever you wish. I have instructed the servants that you are to be allowed into the house at all times, whether I am here or not. You see, I have nothing to hide.”

And she left. I contemplated beginning on the daunting array of filing cabinets—which, I considered, would be most likely to contain something of use—but could not face it. The interview had left me disoriented, shaking almost.

CHAPTER
11

I was feeling increasingly out of my depth. Commenting on a murder case was one thing; unravelling someone like Lady Ravenscliff was another. So I went to the Ritz, to see my little elf. It was, I gathered, where Xanthos habitually stayed when in London; I learned that he maintained permanent rooms there, at gigantic cost. “So he is some grandee, then?” I asked, slipping into reporterly mode. I was in the Lamb, just round the corner in Mason’s Yard; it was where the Ritz went. I bought a round of drinks to reinforce the question. That’s the good thing about hotels: servants of the variety who work for the Ravenscliffs have a sort of loyalty, and it is difficult to chisel information out of them. But people who work in hotels will tell you anything for a drink; they have no discretion at all.

“Must be” was the collective reply. But no one really knew. He came, he went. In general he was never there for more than a fortnight at a time, but always wanted his rooms ready. No women had ever been spotted, but visitors and guests aplenty. The bills, though, were paid. That they knew, but there the limitations of their trade came into operation. Xanthos was rich. He was foreign—Greek, they reckoned. What did they care how a strange little Greek came to be able to afford a suite at the Ritz? I knew salesmen, they made good murderers. Lonely people, shuffling from boardinghouse to boardinghouse, washing their shirts overnight. No family, no friends; never in the same place long enough. They were the nomads of the industrial age, always wandering, always moving on. There was, no doubt, a camaraderie, a fraternity of such people, but it did not seem much of a life to me. And they did seem to commit murder—normally squalid, dirty little murders—more often than they should have done. Or maybe they were too miserable to take the necessary steps to avoid being caught.

Mr. Xanthos was evidently a different species of salesman altogether, but the hotel people told me little in return for my money—only that he had been in London the week Ravenscliff had died, and had left shortly afterwards. That he came and went all the time, and had his mail forwarded when he was away for more than a month.

“Or if the letter says please forward,” someone chipped in. “Like last autumn, when he went to Baden-Baden. To take the waters,” he said in a mock-posh accent.

“Or when he went to Rome last April and that trunk arrived for him. Do you remember the trouble that caused, shipping it off? And no thanks when he got back, either. It might have been a postcard we’d sent on, for all he cared.”

He was an interesting fellow, I thought, when he opened the door to his suite, and a curiously attractive one, short, dapper, unconventional, with a bright smile and quick, precise movements. Welcoming, friendly, quite unlike Bartoli.

“It is kind of you to see me,” I said. We were in his fabled rooms, and very splendid they were; grand enough to intimidate someone like me, who had never even been in the public area before, let alone in one of the most expensive of the hotel’s apartments. There was a huge salon ornately decorated with rich red wallpaper and gallons of gold paint, what I assumed was a bedroom and bathroom next door, and a separate dining room. While I was there, there was a constant to-ing and fro-ing of people bringing food, messages, coal and logs for the fire; even his coffee was poured for him by someone else.

“On the contrary, I am very curious about you,” he replied. His eyes twinkled as he spoke, in a voice which was well modulated but overlaid with so many accents it was impossible to tell what the original might once have been. He nestled—almost snuggled—down in his armchair like someone protecting himself from a gale; I half-expected him to wrap himself up in a blanket as he spoke, or tuck his little legs underneath him.

“In that case the curiosity is mutual. If I may—”

“No,” he said, “I will ask first. I invited you, and am providing the refreshments.” He paused for a considerable while as he leaned forwards and poured two cups of tea. Lemon for him, milk and sugar for me. I’m a traditionalist.

“Very well. What do you want to know?”

“Just why dear Lady Ravenscliff chose you for this project? I am sure you know as well as I why that might excite some interest amongst those who knew her husband. And who, I may add, are protective of his memory.”

“There I cannot really help, I’m afraid. I had never met either of them before I was offered the task. And, as you no doubt gathered from my conversation with Mr. Bartoli, I have no experience whatsoever in things financial.”

“And she knew so many people who were expert… Do you think she wanted someone who was not employed by her husband? An independent outsider? Could that be it?”

“Why would she want that? I flatter myself that what she wanted was someone who could tell a good story, make her husband’s life interesting. There are few successful novels with bankers or industrialists as the hero. Fewer still that are written by bankers or industrialists.”

“That is true,” he replied. “And a sad condemnation of the book reading public it is. Perhaps you are right. Perhaps that is all it is.”

“You sound doubtful. Although I thank you for being less offensive than Mr. Bartoli.”

The elf waved a hand. “Oh, don’t worry about him. He is just as rude to me. And everyone, in fact. It’s his way. He is a very efficient man, the perfect doorkeeper for someone like John Stone. Although I imagine he is concerned about what is to become of him now. Lady Ravenscliff, I am sure, will not require his services. I assume she is the beneficiary of his will?”

Aha. I thought. So that’s it. I smiled.

“I really couldn’t say,” I said. “I am hardly privy—”

“No, I suppose not. Still, you will have gathered that I am curious. And as you come to know more about his business you will understand why. How do you find Lady Ravenscliff?”

A question only the foreigner would ask. No Englishman would ever be so direct.

“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, someone 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.”